A Weekend Off

Eggs. With tomatoes and onions. The mimosa tastes like the juice was fresh-squeezed. I am eating, but don’t know how I got here, why I am here, or what this place is. The bartender tops off my glass and asks me if I want anything else. I shake my head no, almost automatically, before I can think whether to ask him any questions.

“I’m young. Never been sick. Never done anything bad. Why me?”

Trying to retrace my steps, to remember something of what must have brought me here.

“It’s not fair. Just not fair. What will happen to me?”

Brunch is usually reserved for the weekend. What did I do on Friday? Did I tie one on and now can’t remember Friday evening? Is that something I did? Is that something that I do?

“How is it that you can just walk around choosing who to take and who to leave? And then ignore the people you take?”

The woman talking on her cellphone was starting to annoy me. It seemed like a rather personal conversation, and a weird one, and I had enough problems of my own without having the audio of hers superimposed. I needed…quiet. No, wait, not quiet, but an absence. From what? What had I been doing?

I stabbed a home fry with my fork to nibble on as I thought. A hand on my forearm arrested my progress. I turned quickly to the owner of the hand. She was nondescript. As in she had a distinct face and features, I was sure, but I was not processing her as unique. She just looked like a human being to me. She looked angry and scared, as if she had wanted to hit me until she (and I, too) realized that I had her wrist in my grip and was tightening my hold. I peered into her face, trying to discern why she thought it appropriate to touch me, why it irritated me without offending me.

“I just don’t understand. What am I supposed to do now?” Her whimpered words transformed into blubbering tears and nonsensical mumblings. I looked around the restaurant to see if anyone else was noticing this, but no one was. Except the bartender, who was staring at the woman as if he should see her but couldn’t quite confirm that he could see her.

I let go of the woman’s wrist, and waved my hand in front of her face, as if to cover her from the bartender’s gaze. It was an automatic gesture that felt familiar. He turned his gaze to something else. He did not acknowledge my hand movement, or the space beside me where she sat. He just turned away.

What was going on? I took a swig of the mimosa for fortification and gave my full attention to the woman. Her name was Flue. Flue? No, not her name. It was what took her. The flu. She was right; she’d never been sick, until recently. A week of feeling tired and rundown, and then another feeling even worse. By the time she went to the ER, she could hardly stand, and her friends had to help her fill out forms and answer the doctor’s questions. No one could understand why a 26-year-old appeared to be wasting away from the flu. Within a week, she was on a respirator and comatose. I came in late on the last day and waited. I waited while her machine-aided breathing slowed, and the alerts began. Waited while the nurses and doctors rushed in and tried to reverse the halt. Waited while her core found itself outside of what was becoming a husk. Waited when they called it. She watched it, unsure of what she was seeing. Unsure until one of the nurses stepped back, and she saw what was in the bed. Then she stood in shock, moving slow as if she did not realize that she was no longer bound to the last physical condition she was in. When the machines stopped beeping, it was 5 weeks to the day that she began feeling tired.

I had walked up to her while she stared, walking around the bed looking at her body, passing through the staff there. She didn’t understand at first, and then did not accept. She tried to get the attention of every loved one who came into the room, every person that handled her body. She kept saying that it was a mistake, not right, not fair. Everything she said, I had heard before. I repeated to her the general explanation of what had happened to her and emphasized that she could not move on until she understood and accepted it. All to no avail. With no acceptance, I could not guide her on to the next step and close it out, and that is what we do. So, I followed her around the hospital, and sat with her in the morgue. My shift was more than over, but I could not close out until she accepted that she was dead. Given that people die every minute, I needed to finish up and get back to work. My relief showed up after 2 hours.

“You should have already finished.”

“I know, but she won’t accept.”

“Uuugghhh. I’ll take over.”

“What?! You sure? She might not transition properly.”

“Well, you are overdue for another shift and we are backed up today. It is flu season, after all.”

“Ironic. Okay, well, thank you. I will head out and note this in the report.”

I left and after a check-in and break, I began another shift, encouraged by the possibility of a day off. I finished my work, reports and all close-outs, without another thought of Flu-Lady. After checking out, I must have headed to brunch. That would make sense, as many of the human pleasures wear off the longer we are able to partake, so eating is often what we do first.

But the disorientation, not remembering what I was doing or where I had been, that was extra. Flu-Lady had not been fully closed out. It happens sometimes when the cores can’t release their husks. They will attach to anything present in their final moments. Flu-Lady chose me. It took a little while to manifest, but here she was. The combination of slipping into corporeality with a core attached created the non-human equivalent of cognitive dissonance. Also known as my confusion.

Flu-Lady was still staring at me. Training kicked in at that point, and I recited the explanation, with my hand up, giving us a shield from the human eyes around, like I’d done with the bartender.

“You have died, and you must accept that. I recognize that this is hard for you. You must transition to what comes after, which means that you must let go of the life you had here. I can help you with the next steps, and there is lots of help beyond me for you, but you have to let go of this life to receive the help.” We were trained to give them the bare minimum of information in these situations. Cores in this state would not understand the details and usually were so relieved at the promise of help that they would often relent immediately.

Flu-Lady looked both relieved and terrified. “Let go? What will happen to me?”

I looked at my brunch, nearly cold, and knew that my plans were shot. At least I could close this out properly. I held out my hand to her, and gave my best “I’m work for Death, but I’m no monster” not-quite-smile.

“Accept that you have died, and we can find out together.” Flu-Lady took my hand then, and I felt her core release me. As it often does when the transitions are out of their natural order, it ended my corporeality, and I was back in work mode. We began drifting out of the restaurant towards the official transition point that I had tried to take her to the first time. My relief, now starting her day off, was outside the restaurant, and rushed towards us, halting her own move towards the state I had just left.

“Hey there, so sorry about this! I tried to ensure the transition, but it didn’t take after all. Did it ruin your weekend off?”

“Yes, but it’s fine. Enjoy your day off. And know that payback is coming.”

“Damnit. Just hold off for today, though. I haven’t had orange juice in years.”

“I’m no monster. Enjoy the juice. They squeeze it fresh here.”