Divinely Yours Page 5

  She closed the email program and scrounged around in her desk drawer for a Hershey’s Kiss, flattening it between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. The light on her computer blinked red, ushering in the first client of the day. Skye touched ENTER on her keyboard and brought up the data screen, reading quickly. Ryan Blaine, age twenty-five. At first she couldn’t understand why her client’s name sounded so fa­miliar. She scanned his statistics: Attorney from Atlanta, Georgia. Motorcycle accident. Then she remembered. He was the Earthly Pleasures guy! The one she’d just seen on televi­sion.

  Before she had time to gather her thoughts, Ryan Blaine stood in front of her, looking utterly baffled.

  “Where am I?” He rubbed his eyes and squinted. “Everything’s blurry. My contact lenses must have popped out.”

  For a moment, Skye was speechless from the shock of seeing the once alive and healthy Ryan Blaine now literally coming through death’s door.

  “Your vision will clear up in a few minutes, Mr. Blaine,” she finally managed.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  Bits of glass fragments glittered on his chin, and one of his jeans legs was torn, exposing a gashed knee. But there weren’t any bones poking out of his clothes or cuts coursing with blood. He looked relatively un­scathed for a dead person.

  “My name is Skye, and I’m your greeter,” she said. Study­ing his face, she could understand why Joy and Glory were such devoted fans. Mr. Blaine was exceedingly easy on the eyes. His only discernible flaw was a slightly crooked nose. “You’re in Sector Seven, the Hospitality Department of Heaven.”

  “Heaven?” He shook his head and a forelock of gold-brown hair fell into his eyes. “You’re kidding me, right? I’m dead?”

  “You had a motorcycle accident, Mr. Blaine,” Skye said, rising from her chair. “Have a seat, and I’ll try and explain—”

  “No, no, no,” Ryan said, shrinking away from her. “I’m not dead. That spill took the wind out of me, but it didn’t kill me.”

  That’s what they all say, Skye thought. Denial is a dead person’s middle name.

  “Mr. Blaine, one’s own death is always a hard to accept, but you are in Heaven, so logically, that means—”

  “Ridiculous,” he said. “Look at me.” He pounded his chest with his fists like King Kong. “I’m fine.” He threw himself to the ground and launched into a set of one-arm push-ups. “You ever see a dead guy do this?” He stood up and tucked one hand under his arm and flapped it, making an obnoxious sound. “Or how about this?” He flung himself into a handstand.

  Ryan’s hair brushed the floor like a broom and his shirt rode up so Skye could catch a glimpse of his well-toned abdominal muscles. He finally righted himself and flashed a lopsided grin. “I think you would agree—” He tapped his chin with his index finger and squinted at her once again. “What was your name?”

  “Skye.”

  “S-K-Y?” He laughed. “Your name is Sky and you live in Heaven?”

  “It’s Skye with an ‘e,’” she said primly.

  “Forgive me. Skye, I think you would agree that a seri­ous error has been made. I’ve never felt better in my life.”

  “How you feel is immaterial, Mr. Blaine. Everyone in Heaven feels fantastic. The thing is—”

  “Don’t make me ask to speak to your supervisor, Skye.” He approached her desk with his hip cocked, waving a finger at her in a playful manner. He tripped over his feet and nearly fell.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Blaine?” she asked.

  “Fine and dandy. Just having a little trouble keeping my moorings. Where were we? Oh, yes, you were about to clear up this silly mistake.”

  He was so disarming she’d forgotten her spiel. What was next? Oh yeah, the tiresome orientation DVD.

  Ryan cast a puzzled glance around the cubicle. “Wait a minute. Something’s going on.” He stared at her desk calen­dar and gradually backed away from it until he bumped into the wall. “Whoa. I can see without my contacts. Ev­erything’s getting crystal clear. It’s like I’ve had LASIK or something.”

  “I told you your vision would sharpen. You’ll never have to wear contact lenses again. That’s just one of the numerous fringe benefits of being...” She stopped short when she real­ized Ryan Blaine was gaping at her.

