Seven Minutes in Heaven

“You get to go back. Just once,” the angel says.

“Go back?” Jake is still reeling. He remembers driving, no sleep for maybe the third overnight shift. There had been a crash, a flash, and now-

The angel, a serene woman with enormous wings, sits behind a desk made from swirling clouds. She gracefully reaches behind and plucks one of her silken plumes, presenting it to Jake between delicate fingers.

“Before one fully crosses over,” she gestures for Jake to take the feather, “some people need one last return trip. We use the doors to help you decide.”

“Doors?” Jake accepts the feather as the news of his untimely passing sinks in. Looking down at himself, he still appears to have his body, but he cannot feel the feather in his hand. Next, he touches his cheek but instead of skin he feels, a strange warm vibration pulsing through as though he is made of vapor, molecules, or stardust.

Jake was forty-two years old when he met his untimely death. A fairly unremarkable sort of fellow, he’d never married and lived alone in his childhood home. His parents had already passed away and for a moment, Jake wonders if they also came to this place.

Maybe it's his translucent body or the golden-lit paradise, but Jake feels calmer than one may expect to find a person who’s suddenly dead. As if he instinctively knows that it’s all over—no more expectations, loneliness, or pain. He finds himself obediently following the angel through the pristine clouds when they finally reach a clearing.

In a row before them, three gleaming white doors stand at attention, each with a golden plate affixed to the front with something engraved that Jake cannot yet make out.

“We’ve evaluated your time on Earth and have pre-selected these moments for you, Jake,” the angel explains. “Which one you ultimately travel to is your decision. So take a few moments, and then you’re ready, please slide the feather into the keyhole.”

Jake’s mortal side promptly remembers itself, and he pushes back. “But how did you pick the moments? Why do I only get one? Will the people I see know I’m dead?”

The angel smiles, knowingly. She’s done this millions of times. “These moments each represent an event that set you on a course. By going back to that moment, now that you’re at the end, you are going to have an opportunity to have a different experience.”

Jake throws up his vaporous hands. “But why does that even matter? I’ll still be dead, right?”

“Not everyone needs The Doors, but you do, Jake. Don’t worry, it's all part of the plan.”

“Where’s the door where I pull over instead of crashing my car?”

“The doors aren’t about changing how you lived or died,” the angel soothes. “They allow you to receive something. It is a gift.”

Jake cautiously approaches his doors and reads the first inscription: June 22, 1995.

He turns to argue more with the angel, but she’s already heading back to her desk of clouds.

Jakes looks back to the first door. It would be his summer after eighth grade. He’d finally lost the last of his puppy fat and gained enough muscle and speed to make the JV lacrosse team. He remembered the cool guys from the rich part of town finally warming up to him. Before this, his parents had sent him to St. Agnes in the next county. But in 1995, when his dad’s company went under, Jake was swiftly enrolled in public school with no more ability to hide behind a uniform and the pressure to make friends with kids who had known each other since kindergarten.

Is this where I go back to Catholic school? Man, these angels are petty.

That summer (at least before the JV tryouts), he didn’t know a single person who was going to South Side High.

Except her.

Tasha Belafonte.

Tasha had moved across the street from Jake the previous year when her parents divorced. She and Jake were responsible for walking their family dog, so they started walking together to the corner store, talking about music and TV. Later, they’d hang out at the mall, not buying anything.

Something unspoken made them comfortable with each other. Maybe because their families had hit the skids simultaneously, they could feel themselves being pulled from their middle-class cocoons without a sibling to lean on. In Tasha’s case, it didn’t help that her mom was the kind of person people knew for all the wrong reasons. Someone who drank box wine in the day and forgot to pick up her daughter from school, when Mrs. Belafonte rolled up, she was often in her pajamas, if she ever arrived at all.

Like many kids with a need for an escape hatch, Tasha was a natural creative in the same ways Jake had been. She drew her anime characters or made crazy sculptures from things people threw away. They both loved weird horror movies, sci-fi books and drawing.

“I’m a natural loner,” Tasha proclaimed. “Other people just all suck.” She smiled then. “Except you, Jake. You can quote Twelve Monkeys.”

“I am insane, and you are my insanity,” Jake grinned back.

Back on this night in June, Tasha reminded Jake of her preferred loner status as he tried to convince her to go to Tommy Applebaum’s party. He’d been beyond excited about the invite.

“C’mon, Belly,” Jake’s nickname, a shortening of Belafonte and funny to him because Tasha was a toothpick. “What else do you have to do? Besides, Tommy’s brother got some beer. And whiskey.”

Tasha started pulling on her Lower East Sides. Neither of them could afford Airwalks.

