MB Short Story: Early Retirement (Kenna Version)

                “Your face is perfect for the job,” Death said, clapping her skeletal hands together in satisfaction. “You’re hired.”

                “Looks are the only requirement for becoming a Grim Reaper?” Kenna asked.

                “Well, no,” Death confessed, “but if I’m hiring employees, they might as well be eye candy, right?” She leaned in close enough that Kenna could see the back of her skull through her empty eye sockets. “You, I like because you’re inscrutable. Inscrutability is a good ability to have when you’re have to tell people that yeah, they died, and no, you’re not allowed to give spoilers about what comes next.”

                “What does come next?” Kenna asked.

                “Spoilers,” Death replied without missing a beat. “Now, let’s talk compensation.”

                “Compensation?”

                “Job benefits,” Death clarified. “Payment consists of one soul, living or dead, to be brought to your temporary dwellings in Purgatory until your contract expires two centuries from now, at which point you both get to pass on to your intended afterlives.”

                Although her skull wasn’t expressive, Kenna felt as if Death were smiling.

                “It’s a great offer,” Death said. “Work for me, and you essentially get another two-hundred years with your loved one. So, who do you want me to bring?”

                Dark smoke coalesced around one skeletal hand, transforming into black parchment that Death perused with missing eyes.

                “It says here that your spouse is still alive,” Death notes. “I can bring them over a little early if they’re your choice.”

                Kenna shook her head. “I don’t want to take them away from our family early,” she said. “Even if we’re separated after death, I know that we’ll find each other again.”

                “Damn, kid, that’s romantic,” Death said.

                Kenna chuckled at her words. How long had it been since anyone had called her ‘kid’?

                “Guess that answers the same question for other still-living family members, then,” Death continues. “Hmmm . . . what about your best friend? Looks like Glitch died three years ago after . . .” Death choked on a laugh. “Wow. Seriously? And I here I thought that I’d seen it all, given since I’ve been around since creation of the universe and all.”

                “Glitch was always a risktaker when it came to her experiments.”

                “You’re not kidding,” Death replied. “What a way to go. I’m just shocked that she somehow managed to survive to age seventy-nine.” She shakes her skull in bewilderment. “Bring her back, and she might be the first ghost to figure out how to accidentally die again. Too much of a risk, sorry.”

                “You said that I could have any soul as my companion,” Kenna reminded her.

                “Exceptions exist,” Death reluctantly divulged with a sigh. “Some mortals are too dangerous to bring back, sorry. Man, I haven’t had to reject a companion soul since the sixteen hundreds.” Her skull tilts to the side. “You would’ve liked Tycho. He was one of my best Reapers before passing on, but he wanted to bring back his pet moose, which I obviously couldn’t accommodate.”

                “Animals are outside your domain?” Kenna asked, because the possibility that they might not possess souls didn’t even occur to her.

                “No, I can bring animals back as well,” Death answered. “But no mounts. I made that concession for Caligula, and people still go around saying that ‘Death rides a pale horse.’ I refuse to let rumors circulate that Death rides a moose.”

                “Makes sense,” Kenna agreed. “In that case, I know who I want brought back.”

                Time flew when you were younger, but it crawls agonizingly slowly these days. The nursing home that you’re in provides the best of everything, but you can no longer feel the softness of the bed nor silkiness of the sheets. Only the long, painful drag of each breath through the tube leading from your nose to the tank at your bedside.

                Your family and friends visited again this evening, like they do every day. Their hugs were longer this time, their goodbyes more tender. Everyone knows that the end is coming.

                About damn time.

                In the decade since your wife passed away, you’ve managed to experience joy. You’ve found fulfillment in travel, in pets, in friends, and even learned how to speak a new language from classes at the senior center after you had to move to assisted living (Kylie, in the apartment next to yours, says that your accent is terrible). But you’re tired now.

                And you miss Kenna.

                Your faded memory isn’t what it once was, but everything has suddenly become sharper and clearer these past few days since the stroke. Behind closed eyes, you can see Kenna standing in a threshold, wearing nothing but a towel and holding a foamy toothbrush. You feel her hand holding yours in the darkness, leading you down an unending passageway. You hear her voice, calling out to you from that old mustang, saying that . . .

                “It’s time to go. Are you ready?”

                You open your eyes but are unable to make out anything but a blurry form. Gentle, familiar hands help put on your glasses.

                Her silver hair is black again, and she’s missing her own wire-frame spectacles that she started wearing in her late sixties. Your wife looks twenty-five, but her smile towards you contains all the love and shared experiences of the fifty years that you two spent together.

                “What took so long?” you rasp, the words burning your parched throat. The IV in your arm can only do so much. “I missed you.”

                “I missed you, too,” Kenna replies. “It’s why I’m retiring early—so that we can go together.”

                She sits down on the edge of your bed, although it doesn’t dip at her weight.

                “Are you a ghost?” you croak. “Do I get to become hot again when I die, too?”

                She smiles, tenderly brushing a lock of white hair out of your eyes. “You’re already perfect,” she whispers. “You’ve always been perfect.”

                You snort, which sets off a rattling coughing. “That’s not what you claimed when I bought that magenta sofa,” you accuse once you can almost breathe again.

                “The one you got after we moved back to Chicago?” Kenna laughs. “I said that you were perfect, dear, not your sense of interior design.”

                “Annie and Cass loved that couch,” you retort.

                “They did,” Kenna agrees. “They were so old by then that they barely moved off it. Speaking of which . . .” She snaps her fingers together, and two familiar shih-tzus appear atop you—although you can’t feel their weight upon your chest. Their bows bob as they desperately pepper your slack cheeks with decades worth of missed kisses, fluffy tails wagging at warp speed.

                Wetness leaks out the corners of your eyes. “I missed you, girls.”

                “They missed you, too,” Kenna says, “in case you couldn’t tell.” She squeezes your hand, and you look down to where she’s holding it. Her hand is warm unlike yours. Your fingers, knuckles swollen with arthritis, twine with hers, but your hand is so cold. So very, very cold. Everything is cold.

                You rise from the bed, leaving the coldness behind.

                “Will the dogs be coming with us?” you ask Kenna in a voice that’s no longer weak.

                “No.” Kenna’s lips quirk up in a half smile. “Death’s adopting them as her condition for my resignation.”

                She kisses you one final time, and together you move on.