Thomas Prescott Superpack (101 page)

One woman had a rare disease that killed her. The doctors on Two had given her a new medicine and she was responding well to it. Another woman had epilepsy. She died while having a seizure. Or she assumes that’s how she died. One of the guys had a bad sinus infection and he mixed a bunch of medicines, as well as pot and booze, and his heart stopped. His sinus infection was gone. Another guy was eating at Elways, a steakhouse in Denver, and he’d been choking and excused himself to go to the bathroom.

I’d once read an article in
Maxim
that five hundred men died each year from choking and only one woman. That’s because women would freak out and someone would give them the Heimlich, whereas guys would try to play it off and go the bathroom, and as in Floyd’s case, not be able to expunge the large piece of prime rib from their airway. Another guy, the black guy, drowned in a pool.

A couple more car crashes, a couple diseases I’d never heard of, and suddenly the only people not to have recounted their deathly tale were myself and the sullen teenager. I could feel all the eyes in the room floating between both the emo-kid and myself. Watching us like a tennis match to see who would raise their hand.

My heart raced and my mouth turned into the Sahara. I raised my hand. All the eyes found their way to me. I said, “My name is Maddy Young.”

I took a deep breath and said, “I’m a law student at the University of Denver.” I laughed. “I mean, I was a law student. I graduated in December and took the bar in March.”

“I heard that shit is hard as hell,” said the black guy who couldn’t swim.

I nodded. “Yeah, it’s a bitch. I got a 100.”

“You lie.” He looked impressed all the same. I saw a couple eyebrows rise around the room. These people thought they were in the presence of genius.

I set them straight. “I got 100 out of a possible 400.” You had to get 176 more points than I got to pass.

“So you failed.”

“Miserably.”

I heard Dr. Raleigh give a sharp laugh in the corner. I looked at him. He smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I took the MCATS three times.”

I smiled at him.

“I was scheduled to take the Bar again next week.” I hadn’t thought of this yet and I found it depressing. All those hours studying. All that money.  I took a deep breath and said, “Anyhow, how I died isn’t very interesting. I was in the shower, I was washing my hair and the next thing I remember is falling. I woke up here with twenty stitches in my head and a horrible headache.”

I looked at Dr. Raleigh, I wondered if he knew I was rubbing one out when I’d slipped. If Dr. Raleigh was aware of this, he didn’t show it. He did ask, “What about family? You didn’t mention any family.”

“I don’t have any.”

And we left it at that. Twenty-six eyes moved from me to the emo-teenager. He was staring straight down. His face in his hands. His greasy hair hanging over his eyes. He looked familiar, but I suppose all those emo-kids look pretty much the same. 

Dr. Raleigh looked at him and said, “You’re up.”

The kid didn’t say anything. Didn’t even flinch. Dr. Raleigh had seen this before. He said, “We can’t leave this room until everyone has told their story. That’s how it works.”

I should mention we’d been in this room for going on six hours. We were ready to be done. Ready to return to our little rooms, with our little bathrooms, and our little beds, and watch some TV. The TV’s wouldn’t turn on before. I had a feeling they would turn on tonight.

Ten minutes went by. Then twenty. The teenager hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even blinked. I was starting to think maybe he was dead. Again. The black guy stood up and walked over to him. I don’t know if he whispered in his ear that he was going to kill him if he didn’t start talking, or if it was his favorite proverb, or a black joke, or what, but the kid snapped out of it.

He looked up and said, “My name is Damon. I’m fourteen. My dad started beating the shit out of me when I was seven. Started fucking my little sister when she was eight. I bought a gun. I shot him. Then I shot myself.”

I’d heard about this. I’d seen it on the news. It had happened two days before I’d died. That’s why the kid looked so familiar. I’d seen his picture on the television.

Damon looked around, then said, “And if that motherfucker is here. I’m going to find him and I’m going to cut him into a million pieces.”

Yikes.

Dr. Raleigh said, “I think that’s enough for today.”

When I sat down in the chair opposite my designated TAC, Two Adjustment Counselor, I examined every square inch, and there were several, of Dr. JeAnn Tury.

She was big, with hairy arms, a hairy lip, and large glasses that fed into short spiked grayish hair. She wore a tan polo shirt. I would imagine JeAnn Tury was partial to the women, if not for being cast aside by men for a good twenty years. She gave a disarming smile and I instantly felt at ease.

I should mention I was wearing a pair of jeans, a gray hooded sweatshirt, and sandals. In addition to the contacts, when I had awoken this morning, I had found a pile of neatly folded clothes at the foot of my bed. A couple pairs of jeans, five or six shirts, two hoodies, some socks, a pair of Converse, some sandals, and three pairs of boxer briefs. Oddly enough, the clothes
they
had picked for me weren’t far-off the clothes I would have picked for myself. There was, of course, a logical explanation for this. During one of the intensive question and answer sessions I had in my first three days, I’d been asked to describe a typical outfit I might wear. It would appear someone had been listening.

