The After-Life

When I was a child, people said that I had an old soul. That I knew things, felt things, that took decades to cultivate. But I wasn’t into the spiritual realm. The thought of ghosts and reincarnation didn’t faze me. I wasn’t from the past; I was from the future.

And this sour dissonance settled upon me as the years flew by. It started with puberty, when archaic social conventions were brought to life. It rolled along through high school, when the cafeteria began to look like the terrain of an 80’s movie. And it wept like a squeezed lemon all throughout my college years, when I learned about the many ways we destroy our world. As I listened to the classroom debates, I caught never-ending whiffs of another time, one coated with the hair powder of our founders.

On the night of my graduation, I’d had enough. I’d done everything I could. I’d rallied. I’d boycotted. I’d built and burnt bridges. But, time and time again, my ambition outweighed my influence.

So, in an exasperated frenzy, I grabbed my bike and rode up into the mountains. Alone, I roasted marshmallows, read books, wrote up political proposals, and lamented. But even the most relaxing moments were blown apart by the sirens in my head, telling me that I had to act, and that I had to act now. At one point, I stood on a ledge and screamed. The mountains amplified my restlessness.

On the third day, a caravan of partiers rolled up the road. They stopped at my clearing and unraveled their tents. At first, we coexisted. They even offered me a smoke.

But by the end of the week, I’d pulled their last nerve.

“When are you going to stop pacing like a madman?” one fellow snapped.

“He’s the one who stole our mayonnaise,” another accused.

Words whipped, fists flew. I held my own for a hot minute, but after one too many hits, I grabbed my bike and careened at the speed of light down the mountain roads. With every bump, rock or pebble, my bike threatened to skid. I held it firm, eyes fixed on the road.

And then, a light.

And then, a horn.

And then, my freewheel came to an end.

I woke up two weeks later to lights, beeps, and laboratory brightness. I was swaddled in bandages from head to toe.

“A spinal cord tear at C7,” explained a young doctor named Mark. “And a fracture at your C2. Keeping it real, Con, I don’t think you’re going to walk again. Or stand. Or sit up on your own.”

“Can’t you fuse it back together?” I snapped. “I got work to do.”

“We can fuse vertebrae, but not spinal cords,” Mark replied. “We do have an experimental treatment, but it’s twenty thousand dollars, and your insurance doesn’t cover it.”

“So you’re telling me, that in the one moment I need health care, my insurance is useless?”

Mark pressed his lips together.

“Son of a eunuch,” I cursed. “You can bet my bottom dollar I’m writing a petition to change that once I get out of here.”

Mark inhaled through his nose. “That’s if you can write,” he said cautiously. “Given your break’s location, there’re no guarantees.”

My world spun in a furious haze.

“You should know,” Mark added, “that many people in your condition live full, happy lives. You can even thrive, given enough time.”

I lurched against my braces, blind to the pain. “Time? What time?!” I cried. “I’m saving the world from impending doom! We’re seconds away from the apocalypse!”

“That’s for you to find,” Mark sighed, leaving.

For the next few weeks, I brewed and agonized. I felt like my mind was bursting at its seams. I willed myself to recover. The world depended on me.

At night, I stayed awake. I was an athlete, a hiker, a mountain climber. I’d slept little before the accident, and my reserves were full of energy that would’ve been otherwise spent on motion. My eyes traced patterns on the ceiling. My body withered.

One day, at three a.m., I was jarred from a trance by the screech of a chair.

“Show yourself!” I demanded. I turned as much as I could, but the brace restricted me. “Coward! Intruding on a paralyzed man! You should be ashamed!”

Suddenly, a lamp flicked on from across the room. A young woman stepped into view, still wearing a graduation gown. Her hands were up, and a tiny black book was in her left palm. Her face was lined with regret. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I came to return your book.”

“Who are you?” I snapped.

The girl hesitated. “I’m Josephine Watts,” she said. “I’m… I’m the daughter of the man who hit you. We were driving to our cottage, and you appeared out of nowhere. We tried to stop, but we were going too fast, and…”

I felt a sudden wave of apathy. “Alright,” I sighed. “Don’t describe it anymore. You’ll give me PTSD.”

The girl swallowed.

“I’m Conley,” I said. “Conley McClain. Sorry for my outburst. I just… Wanna get out of here, so I can go save the world, and I can’t, and I have the constant impression that I’m swimming through syrup. But I gotta have a little human decency. …Book? What book? I got all the time in the world, I’m told. Just… Keep me company, will ya? Think I’m going mad.”

The girl smiled and pulled up a chair. “I believe it’s your journal,” she said. “How to Save the World. You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?” She leafed through its well-worn pages.

I gave a half laugh. “Well, saving the world, sure. But everything I’ve ever thought of, it’s in my head, my homework, or on a political proposal.”

I swallow. “The book, where’d you get it?”

“It was at the crash site,” Josephine explained. “It fell from your pocket when the paramedics were loading you into the ambulance. Nobody saw it, so I grabbed it. I’ve wanted to return it, but only your family had visitation rights. I had to resort to, ah, renegade measures.”

