Touchdown (9 page)

“Oh yes, I am, ” Chumie said to Goldie, then turned to Avner. “Getting you cake. Sure am.”

Goldie followed Chumie over to the table where Chumie cut a few slices of babka cake. “You aren't going after Avner.”

“Why wouldn't I?” Chumie whispered.

“He'll never go for you.”

“We'll see about that, won't we?”

“He's mine!”

“No, he's not. You're dead.”

“You're cruel.”

“You're the one who was panting after some guy in a white suit right before you were about to marry Avner.”

“It wasn't like that. I would have never betrayed Avner.”

“Right,” Chumie said, then placed the cakes on plates to bring to the mourners. “Go to hell.”

“I always thought your were a witch!” Goldie spat at Chumie.

“At least I know who I am,” Chumie said through her clenched teeth as she smiled at Avner. “You still have got a lot to learn. So go to hell. That's where you belong.”

Goldie grabbed a cake and threw it at Chumie, but nothing happened. Chumie winked at Goldie and returned to Avner.

In a fit of anger, Goldie ran to her bedroom and tried to slam the door, but the door wouldn't budge.

Feeling utterly frustrated, she sat down at her makeup table and sobbed.

“Hey, it's not that bad,” said a male voice.

Goldie picked up her head to see the man in the white suit. “You. What do you want from me? Why are you always following me?”

“I've been trying to help you.”

“Help? You got me into this mess!”

He shrugged. “I was trying to save you, but you wouldn't listen. You sure are one obstinate dame.”

“Obstinate?” Goldie yelled at the man. “You play with my mind and you get me killed and now you insult me? Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”

“I don't hate you, I—”

“Wait a minute. You can see me, too. But you saw me before the accident. Are you a boy witch? What is that, a warlord?”

The man laughed. “You mean a warlock? No. Far from it.” He extended his hand. “Let me introduce myself. Charles Rosen. But my friends call me Charlie. How do you do?”

Goldie's eyes widened. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, madam, I am not. My friends do call me Charlie.”

“What—you want to be friends with me? After what you did to me?”

“No.” The man smirked. “I'm actually dead, too, if that helps any. And I am sorry it turned out the way it did. Really.”

“Sorry? If this isn't a dream, then I'm truly dead. What am I supposed to do with that?”

The man moved closer to Goldie. “You can spend eternity with me.”

Goldie stared at him. He was very handsome and gentleman-like in an old-fashioned way . . . but eternity? Who was this man, and what did he want from her? And why was he always in her dreams?

“You kept telling me not to marry Avner. What kind of person, or ghost, or guardian angel—whatever you are—stops a wedding and gets me killed?”

“Your time was up anyway, Goldie. It was just supposed to happen somewhat differently and I had to make sure you didn't marry Avner.”

“Why? I mean if my time was up and I was going to die soon anyway, what difference would it make to you if I married Avner or not?”

Charlie sighed. “Because you were singlehandedly going against the universe.”

“And what's wrong with that?” Goldie pursed her lips. “How else do you get anything done? Who exactly sent you? Did my mother put you up to this?”

Charlie shook his head. “It's more complicated than that,” he said, and exhaled. “How about we start over? C'mon, let's go outside.”

“I don't want to go anywhere with you, Mr. Rosen.”

Charlie stood close to Goldie. “Listen, sweetheart. I'm trying to help you. My job is to make sure you pass the tribunal and join the Light. So you can either blow me off, fail the tribunal, and spend eternity walking the earth—or worse. Or, for the first time in your shallow, pitiful existence, you could listen to someone other than yourself and let me help you.” He grabbed her hand. “All right?”

“Do I have a choice?” Goldie sighed. Instantly, she found herself back in the misty light-filled room where she'd met her mother and that boy from Atlanta.

“You'll have to teach me how to do that transporting thing,” she said to Charlie.

“We'll see,” he said. “So let's go now. I have to prep you for the tribunal—”

Goldie suddenly shook her head. “I'm not going anywhere with you, Charlie.”

“What? You must.”

“No, I don't. You told me yourself there are options. And I don't want to go to the Light. Not yet, anyway.”