Dr. Tury introduced herself and told me to call her JeAnn. I told her that in that case she could call me Mr. Young, which she found humorous. After sitting her large frame down, JeAnn said, “I hope the testing over the course of the past couple days wasn’t too grueling.”

“It’s still uncomfortable to sit down, but I’ll live.”

“That’s good to hear.” She stifled a chuckle and said, “So, my job is to help you adjust to your new surroundings. How are you feeling so far?”

I shrugged. “It’s a little crazy, sort of hard to wrap your head around, but I think I’ll get there.”

“Good, good.”

“I thought Dr. Raleigh was my counselor.”

“Dr. Raleigh is the head counselor for the entire facility. There are four other counselors, including myself, who deal with the Arrivals on a more intimate level. More hands on. I’ll help you acclimate to your new environment, anything from setting up a new bank account, to finding a place to live, to finding a job. All that crap.”

I laughed.

She added, “But if you ever have any questions for Dr. Raleigh his door is always open.”

“Good to know.”

After a moment’s pause, I asked, “How long have you been here?”

She peered up at the ceiling and exhaled. “Gosh. . . in May it will have been twenty-seven years.”

I knew it was coming before she started. I’d learned to recognize the look.

“It was May 5th, 1982. I was fifteen years old, living in Nebraska at the time. It was a Tuesday. My school was about two miles away from our house and my brother and I, Johnny—he was a year younger than me—would walk home from school everyday. “

She took a deep breath.

“You could tell a storm was coming, but I thought we could make it back in time. The sky turned from blue to black, then yellow. The siren went off. Johnny and I ran, but then we couldn’t see, we were enveloped by this swirling yellowness. And then it was like a bomb went off. The loudest sound I’d ever heard and I grabbed Johnny and covered him, but the tornado just ripped me off him.”

She went silent.

I could see her eyes were moist.

She said, “I’d like to think that Johnny made it.”

“So he didn’t come here?”

“No.”

But according to Dr. Raleigh, only one out of every three people who died came to Two. So technically, Johnny could have died and gone somewhere else. Or Johnny could have survived. But Johnny didn’t survive. Johnny died at the hands of the tornado, just as his big sister had died at the hands of the tornado. And I knew this because they had documented the tornado she was speaking of on
Storm Stories
on the weather channel. I was a big weather guy. For a long time, I’d wanted to be a storm chaser. Some kids want to be in the NBA, I wanted to chase tornadoes. I grew out of this obsession when I was about fifteen, but to this day I DVR’d every show on the Weather Channel. Anyhow, a couple months back they'd done an episode on the deadliest tornado to ever make its way through Nebraska. May 5, 1982. They had interviewed JeAnn and Johnny’s parents. Johnny hadn’t made it. I thought about telling JeAnn about her brother. But JeAnn already knew.

JeAnn said, “So, that’s my story. Now that we have that out-of-the-way, why don’t you ask me all the questions that have been burning inside you since you got here.”

I pulled a piece of paper from my back pocket and unfolded it.

“I see you came prepared.”

“Always.” Or most of the time. Or sometimes. Or once.

I started at the top of the list. “How many people here died and how many people were born here?”

JeAnn's eyes shot open and I asked, “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just not a question I’m used to getting day one with a new Arrival.” She paused. Looked at her computer. Hit a couple buttons. Took a deep breath. “No one is born in
Two, but Borns—" she caught herself.  

“Did you say Borns?
 What’s a Born?"

She leaned forward and whispered, "Trust me, you'll know. Now, listen, we shouldn't be
talking about this."

I wanted to ask, "Why? What's the big deal?" But instead, I said, "So women can’t get pregnant here?"

She nodded. "When a female dies, no matter what age, all their eggs die with them."

"But the Borns—”

She put her hand up. “Next question, Mr. Young."

I put an asterisk next to
Borns
in my mental file folder and asked, “Does Two have a high rate of suicide?”

Again she raised her eyebrows. “Why do you ask that?”

“All these people have died, they come to Two and they have a clean slate. I had a quarter of a million dollars in school loans and I come here and I don't owe a penny. I’m not saying I ever contemplated killing myself, but you can see how after coming here, someone might get themselves in  trouble—financial or criminal—and decide to pull out a gun and blow their brains out. Start fresh again. Go to Three.”

“You are a bright kid. In fact, we do have a high suicide rate. And for that very reason. People get themselves in trouble and want a fresh start. But no one knows where people go when they die here. That's the rub. As for the gun part, there are no guns here.”

“None?”

“None.”

“Even law enforcement?”

“Stun guns. Nothing that shoots bullets.”

“What about a black market?”

“Some. But law enforcement cracks down hard on gun dealers. We have a three-strike law.”

“Colorado has a three-strike law?”

“No. The entire world.”

She must have noticed the perplexed look on my face and explained, “There are boundaries, different governments, different states even, but the entire world works together on issues of safety, environment, punishment, and healthcare. You get one strike in Alabama, another in Germany, and another in Ecuador, you go away for life.”

