The After, Scribd Version

8/14/2019 The After, Scribd Version

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the

AfterA novel, by Briane F. Pagel, Jr.

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One:

Saoirse tried not to think of how much she hated airplanes, something that would

have been impossible had she known for certain that the plane she was going to board

soon would crash shortly after that. It was going to crash, but she didnt truly know that.

She just believed it, at this point.

The plane ride was only going to be four hours, but, Saoirse thought, she would

spend two and one-half hours waiting for the plan, plus another two and one-half hours in

the airport for the trip back in five days, so that plus four hours on the plane each way

meant that shed be spending 13 of the next 120 hours on or around an airplane.

Or so she thought.

She did those calculations sitting in the passenger seat as they pulled off of the

main road and approached the airport. She watched as the line of cars ahead of and

behind them trundled slowly up to the gate, waited for their ticket, and then pulled into

the parking lot.

Do you want me to drop you at the gate? asked Ansel. He was happy, excited.

He liked to travel, liked packing, liked airplanes. He liked going to new places, seeing

new things. He liked the change of scenery and the freedom of not getting up to go to

work and the ability to read the whole paper and, he always said, he especially liked that

once he was on the plane there was nothing to do but sit and enjoy the flight and maybe

read. Ansel had his book with him, a book he didnt even put in his carry-on, but carried

in his pocket.

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Saoirse considered his offer: Would it be better for her to try to guard the luggage

at the gate and also keep tabs on the kids while waiting for him to get to and from the

long-term lot, or should she and the kids all help unload the luggage and drag that around

the parking lot while trying to keep the kids from getting run over, getting them all onto

the shuttle?

Then she tried very, very hard to banish those thoughts and think something

pleasant. That was a new idea shed heard people suggest: when things got

overwhelming and she went negative, shed heard she should think of something

pleasant. So here, in the car, not long before her plane would crash, she tried to focus onthe way the sun on her back would feel as she laid on the beach maybe later that

afternoon. But it was hard to picture the sun when she sat in the dark and cold car. It was

4:30 in the morning, and as she tried to picture the beach all she could think about was

how Austin would likely not be helpful with Chuck and Stephanie would probably be

moping anyway and Ansel would be distracted by his book or his camera. In the end, she

thought she would not be lying on the beach dozing, but instead would have to be making

sure that Chuck did not get eaten by a shark and other motherly tasks. Focusing on those,

on the things she would have to do instead of relaxing, for some reason, took her mind

off the impending plane ride.

Drop us at the gate, she said, finally. She sighed, and when Ansel did not look

at her she thought her exhalation might be imperceptible. They drove up to the terminal,

where Ansel put the van into park and Saoirse opened her door. She stepped out onto the

sidewalk and left her leg there for just a second. She grimaced.

She had a bad feeling.

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I have a bad feeling, she said. She looked up at the sky.

Mom, you always have bad feelings, said Stephanie. Always. Every day.

Every hour. All the time. Always. Stephanie left the drivers side door open as she got

out. Ansel was already unloading luggage from the back of the minivan.

S , he said, Would you help Chuck get out of the car? S was his nickname for

Stephanie. Saoirse just watched, standing by Austin now. Austin was holding his own

book in his hands. She looked up at the sky again, and said:

Stephanie, get Chuck out of his car seat, please. Stephanie was over on the curb

looking at the group of Asian men about ten feet away who were chain smoking andtalking rapidly to each other and didnt hear her, or at least didnt respond. Ansel shook

his head. Austin, take this, he said, coming around the car and handing a duffel bag of

carry on items to Austin. Ansel then worked his way around to the passenger side, where

Chuck still sat in the car seat quietly watching. He paused as he saw Saoirse. Whats

wrong? he asked.

Ive been telling you. I dont feel right about this. I have a bad feeling.

He looked at her, squinting a little. Do you want to not go? She saw Stephanie

pause in her gum-chewing. Austin looked up at her. Chuck didnt; he just looked at the

back of the seat in front of him.

Ansel watched her. Im serious, honey. If you say not to go, we wont go.

She bit her lip. Were already here. We spent all this money. We packed. Lets

get on the plane. Her heart felt a little cold.

She and the three kids and the luggage waited just inside the door of the airport

for Ansel to return from parking the car. Then, they herded the luggage and through the

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velvet-roped maze that was check-in, and security, and the walk to the gate, with Chuck

periodically clinging to Ansels leg or her own and then beginning to wander away,

causing her to lean over and grasp at him, nearly dropping her own bag, or bumping into

someone else. Eventually, she said, Ansel, can you hold his hand? and Ansel tried,

with a suitcase in one hand and Chucks hand in the other, lodging (when they were

moving) the second suitcase he was responsible for under his arm, or nudging it forward

with his foot when they moved, which was not often.

Saoirse had a headache. Her chest hurt. She wondered if she was having a panic

attack. Her palms were sweaty. She looked out at the planes taxiing and crews workingon them and men standing and women standing and men walking and women walking

and worried. She fretted. She had seen, a few days before, an air-traffic report on one of

the 24-hour news channels, a map of the US with little airplanes superimposed on it, and

the planes had overrun the map like locusts, overlapping each other. How do they not hit

each other, she wondered. Why arent there more plane crashes and collisions?

She pictured that, both against and because of her will: she did not want to

picture it but she forced herself to, anyway, thinking it might be a kind of therapy or

calming effort. She pictured one jet airliner running directly into another jet airliner, in

midair, and in her mind the noses of both crumpled in until they were each about 1/3

shorter than the other, and they began to fall from the air.

The image, which was not what would happen to her shortly, was disrupted by

Ansel leaning over to her and saying Do you want to get a cup of coffee? Or a snack?

Do we have time? she asked. She wanted to be home having coffee at the

kitchen table.

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I hope so, said Ansel, Because I want some coffee. He looked at his watch.

Weve got some time.

Get some coffee. Ill stay by the kids, she said. She was trying, trying to make

it okay and be a good sport and thought that it would look bad if she told Ansel to take

the kids and shed get the coffee, thought he might interpret that as pouting or something.

A large one. A really large one, for me. she said, pointing to herself.

Got it. He handed off Austin Saoirse put her hand on her middle childs

shoulder, and at that precise moment Chuck broke free from her grip. Stephanie, get

Austin, she said, but Stephanie did not hear again and so she had to jog a couple of stepsto get Chuck while waving her arms in a manner that she hoped would convey to

Stephanie the message turn around and watch your brother . She grabbed Chucks hand

again and thought again about the wisdom of taking a 2 year old on vacation. Just as

quickly, she tried to banish those thoughts. The children wanted to go on the vacation.

Ansel wanted to go on the vacation. She wanted to go on the vacation, she told herself

over and over: I want to go on the vacation.

She didnt.

Ansel had not gotten back when the the flight attendant began having people line

up and began checking their tickets and IDs. Saoirse fretted about what to do.

Stephanie, she said, and then pulled one earphone out of her daughters head and said

again, Stephanie, and Stephanie looked around in annoyance.

What? Stephanie said and Saorise thought for just a moment that Stephanie was

using her show-offy voice, maybe because the flight attendant looked not much older

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was feeling that way she could not. For as long as theyd been a couple, only one of

them could feel outrage at any given moment, it seemed. If she came in from the store

furious about the way that a checker had let the person before her get the discount

without the little special Grocery Club card, only to then tell her that she couldnt get

the same discount without the card, even though she, like the prior shopper had such a

card but just didnt have it on her, if she was bubbling over with anger at that, Ansel

would shrug and say that it was not that big of a deal, it was only a thirty-cent discount,

and, conversely, when Ansel, like now, was bugged at a coffee company putting one

employee on duty during a busy time, then all Saoirse could do was pat his elbow and saythings like Thats corporations for you.

She was surprised that Ansel was bothered by it, as they moved onto the plane,

and found herself in the not-ordinarily-hers-role of the moderate one in the emotional

equilibrium that seemed to govern their relationship. Usually, it was Saoirse who found

everyday life pecking at her mercilessly, leaving her angry in traffic jams, fuming about

people in line, and annoyed by weathermen on TV taking too long to tell the temperature

the next day, about which Ansel would generally remain calm and reasonable.

