The Last Time I Died (20 page)

Think about that little chat. I can’t see it lasting long and if it did there would be police and restraining orders and judges and god knows what else.

What I’ve learned from Lisa regarding her love life is thin and largely conjecture, as the only time I can get her to open up at all is by picking a fight over something small when I trick her into answering the phone. The new guy is in real estate. A developer, so you know he’s a dick.

Two weeks ago she was in my (our) apartment when I came home. She still has a key, but I never lock the door anymore. The conversation was short.

—I want a divorce.

What am I going to do? Fight? I can only imagine the mustering that went on before she came over to confront me. Working herself up. Practicing in front of the mirror. Promising the developer she would go through with it. Getting a pep talk from Fucking Michelle. Her jaw was set and she was rehearsed.

—Christian, I want a divorce.

She made it a point to look at me when she said it but once the hard part was done she found other things to focus on. Bracing (hoping) for a fight, I suspect. But I wouldn’t do it. Not that night, at least. She had indicated to me she wanted out in so many ways over the months previous that saying the words out loud were a simple matter of convention.

I wonder if men and women look at divorce the same way they do marriage. I thought of it as an ending. A finale. I think she might have seen it as an invitation to a deeper dialogue. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen that night. This was part of the grieving process. It could take months. So, I gave her what she needed.

— . . . Okay.

And here I am. I don’t really have a plan besides watching what may or may not be the apartment she’s living in these days. I suppose I’m hoping she’ll walk out and we’ll see each other and I’ll say something meaningful. I don’t know what that will be but perhaps being near her will inspire something breathtaking or coherent. Hopefully, I’ll get some vibrations.

I’m not stalking Lisa. I was her husband.

Cordoba isn’t surprised when I show up.

She says nothing about me being (according to the newspapers on the way over) a full day and a half late. Nothing seems to shake her. I guess that’s one of the benefits of having a borderline personality. I wonder what she would react to. Zombies? Aliens? Probably not.

She’s prepped and ready as if she knew I would arrive at this exact moment. I sit on the edge of the operating table and she’s strictly business. Asks about how I’m feeling. Checks my vitals. Tests my pupils. Takes a lot of notes. The file she’s keeping on me is much thicker than last time. She must have been doing some data analyzation since I left. So dedicated. Can she get published for this kind of work? Who would believe it? She’d more likely get thrown in jail. The notes can only be for her. Or for when she dies. A brilliant manifesto published posthumously and forever heralding her as the great one who solved mankind’s problems. Like Timothy McVeigh.

She preps my injection points, working quickly and efficiently as if I weren’t even there. I am a lab rat. I am living data. I am a collection of impersonal test results.

Did I hallucinate the kiss last time? I’m doubting everything now.

Cordoba leans me back and straps me in. Both wrists. Both ankles. My chest. I’m shirtless and covered with monitor pads connected to beeping machines. I am a dissected frog valued solely for research purposes.

It’s go time.

She looks over her tray of syringes arranged neatly in a row and selects the one closest to us.

—Are you ready to die again?

I’m so ready. And I’m terrified. I am confident. And I am a little boy who wants to run. I’m scared. And I’m happy. I’m strapped down. I am in control.

—Do it.

She slips the first needle in and glides the plunger in. Instantly I relax. Her eyes light up a little as she watches it hit me. God damn, heroin feels good. This is the greatest invention ever. I’m so happy and my head rolls around but she won’t break eye contact with me.

Wait.

This isn’t the same feeling I had last time. What the fuck?

—This . . . is . . . different.

—We’re trying something new.

Something new. Like what? Steroids? Angel Juice? I want to have a conversation about this change in the agreed-upon plan but even saying those last three words was a struggle. She tricked me again. She’s going rogue and there isn’t a thing I can do. I have willfully submitted myself to an unknown medical experiment with a lunatic doctor.

Cordoba inserts the second syringe. Even if I weren’t lashed to the table, I could do nothing to stop her. Her hair falls over her face like Lisa’s used to. Usually, she’s got it pulled back in a tight ponytail. When did she let it down? The second plunger goes down.

