Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(2)
I couldn’t really blame him. The recently deceased have reason to be preoccupied. They have the whole I--just--died thing going on.
But this guy had more than the fact that he’d recently died on his mind. I knew, because his post--mortem activities had been causing me—-and the entire Monterey Bay area—-aggravation for days. Even the local news—-and several popular media blogs—-had commented on it.
Which was why, of course, I was spending my Valentine’s Day sitting on a headstone waiting for him, instead of hanging with my homegirls back at the dorm, drinking Cape Codders and tearing Katherine Heigl a new one.
I watched as the guy—-only a few years younger than me, but dressed about the same, in a black tee, leather jacket, and black jeans and boots, as well—-bent and removed the fresh flowers that had been lovingly placed on the grave in front of him. Today’s batch were red, and, in honor of the holiday, arranged in a heart shape.
True, as floral arrangements went, they weren’t to my taste. I’d have gone for something more classic—-a dozen long--stemmed roses, perhaps. Definitely nothing Valentine’s themed. That seemed a little gauche to me.
Of course, I hope not to be dead for a long, long time, and when I am, I doubt I’ll care what anyone puts on my grave. Also, I want to be cremated, so it won’t be an issue.
But I still wouldn’t have done what that no--good NCDP did, which was rude, regardless of how objectionable he found the floral design:
He lifted the heart arrangement off the grave, tossed it in the air, then drop--kicked it, causing it to explode into a gentle hailstorm of petals.
“Nice,” I said. “Very nice, mature behavior. I’m sure your mother would be proud.”
The NCDP whirled around, startled.
“What the hell!” His eyes were as round as if he, not me, were the one seeing a ghost. “What are you—-how can you—-who are you?”
“I’m Suze Simon,” I said. “And you thought being dead was bad? Buddy, your eternal nightmare’s only just begun.”
Dos
EVERYBODY’S GOT A secret.
Maybe you’ve told a lie. Maybe you cheated on a test. Maybe—-like the Non--Compliant Deceased Person standing in front of me—-you’ve killed someone (I really hope not, for your sake).
The thing about secrets, though, is that they get out. And trust me, if you’ve got a secret, eventually, it’s going to get out.
And when it does, things are probably going to turn out to be okay . . . well, after some counseling, or at worst, some jail time, or—-if you’re a celebrity—-maybe a tell--all book with a -couple of talk show appearances thrown in, to apologize to your disappointed fans.
Not this guy’s secret, though.
And not mine, either. All the counseling, jail time, and TV talk shows in the world are never going to make my secret okay. My secret is the kind that religious leaders in every culture in every society in the world have railed against at one time or another, claiming that it’s an abomination, unnatural, the work of the devil. Throughout history, women with my secret have been burned at the stake, drowned, or pelted with stones until they were dead. The scientific community has declared my secret “incompatible with the well--established laws of science,” and therefore nonexistent.
Which is why, of course, writers (and producers, and movie and television audiences) love my secret. In the past decade alone there’ve been scores of books, television dramas, movies, video games, and even reality shows based on -people who have my secret ability. Most of them have scored pretty decent ratings, too.
None of them have gotten it right, though. A few have come close. Startlingly close.
Close enough that lately I’ve had to work harder than ever to appear like the cool, collected, fashion--forward twenty--something girl I seem to be . . . on the outside, anyway.
Only a -couple of -people have figured out what a weirdo super freak I am on the inside. And those -people all have reason to keep my secret, because . . . well, I’ve helped them resolve their own secrets.
One person especially. Miraculously, he fell in love with me.
Don’t ask me why. I think I’m fabulous, but I’m not entirely sure what he sees in me (except the fact that I’ve saved his life a few times. But he’s returned the favor).
The only reason we aren’t spending this February fourteenth together is because he’s currently enrolled in medical school four hours away, and he’s doing rotations (and also still interviewing for residencies).
Yeah, my boyfriend’s in medical school. He wants to be a pediatrician. He’s hoping to get a residency at St. Francis Hospital nearby (the medical school residency “matching program” is this whole big thing. He finds out where—-and if—-he’s been matched next month), but I’m not optimistic. We’ve already been so lucky simply finding one another, it seems selfish to wish for more.
What a guy like him is even doing with a girl like me, I still can’t figure out . . . but then again, Hector “Jesse” de Silva has secrets, too. And some of them are even darker than mine.
Not darker than the guy’s with whom I was spending my Valentine’s Day, though, that’s for sure.
“Let’s just say I’m your fairy godmother,” I said to him, lowering myself from J. Charles Peterson’s grave. I’d like to say I did it gracefully, but I’m afraid I did not, due to butt freeze. I tried not to let it show, however. “And I’m here to make you sure you get to the ball on time. Only in this case, the ball is the afterlife. Come on, if we hurry, you can still make it before midnight. Only I’m not sure Cinderella”—-I pointed at the grave the NCDP had just desecrated—-“will be there waiting for you. Or that if she is, she’ll be too happy to see you.”