Sarah certainly doesn't try to make things easy for me.
When it's my turn to scoop some eggs onto my plate at the stove, she walks straight through me as if I'm not there and the resulting chill that spreads through my body knocks the breath out of me. Then, she plops down into the chair that I had previously claimed, shoving my phone out of the way.
All the while, Death frowns at her while shooting nervous glances in my direction. As much as her obvious slights annoy me, I keep a neutral expression on my face as I choose a seat on the other side of the table.
When I was much younger, I used to be bullied at school: mainly by kids who made fun of the fact that I always went home to a restaurant instead of a real house. They would spread rumors that I slept underneath the grills at night and stored my clothes in the walk-in freezer. My mother told me to act like I never heard a word that they said, and sure enough they grew tired of picking on me and moved on to a new victim. That was precisely the way that I would handle Sarah.
I pick up my fork and nonchalantly shovel a bite of scrambled eggs into my mouth. Judging by the lack of taste, I realize that Death must not be much of a cook. All the same, I make an Mmm sound in the back of my throat, trying to be more polite than the girl opposite me.
Sarah's eyes narrow. "You're eating."
I freeze, my mouth still full. "Yeah..?"
"You're supposed to wait until everyone is at the table."
"Sarah," Death sighs. "It really doesn't matter."
"I'm just saying." She spins the silver ring in her nose. "If the human wants to act like she belongs here, shouldn't she follow suit with the way that we do things?"
The human. My face burns at the nickname and I set down my fork, but before anyone can say anything else Lisa bursts through the doorway, exclaiming in a sing-songy voice, "Eggs yum yum yummy eggs!" That's one way to dispel the tension.
"The stove is still hot. Let me help you." Death rises to prepare Lisa's plate as the fifth and final breakfast guest shuffles into the kitchen behind her. I watch him closely, and he doesn't even notice me.
He's a white man – I'm guessing in his mid-thirties – and he has the kind of appearance that is instantly forgettable. Gray eyes, trim blonde hair, the hint of a mustache. He wears a suit and tie and carries an expensive leather briefcase, his neck bowed over a newspaper that's clutched in his free hand.
"Hey Paul," Sarah greets him.
He mumbles something under his breath about the stock market, barely lifting his eyes from the article he's reading as he fills his plate with what remains of the eggs. When he sits down across from me, filling the last open seat, Sarah clears her throat and speaks in a sickeningly condescending tone.
"See, Cara? Now we can start eating."
"Cara doesn't know how to eat?" Lisa asks, her eyes wide. She sits in the chair directly beside me. Her chin barely reaches the tabletop.
"I know how to eat," I assure her, glaring across the table at Sarah's smug grin. At this, Paul's head snaps up from his newspaper, his eyes finding mine for the first time. I notice that the date at the top reads February 26th, 2008.
"Who's Cara?"
"Cara is our newest guest, and she is welcome to stay here as long as she needs," Death says, his voice soft yet commanding as it rumbles across the table. "I know that she's alive, but that doesn't make her any different from any of you. She deserves respect and privacy."
Sarah makes a strangled sound in her throat but doesn't say anything as she stabs a chunk of egg with her fork. I watch in silent wonder as she shovels the food into her mouth and swallows.
"Hey." I lean over to Lisa and whisper, "What happens when you guys eat?"
"What do you mean?" She asks, eyes wide. There's a speck of food stuck to her bottom lip.
"Like, after you eat, where does it...go?"
She giggles. "Our tummies. Duh."
I force myself to nod and smile before returning to my meal, my brain struggling to make sense of the biology of ghosts. It's strange to sit here and watch all of them act so normally. They seem to talk and move and eat like regular people for the most part, Death included. But upon closer inspection, I realize that none of their chests rise and fall with breath. My arms prickle with goosebumps as I'm reminded once again that I'm the odd one out.
"How's the presentation coming along?" Death asks pleasantly. I realize that he's talking to Paul, even though the man doesn't lift his gaze from the old newspaper.
"I've almost got it. It's really going to change everything." Paul finally smiles wickedly, the first show of emotion I've seen from him today. "They won't see it coming."
"He says that every day," Lisa groans.
Death fixes her with a disapproving glance and carefully steers the conversation back to Paul. "Mr. Johnson's presentation is very important. Isn't that right?"
"Yeah, sounds like a real game changer," Sarah says, her tone flat.
"It will be," Paul insists, unfazed by Sarah's sarcasm. "That promotion has my name written all over it."
"What's a probotion?" Lisa asks.
"Promotion," Death gently corrects her. "It's when someone does so good at their job that they get an even better job."
I quietly finish the food on my plate, taking in the strangest conversation I've ever been a part of. I can't help but wonder why this odd mixture of people are trapped inside of Death's house. Apart from maybe Sarah, they seem harmless to me, if a little ... strange.
"So, human," Sarah addresses me, leaning back in her chair. I force myself not to flinch at the demeaning title. Don't show her your anger. I meet her gaze head-on. "What brings you to Neverton?"
"Nothing in particular." A hospital bed. A waiting room. A subway train. An empty dance studio. I nervously pick at the beds of my fingernails under the table. "I wanted a change of scenery."
"And you just happened to choose this town? You just happened to stumble across this house, when you're the first living person we've all seen in years?"
"Yep," I force through my teeth. Her stare pierces through me, and my heart starts to beat faster. At the end of the table, I notice the muscles tighten in Death's forearms.
"You know what this place is, right?" Sarah leans forward conspiratorially, her eyebrow quirked. "Do you know that your life has to be totally fucked to end up here?"
"Hey," Death warns, sharp. I lower my head and, to my horror, I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes. As if I need a reminder of all of the mistakes I've made, of the nightmare waiting for me outside of these walls.
