There Should Be Angels
by Ruth Farmer
She knew she had died because she could feel everyone smiling. She felt the blood in the air, could smell it oozing off her, leaking from her arteries, the pumping having stopped long ago.
Once she’d had a dream that she’d died in a terrible car wreck. She’d willed herself to believe that the dream ended differently. She did that a lot: changed the endings of her dreams before she was fully awake, just in case she forgot and told the dream to Martin or somebody before she’d eaten breakfast.
Lora had very few superstitions. Not telling her dreams before breakfast—or else they’d come true—and breaking a mirror—bad luck—were hard and fast no-nos. She’d long ago dropped the superstition about killing spiders. After the novelty of country living wore off and spider bites or shocking eight-legged guests at bedtime became too common, she began smashing them with pleasure and—she found—without consequences.
But mirrors. That was another thing.
The mirror she’d bought for the bedroom was in the back seat, and it broke just before she saw the truck jackknife across the road. When she heard the crack, she remembered telling Martin about her dream of dying in a car accident while driving home. He’d joked about it.
“Hey! You should have waited until I put this piece of toast in your mouth.” He’d laughed and shoved whole wheat slavered with peanut butter at her. She’d turned her head, stunned at her carelessness even while embarrassed that she still believed in this cause of bad luck. Martin had brought her breakfast in bed because he’d lost at Scrabble the night before. First time ever that she’d beaten him at a game of Scrabble, and she was going to die.
Well actually, she was now dead, gone, and all these—were they people?—strangers, were smiling as though they weren’t looking down at the bloody body of a twenty-six-year-old mother-to-be.
Well actually, she was now dead, gone, and all these—were they people?—strangers, were smiling as though they weren’t looking down at the bloody body of a twenty-six-year-old mother-to-be.
“We’re sorry but the baby … Well, it was sent to someone else…”
“Someone who will take good care of him, once he’s born...”
“And you are not a bloody body to us.”
“You are a newcomer to our game of chess.” There was indignant chatter at this last comment, a sound like protest.
I don’t know how to play chess, Lora thought, as though that was an important detail.
“No matter…”
“No matter…”
“No matter at all. It’s just a metaphor…” The voice trailed off.
“A metaphor…” an annoyed voice repeated.
The smiles disappeared briefly then flashed again. They were featureless creatures, several shadows with breaks in darkness, not frightening, just mysterious. Still, Lora would have preferred to be snuggled up on the couch waiting for Martin to get home from work. She could picture the royal blue fleece throw covering her lap and toes, the television a low murmur as she read or wrote poems, the food on the counter waiting to be nuked. She’d planned to serve lasagna and garlic bread with a salad. If she were home, she’ be sitting there, irritated, wondering how late he would be tonight.
Though she didn’t really like them, Lora had insisted on buying a microwave oven when Martin’s job became increasingly busy. It had become too much, the overcooked meals or not-quite-ready meals and the tension it created simply because she wanted Martin to keep regular hours.
They’d tried eating separately but that made her feel too lonely. They spent so much time apart, while he was off to conferences when he wasn’t at work, while she was off doing readings when she wasn’t teaching. The least they could do was eat together when they were both in town.
And now it was Lora who would not make it home on time, or ever. Martin would never see the lovely, scrolled-frame oval mirror. She would never again lie on the couch waiting for him to come home, worrying he’d been in an accident. There would be no more arguments or makeups.
She would never again lie on the couch waiting for him to come home, worrying he’d been in an accident. There would be no more arguments or makeups.
She was surprised by the relief this finality brought her. Her worries were over. No more visualizing Martin slumped over his crushed truck. No more wondering if the cat had been mauled by coyotes. No more fears about contracting an illness that would cause her to linger until she hated the smell of her dying body. None of these fantasies would become real. Death had been quick and merciful except for the frightening moment of realization when she and the truck driver had locked surprised and dismayed eyes, as they crossed a threshold they could never step back from. Then that brief breathtaking pain after she slammed into the truck.
She could hear the driver sobbing, mumbling unintelligible words of apology and regret. Too late, she thought, and not your fault anyway. I was distracted, thinking about the broken mirror. Traffic had been light on the highway and she was fiddling with the dials on her new SUV, pressing buttons and perusing readouts on the screen, wondering how to connect her phone, scanning radio stations. The taxi in front of her stopped suddenly; she braked just in time. The mirror slid, banged against a milk crate containing a car emergency tool kit, and a pair of sneakers. Hearing the crack, she looked back, angry. Surprise spoiled. Bad luck on the way? The taxi was gone when she turned back to the road.
And there you were, careening out of control. And what were you thinking of, reaching for? Or were you simply asleep? Another truck driver who nodded off and crossed the median. How utterly mundane.
She felt peaceful now that the pain was gone. The smiling shadows had drifted away. She wondered what would happen next, then realized she didn’t much care.
There had been no white light, no light of any color except maybe that pinprick in the distance getting closer and closer, which might be a light or might be the reflection of someone’s clothing, someone very far away.
Lora sighed. I didn’t even see my life flashing before my eyes.
That doesn’t happen to everyone, a voice said in her head. She wasn’t surprised that someone had infiltrated her brain. All she could think about was getting out of her blood-soaked clothes. A funny thing for a dead woman to think about, but Lora had always been vain and never liked being dirty or mussed or dressed inappropriately. She wondered what her face looked like. She couldn’t feel anything.
Couldn’t the EMTs hurry and take her away? What if Martin came along and saw her? He couldn’t handle seeing her so battered. Shouldn’t she be at the morgue?
Your body is no longer in the road, Lora, the voice said. That is all memory, the blood, the stickiness, the truck driver sobbing. Your body has long been gone. The police are trying to find Martin now.
He doesn’t know yet? She was annoyed.
No, he worked late and ate dinner with colleagues. He called to tell you so, but you’d gone out.
The reasonable tone did not soothe her.
So, I rushed home for nothing?
For something, but not to see your husband.
Then why? Just so I could die?
Yes, but that is just the beginning.
Ruth Farmer is a poet, essayist, and fiction writer. Her prose and poetry appear in journals and anthologies, and she is a regular contributor to the Addison Independent (VT). Ruth's most recent publication is a collection of poems titled Snapshots in the Wind.
