Awake in Hell (19 page)

I
am standing in a chain store in the corner. It’s weird being invisible to some
people. When I walk down the streets now they look so much cleaner and brighter
than they used to, the hazy orange-ness that I used to think was emanating from
the heat was actually coming from me, keeping me blind.  Now that my eyes
are open, I know the streets are filled with loving, happy people. There are always
conversations, reunions, and hugs and kisses. People like to enjoy the
always-temperate weather by gathering outside, sometimes for a feast or to
dance. But the lost ones go by without ever seeing us. Like Martha, the woman I
have to deliver this sticky note to. She’s folding thin, threadbare towels for
a display inside the store. Tears are cutting little rivers into her thick,
overdone make-up. Her dress looks terribly uncomfortable, with its hard, rough
material that is red and white. I’m pretty sure it might be an actual circus
tent.

 I
take the sticky note that says:

DO
YOU BELONG HERE?

CALL
US TO FIND OUT!

SECOND
CHANCE TEMP AGENCY

(666)-573-2236

And
stick it to the next towel she will grab. I stand back and watch while she
finds it, looks around, then places it inside her bra. I giggle, knowing she
won’t hear me as my mind reaches back and I remember when I found mine. It is
hard to believe that was me — angry, hard,
wallowing
in my decimated self-image. I kind of envy her for the experiences she’s about
to have. Remembering is different for everybody, as
Deedy
has told me, but it is always remarkable. As I leave, I tap on my communicator
in my ear. “Heading back to the office, Gabby. Is there coffee?”

So,
that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. The afterlife is a lot like the
right-now life. You get out of it what you put into it. You can make it into
heaven or you can make it into Hell. But, it’s up to you to make it. And stop
measuring yourself with a different yardstick than you measure everyone else.
Just remember:

Create
Joy.

Be
indiscriminate with your kindness.

Forgive…
Period… Even Yourself… Especially Yourself.

Love
Unconditionally.

Understand,
that sometimes you might be the student, sometimes you might be the teacher,
and sometimes, you just might be the lesson. But, you were created by God to be
exactly what you are. Never forget that.

Everything
happens for a reason. Yes, it sounds a bit platitude-y but it’s true. God does
not move you around like a chess piece micro-managing every detail in your
life. But, I believe that God does guide us on particular paths — even the ones
where highwaymen are waiting to ambush us. There is something to be gained from
every experience. Embrace
that.Stop
thinking that you
have all the answers. Whether in life, or in the afterlife. We each have a
thread in a giant tapestry. Whether that thread is our religion, faith,
morality, values, culture, or flaws, it is part of a greater tapestry. So,
weave it into others. Try to learn from them, as well as teach them. Because I
think that if we could see that giant tapestry, we would be looking at God.

And
most importantly, life is just a temp job. Ultimately, it is one you’re going
to get fired from, at some point. So, learn what you can, and have some fun,
and stop taking yourself so damned seriously! When they hand you your
termination slip, don’t forget to pack up all the love and good memories to
take with you. Otherwise, you might end up in Hell. And trust me, waking up in
Hell? Definitely NOT recommended.

Epitaph

This
was a story. Just a story, about what I think it means to go to heaven or Hell.
It’s not an indictment on religion (any religion.) It’s not intended to be sacrilegious
or disrespectful. These are my words, and I thank my Creator (whoever he/she
may turn out to be) for every single one of them. Even the approximate sixty
three times when the word was the f-bomb. The one word that my mom is going to
sigh over and tell me I should watch my language.

Speaking
of Mom — I am one. My daughter Linda and my son Patch were a big part of
writing this book and not just as inspiration. Those two little miracles even
before either one of them could speak, taught me how to love unconditionally,
so for that I will always be grateful for them and to them.

I
was divorced twice. Apparently I have fabulous taste in shoes but shit taste in
men. So a lot of this book was part of my healing process. Soon after the book
was originally available, I met Larry, a guy who only has one pair of black
shoes and one pair of sneakers but has extraordinary taste in women. And he
picked me! We are currently working on “happily ever after”. (I’ll keep you
posted.)

My
father is a Methodist Minister, and I remember him telling a story from the
pulpit when I was young. I’ve since heard it several more times from other
people too, but I’ve always remembered it. It goes like this: There was once an
old man who knew he would die soon.

He
wanted to know what Heaven and Hell were like

He
visited a wise man in his village to ask, "Can you tell me what Heaven and
Hell are like?"

The
wise man led him down a strange path, deep into the countryside. Finally they
came upon a large house with many rooms and went inside.

Inside
they found lots of people and many enormous tables with an incredible array of
food.

Then
the old man noticed a strange thing, the people, all thin and hungry were
holding chopsticks 12-feet long. They tried to feed themselves, but of course
could not get the food to their mouths with such long chopsticks.

The
old man then said to the wise man "Now I know what Hell looks like, will
you please show me what Heaven looks like?"

