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I wish I could remember what…

  In any event, I feel ashamed because I actually believe I must do it in order to accomplish our mission.

  Jeff waits until we’re home and I’ve settled on the couch before shyly asking, “So, what was it like to be in a coma?”

  Hearing him, the other children freeze. Despite their awe at his boldness in broaching this curious topic, they can’t help but hover, like stubborn snowflakes on a frigid day, within reach.

  I clear my throat if only to give myself some time to think through a way to tell them that I’ve literally been to Hell and back.

  Of course, I can’t. And so I don’t. Instead, I tell them what I think they want to hear. “I was never in pain. And although I couldn’t move or speak, sometimes I could hear you.”

  “Do you mean like a ghost?” Mary asks.

  “I guess it was like that. There were times that it felt as if I left my body. I’d float over myself…and others.”

  Trisha nods emphatically. “You came to me, Mommy! Do you remember? You told me to bring you Birthday Bear!” She still has it with her. She lifts it to show me.

  I can’t lie to her, so I nod. But when I do so, I notice that Jack frowns.

  Whether he likes it or not, I want to assure her that it wasn’t just a dream. “I told you that I loved you, that I’d always be with you, and I begged you to never give up on me.”

  Trisha gasps along with the others.

  For the longest time, no one says anything. I gaze at each of their faces. When my eyes meet Mary’s, I see them glisten with her tears. “Then you heard me too.”

  I put out my hand to her. “Please, Mary, don’t feel guilty. You spoke out of compassion. You thought I’d already left my body.”

  She smothers me in a hug.

  “And when Aunt Phyllis cried and called me her baby—”

  My aunt may be snorting, but she tears up nonetheless. “I probably struck you as a big bowl of mush!”

  “No, I thought it was the sweetest thing you’d ever done. And you’ve done a lot. Mother thought you were a bit mushy, though. She let me know she still watches over us—”

  “My sister, Mary…she sees us?” The blood leaves Aunt Phyllis’s face and she faints.

  Thank goodness Evan is there to catch her.

  “By the way, Evan, your mother truly appreciates your prayers on her behalf.”

  Evan’s mouth flies open. When his arms falter, Jack lunges toward Aunt Phyllis, catching her before she hits the floor.

  Trisha grabs the ever-present water bottle from her great aunt’s purse and squeezes some of it onto her face. Phyllis sputters as she comes out of her shock.

  I notice that Jeff’s cheeks have turned a deep red. “Oh—heck!” he murmurs. “Then, when Cheever—”

  “Yes,” I inform him crisply. “And the next time I see that little pervert, I’m going to—”

  Jack growls, “Donna, can we speak—alone?”

  Before I can answer, he stalks upstairs.

  I hesitate because I don’t know what got into him.

  I turn to the children. They stare as if they see a ghost.

  Oh, heck. Maybe I've said too much, too soon?

  My guess is that, at the very least, Jack thinks so.

  There is only one way to know for sure. I follow him upstairs.

  When I enter the master bedroom, he firmly closes the door behind me. “Donna, just what the heck were you doing down there?” he asks.

  “I…I thought I was sharing this incredible experience with you, the kids, my aunt—”

  “First of all, being on the brink of death isn’t an ‘incredible experience’! It’s torture for those who love you and thought they’d lost you forever!” Frankly, I’ve never seen Jack like this. He’s pacing the floor as if his feet are on fire. “And another thing: letting the kids know you could hear everything they were saying was scaring the bejeezus out of them!”

  “It didn’t seem that way to me,” I sniff. “In fact, I think they were fascinated.”

  Jack freezes to glare at me. “‘Fascinated?’ Is that what you call it? Phyllis fainted out there! What if you’d given her a heart attack or something?”

  “I get it, Jack. It’s shocking to hear that someone who you thought was dying—or dead—heard things that you thought they’d never hear.” I look him straight in the eye: “But, Jack, I did. I heard it all. And I believe I've been saved for a purpose—”

  “I do too.” Tenderly, he touches my cheek with his palm, as if he can’t believe I am truly there at his side.

  To prove I’m very real, I turn my lips so that I can kiss his hand.

