Drop Dead Gorgeous Read online

  “Questions of life or death are not for me to know.” He shrugs. “But it’s not lookin’ good for you.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I move toward him. “Are you a ghost?” His outline is fuzzier than mine.

  “Not exactly.”

  “An angel?”

  “Not yet.”

  “A demon?”

  “¡Dios me libre!”

  “Are you dead?”

  “Most definitely.” His smile lifts the corners of his mustache. “I died on a beautiful June mornin’, the kind you only see if you’re lucky enough to live in Texas. Not a cloud in all that endless blue.” He stares past me, all dreamy-eyed, like he doesn’t see or hear the chaos in the room behind me. “I double-eagled on the eighth. Do you know the odds of hittin’ a shot like that?”

  Like I care. I glance over my shoulder at the people working on my body. I have a lot of questions and he’s talking about golf.

  “Six million to one,” he answers anyway, and I return my attention to him. “Ten seconds later I was struck by lightnin’ and died before I hit the ground.”

  I don’t know anything about golf, but I know a lie when I hear one. I was raised on Texas bool-sheet. I love a good whopper same as anyone else, but this one is so bad, it insults my intelligence, and if there is one thing in this world that gets me riled up, it’s being mistaken for stupid. “Well, don’t that beat all you ever stepped in,” I say, shaking my head like I’m impressed. “What are the odds of hittin’ a six-million-to-one shot, then gettin’ hit by lightnin’ on a sunny day in June?”

  “That’s not for me to know.”

  I roll my eyes. Of course not.

  “I am just a concierge, is all.”

  “A concierge?” That’s a new one on me. “Isn’t this an emergency room? In a hospital?”

  “Most certainly.” Before he can clear things up, another bolt of brilliant lightning splinters the ceiling and blasts glitter all over the place. I hear the beep of my heart flatlining and I am pulled upward again. “Go with peace in God’s light,” the old golfer tells me.

  “Am I dyin’ again?” I’ve heard of people dying and coming back, but I’ve never heard of them dying, coming back, and dying again. Maybe it’s one of God’s mysterious ways.

  “Don’t get off the path.”

  “What? Why?” That sounds like an important piece of information, and I push a hand against the ceiling in an effort to stop. “What will happen if I get off the path?” My hand passes through the tile and I yell down at him, “You should have talked about that instead of your dumb golf game!” I am yanked through the crack and it slams shut behind me with such force that sparks scatter beneath my feet. Just like before, flashes of silver and blue arc past my head, but this time they quickly dissipate into nothing. A pitch-blackness presses into me so completely that I see nothing. Where’s the white circle like last time? The glittery path?

  Am I in hell?

  “Whatever I did, I ask God’s forgiveness,” I call out, my voice shaking, but I’ve never committed sins that deserve hell. Maybe I’ve fornicated a time or two… or fifteen… but finding love in all the wrong places is not a big sin. Not like murder or devil worship or drinking on Sunday.

  As if on cue, the glittery pink path lights up beneath my feet and stretches toward heaven. This time I am moved along like I’m standing on one of those walkways in an airport. I’m still confused about everything that’s happened to me, but a few things are sorted out in my head now. I’m fairly sure I’ve died twice. I think I wrecked Momma’s minivan and lost her dashboard Jesus. She can buy another bobblehead doll, but she doesn’t have the money for another car. I don’t know what she’ll do without her van.

  I don’t know what she’ll do without me, either.

  The last time I tried moving out of my momma’s house, she pitched a fit and fell in it. “I can’t stand the thought of you leavin’ me, Brittany Lynn. You’re all I got,” she cried. She kept it up until I couldn’t take it anymore and gave in, and that was just me wanting to move across town. Dead is a little further than Russell Street.

  I’m only twenty-five. I have dreams for myself that don’t include dying. I want to open my own salon someday. One that smells like a spa treatment—eucalyptus and steam—instead of perm solution and Aqua Net. I already have a name picked out and everything: Shear Elegance Salon and Spa. I saw it on Pinterest and think it sounds real classy. I have my plans all figured out… except for how I’m going to afford it and how I’m going to get Momma out of Marfa.