Oh my god.

She’s so into this she can barely speak. I hear or see or understand that the monitor readings are starting to slow. I’m drifting off. My eyelids are ten pound weights. I don’t know why I’m fighting this but I am. Cordoba’s hand is down her skirt. She’s touching herself and staring into my eyes.

I didn’t hallucinate the kiss.

My eyes drift down and I notice I’m sporting an immense hard-on. When did my pants come undone? How did I not notice her doing that?

Cordoba hikes her skirt and climbs on top of me. She slides me inside of her and moves her hips slowly back and forth as she takes her time with the third syringe.

The last plunger goes down and I get a rush of soft, warm goodness that swallows me up whole. As I fade out I hear my own monitors flat lining as Cordoba moans.

Jesus. She’s a necrophiliac.

And I’m dead.

Black.

White.

The White.

I have become comfortable in these surroundings. Maybe that’s a good thing. The White is bright and clean and perfect like I remember it. Sterile, sparkling white and yet soothing and comfortable. Like I’m a welcome guest. I’m supposed to be here.

My mind is now the entirety of my being. I am a thought process and nothing more. Flexible to turn at will without physical limitations. There is no up or down here. There is everything and nothing. I can move at the speed of light. What’s faster than the speed of light? That’s how fast I can move. But I don’t move anywhere because this is where I need to be. This is what I need to be. I am The White.

Waiting for the whoosh.

Are we still fucking?

My entire existence is now devoted to harvesting my treasured, long-lost memories, and the sand in my Vaseline is this thought that while I’m dead, somewhere back in the world of gravity and clocks and parking tickets, Cordoba is having sex with my corpse.

The heroin felt different. If I’m crudely reverse engineering the formula she used, I’m guessing she added some Viagra (or its homemade equivalent) to the mix and timed everything so I’d be hard and dead simultaneously. I’m not sure why I care. That body is of little use to me now. This is where I want to live. Surrounded by the truth of my life. Enveloped by my own all-knowing subconscious. But the god damn questions about Cordoba are tainting the purity of The White this time. Why couldn’t my kidney be enough?

A faint wisp of the whoosh hits me and I know the memory storm is coming. I’m ready. But I’m not focused. Why couldn’t she just kill me and let me do my thing? Now I’m here in Perfectland, distracted when I should be concentrating on this rare opportunity.

How long have I been out? Is this death and rebirth experience a small sliver of time that only seems like it lasts longer or is it a much more extended period that I only remember a tiny bit from? It can’t be too long. No matter how good of a doctor she is there are limitations to what the human body can do. I’m guessing time slows here in limbo. I’m not playing by the same rules she is. She’s probably got no more than two minutes to work her magic. How long can that two minutes last in The White time?

The whoosh is growing. I try to let go of everything in my head. Clear it out to make room. I am empty. I am Zen. I am ready.

Can I ejaculate when I’m dead? I wonder if there was a little extra something in the mix to help out with that. That seems like a lot of effort to put into fucking a dead guy, but then how often does she get that opportunity? She does look a lot like Lisa.

I turn my presence toward the sound. Focus, you idiot. An infinitely wide and unimaginably tall wall of memories rushes toward me. The anticipation is delicious.

WHOOSH!

The memories race past fast enough to scorch me but they don’t. They are a cool, calming breeze that feels so good against my tired soul that I want to close my eyes and let them wash over me. But I can’t.

There I am at prom.

There I am mowing the lawn.

Arguing with a clerk about fixtures in the Home Depot lighting section.

Hitting the lobby button in an elevator.

Bench pressing.

Tapping the snooze button.

Negotiating my second big salary raise.

Standing in the foyer of my Brooklyn home.

I need that one.

I focus and will the memory toward me or myself toward it. I can’t tell the difference and don’t care. Faster and faster we move together until it hits me like a slap on the face that I deserve and I’m there.

I’m eight.

