Death & Other Love Stories

Emily dressed with care that morning. Appearances matter, she reasoned, no matter who you're dealing with. She knew she was lucky just to have gotten the appointment. A recent fire that killed hundreds of New York City residents had people clamoring for their chance to face the judge, prove their point and win their case. In fact, she had submitted her application several days after the fire. Emily considered it a good sign that she had been chosen. Applications were looked over carefully. He must have decided she deserved a shot to plead her case.

    Navy blue dress, appropriate length. Nothing that made her look like a nun, but nothing too provocative. It was her best shot. She didn't know what was appropriate. There was nothing in the packet that had arrived the previous day to explain how to dress, although there were plenty of other rules and regulations mentioned. Accessories. Emily decided on a necklace that her husband had given her for their fifth wedding anniversary, a thin gold chain with a heart dangling from it. Her wedding ring, as well as her sizable engagement ring was a no-brainer.
 
    Emily frowned at herself in the mirror. Since the incident, as she liked to call it, she hadn't showered or brushed her teeth. She had barely eaten, and had lost at least ten pounds. Three weeks. The bags under her eyes were nearly blue. Make-up would fix that. No time to shower. She sprayed on perfume and applied some blush so that her face would have some color. She had never looked so pale. Large eyes. Just a touch of tan eye shadow to bring out her rich brown eye color. Her hair was greasy and probably smelled bad as well; she scraped it into a bun, no time to do straighten it or curl it. She hadn't dyed it in weeks. Brown roots were appearing where blond had been two months before. Two months. Time only had two periods now. Before It Happened and After It Happened.
 
    Low navy heels, her purse (triple checked to make sure that all the necessary paperwork was in the file folder that she had prepared last night) and she was out the door. Being late resulted in an automatic refusal. She couldn't miss her chance. She was glad that her appointment was set for 2:00PM: the city was relatively quiet, no one fighting over cabs. She hailed one quickly and settled back into the seat. An unlucky friend of hers had been stuck with a 5:00PM rush hour appointment. Hadn't won her case anyway. Emily wasn't surprised. Her friend's case was weak. Not hers though. She was convinced she could win. She HAD to win.
 
    "Where are you headed?" asked her cabdriver. He barely glanced her way. She used to turn heads. Well maybe she would again someday. Not that it mattered anymore. Nothing mattered but him. "Lady," the driver repeated. "I can't sit here all day. So where ya going?"
 
    "The New York City Court of Appeals and Resolutions," Emily said. "The branch on the upper west side. By Central Park." The cab driver finally turned to look at her. His eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better, than closed it. Thin lips and his teeth were stained with tobacco. Yet for some reason, he put her at ease. He had a wife, she bet, couple of children, maybe even grand-kids; he looked old enough.
 
    "A lot of my buddies have been busy taking people there this week," he said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. "You're my first though."
 
    "The fire," Emily said. "It's going to be a busy month for them." Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Something that living people could do. People with blood heating their bodies, hearts that pumped this blood through their bodies, organs that cooperated with each other and made the human body function. Amazing, she thought, that it could just shut down. So quickly too! One second could change everything. Terrifying. The driver weaved expertly through traffic, eager to remove her from his car. He whistled a song she didn't recognize, then quickly did. Some days, she hummed along, when I'm awfully low, and the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you...
 
    "Well, here we are," said the cab driver, pulling up to the curb outside the courthouse. She blinked. The ride seemed to have lasted two seconds.
 
    A line of people waited on the concrete steps. She had passed the building before, waves of sorrow passing through her when she would look up at the lines of hopeful people, people from all over the world. They'd be crying, or praying. She fondly remembered the days when gaining a couple of pounds was cause for panic, when she was angry because her local newsstand ran out of her brand of cigarettes. Before It Happened.
 
    It's sad, she thought that only tragedy could make one appreciate what mattered. She took her place in line. It didn't matter anyway. Her name would be called when it was her turn. Speakers dotted the stairs, making sure that one would hear their name called. Many of the people who waited didn't even have appointments. Showed up, prayed for someone else to miss an appointment. Almost like being on stand-by waiting for an airplane. She had only heard of one appeal being won by an individual who did not have an appointment. The relief that must have swelled through that person's body when they found out they won! Decisions were made quickly after all. You had 15 minutes to make your case. The outcome was decided within five minutes. Things had to move quickly. She was not the only one who wanted her husband resurrected.

