White Apples (19 page)

"There you are, dear Vincent. How good it is to see another face from the old days."

The three dead men sat in the hospital snack bar drinking very good cappuccino. They had been talking for twenty minutes but outside of how good the coffee was, they hadn't agreed on much else.

"So, ever since you died you've been in this building the whole time? You can't go out?" Bruno's voice was skeptical.

Tillman Reeves put two fingers to his chin. "No. It's like being in a Sartre play. And speaking of plays, have you

ever read Chris•topher Marlowe's
Dr. Faustus,
Mr. Mann? An essential work, one of my great favorites. At one point in the story, Faustus asks Mephi•stopheles where Hell is. The clever little swine answers, 'Under heaven.'" His fingers left his chin and made a little circle in the air, as if to include where they were in that definition.

Bruno looked at Ettrich for clarification. But Vincent's expres•sion said nothing so Bruno turned back to the old man. "I don't understand."

Reeves nodded. "For whatever reason, the three of us died and were brought back to life. To our previous lives, no less, albeit in varying states of confusion and lacking essential memories. We have no idea why we're back here, nor what we're supposed to do.

"Remember how afraid you once were to die? How you would have given anything to remain here, simply living as you were? Well that wish came true for us, but does it make you happy? Hell is under Heaven."

They sat unmoving and glumly silent while that sunk in. Then Reeves said, "I don't understand any of this, but a new part of the mystery is why you two can come and go as you please while I am permanently assigned to this unfortunate place."

Bruno sat back and locked his fingers behind his head. "What do you do here all day? I mean, what is there to do in a hospital all the time?"

"Watch operations, talk to the patients-"

Ettrich interrupted. "And how do they treat you, Tillman? How do people like Big Dog respond to your being here again? The ones who knew you died? The ones who were there when you did."

"Big Dog? Who's Big Dog?"

"She was the nurse who cared for us, Michelle Maslow," Ettrich explained.

"They recognize me but not the person I was. I suspect it's the same way your colleagues and friends relate to you. Everything is normal except for certain fundamental things. They greet me and we have our little chats but only that. People have a collective blind spot in their mirrors to who I am and what I was. When they see me day after day they don't ask what I'm doing here or why I'm still hanging around. They say hello, make small talk, and move on. To them I belong here and as far as they're aware that's correct."

From his own experience Ettrich knew this was true. Until Coco had told him the truth, his life and the people he knew re•mained the same today as they had been six months ago. "A collec•tive blind spot" was a good way to put it.

"But what are we supposed to
do
now?" Bruno's voice sounded like a lost child's.

"I honestly don't know, Mr. Mann. I keep hoping it will come to me in a flash but so far, nothing." "Do either of you remember what it was like being dead?"

Mann and Reeves looked at each other. "Nothing."

"No."

"I was sure you'd say that. But isn't that the strangest thing of all? None of us remember—not one thing about it." "Because they took it away, Vincent. They don't want us to remember. We might be able to use that memory to our

advantage."

Ettrich looked at a clock on the wall. "I have to go. I have to pick up my boy. Bruno, are you coming?" "No, I want to talk to Mr. Reeves some more. Will you be at home later? Can I call?"

"Sure."

Reeves rose from his chair and, to Ettrich's surprise, embraced him. "Promise me you'll come back and spend some time, Vincent. I miss our chats."

"Of course I'll come, Tillman. But do you remember things like that? Do you actually remember the time when we were in here together? I don't."

"You will. The longer you're aware of the fact you've been resurrected, more and more memories of your last days will return. It's similar to recovering from a form of amnesia. They're not very pleasant memories generally, but it's reassuring to have them back again. They belong to you. They're your life."

Bruno chuckled. "Strange, huh? They always say that about re•incarnation—if it's real, why can't I remember my past lives? The same thing is true here: We've been reincarnated but can't remem•ber parts of our past life—which just happens to be
this
life."

Riding back up to the sixth floor in the elevator, Ettrich thought about what both men had said. They were right—the three of them had in a bizarre way been reincarnated. But what good was the experience if you had no idea what to do with it? What good was a lesson if you learned nothing from it?