“Are you crazy?” Charlie swallowed. “Do you know what that means?”

Goldie thought of everything she'd been through, how Chumie was after Avner, how lonely her sister seemed and needed her help. She had a mission on earth, and no chance was she going to leave until it was completed. She would find a way. She had to, no matter the consequences. “Yes, I know what that means,” she said sadly, and turned away from him. “If this isn't a dream, it means I'll see you in hell.”

Clay shut the door to the tribunal behind him and sat down on the bed in the misty white room. “I can't believe this,” he said as he collapsed on the wicker chair and put his head in his hands.

“Looks like you have as much luck as me,” said Goldie. “What's going on?”

Clay averted his eyes. “I'm in deep trouble,” he said.

Goldie pretended not to notice that Clay had tears in his eyes. “Tribunal?” she asked.

Clay nodded. “They want to send me back.”

“And you don't want to go?”

“I'm not sure. There's a lot of pressure down there.”

“What kind of answer is that?” Goldie said. “Life is tough, and I love it!”

“Lucky you,” Clay said. “But I don't. I can't do anything right. Clearly I can't even die right.”

“Wait. So you're not dead?” Goldie asked.

“I think I'm in some kind of limbo. They're sending me back to give me one last chance to stop screwing up and make the right choices, whatever that means.” He chuckled mirthlessly.

“At least you get to live,” Goldie said.

“What's to live for?” Clay said. “Nothing really matters anyway.”

Goldie pinched his arm. “You shmendrick! Squandering precious moments down there while I have a sister who needs me and a fiancé who is being stalked by a nasty witch—you have some nerve!”

Clay held his hands up to protect himself from this madwoman. “Whoa, lady, calm down. You want my life? Take it. Let's see you do better.”

“Fine.” Goldie nodded. “I will.”

“Okay, then.” Clay grabbed her hand and shook it. “If you can live my life, then good luck.”

Suddenly Clay clutched his midsection as he was wracked with a painful spasm. Goldie tried to help him and watched in horror as his entire body shook violently.

“Oh my God, we need some help here!” Goldie yelled, but her pleas were met with empty silence. Clay's body spasmed again as Goldie held him upright.

“Shh, bubbaleh,” she whispered to Clay. “It's going to be all right, I think.”

“No, it won't,” Clay gasped. Then he doubled over again. “I feel the pull—it's so strong.”

Frantic, Goldie responded. “Don't worry. I'm here for you. I won't let you go if you don't want to.”

“Help me,” he whispered to Goldie. “I don't want to go back to earth,” Clay cried. “Do you here that?” he shouted to the empty room and hoped the administering angels could hear him. “It's nice here without pressure. I don't want to go back!”

“Well, I do!” Goldie interjected. “Take me instead! I'll take the pull. They need me down there! Give me the pull. Hellloooo, I want the pull!”

Suddenly the floor dropped out from under them and Goldie held tight onto Clay's hand as they swirled around in a cyclone crackling with energy.

“I. Don't. Want. To. Go!” Clay yelled through the howling wind.

“I do!” Goldie clutched Clay's hand tight, and they tumbled together through the vortex of time and space.

Goldie opened her eyes. She didn't feel like herself. “What's going on?” she asked, frightened.

A young woman looked down at her in wide-eyed relief and said, “Oh, praise the Lord.” She squeezed Goldie's hand. “You were really out of it, Clay. What's the last thing you remember?”

“Clay?” Goldie said as she stared at the girl. “That's the fellow from Atlanta who didn't think life was worth living anymore because he felt like such a screw-up?”

The girl swallowed. “I suppose,” she said. “If that's your way of apologizing.”

“Apologize for what? Where am I?” Goldie asked, looking around as sunlight peeked through the trees.

“We're at the airplane park,” she replied. “Remember that awful party? It isn't something I'm likely to forget anytime soon.”

Goldie sat up and saw a number of small planes parked in a huge concrete lot adjacent to the airplane-themed kiddie playground. Smashed bottles of empty liquor and dozens of crumpled red cups littered the field.

“I thought I'd lost you there for a minute,” the girl said. “I was so scared. All that drinking had you totally passed out. I wasn't even sure I could feel your pulse.”