Sarah raises her shoulders and addresses Death. "Don't lie to the poor girl. She'll realize at some point or other that she has some serious baggage to unpack. Why else would she be here?"
"Sarah, don't–"
"It's true! And now she wants to waltz in here and gape at us like we're zoo animals, all while flaunting the fact that she's still alive and we're not. We're fucked, and we're never getting out of here!"
"Goddamn it, Sarah, stop it!" Death yells, slamming his fist onto the table. Lisa and I both jump at the sound of his raised voice, at the clatter of the silverware. The veins in his throat bulge, and his expression teeters between anger and guilt. An awkward silence falls over the entire room as Sarah shoves her chair back and strides over to the door. I realize that I'm holding my breath.
Before Sarah crosses the threshold, she turns to Death and says, "We all know why you want her to stay. And it's pathetic."
I feel as if all eyes are on me, as if I've been slapped in the face. Is my presence here really so awful? I want to say as much, but the words die in my throat as I wonder how much of what Sarah said was true. Why does Death want me here? Does no one ever really leave this place? Am I trapped?
Is this hell?
Lisa is the first to speak after Sarah leaves. In her tiny, trembling voice, she asks, "Is my life fucked, too?"
***
Soon after Sarah's outburst, Paul excuses himself from the table to "revise his presentation" and Death sends Lisa upstairs to get changed. I'm frozen in my chair as Death silently gathers the dishes and starts to wash them in the sink. Part of me wonders if I should tell Mem that I changed my mind and ask her to pick me up.
"They don't want me here," I say quietly.
Death sighs but doesn't turn from the sink. "That's not true."
"Seriously?" I throw my hands up in the air. "Sarah isn't one to mince words, and I'm pretty sure she was trying to set fire to my head with her eyes the entire time."
"Don't listen to Sarah." Finally, he turns around and faces me. The way that his water-stained t-shirt clings to his abdomen makes my cheeks warm. Who knew that chores could be so sexy? "She has a tough exterior, but really she's just afraid. She had a rough life. That's the point, isn't it? Everyone who passes through here has some sort of business to take care of."
"Business?" My eyebrows pull towards the center of my forehead. "Like an LLC?"
"No, I mean unfinished business. Something that needs to be faced so the spirit can move on."
Maybe Sarah's unfinished business is adjusting her attitude, I think to myself, but I don't say it. Instead, I stand and motion Death out of the way so that I can wash my plate. I feel his eyes on me the entire time, curious, and my skin burns all over.
"What's yours?" He asks. "Your business?" I freeze for the smallest moment before I resume scrubbing the plate with soap. He doesn't know what happened. Only you do.
"Obviously nothing." I force a lopsided smile. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not dead."
"Who says that all lost souls are dead?" He's close enough that, if he were alive, I would be able to feel the warmth from his skin, the whisper of his breath on the back of my neck. I try not to shiver as I turn around and face his bright gaze. There's no judgment there, and I almost wish there was. That way, it would be so much easier to feel mad at him. "I told you that I think you're here for a reason, and I want to find out what that is."
"Because I'm a charity case, right?" I shake my head. "Because Sarah is right, and my life is so fucked up that the only place I belong is the grim reaper's waiting room."
Death flinches, and I immediately feel like the world's biggest asshole. "Death, I'm sorry. I'm just...overwhelmed." I look at the floor. "Mem told me you don't like to be called that."
"It's okay. Trust me, I've been called a lot worse by people who are a whole lot angrier than you." When I look up again, Death's mouth is curled in a teasing smile. How does he do that? Make me feel like everything will be okay even when I'm losing my mind and acting like an asshole? "Let's just start over, okay?"
"Okay." I take a deep breath, and my muscles unclench a little. "Good idea. How should we do that?"
"Well, for starters, let's make an agreement." Death crosses his arms over his (extremely well-defined) chest. "You can stay in my house as long as you like. I will answer your questions with full honesty, I will treat you with total dignity and respect, and I will stand up for you if the other residents become nasty."
"Okay." It seems too perfect that he would offer me so much for free. I feel my pulse start to quicken. "Under what conditions?"
"No conditions. Just that you assist with chores and the renovation when you can." His eyes dip to his arms. "And that you allow me to help you with your unfinished business."
I close my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. He really won't let this go, will he? But in the back of my mind, I realize that there can't be any harm in Death unearthing my deep-rooted issues – especially because there definitely aren't any. So, I hold out my hand and say, "You've got yourself a deal, Death." His returning smile is radiant, and despite the rocky start to the day, I feel myself inflating with hope. He holds out his hand just inches away from my own, and though it looks as solid as mine I know that I could never shake it.
"You said complete and total honesty, right?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"I hope you don't make me regret that," Death says, but he's smiling. "What is it that you want to know?"
"Many things, but most importantly–" I step back and wave my arm in a long motion to indicate his body "–why the hell does Death look like an underwear model?"
"I do?" Death raises his arms and looks down at himself, surprised, as though I told him that he'd dropped ketchup on his shirt.
"You don't know what you look like?" I ask, shocked.
He shrugs. "I know my natural appearance, but for the sake of my residents I take whatever form they find most desirable. I don't look the same to any two people."
"Oh." I feel like an idiot. Of course Death isn't a model. He just looks like one — which you won't hear me complaining about.
To my horror – or horrible pleasure, I can't tell which – Death's eyelids droop and the corner of his mouth curls upwards in a seductive sneer. "So I should really be asking you, Cara Rossi: why do I look like an underwear model?"
"Oh, shut up." I roll my eyes and walk away as if to avoid his obvious teasing, but mostly I hope that he didn't see the redness in my face. Even as his laughter follows me through the kitchen door and into the front room, the burning in my center has yet to subside.