  Soon, his lips are on mine. His hand roams under the surgical scrub top graciously lent to me by the hospital to replace my bullet-torn, blood-soaked evening gown I wore to the hospital. His palm spans the small of my back as he eases me down onto the bed.

  When he drops down beside me, I put my hand over the zipper of his jeans. I’m not at all surprised that he’s already rock hard.

  He knows an invitation when he feels one. He lifts my arms toward the headboard so that he can pull my top over my head and—

  Nothing.

  “Hello?” I ask. I can’t see through the top so I have no idea why he stopped. When he doesn’t answer me, I wriggle out of it myself.

  He’s staring at the wound in my abdomen.

  When I look down, I see why. My jagged stitches look as if they are barely holding my purple mottled skin together. I guess if Acme doesn’t take me back, I can always try out for the role of an extra in a horror movie.

  When he finally looks up, his eyes are filled with despair. “If only I’d shown up a few minutes sooner—” he says angrily.

  “You didn’t. But you came in time to save my life,” I remind him.

  “I’ll kill the son of a bitch who ordered your hit,” he swears.

  “I know you will.” Hearing the steely tenor of my conviction, he smiles again. “This is an odd thought but I think I should throw it out there. Could it be related to our new mission?”

  His grin fades. “Donna, hon, it’s not your mission anymore. You’re sitting this one out. You just got out of a four-day coma—remember?”

  “But, I’m here, and I’m alive,” I insist. “Not only that, I’ve been fully briefed on it.”

  His right brow inches up. “By whom?”

  “By you—and Ryan, Emma, Abu and Arnie.” I shove his pillow between us. “I heard everything—remember?”

  “You may have heard some things, but there’s a lot you missed.”

  “Oh, yeah? You mean, like Eric breaking out of Magic Mountain Maximum Security Incarceration Facility in Utah?”

  Jack stares at me. “You heard that too?”

  I nod. “It took place during this most recent outage. Remember? You and the others were in my hospital room while it went dark. The other outages were tests, ruses, and diversions to cover Eric’s tracks for when he made his great escape. Eric broke out right then and there. In fact”—I take a deep breath in the hope that this adds velocity to Jack’s leap of faith—“I asked little Nicky to say Eric’s name so that you’d know he’d planned it.”

  “Nicky...was just testing out sounds,” Jack insists. “Or maybe he heard the name while we were talking—”

  I shake my head adamantly. “You’re wrong. He said it because of me. Don’t you get it? I was warning you!” I sigh. “But I was too late!”

  Jack laughs nervously. “Tell me then. How did you know?”

  The vision of Varick dressed as a kabuki comes to me. Hesitantly, I admit, “Eric’s old chum, Varick, told me.”

  Jack shakes his head. “Now I know you’re delusional. I killed Varick!”

  “I know you did. I received his head in a pretty gift box, thanks to Eric.” I shiver at the memory.

  “Why would Varick of all people have told you that Eric was going to break out?” Jack demands.

  “Because I asked him,” I huff.

&
nbsp; “Where? Was he in your hospital room too?”

  “No! He was in…in Hell.”

  “Ha! Well, that doesn’t surprise me in the least.” Jack leans against the headboard, concerned “How did you end up in Hell, anyway?”

  “I…made a pact.”

  Jack’s eyes narrow. “With the Devil?”

  “No. Well, yes—sort of. Really, it was with the Grim Reaper.”

  “I see.” He smothers a grin.

  “No, you don’t. You’re smirking,” I mutter. “It’s very unbecoming.”

  “Pardon me,” he says, but the smirk is still there on those lips I adore. “Donna, you have to admit it sounds pretty farfetched—”

  “Oh, my God—Varick gave me another clue! Really, he sang it—something from Gilbert and Sullivan! What was it again? ‘Pirates of Penzance? No, no… ‘The Yeomen of the Guards’? …Agh! No, not that one~”

  The melody flits about in my memory, but the words escape me.

  For some reason, Jack apparently finds my frustration hilarious. He chortles, “That coma of yours was one hell of a dream factory!”