On the jetway, the walls were too close to her, her carry-on bumping against

them, and the doorway she squeezed through even smaller. The other flight attendant

rotated between: Hi, good morning, hi, hello, good morning, as Saoirse and the other

passengers turned right towards their seats. People edged through the aisle, putting up

bags, pulling them back out, and she looked around for the kids, looking randomly

around at the seats instead of just going methodically front-to-back. When she didnt see

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them at first, she got a small tightness in her throat. Where were they? Had they not

gotten on? Was there a way off the jetway?

I see Stephanie, said Ansel, and then Saoirse did, too.

Saoirse sat down in her own aisle seat, with Chuck on her lap. Ansel sat across

the aisle from her. He was belted in and had pulled his book out of his jacket pocket and

set it on his lap tray which was folded down in spite of the warnings to not do so until the

plane was in the air. He had not opened the book, though, and instead looked at her.

Want me to hold Chuck? he said. He seemed in good spirits again. She shook

her head, no, and put her arms around Chucks belly, feeling her wrists settle on his littlestomach, that tiny paunch that toddlers get when they sit down. She tickled him a little

with one finger and he squirmed. She put her nose down and smelled his hair.

You should put your tray up, she told Ansel. They dont want it down before

take-off.

Ansel picked up his book and lifted the tray. He tried to turn the latch and the

tray flopped back down again. He picked it up again and latched it and it fell back down.

He smiled at her. Maybe I broke it, he said. Next to him, the businesslady who was

reading the newspaper looked up as it dropped again.

The latch is bent, she said. Ansel leaned in and examined it.

It was staying up before I put it down, he said. He frowned at it and fiddled.

Saoirse saw him chewing on his lip and wanted to tell him that it was not important, that

he could leave it down, but did not. She smelled Chucks hair again and patted his belly.

Her stomach felt sick. She hated take-off. She hated the lifting, the run-up, the noise, the

ear-popping. She wished she could have taken a tranquilizer or something but leaving

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Ansel to deal with the kids the whole flight was out of the question. She had to watch

them.

The plane started taxi-ing and the flight attendant started talking and Saoirse just

watched and watched as Ansel put the tray up again and again, and gave up after about

ten times. She rested her chin on Chucks head and he squirmed again and she shifted

her head and laid his cheek on her head.

Do you have your seatbelts on and tight? she asked Austin and Stephanie as the

plane turned onto the runway.

Yes, said Austin. Stephanie just looked out the window, earphones in. Saoirseleaned over and pulled one out.

You cant listen to that until were in the air! Are you trying to crash us? she

hissed. The plane was moving forward more quickly now.

Relax, Mom. Its not like playing an iPod would drop the plane out of the air.

But Stephanie turned it off and went back to looking out the window.

Saoirse leaned back again and pulled Chuck to her. The plane began moving

forward more quickly. Her mind raced with the need to watch the children on the plane

and the need to make sure that Chucks diaper did not need to be changed, and to make

sure they got all their luggage when they got there, and Austin would have to go get the

rental van. She hoped he still had the directions to the house they were renting, and

wondered if hed remembered to bring along the tickets that they had pre-purchased for

Busch Gardens. Tickets and car keys and luggage tags and traffic jams and flight

attendants swirled around in her head and she tried to clear her thoughts, tried to tell

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herself that she made life more complicated than it needed to be and that she didnt need

to worry about all of these things right now.

She patted Austins hand.

Make sure youre belted up, she reminded Stephanie, who sighed.

In a few hours, well land, and then well just have to hassle around Florida for a few

days, and then theres the flight back and then Ill be back to normal life , she told herself.

She closed her eyes, and felt the nose go up.

She clutched Chuck tighter and her throat was dry with fear but she told herself

that was just nerves and stress and her own mind working overtime.She tried to pat Chucks hair and ignore the terrible awful sense of dread she got

as the plane lifted off the ground and pulled back and up and up and turned and she felt it

straining. She felt dizzy with anticipation of the troubles ahead, she wanted coffee, she

felt annoyed that Ansels tray was still down and bothered that he was not looking at her

but was trying to see out the window as the plane banked towards his side.

Then there was a horrifying ripping clunking mechanical tearing sound and

someone screamed and someone else screamed and Chuck started crying and the plane

dropped like a rock out of the sky and the last thing Saoirse could remember was that

Ansel had looked over at her and she at him and she felt Chucks hand grip hers.

Then it all disappeared.

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Two:It was probably the first time Saoirse had not tripped over Chucks chicken

dancer. The chicken dancer was a small chicken that danced to a tinny version of The

Chicken Dance when a button was pressed. Chuck watched the chicken dance, then left

it laying wherever he got tired of it, usually by the refrigerator, where Saoirse usually

stubbed her toe against it when she was getting out the milk for dinner.

This time, she was getting out the milk for dinner and did not stub her toe against

the chicken dancer and she realized that for the first time in probably 300 days the

chicken dancer was not laying in front of the refrigerator. She looked down.

The floor was clean.

The floor was spotless .

It gleamed.

She could see her reflection in it. Growing up Saoirse had seen advertisements on

TV for various products to clean floors, each of which promised that when that product

was used, the floors would be so clean that it would reflect back the homeowners

smiling face. Saoirse had always thought that would be a fantastic thing to have, a floor

that clean, a floor that gleamed. The house she and Ansel lived in even had the right kind

of tile in it to do just that, to gleam when cleaned properly, but she had never seen her

reflection. Years and years of dirty shoes and spilled macaroni-and-cheese and toys like

the chicken dancer scuffing the tile, and her own habit of kicking things under the

refrigerator instead of sweeping-and-waxing and more had left the kitchen clean-but-not-

perfect.

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And, she had to admit, most days it wasnt even clean , but just dirty-out-of-sight.

Until today. Today she could see her own face reflecting back at her.

She looked around.

Dinner was on the table.

The table was set nicely.

The kitchen was immaculate.

The knife rack was filled with knives. The kids, Ansel, even she never put the

knives into the rack. Nine knives arranged by size would fit into the wooden rack, but

nobody took the time to pull the knives out of the dishwasher rack and put them in properly. Everyone, including her, just ended up putting the knives in the silverware

drawer with everything else. But there they were, arranged by size, handles pointing the

right way, no empty knife-slots.

She walked over to the knife rack and pulled one out. She put it back. She

looked again at the dinner table in the middle of the kitchen. The food was steaming and

moist and warm and tasty looking.

When had she cooked it?

The house was quiet. She stood and listened and could hear the sound of the

bubbling of the sauce. She had cooked spaghetti. She looked back around the kitchen.

There was only one pan on the stove, with the simmering sauce in it. There were no

dishes in the sink. No spaghetti sauce stains or splots or blotches anywhere. There was a

set table including a tureen for the spaghetti sauce waiting. She paused. She never used

the tureen because she always just served the spaghetti sauce right from the pan, or, more

often, from the jar. She could not remember the last time shed had time to come home

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and make fresh sauce and then pour it into a whole separate dish. With Stephanie rarely

home for dinner, with Austin and Chuck were too little to really help, and Ansel

generally trying to help but not doing so very effectively, she did not do things like this.

She listened. The sauce was boiling, bubbling, slower and slower. She watched

it, watched a red-tinted bubble slowly expand and pop!

She listened again.

She could hear, off in the distance, a television set. The sound was turned down,

but she could hear voices talking through a speaker.

Dinners ready? she said. It wasnt a declaration and she didnt say it loudly. Itwas not even said to anyone but was questioning herself. She felt a little dizzy, until that

feeling went away immediately.

She took a sip of the glass of water in her hand and wondered when shed poured

it.

Stephanie came walking downstairs with Chuck.

I changed him, she said, and began putting Chuck into his high chair. Austin

followed just behind them, down the stairs. She looked at him. His hair was neat. He

was not covered in markers or fingerpaints or bruises or all the other things he was

always covered in.

From the family room she heard the television noises stop. She held her breath.

Austin came walking in.

Smells delicious, he told her, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He sat down

and put a napkin on his leg and began handing around French bread pieces. She stood

there, holding the glass of water, still wondering where shed gotten it from.

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Stephanie scooped noodles onto Austins plate, and Austin put a napkin on his

leg.

Are you going to sit down, honey? asked Ansel. Do you need some help?