In the Applebaums’ massive finished basement, Jake immediately felt out of his league and started to drink quickly, thinking grown-ups must’ve called this stuff liquid courage for some reason. Despite the booze, he still hung to the side, feeling jealous of these kids, with better clothes, cooler bikes and way nicer houses.

After some time, one of the popular girls suggested playing Seven Minutes in Heaven in the laundry room, goading Tasha (C’mon, New Girl) to spin first. When Tasha landed on Jake, everyone oohed.

“So let’s make out,” Jake said once the door closed. The booze was mixing with his immaturity and perceived inadequacies and rapidly turning into something hot, aggressive and hungry.

“C’mon, Jake, you’re like my brother,” Tasha said, a bit too flippantly.

As the seven minutes ticked down with giggles audible from outside the door, the whiskey in Jake’s belly churned and soured. This poisonous feeling needed a release, and Tasha was the only target he had.

“Maybe I’m like a brother, but you’re the ugliest girl at this party. No one else would have even come in here with you,” he spat.

When the door opened, Jake pretended to emerge victorious, receiving some high-fives from the other bros. Tasha marched up the stairs and never spoke to him again. They went their separate ways without so much as a “hi” until…

Jake looks at the middle door’s inscription: December 31st, 2003.

Christmas Break, his senior year of college. He remembered he’d been shoveling snow for his dad when he heard shouting across the street. Tasha’s big bay window had a sheet tacked up, but judging from the frantic silhouettes and screams, it was easy to guess some serious family drama was happening. Emerging without her coat, Tasha slammed the door and stood on the crumbling stoop.

“Hey, Belly,” he called from across the street, trying the old nickname in an effort to break the ice. “You home for Christmas?” Her frantic expression told Jake she needed some rescuing, fast. He took a shot, “Want to go out? Some of my pals are meeting at The Leaky Lifeboat.”

She didn’t want to go back inside for her coat, so Jake warmed up his dad’s car, and she sat inside waiting as he finished shoveling.

At the bar, he remembered how they’d easily slipped into their old comfortable rhythm. She caught him up, wanted to paint, but didn’t have the money for a decent art school. He remembered all the funny characters they’d invented. Before long, they were doodling old teachers on their placemats like the old days and cracking up.

After a few rounds, Tommy Applebaum showed up. Since graduating from high school, Jake had fallen out with the rich kids. With no more lacrosse, there wasn’t anything to force them to hang out. Jake was studying “whatever was easiest” at the community college and working at Mario’s. He didn’t want to know about his old friends’ majors or internships, especially when he was the one delivering their pizza.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Tasha Belafonte,” Tommy said, sidling close to her. “Y’know, everyone thought you joined a cult.”

Tasha laughed too loudly and lit up like the bar ceiling’s Christmas lights. The two openly flirted for a while Jake shrank into his stool, regretting all the drinks he’d paid for with his hard-earned tips. Also, he felt like there was a sign hanging around his neck: Poor Virgin Loser.

“Give me your number?” Tommy smoothly passed over his Samsung N270.

Tasha said she didn’t have a cell phone, but he could email her. She ripped a piece from the shared doodle placemat and jotted something down, folding it intricately, placing it into Tommy’s hand with a smirk.

“Guess I’m not the ugliest girl at the party anymore,” she’d said as Tommy walked away.

Jake said he needed to go to the bathroom, but he didn’t come back. Who cares if she didn’t even have her coat?

Now back at the doors, Jake reads the inscription of the last one: July 4th, 2024, less than a year ago.

Jake hadn’t seen Tasha again since that Christmas Break. Over the last twenty years, he sometimes wondered about her. Unlike the old high school “friends” who were always posting (their victories, their children, their in-ground pools), she wasn’t on social media and didn’t visit either; she had vanished.

It had been the Annual 4th of July Block Party when a beat-up Carolla appeared in the driveway across the street. Tasha’s mother’s house was a step away from being condemned, and Jake figured someone, maybe a social worker or the cops, finally tracked down the estranged daughter to check in.

Typically, Jake didn't get involved in the annual block party. Despite living on the block since childhood, Jake didn’t really know his neighbors. Slipping back into his introverted ways, he was more of a drink alone, watch porn and listen to his pal Joe Rogan in the basement kind of a guy these days..

But on this 4th, the Carolla intrigued him so much that he put a cooler on his porch and waited.

Just like that Christmas Break, eventually around dusk, Tasha emerged from the house wearing plastic gloves. Her face had another desperate look, now creased with wrinkles, but the same doe eyes filled with sorrow.

“Hey Belly!” he called, and to his surprise, she started walking toward him with a smile. He offered her a beer, but she declined. She was on the program now. Nope, she was not married. Yes, she was doing her art and working in a grocery store and at a summer camp somewhere upstate.