As a prospective lawyer, I found this tidbit almost too much to digest. The entire world working together. Could that work? Was I in favor of this? Or was this overboard?
  Big Brother and all that. I needed a couple hours to swish this around my brain cavity. Anyhow, this was a great lead in to my next question.  I thought about the teenager.  Damon.  “What if you murdered someone in your past life and then you come here, do you get a clean slate?”

“You couldn’t see it, but when you were forced through those grueling question and answer sessions, you were being monitored by the most advanced lie detection software known to man.”

I’d read enough spy novels and seen enough thrillers to know lie detection technology was incredible these days, constant blood pressure readings, pupil dilation measurements, sweat readings, stuff that measured the pitch of your voice.

 
“But I wasn’t asked whether I committed any crimes.”

“After the initial Q & A, the computer tells us the likelihood you have committed a violent crime in your past. You were given a two out of seven. We don’t pursue it unless the computer gives us a four or higher.” She paused for a moment, then said, “We are not interested if you got a minor in possession ticket when you were fifteen or if you got caught with ecstasy in your pocket in college
.“

I sat back in my chair.
How did they know?

Before I could gather my thoughts, JeAnn smiled and said, “Now ask me the questions you think were too stupid to ask.”

I filed the fact they knew of my two indiscretions without my ever recounting them, crumpled up the paper I was holding and asked, “Is Michael Jackson here?”

JeAnn laughed. “Do you know that every Arrival for the past two months has asked me that question? No, I am sad to say the King of Pop is not here.”

Damn.  

“How about Billy Mays?”

“I don’t know who that is?”

“OxyClean, OrangeGlo, Mighty Mendit, Quick Chop, Grip Wrench, Samurai Shark.” Yes, I owned all the following products. Or had. What can I say; I think it was his beard.

Again she shook her head.

No Michael. No Billy. WTF?

I only had one question left, a question I had been dying to ask someone. “Tell me about Heath Ledger.”

She smiled. “Heath came to us in January of last year. It was a big story. He appeared in Manhattan. My sister went to college with his Adjustment Counselor in New York and I got the inside scoop on him before his integration.”

“Integration?”

“His integration into society. What you will be doing starting tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“Anyhow, his first movie came out last Friday,
The Flyaway
. I loved it.”

For some reason this hit home with me. It sounds stupid, but I felt like I knew someone here. I knew Heath. Kind of sad.

I asked, “You said, he
appeared
.”

“Right. He appeared.”

“What does that mean?”

“How do you think you got here?”

“I have no idea.”

“You
appeared
.”

I guess I hadn’t thought about this yet.

JeAnn said, “I’m surprised you haven’t asked yet. Usually it’s the first question people ask.”

“What?”

“They ask to see a video of their appearance.”

⠔

JeAnn fiddled on her computer for a brief moment, then turned the laptop to face me. “Ready?”

I wasn’t, but I nodded nonetheless.

The screen came alive. It showed a stoop in front of a small two-story house. There was a date and time in the top right corner. It read, “09/10/2009, 17:03:36.”

5:03 p.m. on September 10th, 2009. 

Right about now, I’d have just finished watching a rerun of
Top Chef
and would be stripping off my clothes.

I looked at JeAnn. She was staring at me intently. I looked back at the screen. Twenty seconds went by. A man walked into the screen. He was dressed warmly, for it had been chilly that day, high around 45, and he was pulling a wagon with a small girl. The girl looked tired and was clutching a stuffed toy. The clock moved past 5:05.

I’d accidentally flushed the toilet and about now I would be testing the water with my hand, patiently waiting for it to cool down.

Nothing happened on screen.

At 5:06:23 a mail carrier came into view. He walked up to the door, stuffed some mail through the slot, then exited as fast as he came.

I would have just been getting settled in the shower. Washing my hair. Eyes closed. The water reeling off my back. My mind would drift to that study session. Joni had been wearing these short black shorts that had been rolled once at the waist, pulled tight against her tanned, toned, thighs. She had a small, red DU shirt on. Her face was a bit flushed and I knew she’d just put in a good hour on the elliptical. She took off her backpack and set it next to her chair, squatting to unzip the bag and retrieve her notebook. Her tiny red shirt lifted up her back and her little black shorts squished down a bit, revealing she wasn’t wearing any underwear. I tried not to stare at the perfectly outlined crevice that lead to possibly the most fantastic couple of square inches on the planet, but I was only human. I have this perfect picture in my mind, a snapshot burned into my cerebellum.

I rinse the shampoo out of my hair and grab the conditioner. I put a healthy amount in my hand. Too much actually and I shake some off my hand and onto the shower floor. I don’t apply the conditioner to my hair.

I watch the screen. If something is going to happen, it is going to happen any second.

The clock moves past 5:08.

It didn’t take long. My whole body tensed. I stagger forward a step. The shower floor is silky with the spilled conditioner and my left foot shoots forward. My right follows and I am falling.