Saoirse sat down. She set her water glass on the table and looked around. Her

eye caught the window next to the table, the window that Chuck liked to look out of, the

window that usually had about a hundred handprints on it. She used to clean that window

every night. Then it was every other night. Then it was once a week. Then it was when

company was coming over, because she had grown tired of cleaning it and grown tired of

trying to get Chuck to stop touching it.The window was clean.

Arent you having any, Mom? asked Stephanie. Saoirse spooned some noodles

and sauce onto her plate and stared at her family. Something bothered her about this all.

Her family talked around her. Stephanie was explaining about a science fair

project she was working on with her friend Laurel, how they were going to electrify

something or de-electrify something, and Ansel was telling her to be careful and Austin

asked whether it would hurt if they got electricitied , and Stephanie said to him,

No, you mean electrified .

Austin nodded and ate some spaghetti and paused to wipe the splotch of sauce off

his chin.

What did you just say? asked Saoirse. Stephanie looked up at her.

I said were going to study whether a low-level electric current can but

Saoirse interrupted her.

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No, I mean to Austin. What did you say to Austin? Stephanie finished her

chewing and swallowed and answered.

I corrected him. I told him he meant electrified. Not electricitied.

Ansel was watching her.

Austin was watching her.

Chuck was not. He was eating quietly, picking up one noodle at a time and

putting it into his mouth instead of throwing them on the floor or rubbing them in his

hair.

Stephanie was watching her.Honey, are you okay? Are you not hungry? Ansel put his fork down and

dabbed at his own mouth.

You didnt make fun of Austin. Saoirse said to Stephanie. She looked at her

glass of water, at Austins clean face. She listened in the silence her comment had

created and realized that, yes, the TV was off. She continued: You didnt insult him or

tease him or mimic his voice or just ignore him.

Right, said Stephanie. She did not roll her eyes at Saoirse.

Everything okay? asked Ansel.

Sure. It was. Sure, I guess, she said. But it wasnt a guess . Everything was

okay. Maybe Im just tired. She knew that wasnt it.

You look great, said Ansel, completely unexpectedly. She looked up.

What?

You look great. He said it louder.

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No, I heard you. What do you mean, I look great? She was guarded. Ansel was

complimentary, more complimentary than many husbands, probably, but, stillshe felt

off-balance.

I mean you look great. Thats all. This is really good. What sauce did you

use?

Saoirse did not know what sauce she used but didnt want to say that. She didnt

want to begin discussing the weird feeling she was having. It was like dj vu but not

really. It felt weird, to not know what sauce shed used, and she thought maybe she

should just make something up. But that did not feel possible.Im glad you like it, she said, instead, and felt a nagging tug in her mind before

that, too, slipped away. What had she been thinking?

What did you do today? asked Ansel, looking at Stephanie, who shrugged and

finished her mouthful of noodles and said Climbed Mount Everest.

Free climbing? asked Ansel.

Yeah. Yes, Stephanie said, correcting herself before anyone could.

Saoirse admired her spirit, tackling the worlds largest mountain free climbing.

Saoirse wondered when Stephanie had learned to mountain climb.

And how Stephanie had gotten home for dinner.

Then she wondered what shed been wondering.

Difficult? asked Austin.

It was pretty hard, yeah yes but I liked it. I wanted a challenge.

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Thats in keeping with your personality, I expect. That came from Chuck, who

had stopped toying with his food and looked over at Stephanie. Saoirse gaped at him for

a second and dropped her fork in surprise.

Then she wondered why she was gaping at him.

Then she wondered what had just happened. Chuck was looking at her, all wide

eyes and with spaghetti sauce on his chin, which she reached up and dabbed off for him

with her finger. His chin was clean but her finger no longer was, and she looked at it and

then reached for her napkin. When she brought the napkin up to her finger, though, she

noticed it was no longer dirty.Her water glass was full again.

The spaghetti was delicious.

Ansel and Stephanie were talking about the merits of solo climbs and somewhere

in their conversation there was a mention, too, about flying, but Saoirse felt a little dizzy

again. She looked over at Chuck.

Did you say something, Chuckles? she used her pet name for him.

Chuck just looked at her and chewed, a noodle hanging out of his mouth limply,

slowly being worked inside.

Whats wrong, honey? asked Ansel.

Nothing something nothing feels quite right. Is there something wrong?

asked Saoirse. She looked at Ansel, who met her eyes.

Thats what I asked you, he said. Are you sure youre okay?

I I Saoirse paused. She looked around the table. She looked at the

spaghetti and her ice-cold water glass and at Chuck, who regarded her with his usual

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look, the quiet two-year-old face she was used to and she looked out the window at the

scene outside, the cul de sac their kitchen window looked out on, the circle of pavement

surrounded by four houses including their own, the lawns all well-kept and shaded with

trees and she noticed that there were no leaves on the ground.

Everythings perfect, she said.

It came out a whisper. She did not know why.

Yes, it is, said Ansel. Its wonderful.

Saoirse stood up and walked to the front window. She was looking now at the

neighbors houses, and at her own driveway.In their driveway, the asphalt had cracked a year after theyd moved in. It had

never been sealed up. Each year, the crack grew a little wider because each year, the

result of winter and ice and time. Weeds would grow into the crack and Ansel generally

dealt with those by scuffing at them with his shoes as he walked to and from his car, or

running over them with the mower. They resolved, each year, to reseal the driveway or

have someone look at it but had never done so because each year, something else went

more dramatically wrong. Stephanies braces had to be paid for. The stove stopped

working. The shingles blew off the roof. Whatever it was, there was always something

more necessary to do than the driveway and so the crack grew wider and she could feel it

when she backed the car over the crack, worried that the tires would pop.

The crack was not there. It was sealed up. Or had never existed.

She looked at Ansel.

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When did we fix the driveway? she asked.

Hmmm? he asked. Stephanie looked up at her curiously. Ansel took a sip of

milk.

Saoirse looked around. The Remberts. Look at their yard. Its mowed.

Right, said Ansel, standing to join her.

Its never mowed. They were growing it out, remember? Giving everyone hay

fever? They were letting it all go wild. I talked to Susan about it, told her that all shed

get letting it go natural was long grass and dandelions, and that the dandelions would just

spread, and she said that theyd take care of it her voice trailed off.The Remberts lawn was mowed and not covered with dandelions.

She sat down.

On the floor.

Everythings wrong, she said.

No, its not, said Ansel. You just said yourself: everythings perfect .

I dont know.

Let me help you up, and he gently held her hand and elbow and she stood. He

looked at her. He looked her in the eye, then kissed the tip of her nose in that playful way

he had. Maybe you just want a nap.

She noticed he put it that way: maybe you just want a nap . Not maybe youre just

tired.

She was not tired.

She was what?

Exactly what did she feel?

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She couldnt tell.

Ansel looked at her. He was not concerned, not upset, not scared. He was loving.

She could see that in his eyes. Shed always been able to see that in his eyes, more or

less, but she could see it clearly, now.

She looked back out at the perfect lawns. The sun was shining. She knew,

somehow, that if she went outside, there would be only the slightest stirring of a breeze.

There would be shade enough to protect her from the sun. It would not be humid. The

air, she knew, would smell of fresh-cut grass.

She said again: Everythings perfect.Come on, sit down, said Ansel. He led her to her chair and sat her down. He

handed her the water glass. She sipped from it and this time the thought but where did I

get this slipped from her mind almost before it could begin. Almost. But it did begin and

she felt, momentarily, bewildered.

Nobody was looking at her right now. Ansel had gone back to talking about

Stephanies day. Austin interrupted, telling about a comic book he was reading.

Saoirse looked at Chuck as a thought occurred to her. You talked, just like a

grown-up, didnt you? You talked like that but then you stopped, she said to him.

Chuck just stared at her, wide-eyed.

She recalled why she had wanted to get pregnant again. When theyd decided to

have Chuck, Stephanie was in her teens and Austin had been five. Shed missed having a

toddler. She loved when Stephanie and then Austin were about two, when they could

walk and climb and kind of say things and could understand you but were still so new to

the world that everything was fun and everything was a challenge, the age when they

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would fall asleep on your shoulder and their head fit right into the crook of her neck

perfectly, and theyd wrap arms around her neck and legs around her ribs and cling to her

while they slept and she walked. Shed missed that and wanted to experience it again,

and so she and Ansel had decided to have one more, and Saoirse had been absorbing

every possible minute with him, trying to experience it all again one last time.