  “I’m telling you it wasn’t a dream! It was all very real!” Furiously, I shake my finger at him. “You’re trying much too hard not to believe me.”

  “And you’re trying much too hard to convince me that you weren’t delusional while you were in your coma,” he insists, still laughing.

  At the moment, his lack of belief hurts more than my wound. When he leans in for a hug, I shove him away. “I’m tired. It’s already been a very long day.”

  He frowns, but nods. “Sure. Totally understandable, hon.” He sits up in order to take off his jacket and shirt.

  When he stands and unbuckles his belt, I turn around, embarrassed. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other naked. Considering his reaction to my wound—and mine, to his jokes about my Afterlife adventures—intimacy may be a long time coming.

  I’ll reconsider if Ryan lets me back on the mission. But until then, his love life just went AWOL.

  He gets the message when he sees what I pluck out of my lingerie drawer: a flannel granny gown adorned with all the Smurfs. It was my Mother’s Day gift from Trisha.

  I take it into the bathroom with me and shut the door. After stripping out of my scrubs, I take a long hard look at my dark, ugly Frankenstein wound. I hurt like heck, and I look like hell.

  Still, I know, I’m very lucky to be alive.

  I awaken to Carl’s whisper:

  Donna, one more essential thing…you must… Jack.

  Jack’s arm flings off my waist when I sit straight up in bed. Apparently, we’ve been spooning.

  What did Carl mean about Jack?

  My heart is pounding so loudly that it takes me a while to figure out that Jack’s cell phone is buzzing too. I reach over him to his bedside table. The screen reads OFFICE.

  Hearing it, he mumbles in his sleep. I hesitate, but then I shake him awake.

  He groans, but at last, he opens one eye.

  I put the cell phone in front of him. He sighs but takes it and reads the text. “It’s from the office.” He kisses my forehead and then leaps out of bed. “I’ve got to go. All hell’s broken out…” He turns red. “Sorry! It wasn’t a joke at your expense, I swear.”

  “None taken.” I hop out of bed. “I’ll get dressed and go with you.”

  Jack pushes me back down onto the bed. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re still weak as a kitten.”

  I smack his hand away. “Funny! You were treating me as if I were a wildcat when we entered the bedroom.”

  “More like a cougar.” He winks at me. “And I’m ashamed that I almost took advantage of a thirty-something married woman in a highly suggestive state of mind.”

  Really? Is he going to bring up my so-called delusions again? When I throw his pillow at him, he ducks out of the way.

  No need, because it falls several feet short of him. My arms are still too weak.

  Watching me wince from the pain, Jack says softly, “Listen Donna, tomorrow you start physical therapy. The sooner you do, the quicker you’re back on the team. Seriously, hon, the best thing you can do for yourself—and all of us, for that matter—is to get some rest.”

  He tosses the pillow back at me.

  I’m afraid to reach for it. Instead, I let it hit me in the chest and I hold it there. “Right. Good.” I shrug.

  “And…well, don’t be surprised if Ryan insists on a psychiatric evaluation.”

  I frown. “Why would he? Are you going to tell him that I’m delusional?”

  “No, of course not. Look, even if your surgeon hadn’t recommended it, Acme protocol would insist on it. You’ve suffered a major trauma, remember?”

  I retort, “You certainly won’t let me forget it.”

  When he reaches the door, he turns around. This time, though, he’s not smiling. “A word of caution: spouting off crazy stuff—you know, like making a pact with the Grim Reaper and seeing Varick sing light opera—won’t get you back on the mission team anytime soon.”

  In other words, I should keep my mouth shut.

  But I can’t. And I won’t. Not with so much at stake.

  Now, if only I could remember what I think I know.

  14

  Life Goes On

  Performed by Fergie. Written by Fergie, along with Tristan Prettyman, Keith Harris, George Pajon, Jr., and Tobias Gad.

  The song was released on November 11, 2016, on the songstress’s Double Dutchess album, hitting #39 on Billboard’s “Top 40” list.

  Are you feeling as if life is passing you by? Here are some telltale signs that it is!

  Sign #1: You can’t name any current celebrities or Top 10 songs.