The
wise man led him down the same path a little further until they came upon
another large house similar to the first. They went inside and saw many people
well fed and happy, they too had chopsticks 12-feet long.

This
puzzled the old man and he asked, "I see all of these people have 12-foot
chopsticks too, yet they are well fed and happy, please explain this to me.

The
wise man replied, "In Heaven we feed each other"

I
think that story, combined with all the lessons that I have (unfortunately)
been determined to learn the hard way during this life, is
what
became the stock for the soup that turned into this
. I hope it fed
someone out there.

I’d
like to thank every person in my life who gave me a reason to smile, a reason
to cry, a reason to forgive, and a reason to be forgiven.

And
thank you. Writing something doesn’t mean shit. It has to be read before it can
be a book.

-Helen
Downing

Please
enjoy this preview of Helen Downing’s

REMEMBERING
HELL

CHAPTER
ONE

The
old woman woke up suddenly, startled perhaps by continued life itself, with no idea
where she was. Then it dawned on her. She was in her recliner in the living
room. ‘Damn’ she thinks to herself, ‘I fell asleep in front of the TV again’.
She gingerly starts to shift in the roomy seat as if lubricating her old bones
in preparation of getting up. ‘Getting old isn’t for pussies.’ She thinks,
laughing out loud at her own joke. She starts to rise, sits down hard and tries
again. After the second false start she almost begins to regret not allowing
her niece to buy her that electric recliner that has the automatic seat that
will dump a person out like a giant regurgitating monster at the push of a
button.

When
she is finally upright she glances at the television to check the time. Her
life had become so predictable that a glance was all it took. There is no clock
on the TV, but she can estimate the time based on what is on, and what is
happening on the program. She has become quite the creature of habit in her
advanced age, and despite the fact that there is little to no chance that will
ever change, it doesn’t stop her from hating herself for it.

According
to undoubtable evidence (first round of Jeopardy) it is around 7:15 in the
evening. That doesn’t give her much time. Her husband will be home within the
half hour after his hard day of hanging out with a bunch of other old coots at
the lodge shooting the shit all day. To say she’s amazed by the fact that the
same half-dozen geezers can consistently show up to the same place every day
and still have anything at all to talk about is an understatement. Not that
they need new material. The old favorites: The world is going to hell in a hand
basket, what happened to music/movies/sports teams, what those kids today are
thinking with the way they dress/behave/think/act is standard fare for her 
other half and his cronies. If they had their way, John Wayne would still be
riding tall, President Reagan would have been elected King of America, and
Clint Eastwood would have remained a badass before he got old and turned into a
wuss
making chick flicks that make folks cry. What
happens to men when they get old? Why do every single one of them turn into
Grandpa from the
Waltons
?

She
is smiling to herself as she ambles into the kitchen. When you are young, you
never think about the end. Sure, when she was a girl she would imagine growing
old with her friends and her husband, but that was more about growing up, not
growing old. The fact is, you don’t think about it because to contemplate aging
means facing the fact that you are going to die. And while every human being
spends some time reflecting on how or when they will meet their personal
demise, we spend no time imagining what it will be like to wake up in a body
that doesn’t work anymore, or to look at a reflection of a decrepit version of
what we once were.

Death
is a stealthy creature for most of us. It sneaks up behind us while we aren’t
paying attention, then all of a sudden you know deep within you, that the world
has left you behind. And for her, that was not metaphorical. Sometimes she felt
as though she was the last real person at the party.

Once
again she wondered why she had been chosen from all those that she had known
and loved to be cursed with damnable longevity. There were those, some of whom
she can hardly bear to think about let alone name, who led incredible lives.
Some had families, some had adventures, and one had it all. In the meantime,
she had lived small and unimportant. But she had lived long.

She
reaches into the cabinet underneath the counter for a large pot. Then almost by
rote she begins to reach up into cupboards for spices and into the freezer for
meat and tomato sauce, and one more stop under the sink and she was ready to
begin. As she was rising from her last trip around the kitchen her eyes fell on
the now dead flowers her husband had presented her the previous week for her
89th birthday. She laughed quietly as she scooped them out of the vase and into
the trash. ‘This is what I get for living almost a century’ she thinks ruefully
‘More things that decay and die before I do.” Exactly a week before when her
husband had come in with these, at the time in full bloom and color, in a huge
bouquet wrapped with a huge red bow. It’s not that she hates flowers, but she
doesn’t exactly love them either. She ended up feeling as ambiguous about her
gift as she did about her actual birthday. And lately about her life.

The
microwave starts beeping so she goes over and gets the Tupperware container now
filled with sauce in place of the block of red ice she had put inside. She
pours it in the pot while the burger is browning in a frying pan on the burner
next to it. She lets out a long tired moan as she lifts the heavy pan and dumps
the meat into the pot. Then she begins to stir, and get lost in thought. She
remembers a saying. ‘If I had any decency I would be dead. Everyone else is.’
That thought brings another laugh to the surface. Who had said that? It was
someone famous. That terrible woman from the Algonquin Roundtable. What was her
name?