  “Do I have spinach in my teeth, Mr. Blaine?”

  “You...I...” His words were stuck in his throat.

  “Can I get you a drink of water, a cold compress, a shot of tequila?”

  “Who...are...you?” he finally managed, gasping out each syllable.

  “Skye, your Hospitality greeter,” she repeated.

  He took a tentative step toward her. “It is you.” His voice was reverent. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “Are you okay, Mr. Blaine?” Skye said. She hadn’t been looked at this intently since the last wet t-shirt contest at the Live a Little Lounge.

  “I don’t know. This is so confusing. How can you...? What’s your favorite chocolate?”

  What a strange question. “Hershey’s Kisses. The original ones. Not those ones in the gold foil with almonds or the Hugs. They’re terrible.”

  “Cheese and rice!” His hands frantically worked through the thicket of his hair. “I knew it.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Skye said. “Is that what you’re trying to say? He’s not here at the moment, but...”

  “I hurt you. Terribly,” he said, with eyes that were now far more contrite than cocky. “That’s why you went away. You always said you would.”

  “You haven’t hurt me, Mr. Blaine,” she replied.

  The poor man was suffering from residual brain damage. Luckily it would be repaired in a few minutes.

  “Mr. Blaine, I think you’re—”

  As soon as she spoke his name, his image blurred and stretched like a scrambled television signal and then he was gone.

  “Mr. Blaine,” she repeated several times, knowing she was wasting her breath. He couldn’t hear or see her anymore; her cubicle was empty. Clearly he’d returned to Earth. This wasn’t the first time she’d lost a client. Every now and then the newly dead would disappear from her cubicle without warning. Sometimes the shock of defibrillation paddles or the compression of CPR jolted souls back into their bodies. Other times they’d fade away more slowly, coaxed back to Earth by the prayers or sobs of loved ones.

  Skye consulted the computer monitor. Ryan’s information had disappeared and the screen blinked with the words “intake aborted.”

  She fumbled with the television remote, tuning it to the Earthly Pleasures station. Skye had never watched it before, so she didn’t know exactly how to proceed. She pressed the menu button and one of the options was “This Week’s Most Popular Earthlings.” Fortunately, Ryan was featured promi­nently on the list between Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. She highlighted his name and was offered another set of options.

  Ryan and Susan: Their Latest Romantic Dinner

  The Best of Ryan and Susan: A Compilation

  Ryan and Susan’s Bedside Wedding Bloopers and Blunders

  The Funniest Moments from Ryan’s Life

  Ryan Flexing His Muscles in the Mirror

  There were about twenty-five different options.

  Obviously the lives of people on Earthly Pleasures were edited and compiled to provide the most entertainment value for viewers in Heaven. But Skye wanted to see what was hap­pening with Ryan right now. She used the remote to scroll down until she got to the end of the list. There, at the bottom in small letters, was an option called Real Time. She selected it.

  The following message appeared:

  Warning: Real Time is not recommended. It’s slow-paced and lacking in any entertainment value. Since the content is completely unedited, the producers of Earthly Pleasures cannot be responsible for any dis­turbing images. Do you wish to procee
d?

  Skye eagerly pressed YES.

  Are you sure? Ninety-eight percent of all viewers prefer to watch edited versions of Earthly Plea­sures.

  Skye frowned and impatiently pressed YES again. The picture flickered and wobbled until it showed a shot of her former client being loaded onto a stretcher.

  “I’m fine, I tell you,”’ Ryan Blaine said. He was addressing two EMTs who were preparing him for transport as the red lights of the ambulance flashed in the background.

  “I’m sure you are, sir,” said one of the EMTs, a burly mustached man who squatted to lift the stretcher. “We just want to get you checked out at the hospital.”

  “Where is she? You saw her, didn’t you? The pretty blonde who was stand­ing here only a minute ago? What happened to her?”

  Skye turned up the volume. Ryan Blaine was talking about her! Here I am, she wanted to shout, but, of course, he wouldn’t be able to hear her.

