Pieces of Hope (6 page)

I slid
into the booth across from her. She had a round, cheerful face. Her beautiful
skin was darker than Brody’s, almost a velvety black. She wore an old-fashioned
wrap-style dress, and her onyx hair waved neatly down to her chin. Beneath a
smooth swirl of bangs, she stared at me with large brown eyes, the most
compelling eyes I’d ever seen.

“Hey,” I
muttered nervously. “Thanks for the seat.”

“I have
to admit. Of the myriad of things I thought you’d say, ‘thanks for the seat’
wasn’t one of them.” Her voice was softly pleasant. “It’s official. I’m not
half as smart as I think I am . . .” A smile tugged at the corners of her
mouth. “Hope Valenti.”
 

My mouth
fell open. “Do I know you?”

“I’m
Creesie
Brown.” She extended a warm hand across the table,
the smile never leaving her face. “But there’ll be eons of time for catching up
later.” The word
eons
stuck in my
head. Had she meant that literally? “The important thing is you made it. From
here, it took only a second or two, less than the blink of an eye, but I
suspect it feels like a very long day to you.”

She
glanced at a clock on the wall, and my eyes followed along. It had numbers, but
no hands. Across its stark white face was written:
It’s later than you think
.

“Ever
heard that old expression . . . time flies? Clever, isn’t it? You were probably
taught that someone in the living realm came up with it, but that simply isn’t
the case. Nearly every one of life’s seemingly useless sayings were first
uttered here.” She tapped a short finger on the tablecloth. “They started off
as reminders, things to pay attention to, but then they spread, well, elsewhere
and—Oh, my goodness!—I’m babbling, aren’t I? Please forgive me, I’m a little
new at this.” She cast a swift glance upward, so brief I almost missed it, then
flashed another megawatt smile. “
Anyhoo
, now that
you’re safely here, maybe your mother will finally stop pestering me.”

Astonished,
I gushed, “You—You know my mother? How is she? Tell me!”

“She’s
fine, my dear. Just fine.”
Creesie
patted my hands
from across the table.

I
couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something slightly off about
Creesie
. While it was true that she looked like a teenager,
it wasn’t like one that I’d ever seen. In some vague way, she seemed not
outdated or old-fashioned, but just plain
old.
I’d nearly wrapped my brain around this idea when—as if she’d plucked the words
right out of my head—
Creesie
lifted a hand to stop
me.

“Before
we get into all that,” she said sweetly, “do you mind if we order first? I’m
beyond famished. And judging by the sound of it, I’d wager you are, too.”

Embarrassed,
I clutched at my stomach. She’d heard that?

She
dropped her chin, tilted her head slightly, and assessed me with her big brown
eyes. “You’ll love the food here. Most folks say it’s quite heavenly.”

I looked
up then. Although she wasn’t there the second before, a brunette waitress with
a name tag that read Cat stood beside our table. She wore a pink uniform and a
pair of matching pink glasses that came to a point at the edge of her eyebrows.

“Cute,
aren’t they?” she asked, smacking her gum. “I don’t need them for seeing, but I
have the hardest time letting go of things I love . . . Know what I mean?” Cat
blew a large pink bubble that vanished just before it popped. Then, without my
asking, though I had been wondering it, she said, “Name’s short for Catherine,
like yours. But, that’s right, you go by Hope. How could I ever forget?”

I gaped
at her in astonishment. Did everyone here know me?
 

“What
can I get you?” She didn’t hand out menus, so I guessed it was strictly the
basics. Shielding one side of her mouth with a pink-nailed hand, Cat confided,
“
Creesie’s
got quite the sweet tooth. Most folks at
the Station do. But just between us girls, I don’t know where she puts it.”

Creesie
laughed pleasantly. “Cat, you know as well as I do
that sugar’s good for the soul. Why else would we eat so much of it?” Cat gave
a half-shrug. “And there’s no need to butter me up, you know you’ll always be
my favorite waitress.”

My eyes
flicked around. From what I could see, in this bustling café, Cat was also the
only
waitress. Good thing they had a limited
menu.

