The Death Date

chapter nine

I tingled from the residual sun trapped in my skin. Dusk was settling, and I had just pulled into the apartment parking lot. Stepping into the cool evening air, another round of shivers nipped at my sensitive skin.

The stairs leading up a level to my apartment were dimly lit with overhead lights, although, the nearer I drew, the clearer the image of someone else at the base of the stairs became. As I approached, the figure morphed into an elderly woman with a round, weathered face and cropped grey hair. Her eyes were as blue and bright as the ocean I had spent all day around.

"Hello," she greeted.

"Hi." I tentatively walked closer but kept as much distance as possible between us without appearing strange – a delicate balance, and the struggle of my entire life. I had hoped the woman would detach herself from the stairs and continue on her way, but she seemed glued to the spot. I gradually accepted that after a day spent successfully avoiding hearing any death dates on the crowded dog beach, I would be forced to hear one before the night ended.

The world liked having the last laugh.

Through a sigh, I moved a foot closer and the buzzing overtook my senses. The cool air was alive with energy and swirled around my form. I heard the voice call:

December twenty-seventh, two thousand and seventeen.

My mouth had gone dry and I attempted to swallow. While I had received countless death dates over the years, hearing those that were due to come soon turned my blood to ice. I stared at the woman for a moment longer than necessary, while my body attempted to defrost itself.

"Am I in your way?" the woman asked.

A paper bag full of produce was clutched in her hands. "Oh, no. It's okay. I just live up the stairs."

The woman struggled with the bag. "Then I am in your way. I'm sorry. These groceries are just so heavy."

The damage had been done. Her death date was mine, so there was nothing stopping me from helping the woman. "Here. Let me." I strode towards her and grabbed the bag. "Which apartment is yours?"

The woman sighed as though weightless. "Thank you, dear. I'm right over there." She pointed beyond the staircase to a set of apartment doors. "I just moved in a couple weeks ago." This would explain why I hadn't seen her before.

We both traveled in silence to her apartment. Once at the door, the woman fumbled with her keys and slowly opened the door. It was dark inside, but after the woman flipped the light switch, the space came to life. It was quaint, the same size as mine and my mom's apartment, and was scarcely furnished. A couch and small dining table took up most of the space.

"You can put the bag down on the table."

I stepped inside and did as I was told.

"Thank you, dear," the woman said again. "You really helped me out."

"It's not a problem."

"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked. "I've got root beer and orange soda."

"Oh, no. That's okay, thanks."

"Alright, dear." The woman's eyes danced over mine. "I'm Melanie. What's your name?"

"Cordelia – Delia." It was a rare occasion I introduced myself with my full name.

"Beautiful name," the woman said with a smile, which caused her large cheeks to puff. "Can I ask you a question, Delia?"

Something shifted in the room and it sent me off kilter. The woman wore a knowing look.

"What were you thinking about back there?"

My brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Back when we first met just a moment ago outside – you had a very peculiar expression."

My throat constricted at the notion she was speaking about the moment I had received her death date. It was the first time I had been called out during such a moment – apart from when death dates still gave me a right shock as a child – and I knew my second of surprise at hearing she would be dead in December had managed to spark curiosity. I was now so versed at receiving death dates, I could control my demeanor leaving the person none the wiser.

Melanie, however, challenged this.

"I was just surprised to see you. I've met almost everyone at this complex and didn't recognize you."

Melanie eyed me carefully, sifting through my words. It was evident she didn't quite believe me – not that I could blame her; it had been a terrible attempt at a lie, but she decided to let it slide. "Well, I hope we run into each other again. You seem like a rather interesting girl."

"Hardly," I muttered quickly.

Her fragile lips upturned. "I'm a good judge of character for these things, and I disagree."

Words were lost on me. I had never been called interesting before – weird, yes – but never interesting. I felt the sudden urge to leave.

"Anyway, thanks again for helping a lady out."

"Sure," I said, shuffling.

"And I hope we run into each other again someday soon."

Her death date flashed before my eyes, and I grimaced. "Me too," I said weakly.

"Have a good night, dear."

I bounded from her apartment and flew upstairs. Before I opened the door and faced my mother, I pressed my back against the wall and closed my eyes. Panting, I lifted both hands and encased my face. Being the owner of a person's death date was like traveling with a stomach full of stones. With each one, my steps grew heavier; I used to worry about receiving so many, that I wouldn't be able to keep moving. One stone too much, and I'd be stuck in place.

I opened my eyes. Stars were splashed across the deepening universe. Their light was reaching me now from millions and billions of years ago, and I suddenly felt thrown into space with them, lightyears away. I was so far removed from my own planet, people never got the chance to see the real me, and by the time the chance seemed reachable, we would all be dead and gone.

Pushing back my hair, I leaned off the wall and inserted the key inside the apartment door. On the ground was a stack of delivered mail. After stooping to pick it up, I fingered through each envelope and froze at the last letter.

Written in a neat, blocky hand I could distinguish anywhere was my name stamped across an envelope. The other letters in my hand tumbled to the ground in a soft swoosh.

With shaking fingers, I steadied the letter.

My father, who I hadn't heard from since my thirteenth birthday, had written to me.