  The Do or Dye isn’t what I consider a high-paying career, and Marfa isn’t exactly what you’d call cosmopolitan. We do get tourists on the weekends, coming to gaze at stars or see where No Country for Old Men was filmed. They come to Marfa to view the ghost lights or look at Donald Judd’s art installation, but no one’s going to rush to Marfa for a cut and color or a deluxe pedicure.

  I wish I was rich and Momma wasn’t so stubborn. I wish life was fair, but it doesn’t matter now. If life was fair, God would do something about famine, mass murder, and period cramps. If God was fair, bad people would die at twenty-five and good people could live out their dreams.

  Wait, I hope God didn’t hear me complain about how he runs things, because everyone knows that God doesn’t like ingrates and whiners.

  The walkway stops. Did God hear me? I clutch my chest above where my heart used to be. Am I going to get tossed out again? I guess I wouldn’t be mad about that. My path is still sparkly, but the brilliant gold light at the end seems to be fading.

  The golfer said not to get off the path, but he didn’t mention anything about the path stalling on the way to God’s light. I don’t know if I should start walking or stay put. Should I hoot and holler like Momma on her cloud? I’m not sure, but if there is one thing that’s a calcified fact, it’s that if the path starts to reverse, I’m running like hell in heaven’s direction.

  I look around for a sign or a signal or something. The harder I look, the more I think I can see outlines of other paths. Those paths aren’t as bright as mine, maybe because I can also make out the outlines of people. A lot of people. Those paths are crowded and I’m all alone on mine. “Can y’all hear me?” I call out, but I don’t get an answer. There’s one more big difference, too. Those paths are moving and mine is not.

  Why? Did God change his plan for me? If that’s the case, he should take into consideration that I’ve been a good Christian all my life. Maybe I don’t get all hypnotic and speak in tongues. Maybe I don’t raise my arms in church and beg God to take me up right then and there. I’m just not that kind of person. I’m more the kind who watches it all and thinks that praying to get plucked up like a carrot is just plain stupid. And as everyone knows, you can fix just about anything but stupid.

  Wait. Was that unkind? Did I just think that out loud? Did God hear me? Why is this happening to me?

  Does he know about the bonus points?

  3

  I’m thrown out like a bad penny again. That’s twice now. The ceiling slams shut and that glittery stuff floats downward like before. I don’t know what happened. I was just standing on the path, waiting around for it to restart, and now I’m back at the hospital, but not in the emergency room like before. There are only two nurses with me now and the room is less chaotic. The only sounds are the beeping monitors and the rhythmic swish of a ventilator.

  I stand at the end of a bed and watch as one nurse adjusts tubes sewn into my chest and taped to my skin. Another checks the web of wires attached to my body from the equipment keeping me alive. They talk about the hours I’ve been in surgery and how many times I died on the table. If that isn’t scary enough, looking at my body is terrifying. I want to curl into a ball and tell myself this is all a nightmare.

  The blue balayage is gone and my head is shaved. There’s some sort of probe sticking out of my skull, which I don’t think is ever a good sign. My eyes and nose are so swollen and purple that I hardly recognize myself. Just the tips of my blue fingernails show beyond the splint on my left arm and hand. Sutures close a horrific incision that runs from my sternum to mid-stomach. It looks like it hurts, but I don’t feel any pain. A white sheet covers me from navel to the tips of my toes, and the sight of my exposed belly and breasts upsets me more than anything else. I have struggled with my weight my entire life, and now this. My chest has been cut apart and sewn back together again. I am so broken that I hardly recognize myself. The least the nurses could do is cover me and give me some dignity.

  “Welcome back.”

  It’s the golfer, and I move to stand in front of him. “Get out of here. I’m practically nekked.”

  “I’ve seen worse.” A smile lifts one corner of his thick mustache. “I’ve seen better, too.”

  “Does the Welcome Wagon know you’re a perv?”

  His mustache falls. “I have no control over a patient’s nekked state. It’s my duty to greet new arrivals and explain their circumstances. I keep track of all incomin’ and outgoin’, calm fears and answer questions.”

