The Love of My Afterlife(2)
Who is this? Where am I? “Uh…uh…”
My panicked brain refuses to assist me in delivering the questions aloud.
“Clever, right?” The woman grins. “No-one ever gets scared in a launderette! Seemed smart to offset such an objectively terrifying moment with the most calming environment I could imagine. And this is it—a lobby that looks and feels like a cosy little launderette! When I was younger and things got a little ARGH LIFE IS SO HARD, WAH WAH WAH, I’d take myself off to the local outfit and watch all the machines spinning around and around and around for hours. All those blossomy smells, all those sloshy sounds? So comforting, don’t you think?”
I flinch as the woman jumps up from her squat, proudly flinging her arms around the room like she’s a game show host about to reveal the grand prize.
“The blue on the walls is identical to the colour of the sky just before the sun sets in the last week of June. Took me an age to find the exact right chromaticity. It’s this paint shade called Dehydrated Goose, discontinued in ninety-two. But I knew a guy who knew a gal who knew a guy who knew the right guy, and yeah, I eventually pulled it off.” She presses her lips together and thrusts her hands into the pockets of her mustard dungarees, swinging lightly from side to side. “The Higher-Ups made it quite clear they wanted a cleaner, more ‘professional’ aesthetic, but I said to them, I said, ‘Guys, you can’t expect me to be a top-tier Afterlife Therapist without allowing me full autonomy over the environment in which I therapize the deceased. I mean, come on, guys.’…Idiots. Idiots everywhere! It’s a gorgeous shade though, isn’t it?” She gazes up at the walls, sighs happily, and runs her teeth over her bottom lip, dragging off a bunch more lipstick in the process. “It almost changes hue with the light. Sometimes a chalky lilac grey. Sometimes denim blue. Like the eyes of Jamie Fraser. You know Jamie Fraser? From the Outlander books? What a ride. He’s in my top-ten fictional romantic leads. Maybe actually top five. Maybe even top—”
“The deceased?” I manage to cut in.
“Oh yeah…You’re dead, sweetie. I’m sorry.” She rubs my shoulder gamely.
“What? No…I…Is this a dream?”
I urge my brain to wake itself up. This is the oddest dream I’ve ever had, and I once dreamed I ran a struggling hair salon with Tramp from Lady and the Tramp.
“You choked, remember?” the chatty woman tells me. “On a microwave burger? They are real meat, by the way. One hundred percent beef, or as I like to call it, b?uf. I recently started learning French in between client arrivals. Not that I’m bored or anything. Not really. Could things pick up a little around here?” She shrugs a smooth, tanned shoulder, mouth bunching up to the side. “Sure. But better a steady trickle of Deads than an ambush, I guess.”
Deads?
My gut spirals as I suddenly remember what happened in my apartment. The choking. I press a hand to my throat and start gasping for air.
“Oh, it’s okay. You’re totally fine,” the woman soothes, crouching back down so that she’s eye level with me. “All corporeal physical ailments are eliminated as soon as you arrive here. But the emotional transition period from living to not living can be…tricky. That’s where I come in. I’m Merritt, twenty-eight years old—always will be—and my absolute favourite things are curry and romance novels, the hotter the better on both accounts. I’m your assigned Afterlife Therapist.”
She shoves out her hand to shake mine and I notice that she’s wearing a different statement ring on every finger. One of them is a vintage-looking diamond rose, another is thick black enamel with a skull and crossbones dotted out in rubies. On her thumb is a silver band that reads Half Agony/Half Hope. It’s like she dipped her digits in a lost property box and didn’t much care what came out. I can only stare, so she picks my limp hand up from where it dangles off the armrest and yanks it so enthusiastically that I sort of wobble back and forth in the chair.
“It’s my job to make sure you get settled in, don’t freak out too much, answer any questions you may have, etc. etc. I will be your main point of contact going forward. Sound good? Oui?”
No. No it does not sound good at all. Non.
“I’m amazing at my job, don’t worry,” Merritt continues breezily. “I started at Evermore—that’s what we call it here—about six months after I died. I’m now the youngest woman to be made a full Afterlife Therapist. Most of the other therapists are old cronies in their sixties and seventies, but I guess I just showed a natural affinity for the role. Plus I’m ambitious as fuck.”
“Help,” I whisper.
“The other therapists don’t like it one bit—a hot young woman making waves. They steal all the incoming Deads away before I can get my hands on them.” She looks down at her feet for a second, which I notice are shoeless, toenails painted Coca-Cola red. “I could run circles around everyone here if I was just given a fair chance,” she mutters grimly. “Anyway, I won’t bore you with all that. The point is that two of those old gobshites are on vacation right now, so they didn’t get a chance to steal you! You’re my first arrival in a whole week! Yay for me. Boo-hoo for you, obviously. But for me? Brilliant.”
I watch dumbly as Merritt marches towards a door on the opposite side of the room, a flick of her forefinger indicating that I should follow her.