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  “The way this is going, I may need something stronger,” Phyllis mutters.

  I reach into a cabinet and pull out the bottle of cooking sherry. Handing it to her, I declare, “Go for it.”

  My aunt's eyes grow to the size of cornflowers, but she doesn’t dare uncork the bottle. She’d much rather have my wrath aimed at my children and my husband.

  She’s getting her wish. As I circle them, I growl, “I may have awakened from a coma only two days ago, but I never stopped being a mother. Your mother.” I let the words sink in. “And as such, I’m laying down some ground rules for the health and safety of this family so that your own experiences with death aren’t caused by lousy odds, bad judgment, or stupidity on your part. Rule Number One: If you’re to play a sport, you do so with a helmet and padding to all joints.”

  “But…there are no helmets in basketball!” Jeff declares

  I turn my no-nonsense gaze on him. “There are now—for you anyway.”

  “No way!” Disgusted, he shakes his head. “I won’t be the only person on the court wearing a helmet. I'd look like a jerk!”

  “Okay, got it. So you won’t play at all.” Before he has a chance to protest, I add, “And that goes for baseball as well.”

  Jeff fumes for a moment before muttering, “Welcome home!” as he stalks off.

  I turn to Mary next. “You blew it. You should have waited for either your father or me to accompany you. Instead, you took a chance on something that could have cost you dearly—your life. This lesson comes with a consequence.” My pause is not for dramatics, but because I must think of something that will make her think twice next time. “You’re not to drive again until your eighteenth birthday.”

  Mary tears up. “Mom…seriously? Are you kidding me?”

  “No. This is for real.”

  “It’s—not fair! I wish…I wish you had died!" Mortified at her words, she flees the room, sobbing.

  Trisha’s lower lip trembles. “Does this mean I can’t play soccer?”

  I kneel in front of her. “Of course you can, sweetie—with a helmet.”

  Trisha bursts into tears and runs up the stairs after her sister.

  Evan stares after them. When he turns toward me, he’s more sad than angry. “Donna, we know you love us. We love you too. But we can't quit living our lives because you're now too afraid to live yours.”

  He treads off to his room over the garage.

  Aunt Phyllis murmurs, “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

  The look in Jack’s eyes is anything but love—more like pity.

  “Evan is wrong,” I insist. “The last thing I am is afraid to live my life.”

  “Frankly, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you took it easy,” Jack counters.

  “And yet, at the same time, you feel I’m being too protective with them?”

  He says nothing.

  “Admit it!” I dare him.

  He nods. “Okay, yes. I think you’re projecting your fears onto them.”

  “Who asked you to play shrink?”

  “I wouldn’t dare take on that role for you,” he counters. “You’re too likely to shoot the messenger. Speaking of which, Acme lined one up for you, along with a physical therapist. You’re to start Monday with him for daily sessions, and you’ll see the psychiatrist on Wednesday.” He hands me two business cards. “By the way, Coach Morris called.”

  Seeing me wince, Jack frowns. Nonchalantly, I ask, “What did he want?”

  “He said he found Cheever bound and gagged in an equipment storage room. He wondered if you knew anything about it?”

  “Hmmm…” I widen my eyes in mock innocence. “I wonder why he’d think that?”

  “Other than it was Cheever who shoved Jeff into the wall, and that you were the last one seen with him? Gee, you’ve got me.”

  “What does Cheever say about it?”

  “He claims he never saw his assailant.” Jack can’t help but smile. “You must have scared the piss out of that brat.”

  “Oh? Did he leave a puddle?”

  “Luckily, no.” Jack’s grin fades. “At this point in your recovery, erratic behavior in public can, and will, find its way back to Ryan.”

  “By whom, Jack? You?”

  “A complaint filed at the school by anyone—say, the Bings—will be picked up by Acme’s Clearance Division. You and I both know that.” He reaches for a lock of my hair. Tucking it behind my ear, he murmurs, “I’m not the enemy, Donna.”