“Renegade measures?” I smirked. “Like creeping into my room at night?”

Josephine smiled. “Like creeping into your room at night,” she said proudly.

“I can appreciate renegades,” I chuckled. “I am one myself.”

The thought then dawned on me. “Sure it’s my book?” I asked.

“It has your name,” Josephine shrugged. She began reading the first few pages, and with each page, I was more convinced that I’d written it. The burning truth hit me: I’d lost more than my mobility during the crash; I’d lost my memory, too. But I felt better knowing I’d written my thoughts down while I could.

“You know,” I said, relaxing, “I like you. In another life, we could’ve been friends.”

“In another life?” Josephine said incredulously. “Why not this one?”

I give a barking laugh. “Hell yeah! Why not this one?” I smiled for the first time in a century, but then my lips began to tremble. “Y’know. I guess that’s one thing I missed out on in the before-life,” I murmured.

“The before-life?” Josephine repeated.

“Yeah,” I said. “The life before the accident. It was me for the world, against the world. No-one had my back. No lovers. No friends. Not even my neglectful parents.”

Josephine’s eyebrows furrowed.

“So I threw myself into the books. I didn’t need anyone else. I had a higher purpose. I’d had a higher purpose…” My voice cracked again, and a salty taste flooded my mouth.

“It’s okay to cry,” she murmured.

“I don’t cry,” I blubbered. “Damn, this is gonna seep into the neck brace and itch like the devil’s balls…” The thought brought on another wave.

Out of the corner of my eye, I then caught Josephine snickering. Suddenly I was snickering too.

“Stahp,” I wheezed. “I’m gonna break my spine a second time.” The thought made me tear up again.

“Okay,” I admitted. “Maybe I do cry.”

“Maybe you do,” she reflected.

“And you? What’s your secret?” I asked.

We talked all through the night. I learned about a girl who’d lived under her father’s strict hand, but wanted to experience the freer sides of life, like painting in the sunlight, or floating in the ocean. She’d been forced to become a doctor, a surgeon, a world warrior. She’d even been admitted into an Ivy League, but longed to stay in her hometown.

“Is it so bad to break free? To live in the moment?” Josephine asked.

The question lingered.

I realized that there was a slim chance I’d do those things: paint in the sunlight, or float in the ocean. I hadn’t done so in the before-life. I’d been too distracted.

I must’ve fallen asleep during our conversation, because I was awoken by Mark’s excited voice. “Wake up, Conley! Oh, boy… Looks like I have news for you.”

“News?” I asked, groggily. “Was healthcare universalized?”

Mark bit his lip. “No…” he said hesitantly, eyes darkening. “Look, I need to talk to you about your accident,” he said. “There was another family at the scene.”

“The Watts,” I shot triumphantly.

“…Yes,” Mark said, frowning. “A father and a daughter. Eric and Josephine Watts. They’d tried to avoid you, but they couldn’t. They… They drove off the cliff, Con.”

“You’re joking,” I said, smile faltering. “…The hell, Mark?!”

Mark shook his head. “The Watts mother is very… pious. She wanted you to know that although she hates you for contributing to her family’s demise during your freeride, she knows you’re young, fallible, and have a whole life ahead of you to repent. To enjoy the world, as her daughter always mentioned, and to do some good.”

My mouth, split between opening and closing, trembled in shock.

“She’s a rich woman, Con. She has thousands saved for her daughter’s medical school.” Mark inhaled, exhaled. “She wants to use it to pay for your surgery.”

“…How did she know?” I stammered.

“Parents talk,” Mark shrugged.

“They were here?” I asked unsteadily.

“For a second,” Mark responded.

Momentarily, I struggled to believe that my parents had shown up for me for once. But then, another thought hit me.

“I’m dreaming,” I said. “Josephine Watts is alive. We spoke last night. She even brought my journal.” I try to move my head towards the bedside table. “It’s there. Can’t you see it?”

Mark saw the journal and frowned. He picked it up, flipped through the pages. “It’s empty.”

“It’s not!” I insisted. “It’s called How to Save the World, and I wrote it. Josephine read it to me.”

Mark put the book down and gave a long sigh. “Look, Con… Things like this happen sometimes, especially under pressure. Sometimes, we think we see things that aren’t really there. But they’re not, Con. They’re not.”

“But…”

“No buts. Rest. Soon, you can write it all over again.”

When I was a child, what people actually said was that I would never go far. That I had a sharp tongue, a bad attitude, and a penchant for indulging in grandiosity. But me, I wasn’t so bad. I was a down-on-his-luck kid who spent so much time chasing down a purpose that he didn’t stop and smell the roses.

But one night, after a bad accident, one good soul reached into my heart of hearts and pulled out what I was supposed to do all along. Sure, I was supposed to save the world, but I was also supposed to enjoy it as it lasted. And I wasn’t alone: The Watts Family had my back, literally and figuratively.

It took awhile to recover, to forgive myself. To let it go. To breathe. But in the darkest of nights, sometimes I feel Josephine’s presence around me. With her around, it doesn’t feel like the world’s running on fumes anymore, even if it is on fire. (But I can change that. And I will.)