Most of the people in the room are in street clothes. Two cowgirls and an older woman wearing a housecoat and slippers are playing bingo. There’s a blonde sitting alone at a card table, wearing a light blue slip, with her head down on her crossed arms, like she’s so relaxed, she’s zenned out. All of them look so normal that I can’t begin to guess why they’re here.
“It was a pleasure, Miss Marfa,” Clint says as he moves to a small table and joins the women playing cards. The cowgirls stand to greet him, and from the height of their hair and size of their belt buckles, it looks like they ran afoul at a rodeo. Or maybe they were at a backyard barbecue and fighting words were exchanged, like when Aunt Sissy opened a can of whup-ass on Cousin Jr.’s wife for saying Aunt Sissy’s old dog looked like roadkill and smelled worse. It happens to be true, but no one gets away with insulting Aunt Sissy’s dog—or the Aggies or her Frito pie, come to think of it.
If I die, I don’t know how much I’ll miss family barbecues, but I am going to miss Frito pie, Texas sheet cake, Little Debbie Nutty Bars, Dr Pepper, and such.
“Television viewin’ is provided by Paradise Inc. and includes such favorites as 7th Heaven, Heaven Help Us, Made in Heaven, and Beetlejuice. Schedulin’ is listed in the drop-down menu.” The golfer points his club at the aquarium. “The reflectin’ pool is strictly first come, first serve and offers hologram imagery from religious scenes throughout history.”
I look at the television and the aquarium and ask, “What if you’re an atheist?”
“You’re in for a shock, I can tell you.”
I reckon that makes sense. “Why are some people in regular clothes and some have on hospital gowns?”
“That is determined by what a patient was wearin’ when they arrived.” The golfer thumps his club on the floor. “I need all y’all’s attention. This is our newest guest, Miss Marfa,” he announces.
The other “guests” smile, greet me with a welcoming howdy, or give a little wave. They all seem friendly enough, except for the blonde in the blue slip, who sits straight up and outright laughs. I guess she’s not zenned out after all. Strands of ash- and honey-colored hair slide across her face and chin. The kind of ash and honey blonde that doesn’t come from a box, Supercuts, or the Do or Dye. I don’t need to see her face to know she is beautiful. The kind of beautiful that comes from genetics and money. Her long fingers and pink nails rake through her hair and she says, all hoity-toity, “Good God, that’s a hideous name,” and I wish I could argue with her.
An elderly woman with a white pouf of hair touches my arm. “Don’t pay her any mind, Miss Marfa. Some people are just cracky and notional.” She’s wearing a hospital gown and orthopedic socks, and she tells me her name is Miz Pearl. I follow her to a baby-blue couch across the room, and I’m quickly surrounded by her friends. Most have old-lady names like Pearl, and all want to know what happened to me. They ask the names of the doctors who’ve worked on me and about my coma and Glasgow score. I can’t answer because I don’t even know.
“I’m a three,” Pearl tells me. “Stroke. It won’t be long now.”
I meet Brittany Larson (four-wheeler accident), who looks like she’s my age and the reason I got stuck with Marfa. Then there’s Valentina (fell off a pyramid at cheer camp), who’s missing one purple ribbon from her brown ponytails; Tommy (skateboard accident and the reason Clint is Clint); and Portland (allergic reaction to a rattlesnake bite while hiking Lost Dog Trail). And me, Brittany Lynn Snider, a.k.a. Marfa (rolled her momma’s minivan), almost died on her way to a Tinder date.
4
The title 90 Minutes in Heaven sounds like a porno flick, but Tommy and I seem to be the only two of the same mind.
“Ninety minutes? I can get it done in ten or under,” he says with a smile. “Then what am I gonna do for the next eighty? Talk about feelin’s?”
I’m the only one who laughs, and I figure the older folks don’t get it and the others are afraid of committing blasphemy.
The golfer shows up to tell me Momma’s arrived, and I meet her in my room. She’s pale and her cheeks are flushed, and she takes one look at my body and bursts into raw tears that flood me with sorrow and guilt.
My momma cries about everything. It doesn’t matter if she feels sad or happy or proud. It doesn’t matter if she’s feeling heartache over an ASPCA commercial or bad like when she fries someone’s hair.
No matter what, I hate to see her cry, but more than that, I hate to be the cause of her tears. Normally, I’d hug her and promise anything to make it stop, but I can’t. All I can do is lightly put my hand on her shoulder and hope I don’t zap her like I did with the nurse earlier. I wait a few seconds, but there are no gold and blue pops, and the only whoosh comes from the ventilator pushing oxygen into my lungs.
“My baby,” she cries, carefully touching the scratches on
the back of my free hand.
I rub my palm across her back and wish I could feel the warmth of her touch. I wish she could feel the comfort of mine. “Don’t cry, Momma,” I whisper, but she doesn’t hear me.
We’ve never had much, but she always went out of her way to make me feel special. When I graduated sixth grade, we marked the occasion at the Dairy Queen with chili dogs and Dr Pepper floats. DQ has always been our place to celebrate, even when I only received a green ribbon at cheer tryouts in the tenth grade. We celebrated with chili fries and Buster Bars when I passed my boards and got my cosmetology license, too.
Momma always makes me Texas-shaped waffles on my birthday and a flag cake on the Fourth of July. She’s a strong believer in God and that Texans are just a bit better than other people. She believes in the Marfa ghost lights, and that Yardley English Rose perfume covers the stink of Aqua Net.
Tears drip from her cheeks, and she bows her head to pray. “Oh Holy Lord, my maker and my protector. You reign on high above me and are worthy of praise.” The golfer was right about strong emotions draining my energy. It flows out of me in visible waves, and I lay my cheek on her shoulder. She tells God that she accepts his higher plan for me—but then she bargains like a horse trader. “Heal my Brittany and I’ll spend more time at the Agave Festival this year, sharin’ my faith story and handin’ out Bibles to sinners,” she says. “I know I have to work on forgivin’ and forgettin’ and with Jesus’s help, I’ll be real civil to Pudge the next time I see him.” She pauses a moment before she adds, “And Floozy Face.” If I wasn’t so tired, I’d smile. I sit on the edge of the bed to rest and feel myself waver between earth and the spirit realm. Like the golfer said, I simply start to drift.
“I’ll give up chili Cheetos with Frank’s RedHot. Lil’ Debbie Oatmeal Cremes, too.”
Wow, she must be serious.
“And fornication with Jorge Espinoza.”
What did she say? I’m almost gone now.
“I know it’s wrong to sin in the back of his taco truck. Especially on Sunday.”