“Just
bring us a snack for now,”
Creesie
told her. Cat
didn’t remove the pen from behind her ear, nor the ordering pad from her
apron’s pocket. Instead, she blew another disappearing pink bubble. “Hope and I
have important matters to discuss.”

Important?
What could
Creesie
and I possibly have to—

“How
about a frozen Snickers and a cup of very sweet coffee?”
Creesie
decided.

Cat
bobbed her head as if this were an excellent choice, something along the lines
of filet mignon, then turned to me. When I didn’t respond, she said, “Anything
you want, Hope. Anything at all. Your imagination’s the only limitation . . .”

I
faltered; words refused to form in my brain. It was beginning to dawn on me
that nothing and no one in this place was anywhere close to normal. And though
I was trying desperately not to panic, my heart wasn’t cooperating very well.

Seeming
to sense my distress, Cat came to my rescue. “How about a peanut butter and
jelly sandwich? Crunchy, with grape jelly. No crusts. Wheat bread, right?” I
nodded, jaw open. It was the way Mom used to make them. Cat and
Creesie
shared a chuckle, and then Cat disappeared through
a set of double doors at the far end of the café. Seconds later, I looked down
and saw two sparkling white plates that held our requests. Next to mine was a
large glass of frosty cold milk. Just what I’d wanted.

While I
gulped down the sandwich—mostly to keep my mouth closed—I studied the place
intently. Nearly everyone seemed to have arrived for a costume party, my new
companion included. Their attire wasn’t unusually fancy, but they spanned more
decades than I could count. Several boys about my age—seated at an adjacent
booth and donning tall hats and three-piece suits, possibly from the early
1900’s—were engaged in a lively conversation in rapid-fire French, and I
understood every word they were saying. Even so, given my recent introduction
to Spanish, this wasn’t such a surprise.

The
biggest one was yet to come.

It had
taken me several minutes to notice, but then again, hadn’t I had one heck of a
morning? Or maybe, since it applied to everyone in the place, it was easier to
miss. But either way, once I finally focused, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I
blinked a couple of times to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, and still my mind
couldn’t process it.

It was
like gazing into the faces of Angels while staring directly into the sun. Two
things I probably wasn’t supposed to do for very long for fear of going blind.
But I didn’t have the strength to turn away, nor did I wish to. And since I’d
never been in the presence of such unearthly beauty, staring at them
open-mouthed seemed perfectly appropriate.

Oh, and
they were all so young! The oldest person couldn’t have been more than thirty,
and most were in their teens or younger. I suspected they were bodiless, like
me—whatever that meant—but I didn’t get a feeling of tragedy or sadness coming
from them. Quite the opposite. Everyone seemed very happy to be here, much the
way I felt before a long-awaited trip.

“It
takes your new eyes a while to adjust,”
Creesie
said,
drawing my focus back to her. She looked off into the distance, starry-eyed.
“Who would have guessed such beauty existed in the world? Truth is it was
always there, we just couldn’t see it until now.” She popped the last bite of
Snickers into her mouth, then paused to lick her fingers. “Human eyes aren’t
accustomed to seeing beyond the physical. Looking into one’s soul takes a bit
of practice, you see.”
 

I gazed
openly at her, and, after a few seconds,
Creesie
began to shimmer in the same way that I’d seen Angels depicted in paintings.
Her features were exquisite, but it was her eyes that cast a spell around me.
Kindness and compassion drifted out of them and into mine. “Souls,” she said.
“You’re seeing the beauty of our souls. It can be mind-boggling for new
arrivals, but you’ll adjust fairly quickly.”

I
couldn’t imagine such a thing. Adjust? Not in a million years.

Creesie
popped a single finger into the air and Cat arrived
promptly with another steaming cup of coffee, simultaneously clearing our
table. I fussed with the edge of the red and white checked tablecloth hoping to
distract myself from gaping. Suddenly my eyes went wide as I realized the
horrible truth.

“Souls?”
I choked, staring at her in disbelief. “So, I—I’m dead?”
 

Creesie
laughed heartily. “Oh, heavens no!”

