Recalled (3 page)

I moved to stand, but, instead, the translucent mist seemed to waft out around me—giving me no shape at all. On instinct, I tried to grab at it, to pull it back in. I wanted a shape. I didn’t want to float away. My sudden movements only caused the mist to spread farther and make me even less.

Am I a ghost?

If there were one way to become a ghost, getting hit by a bus would probably do it.

“You are not a ghost.” The man spoke, still watching me with his bird-like eyes.

Could he read my mind?

“You are simply, shall we say, between forms at the moment.”

He could say that, but it didn’t mean I understood.

I glanced again at my less-than-solid form. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to speak if I tried so I decided, for now, saying nothing was probably my best option.

“I’m sure you are wondering who I am,” the man said, finally dropping his hands into his lap. “I’m a dealer, and I have a proposition for you.”

A dealer? I spent a lot of time on the streets and I was more than positive drugs caused death… They didn’t bring you back from it.

And I was certain I was dead.

The man looked at me like he thought I would leap with joy at this “proposition.” When I said nothing, he continued to stare. Finally, I decided being silent wasn’t my best option.

“I don’t do drugs,” I said, surprised when my voice came out clearly.

The man smiled. Unfortunately, it didn’t make him look friendly. “I don’t deal drugs. I deal life and death.” As if on cue, behind him the doors sprang open. Most people kept clothes and shoes in their closets. Some people used them to hide their junk. But this…
this
wasn’t normal.

This man kept bodies in his closet.

They weren’t piled on one another. They weren’t crammed in at odd angles. If they were, it might be less creepy. These bodies were organized. They were hanging—on hangers—and in rows like suits. I had a sudden, vivid image of this man opening his closet every morning and pondering which body to wear.

Each one was limp and surprisingly thin looking as it hung there. They weren’t naked, but each was fully dressed and groomed with care.

The man pushed out of his chair and stood. He couldn’t have been more than five foot seven and he was thin… almost bony. He went over to the closet and pushed through the hangers like he was searching for a particular shirt, stopping when he found what he was looking for. He pulled the body off the rack and turned, lifting it up so the feet didn’t drag the ground. This body was clearly taller than him.

My body.

The one that just got crushed by a bus.

But it didn’t look that way. It looked normal… aside from the fact it was on a hanger with the chin lying against the deflated chest. My hair was dark and messy, my skin smooth and unbruised. The only thing that wasn’t normal (besides me examining my own body from across the room) was the clothing. I wore khaki pants, a button-up shirt, and dress socks. I don’t think I ever owned a pair of khakis… or socks without holes in them.

“You were killed almost instantly when that bus hit you.” The man began, still holding up my body. “The ambulance came, put you in a body bag, and drove you to the morgue. You had no identification and only twenty-four dollars in your pocket. I didn’t think the morgue attendant would miss you much if your body disappeared.”

“You stole my body out of a morgue?”
Then hung it in a closet…

“What if I told you that you could have another chance at life?” he said, and as he spoke, he placed my body back into the closet.

For most people, a second chance at life was probably a great opportunity. But when he dangled the offer in front of me, I realized it wasn’t that appealing for me.

When I was alive, my life sucked.

I was born into poverty to a too-young mother who didn’t know what to do with a kid. She had a different boyfriend every month and none of them wanted me around. I spent a lot of time on the streets—cold, hungry, and angry. When I was eight, my mother decided to be a better parent and she got a job and moved us to a new apartment. The apartment was still in the crappy end of town, but it was her way of trying to give us a better life. She even went three months without a boyfriend. We still had next to nothing, but sometimes there was food.

Then she got a new boyfriend.

He was the worst yet. He moved in and Mom was all excited that we’d be a two-income household… but she was kidding herself. The guy spent all his money on liquor and then he’d come home drunk and beat her… then me.

One night, he was being especially vicious and I decided I had enough. Mom was unconscious on the floor and I grabbed a knife. At the age of ten, I became a killer.

When Mom came to, she called the cops and shocked me when she took the blame. The cops labeled it self-defense based on Mom’s black eye, the lump on her head, and her broken rib. She didn’t bring home any more boyfriends after that.

Still, things didn’t get much better, and I took to the streets. Life taught me how to survive, but death taught me living wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“I think I’ll pass. You can just send me to hell now.”

The man—I couldn’t help but call him Mr. Burns because he looked like that guy with the crooked nose on
The Simpsons
—didn’t seem shocked by my refusal. Maybe I wasn’t the only person who preferred death. “What makes you think you would be sent to hell?”

“Well, this sure ain’t the gates of heaven.”

“So you would rather burn for an eternity in hell than accept my offer?”