  Solution: Pick up a copy of Vanity Fair and read every article in it. Also, turn on a Top 40 radio station and listen to it for a full day.

  Sign #2: Your memories of the past are crystal clear, but the thought of you taking a chance on a new job, new home, or a journey to a place never visited leaves you trepidatious.

  Solution: Plan a trip where they don’t speak your language. Take a friend and a camera. After that, any other changes you make will seem easier.

  Sign #3: It takes you longer to carry out an execution. And sometimes you miss. Solution: Get out of the game—before you’re hit back.

  Life is beautiful.

  I look up at a baby blue sky from the double hammock hanging between the twin Heritage oaks in our backyard. Now and then a lazy cloud drifts overhead, but not for long. The Earth sighs and reluctantly it moves on.

  When hit by the sun’s golden rays, the oaks’ verdant leaves give the impression of fluttering. I know it is merely an illusion, but through half-closed eyes, I can believe it's actually happening.

  Illusions are like that.

  Behind my whitewashed picket fence, I hear the conversations of those walking past our house. A child’s plaintive plea gives way to a squeal of delight when a father gives in to his offspring’s request for ice cream. ’Tween girls giggle at the adorable antics of the puppy that runs at their side. While relaying her dismay over their mutual friends’ peccadillos, a woman’s voice modulates from shock in a scherzo tempo to a requiem of concern in a minor key. Her companion’s anger comes out in a trill of the anecdotes that foreshadowed what they both now know.

  My senses seem keener now.

  I may be fooling myself. At the time, my journey to Hell and back seemed so real. But in the space of a few days, it now seems like a dream.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone. Dreading that my mind is playing tricks on me, I turn my head so quickly that I almost fall out of the hammock.

  It’s a very real Jeff. He wears his Hilldale High Junior Varsity basketball uniform. Jeff twirls a basketball on the tip of his index finger without looking at it. “Mom, we better hurry or I’ll be late for my game!”

  He’s very proud of making the team—as he should be, considering the number of kids who turned out for tryou
ts.

  Yes! Watching Jeff hit the hoops is exactly what the doctor never ordered, but what I need so dearly.

  “Let’s do it!” I rise in order to follow him into the garage.

  Trisha and Aunt Phyllis are already standing next to my SUV. My aunt is huffing and puffing over the weight of the cooler in her arms. A pair of pompoms and a bullhorn balance precariously on top of it.

  Seeing her distress, Jeff grabs one of the handles to help her put it into the vehicle. Trisha grabs hold of the pompoms and the bullhorn before they topple onto the driveway.

  My eyes widen when I realize that Aunt Phyllis is also wearing an identical jersey to Jeff’s, but the number on it is 99. Her spindly legs peek out from under it.

  “What exactly are you wearing?” I ask.

  “It’s supposed to be yours, but since you were…er, indisposed, I took on the duties of team manager in your place.”

  “I…I don’t remember signing up for that,” I murmur. Did I? If so, did my injuries affect my memory?

  Jeff sighs loudly. “You didn’t. Aunt Phyllis signed you up for it in absentia.”

  “And it’s a good thing I did, young sir! When it comes to keeping you and your teammates hydrated, those so-called mothers of your teammates refused to help,” Aunt Phyllis sniffs. “Heaven help them if they broke even one manicured nail! They’d much rather be checking out the DILFcake from the stands.”

  Trisha licks her lips. “What does DILFcake taste like?”

  Jeff snickers at her naivety.

  Before Phyllis can answer her, I ask Trisha, “Honey, where did you get those pompoms?”

  “They belong to Aunt Phyllis. But she promised me I could shake them when she’s on the bullhorn.”

  Jeff slaps his forehead at the vision presented by his younger sister.

  “Now that I’m here, I guess I should take over,” I mutter uncertainly.

  “No, no, no!” Aunt Phyllis insists. “You’re still recuperating, remember? Why, it may take you all season to get better.” Her eyes plead with me to play along.

  Sure, why not? Very soon, my schedule won’t be so flexible anyway. Ryan is setting up my physical therapy sessions. And as Jack so pointedly declared—I’ll also have to pass a shrink test before Ryan takes me back, but so what? Easy peasy!