    An older woman in front of her coughed, shuffled her paperwork. Like many older people, her gray hair had thinned, leaving a sizable bald spot on the back of her head, covered only by thin wisps of hair. Emily hoped she wasn't here to plead for the life of her husband. Those kinds of cases, she reasoned, were a waste of time. The woman had to be in her 70s. Her husband had probably been just as old. Emily was surprised that she had even been granted a chance to plead her case. However, she smiled reassuringly at the woman. Love was love, she reasoned. It has no age limit. The woman smiled back, briefly.
 
    "Hello," said Emily, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I suppose you're as nervous as I am!" The old woman nodded, suddenly grateful for someone to talk to.
 
    "Am I ever!," she replied. "I have never been so nervous in my whole life. Do you think I'm dressed okay?" She stepped back so that Emily could take in her full appearance. Typical old lady outfit, Emily thought and couldn't help but crack a smile. A crisp tan pantsuit that didn't fit properly, a silk scarf wrapped gently around her wrinkled neck. Old lady make-up too. Blush that was too dark and made her face seem sunken in. Her eyes were a watery blue behind thick glasses.
 
    "You look perfect," Emily assured her. "I was nervous myself, you know, about what to wear. All those rules and not one thing about proper attire."
 
    "Well you look lovely," said the old woman. "My name is Mabel, by the way." She surveyed the concrete steps. "Looks like people dressed in any old way!"
 
    Emily, who had been distracted trying to determine if she had ever met a Mabel before, looked around. The old woman was right. From tiny mini-skirts to sagging jeans, dresses, suits. Outfits from all over the world, saris and kilts. One woman even had her wedding gown on. Over-dramatic or nice touch? Emily decided it was over-dramatic. We get it, she thought. You married him. Now he's dead. Why not drag the bridesmaids along with you? Relax, she cautioned herself. The fact that a stranger was wearing a wedding gown does not, in any way, affect your case. Though for all she knew, it did.
 
    "Who are you here for?" asked Mabel, feeling around in her old lady purse for a Kleenex. She blew her nose. Emily hoped she wasn't going to cry. She herself was trying desperately hard to hold back tears. Death judged the cases based on logic, not emotions. Hysterical crying in the courtroom might hurt her case. After all, you were supposed to prove that winning the resurrection of a loved one would enhance society, not just yourself. Selfishness would get you nowhere.
 
    "My husband," said Emily. When you're in there, talk about his work as a doctor, she reminded herself. The lives he had saved, the lives he had touched. She had over 100 letters of recommendation from former patients of his. Excellent letters. She had to win. She just had to. Her husband was important! Had been important, she corrected herself. "His name is Peter. Was Peter. His name was Peter."
 
    "Nothing like romantic love, is there?" asked Mabel. "I was married for 45 years myself. He was a quality person, my Harold. Not a day goes by when I don't miss him or think of him."
 
    "Well no wonder you're fighting for him," said Emily. "I sure hope you win!" Mabel looked confused, then understanding lit her eyes.
 
    "Oh, I'm not here for Harold," she said. "Is that what you thought? Absolutely not. He was 67 when he died! He lived a long life. He served 20 years in the army, you know. He was an engineer after that. Oh, he was a happy man. The man barely ever even caught a cold, he was strong as an ox. A heart attack got him in the end. But it was quick. He didn't suffer. I couldn't ask for more."
 
    "But his death was a sudden death," argued Emily, wondering why she had so drastically changed her position on an old woman wanting her husband back in the past ten minutes. "You have a chance! You say he wasn't sick at all." Death only granted resurrection for those who had died suddenly. Any illness, however brief, was automatically disqualified, along with suicides. No exceptions.
 
    "He was not really young," said Mabel. "The older you are, the harder it is to win the appeal! Plus, I think it would be selfish. All that time he had, that we had. His death broke my heart, but it wasn't a tragedy, not in the sense of what I feel a tragedy is."
 
