| |
AT THE TENDER AGE OF eighteen, I was the first in my family to die, but I won't be alone for long. Grandma was moved to a hospice care facility today. Her liver is failing, her kidneys are shutting down, and she's barely coherent. I was in the room when the doctor told my uncle she would probably be gone in a matter of days. I stood at Uncle Sean's side, squeezing his shoulder as he cried. I didn't know Uncle Sean as well as I could have known him, but it's always sad to see someone cry.
Of course, it's not entirely accurate to say I'm the first to die, I'm just the first one in my immediate family to make the trip to the afterlife. When I went Home, I was greeted by my Great-Grandfather, a man I never knew. It was an awkward exchange, and I haven't heard from him since, but at least he tried.
I'm not the only spirit in the room with Grandma. It's occupied by a pretty black lady named Javonda, one of Grandma's spirit guides. Javonda called herself a “psychopomp,” but I don't know what that means. It has the word “psycho” in it, so... is she crazy? That can't be right, because she seems pretty mild-mannered to me.
“It means I'm the one taking her Home,” Javonda interrupts my thoughts, having apparently read my mind. “I'm an angel of death. I work with Archangel Azrael.”
I assumed I would be taking Grandma Home, since I'm the closest dead relative. It makes more sense that the job would fall to someone else, though. I'm a recent spirit school graduate, and I can barely warp. Heck, I can barely manifest. Still, I was the only one in my class who managed to complete five out of five of my missions.
It's been three weeks since I graduated from spirit school. Since then, I've done nothing. No one wanted to be my partner, despite my perfect record. My roommate moved out last week, and I haven't heard from her since, so she's not an option. I wish I had a partner, but I don't know how to find one. I could use my LightTab to meet new spirits, but I've never been good at meeting people, even when I was alive. I've never been popular, and I'm not a social butterfly.
“Kate,” Javonda suddenly says my name, recapturing my attention. “Would you mind satisfying an old woman's curiosity?”
Javonda doesn't really look “old,” but I guess she's not as young as I am. She looks sixty, at the most. I wonder if she's chosen to look that age, and if so, why? I guess I'm curious about her as well.
Before I can reply, Javonda asks, “How did you die? I'm just wondering because... you look so young, and Celia's your grandmother, so you must have died young.”
“I did die young,” I confirm. “It was an accident... sort of.”
She doesn't ask me to elaborate, but if Javonda can read my mind, she'll know the truth, because I spend the next few minutes thinking about my “accidental” death. Officially, they called it a suicide, but I didn't think I would actually die. I'd taken too many sleeping pills before, but it never actually killed me. This time, I guess I went too far.
To be fair, at the time, I was trying to die. I hated myself, and still do. After my high school graduation, I barely left the house. I didn't want to go outside because I always thought people were staring at me and thinking, “who is this hideous girl and why did her mother even let her step outside?”
I thought I would feel differently in the afterlife, but I don't. I really don't. I still see the same double chin when I look in the mirror. I still fixate on my super-thick eyebrows and my stumpy, fat fingers. I had BDD—body dysmorphic disorder. I still have it, because I still see the same flaws when I look in a mirror. I always figured you would die and become a ball of light or something. Honestly, I would rather be a ball of light. I don't like to be stuck in this form.
After fifty missions, you can allegedly change your appearance. Amber, my spirit school instructor, called it “shifting.” If I ever have the ability to do that, I'm going to change everything about myself. I'm going to make myself skinnier, prettier, and generally less detestable. A pretty face isn't everything, but it's hard to enjoy anything when you despise yourself.
I only have five missions under my belt, though. To get to fifty, I'm going to need a partner. Ugh.
“Well, I think you're a lovely girl,” Javonda says, so I assume she's still reading my mind. “We're our own harshest judges, don't you think?”
My only answer is a shrug. Maybe she's right, but I think most of my self-criticism is justified.
“Did someone make you feel this way, honey?” Javonda asks. “Did someone make you feel bad about yourself?”
Suddenly, I feel like she's my therapist or something. My Grandmother's death angel is trying to help me through my eighteen years of trauma. I wouldn't even know where to begin.
“I've just been... bullied a lot,” I tell her. “Somewhere along the way, I guess it broke me.”
“Oh, bullies are the worst!” Javonda exclaims. “I went to high school in the fifties, and that was a long time ago, but... I was called all sorts of things by all sorts of people.”
“Racist people?” I try to guess.
“Unfortunately... you guessed it.” Javonda shakes her head and groans. “I carried their hate with me for the rest of my life, believe me!”
“I'm sorry,” I say, frowning. Suddenly, I feel like a fool for complaining about the hate I got. Everyone has their struggles, and I know that, but my struggles landed me in a mire of self-hate. I tell Javonda, “I used to get bulled for being... fat.”
I don't even like to say the f-word out loud. It hurts that much.
“Girl, you aren't even fat!” Javonda exclaims. “Did someone say that, because they're off their rocker!”
I'm not as fat now because I starved myself throughout my junior and senior years of high school. I lost so much weight, one of my teachers pulled me aside and asked if I was ill. I wasn't ill, I just skipped too many meals. People kept telling me I looked good, but on the inside, I sure didn't feel good.
“One time, in middle school, a boy told me to walk my fat ass down to the cafeteria and shut the hell up,” I tell her. “In my sophomore year of high school, a friend of mine said you'd be so pretty if you lost some weight. It's just... little things like that. They eventually add up and make you feel worthless.”
“Kate, honey, you don't need friends like that!” Javonda says. “A friend like that is not your friend!”
I wish Javonda would be my partner. Javonda seems nice. I need to meet more people like her—people who make me feel better about myself. Should I ask her if she'd be willing to do a few missions with me? If she's still reading my mind, there should be no reason to ask her, right?
Please, Javonda, please be my partner! In my mind, I keep begging her, but she seems oblivious. Either she stopped listening, or she's too busy to devote any time to me. I need a friend, though. I don't know anyone in the afterlife, and it's killing me!
I stare at Celia, my grandma, sleeping in her bed. We weren't especially close, but I liked her, so I look forward to seeing her again. Perhaps she can be my partner—after she finishes spirit school, of course.
“I hope she's not in too much pain,” I mutter.
“Celia? Nah, they're giving her morphine. I doubt she feels too much,” Javonda says. “And if she does, I can take some of it away.”
“It must be nice, being an angel.”
“Well, it sure keeps me busy!” replies a chuckling Javonda. I wonder if that's her subtle way of saying she's too busy to be my partner?
“I'd like to be able to heal people and take away their pain,” I say.
“Keep at it!” Javonda cheers me on. “If your record is good, and it stays good, you'll be an angel in no time!”
She finishes her encouraging statement with a wink, and that's the end of our conversation.
In my mind—my stupid, self-hating mind—I obliterate her encouraging words with a defeating thought.
I would be the ugliest angel ever.