IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
What Happens When Time Stops?
A short fiction story.
“Do you like your job, Miss Reaper?”
The woman sitting in the bow-back wooden chair, wearing a blue and brown paisley dress, asks me. She isn’t looking at me. Instead, she sits facing forward, staring at the clock on the ceramic countertop near the white stove. It reads 8:17 a.m., and it’s been like that for a while now. Neither the minute nor the hour has changed.
It is something that always happens when I come to collect.
I stand behind her, my hands clasped behind my back, taking in the yellow and green kitchen with its large dining table and expansive bay window overlooking the backyard. Even though it is early October, my black suit jacket is a little stuffy; the California heat is a stubborn thing.
“Well…” I hesitate. This isn’t quite a question you answer with a yes or no. It’s more complex than that. Do I like my job? It’s hard to say. It is a difficult job — one that nobody could ever prepare for. Still, I accepted the position, even when nobody ever told me how hard it would be. I mean, it isn’t like they had to say it explicitly — I knew what becoming a Guide meant.
But do I like it? Hmm.
“… It’s necessary,” I say dumbly. Yes, it is necessary. Someone has to do it. But I still wasn’t ready for it.
I wasn’t ready when Brian, the Guide who trained me, assigned me my first guest. I messed up many times. Hell, I wasn’t ready when I guided my one-hundredth guest. Even standing in this brightly colored kitchen with its wooden bow-back chairs and the lingering scent of burnt toast, somewhere in central California in early October, I feel nervous. Unsure.
The woman sighs, shoulders drooping as she drops her head into her hands.
Oh no. That wasn’t the right thing to say. I panic. Brian is going to reprimand me.
She turns to me, tight white curls swaying when she does. Her brown eyes, stained red from crying, pin me in place. I try not to stare at her sunken cheeks and peeling lips. I try not to look at the faint red that stains her nape, barely hidden behind her curly hair. I ignore it when she subtly grips her hands to mask their trembling. And I don’t comment on the ragged tears in her knee-length paisley dress or that she’s missing a shoe. It isn’t my place to judge. I am never supposed to judge.
“You’re an honest one, aren’t you?”
Yep. I’m definitely getting a ding on my record.
“I…” I start to explain, figuring the best course of action is to apologize profusely. But she holds up a hand and shakes her head. The sun peeks through the large bay window, stretching over the tiled floor and casting shadows over the chairs and appliances. But it shines right through her dainty brown hand covered in gold rings.
“No matter. I rather prefer your honesty,” she smiles, though the action doesn’t reach her eyes. “How long have you been a Reaper?” she asks instead, and I’m stunned. Nobody has ever asked me questions about myself, especially not the guests I guide.
“What year is it?”
“2005.”
“Then, a little over three years.”
She watches me, brown eyes flashing with sadness but quickly dispelling into a rigid resolve. Straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders, she says, “You’re young.”
“I…” it wasn’t a question. “Guess I am?”
We stay in the kitchen, silence stretching over us as the sun rises higher in the sky.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“What for?” I ask.
Fresh tears prick the corners of her eyes as she turns away from me, staring at the clock on the counter. It still says 8:17 a.m.
“For taking so long.”
“Take all the time you need.”
I wouldn’t say I like my job; it felt more significant than that — something beyond the categorization of like or dislike. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like I was doing something important.
It is a hard role to be in — the Grim Reaper, the living like to call people like me. But we call ourselves Guides. Still, I continue to go out.
I continue to meet guests.
I continue to take them where they need to go.
Something pushes me forward and keeps me doing what I do. In retrospect, my job is simple compared to the Guardians’. They bear the brunt of the fallout.
I only guide. I am not around for the adjustment. I don’t see the full extent of the anger, the denial, the sadness, the depression, the testing, the acceptance, or the bargaining. Though, I did have a few guests try to bargain with me. And I witness the shock — most guests are in shock whenever I find them. Sometimes, they wander around, screaming at everyone passing them by, confused as to why nobody can hear or see them. Others sit with their physical selves, the weight of shock so hefty that it immobilizes them. Some see family, friends, and partners — how did they get there? I’m not sure. But most wander.
The rule is never to rush them; let them be, but let them know that I am here and ready whenever they are to embark on the long journey to the Guardians. Nobody knows how vulnerable a soul is after death, and even though I don’t… can’t explain anything, I still try to offer comfort. The explanation is left to the Guardians.
“Am I dead?” The woman asks, her back still to me.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
More silence. Then, “What does it mean to be dead?”
“An ending,” I say, watching as she clutches her hands tightly in her lap, her knuckles whitening, her shoulders trembling. “And a beginning.”
“A beginning?” She asks.
“Yes.”
“A beginning to what?”
“That’s up to you.”
I could see the corner of her mouth tilt up, a whisper of a smile on her face. “You don’t answer much, do you?”
“I can’t. Not really, anyway. The Guardians are the ones who can answer these questions for you.”
We stay silent, the day stretching over us turning into night. Eventually, lights flicker in the kitchen as the owners come home — a mother, a father, and two little kids — a son and daughter. The kids run around the kitchen table, bumping into the chairs and yelling about a toy they should share. The father chides them, telling the boy to share with his sister. The little boy screams “no,” and dashes up the stairs, laughing hysterically as his sister chases after him crying.
The mother sits at the table, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Her husband stands next to her, silently rubbing her back. The two don’t speak as her soft sobs waft through the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” the woman with white hair says. She reaches forward but freezes right before she reaches them, pulling her hand back and shaking her head. “I just wanted to see them one last time.”
She stands from the chair, whispering goodbye as she turns to me. “I… think I’m ready.”
I stretch out my left hand, and she hesitantly grabs it. We pass through the kitchen wall, entering the veil of night with its dazzling stars studding the sky.
“This will be a long journey,” I say.
“I know.”
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“No.” She glances back at the kitchen, her shoulders rising to her ears. She squeezes my hand and nods at the home, “But I can’t stay here.”
I nod. It isn’t my place to tell her what she can or cannot do.
“What’s your name?” She asks, staring off into the distance.
“Sam.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Sam. My name is Martha.” I tighten my hold on her hand and tap my right palm.
“It’s nice to meet you, Martha,” and I mean it. I smile at her as a strong gust of wind envelopes us, and we disappear into the night.
Note: this story was inspired by TJ Klune’s Under the Whispering Door.