  “Prove it,” I reply. “Stop working so hard to keep me off this mission.”

  “If I’m ‘working hard’ at anything, it’s to keep you from”—he struggles to find the right words that don’t express his fears—“from getting hurt again.”

  I reach for his hand. “Please, Jack! I’m here. I’m alive. And I want to get on with my life! Don’t stand in my way.”

  “I don’t see it that way. In fact, I may be saving you from yourself.”

  When he puts his arms around me, I flinch at his touch.

  He reads that to mean he’s somehow hurt me.

  He has, and yes, the bruise is internal: my heart.

  I head for our bedroom.

  By the time I drift off to sleep, he’s holed up in the guest room.

  15

  To Lose My Life or Lose My Love

  The song was on the debut album of the British indie rock band, White Lies. When released in January 2009, the album immediately hit #1 on the UK Albums chart, and it was the first album that year to debut at #1 worldwide. It also held Top 40 slots in six European countries.

  The single itself also hit #146 on the Billboard “200” chart; and #4 on the Billboard “Top Heatseekers” chart.

  The loss of a life? Deadly. The loss of a love? Devastating, but there is a chance at recovery—if you remember these three Don’ts:

  Don’t let it obsess you. After hearing your woe-is-me blather for the umpteenth time, your friends will be the first to tell you: It wasn’t something you did. In truth, it had to do with the many somethings you are. Or, for that matter, your ex’s many somethings have a lot to do with it as well. Sometimes, too many somethings can add up to a whole lot of nothing.

  Don’t act as if it’s the end of the world. Shakespeare said it best: “Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” Babe Ruth’s famous saying is the perfect metaphor: “I had the most home runs because I had the most times up to bat.” In other words: get out there again.

  Don’t think you’ll ever fall in love again? Great news! It’s like riding a bicycle. Once you know how it's just as easy to do a second time…and a third…and a fourth…

  “You are one lucky lady!” The awe with which Jonah Kyle, my physical therapist, says this makes me wince even more than my latest rotation of arm-strengthening exercises. “You’ve only been home a week and look at you! I have clients who take months—sometimes years—to get their motor strength back to even that.”

  Even that.

  Apropos, since I’m moving as slow as frozen motor oil. Whether curling, jogging, reaching, or even walking, my gut hurts with each pull on my abdomen.

  But if Jonah gives me a lousy prognosis, there will be no way to convince Ryan that I should be on the mission to find Eric.

  Not that I’ll let Jonah know this. I smile up at him. “Just call me Wonder Woman.”

  “Trust me, I do.” His grin is tepid at best.

  “You don’t sound too convinced,” I retort.

  “Frankly, I think you’re pushing yourself too hard.” He squints at me as if preparing to catch me should I falter from the pain that he thinks I’m feeling.

  I am hurting—but I’ll never admit it.

  Finally, he shrugs. “Donna, we’ve both seen your x-rays. Luckily, the bullet dodged your organs. You were stitched up by the best, and that’s a big plus. Still, it's going to take a while until you’re fully healed. All the more reason to go slow and steady.”

  I nod meekly.

/>   And then I do twelve more rotations on each arm at an even faster pace.

  Jonah sighs.

  Too bad. I’m here on a mission. Nothing will keep me from it.

  Certainly not my mortality. I’ve already proven that once.

  Acme’s resident physician, Dr. Friedman, slowly unwraps the bandage on my wound. I’m lying down on his patient table so I can’t see it, but I can gauge the emotions I see in his face.

  At first, his eyes open wide before narrowing again in concern. He grimaces as he takes a closer look. With gentle fingers, he presses down.

  This time, it’s me who reacts: I stiffen, but I hold back a yelp.

  “Ah,” he murmurs.

  “What does ‘ah,’ mean?” I ask warily.

  He shrugs. “It’s shorthand for ‘it’s going to take some time to heal.’”

