Fourteen Days with Madison Lowe

Chapter 1

            I was born on July 20, 1995 at 4:57 in the evening and I died November 23, 1998.  When most people die, their hearts stop beating, their brains shut down, their blood stops flowing through their veins.  Their former selves cease to exist and they proceed to ascend into Heaven, or whatever is up there.  I wish it was as simple as that, but for me it was different.

            When I was killed, I was sitting in the back of my father's pick-up eating a vanilla ice-cream cone.  The truck was noisy, I believe my parents were fighting at the time.  I, however, couldn't tell because I couldn't understand what was being said and I was far too entranced by the cold treat in front of my lips. 

            I did peak up once, though.  My father's knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his cheeks were heated, and his beer belly swelled.  Mamma's hands were in the air, her body was turned towards his, and her eyes were wet.  It had made me unhappy to look at them, so I went to gaze out the window.

            At the same moment I turned my head, an eighteen-wheeler crashed into us.  Needless to say, I never did get to finish that ice-cream. 

            I was pronounced dead on arrival at 8:52 in the evening.  The paramedics shocked my heart four times with no response.  According to Mamma, they were about to give up, but she begged them to keep trying.  A fifth shock...nothing.  A sixth...at 8:55 my heart started beating again.  I was placed into room 201 and was hooked up to a breathing machine at 8:57.  Two days later at 9:06 in the morning, I could breath on my own.  A week later at 11:13, I was allowed to leave the hospital with nothing worse than a bruised body and a broken arm. 

            They claimed I was a miracle child.  Mamma swore that I was blessed by God Himself or touched by an angel.  The neighbors told Mamma that I was going to be something special and shed light into this world.

            But death never left me, its darkness is all I know.

            A few months after the accident, my parents got divorced.  I woke up one morning and noticed my father's truck was gone.  Mamma simply told me, "He was no good, so I told him to leave," and then she passed me a small plate of eggs.  My older brother, Martin, mumbled, "Good riddance."

            I was five years old when my mother met Louis.  They married that same year on June 22, 2000.  To me, he is my real father.  He was the one who taught me how to fish, he was the one to take me to my first concert, and more recently, he was the one who taught me how to drive.  But a deeper connection lies between us that no one can ever understand.

            I didn't figure out anything was wrong with me until I was about eight years old.  I went to sleep like any other night, but I had a peculiar dream.  I was hysterically crying and my great Uncle Ted had his arms around me.  He whispered, "It will be okay, it will be okay, it will be okay, Arlene."  When I woke up the next morning, I hadn't thought anything of it.

            Two weeks later, my great Uncle Ted had died from lung cancer that he'd been fighting for three years. 

             I had never been to a funeral before, and after that day, I vowed that I never wanted to go to one again.  So, a few months later when my Aunt Catherine appeared in my dream assuring me three times that everything was going to be okay, I woke up crying.  The next day, I begged to see her until Mamma finally gave in and called her up.  Aunt Catherine was Mamma's older sister and they were very close.  She ended up staying with us for about a week because it was Christmas time.  After New Years, she drove back down to her New York Cityapartment while we waved goodbye from our small house.  Eleven days had passed, so I was reassured that Aunt Catherine was going to be okay.