A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis - Robyn Peterman Page 0,14
car began to spin out of control. “Dammit, MOVE.”
She didn’t move. The Angel of Mercy stood in the road and was the reason I jerked my wheel to the right, causing the car to careen off the road and into a horrendous nightmare.
I didn’t want to jerk the wheel, but it was exactly what Steve had done to avoid killing the beast that had come to kill him. The sound of Clarissa’s maniacal laughter as the car tumbled off the road would live in my nightmares for the rest of time.
“I should have run you down, you bitch,” I shouted as I lost control of the vehicle.
All I could hear was the scream of metal and Clarissa’s unholy laugh.
Steve’s death was not an accident. It was murder.
Somewhere in the far distance, I heard a male voice yelling at me. The words were undecipherable. Was it Steve? Was it Gideon? Strangely, it sounded a little bit like John Travolta.
The agony in the voice was unmistakable, but there was nothing I could do to comfort the man who seemed so upset.
“This is not real,” I reminded myself. “This is not my life. Not my destiny.”
The pain I felt was not my own. It belonged to Steve. This was a gift to him. He’d lived it once. I would not let him live it twice.
Shattering of glass, the shrill wails of the mangled metal as it twisted and deformed and the crunching of my bones as they broke in so many places beat against my ears. I lost the ability to think. I couldn’t remember why this was a good plan.
“No,” I screamed as the car rammed head-on into a tree.
Jerking forward into the steering wheel, searing-hot fire tore through my chest and I gasped for air. My heart pounded explosively. I could feel it all the way to my toes. The oxygen was snatched from my lungs as I cried out for help.
If I didn’t die in the next few minutes, I would kill Clarissa with my bare hands in the very near future.
My mouth tasted of metal, but I couldn’t recall what the taste was—pennies? Salty pennies? Blood?
Time refused to stop. Colors and images raced across my vision.
Strangely, riddles floated through my barely conscious mind. I tried to tell myself one to block out the agony. My voice sounded ragged to my own ears—as if I’d swallowed shards of glass. Maybe I had.
The line between Steve and me was invisible. I was him. He was me. I could see no way out even if I was willing to leave him.
“What can fly without wings?” I whispered, desperate to make the pain go away.
“Time,” Steve choked out.
I was shocked to silence for a moment. Was Steve here? Was I dead too?
“I can bring tears to your eyes. I can resurrect the dead. I can make you smile. I can reverse time. I form in an instant and I can last a lifetime. What am I?” I asked, holding on to my life and sanity by a thread.
“You’re a memory,” Steve replied in a weak voice. “Leave me, Daisy. This is not your destiny. The truth has been revealed.”
“I don’t know how,” I cried out, searching for him but seeing nothing but darkness.
“This is not real,” Steve insisted. “It already happened. It happened a year ago. It was not a suicide. It was an accident. You found what you came for.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I said woodenly. “It was a murder.”
Steve shuddered. The feeling was odd. The sensation was next to me, not inside me. I should have felt his shudder as if it was mine.
“I’m pushing you out,” Steve insisted as I felt a violent jolt course through my body. “This is the last gift I can give you. Accept it, Daisy.”
“Yes,” I said as I grew weightless and woozy.
A hand reached for me, and I grasped it like a lifeline. It wasn’t Steve’s hand. It wasn’t Gideon’s hand.
The hand belonged to my father.
“Come with me now,” the Archangel whispered. “It is not your time to go yet.”
I couldn’t see John Travolta clearly, but his voice was unmistakable.
“It was not an accident,” I said, digging my nails into the flesh of his hand. “Steve did not commit suicide.”
“Your husband did not commit suicide,” he said.
“It was murder,” I hissed, wanting to bite the hand that was trying to save me. “Clarissa murdered my husband.”
My father was silent.
“Say it,” I screamed. “Say the words. Prove you’re not a coward for all to hear.”