I’m home in Brooklyn in the house with the stoop. I’m in the doorway between the foyer and the hall that leads back to our kitchen. I know I’m scared, but I’m not sure why. Ella isn’t in the room, but maybe she recently left or is coming back or hiding. I feel like she’s near. My mother is pleading her case to a uniformed policeman standing just inside the closed front door. He’s a tall, muscular guy, looking at her and faced away from me. He’s got cop forearms. I can tell he’s confident even from behind. In control of the situation. The opposite of my mother who looks like she’s spinning out. She’s twisting a lock of hair like she always used to when she was stressed. I had forgotten that until now.

I have to remember every detail. I have to drink this in. Soak up everything. Suck the marrow out of this memory.

My mother looks from the cop to me and back to the cop. She seems upset. Worried. Jumpy. I never thought of her as impatient, but maybe she was. Or maybe it’s the situation.

—I don’t know what else to do. Tony’s not leaving me any choice.

She’s almost whispering to the cop but I can hear every word. I’m not sure she cares. Her eyes are sad every time she looks at me and back to him. I don’t know where my father is. She seems so desperate.

Remember this smell. Take in the smallest details. My mother’s dress. The mail piled up next to the front door. Ella’s toys in the hallway. The broken chain lock on the front door. The four-day-old bruise on my mother’s eye.

The cop puts his hand on my mother’s shoulder.

—I understand.

He pauses for a second, I suppose to instill confidence.

—Will he be home anytime soon?

My mother relaxes somewhat and shakes her head no.

I’m terrified and I don’t know why. Where is Ella? I know she was just here.

The cop starts turning to look my way but the sound is already fading and I know I’ll be out of here before he gets all the way around.

(Tsk, tsk.)

Tenacity is so admirable a quality one is tempted to overlook the circumstances that caused the good doctor to find herself in this situation where it is so valuable. She is putting forth a herculean effort, unyielding in her determination and so thoroughly stubborn as to be valiant, but only because she has allowed herself to be in a position in which nothing short of this strenuous exertion will extricate her from what is undeniably a situation problematic to explain away to even the dullest of authorities. She has made a misstep.

The old boy is dead and gone at her hands and she is, understandably, becoming increasingly frustrated with regards to what are beginning to look like fruitless attempts at revival.

Christian should be back by now.

Perhaps she was a little too long enjoying the fruits of her labor. Orgasmic to the point of distraction. Greedy. Sloppy. This is the dilemma of her unique flavor of arousal. The sole form of sexual activity that is satisfying to her presents itself so rarely that when she has the opportunity to indulge herself, it is no small matter to stop. She was an animal. Her hair is tousled. Her lower back moist from perspiration. Her brain addled with endorphins. For a brief moment, she was sated. But now there is this to contend with.

The dead man who has trusted her with what is left of his life waits patiently for the good doctor to ply her oh-so-specialized trade on him. This is the sole purpose for which he sought her out. Suicide he can accomplish on his own time. Reanimation was the promise she made and has yet to fulfill, this round anyway. The old boy will never know, of course. He is expired, and should he remain so, well, there would be no way to inform him of the doctor’s failure, and also no need. If an afterlife exists, he will come to understand that there is only one way he could have arrived there. Should he be revived, Cordoba will likely tell him the procedure went swimmingly. Precisely as planned. And he will be none the wiser. But as a matter of pride, the good doctor is resolved to remedy the situation. This is her job.

She pounds on our man’s chest.

Pumps fluids into his veins.

Talks forcefully to him.

Nothing yet.

But then, he has always been difficult.

To say she is nervous would be inaccurate. Anxious, perhaps. But only because she is acutely aware of the steep plummet in the likelihood of success as time marches mercilessly forward. Eight minutes of death preceding revival is not unheard of in some operating theaters, but you would only know that number because of the successful efforts of a team of world-class medical professionals working in concert to bring the recently deceased back to life. Cordoba is alone to administer her homemade remedies and chest compressions. It is draining, grinding her will more with each passing second. But as I have mentioned, she is tenacious.