Since I'm tentatively identifying as a Buddhist, I thought it would be interesting - since I'm kinda stuck on The Second Train (Anna is just not coming to me. She may not be my rightful train-owner) to write what I kinda think the afterlife is going to be. Not that I think this is what happens to every person, just that this is what Mary needed.
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As I sat in front of the mirror, sitting on my feet, hands folded in a graceful way I never could've achieved in life, I wondered whether I would like myself at the end of all this. It's a lot more comforting, you know, to think of some other person judging the life you've led, weighing the stolen kiss with your not-boyfriend in sophomore year against the time you drove a few miles to get that homeless lady a decent meal instead of drive-though food, deciding whether or not- when it all comes down to it- you led a life that deserves to be rewarded. At least if you got thrown into Hell you could rail against the unfairness of it all, that there was something your judge missed, as if there are incompetent gods. But now...
I died on a Thursday morning, in a very ordinary way. I had just finished the sewing on a new outfit for a friend's grandbaby; a particularly tricky bit of fabric (damn thing kept pulling and I had to work for an hour to get the stitch straight) and was heading to the kitchen to grab a quick cup of coffee to unwind with. The new John Grisham novel had come out, and I'd just picked it up yesterday. So I went into the kitchen, weaving effortlessly around the kitchen's island and idly wiping a few crumbs from the morning's toast off the gray marble countertop, book under my left arm as I reached for the coffeepot with my right. All of a sudden, I get shooting pains down my arm and I'm on the ground. Only thing I can see is the book lying on the floor next to me, face-down and pages already bending in what will be a permanent way if I don't fix them soon. There's a weird tightness in my chest, a panicked fluttering that scares me in the moments before someone grabs me underneath the arms and hauls me up, setting me on my feet and turning me gently around. It's a nice-looking young man in a dark suit, not the scary kind of black but that soothing color you get when it's been through a few months of wear, that makes it feel like the person wearing it is normal and not likely to hand you a frightening piece of paper. He holds his hands out in that now-hang-on-a-second gesture you do when you know someone's going to panic, palms facing an angle somewhere between the floor and your knees, and smiles in a pleading way, begging me to let him get a word in first.
"Are you feeling all right?" he asks, brow wrinkling slightly. "That was pretty sudden."
"Thank you," I say, for lack of anything else. Too many questions are crowding my mind, foremost among them being Who are you? and What are you doing here? and How did you get into my house?, and I need a minute to figure out which to ask first.
"I know this is confusing," he says, "But it'll become clear in just a moment. If you'd just step over here," he says, gesturing to a spot on the opposite side of the kitchen. "Don't worry," he says as he moves over and stands beneath the kitchen clock, "This is disorienting to everyone."
"What?" I say, and instinctively back up, not sure I want to be near this person, this stranger in my house, and I'm groping behind me as I go, knowing the knife block is right next to the sink, and suddenly I'm standing inside my kitchen sink and there is a person on the floor in front of me and- oh. I'm on the floor in front of me.
"Oh."
"Yes," he says, with a patient smile, and crosses to me without any regard to the butcher-block-topped island between us, gently taking my hand. "You're dead, Mary. I know it's a lot to get used to, so let's just sit down for a minute and talk about it."
"Not in here!" I say, looking jerkily at myself. The way I landed seems to have opened my mouth, and now my tongue is hanging out slightly, making me look as if this is some stupid practical joke.
"No, of course not," he says. "Come, let's go to my office." He takes my hand and pulls me, unresisting, to the door that leads to my sewing room. He pauses to take out a key, inserts it into a lock on the doorknob that had never existed before, and opens the door into a bland-looking office. He leads me across the coarse green carpet to a chair, and has me sit as he circles around a large wood desk to another. Posted on the walls are a few posters of waterfalls and grassy plains, along with a calendar and a few pieces of paper tacked to a corkboard. The desk itself was polished to a mirror shine, and empty of everything but a full-service tea set and a nameplate that read, Ben Matthews.
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...and I will have to finish this later, my bed is calling and I have to be up in around 4 hours.
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