We Can’t Be Prepared For Everything
THERE’S A DANGER to be found in complacency. Maybe you’ve heard this before. Don’t become complacent, don’t settle, don’t get comfortable. Prepare for the unexpected.
Of course, this is fine when the unexpected is a new job offer or a surprise trip to Lapland. We all can learn to adapt to that. The human brain is remarkably well built for adaptation, like it’s still preparing to evolve into something else. You shoulder new responsibilities, you settle into new routines.
Sometimes, though, change leaves no room for adaptation. It creeps up behind you in the shadows, smirking to itself as it hides its nasty secret. It waits until the opportune moment; until you’re happy, cozy, settled. It waits until you’re just feeling like life is heading in the right direction.
Then all it takes is one unsteady paving stone, one patch of ice, and everything goes to shit. Change washes through your life like the cruelest tsunami and you can bet there will be casualties.
So, really, the saying “prepare for the unexpected” is a whole load of crap. You can’t prepare for it. You can just hope that when the wave of change is coming by, it somehow leaves you be.
So, death goes like this. First comes unconsciousness, from the pavement. Then it feels like being shoved in the back, but instead of tumbling forward, there is a distinct sensation of tumbling out. There is no moment of looking back and seeing your body below, floating away from you (or you away from it). Instead there’s simply an awareness that you’re no longer on the Earth.
Then comes the white. So bright that it feels like it will burn right through your skull. Until suddenly, it clears. No pearly gates, just a desk in a flat gray office that could have been anywhere in the world.
Except somehow, I know that this is it. That I, Daisy Cooper, am dead.
I was only twenty-three. Was that really it?
On the desk is a slim manila-colored file, and a red telephone with one of those old-fashioned spin dials and with three squat lights on top that are all flashing red. A chair sits on either side of the desk. There are three doors; one door directly behind the other side of the desk while one is off to the side. Another stands just behind me and I think I came through it, but my memory feels like it’s been put in a blender. Behind the desk is a calendar on the wall, with countless tally counts squished into each day’s box, in dainty pencil marks. And that’s it.
Instinctively, I know I need to sit. But I can’t move; is there even anything to move? It feels like I’ve been vaporized, and now I am nothing but smoke in the wind. I hear the side door open with a slight huff as it gets stuck on a bit of threadbare carpet, and I’m struck by how ordinary this all is. Perhaps I’m not dead.
“Hello, I’m Death.”
Bang goes that theory.
Death, then, comes to sit on the faded office chair that waits on his side of the desk, adjusting its position with a scowl of concentration. I distantly feel my toes curling tightly in my shoes. Like I’m getting ready to run. A tight feeling starts in my throat; running probably won’t do much good here. I force myself to focus on this newcomer, try to stop my hands from shaking.
He is tall and lean, though not, as you might expect, skeletal. His skin is definitely present, and even comes with a smattering of freckles and precise dimples in his cheeks. He wears his hair, which at least attempts to stick to the stereotype by being jet-black, in a precisely mussed style, with carefully selected wisps falling just above his eyes. A pointed nose, and then eyes the color of the morning grass, a moss green that darken slightly as he glowers at the file on his desk. Is it wrong to call the Grim Reaper attractive? Undecided.
He wears a periwinkle-blue shirt with the buttons done right up to the top, tucked into a pair of black skinny jeans. He could have been any guy in a bar, except for the white tag on his chest that says “Death,” with a cartoon skull doodled beside it. Someone’s idea of a joke, perhaps.
“Sit, sit please Mrs. Aberdale.”
I don’t know why he’s calling me that. I stare, and I’m sure if I do have a body, my mouth is hanging open. He looks up, raising an eyebrow before beckoning with a hand I note to be covered in flecks and smudges of pen. “Come on. Today’s a busy one and you’ve been a right pain to locate. We weren’t expecting you for another hour.”
I try to walk. I find the process to be reassuringly unchanged and a moment later I’ve managed to seat myself in the chair.
In the somewhat cold reflection of his eyes, I can see something resembling me. A silhouette, the curve of my hair. I wonder if it’s matted with blood; I suppress a wince as the crack of pavement hitting head rings through my ears.
He looks at me for a good two minutes, or at least it feels like that. Then he rests his chin on his interlaced fingers. “Blimey, they do get younger every century—did he sweep you off your feet? Or was he just very rich?” I have a horrible feeling he’s trying to be funny. “Hey, at least you got to wear the dress before you came here, eh?”
I have been typically quiet up to this point, but Death’s final words bring a halt to that. Irritation always manages to do that for me it seems. “What are you talking about?” I ask, and then let out a sigh of relief at hearing my voice, shaky but still existent.
Death watches me with amusement, then glances down at the file on his desk. He picks it up and gives it a little wave in a way that’s presumably supposed to make everything clear (it doesn’t).
