Fallen (36 page)

“It’s not your fault.” When it looked like he was about to refute
,
I didn’t allow it. “You would do anything in your power to protect me.
You’ve already proven
that.”

“I would,” he looked up at me through his long eyelashes and lifted his head to be level
with mine
again. “
I would,” he repeated
,
more firmly,
erasing
any doubt
I may have held
. Though, I didn’t.

“And that is why you are the only person I would want to show me who I was before…”

His breathing became labored, clearly indicating he was battling some pressing desire to not help me, though I didn’t understand why.

Finally, he conceded, grudgingly.
“
Next time
. Right now…” he tapped the skin on his wrist as if a watch
were
there
, and said,
“
…y
ou
have to get back to earth.”

At that moment,
I awoke to my
alarm clock
and
the smell of Felix’s eggplant crepes.

I didn’t sit up immediately but took a few minutes to remember Eran’s face
,
as I was pulled far too quickly
away from him
.
Reluctantly,
I
got out of bed and headed for the bathroom
, regretful
that
time did not exist in
the afterlife
while
it was so prevalent here on earth.

It felt like time stopped
,
teasing me
each time
I looked at my watch
…
which was often.
For the first time in my life, I could relate to
all
those
infatuated
girls fawning over their love interest
s
.
Every minute was too long to wait before I could see Eran again.
I sat in The Square
all
day
,
hoping to wear myself out so
I would
fall asleep quickly when I got back to the house.

Eran was such a strong distraction that I
actually
had to record
people’s
messages
on a piece of paper
I’d
torn from Rufus’s sketch book. I just didn’t trust that I would remember
them correctly
when half
of
my attention was
focused on
my feelings
for
Eran. It
was driving
me crazy
;
I could barely concentrate. It wasn’t until
a girl I recognized from school approached me
that I was
able to focus a little more.

It was
Saturday
and I’d set up my chairs in
their
usual spot, beneath one of the
dappled
oak
trees dotting
The
Square. Today was a busy one with throngs of tourists buying trinkets and their caricature
s
from local artists. Still, despite the swa
rm of people, I saw
her coming. She had a
self-assured
air that was hard to miss.

She was from my English
Interpretive Literature
class,
and she sat
several rows in front of me. I’d caught her staring at me recently
when
I entered or left the classroom
.
As
she took a seat in my customer chair
,
I knew why.

“You’re Miranda, right?” I asked.

“Yes, how did you know?” S
he seemed surprise
d
.

“I pay attention.”

“Ah…Did you also know I was on the school paper?”
She
asked, grinning
broadly at me. There was a hint
hidden
in
the tone of her voice
which instantly concerned me.
It meant I had guessed her reason for being here correctly.

“Yes
,
”
I said, hesitant
ly
.

“
Good.
I’d like to do an article on you.”

I laughed
, awkwardly
. “Oh, I
’m sure there are
more interesting topics you can write about…”

“No…there really
isn’t,” she said decisively, making it clear
she wasn’t going to
concede.
She sensed my
apprehension
and
quickly
added, “Look
,
you are by far the most interesting person in school – from your bike
…
“

“Harley Davidson
883 Sportster
,” I clarified. If she was going to do a story about me
,
then
she was going to do it accurately.

“Thank you,” she replied
,
confirming
she understood my point. “You
weren’t bo
rn and
raised
here in
New Orleans
.
Y
ou
don’t work at a souvenir shop
,
like everyone else
,
or
have
a wealthy family paying your tuition.
No…
you
come from the unknown…
work
ing
in
Jackson Square
for your money
doing psychic readings.” She enunciated this last part for
emphasis.
I stopped her there.

“I don’t do psychic readings
,
and I’m not psychic. I deliver messages to
those who have passed on
. At least get that right.”

She
didn’t appear offended at my verbal jab and that made me feel a little more comfortable with her. Instead, she
smil
ed
confidently
and said,
“Let me interview you. I’ll write the story, you’ll read it before anyone else sees it, and
you can make changes if you wish.”

“I don’t even want the s
tory written in the first place.
”

She sighed and leaned back in the chair,
clearly displeased.
“I can
either write the story with your help
,
making
sure it’s
correct
,
or I can write it based on my observations…which may be entirely wrong.”

“What do I care?”
I shrugged, trying to dissuade her.

“
Do you really want people thinking
you do
séances? Because that’s what I see here.”

She was tough
,
but I could relate to that.
I
repositioned myself,
glaring openly at her. “You’re going to write this story with or with
out
me, aren’t you?”

“I
prefer it be
with
you,” she replied
,
bolting
forward in her seat. The girl had a lot of energy. “People are intrigued, Maggie. They want to know you
,
but they’re too afraid to ask. You are a…phenomenon. Explain it to them.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Through me,” she added. “Ah, come on. If nothing else, it’ll drive
The Warden
batty.”

I instantly perked up. “Did
you
…Did you just call
him
The Warden?
”

She
frowned back
. “Did you think we’re all a bunch of status quo
,
mindless followers? We know what he’s like. Give us
some
credit, Maggie.”

I laughed at
her response, regardless of
my frustration with her.
I
then
decided anyone who could see the man for what he was – a
n
overbearing
dictator
– couldn’t be all that bad.

“Alright, what do you want to know?” I
begrudgingly
asked
.

She beamed
,
swiftly retrieving
her notepad like a pro
fessional
,
before launching
into
countless questions, most of which were written down in shorthand –
a skill
I thought
died in
196
9. She asked about my past
;
including
my adoptive aunt,
previous schools, where I’d lived, who I lived with now – which I elaborated on with pride
,
because I
truly thought my roommates were wonderful people
.
Finally, with the preliminary details out of the way, she asked about my work.

“How exactly do you do
it
?”
She was
eagerly
leaning forward in her chair
, again.

I
shook my head
. “I don’t know. I
don’t know why me
…
and not someone else. I don’t know what allows me to wake up in the morning after spending the night in
the afterlife
. I don’t even know
that
I could stop it if I tried.”

“Have you ever tried? I mean
…
it must get exhausting.”

“Not really. I wake up as refreshed as everyone else seems
to be.
And I
don’t
want to stop trying. I think, or at least I like to believe, the service I perform helps people.
” She had her head down,
rapidly
jotting notes, but nodded once
,
signaling
for
me to go on. “Miranda, y
ou should see the joy, the
pure
excitement
,
on their faces and sometimes the complete humbling appreciation. Imagine waiting years to tell someone that you weren’t mad at them when they passed on and
finally
being able to release that guilt or
being able
to check up on
a
newly departed loved one
ensuring their transition was smooth
and they’re happy
.
I perform that service.
” I paused for a moment, thinking about it. “No…I wouldn’t stop even if I could.”