    "What do you consider a tragedy?" asked Emily.
 
    "My grandson died two week ago," said Mabel. "Only five years old. Kidnapped, then murdered. He was found in a dumpster, not far from here actually. My little Nathan. He's all I had left. My daughter died three years ago, left me full custody. She never did know his father." She stopped, letting a few tears trickle down her face and used her Kleenex to pat them dry, not wanting to smudge her rouge. "We were feeding some ducks in Central Park. I took my eyes off of him for two seconds. Worst mistake of my life."
 
    "Jesus," Emily whispered. She felt ashamed. An assumption about trying to resurrect an old husband, when it was really the life of her little grandchild that she wanted back. A little boy who had lost his Mom. Which also meant that Mabel had survived the death of her daughter. Emily was afraid to ask the obvious.
 
    "You're probably wondering why I didn't appeal for my daughter's life," said Mabel, reading Emily's mind. "I knew I might need my chance for an appeal more, one day. It's not as if I didn't love her! Of course I loved her! She was my only child, for goodness sake. But she buried herself, I think. A drug overdose, heroin. I know that you're allowed to appeal for an overdose, but I thought it was unfair. Suicide appeals are not allowed, after all. What is serious drug abuse but a slow suicide? A person is only allowed to appeal one death, you know. Doesn't matter if you win or lose! And He only grants a certain number of appeals each year."
 
    Emily knew. She suddenly wondered if she was being selfish. No, she decided. I need my husband. I'm dying without him. The community needs him. Her mind wandered. Maybe if she lost her appeal, she could kill herself. She had no children after all. No one who really needed her.
 
    "Do you remember when Death began allowing resurrections?" asked Mabel, snapping Emily out of her train of thought. "When it wasn't an appeal but a sale? How many rich people began buying their loved ones lives back! And I will never forget the uproar, either. From New York to Japan! My goodness, how the protesters took to the streets. I remember the headlines that the newspapers would run. And when Death released that first statement, threatened to call the whole thing off, no more resurrections, period. I wonder what made Him decide to do things this way?"
 
    "I remember," said Emily. "I think He decided it was just fairer this way. It is fairer, after all. I mean..." Emily abruptly stopped speaking when she heard her name called over the loudspeaker. Her heart began to pound, she felt like she might faint. "That's me," she said. Mabel squeezed her hand.
 
    "You've gone white as a sheet," said Mabel. "Breathe in deeply. And good luck! Maybe you're right and Death is fair!"
 
    "Thank you," mumbled Emily, climbing the steps to the wide double doors. Her legs felt like they were made of lead. She was glad she hadn't eaten that morning; there was no doubt she would have thrown up any food. However, she didn't want to pass out. She quickly fished a piece of hard candy out of her purse. A little sugar might buy her the time she needed. People watched her as she passed. Some looked nervous, others impatient. They all stepped back to allow her room. She went to pull open one of courthouse doors, but before she could someone shoved them open from the inside, and ran past her, nearly knocking her over. She held on to the door to keep from falling and looked back. A man, middle aged. Sobbing, his hands over his face. Appeal denied, obviously. Her stomach lurched again. She stepped inside the courthouse.
 
    She had expected something gloomy: statues of gargoyles perhaps, with bleak gray walls. Instead, a grand lobby greeted her. Marble floors, walls that looked as if they had been paved in gold. The ceiling was high: at least two stories and had skylights, which filled the room with sunlight and made the golden walls shine. Circular stairs, leading to the second floor of the courthouse. A metal detector, as if this was a regular courthouse, was to her left. About ten security guards surrounded the lobby. How in the world did one get a job here, she wondered. Who conducted the job interview? What qualifications were needed? Did you get a lunch break, sick days? Talk to Death on a regular basis? Maybe even about mundane subjects, things you might discuss with another boss: the weather, the increasing cost of riding the subway.

    She dropped her purse in a blue basket, shoved it through the x-ray machine, and walked through the metal detector. She had made sure to wear nothing that could set it off. She wanted to get in as quickly as possible. Sure enough, no beeping. The guard nodded at her approvingly, handed her the large purse she had been carrying. His name tag said "Raymond" on it. His face was hard. Emily supposed that hers would be too after working here for awhile.
 