  “Whoever she is, she’s probably at the hospital,” one EMT said. He and his partner loaded Ryan onto the ambulance. “Waiting for you there.”

  “She was just...” Ryan’s eyelids drooped as he struggled against passing out. “I...don’t want to...lose...her again,” he said in a whisper, and then his eyes closed and did not reopen. The EMTs looked unconcerned. They didn’t pound his chest or begin mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. In­stead, the EMT who was monitoring Ryan’s vital signs asked the driver if he thought the Braves would make it to the Series this year.

  Skye would have liked to watch Ryan’s safe delivery to the hospital and overhear the doctors’ conversations, but the light on her desk was blinking. She cut off the television and pre­pared to greet her next client.

  As soon as it was time for her morning break, Skye retrieved the remote from her desk drawer and tuned in to Earthly Pleasures again. Ryan, thank God, was not in an ICU plugged into a collec­tion of blinking machines, but was instead asleep in a regular hospital room tethered to a simple IV. A woman, who was reading The National Enquirer, sat beside his bed.

  “Sweet Jesus! What’s wrong with Ryan?” Glory stood just outside the door of Skye’s cubicle, staring at the television. She barreled inside and dropped her backside on the corner of Skye’s desk.

  “He was in a motorcycle accident,” Skye said, “but it looks as if his injuries aren’t too serious.”

  “You’re kidding.” Glory’s eyes were fastened to the televi­sion screen and her jaw worked furiously on a piece of gum. She tossed Skye a quizzical look. “I didn’t know you were an Earthly Pleasures fan.”

  “I’m not usually,” Skye said. “But—and you’re not going to believe this—Ryan Blaine was right here. I was about to show him the orientation DVD and then, poof. He checked out.”

  “Get out of town,” Glory said. “Ryan was here in the Hospitality Sector?”

  Skye nodded.

  “Aren’t you the lucky one?” She punctuated her statement with a cuff to Skye’s forearm. “What did he say?”

  “Denial as usual. You know how some clients can be, men especially, always assuming they’re im­mortal. But then something peculiar happened. He started talking to me like he knew me.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe he was confused and thought you were his wife. You kind of favor her.”

  “Wife?”

  “Hey, is this Real Time? I’ve never selected that option before.”

  “Wife?” Skye repeated, this time with more urgency.

  “There she is.” Glory pointed at a woman whose nose was deep in her magazine. “Her name is Susan.”

  “Come to think of it, you mentioned he was married earlier,” Skye said, her shoulders sagging. “I completely forgot.”

  The jingle of a cell phone was heard from the screen, and Ryan’s wife dropped her magazine and pawed through her purse. Skye was finally able to see her face. At first she didn’t notice much of a resemblance. Skye had long curly locks that spilled over her shoulders, and Susan wore a pixie hairstyle. Susan’s nose was also thinner than Skye’s and her cheekbones, marred by several scars, looked sharper. But the more she studied Ryan’s wife, the more she discerned distinct traces of herself in the woman.

  “The eyes are the same, and you both have heart-shaped faces,” Glory said.

  Ryan’s wife had finally located her phone. “Hello,” she said to whoever was on the other end. “He’s fine, thank God,” she said to her caller with a pronounced lisp. “He’s fine” came out as “heth fine.” “He escaped with a broken ankle, but also had the wind knocked out of him.”

  Not just the wind, Skye thought. His life was knocked out of him, at least for a little while.

  “What kind of wife are you?” Skye shouted to the televi­sion. “Letting him roar off on his motorcycle without a helmet?”

  Glory shot her an odd look.

  “And what does Ryan see in her? Look at her choice of reading material, for starters.”

  “Hey now, go easy on Susan. She was injured in a car accident last year, and Ryan took a leave of absence from his law practice just to be near her.”

  “Is that why her face is scarred?”

  “Yup. Took her almost a whole year to recover. I heard Ryan used to be a big-time ladies’ man, but now he’s as tame as a lamb.” Glory transferred her gaze from the television to Skye. “I told you Earthly Pleasures was addicting. Although, I guess soon you’ll be living it instead of watching it.”