“Nah, I don’t really keep in touch with those guys from high school,” Jake admitted as they chatted.

“Wanna take a walk?” she asked. “I need some fresh air after being in there,” she looked over at the hoarder house.

They strolled their old dog-walk circuit to the corner store as fireworks lit the sky above.

Jake had a nice buzz, not too drunk and ventured, “Still need a break from your mom’s? We can chill in my basement and watch a movie?”

Soon they were cracking up on his couch watching Mystery Science Theater 3000. As they sat side by side, Jake realized how long it had been since he’d been alone with a woman. He’d probably been celibate for a decade by then. Poor “May As Well Be A” Virgin Loser.

“I think the last time we hung out was at The Leaky Lifeboat back in the day?” Tasha mused. “You ditched me without a ride home.”

“Not an excuse,” Jake sighed, “but I was really pissed. You were flirting with Tommy Applebaum. I thought you hated guys like him, but you gave him your email and-”

“You left before I could even tell you!” Tasha interjected.

“Tell me what?”

“I wrote [email protected]. I thought it was hilarious,” she burst out laughing, but then a wave of sadness crossed her face. “I just wanted to prove to myself and probably to you that guys did like me. After what you’d said back at his house party? Remember?”

“I’m sorry,” Jake said wistfully. “I wasn’t exactly Leonardo DiCaprio, Belly. Don’t ever take me seriously, ok?”

After a few more shared laughs plus some more beers for courage, Jake decided to lean in for the kiss, but Tasha pulled away.

He’d uncorked so much in himself at that moment, he couldn't help it and tried again, pushed his body into her and cupped her breast. He wanted to touch someone so badly. Hold someone.

“Sorry man,” Tasha jumped to her feet. “I just don’t see you that way. Plus, I don’t kiss drunks anymore.”

The sour angry poison feeling surged back, and he couldn’t help it. “What the hell is wrong with you, Tasha? No wonder you’re some loser recovering alcoholic working a bunch of shitty jobs. You think you’re some cool girl, but you never were anything special. You just pretend you are.”

Tasha went to leave, but now, a woman in her forties, she wouldn’t do it in silence.

“Jake,” she spun back to face him. “You always acted like the world owed you something. Just because you showed up.” She looked squarely into his eyes. “Well, here’s your prize - the truth. Which is, if you don’t change, you’re going to die alone, with no one.”

She left him in his parents' basement where he sobbed, drank and sobbed some more. The Carolla was gone about a week later, and the house continued to deteriorate, but Tasha never returned.

Now, Jake is back with his doors and realizes Tasha’s prophecy has come true.

Why would I want to go back to any of these moments? What the hell kind of gift is this?

But then-

We were friends once. Maybe even best friends. For a little while.

Jake feels himself moving toward one of the doors, as if something beyond himself has already read his mind and made the choice for him.

June 22, 1995. Pushing the feather into the door’s keyhole, Jake is forced through its threshold.

Blinding light surrounds him, and then he’s back in his fourteen-year-old body all at once. He runs a hand through his thick, full hair and looks down to see his Pearl Jam T-shirt and K-Mart cargo shorts. He’s in Tommy Applebaum’s basement, sitting in a circle with the rest of the soon-to-be freshmen royalty.

The whiskey bottle is pointed at him.

He looks up to see Tasha across the circle, the slender fourteen-year-old he remembers. She’s wearing a thrift store trucker shirt that reads Daryl, playing up her toughness, but her doe eyes are always a tell. She’s nervous.

“How are you…” she trails off as they enter the laundry room, and fiddles with the mix of oversized plastic rings on her fingers.

Having reflected on the shared moments between them, but now unpoisoned by the alcohol, his self-loathing and jealousy, a new perspective shapes Jake’s words to her now, wherever this now is supposed to be.

“You know, Tasha, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“It’s ok, Jake. This is my door too.”

“What?”

“This. It’s my door too. I’m also gone”.

Jake wants to ask her what happened, but somehow it seems unnecessary. Instead he asks, “Was one of your other doors that night, Christmas break? When I ditched you?”

“Yep. And the last one was just this past 4th.”

“I’m really sorry. I hadn’t been anyone in so long, I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have said you were going to die alone.”

“You were right. I did.”

“I did too.”

Their eyes meet. But he doesn’t feel lust - it’s something else.

In the laundry room closet, Jake’s arms wrap around Tasha’s tiny waist. She lays her head on his shoulder, embracing him too. He doesn't find himself wishing to change the past; he’s already unconnected from his old life. This new understanding, holding this girl on the last day when they were friends, now, at the end of it all, a feeling of being held and holding back.

The light of it burns brightly through him as he breaks into a thousand stars.