I watch as he steps back into the lift and turns away, apparently not that interested in my response. His fingers skim expertly over the dozens of buttons until he selects one and presses it gently, almost respectfully. Then he looks back to me, hands returning to his pockets. “Done,” he says simply.
The lift shudders as the button lights up. Then I feel that familiar falling sensation as the doors close and we’re dragged back down to the world once more.
Rule Four
Some Things Should Never Be Seen
I ONCE WATCHED a woman give birth.
I should mention that I wasn’t there for a death. I mean, I could have been; these things can happen and unrelentingly do. But not this time. My schedule was kind to me this day and let me see the beginning of a life instead of forcing me to end one.
Someone in animal-related deaths requested it; their granddaughter was having a child and they wondered if I could escort them to see the moment the child was born. Apparently I was having a soft moment because I said yes and, the next thing I know, I’m in a maternity ward, seeing something no person should ever see. Honestly, someone needs to have a good think about the biological process behind childbirth, because that seems unnecessarily gruesome.
Anyway, this is all a somewhat long-winded way of me telling you that, in life (and death) there are some things we should never see. The business end of childbirth being one. Your own dead body is another.
The list goes on, of course, but perhaps one of the most important moments to avoid ever witnessing is the moment when a person’s sleep is interrupted by an unpleasant, unwelcome phone call. When the peace is shattered and they’re dragged out of their dreams to answer it. When they’re greeted with an unfamiliar voice saying a sentence that doesn’t make sense at first. Until their brain catches up.
Some things should never be seen, because once you’ve seen it you will never be able to unsee it.
The moment a heart breaks, for example.
* * *
The lift spits us right out into the upstairs landing of my parents’ house.
It’s been more than a month since I last came home. Why did I leave it so long? Why didn’t I somehow guess that time was short?
I kept saying I’d come back for a weekend. But it’s an hour train journey out of the city, work had been so busy, and they both get funny about coming into town. Mum grew up less than ten miles away from where she lives now (in the deep, dark hole of suburbia) and Dad came down from a tiny village up north, so neither were particularly equipped for coping with prolonged time in London. I’d said I would finally come home at the end of the month whatever happened with work, and force Violet to see her mum at the same time. But that’s off the cards now.
As I step from the lift and onto the overly plush carpet of my home, I glance briefly back at the lift. The impossibleness of this particular mode of transport is making my head hurt; how can only a couple of hundred buttons take you to such specific places? Where does it actually go in between? So many questions, though I suspect my brain is generating these as some strange form of self-preservation.
Of course, Death steps from the lift like he’s stepping off a bus, though I guess this is his usual mode of transport. He’s probably despairing of me the same way I do with the tourists who stand and gawp at the Tube.
The landing is silent, dark. I squint through the gloom and spot the clock that hangs by the bathroom door. Just past midnight. My parents would have been asleep for a good hour by now. About the time I’ve been dead for.
Suddenly, the silence is shattered by the merry trill of the house phone. It makes me jump, which in turns makes me feel a little sheepish. I’m expecting to feel the back of my neck heating up like it always does when I get embarrassed. But there’s nothing.
“Well, come on. You’ll miss it at this rate.” Death doesn’t sound impatient or irritated, just a little bored.
“Oh...right,” I reply, trying my best not to lose my temper with him. I don’t know how long I’m going to be stuck with him so best not burn any bridges just yet. I stumble forward, hesitate at the door to my parents’ room as the phone continues to ring, and I begin to hear the gentle sounds of movement inside. “Won’t they notice their door opening and closing on its own?” I whisper.
Death shakes his head. “I’ve been doing this for thousands of years, Miss Cooper—trust me, they won’t notice. It’s just not on their radar.” He steps around me, opens the door and then gestures me inside.
A second after I’ve crossed the threshold, perhaps a second too late, I wonder if this is maybe a bad idea. If perhaps there are some things you shouldn’t witness.
But there’s no going back now. A scene is beginning to unfold before me that I cannot rip my eyes away from.
Dad’s answered the phone, of course he has, because Mum will sleep through an earthquake, or at least stubbornly pretend she’s sleeping through it. Clearly her curiosity has got the best of her now, though, because she has opened her eyes and rolled toward Dad. I want to scream at her to turn over and go right back to sleep. I want to snatch the phone from Dad’s hand and throw it against the wall. Let them have tonight, just one more night of normality.
But, of course, I can’t do any of that. I can only watch as Dad places the phone to his ear, settles back against the pillow and fumbles around for his glasses. “Hello?” His voice is husky with sleep. “Violet? Slow down.”
That’s got Mum up. She heaves herself up to sit beside her husband, brow furrowed and eyes immediately sharp. “Is she OK?” she whispers, and it’s impossible to tell if she’s asking about Violet’s welfare or my own. Mum used to joke that we were interchangeable in her eyes. It always made me strangely proud when she said that.
Dad doesn’t answer, staring straight ahead. From my spot by the door, I can hear the faint, garbled voice of Violet. She’s still speaking at top speed and I can’t work out what she’s saying, exactly. I can guess though, of course.
Since Violet’s started talking, it’s like someone has begun to drain the color out of Dad’s face. He becomes almost unrecognizable. At least he’s hearing it from Violet and not some police officer going through a procedure, I tell myself. As if that might make it better.
He stays like this for a minute or so, asking a few general, clarifying questions but mainly just listening. I wonder if Mum can tell what’s happened already, if she’s noticed the way his grip has tightened around the phone.
“OK,” he says finally. “OK, Violet, we’ll see you soon—I’ve got to go. It’s going to be OK, sweetheart.”
He hangs up, turns to Mum.
“What’s going on?” she asks.