FICTION
Afterlife
Carmen’s eyebrows shot up as she leaned forward across the small table. “The afterlife, Ted? You’re asking me if I believe in the afterlife?”
Ted squirmed uneasily on the small chair and glanced around the coffee shop patio. “Right. Uh, is that a bad question?”
“You do realize that ‘the’ is a definite article? The very question implies that it’s a fact.”
“Ok. Well … do you … believe … in the afterlife?”
“Isn’t that like asking if I believe in the moon?”
“Uh, not really. We can see the moon.” Ted gestured vaguely upward and smiled, then let his hand drop onto the table.
Carmen twisted the lid from her green tea and took a long drink before replying. “Yes. We can see the moon. It’s a fact. But your question implies that life after death is also a fact.” She leaned forward again. “Is it a fact, Ted?”
“Look,” said Ted, a weak smile playing about his mouth as he studied Carmen’s face. She wasn’t scowling. Neither was she smiling. She stared straight into his eyes. Ted scratched his nose. “Can we start over? I apologize if I asked a bad question. That was one of the suggested get-to-know-one-another questions on the dating site. I just ….” He reached for his rapidly cooling coffee.
“Sure. Let’s start over.” Carmen smiled. “I’ll ask you a question. Do you believe in an afterlife?”
Ted’s brow wrinkled. He started to speak and then stopped, tilting his head to one side, “Uh …” He tilted his head to the other side. “Isn’t that the same question?”
“No. It isn’t.”
Ted sat back and folded his arms. A couple on the other side of the patio got up to leave. He watched as they pushed in their chairs and walked away hand in hand. Ted looked down at his shoes then across the parking lot to the couple getting into a blue Honda. His eyes followed the car as it backed out and circled the building to the exit. Ted could hear some kind of classical music through their open window. He looked back at Carmen.
She smiled. “Well?”
“Oh. Right. Do you want to know if I believe in Heaven?”
“Is that what you think an afterlife would be?”
“Well, I guess. My grandmother passed away a couple months ago, and everybody in the family talked about seeing her again someday.”
Carmen’s face softened. “I’m sorry about your grandmother.”
“Oh, it’s ok. She was ready, I guess.”
“How so?”
“You know. She was old; she had lived a full life. She was a good person.”
“I see. So being a good person made her ready? And now you believe she lives somewhere else? In an afterlife?”
Ted took another sip and frowned at his now-cold drink. “Carmen, can we talk about something else?”
Another couple emerged from the door of the coffee shop and sat on the couch behind Ted. He could hear their low voices and strained to understand what they were saying. Carmen drank some tea.
“Maybe you’re right,” she ventured. “We should talk about something else. Do you have siblings?”
“Yes,” said Ted. “I’m the youngest in my family. I have one older brother and a sister who died when she was a child.”
“Ah. Do you remember your sister? Were you very old when you lost her?”
“I have a vague memory of my mother crying. It was scary for me as a child of four to see my mother crying. I really haven’t thought about it in a long time. Now that you mention it, I guess I’ve always assumed I’d see my sister someday, you know?”
“I think I know what you mean. You assume she still exists somewhere. That she isn’t completely gone.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“So you do believe in an afterlife? Right?” Carmen smiled gently.
“Are you finished with your tea? Want me to throw the bottle away?”
“No, thank you. I’ll add it to my recycle bin at home.”
Ted walked across the patio and pushed his empty cup into an almost full can. The couple on the couch sat close together, deep in conversation. As Ted passed, they didn’t raise their eyes. It was as if he didn’t exist. Ted paused for a moment to study them but then realized Carmen was looking at him. He returned to the table, scraping his chair on the concrete as he sat down.
“So you recycle. I should probably get into that.”
“I do,” Carmen replied. “I may not be able to save the entire planet, but I think I should do what I can.”
“What is that slogan? Replace, Reuse, Recycle? Something like that.”
“It’s Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.”
“Oh, right. About the same thing.”
“Not at all the same thing. To replace means to get another, right? Reducing is cutting down on the stuff we use—not getting another.” Carmen leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And you know what recycling is like? It’s like an afterlife for your stuff.” She held up the empty bottle for emphasis. “This bottle will not be lost. It will be changed into something else—a new form. A new life!” Carmen leaned back in her chair with a triumphant laugh. The couple on the couch turned to look at her. Ted saw them in his peripheral vision as he stood up.
“I’m sorry to cut this short, Carmen. I just realized I need to make a call. It was good to meet you in person. Uh ….”
“Sure, Ted. Maybe we’ll try again one day soon.”
And maybe not, she said to his retreating form. Ted closed the door of his small pickup and drove away without a backward glance. Carmen set her bottle back on the table, removed a small journal and a pen from her purse, and contemplated the sky.
Sherry Poff writes in and around Ooltewah, Tennessee. She holds an M.A. in Writing from The University of Tennessee and is member of the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild. Some of Sherry’s recent work has appeared in Heart of Flesh, Speckled Trout Review and Anthology of Appalachian Writers.
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