    "Appointment card and identification," said Raymond. She handed him both. He looked them over carefully. "Okay. Jimmy will escort you to the courtroom," said Raymond, gesturing for a younger man to approach them. Jimmy was obviously new to the job. His eyes were still nervous, vulnerable. A slight shakiness was in his gestures. Emily was 33 years old. This Jimmy kid was 25, tops.
 
    "Right this way," said Jimmy. He began walking up the stairs. She had never seen a large courthouse with only one courtroom. Or one judge. And no chance of a jury. There were 19 stairs. Each one that Emily walked up made her heart race faster. She grabbed on to the banister, afraid of falling. "Are you okay?" asked Jimmy. "Are you going to faint?"
 
    "I'll be fine," insisted Emily. She doubted that Death would be sympathetic to any illness. Still, she appreciated Jimmy's kindness. "You haven't worked here long, have you?" asked Emily.
 
    "That obvious, huh?" asked Jimmy and let out a nervous chuckle. "Not long, no. About a week. My family thought I was fruit loops for taking a job here. But the pay is great and the benefits...well they are incredible."

    "Is that so?" she asked.

  "Yes, ma'am," said Jimmy. "This is a hard job to get. The application process takes months. I got lucky. A friend of mine used to work here, and he gave me a high recommendation." Jimmy led her down a hallway to a wooden bench facing another intimidating set of double doors. He lowered his voice. "Not that it's an easy job," he admitted. "Most people quit within their first month. The benefits don't kick in until you've been here six months. Almost no one makes it that long. Too emotional I guess. Plenty of people who worked here committed suicide." He stopped himself, realizing he had said too much. Forced a smile. "Have a seat. The bailiff should call you in within a couple of minutes. And good luck." Jimmy  started back down the hallway.
 
    Emily thanked him and smoothed the skirt of her dress before sitting down. She could guess the benefit he was talking about...probably having a better chance of winning a loved one's resurrection. Maybe the odds went up, the percentage chance of winning. Maybe you were automatically granted a resurrection. Or maybe you could even appeal for more than one resurrection!
 
    "Jimmy," she called out before he disappeared down the stairs. "How many people have won today? Anyone?"
 
    "I'm not really allowed to say," he said. He glanced towards the double doors, fearful. Looked back at her worried face and frowned. "He's not in the best of moods today," Jimmy said finally, and then quickly disappeared around the corner, back down to the grand lobby which she would soon walk through again, either giddy with happiness or sick with grief. His footsteps echoed on the stairs, getting farther away until the only sound she could hear was the murmured conversations of the guards that were posted at either end of the hall.
 
    So Death was in a bad mood. What constituted a good mood for Death? She had heard what He looked like from people she knew, although she was aware that nothing that was said could prepare her for what she would really see. Oh, how she wished she could plead her case in a regular court, with a jury deciding. A kind jury who would see the love, the pain in her eyes and immediately grant her the one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world.
 
    Emily chewed on the inside of her lip. She didn't realize that she was shaking until she went to reach into her purse for a tranquilizer. She dry swallowed a Valium, forced herself to take a few deep breaths. The double doors opened with a loud creak. The bailiff stepped out of the courtroom.
 
    "Emily Klausner?" he questioned.
 
    "Yes, that's me," she replied, although her mouth was so dry it came out a croak. The bailiff heard her. He had probably seen people in much worse condition than she was in. She cleared her throat. Remember why you're here. "Yes, sir," she said, with more force.
 
    "Right this way," he said holding the large door so that she could get through. Again, she was asked to show her appointment card and identification. As the bailiff looked it over, she took in the room around her. The walls were paneled with rich mahogany wood, the floor had large parquet squares in a lighter shade. The judge's stand- His stand- took up the better part of one wall. A small metal table with a chair was in front of His stand and Emily felt a spark of anger shoot through her. That tiny little table for the grieving, she thought. While He stares down at you from that stand, made of the finest material on Earth, making Himself even more intimidating. Asshole.
 
    "Have a seat," said the bailiff, handing her back her ID and appointment card, which she quickly tucked back into her wallet. "He will be in shortly." The bailiff went and took his place near the His stand.
 