Chuck looked at her and for a millisecond she saw understanding there.

Suddenly, she knew he would not talk again and, too, that she did not want him to talk

again.

It hit her in a flash: Chuck would not talk again because she did not want him to. Shedidnt know how she realized that, or why it was so, but she knew that it was.

Her head whirled, just for a moment.

Ansel and Stephanie looked at her again, and Chuck got off his chair to come

crawl into her lap. She rested her chin on his head, as she liked to do, and smelled his

clean, curly blondish hair. It was exactly what she needed at times like this, exactly what

she wanted to calm her a little and help her relax

Then that bothered her too. Why was everything so perfect?

The doorbell rang. She looked towards the front door, seeing it at the end of the

front hall.

Whos that? she asked. They all just sat there. Stephanie shrugged.

Are you expecting anyone? she looked at Ansel. He shook his head.

Nope.

Stephanie?

No, Mom.

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Saoirse stood up and went to open the door.

Standing, framed in the half-window of the screen door, slightly obscured by the

screen itself, and shadowed a little by the porch, stood a portly man with a large

moustache, the kind of moustache one never saw anymore. The man took up most of the

small space and his silhouette extended beyond the view of the screen door. He was

slightly balding and looked concerned, a little hot, and expectant.

Hello, he said.

Hello, answered Saoirse, a bit uncertainly. The mans suit was at least a

century out of date, although she did not know that, precisely, she just knew that it wasold-fashioned. It had too many buttons and a vest and the cut looked off.

May I come in? the man asked.

Of course, yes, said Saoirse, not sure what the etiquette was here. She just

knew that she wanted the man to come in. He came in and looked around. He hunched a

little as he walked into the living room, though he did not need to. Saoirse thought that

his hunch was the reflexive action of someone, such as him, who was habitually too big

for the rooms he was in. He looked around and did not quite straighten up. He took his

coat off and folded it, neatly, over his left forearm.

Well, this is very nice, he said. He looked at Saoirse. Do you like it?

She looked around the room. It had been a long time since shed looked at her

house and wondered whether she liked it. It just was her house . She liked it just fine,

most of the time, except maybe when things went wrong like a pipe bursting or when she

stopped to ponder the fact that none of the furniture appeared to belong with any of the

other furniture.

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I do, she said. It was true. She liked her house. I really do.

But? the man asked.

She did not yet wonder who he was ; he had commanded the room as soon as he

walked in, had taken over the space and was clearly in charge, not just because he was so

big, but because he appeared used to being in charge. Saoirse did not mind. She wanted,

she knew suddenly, someone to come in and be in charge. And so this man had done

that. She thought about that for a second, but the man said again:

But?

ButSaoirse did not have to ask him to finish his sentence; she knew he was expecting

her to finish hers .

She did so: But its not quite right.

He looked like a man who would harrumph , who would chew on his moustache

and declare things to be preposterous in his voice, a voice that could obviously become

booming if he wished it to. But he spoke quietly.

It is, in fact, quite right.

Ansel and Stephanie regarded him without curiosity. Austin was looking at him

from right by his foot, staring up the bulk of the man almost in awe of his height. Chuck,

Saoirse saw, was poking the mans shoe. She wondered when Chuck had stopped being

afraid of strangers.

As she wondered that, Chuck came over and grabbed onto her leg and hid half-

behind her, peeking out. The man watched him. So did Saoirse. Ansel and Stephanie

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and Austin appeared to regard it all as normal, this large man in their living room,

Chucks change of personality, the conversation.

See? Its quite right.

Saoirse looked down at Chuck.

Did I make him do that? Did I make him be afraid of strangers again?

The man regarded her.

Yes, he said simply.

She looked down at Chuck.

You made him talk intelligently, too, the man added.Saoirse picked up Chuck now and held him close.

You then made him stop talking intelligently and go back to being a toddler.

The man then looked at Stephanie. Did you enjoy the mountains?

Stephanie nodded. It was fun.

Dangerous?

Only a little, Stephanie said.

As Id expect. The man considered his massive knuckles. As youd expect, I

should put it.

Ansel put his hand on the mans shoulder, reaching up to do it. Can I get you

something? We were just starting dinner. Youre welcome to stay.

The man looked at the dinner table. It appears excellent, as always. But Im

afraid I dont care for the Italians foodstuffs. I will pass on your repast. He chuckled

and looked back at Saoirse.

I expect you like food from the Mediterranean.

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She looked over at the table. I dont know, she said. Sure.

You must.

Why would he say that?

But she knew.

I do like them, she said.

I like all of the food on the table, she added.

But I didnt prepare it, she finished.

Everyone now looked at the table, then back at her.

Did I? she asked.There was a blink. She was sitting on the couch. The large man was sitting next

to her, a respectful distance from her. The couch leaned towards him, leaned severely

towards him, he was so heavy. Ansel and Stephanie and Chuck and Austin stood nearby.

As she sat there, Ansel sat down and took her hand.

It was exactly what she needed.

The man leaned in.

Youre okay. he said. He did not ask it. It was a statement, a fact. He said it

the same way he might say The sky is above the ground the tone of his voice

emphasized that this was not even open for debate, was not a subject of questioning or

even, in the long or short run, something that needed to be said. But he said it again:

Youre okay.

I am, said Saoirse, and though she meant it as a question it came out with the

same tone as the man had used.

See? You understand.

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Three:

Saoirse realized she was dead with a suddenness like the flipping on of a light

switch; suddenly, the knowledge was just there , the way an optical illusion switches so

that you are looking at two people about to kiss instead of a vase, and you cant go back

to seeing the vase.

Then she focused on William Howard Taft. Why was he here?

Why are you here? she asked.

He had not yet answered her other question, about how long she had been dead.

Now, he said:

I dont know.

Saoirse wondered which question he was answering.

William Howard Taft looked at her and said This is the After you have made.

The After is where we are. Saoirse said. She did not need to make it a

question.

Yes.

Heaven?

Maybe.

Is it? Saoirse asked. There are no pearly gates or angels or clouds or hosts of

people singing the praises of any eternal beings. She paused and looked out the window

again. Or are there and I just havent seen them yet?

There are, and there are not.

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Ansel and Stephanie and Chuck and Austin were all watching this with interest

but not with any sort of disbelief or surprise or shock or emotion, period. They were

watching it just as they would watch Saoirse talk with her mother or a guest at the house

who was saying nothing more interesting than boy the traffic sure was bad on the way up

here.

Come with me, William Howard Taft said. Well, thats not quite accurate.

Let me come with you.

I dont know what you mean, Saoirse said, as William Howard Taft stood up

and held out his giant hand. She took it and stood up and he led her to the door.Ansel stood up. Should we come, too?

No, said William Howard Taft, but he said it to Saoirse. She looked back at

her family, standing a few feet away as William Howard Taft held the door open.

No, she said. They stepped outside onto the porch. William Howard Taft

looked at her.

Go ahead, he said.

Go ahead what? she asked. But he just stood there. She wondered what he

meant, and as she did so she was standing suddenly in the middle of a desert.

She looked around surprised. She had not even blinked. William Howard Taft

was there, and had already broken a sweat. She could see the drops beading on his nose.

Her feet began to skid on the giant sand dune. This was a real desert, the way shed

always pictured one

the way shed always pictured one

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She turned to William Howard Taft, sitting in the bustling mall. Is Ansel here?

Are they all? She looked down at the CD.

Did we all die?

Is that important? William Howard Taft asked.

Saoirse lost track of what William Howard Taft had just asked her, though,

because something worked through in her mind.

Im dead she said. Before William Howard Taft could confirm that again,

she thought

the way shed always pictured one rejoin their lives there

seemingly futile but not

And looked up at him and said I can go back.

William Howard Taft looked surprised, and said No, you cannot, but she

interrupted him, rushing into her speech:

Yes, I can. Thats why you took me to those places why I took me to those

places. To show me that I can go back. That this is not permanent. She felt as though

she should be breathing more heavily, or having her heart speed up, but neither of those

things happened, and she reminded herself that she was dead, and went on before

William Howard Taft could derail her. Thats why I feel so disoriented, thats why none

of this makes sense to me, thats why Im so out of it and nothings working, isnt it?