Memory
was of course a luxury for the young. After 89 years, the old woman could
barely even remember those people who had left her long ago. She also couldn’t
remember falling in love, or the feeling of the first kiss, or anything that
felt really good. She couldn’t remember doing anything great, and she couldn’t
remember doing anything really bad either. She was ordinary as the sauce she
was making. No one ever complains about spaghetti for dinner, but no food
critics ever review it either.

She
had only married once, believe it or not. In this day and age, everyone takes a
mulligan on the marriage thing. If they even marry at all. She had not been too
young, but it wasn’t desperation either. She could have hung on for a few more
years for something better, but she didn’t. She seemed to remember that she
loved him. They had never had children. It wasn’t by choice, but it didn’t tear
them apart like some couples. They always felt if it was meant to be then kids
would come. And kids came. Other people’s kids. Her niece was her favorite.
With that face which reminded her of a long gone sister whom she’d loved with
all her heart. She convinced everyone that she had no biological clock nor any
facsimile of one. She constantly referred to her life as “carefree and
unhindered”, and talked about how she could go anywhere at the drop of a hat or
do anything on a whim. No one ever had the nerve to mention that she had gone
nowhere and done nothing. She imagined they believed that she was internally
wrecked by the fact that she was barren.  Likewise, she never had the nerve
to tell them that she wasn’t bothered at all.

She
continues to stir with one hand while reaching blindly with the other and
begins adding spices without even a glance. She doesn’t have to measure
anymore. She has made this exact dish every Wednesday for the last 58 years.
That was her husband. A Monday is meatloaf, Friday is Chinese take-out and
Wednesday is spaghetti kind of man. He was kind but not loving. He was decent
but never righteous. He never raised his voice or hand to her, but he also
never went out of his way to compliment her. He had gone to work every single
day for almost forty years, yet never displayed any ambition. He was a good man
with no passion, and that made her sad.

In
the beginning they had made love often. But then it just dwindled from twice a
week to Saturday nights to on birthdays and anniversaries to never. They had
never had an actual conversation about sex in all the years that they were
having it, and neither one of them seemed to miss it terrible once it was gone.

The
one thing she does remember is the first day that she realized she was old.
Really old. She woke up and looked in the mirror and saw an old woman peering
back at her. Watery light eyes, translucent skin barely stretched over creaky
bones.  She started to cry as she realized that her life was now behind
her. She had gotten a seat at the table, and she had been satisfied with
meatloaf and spaghetti. Now, every course had been served and all that was left
was to wait for the bill to arrive.

These
days she was used to the idea. In fact she was getting a little impatient. She
had served her time, now wasn’t she supposed to go on? Move to the next plane,
come back as a housecat, whatever is supposed to happen, can’t it just happen
already? Then she realized there was something heavy in her hand. She looked
down and to her surprise she was adding a new ingredient to her sauce. “How
funny.” She says quizzically as she continues to pour.

After
she had administered half the box into the pot, she replaced the Rat
under-B-Gone under the sink.

She
hears the front door open and close. “Honey, I’m home!” yells her husband.

“Dorothy
Parker!” she exclaims as he walks into the kitchen.

“No,
try again.” He says dryly as he sits down at the table. “Sorry, I just
remembered the name of a woman who said something important.” She says as she
makes a heaping helping of spaghetti and sets it down in front of him, just as
he lifts his fork. It’s a dance they’ve been doing for almost 60 years. He asks
about her day before he fills his mouth with a giant bite. She begins to ramble
about the neighbors getting new puppies, Shih Tzu she thinks, and so that woman
who wears heels even to the grocery store has had to walk them at least four
times.

“It’s
a wonder she doesn’t have bunions the size of oranges!” she says as she begins
to rinse off the utensils and run hot water in the frying pan she used to cook
her deadly meal.

Within
fifteen minutes she hears his labored breathing. She turns her back to him and
starts wiping the counters. “I also found some adorable sweaters at Walmart”
she goes on, as if nothing unusual is happening. “I thought we could pick a few
up and put them in the Christmas closet for the girls.” She winces slightly as
he crashes to the floor, turning over the chair with him. He’s convulsing and a
weird foamy mixture of sauce and bile is coming from his mouth. Finally he
stops seizing and she moves back to the stove.

“Now
go on, and don’t worry. You’ll do fine in Heaven.” She says as she sets her own
plate on the table across from his now limp body.

She
picks up her phone from the counter and dials 911. When the operator answers
she calmly gives their address and tells the woman on the other end that there
are two people dead inside. Then she hangs up and begins to eat. Her last thought
was one of comfort, because if he is going to Heaven then she won’t have to
face him after this horrible deed. She says to no one in particular, “I have a
feeling I will be going somewhere else.

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