A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis - Robyn Peterman Page 0,8
the painting and some of the other manual labor, but Steve had been the one with the great decorating skills. All of the furniture was overstuffed and in soothing patterns and faded florals. The color motif of the bedroom was pale green and peach. It had always been my calm safe haven and was even more so now. Seeing Steve lying in the bed was tragically beautiful.
The day Steve went into the light would be the last gift I would give to my best friend. The thought of losing him again didn’t undo me the way it had a year ago when he’d died. It would shred me to let him go, but it would also give me peace. Most importantly, it would give him peace and the afterlife he deserved. The injustice of what Clarissa had done by claiming his death was a suicide and trying to send him to the darkness would not stand when challenged. I believed it with every bone in my body. I had to. There was no alternative.
Steve had been a handsome man when he was alive—dark curly hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. He was now a mere shell of his former self. It was difficult to find his beauty under the gray and papery skin, but it was still very clear to me.
“Dausseeeeee,” Steve said with an attempt at a smile as I gently touched his face.
His communication skills had improved lately, but his appearance had not.
“We have a few minutes to talk,” I told him, forcing a smile onto my lips that I hoped looked sincere. I was a crappy liar. He knew it and I knew it. My goal was to show him my confidence. I was terrified, but that was for me to know and no one to find out. “I’m going to go into your mind and prove to everyone that your death was an accident. It won’t hurt.”
I had no clue if what I promised was true, but I had a plan—possibly a very stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless.
“Dausseeeeee,” Steve whispered in the lovingly stern tone I recognized so well.
“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out,” I replied with a wink.
I didn’t want to argue. I wanted him to be on the same page and I needed him to understand what was about to happen. However, a little gossip—at my painful expense—was also necessary.
“Remember when I told you about John Travolta?” I asked.
Steve made a sound and gazed up at me with an expression of confusion. “Chaawgeeeenge sssubjeectahs?”
“Yep,” I said with a grin. “I’m changing subjects—kind of. It all relates in a bizarre way.”
“Fiiiinah,” he said with the tiniest shake of his head. “Joooonha Traaavooooltah?”
“Michael the Archangel,” I told him. “My boss, Clarence Smith? You remember him?”
“Yausssss,”
“He pulled a Darth Vader on me. He just admitted he’s my sperm donor.”
“Naawwwooo,” Steve said, wrinkling what was left of his brow in shock.
“Yep. A total Star Wars farked-up moment. Gram passed out,” I said, making light of what had just rocked my world off its axis.
“Luuuukah, ahhh amma yooouah faaawtheur?”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, and then I started to cry—an ugly snot cry. I wasn’t crying about John Travolta, but it was better to let Steve think I was. My best friend was in such horrendous shape, I was unsure if he would survive me entering his mind. Which I hoped was somewhat ridiculous since he was already dead.
“Ohhhhhhh, Dausseeeeee,” Steve whispered, and then moaned softly. “Beeeeah oookaaay.”
“I know,” I said, wiping my eyes and inhaling deeply. “Everything will be okay.”
“Dausseeeeee ffeeewl?” he asked.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” I told him truthfully. “Angry, sad, empty, cheated. However, I’m going to change the subject again. Cool?”
“Naawwwooo.”
“Yes,” I said with a half-assed attempt at a smile to lighten the mood. “Did you know that Birdie was a hooker in real life?”
Steve chuckled. It sounded more like a death rattle, but I knew the difference. “Naawwwooo.”
“Yep, she informed me she was a hooker and that she would die for me.”
“Reeeealllyah?”
“Really,” I confirmed. “I told her thanks, but no thanks and pointed out that she was already dead.”
“Meeeenah sooomthin eeelssse,” Steve guessed.
“It could mean something else,” I replied, thinking through the possibility that I’d misinterpreted Birdie’s message. “I promised to talk with her later. I’ll figure it out. So, anyhoo,” I went on as if everything we had just discussed was normal. “Since John Travolta is my de facto pappy—in biology only—that makes me part Angel.”