Thats why you came to me. Because Im not supposed to be here and I can go back.

Those three places, these three places. The desert. That was, that was symbolic.

It was how I sometimes used to view my life, this harsh thing that I had to deal with, this

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environment that I was not ready for, the constant stress and worry. It was my life the

way Id always pictured it , but then we went from there to the seashore, to the birthplace

of life itself thats what the sea is, its where life began,

No, it did not, began William Howard Taft, but Saoirse held up her hand and he

stopped, politely confused.

And the tidal pools, little bits of life trapped where theyre not supposed to be,

swept there by forces that they werent prepared to cope with, stuck, it seems, in this

limited place thats like their life but its not, Saoirse paused for a moment, worked it

through, and said: They could rejoin their lives , they have a chance to do that, a chancethats seemingly futile but not and as I thought that, dont you see, we came here , to the

mall I usually shop at, Saoirse dug into the shopping bag And its filled with presents

for my family, just like Id bring after a trip , so I can go back. I can go back, and I dont

have to stay dead.

She was both calm and excited, and wondered how that was possible. In mere

moments, she had gone from bewildered at dinner to certain she was dead to positive she

could be not dead , and tried to sort out how she should feel.

No, no, no, you cannot do William Howard Taft protested, but he was

interrupted by Saoirse standing up in the middle of the mall, holding the shopping bags,

and closing her eyes. She squeezed them shut, squeezed them so hard that William

Howard Taft could see the lines of strain and stress. Her lips moved; she was mouthing

the words Im coming back Im coming back .

People in the mall paid no attention to her.

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After a few minutes, she opened her eyes again and looked. Tears formed in the

corner of her eyes, but before they could do more than well up, slightly, she set her mouth

firmly as she put the shopping bags down.

I can go back, she said. She repeated it. I can go back.

You cannot, Taft said, but stopped talking because everything shattered into

fragments around them, the After collapsing into an exploding swirl of images and pieces

and hazy notions, an array of Saoirses thoughts jumbling and tumbling faster and faster,

spinning around them with a beautiful but still frightening speeding twirl.

They were moving, then they were not.The flurry stopped and they stood in the mall, still. Saoirse looked around. Her

lips grew flat and hard. She began walking, picking up the shopping bags, and then a few

steps later dropping them. Taft followed her, and people swerved around them, looking

no more surprised at the two of them than they would any other two people in a mall

moving that rapidly. Before she could begin to wonder why nobody was surprised to see

a dead president (and a dead woman?) walking through a mall rapidly and angrily,

everything dissolved again into the shards of images and smells and emotions that

swirled around them again, disorienting her like she was caught in a snowglobe that had

fallen off a shelf. This time Saoirse kept walking, though, purposefully, although she

could only tell she was walking because she kept her legs moving.

Please, Taft began, but she was not listening to him.

I can go back, she said and kept walking through the flurry. Behind her, Taft

was drifting; now perpendicular to her, now off to her left. He kept trying to walk, too,

but seemed to be having a harder time.

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She stopped then and turned and the swirling grew more tempestuous and dark.

Why are you still here? she asked.

Im trying to help you, he said, but she shook her head.

Why are you here , she said, and gestured around her at the maelstrom of the

After. This is mine , she said.

Or is it ours? She added, and chewed her lip, pausing in her maybe-walking.

The blue-black fragments around them coalesced and the two of them dropped

into the ocean.

William Howard Taft spluttered and splashed and righted himself. As he began totread water with his hands and get himself under control, Saoirse watched him and tried

to gather her senses.

Its only about 4 feet deep, she said. Her hands were waving gently in the

water. She watched him touch bottom and stand up, moustache dripping. He picked up

his hat and set it on his head. They both looked around.

On either side of them, blue-black water stretched off to infinity. The water

farther out was as flat and still as a pane of glass. Nearer them were the ripples that

remained of their blustery entry, traveling outwards from the epicenter that was Saoirse.

She saw that. She saw that the ripples were focused on her and not on William Howard

Taft.

There was no land in sight. Anywhere.

The sky overhead was spackled with stars that were at least four times larger than

ordinary, stars that did not twinkle but which were closer or larger or brighter than the

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stars she was used to seeing. They did not reflect in the water. The scene was lit with

luminescence.

Where are we now? William Howard Taft asked it, but Saoirse had been about

to. They both looked around some more. The water was warm, as warm as a bath.

Saoirse wondered if anything lived in it. She cupped some in her hand and looked at it.

It remained blue-black in her hand, not clear, so the color was in the water itself, she

realized, not the result of the way light glanced off of it or did not glance off of it. She

held the water up to her mouth, then stopped and wondered if it was safe.

Then she remembered where she was.Its safe, she said, to herself, and sipped it.

Fresh. Not salty.

Her hand dripped water back into the sea. Her hair was wet. She tried to

remember whether in any dream shed ever had she had been able to feel things, to feel

wet or taste fresh , but all she could think of was a dream shed had where she thought that

shed parked her car on a hill but the brake did not work and she ended up rolling

backwards rampaging through the city.

She wondered why shed thought of that.

Why are you here? she asked William Howard Taft again. She did not wait for

an answer but began striding off in the water, in a random direction. She felt sure that

this freshwater ocean with its large stars was a clue, a signpost.

A half-hour later she was still sure of that but was not seeing any progress as she

walked along. The ground under the water was sand, smooth and malleable and soothing

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to her but it made the going slow. She began to wonder if this was a real landscape or

something in her head.

William Howard Taft had not moved. When she looked back, he was almost a

quarter-mile away, still standing in the same place where shed left him. He was not even

looking at her. He was looking up at the stars. He had his hands clasped behind his back,

or so she guessed, because the actual hands were hidden by the blue-black water.

She stood still.

She did not know how long she stood still. What did time matter anyway?

She then looked up at William Howard Taft again and wished him away. Shesaid it to herself: go away. He did not.

She looked at the stars and said to them: Go away. They did not.

She clenched her teeth and clenched her fists and furrowed her brow and fervently

desired that the water, the stars, William Howard Taft, would all go away, trying to want

it more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

They did not go away.

She then thought she was doing it wrong and instead tried to relax. She tried to

feel at peace. She remembered, just after giving birth to Stephanie, years and years

before, shed tried yoga, and the yoga instructor had emphasized relaxation as the key to

something, the key to yoga was how Saoirse had remembered it, being sure that wasnt

what hed actually said. Every class had ended with the entire class relaxing for several

minutes, just laying there breathing. It was the only part of the class Saoirse had enjoyed.

She tried that now, letting her eyes droop almost shut, letting in the view of only a small

sliver of the water with its ambient-light feel. She let her arms relax so that they hung at

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her sides, not straight but half-bent. She squished the sand in her toes and let her feet

settle into the ravine that the squishing motion created. The water lapped at her chest.

Her hair was dry. She breathed in through her nose, held it to the count of four, breathed

out through her mouth, held her breath to the count of four once more.

She sat like that and tried to feel calm.

She let her mind drift as she pictured scenes from her life, not in any order, letting

her mind drift. Stephanie in the eighth-grade spelling bee popped up. Her drapes

needing to be vacuumed, dusty.

She tried not to think that this was all a way of willing herself back out of theAfter, and as soon as that thought popped up, she instead made herself remember the

orange flowers Ansel brought her every anniversary, and tried to think of what they were

called, trying not to think how deep down inside shed always wondered why he bought

her the orange flowers, tried not to think how deep down inside shed been a little

disappointed that it was never roses, that she never got her a dozen or more roses.

Then she tried to turn her mind away from the thought that her feelings probably

were not so deep down inside, how she was terrible at trying to hide them, how Ansel had

probably known how she felt.

Then she stopped trying not to think of things and instead wondered if Ansel had

known how she felt but still kept giving her the orange flowers, whatever they were

called. She was sure that he had known they disappointed her. He was is a smart

man and was empathetic , so he must have felt her disappointment.

Then she remembered the two of them walking on a busy street, crowded with

people, but also with tables and racks and shelves and dividers. It was a sidewalk sale.

