The Last Story

REMEMBER ME :THE FINAL STORY

Converted to Repligo by FuzzyLogic

For Helena

FINAL COMPUTER ENTRY

The silver lining of success often tarnishes before it can be enjoyed. For me, being rich and famous was both wonderful and awful. Wonderful because money and notoriety are necessary and useful in a world where almost everything can be purchased with them. Awful because that same wealth and fame caused me to forget that I can never truly own anything in this world. Like everyone else, I am here for only a short time and then, no matter how rich and important I have become, I will be gone.

It's ironic that I, who have died and returned to life, should forget that. But forget it I did when I came face to face with my enemy.

Myself.

Shari Cooper. Jean Rodrigues. I have two names.

But perhaps I am being too hard on myself. After all, I was once a ghost who only prayed to be remembered. To have one more chance at life. And then, when that chance was miraculously granted, was it any wonder I should have run wild for a time? Yes, I can forgive myself, and hope those close to me can do the same. Because time is short.

Especially for me.

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For Helena

CHAPTER

I

X. THE SILVER LINING of success often tarnishes before it can be enjoyed. For me, being rich and famous was both wonderful and awful. Wonderful because money and notoriety are necessary and useful in a world where almost everything can be purchased with them. Awful because that same wealth and fame caused me to forget that I can never truly own anything in this world. Like everyone else, I am here for only a short time and then, no matter how rich and important I have become, I will be gone. It's ironic that I, who have died and returned to life, should forget that. But forget it I did when I came face to face with my enemy.

Myself.

Shari Cooper. Jean Rodrigues. I have two names.

But perhaps I am being too hard on myself. After all, I was once a ghost who prayed only to be remembered. To have one more chance at life. And then, when that chance was miraculously granted,

was it any wonder I should have run wild for a time? Yes, I can forgive myself, and hope those close to me can do the same. Because time is short.

Especially for me.

God, my head hurts. My heart aches.

Where to begin? Maybe at the beginning of the end. That would be a few days ago. My publisher had arranged a book signing for me at a large Barnes & Noble located in a California mall the size of Tokyo. The turnout was unexpected, even by my lofty standards. Two thousand young people showed up to have me scribble my name—my real name from my previous life, and now my pen name—on the inside cover of my latest best-seller.

How young they seemed to me, although most were only a couple years short of my twenty-one years.

Being famous does make you feel old and wise, like you know it all. Greeting each adoring fan with a quick smile and a flick of my pen, I felt like a queen.

"I'm your number-one fan," a cute redheaded girl said as she reached my table at the head of the line. She clutched a copy of Remember Me—my sixth book—to her chest, her eyes saucerlike and round. "I've read everything you've written."

"What's your name?" I asked, sticking out my hand for her copy of the book.

"Kattie. Is Shari Cooper a pen name, or is it your real name? I noticed you named the heroine of Remember Me Shari Cannon."

I glanced at Peter Nichols, in Lenny Mandez's body, sitting beside me, in his wheelchair.

He

smiled but didn't say anything. Peter enjoyed the signings more than I did. I didn't know why because all the attention was focused on me.

"It's real enough," I muttered. Taking the book, I opened it to the title page and scribbled: For Kattie, Enjoy. Shari Cooper. I don't use many different inscriptions inside my books.

"Enjoy," "Best Wishes," "Be Good," and "Love and Kisses"—if the guy is cute that is. Actually, I didn't know what to say to people when they told me how great I was. Being a celebrity was fun but also confusing.

Kattie lingered after I returned her book. The people behind her fidgeted. I had been signing for three hours straight and the line was still long. My right hand was numb. Kattie smiled shyly.

"I was just wondering," she asked, "where do you get your ideas?"

Had I been asked that question before? Once or twice, a million times. "I don't know," I said. "I really don't. They just come to me, at unexpected moments."

"But do you think you have a muse, like Sam O'Connor in that short story you wrote?"

I chuckled. Sam was a troll who lived in the closet. I said to Peter, "Do we have a troll in our closet?"

"There's only me," Peter said.

Kattie seemed confused. "Are you girlfriend and boyfriend?" she asked.

I hesitated, feeling Peter's eyes on me. "Yes. You look surprised, Kattie?"

She was not surprised, but embarrassed. "No. I just thought you were brother and sister."

She shrugged. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Peter said quickly. "We do look kind of alike."

Except for both of us being in Hispanic bodies, we looked nothing alike. My features were voluptuous, sensual. Since becoming a writing star, I had cut my hair short; my bangs brushed my eyes as they once did—in my earlier incarnation as Shari Cooper. Peter hadn't cut his straight black hair since he had wandered back in—he wore it long, down his back, in a ponytail I enjoyed tugging.

Because he ate like a bird, he had become terribly thin, haggard even. Still, his dark eyes were bright and his smile seldom dimmed.

Like Peter, I understood Kattie's confusion. She saw me as a star, an idol, someone she dreamed of becoming. And here I was with a paraplegic. Knowing she'd never understand, I didn't try to explain.

Plus anything I would have said would only hurt Peter's feelings.

"We've been through a lot together," I said to Kattie. "It's been great."

ICattie flashed me one last smile. "You're great."

She held up Remember Me. "I've already read this new book three times. You wrote it like you lived it." She burst out laughing. "Or died it!"

I felt an unexpected wave of sorrow. But why? I asked myself. It was my decision to publish the book, even over my brother Jimmy's strong protests.

He feared that one day our parents would find

the story, read it, and see how similar the story was to that of the life of their dead daughter. Especially with the name Shari Cooper on the spine. But I felt the book was too important to be left in a desk drawer. Besides, I needed another best-seller. Remember Me had been out only a month, but

already it had sold over a million copies.