“Scared?” Goldie gesticulated with his big hands. “You shouldn't know from being scared.”

The girl stared. “Huh?”

“Well, I just hope you never have to go through something that traumatizing,” Goldie said, fanning wildly at her heart. “It was meshuga, I tell you, absolutely. It was so much worse than that stampede at Walmart on Black Friday.”

The girl paused. “I know you've taken a lot of hits lately, but wow, you're really not yourself.”

“Oh, thanks, sweetie, but I'm fine. Really.” Goldie looked at her hands. “Oh, God, no.” Her hands were huge. She smelled grass, she felt the sunlight on her back, but her body didn't feel like hers at all. She felt her chest. It was hairy. “No . . . this can't be.”

The girl leaned over Goldie. “What, is your chest hurting you?”

“Hurting? No! I just have no, um—” Goldie frantically felt her thighs, then her chin which was full of stubble. “A man! I'm a man!”

The girl nodded. “I know that. You don't have to prove yourself with all this irresponsible behavior.”

“I'm the last person to call irresponsible, honey,” Goldie said. “But, um, I think there's been a horrible mistake.”

“I know, you shouldn't have gotten so wasted,” the girl said and scrutinized Goldie. “Can you walk? C'mon, let me take you to the hospital.”

“No, no, I'm good. Just a little sore.” Goldie took a deep breath and smoothly transitioned into a stellar Pilates pose. “Oh!”

“What?” The girl stared at Goldie, ready to help.

“Your pores. I can see them.”

“Huh?”

“I know, but this is the ugly truth our mothers always warned us about: a little moisturizer goes a long way.”

“So it's not enough that you made a joke out of me in front of all your jock friends and I have to find you passed out in our park—now you want to criticize my pores?”

“You found that insulting?”

“No! You couldn't offend me if you tried,” the girl said, suddenly defensive.

“Oh, please, don't be so sensitive—I'm only trying to help.”

“You'll need to try harder,” the girl sniffed. “Because right now you're just plain obnoxious.”

Goldie pursed Clay's lips and placed her hands on his narrow hips. “I'd be happy to help you with a facial. You'd look and feel so much better—and a lot less cranky.”

“So that's what this is about? Just because I don't look like Ms. Carolyn Dampeer—that's why you were such a doofus at the party?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't been to any party and I don't even know any girl with that name.”

“You're telling me you don't know Carolyn?”

“That's right,” Goldie said.

“She's planning your wedding.”

“That's not true. I planned my own wedding and I'm very good at it, you know. It takes a lot of skill and know-how—I could plan yours, too, if you ever need any help.”

“Okay, you've got a concussion. I've got to get you to the hospital.”

“You're a doll. But really, I'm fine,” Goldie said. “Do you have a phone? I have to call my sister and figure out how to get out of this mess.”

The girl grabbed Goldie's hand. “Oh my God, it's worse than I thought. Clay, honey—you don't have any sisters.”

“Who are you?” Goldie asked, suddenly frightened. “And who is Clay, exactly?”

The girl stared at Clay, confused.

“All right,” she said slowly. “That tackle left you senseless. Not that you ever had much sense to begin with. You're Clayton Harper; you are twenty-two years old. I'm Leigh, your next door neighbor. We've been best friends since we were kids,” the girl patiently explained. “Your favorite milkshake is raspberry-vanilla, and you hate the sound of screeching metal. You don't like school much and you love to cook. And you're a dang good cook, if I may say so myself.”

Leigh started to work herself up. “In fact, you are such a fabulous cook that you want to drop out of school and study cooking in France, except that your parents wouldn't hear of it because everybody wants to see you succeed in football. Which you like—but you only pretend to love because otherwise everyone would think you're just plain nuts. Which I'm beginning to think, maybe you are. You certainly don't enjoy getting concussions playing—though you can never tell anyone what you really think, and you behave like a puppet most of the time. You can take pressure but you don't like it, and are prone to making stupid decisions like humiliating your best friend in front of a crowd of drunken football players and downing pints of alcohol when you clearly cannot take it!” Leigh shouted. “Why on earth, Clay? I mean, are you suicidal?”