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She remembered it was excruciatingly hot and they were holding hands, her hand

sweating in his larger hand. They came to a florist, and they were admiring the flowers,

the expanse of sidewalk-sale flowers that had been put out in large white buckets of

water, beautiful but somewhat wilted in the heat. She had picked up one of the orange

flowers and admired it. Ansel had bought her a bouquet of them, and a vase, and had

carried them all day. That had been one of their early dates.

She opened her eyes and saw she was still chest-deep in the water, still in the

water with the stars and off in the distance, William Howard Taft standing and looking in

her direction.I need to go home, she whispered to herself.

She did not, though, get whisked anywhere. She sloshed forward, more slowly

than shed moved out here, and began crying a little. A tear ran onto her lip. She licked

it with her tongue, tasting the tiny salty drop. She was crying at the memory of Ansel

carrying the vase through that whole sidewalk sale.

As she waded, she wondered what to do next. Would she have to go back to the

house shed left? Walk all the way from wherever this water was to the house where

Ansel and Stephanie and Chuck and Austin were waiting? Her mind questioned if it was

really Ansel and Stephanie and Chuck and Austin, there, if it was really William Howard

Taft here. She sloshed forward and tried to decide how she could tell if there was a

difference between the real people and these people. Her house had been cleaner, her

cooking better, the neighbors yards neater. Would Ansel be Ansel? Or Ansel-er?

She opened her eyes and looked up at William Howard Taft, still standing in the

water. He had not moved, did not come closer but did not move away. Where was there

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to move to? She realized there was nowhere to go. The water stretched all around them.

She had no idea how long theyd been standing in the water. The sand still felt cool

beneath her toes. She was unconsciously squishing it, over and over, still. Youre here

to help me, right? she called.

No, said William Howard Taft.

Saoirse was stunned.

Why are you here, then? she asked again.

You keep asking me that. But I might as well ask you that.

Why did you come over?I dont know. I told you that.

You were answering my questions.

I can do that.

So youre some sort of guide, sent to help me get oriented, right? Thats the way

its supposed to work. Every book, every movie, every story, has some sort of afterworld

guide who helps the spirits get oriented. Sometimes its an angel, or an old guy with a

beard, sometimes its the people you know who died before you she paused and

thought about that and said who Im sure Ill meet soon. She thought of something,

and added: That old saying Where theres smoke, theres fire? Thats true to an extent,

isnt it? If enough people think or believe something, its probably based in fact, isnt it?

I mean, it may not be true that, say, some movie star is gay, but theres something at the

bottom of the rumors, so if its not that the story is true, then some fact that could make

the story true, is true. So all those movies and legends about there being a guide in

Heaven

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this isnt really Heaven,

Saoirse was interrupted and said But you said it was.

I did not.

All those stories have to have some basis in fact.

William Howard Taft spread his hands. I dont know. I only know what a

movie star is as secondhand knowledge.

Why isnt this Heaven, since you said it was? Saoirse demanded.

I did not say it was. Or wasnt. But its not Heaven as you think of that phrase, I

expect.You expect?

I told you, Im not your gypsy.

Saoirse wondered that that meant, and thought maybe it was some old expression

of his. And youre not here to help me.

No.

Why isnt it Heaven?

William Howard Taft steepled his fingers, looking professorial even though he

was nearly waist-deep in water. Saoirse realized they were both waist-deep even though

there was nearly a 1-foot difference in their heights. The way you use heaven , and what

you said earlier about the gates and such leads me to think that you have something of a

classical view of Heaven: clouds and angels and a giant community of all the dead souls

who were saved, living in blissful harmony.

Yes. Pretty much like that. Yes.

Clearly, this is not heaven , then.

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But it is, maybe? Why?

Because you are dead and heaven is where one goes when dead.

You sound like a guide.

But I am not.

Then why are you here? It came back to that again, Saoirse thought. She now

was starting to believe that William Howard Taft held some clue for her, that he was a

key to figuring out how to go back. She was sure that she could go back, sure that she

would figure out a way to reverse all of this and get back to her life, get back to

to the moment the plane crashed? What would she be returning to? Whowould be there? If shed been dead long enough, would she be able to return at all?

Would she have a body?

She felt some urgency, then, and also wondered again who was really here with

her. Who else did she know that had died? Had her whole family?

William Howard Taft had been considering her question, and he said now, Im

here because you want me here.

How can I want you here if I dont know why youre here?

Nevertheless, it is true, William Howard Taft said. There is nothing in the

After that exists unless you want it to exist.

So you do have answers.

Of course I do.

And you can tell me what I need to know?

Maybe. If I know the answers.

Do you know any answers that I dont know?

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Maybe quite a few.

Are you just a figment of my imagination?

That is doubtful. But she saw him press his fleshy hand to his fleshy cheek,

press it in so his fingertips sunk in as if he had, for a moment, doubted whether he

existed. Would something created in her own mind doubt that it existed ? She wasnt

sure. As she worked it through, she through could create a figment of her imagination

that did not think it was a figment of her imagination and would not want to be exposed

as just that if her mind didnt want it to be exposed.

She had been moving closer and now stood only about 10 feet from WilliamHoward Taft. There was near-absolute silence around them, no sound other than a slight

slapping made by the water, generated by her motions and his. She realized that

subconsciously, or almost subconsciously, shed been repeating in her mind the mantra

send me home send me home send me home. Upon realizing it, she stopped, she thought.

Where is God? She asked.

William Howard Taft looked surprised, then raised his hands and held them out,

almost in supplication. He raised his eyebrows, and chewed his lip a bit.

I do not know, he said.

Do I know? she asked. He considered but didnt answer. Then Saoirse said:

Hes not here. She looked around the water, the stars, the water again. I dont mean

not here as in not here in this water , but hes not here in the After. She cupped water in

her hand and looked at it, let it drip out, watched the ripples fade. I dont know why I

know that, but I do. Just like I knew I was dead. I guess when I need to know things, I

just will.

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Saoirse waved her hands through the water, held them up, watched the water run

down her arms. It still looked blue-black, a little, as it ran down. Thats why I know I

can leave. Because I know it just like I knew I was dead and I know Gods not here.

Theres got to be a way to leave. Ive just got to find it. She watched him for a reaction.

He did not react much.

Much. But she saw a flicker.

What? she asked.

William Howard Taft lifted one hand, held it up before her while he considered

and spoke. There are people who leave, he said.What? There are? But you said that people could not leave As Saoirse

talked, The After began to whirl around her again. The water flumed up, dissolved,

sprayed, disappeared. The stars grew and grew and grew until they burst as the After

resolved itself into the house she and William Howard Taft had left before. She was dry.

She was home, or as home as she could get. William Howard Taft was not there. Ansel

and Stephanie were sitting on the couch waiting.

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Four:

Ansel, did you die, too? Saoirse asked him as they lay next to each other on their bed.

She was in her underwear and t-shirt but lying on top of the bedspread. He was tucked

underneath the covers.

Since finding herself back in this house, since looking at and out of the windows

and doors, since realizing that she did not want to go back outside, Saoirse had been lying

on her side of the bed without getting under the covers. It had been maybe a day but she

wasnt sure how much time had passed and whenever she wondered about that, she then

wondered why does it matter and if it mattered .

She had slept, she thought, having had the distinct feeling of waking up from time

to time, but each time she did, everything around her appeared unchanged and that

disappointed her so she tried not to sleep. At one point, shed been laying on the bed,

looking up at the beam of sunlight over her head, the sun that sprayed in through the

window at the head of the bed, landing on the footboard. As shed looked at, she realized

it looked different , and had pondered why for a long time:

Was it because she knew it wasnt really sunlight?

Was it really sunlight?

Was it because she knew that she was dead and that the warm feeling of the

sunlight on her shins, the feeling of the comforter below her warming up, was no more

real than the way the sand had felt between her toes?

Or was it real?

If she felt something , wasnt that feeling real?

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After some time like that, she had understood suddenly why the sunlight looked

different. It had nothing to do with the sunlight itself but with what was missing from the

sunlight. There was no dust in the sunlight, no specks flickering around and drifting and

falling. Once she realized that, she waved her hand through the sunlight: Nothing. She

then thumped the comforter with her hand, to make it poof out some dust . Nothing . That

had made her roll onto her side, then, looking at the bedstand next to her where all the

books shed had lined up were sitting there, exactly as they were in her life. Shed run

her finger over the top of the books and realized that there was no dust on them.

the After, paradise, apparently meant nobody ever had to dust their bedroom.Shed felt like she should cry at that but didnt know why.