The elevator stopped at the second floor. Again when the doors slid open, no one was there. He was too deep in thought to pay it any mind. The doors closed and the car began to move. It rose for a minute and then stopped. Ettrich blinked. Confused, he looked around, as if the reason for the stop were somewhere in the car.

"Don't tell me this elevator is stuck. Do not tell me that." The lights went out.

A moment later Ettrich felt the first thing touch his leg.

It was gentle. He almost didn't feel the first contact because it was so tentative. His pants felt it, the cloth down by the ankle. The pants felt it first and then as the touch became more inquisitive, more firm, the cloth was pushed in until it touched his skin. The same thing happened on his other leg but higher up, near the knee. First touch the cloth and then feel the cloth against his skin.

Paralyzed in the darkness, Ettrich asked, "What is this?"

The touch stopped, went away, came back. For a moment his mind cleared enough to remember what Bruno had

said earlier— something was in the elevator with them. "What is this?" He said it low now, a near whisper.

The touch moved all over him now, more assured. Up then down, traveling across his body in an indescribable way,
exploring.
As if they were fingers made of smoke, they wound and floated over his body, tentative and ethereal but unmistakably
there
the whole time.

They went between his legs and felt his cock through his pants. One finger slid slowly up between the cheeks of his ass. They ran down the backs of his legs. He could not move. He would not move for fear of everything. Up his front—the long line from his stomach up his neck, across his face. Into his nostrils a moment and then swirling around to the back of his head. Like a lover, he thought simply. They touch me like a curious new lover.

How long this went on is hard to know. Because there was no way to resist, Ettrich surrendered to the inspection. But yielding made the experience a little easier to bear. When the fingers moved again to his face and caressed it, he abruptly understood what it was. How he understood he did not know, nor would he ever. Perhaps it was something as basic as recognition. You experience it, you know it. Even something as incredible as this. It doesn't matter. What happened was Vincent Ettrich recognized that the fingers touching him now were his own: The fingers of his dead self stroking his live face.

And then that dead Ettrich spoke.

"Most people should never dye their hair blue." Isabelle pointed with her chin toward a fat man at the bar with cobalt-blue hair drinking a can of Diet Coke.

Coco ignored him and watched as Isabelle dissected her lunch. They were in Margaret Hof's bar eating pastrami sandwiches and drinking iced tea.

"Here's a question: Why do fat people always order Diet Coke? Who do they think they're kidding?"

Coco was too immersed in watching Isabelle work on her sand•wich to respond. First she had taken off the top slice of bread. Then two of the thick pieces of pastrami. Those she laid on the side of the plate. Next she elegantly folded what remained in half and took a bite.

"Why did you do that?"

Isabelle smiled while she chewed. She held up a finger for Coco to wait while she swallowed. "I always do.

Rearrange it the way I want it. Have you ever gotten a perfect sandwich? There's always too much or too little of what's inside. So I fiddle around with it."

Coco's face was noncommittal. "What does Vincent say?" "He likes it. Do you think it's odd?"

"Yes."

"That's okay. I don't mind being odd. My family has been telling me that my whole life. I just wish I were stronger." "Bringing Vincent back from... from the dead was a very brave act, Isabelle. A weak person couldn't have done it." Isabelle touched her stomach. "I did it with Anjo's help. With•out him it wouldn't have been possible."

"That's not true. He might have helped, but it was your deci•sion. No one could force you to do it. How did it happen?"

Isabelle was surprised. "You don't know?"

"No. It's different for everyone. There's no one method. Any•way, I'm not from there. I keep telling you that." "Where
are
you from?"

Coco picked up her glass and raised it to her mouth. "You first."

Isabelle continued eating her sandwich as she spoke so what followed came in bits and pieces. "Once in a lifetime, every person experiences their own death in a dream, down to the last detail. But we have twenty-five thousand dreams in a lifetime, so we don't pay much attention. It's just another dream. Or it's a horrible dream and we wake up from it like any bad nightmare—scared shitless. The only thing we want then is to forget the whole thing because it was awful. So you jump out of bed and start the day and the memory eventually fades."