“This. It says: Tiffany Aberdale. Recently married. Beaten to death in a robbery.” He reads this from the white sticker stuck to the top. I notice that a bubble of air is trapped in its edge, and I wonder distantly how the afterlife still has such menial problems. More consciously, though, I’m concerned by what he’s just said.
“That’s not me.”
“What?”
“Tiffany Aberdale, that’s not me. I’m Daisy. Daisy Cooper. I—I think I tripped.”
“You did what?”
“Yes, I tripped on—on the ice.” I swallow, finding it difficult to talk under the intensity of Death’s gaze. He looks utterly perplexed and I feel a strange sense of pride: I, average Daisy, have flummoxed the Grim Reaper himself. He flicks open the folder, flipping through the sheets with gathering speed. Then he drops it back onto the desk and dives down to pull open a drawer.
“Daisy Cooper, you say?” he calls up from the depths of the drawer, and I make a somewhat dazed noise of agreement. Maybe this is all an accident, a big mistake? Maybe I can go home.
But that doesn’t happen. Instead the time ticks by until Death reappears, holding an identical folder in his hand. The phone trills on the desk, a harsh sound for the almost eerie silence around us. At the very same moment, a mobile phone hums a bizarrely jaunty ringtone until Death pulls it from his pocket and furiously taps the screen a few times. Then he turns back to the file, opening it up and scowling at its contents. “Daisy Cooper, you say? Daisy Cooper of 1b Brownview Road, London? Daughter of Claire and Gary Cooper? Sister to Oliver Cooper? Currently living with Violet Tucker?”
I nod mutely and he smacks the folder down on the table, the action making me jump. “Well then, Daisy Cooper of 1b Brownview Road, London—what the hell are you doing here?”
It’s not quite the response I was expecting. I was thinking he might give me a pat on the shoulder, apologize for any inconvenience then send me back. That would be professional at least. Instead, he drops the file and comes around the desk to examine me more closely, as if I’m a wriggling bacteria under a microscope. “Well,” he states, after a long, uncomfortable moment in which he simply stares, “you look pretty dead to me.”
He lets out a sigh, ignoring my small whimper of despair, and moves to sit up on the top of the desk. As he leans across to grab the red phone’s receiver, I notice distantly that he’s wearing white Converses like the ones I myself own. Owned. Except his are still dazzlingly white, while mine were the gray of an English summer.
Then he starts speaking again and my gaze snaps up. But he’s just on the phone. “Right, listen. I want to know which half-brain, sham of evolution sent me Daisy Cooper when she’s not meant to be dead yet. No. Sorry, do I really have to repeat myself? Daisy Cooper isn’t meant to die for another sixty-nine years. Yes, I’ve read it right!” He hangs up then, dropping the receiver down onto the handset with a look of impatience. When he turns back to face me, however, he’s all smiles.
I know that look, though. It’s the look my boss gave me when I asked if I was ready to move on from just being a marketing assistant. It’s the look that the real estate agent gave Violet and I when we asked what we could afford in London with our budget. It’s the look of “hold your nose because here comes the shit.” This is why my breath stops—and I wonder for a moment why I’m even bothering to breathe anymore? And how?
As if he can see my thoughts scrolling above my head, Death grimaces. “Force of habit,” he explains with a careless wave of his hand. Then he stands and walks back around to his side of the desk, rubbing his jawline thoughtfully.
“Let me break it down for you, Daisy.”
“Break it down?” I raise an eyebrow quizzically.
He doesn’t seem to notice my little interruption, though. Instead, he shuffles his papers and adjusts his collar. “An admin mix-up has meant that the major life event which was meant to leave you with severe concussion has left you dead instead. Do you see my problem?”
I shake my head. Honesty is most definitely the best policy in this situation, even if it causes Death to rub small, irritated circles around his temples before going on.
“You can’t go onward because you’re not due yet. You can’t go back to your life because you’ve seen too much. The cutoff time for when a dead person can return to their body is during the whiteout—that bit when all you saw is white,” he clarifies, as clearly my expression of bemusement gets too severe, before continuing. “Somehow, some cretin allowed you to wander up here without checking your status in the system. And now, Miss Cooper, you’re stuck in the middle: you cannot go forward, and you cannot go back.”
I stare. What else can I do? He’s spoken to me as if I understand the intricate workings of postlife, when, funnily enough, it’s not my area of expertise. From the way he’s tapping his fingers rhythmically against the desk, I think I’m meant to respond.
“I...” I begin, and then trail off again. “Sir, uh... Mr. Death—”
“It’s just Death.”
“Right. Uh...if I can’t go forward, and you don’t want to let me back, where the hell am I meant to go?”
He shrugs a little. “You don’t go anywhere. Not until you’re due. You’re stuck in the middle, in Administration, as we call it, until your time comes. In sixty-nine years, according to your file.” His phone goes off, the mobile only this time. Sighing, he stands and moves toward the door to the side. “Please, wait here. I’ve got to deal with this. Someone will find a solution, probably.” He turns away without another word, already interested in his phone call. Before I can mutter what I think is meant to be a thank you, he’s gone.