Later that night was when shed posed the question to Ansel: Ansel, did you die,

too?

Ansel rolled over and looked at her. What do you mean?

We were both on the plane. Are you really here? Did you die, like I did? Or did

you live and youre down there is Earth down? ... living your life still, and

mourning me? A thought occurred to her. Or are you dead but youre in some other

part of the After, living some paradise that doesnt include me? She bit her lip.

Dont answer, she said. Wait a minute. He looked at her with all the concern

that Ansel could muster, which was quite a lot. He was a caring person; he had always

tried to look out for her, had always tried to shield her. She stared into his eyes, trying to

figure out the answers to her questions, wondering what he would say if she told him to

answer and wondering what she wanted him to say.

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She said finally, I suppose anything you say is what I would want you to say. I

cant trust it.

She rolled back over away from him and looked at the dustless dresser. The

books that sat there not collecting dust, books that she wanted to read and had never had

the chance to read in a leisurely way. She supposed that she could, now, read them if she

wanted to do so.

She reached out for a book. She was aware, in the way that married people are,

that Ansel was behind her, looking at her; she could feel his look the way she felt his

love, the pull of his look making her want to roll back over. Resiting, she did not grab a book after all, but instead picked up the television remote control. She wondered what

TV in the After would be like. Would every TV show she wanted to watch be on?

Would she never again have to say Theres nothing on TV and try to find something to do

when she really didnt want to do anything?

She wondered if she could spend all eternity watching television. If she opted to

do that, would it be so wrong? Watching TV had always felt decadent, in a minor way,

because it was wasting the precious time that she had in life; life was short and the world

was large, and all that. If life was no longer short, if she had all the time in the world, or

in any world, all the time in any world , then why shouldnt she watch TV?

She clicked the remote on and then Ansel said I died, too.

She turned to look at him, ignoring the sudden drone of noise from the TV in the

background.

You did? she said quietly. She believed him. Not because of what he said, but

how he said it. She felt he was telling the truth from the tone of his voice alone.

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I did, he said. She saw him swallow. She saw his eyes close slowly and then

open again, even more slowly. They were wet, a little. His pupils wavered behind water.

They were, she realized, were the same color as the blue-black water in which shed

stood for so long with William Howard Taft. She stared into them. I think I

remember it, a little, Ansel said. Neither said anything for a long time. The crash, I

mean, he said, finally. I remember that, a little. And life, a little.

Saoirse did not know how to respond. She did not remember anything, even a

crash.

Ansel was watching her to see if she wanted to talk. When he saw that she didnot, he went on: I think maybe, too, I remember the end.

I dont, said Saoirse.

Im not sure if were supposed to or not.

Saoirse reached out her hand and touched his face. Her finger pressed the flesh in

slightly on his cheek just below his eye,. She lifted it up and saw the lighter spot,

watched it flush back pink as the blood came back.

Ansel, always understanding, just watched her.

I dont mind if you think Im not real, he said.

I cant tell whats real or not, Saoirse said. I mean, its all real, as real as

Heaven, as the After

The After?

Thats what William Howard Taft called it.

Where did you go?

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Saoirse wanted to finish her thought: Its all as real as I can be, as things can be,

but how can I know? How can I be sure that its real? Our neighbors houses are here,

after all. Are the people here, too? Have you seen them?

Ansel nodded. They were outside a while ago, before you came back. I saw

them.

Saoirse wondered if Ansel had actually existed while she was gone. She wasnt

sure. She said: Thats what I mean. Theyre not real. They cant be really here because

it doesnt make any sense that just as we die, just as our whole family dies, our neighbors

do, too? That couldnt happen. She thought about that for a second, and touched hishand again. So I dont know whos really here and whos really not.

I dont mind if you doubt me, Ansel said again. I know that Im really here.

And I know that youre really here.

How Saoirse breathed it. Her hand rested, now, palm down, on Ansels

cheek. They were lying side by side, only inches apart.

She could see his lips move as he breathed but could feel no breath.

I saw you die first. He said. He began to cry, then. And I wish I didnt

remember that.

How Saoirse stopped.

She couldnt finish the question. She wanted to ask How did I die? but she

couldnt finish the question.

She could not cry.

She could not ask him how she died.

Why could he cry?

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Why could he remember?

Was he really Ansel?

Ansel was looking at her. I dont know why I remember it. I asked Stephanie

about it and she said that she doesnt remember anything about it. She knew we were

dead; how could she not? She went mountain-climbing today, after all, just got up this

morning and then was at a mountain and had the gear she needed and was climbing and

there were people helping her. She said it was just tough enough to be satisfying. Ansel

rubbed his eyes, brushed away the tears; talking about other things seemed to have driven

the thought of their deaths from his mind. Saoirse just listened to him. I saw someoneflying today, too. Here and there are these strange things that people do. Stephanie is

mountain climbing. Chuck talks to me. He came downstairs and just talked to me today,

and he did that a lot until dinner when he stopped and he wouldnt talk to me like that

anymore, even while you were gone with William Howard Taft.

I havent been doing any of that, though. Ive just been hanging around here,

reading, today, and I watched some TV. Is that weird? That I spent time in the

afterlife the After watching TV?

Saoirse smiled, then laughed. I thought that same thing, just a minute ago, when

I was going to turn on the TV. But if its set up so that we can do anything we want, and

we want to watch TV, and we watch TV, then thats okay, right?

Do you think thats how it is? That whatever we want, we can do?

Saoirse considered that. I think thats mostly how it is.

They laid there for a minute, pondering.

Saoirse asked Ansel: Is this what you wanted?

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He leaned in then and kissed her, kissed her hard on the lips and her mouth

opened in surprise and in a sudden passion. She put her arms around him and pulled him

to her. His face was pressed into hers and their mouths were almost mashed together.

Her mouth opened up and his did and their tongues were pressing each other, caressing.

She did not notice that hed taken off her shirt, her bra. She pulled at his t-shirt, the one

he always wore for pajamas, the one that read Slippery Rock after an obscure college that

he always claimed to have wanted to attended just for the name. She pulled it over his

head and he rolled over, shirtless, on top of her, hands roaming around and mouth still

held against hers. She felt his chest push out with breath as hers went in; they breathed inrhythm and he was taking off the shorts she wore, she was pulling down his pajama pants

and underwear and they were making love, they were more than that, they were having

sex, ferociously, all the passion they had in them coming out, pushing aside the questions

they had, the fact that there was no dust, the wondering who the other was.

Saoirse rolled him over, she sat on top of him, naked, she pushed his chest down

with her hands and arched her back, and let out a yell and closed her eyes.

She saw, as she did that, not the blinding explosion of light and heat and passion

that she usually expected, but instead, this:

William Howard Taft, standing in a forest clearing with trees around him, trees

towering hundreds of feet above him.

She gasped and rolled off of Ansel.

What is it? he asked her. She could feel the concern flowing from him, washing

over her. Was this really Ansel? Was he this concerned in life? He was sweaty and

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leaned over to her. She licked her lips, tasted salt from Ansels lips there. Her hair felt

tight on her head; her skin crackled.

Trees she said. She struggled to catch her breath. Her hands, she realized,

were scraping at the sheets, she was drawing her nails backward and forward, as though

trying to scratch the sheets away.

Trees? Ansel said.

She looked at him.

Ive got to get out of here, Saoirse said. She didnt know why she felt

compelled to move, but she felt the pull, the tug, the need to do something , and as shesorted, quickly, through the tugging, she decided that the movement was needed to go

back.

It had been late in the day when she first thought about turning on the television,

almost evening. She looked at the TV now, still turned off, and noticed that the sun did

not glance off the screen the way it usually did late in the day, making her have to turn it

a little to avoid the sun glare rather than to close the blinds and block out the daylight.

Even the sun glare is not here, she thought. Is everything supposed to be perfect?

She tried to gather her thoughts. Ansel sat up, too, putting his arms around her from

behind.

Whats wrong? he said.

Im going back, she said.

How? Why?