  Great. I have a few of those, but before I can ask, a nurse moves from the side of my bed and walks straight through me. It’s a bump and whoosh and charges the air with little snaps of static electricity. She doesn’t seem to notice and continues down a hall past closed doors as tiny gold and blue pops follow behind in her wake. “That was—”

  “Shh,” he whispers, leaning forward in anticipation. “Wait for it.”

  I don’t know why he’s whispering. No one can hear us. “What?” I whisper.

  “Shh. Wait for it….”

  The nurse turns toward a room and all the tiny pops catch up, pass through, and snap her fingers when she touches the door handle. She yelps and jumps back, shaking her hand.
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  “Woo-ee, it never gets old.” The golfer laughs. “That made my day.”

  If that makes his day, then he must lead a very dull life, but it does get me to thinking that maybe carpet isn’t really to blame for static shocks after all.

  “The bigger the spirit, the bigger the snap, crackle, and pop, and you got her good. Last month a doctor’s hair stood straight up after he passed through a three-hundred-pound football player.” He clears his throat and straightens. “But physical contact with the livin’ is discouraged. For obvious reasons and such.”

  I’m a cosmetologist and can carry on polite conversation with just about anyone, but this guy says a lot about nothing, and I have important things to get to the bottom of. “Where was I?”

  He turns to me and answers, “The in-between.”

  “In between what?”

  “Life and death. You were revived several times, so your path was put on suspension until your destination was determined either way.” He squares his shoulders. “Our trauma doctors stubbornly fight for every life. We are the best trauma hospital in the state, and that includes Parkland, no matter what Ingrid claims. She was concierge at Parkland the day President John F. Kennedy died, after all.”

  “Well, all I—”

  “All hell broke loose that day, I can tell you,” he says over top of me. “How she got promoted to director of Southwest Thirty-One is still a mystery.”

  “That in-between place was scary as all git-out,” I say, stopping his tangent before I get real aggravated with him. “I don’t ever want to get stuck there again.” He looks like he’s not going to give up on his Ingrid rant, but I can talk water uphill if I have to. “I didn’t know what was goin’ on or where I was headed. You said I was dead and now I’m not. I was there and now I’m back here. You didn’t explain anythin’ before I got sucked up again.”

  “There wasn’t time. I told you to stay on the path. I did my job.”

  Well, he sucks at his “job,” if you ask me. “Isn’t there a manual or guidebook or somethin’ on what to expect when you die?”

  “No. There are no Dyin’ for Dummies books.”

  I think he just implied I’m a dummy. I think he’s getting back at me for calling him a perv. I tell myself not to get worked up, but I can’t keep my eyes from narrowing.

  “What happened to you is uncommon, but I’m sure you’ve heard of folks dyin’, then comin’ back. With you dyin’ several times on the operatin’ table, and with the Pacific Rim catastrophe, you’re lucky you got back here as quick as you did.”

  Pardon me if I don’t feel all that lucky. “There’s been a catastrophe?”

  “Yessiree. Catastrophes tend to gum up the works. When tens of thousands of folks pass in a big earthquake, and a hundred thousand more with the tsunami…” He shakes his head. “It’ll get sorted out eventually.”

  That might explain the crowded paths I saw, but… “This isn’t the first disaster since God created the world, and you’re sayin’ he hasn’t come up with a catastrophe plan in all that time? What’s he been doin’?”

  “That’s not for me to know.”

  Of course not.

  “I’m just a concierge is all.”

  He’s just a wing nut is all.

  “Now that it’s clear you will be with us until the time you pass, wake, or are moved to a different facility, you will need to know how to proceed and what to expect while in a comatose state.” He points his golf club at me. “From the time of birth, your spirit creates energy to fuel your physical body. When you die, your spirit leaves the earth plane, and without fuel, your physical body is returned to the elements.”

  He drops the head of his club and continues. “In cases such as coma, your body goes dormant but your spirit does not and keeps creatin’ energy as always. When all that energy is no longer used as fuel, the spirit may leave the physical body for periods of time. However, while you are free to leave your physical body, you are not free to wander the hospital. You must remain here or in the Limbo Lounge. There are no exceptions,” he says, like he’s reading from Dying for Dummies. “Like all energy, yours will eventually drain from use. You will feel tired and need to reenter your physical body in order to recharge both.”