  Skye continued to glare at Susan. Her dress was a shade of green only tree lizards should be sporting, and she wore more accessories than a home-shopping hostess. As Skye’s catty thoughts spawned kittens, she wondered: Was she jealous? Impossible. Why should she get green-eyed over a woman who was married to a man who, from now on, would always be just an image on the screen?

  “This Real Time stuff moves way too slow for me,” Glory said, hopping off Skye’s desk. “Guess I’ll go back to work. Dead people await.”

  Six

  “Ryan. Are you awake?”

  The voice sounded tinny, as if it were coming from the inside of an empty soup can. Lemme sleep one more minute, he wanted to say, but his lips were so dried out they couldn’t form the words. All that came out was a psst sound, like a tire slowly losing air.

  He recognized the voice. Any moment, he’d smell freshly shampooed hair, a mixture of pomegranate, persimmon, and passion fruit. He knew the ingredients of her shampoo be­cause the last time she was out of town he’d read the label, un­capped the bottle, and waved it under his nose as if the scent would conjure her up.

  Soon he’d feel the weight of the mattress shift as she sat on the edge of the bed. Without opening his eyes, he knew she’d be wearing a white chenille bathrobe, her wet hair slicked back like a seal’s, and in her hand she’d be holding a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Very softly she would start singing that old Allman Brothers song. “You’re my blue sky. You’re my sunny day.”

  “Ryan, are you awake?”

  He wanted her to sing. Then he’d sit up and bask in her smile as she handed him the glass. Maybe after he’d quenched his thirst, he would coax her back into the bed with him as he’d done so many other mornings before.

  “Ryan!” The voice was sharp, like a hook yanking him from the cozy nook of his memories. His eyes flew open, and he saw her standing over him, wearing a blinding lime-green dress. There wasn’t a glass of orange juice in sight.

  “You’re awake,” Susan said. “I’m so relieved. You were scaring me.”

  Ryan heard the sound of Susan’s lisp (“scaring” sounded like “tharing”) and it all came rushing back to him. He’d been on his motorcycle, worrying about their relationship. Likely he’d been so consumed by his thoughts he hadn’t paid proper attention to the road. No telling what caused him to crash his bike. He didn’t remember the moment of impact.

  He made a quick inventory of his extrem
ities. Toes wig­gled; fingers bent; legs and arms were stiff but still in good working order.

  “Do you know what month it is? What year?” Susan asked.

  Yes, he did. It was June 2017, but if she’d asked him the same question just a few seconds ago he would have said June 2016. Trump wasn’t president, nobody had ever heard of Brexit, and Susan had yet to slam into that em­bankment on 1-285.

  He forced himself up on his elbows, but the sudden motion made his head feel swimmy as if it were housed in an old-fashioned diving helmet. Slowly, he eased his torso back down on the mattress.

  “You do recognize me, don’t you?” Susan asked.

  He gazed at her, taking in the short haircut, the concerned, blinking blue eyes, the scarred cheeks.

  Who are you? he wanted to say, or more accurately, Who have you become? She wasn’t the same woman who used to bring him orange juice each morning. Everything had changed between then and now.

  “What’s your favorite chocolate?” he whispered.

  She ran her tongue over her upper lip. It was one of the nervous habits she’d picked up since her accident.

  “Maybe I should get the doctor.”

  “Just answer the question,” he said with a gruffness he hadn’t intended.

  Her eyes flickered, as if she were looking for an avenue of escape. Why are you afraid? he wanted to ask.

  “M&M’s?”

  Wrong answer. Not a surprise. She rarely gave the right answer.

  “The day is June 25, 2017,” Ryan said quickly, pretending as if he hadn’t just gone against the grain of their everyday in­teractions.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, hon? You look like you’re in pain.”

  “Just some soreness, sweetie,” Ryan said, gifting her a grin.

  “You’re such a tough guy.”

  She was obviously relieved they were once again playing their customary vacuous roles. To her, the meaningless banter they exchanged daily was their relationship.

  “I don’t feel so tough right now.”