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I dont know, Saoirse answered both questions in that phrase. But I know I

can do it. She looked over her shoulder at him, and turned halfway, twisting. Can you

help me?

If shed thought of that as a test to see if this was really Ansel, if in her mind deep

down inside she imagined that real- Ansel would of course help her but a fake- Ansel, an

After-Ansel here only because some part of her mind, her soul, wanted him here, because

her happiness, her perfection, was, apparently, to have a dust-free house with Ansel and

her children even if they were not the real things, if shed thought that the question Can

you help me was a test to root that out, she realized quickly how useless it would be.Yes, Ansel said. That was what Ansel would say whenever she asked him for

help. Any Ansel anywhere would say that to any question she asked, she realized.

She put on her sandals. She wondered if she should put on shoes. Or boots.

Would it matter? Her sandals would be fine, she decided as she stood up. Behind her,

she heard Ansel scrambling off the bed, heard the whooomp of blankets pulled onto the

floor. He did not bump into the nightstand (as he almost always did when he was in a

hurry). By then she was in the hallway outside their bedroom and he appeared in the

doorway, still naked.

Where are you going? he asked.

Saoirse edged him aside and peeked into the room, curious.

The bed was made.

So people could not stub their toes and leave beds unmade in the After. Not in her

After, anyway. What if they wanted the bed unmade? What if she wanted the bed

unmade and Ansel wanted it made? Would there be an infinite series of Afters, each time

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incorrect, and then she finished differently then its good that you put clothes on.

She hesitated, her hand on the handle of the back door. Would she be able to control

things outside of the house, after what had happened the last time shed left this house?

She looked back over her shoulder at Ansel. Stephanie was there, now, too.

Whats going on?

Would the children be okay without her? Of course they would. That was the

whole point of the After, right? Nothing bad could happen here? Saoirse wondered what

bad meant and how the After would deal with bad. Suppose she stayed away so long

that the children would starve? Would food appear? Would she be summoned back here? If she didnt want to come back here, then she couldnt be summoned back here,

wasnt that how it should work? But if they wanted her back here, wouldnt the After

have to compensate

she looked again at Ansel and shoved aside that thought, and tried not to

wonder, too, whether, why Ansels and Stephanies and Chucks and Austins After were

all exactly the same as hers? Was there an infinite number of Saoirses out there, one

sitting quietly by her elderly mother and father and chatting with them while one cheered

on a teenage Austin at his afterworldly track meet while one stood here in the kitchen and

stared at her family? Would one come and show up after her if she left?

Ive got to go somewhere, she said.

Chuck and Austin looked nervous. Stephanie did not react visibly.

Do you all want to come? she asked.

Depends on where youre going, said Stephanie.

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Yes, said Austin, and Chuck said Bye Bye. Saoirse looked at him, and

realized she liked him talking that way. So he would stay that way, now ?

Come on, then, she said. Ansel put his hand on hers. You havent told us

where youre going, he said. We havent packed anything. We havent even gotten the

kids a change of clothes.

That all doesnt matter. Ansel considered. She could see he realized she was

right before she even went on: We have everything we need. We dont even need to

change Chucks diaper.

Are you sure? Ansel asked.I am, now. She was. How could the After not allow dust but allow dirty

diapers? Im sure. She looked at Stephanie. You dont want to come?

No.

That seemed pretty normal.

Saoirse still had her hand on the doorknob. She looked at them all. Did it matter

which of them were real and which were not?

Of course, it mattered. But she couldnt decide why and didnt have time to think

about it. The urgency was growing in her.

Okay. You all saw William Howard Taft here before, right? They all nodded.

Your dad and I were upstairs and I had a vision of him. Standing in the woods. He

came here, I thought to help me, us, to help, I dont know, deal with this, deal with the

fact that were all she looked at Chuck, realized that he knew anyway Dead.

Were they? Were they all?

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But he couldnt help me and then I was back here. And I saw him standing in

some trees. I think he knows the way and isnt telling me. She realized as she spoke

that was what she thought, why the urgency existed. He knew something. That was why

he had come. Now Im going to go find him in the woods where he was standing.

There, youre all caught up. Anyone want to come?

Why? asked Ansel. Why are you going to find him?

Saoirse looked down at her feet. Because I know he has a way for me to go

back. He wont say it. Maybe he cant. I think hes somebody official here. This place,

he called it the After, and I think hes sort of a big shot, and can help me go home.She didnt say Go back to the real you, if youre there.

What if he isnt there , a part of her thought. Suppose I make it back and theyre

all dead?

She turned again to the door.

Ill come with you. Ansel stepped forward.

Well all come, said Stephanie.

Yeah, said Austin.

Chuck did not say anything. He was rubbing his ear. Saoirse saw that as she

turned towards them. She wondered if he was acting, or really now was like that,

whether she could make him talk again if she asked him to.

If he was really like that, but he was also dead, then he couldnt possibly be here

unless it just so happened that he wanted to be like that and also wanted an afterlife

where his Mom was going to make him be like that, stay two years old, and also where

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his Mom was going to go running off on crazy errands like this, she reasoned. So did that

mean it wasnt him?

She had to stop thinking like that. She resolved to stop thinking , period. She

turned towards the door and opened it and stepped outside, closing her eyes even though

she didnt mean to.

Her foot landed on the doorstep and the door swung back slowly, in time for her

to catch it before it hit her ( of course ) and she stepped all the way out onto the sidewalk

where ordinarily there was grass growing up through the cracks. She saw no weeds or

grass, and in fact no cracks in the sidewalk. ( of course. )Also, nothing crazy happened. She let down her guard a little and walked

carefully to the garage. The car was shiny and looked waxed, and was clean inside. The

crumpled paper towels used to wipe faces, the wrappers from Chucks snacks, the empty

coffee cup shed been meaning to pick up were gone. Also gone were all the old

magazines she kept in the car to thumb through when waiting to pick up one of the

children from some activity were stacked neatly. Would everyone always be on time in

the After? Would there be no downtime, sitting in the car waiting for Austin as his

soccer coach talked to the team while she sat in her car listening to the radio and

flipping through People magazine?

She opened the car door, which was not locked, and sat down. The car seat that

was warm but not too hot despite the sun shining through the window. Ansel moved

around to the passenger side. The kids were climbing into the backseat and Stephanie

was strapping in Chuck.

Where are we actually going, honey? Ansel asked, as Saoirse started the car.

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Ansel looked out the window and didnt answer.

Does time mean anything here? Saorise demanded. Does anything?

What does that mean? he asked. The car was now moving onto the larger road

that led away from their subdivision and towards the Interstate, where Saoirse guessed

they had to head. She glanced in the mirror and saw that Austin was eating Cheetos. His

fingers were clean, despite him repeatedly digging into the bag, picking two or three

Cheetos out, and putting the snack and his fingers into his mouth. No cheesy fallout

stuck to his fingertips; there were no orange smudges down the front of his shirt.

She merged into the left lane; the Interstate on-ramp was only a mile away. Shedrove and tried to put together how could she think her way to where William Howard

Taft was? She looked in the rearview mirror at Stephanie, who had her eyes closed and

was rubbing the side of her nose with the back of her ring finger, hand curled around as

though holding an ice cream cone. Stephanies eyes opened.

Didnt work? asked Saoirse.

I dont think I can do it, go where he is. Maybe I dont want to.

But you wanted to come along. They were cruising in the left lane, passing

everything else. The speedometer read 70 miles per hour. What would happen if I

simply floored it and took my hands off the wheel? she wondered.

She didnt try it.

Right, but I dont want to go there , maybe. Stephanie seemed about to say

something else but stopped.

Or, thought Saoirse , youre not really here, youre in your own After or youre

back on Earth, maybe standing in front of my casket and crying. I hope youd be crying.

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She pictured, again, the woods that William Howard Taft had been walking in.

They were thick; it looked as though it would have been hard for him to get where he

was, as large as he was and as thick as the woods were. The trees were tall, so tall that

they registered only as broad brown columns, the tops not visible to her in her mind, the

trunks not fully pictured in her image. There were no branches on the trunks, not for as

high as she could see. In her mind, she had seen him as though she were standing about a

quarter-mile away from him, a quarter-mile away that somehow had a clear view of him

even though the woods were thick around him and full of undergrowth and vines and

ferns

Documents

The After, Scribd Version