  Oh. I don’t like the sound of returning to my body. The stitches holding me together look painful, not to mention the probe in my head. “Is there another way? Maybe a chargin’ station like in the airport?” Last year when Momma and me flew from Midland to Amarillo to visit Aunt Bonnie Bell, cell charging stations were all over the place.

  “You’re not a cell phone.”

  Duh. “How long does it take to recharge?”

  “That depends on your activity. Strong emotions from you, or the livin’ around you, will accelerate the drain. And if you have family visitors, we prefer you remain in your room with them.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s not for me to know. I don’t make the rules.”

  Uh-huh. I get the feeling he’s playing dumb. Either that or he’s lazy.

  “Is this our new guest?”

  I look to my left at a middle-aged man moving toward me. I’m so shocked to see anyone else that it takes a second or two for me to notice the solid outline of his tuxedo and ten-gallon hat. His edges aren’t fuzzy like the golfer’s. He looks more solid, like me.

  “Yes. This is Marfa.” The golfer turns to include the other gentleman. “Marfa, this is Clint.”

  “Howdy, Miss Marfa. That’s some hair.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I think. “Who’s Marfa?”

  “You.”

  “Me?” I put a hand on my chest. “My name isn’t Marfa. I’m Brittany Lynn Snider.”

  “We already have a Brittany in this unit. That name has been claimed, so to avoid confusion, the incomin’ party shall be referred to by their hometown,” the golfer says, sounding like he’s reading out of Dying for Dummies again.

  “That’s right, Miss Marfa.” Clint continues down the hall and we walk with him. “My real name is Tom but there was a Tom, a Thomas, and a Tommy before I got here. Clint is my hometown.”

  Who cares? “Marfa’s ugly. I don’t want to be called Marfa! Why can’t I go by Brittany Lynn or Lynn or by my last name?”

  “I don’t make the rules, and you have bigger concerns than a name, Marfa.”

  Wing nut. I let the name stew because I do have bigger concerns. “How long has it been since my accident?”

  “On the earthly plane, you arrived four hours ago.”

  Four hours? It feels more like thirty minutes. “Has my momma come to see me yet?” I ask as we pass a room. I try to look inside but all I can see is the foot of a bed and a maroon curtain.

  “No. I haven’t seen anyone.”

  I wrecked the van and broke her Jesus, but she should be here by now. “Really? Her name is Carla Jean Snider.”

  “Does she live in El Paso? The traffic gets mighty backed up at the Spaghetti Bowl this time of day.”

  “No. She lives in Marfa.” El Paso? What’s the Spaghetti Bowl?

  “That’s three hours away, Miss Marfa.”

  I stop again. “What?” My memory is fuzzy, and just when I think it’s going to clear up, it doesn’t. “This is Big Bend hospital, right?”

  “No.”

  “Pecos?”

  “Wrong direction,” the golfer says over his shoulder as he continues. “This is UMC El Paso.”

  “What?” I pass rooms on each side of the hall as I hurry to catch up with them. “How did I get here?”

  “An ambulance brought you in.”

  “All the way from Marfa?”

  “No. We don’t send our ambulances that far away.”

  “I’m in El Paso,” I say more to myself than anyone. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as can be, Miss Marfa.”

  “Why am I in El Paso?”

  “Maybe one of those geo tours,” Clint suggests, as if I look like the kind of girl who’d pass on a mountain of Buc-ee’s Beaver Nuggets in favor of a mountain bike. He stops and tips his hat to a woman with fried blonde hair and skintight Wranglers. “Miss Kodiak.”

  “Clint. Concierge.” Her outline is as solid as mine and Clint’s, but she looks through me like I’m invisible. I recognize the look. I’ve seen it many times from snooty women like Kodiak. If she was nicer, and if I didn’t have better things to do, I might give her a professional consultation and recommend a deep-conditioning hair mask for those thirsty roots growing from her center part.