  I ease myself up on my elbows. “We have an active mission right now—”

  “Yes, I know.” Friedman frowns. “And I know how badly you want to be a part of it. Listen, Donna: in one regard, you were lucky. That bullet could have done some serious life-changing damage. With what I’m seeing here, it may take a month, maybe two, until you’re completely healed and ready to go back into the field”—he hesitates, then adds—“depending on your psychological assessment, of course.”

  Seeing my crestfallen face, he sighs. “By that I mean sometimes a near-death experience will set off PTSD. Just take it easy for the next few weeks. Allow yourself to heal, both physically and emotionally. Your life depends on it.” Chuckling weakly, he adds, “Hey, consider the alternative.”

  Been there, done that.

  I wait until he walks out of the room before groaning.

  Yes, out of frustration. And yes, from the pain.

  “Do you want to talk about your visions?” My Acme-appointed psychiatrist, Dr. Alfred Bellows, scans the dossier in his hands.

  I’ve been admiring his wall art: beautifully framed Rorschach blottings. At some point, will I be asked to give an opinion of what I see in them?

  So far, all he’s asked is if I prefer to sit in an easy chair or on the couch. I ease down onto the couch so that I can lie down. My gut is sore and throbbing from my workout. No pain, no mission. I’ll live—I hope.

  Not that I need Dr. Bellows to feel it on my behalf. “Yes, let’s talk about them,” I say, perhaps a bit too cheerily.

  The good doctor nods, but then adds hesitantly, “Because of your security clearance, you know that everything you say here must be reported to your Acme superior, Ryan Clancy.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Good.” He writes something in my file. “Well then, let’s start with how and when the visions began.”

  So I tell him:

  About leaving my body the moment the bullet entered me;

  And about seeing Jack’s frantic and caring reaction when he discovered my comatose body;

  How I appreciated Jack’s tenderness and concern as he sped to the hospital, all the while trying to keep me from bleeding out;

  How my soul watched while suspended over the surgical team–

  And then the Grim Reaper showed up.

  Hearing this last bit of news, Dr. Bellows stops scribbling. He looks over his glasses to scrutinize me. “Um…so, what does he look like?”

  “To be honest, he changed his look several times over the course of our visits. Sometimes he was the wraith in the hooded robe and holding a scythe. At others, he was a dark angel with wings as wide this room, large gnarled fingers, red eyes…” I shudder at the memory. “Once, he was just a floating skull. Charon on the River Styx, Thanatos, Ankou, Banshee…” I shrug.

  Dr. Bellows nods solemnly. “You know your death mythology.”

  I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. “So, you do believe me?”

  He pauses but then shrugs. “You seem convinced. That’s all that counts.”

  “It counts? How so? Does it count as far as committing me to some loony bin?”

  “We don’t call them loony bins anymore. They go by sanitarium, or spa—”

  “Let’s not parse words, Doc.” I sit up on the sofa. “Do you think I’m nuts?”

  He shakes his head. “I think there’s a reason for everything we see and hear. If you’re asking me if what you perceived was fact as opposed to a delusion, I’ll have to hear a little more.” He nudges his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “I assume he talked to you?”

  “Yes. He told me I was dying. I believed him because of what I heard between my surgeon and the trauma team.”

  Even as he takes notes he asks, “So, you could hear the doctor?”

  I laugh mirthlessly. “Among others. I heard everyone who came to visit: my husband, my family, my mission team, my neighbors, the President and the First Lady—”

  “Wow. You do have friends in high places.”

  “Yeah, lucky me.” Not that I want to get into my very complicated relationships with Lee and Babette. Better to save that for another visit.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Who, POTUS?”

  You mean, like, that he loved me, and if I woke up, he wanted to marry me? Sorry, my lips are sealed, Doc—and not just because you’d chalk it up as a sex fantasy.

  “I meant the Grim Reaper,” Dr. Bellows explains. “You said there were several visits.”

  “Yes, well, I was crashing, so I offered him…a deal.”

  Dr. Bellows’s pen freezes. “What kind of deal?”

  I take a deep breath before answering. “To be honest with you, I told him I…well, that I’d help him with his harder cases if he needed it.”

