Golden Girl(11)

Now there won’t be a next time!

“But that’s not why they assigned me to you,” Martha says. “It’s just a coincidental aside.”

“Assigned you to me?”

“I’m your Person,” Martha says. “I’m here to help you transition.”

“I think there’s been a mistake.”

“Everyone says that,” Martha says.

Vivi points to the ground where her body lies. The ambulance has arrived and Cruz is sprinting down Kingsley toward Money Pit. He’s going to tell the kids. Vivi needs to do something. Can Martha help her walk this back somehow?

She tries to peek at Martha’s clipboard. “Is there a place on your form, a box you can check, so that they save me at the hospital?”

“It’s too late,” Martha says. “You’re dead.”

“I’m dead,” Vivi says. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. How can I be dead?” She doesn’t want to sound too indignant; if there’s one thing Vivi has learned in her fifty-one years, it’s that you should always be polite to the people who can help you, such as flight attendants and anyone who works at the DMV. “Martha, can you explain, please? Am I being…punished?”

“Don’t be silly,” Martha says.

“So then why…”

“You got hit by a car,” Martha says. “It was an accident. Random bad luck.”

“But that’s not fair.”

Martha purses her lips.

“Are you about to tell me that life isn’t fair?” Vivi asks.

“Your death was particularly sudden,” Martha says. Her tone suggests there might be some wiggle room. She scans the form on her clipboard and checks a box. “And for that reason, Vivian, I’m going to grant you a seventy-five VW and a three-N.”

“Does that mean they’ll save me at the hospital?”

“No,” Martha says. “The seventy-five VW means a seventy-five-day viewing window. I’ll let you watch what happens down on Earth between now and Labor Day. And”—Martha holds up a finger—“the three-N provision gives you the use of three nudges.”

“Three nudges?”

“You can influence outcomes three times down below,” Martha says. “But you should be judicious.”

“This feels like some kind of fairy tale,” Vivi says. “Am I really dead?”

“Yes, dear.”

Vivi takes in the expert tying of Martha’s Hermès scarf. “That looks so effortless, I would have guessed you were French.”

“Well, thank you. I’m not.”

“What did you do when you were alive?”

“I was a senior vice president at FedEx.”

“Go, Martha!” Vivi says. “Lady boss!”

Martha says, “I can’t be flattered, Vivian. You will not be revived at the hospital. You’re dead. I’m granting you the summer to watch over your children and three nudges because you met such a random and sudden end. And because I like your books. You have a lot of fans up here.” Now it sounds like Martha is the one trying to do the flattering.

“Who hit me?” Vivi asks. “It wasn’t Cruz, was it?” This is too awful to even contemplate. He’s such a good kid, so brilliant, going to Dartmouth on a full ride. He’s good at everything—science, math, English. Instead of writing an essay for his college application, he wrote a poem called “Sacrifice,” about his father, Joe. Vivi’s feelings for Cruz DeSantis are just as tender and protective as they are for her own kids.

Martha shakes her head. “That, I can’t tell you.”

Martha can’t tell her because it’s not allowed or because she doesn’t know? But whatever the answer, Vivi has a more pressing question. “What happens when the summer is over?”

“You join the choir,” Martha says.

“The choir?”

“Of angels.”

“But I can’t sing,” Vivi says.

Martha releases a belly laugh. “Don’t worry,” she says. “You’ll learn. Now, come along. It’s time to go.”

“Go where?”

“To the greenroom. Please close your eyes.”

Vivi regards Martha with suspicion. “I’d rather not.”

“You’re going to have to learn to trust me,” Martha says. “I’m your Person.”

Vivi waits a beat. What choice does she have? She closes her eyes.



When she opens them, she’s in a room with one wall missing; it feels like the kind of shoebox diorama that kids make in school. Vivi blinks as she looks around; there’s a lot to take in.

The crown molding and all the trim in the room is painted green, and the wallpaper is printed with eye-popping green and white vertical stripes. There are layered rugs on the floor—a neutral sisal underneath and a gorgeous silk Persian on top. A Moroccan lantern shaped like a genie’s bottle hangs from the ceiling; it’s polished brass and punctured with tiny holes that cast an intricate lacy pattern of light on the ceiling. This might be—no, it definitely is the coolest, most eclectic room Vivi has ever been in. There’s a long green velvet chaise, two peach silk soufflé chairs, a coffee table that looks like a giant white enamel bean, leather pouf ottomans, two dwarf orange trees in copper pots, and a huge black-and-white photograph on the wall that Vivi identifies as a David Yarrow Western scene.