Awake in Hell by Helen Downing Read Free Book Online Page B

your own family, yet it is different from even that. It’s not like
your dad, who loves you unconditionally but whose approval you are constantly
trying to get, anyway. With Deedy , it’s never about
approval or doing the right thing. It’s more like fulfilling some great
potential that only he can see. Which is why when the interview took a left
turn, I wasn’t sure where I was headed, to a temp job or back to the street.
    “Why
do you want to know about the years before I died?” I asked, once I recovered
from the whole curse jar experience.
    “We
here at Second Chance Temp Agency believe that we cannot find you a perfect
placement if we don’t know anything about the person being placed, said Deedy in his best infomercial sales pitch voice.
    “No,
really” he continued, more sincerely. “This isn’t just an opportunity for you
to work, Louise. It’s... well, it’s just an opportunity. Take advantage of it,
and enjoy the company for a little while. Shall I have Gabby bring us some more
coffee?”
    To
be quite honest, I liked the idea of keeping company with Mr. Deedy in his lovely office. It felt like a vacation from my
usual Hellish existence, and I loved the idea of more of Gabby’s wonderful
coffee, so I sat back and started to talk.
    “Don’t
you people prefer tea?” I asked teasingly.
    “Which
people would that be?” he asked me with the same ribbing tone, almost with an
excitement of the chance to see what I would say. Great, I’m now being tested
on where he’s from.
    “English
people... or maybe Irish people?” I said, then quickly added “or Scottish?”
    He
laughed. “Welsh people, darling girl.” Then he said the strangest thing... he
didn’t talk about where he was born or about his family or his life. He simply
said, “I’ve always had an affinity for the Welsh. You know in Wales the
daffodil is considered a work of art, and sheep outnumber people 4 to 1!” he
looks at me with expectation, like I should “ ooooo ”
and “ ahhhh ” over that fact.
    “Sounds
boring.” I replied. “Almost as boring as where I grew up.”
    Deedy , then nestled in his seat and
rested his chin on his hands, another boyish move from a seemingly grown man.
And said, “Time to tell me all about it.”
    Having
to talk out loud about my life and subsequent death was surreal. I’ve never
told my story to anyone.  After all this time (however much time it has
been), I can’t really remember which parts actually happened and which parts
are little fantasies I’ve made up since being here. I talked about my
lifestyle, who I was, who I imagined myself to be, but when Deedy started asking me specifically about my late 30’s and early 40’s I couldn’t
unlock anything specific. I tried to fill in the gaps with stuff that sounded
like it could be true, but he knew when I was making it up. As I went along, he
would stop me and smile and say “Louise, for now you can say ‘I can’t
remember’. I’d prefer that to your version of a horrifying bedtime story.”
Everyone’s a critic.
    So,
I told him about my mom and dad and Linda. I told him about Hank and how the
day before Linda’s wedding I had a huge bachelorette party and got totally
wasted and begged her not to marry him.  I told him about my cancer. How I
remember lying in bed with people around me, but I can’t imagine who all those
people would be. I told him about my Mom talking but I don’t remember what she
said. Then I told him about waking up under the overpass and realizing I was
damned for eternity and how that’s been working out for me. I rambled on and on
and Deedy actually listened to every single word. He
laughed when I tried to be funny, he cooed when I tried to be wistful, and when
I tried to invoke emotion by talking about my regrets and fears he looked at me
like I was full of shit.
    “What?
I’m not allowed be contrite because I ended up in Hell?” I say after one of
those ‘oh please’ looks from Deedy