  Dr. Bellows nods slowly. “I see.”

  “You know, since it’s my line of work anyway, I thought it might have been a no-brainer.” I shrug. “But I made it very clear to him that I wanted to handle only the worst cases. Now, in hindsight, the whole concept may have been a bit presumptuous on my part.”

  “Yes, well, he’s been a solo act for years, so…” The good doctor’s voice trails off. Finally: “But since you’re here, I suppose he agreed to an alternate proposal?”

  “You could call it that. He pitched Satan on a few death matches—seven, to be exact. I guess a more apt term would be ‘un-death matches—at least, in my case.’’ I giggle weakly. Frankly, I shouldn’t take credit for this little joke since it was Death’s bon mot.

  “‘Undeath matches’…I get it.” A shadow of a smile rises on his lips. In fact, he writes that down.

  Yikes. Is that a good thing?

  “Now that I’m far removed from it, un-death matches made sense on a couple of levels,” I assure him. “As Satan explained it, if I won, it shattered any sinner’s hope of ever getting out of Hell for, you know, the Good Place. And if I lost, I would have to pay the ultimate price.”

  “Did the thought of losing scare you?” he asks.

  “Yes, very much so! But I figured that I’d already killed my adversaries once, so maybe—to paraphrase The Hunger Games—the odds were in my favor.”

  Suddenly, Bellows is scrawling furiously. Dammit! Why did I quote Effie Trinket? Maybe he thinks I didn’t take my dire situation as seriously as I should have.

  To prove that theory wrong, I quickly add, “The fights were surreal! There were millions of sinners there, watching, cheering, or jeering—by the way, sinners is what he called them, not me.”

  “He, meaning the Reaper?” Dr. Bellows asks.

  “Um…no. Satan.” I rise. Just a theory here, but I don’t think now is the time to mention that the Devil wanted to make me Queen of Hades, so I add fervently, “I just want to make this clear: I did everything I could to come back here.”

  Bellows nods sympathetically. “I’m sure you did, Donna.”

  I wish he’d quit taking notes. It makes me feel like a freak.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” he asks.

  “Yes! You see, whenever I won a fight, I was rewarded with a visit from a deceased
friend or colleague.”

  “I’m sure these were, er…heartfelt reunions,” he murmurs.

  “Yes. I was truly touched that these souls came to pay their respects.” Hoping I'm not making this sound like a high school reunion, I lean forward and add, “More importantly, they gave me intel on my team’s latest mission—some of which I was able to feed back to Ryan and my team.”

  His pen pauses in mid-air. “You mean, while you were still in the coma?”

  I nod.

  “How…how did you do it?”

  “Apparently, some of us are more susceptible to psychic phenomena than others—especially children. One of my team members brought her toddler, Nicky. He’s just now saying words. I came to him and taught him to speak the name of the person who is now our prime suspect.”

  “I see,” Bellows murmurs. However, he doesn’t write it down. “Was your intel confirmed by, er, the living?”

  “Yes, that very day, in fact. Almost simultaneously. You see, while the team visited, Mr. Clancy got a call informing him that the suspect escaped his cell that very morning.”

  Once more, Doctor Bellows puts pen to pad. From the amount of time he’s taking, perhaps he feels he’s got the makings of an interesting white paper on a coma patients’ ability to commune with those in the Afterlife. How exciting! Maybe it will appear in The American Journal of Psychiatry, or Lancet, or The American Journal of Medicine, or International Journal of Medical Sciences—

  How very Three Faces of Eve! I’ll be his Sybil! When he confirms he’s actually doing this, I’ll suggest that the title could perhaps be The Seven Trials of Donna.

  I’m so excited at my shot at immortality in the annals of medical research that I have to ask: “What do you make of all this, Doc?”

  Bellows puts down his pen with a sigh. “Right now, I’m leaning toward delusions from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

  What the…

  No! Just—no. “But…how do you explain the validated intel?” I ask indignantly.