My sorrow had nothing to do with publishing or the number of copies sold, however. The story was, after all, the story of my life and death. It felt weird to sit and sign Remember Me like any other book.

But my expression was kind as I bid Kattie farewell.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I said.

Most of the people who appeared told me they were my number-one fans. Where do you get your ideas? Is Shari Cooper a pen name? Are any of your characters based on real people?

How much money do you make? Are you going to write a sequel to Remember Me? Now that was a disturbing question, for more reasons than one. I continued to smile and speak, but deep inside my skull my blood vessels began to twist into demonic shapes and spread a thick band of pain across my forehead and around my temples. Since returning to Earth, I had experienced bad headaches off and on—as of late, more on than off. The damage was from the time Jean Rodrigues, the girl whose body I now inhabit, had taken an unintentional plunge off Lenny Mandez's balcony. I know from Jean's memories that she never had headaches until that night, over three years ago. But exactly what the damage was I didn't know, nor did I care to subject my brain to a CAT scan or MRI to find out the particulars. I suspected the news would not be good.

"Peter," I asked, "could you please get me a glass of water?"

He studied me. "Do you have a headache?"

"No," I lied. "I'm just thirsty. I'm sure they have something in back to drink. Could you check, please?"

He nodded and pivoted his wheelchair away from the table. "I'll be back in a minute."

The moment he was gone, I reached inside my purse and grabbed a prescription bottle of Tylenol-3, a potent combination of codeine and Tylenol. Without letting my fans see, I popped two pills into my mouth and swallowed, wishing I had water. I had sent Peter away largely because I didn't want him to know how much pain I was in. He worried about me, and I didn't want that. Being paralyzed from the waist down, he had so many health problems, and I hated to show any weakness.

Peter returned with a full glass of water, and I drank it down in a single gulp. The drugs took twenty minutes to take effect and I bore the time patiently.

We ran out of books to sign, leaving five hundred fans empty-handed. It could happen, I knew—I was not upset with the bookstore. As I left the mall, I went down what remained of the line and scribbled my signature on pieces of paper, on kids'

clothes, even. Most seemed grateful just to be close to me. The codeine was percolating between my

synapses and I felt good again. At the end of the line I was surprised to find my brother, Jimmy, and my best friend, Jo.

According to Jimmy, he and Jo were not going together, but were just occasionally hanging out.

According to Jo, they were having incredible sex three or four times a week. Honestly, I didn't know whom to believe, and frankly I didn't care. They were both doing well. Jimmy was still working for the phone company, and Jo had graduated from college as a drama major, which, education-wise, was more than I could say for myself. I had dropped out of college the day I sold my first book—First to Die. It was this story I was about to make into a movie, with me as executive producer. I had gotten Jo a role as one of the victims, or, should I say, she had earned the role. She was quite the actress.

"How did the signing go?" Jimmy asked, studying the crowd. "Or do I need to ask?"

"She was a smash," Peter said. "They ran out of books again."

I massaged my wrist. "It's a good thing they did. I was getting a cramp. And everyone kept asking me about Sam O'Connor."

"Who's Sam?" Jo asked.

"Her muse," Peter explained. "They all want to know where she gets her ideas. I think it's a fair question."

Jo tugged on Peter's ponytail. "We know you're her sole source of inspiration."

Peter looked up at her and grinned. "And who inspires me?"

Jo and Peter often flirted, which didn't bother me, except much of it was overtly sexual, and Jo knew Peter was physically incapable of having sex.

Yet I never spoke against it. I tried never to mention sex at all around Peter. It was a sore spot for him and—what the hell, for me, too. Since entering my new body, I had not made love once—the life of the rich and famous. Jo stroked the side of Peter's face. She was petite, as short as she had been in high school, although her hair was now blond, not brown, courtesy of a professional bleach job.

"I do, of course," she said.

I cleared my throat and grabbed the back of Peter's wheelchair. "I have a movie meeting in thirty minutes. Which reminds me, Jo, aren't you supposed to be at rehearsal?"

"I thought I'd ride with you," she said.

I considered. "You could do that, but we might not be on the same timetable."

"I'll wait," Jo said.

"This is a serious rehearsal. I might have to wait for you."

Jo snorted. "The big executive producer can't hang around for her best friend?"

"I don't want either of you to be late," Peter said.

"Remember, we want to see that yogi tonight. He's only in Los Angeles for a few days."

Jimmy nodded. "Shari told me about him. I want to see him, too. What time's his talk?"

"Eight o'clock," Peter said. "It's in Santa Monica, at the Unity Church."

"I don't know if we'll be done by then," I said.

Peter acted pained. "You're the boss. You can be done when you want. I really want to see him. I think this guy is genuine."

I smiled. "You haven't even met him. How can you have an opinion about him?"

Peter was thoughtful. "I don't know. There was something about his picture." Peter paused. "He reminded me of you-know-who."

Peter was referring to the Rishi. I had seen the yogi's picture, and although he had had beautiful eyes, and lovely long hair and a beard, there had been nothing in his face that struck me as cosmic.

"I'll try to make it," I said unenthusiastically.

"He's supposed to teach meditation and certain kinds of breathing," Peter said. "You remember how often the Rishi spoke about such techniques."

"This yogi looks nothing like the Rishi," I said.

"You can't judge a book by its cover," Peter said.

"Not even a Shari Cooper thriller," I agreed.

Jimmy stared at me. "Shari, can I talk to you a minute before you run off?"

Jo pretended to be insulted, although she wasn't.