“My life wasn’t anything I’m anxious to get back to. I might as well get a head start on hell. At least it’s warmer than Alaska.”

The man tilted his chin down. “Yes, I imagine living on the streets and being a pickpocket wasn’t that glamorous.”

I wasn’t shocked he knew stuff about me. I mean, if he had the ability to steal my body, somehow turn me into a ghost, and then hang my body
in his closet,
knowing I was a pickpocket wasn’t really impressive.

“Hell isn’t much better. You won’t be cold, but you will be hungry, just not for food. Your soul would be slowly eaten away by the confines of hell. You’ll begin to shrivel and twist until you’re completely empty, and then there’ll be nothing but the stretch of time and the endless sounds of tortured cries from those around you.”

So… if what Mr. Burns said was true, then life and death suck equally.

“What if I told you your life—if returned to you—would be very different than before?”

“Different how?”

“You would have money, a home, a car… You would never be hungry.”

“Go on,” I said, warming to the idea.

“Opportunity would be abundant and you could create a whole new identity for yourself.”

I looked down at my misty form. I was tempted, sure, but still something kept me from accepting right away. “What’s the catch?”

There’s always a catch.

“In exchange for your life, your new and improved life, you would work for me.”

“Doing what?”

“You will be an Escort.”

On the streets, another name for escort was prostitute. “I don’t think I would look good in a dress and heels.”

“You joke. You’re funny,” Mr. Burns said, smiling. “Not that kind of escort. This is more exclusive. More important.”

“So what exactly will I be escorting?” I asked, more confused than before.

Mr. Burns’s little beady eyes gleamed with excitement and he smirked, causing his cheekbones to jut outward.

“Death. You will be a Death Escort.”

Chapter Four

“Remember -
To keep (someone) in mind as worthy of consideration or recognition.”

Piper

I was watching the sun rise and feeling sorry for myself when the doorbell rang. I sighed. Why did the doorbell
always
ring when you didn’t want company? I dashed the tears from my cheeks, knowing there was nothing I could do about my swollen eyes, and went to the door.

“Who is it?” I yelled right through the white, peeling door.

“I have a delivery for Piper McCall,” replied a phony deep voice.

 I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t order anything.”

“Open the damn door, Piper!” Frankie yelled, dropping the fake voice.

I unchained the lock, turned the deadbolt, and pulled open the door. Frankie barely paused to look at me as she bustled by with her armload, yet she saw everything. “If I looked like you I wouldn’t want to open the door either.”

“It’s barely six a.m., Frank. What’re you doing here?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t come when you called to tell me about your brush with death!?”

“I thought maybe you’d wait and come at a decent hour,” I grumbled, locking the door and following her into the tiny kitchen.

“The donut makers are up,” she said, flipping the lid open on a box of a dozen donuts. “Therefore, the hour is decent!”

Fried dough, sugar, and icing wasn’t a healthy way to start the day.

“Where’s my coffee?” I said, cracking a smile because she motioned to the donuts like Vanna White.

She handed me a very large cup. “Here, it’s the boring kind. Cream, no sugar.”

I took a sip of my boring coffee as she untied her red trench coat and slipped it off her five-foot-four curvy frame. Frankie liked her curves and her sugar habit helped maintain them.

“So you almost got creamed by a bus, huh?” she said as she rummaged through my cabinets for napkins and a couple plates.

My stomach clenched at the mention of the bus. I set my coffee on the table and pulled out a chair. “Yes, I almost got hit by a bus, but didn’t because someone else pushed me out of the way.” I felt my eyes tear up again and I blinked them away, reaching for my coffee.

“It was real bad, huh?” Frankie said, sitting down and patting my hand.

“He died. He pushed me out of the way and the bus crushed him…” My voice fell away. “It was awful.”

“He died?”

“Almost instantly.”

We both sat there for long, silent moments. The kitchen filled with the comforting scents of donuts and coffee, but I felt awful that someone would still be breathing and alive if not for what he did
for me
.

“The thing is,” I said, my voice low, “I don’t know why he did it.”

“Well, I’m glad he did. I’m glad you’re still here.”

“Thanks, Frankie,” I said, but in the back of my head I wondered if I was the one who should’ve died.

Frankie reached into the donut box and pulled out a glazed, then looked at me. “So if I eat this am I going to get fat?”

I rolled my eyes. “Depends on how many you eat.”

“I plan on eating at least three. So go on, check.” She held out her hand, the one still holding the donut.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“What’s the use of having a BFF that can see the future if you can’t exploit it?”

“I can’t see the future, just portions of it.” I reminded her as she rolled her eyes. “Most people would want to know lottery numbers. You want to know if you’re going to get fat.”