"How did you learn all this, Isabelle?"

"I recognized the dream when I had it. I knew immediately."

"How?
You recognized your death dream while it was happen•ing?" "Yes."

Coco whistled a long note and shook her hand as if trying to cool it off.
"That's
impressive. I've never heard of it happening like that and I've heard a lot of stories, believe me."

Isabelle pulled a long piece of meat from her sandwich. "Maybe being odd has its advantages." "Clearly. Would you tell me the dream?"

"No. Now it's my turn to ask questions."

Coco did something unexpected—she picked up Isabelle's glass of tea and finished it in one long glug-glug. When she was done she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Go ahead."

"Where are you from?" "Purgatory."

"It really exists?"

"As humans conceive it, no, but it's a good enough vision to suffice. It'll do." "So there's a heaven and hell?"

Coco shook her head. "No. Life, death, and purgatory. Man invented heaven and hell to torment himself. Have you ever known a sane or truly good person who believes he deserves to go to heaven? I doubt it. Everyone thinks they're

damned for their be•havior." "Then how does it work?"

Coco liked that. The simplicity of the question, five words in search of God.

Isabelle's face clenched and she gasped, like she'd suddenly been punched. A huge, agonizing pain hit her. She fell back in her chair and could not breathe. Her mouth fell open, her tongue lagged to the edge of her teeth.

Coco saw this and understood at once. She shoved her glass of tea across the table. "Drink this. Drink it fast."

Staring at her with stunned eyes, Isabelle had barely enough strength to obey. When she swallowed the cold sweet liquid, the pain faded and stopped. Hand shaking, she slid the glass from her mouth against her flushed cheek.

"Don't stop. Drink all of it just to be sure."

The cold glass on her cheek felt so good. The pain had burnt her up, she felt like ash. "What happened?" Isabelle mumbled.

"It was my fault. I drank from your glass but should have made you drink from mine. I'm sorry—it was a thoughtless mistake."

Isabelle showed no sign of understanding, so Coco continued. "Drinking from your glass, swallowing your saliva and making it part of me, enabled me to explain these matters in a way that you can understand. If I spoke normally, in my language, none of this would make sense to you."

"What is your language?"

"I told you, I'm from purgatory. I'm in your world but not part of it." Isabelle pointed at her. "This isn't you?"

"A very small part." Coco pointed to her thumb. "If I asked if your thumb was you, you'd say it's
part
of me." "And the other parts?"

"Even if I showed you, Isabelle, you wouldn't be able to com•prehend. But you will after your life is over. That's what purgatory is for—to teach you to understand."

"Why did I have all that pain just now?"

"Your soul was overloaded with unfamiliar information and blew a fuse. I could convey the data but you didn't have the capacity to process it. It's like you needed a much bigger hard drive. Drinking from my glass raised you up a level. Now you're okay. We can talk and you'll be safe."

"How does it work?"

Coco counted off the first three fingers of her hand. "From Life to Purgatory to Death. People think when life ends they die. Wrong. The truth is they must go to purgatory first to learn what death is and how they fit into it."

"Purgatory is a school?" "Of sorts, yes."

"You die and go to
school?"

"You
leave here
and go to school, yes." Coco asked a passing waiter for two more glasses of tea. "Where did I go when I got Vincent?"

"Purgatory."

"But I remember it very clearly. It was like here; things were like here."

"That's right— It's designed that way so you feel at ease when you first arrive. But the longer you're there, the more it changes."

"And death? What is it?"

"Death is a mosaic. It is the mosaic."

The waiter brought their drinks. Coco's answer meant nothing to Isabelle and her disappointment showed. "What kind of mosaic? What do you mean?"

"You create a life and then it ends. But what happens to that being, the Isabelle you created? Does she disappear once your eyes close for good? It makes no sense. Why should all the energy, ex•perience, and imagination of a lifetime go to waste? Seventy years of growth and development simply cease when your heart stops?" Coco smiled. "What happens to the smell of pepper and pencils?"