Suddenly, there’s just silence. Total silence like I’ve never experienced before and it takes me a moment to work out why it feels quite so crushing. It’s because, for the first time ever, I don’t hear the distant sound of my heart beating. My body is frozen, stuck. Dead.
Sometimes realization hits you all at once like a car colliding into your side. Or a pavement hitting your head. Wham. All in one go, panic sets in. The silence is broken as a groaning sob escapes my mouth. I’m confused, because I didn’t even know my body could make that sound. But it’s a passing reflection because my mind is filled with one all-encompassing thought.
My life is over.
I’ve been working toward this imaginary future where my current slogging away at the bottom of the work rung would finally pay off. I’d get a job that actually seemed to have a point. Violet and I would visit New York together. Eric and I would make his flat our home. But now that future’s gone. All I ever achieved was a moldy flat and a pointless graduate job. Shit.
It feels like someone’s stabbed me in the stomach. I didn’t think the dead could feel pain like this; surely that shouldn’t be possible? And yet here I am. Crippled by the dreadful agony of realizing that I’ve just entered the past tense. Daisy Cooper was.
I find myself stumbling onto my feet. There’s a sudden, desperate need to escape. Maybe somewhere around here is an exit back to my home, my life, my world. I run, straight out of the door behind me.
Before me is a corridor that stretches onward in a long straight line, seemingly endlessly. The walls are slightly off-white, the floors are slightly off-white and the lighting gives everything a slightly off-white quality. It feels like stepping into a blizzard and it certainly doesn’t help with the feeling of dismay rising up my back. The more I stand in this utterly silent, utterly empty corridor, the more I feel like I need to scream. No! Keep it together, Daisy.
One foot moves in front of the other until, ever so slowly, I begin to walk. I have no idea where I’m going; there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go. This corridor is empty, and the few doors I pass are firmly shut and unmarked. Until suddenly I’m at a junction. There are two possible turnings and a crisp, clean sign on the wall. According to the sign, the left turn leads to “Fire, Alcoholism, and Poisoning” while the right turn leads to “Life.”
Well, there’s only one way to go from here, it seems. I stumble off to the right, where I’m met with a set of lift doors. So innocuous...there’s even a little paper sign next to it with a scrawled message on it: “Please do not press the button more than once, it will break the mechanism!” The mundaneness of this somehow makes me feel even worse. There’s a world up here with people and problems and I’m not ready to be a part of it.
The lift opens as I step toward it, which sort of figures. This whole place has a definite creepy vibe to it and automatic lift doors fit perfectly with that. Inside, I’m greeted by the rather unnerving sight of my reflection. Not usually unnerving, I should add. But when you’ve just been told you’ve died, all sorts of things start running through your mind.
My first instinct is to try and see the back of my head. I have this visceral, stomach-churning memory of the crack it made when it hit the pavement. I really don’t want to spend what is shaping up to be a rather long time with a visual reminder of that. But, fortunately, I’m spared. With a bit of twisting and turning, I can see that the back of my head is just the usual mass of strawberry blonde hair. I can’t help thinking that perhaps the afterlife should come with automatic detangling and antifrizzing...
My tight and rather uncomfortable dress from date night is gone, however, and in its place is a white dress that is loose enough to be comfortable but fitted enough to not look like a dustbin bag. In fact, it fits perfectly.
As I’ve been taking in my appearance, the lift doors have smoothly closed behind me. The rest of the lift walls are covered, floor to ceiling, with buttons. Small, circular white ones, like you’d find in any ordinary lift. Except these ones are devoid of any numbers, or any helpful markers at all. I get the sense that the lift hasn’t started moving yet, probably because no buttons have been pressed, so I find myself pressing a random button near to my elbow. Immediately, the lift shudders beneath my feet, then begins to move downward in a smooth and steady motion. It continues like this for around twenty seconds then stops with a rather abrupt jolt that causes me to grab on to the nearby railing.
There’s a moment of pause, then comes the ding, before the doors slide open.
It takes me less than a second to work out where I am. The faint smell of damp is unmistakable, along with the sight of a sunken blue sofa strewn with enough blankets to smother an army (if that was your chosen method of getting rid of said army). No doubt about it. I’m home.
Stumbling out of the lift, I let out a small sob of relief. Maybe I’m going to be OK. Because now I’m back in my flat, nothing will take me away from it.
I hear footsteps behind me and I turn, grinning at the sight of my best friend. Violet is now swathed in her gray fluffy dressing gown, dark curls peeking out from beneath the hood. Her eyes are glued to her phone, the light from it casting an ethereal glow over her dark skin as she wanders across the weird linoleum tiles that cover our entire flat. I’m about to say her name, preparing to give her the fright of her life then tell her about my crazy trip to get milk. But then she looks up. And she looks right through me.