The Day After the Last Day
by Charles C. Cole
All things considered, Ollie Wilmann had been relationship-free his entire life and, frankly, was looking for a change. He envied the warm smiles and giddy laughter of gregarious strangers in public places and wanted desperately to experience these things for himself. But he was just too shy, intractably so. There was a self-imposed impenetrable barrier between him and almost everyone he had ever known. But all those lonely days were about to drift behind him, with death.
Ollie believed firmly in the afterlife and the opportunity for second chances. He believed in karma and earning heavenly rewards. He’d lived a decently long and decently comfortable life, had routinely and generously given to charities, had attended church regularly, had been a good son, had rarely lost his temper and rarely exceeded the posted speed limit.
And now prostate cancer, the same cancer that had taken his father fifteen years before, was back for a withering repeat performance. He’d fought gamely at first, while his mother had gamely cheered him on, but the cancer had been aggressive and worn him down.
One day his mother stayed close by his side, more clingy than usual, like she knew their time together was ending. “The next day,” he opened his eyes, after an unusually deep sleep. Everything was brighter. He was no longer in the modest room of the long-term facility for veterans. He was in a large soft chair before an imposing executive-type desk. There were no walls, just whiteness. He could hear unseen children giggling and playing not too far off.
A beautiful woman about his age sat before him, poised. She was radiant, and familiar. Everything about her glowed: her eyes, her face, her shimmering white dress, even the air around her.
“Ollie!” She seemed genuinely pleased to see him.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”
“Relax! You made it. This is home now. Do you want to review your recent life-story first or hear about what awaits?”
“I don’t need to review my life, if it’s alright.”
“It’s part of the intake process. It’s not painful or embarrassing, I promise. Management believes newcomers can’t let go — can’t fully acclimate — until they acknowledge where they came from.”
“I’m not here to break the rules,” said Ollie.
“Thank you,” said the woman, relieved. “This is new for me. I appreciate your willingness to observe protocol.”
“But I was wondering...”
“Yes?” She wasn’t impatient with him. He could tell she wanted to help.
“I was alone, you know, where I came from, most of my life. Will it be different here?”
“Is that what you want, to not be alone?”
“I think so,” he said, staring into her eyes.
“In that case, Ollie Wilmann, you’ve come to the right person.” If it was possible for her to beam brighter...
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Do you recognize me?”
“Should I?”
“Fifth grade. School outing to Bryant’s Pond. I sat toward the back of the bus with Rosemary Nenchek. You sat in the front seat with Mr. Stoddard.” Her glow seemed to dim as Ollie struggled to remember.
Even after five-plus decades, her eyes were unchanged. “Liberty Michaud?”
“Older but wiser.” She dipped her chin in imitation of a bow.
“That was so long ago.”
“Peter Carrol told me, years later, after you’d moved away, that you had a crush on me. You didn’t know I had a crush on you, too. I was painfully shy back then. Afraid of boys.”
“You? You weren’t shy in junior high.”
“No, you’re right. I came out of my shell, but it took a lot of prodding by my parents, my grandmother and my big sister. And it was worth it. I loved high school.”
“That makes one of us,” said Ollie.
“I still noticed you, but I was incredibly busy, never alone.”
“That’s true.”
“I won’t lie: I was very sad to leave my old world. Did you know I got married and had kids?”
“You always loved kids,” said Ollie, recalling a time in his youth when the world seemed to hold such potential.
“Two. They’re the kind who will leave society a better place.”
“You must be very proud.”
“Couldn’t be more,” she said. “My marriage, on the other hand, had highs and lows. In the end, my husband found someone else. I told him he should follow his heart, and I would do the same. But a nasty car accident one winter delayed my plans. So, when this opportunity came around...”
“You volunteered to meet me?” he asked, freshly amazed at his circumstances.
“I couldn’t wait a minute more.”
“I could have changed, become someone bitter.”
“Not the Ollie I remember, you couldn’t. Your hair was so curly. When it came to skipping stones, you were second to none. I wish you could see the poems I wrote you.” She laughed briefly. “Maybe it’s better you can’t. They weren’t very good. You were the writer, not me, for the school paper, the school literary magazine, in college, and that silly column for your town paper.”
“How did you know?”
“Your mother and I were pen pals for a long time.” She looked down demurely.
“She never said anything.”
“I was married. You were committed to being single.”
“I wasted a lot of time.”
“No, you wrote. Maybe somehow you thought you couldn’t have both.”
“You’re too kind.”
“I have good news,” Liberty said. “You know how things get smaller, the farther away you travel? Those days are behind you. Today, Ollie Wilmann, is the first day of the rest of your afterlife.” With that, Liberty stood, stepped around the desk and held out her hands. “Shall I give you the cook’s tour?”
“If you insist.” He stood. He expected to find his legs trembling, but they were surprisingly fine.
Liberty took him by one hand and slipped the other around his lower back. He stiffened.
“Too much?”
“I’ll get used to it,” he said, and they walked off.
Copyright © 2023 by Charles C. Cole