She sure
did throw the word heaven around a lot. It made me a little paranoid. I wished
she would quit doing that. No sooner had I thought this than
Creesie
tilted her head again to look at me for another
long moment. It seemed disturbingly impossible, but I suspected she was reading
my mind.
 

“It’s
not meant to be a literal thing,”
Creesie
confirmed.
“But visitors like yourself often take it that way.”

“I’m
just visiting?” My hands were still shaking, but my heart had leveled off.
 

“Absolutely.”
Creesie
leaned against the window, stretching her
short legs across the seat. “But I should tell you, you’re more the exception
than the rule. Most of the folks you see around here are what you might call .
. . permanent residents.”

I
gulped. “You mean they’re all dead?”
  

“Well,
yes,” she said, as if this were no big deal. “But don’t trouble yourself about
it. They’re still very busy people.” She sipped from her cup and the steam
swirled up and around her head, forming small, perfect circles. “Lots of
changes start to happen after that big event. Some faster than others.”

Morbid
curiosity set in. Since she had confirmed that I was very much alive, I felt
freer to explore the comings and goings of the beautiful dead people around me.

“Like
what, for instance?” I took a huge swig of milk, glancing at her over the top
of it, attempting to ignore the throng of stunning souls moving about the
café.
 

“We
quickly forget what it’s like in the physical world. We forget how slowly the
living walk and talk. We also forget to speak our thoughts aloud, mostly
because it isn’t necessary. That’s one of the first changes to occur. If we’re
paying attention—and to tell you the truth, most of the time, we aren’t—we can
hear almost anyone’s thoughts. It does require a bit of practice, though, and
it’s easier if we have some kind of connection . . . a friend or a family
member, or someone we love.”

This was
both a wonderful and terrible thing. Did I really want perfect strangers—emphasis
on perfect—knowing my every thought? I’d really have to watch myself. But I
didn’t understand why
Creesie
had said that the
living moved slowly. Gigi was sixty-five and she could hop one-legged in high
heels faster than most of these people could run.

“You’ve
got to be kidding,” I argued, guessing that
Creesie
had already heard the words in my head. “These people are so pokey they’re
practically moving in reverse.”

Creesie
pealed with delight. “Trust me. It takes a lot of
effort to move like turtles. At the Station, we practice being human for a
while, eat a little something for the journey, and then head out to visit our
families.”

“Visit?”
I asked, puzzled. “But why do they need the Station? Can’t they just pop from
one place to the other—materialize or something like that? I mean, they’re all
dead, right?”

“My dear
Hope,”
Creesie
said sweetly. “You’ve been watching
too many movies. There’s an order to the universe. The Stations are quite
organized, lots of folks coming and going.”

I caught
the plural of “Stations,” but suddenly got distracted. One of the very cute
French boys I eavesdropped on moments ago was bidding
au
revoir
to his table, and after waiting
patiently for several travelers to move past, he stood and walked gracefully
out of the café.
 

“When we
visit, it’s usually for a reason,” she continued, doing that head tilt thing
again. “And often because our loved ones are having a hard time with us being
gone. The living seem preoccupied . . . often to their detriment, with needing
to know whether we’re happy or not.”

A buried
memory was burrowing its way to the surface, but sensing the sadness
surrounding it, I worked at ignoring it. “But if they’re just visiting, how do
they make sure they’re seen?” I asked. “When I was at the hospital, only one
little girl noticed me.”

Creesie’s
head bobbed. “Hmm, yes . . . children and
animals, very sensitive. But it’s not only them. Virtually anyone could see us
if they chose to—most prefer not.”

Despite
my efforts, the buried memory was gaining ground. With a rising sense of
anxiety, I stammered, “But who—I mean, how do they do it?”

Shrugging,
Creesie
said, “The living tend to shut themselves off
from the dead. In fact, you could say they avoid us like the plague.” She
chuckled a little. “Because of their irrational fear of us, we have to wait
until their minds are more receptive, more—open.” It seemed
Creesie
was waiting for something, maybe a light bulb to go off in my head. If so, I
didn’t feel even a tingle. “And so we wait,” she repeated. “And visit the
living as they dream.”