    A final glance around showed Emily the four armed guards that had arranged themselves in the courtroom, one in each corner. A door was to the right of His stand, the one that she assumed He would come through. Why the guards? she wondered. Not like she could attack Death if the outcome didn't go her way. Still, she supposed some people tried to hurt themselves. Maintain composure, she told herself. No matter what happens. A large plasma TV took up the wall to her right. It was the biggest TV she had ever seen: in fact, it was the size of a movie screen.
 
    Suddenly, the bailiff straightened.
 
    "Rise," he said. Emily stood shakily. Her knees felt like jello. The door to the right of the stand began to open. She waited for the bailiff to finish speaking, but apparently he was. He stood ramrod straight, looking ahead. Emily stared at the opening door, riveted. Death entered the room.
 
    For a second, all Emily could hear was a buzzing noise in her ears, black spots danced before her eyes, a sure sign that she was about to pass out. She didn't though. She steadied herself on the small table and watched as Death climbed the stairs on His stand, to the top where He took his seat.
 
    "You may sit," said the bailiff. Emily gratefully sank into her chair. Sitting cleared her head. She forced herself to stare at Him, the Grim Reaper, trying and failing to picture her husband's sweet face instead of the sight she saw. Her eyes adjusted slowly. For one wild second, she almost laughed. A cliche, she thought. What a cliche. The black hooded robe, covering whatever face He had, the hands that were merely bones, white and gleaming unnaturally against the robe. One of the bony hands held a scythe, which He leaned against the chair as he sat down: no doubt on a large, plush chair that felt nothing like the hard wooden one that Emily was sitting on.
 
    Yet the robe was not just black, she realized, but the color of the darkest night. A black so deep, so rich that she could imagine that it had been made from an abyss, a hole in the Universe. She had never seen anything so dark. It actually looked alive and the more she stared at it, the more she realized it was. Something- souls maybe?- slithered around the robe, casting small spots of fog on it. Even the fog couldn't diminish the blackness of the robe. The scythe, which was nearly the size of a small car also swam with fog, but the steel gray color of it made the swirling images more viewable. Either ghosts or souls, she realized. Faces would briefly come into focus, only to disappear and transform into other faces. Was her husband's among them?
 
    "Submit your evidence," Death told her. His voice was nothing like she pictured it to be. She had thought His voice would be gravely, or a raspy and sinister sounding whisper. In fact, it was a regular voice. Not cruel sounding exactly. Matter of fact. Yes, thought Emily, His voice sounded matter of fact. Deeper then any voice she had ever heard. The bailiff approached her and she handed him the folder, stuffed with proof that her husband deserved to live again. The bailiff turned the folder over to Death and Emily noticed that he averted his eyes. He can't look at Him, she thought. Here he is, working with Him every day yet he still can't look at Him. Death began flipping through the paperwork, methodically working His way from one page to another.
 
    Peter can't belong to Death, she thought, when he still belongs to me.
 
    "Speak," commanded Death, putting the folder down.
 
    "Your Honor," she began, and immediately wondered if she was supposed to address Him like that. How else though? Sir? Judge? He didn't correct her."Your Honor," she began again. "I am here to plead for the life of my husband, Peter Klausner.
 
    "Why?" asked Death.
 
    "Why what?" asked Emily, confused.
 
    "Why do you want him back?" asked Death. His face- whatever His face was, hidden in the hood of the black robe was directed toward her. She wondered if He was looking her in the eye, what He saw when He looked at her. She forced herself to stare back at Him directly. This was for Peter, she reminded herself.
 
    "I want him back," she replied, "because I need him. This city needs him. He is...was a wonderful doctor, loved by his patients. I love him. I'm willing to take his place, if need be. Trade my life for his."
 
    "That is not how it works," said Death. "One cannot trade their life for a loved one's life. I am not Satan. I do not collect people. I take them as they come, when it is time for them to come." He stroked the scythe slowly. "Not everyone loved him. He was murdered, correct?"
 
    "Yes," she confessed. "It was a mugging, not far from the hospital that he worked at. Peter...I don't think it was on purpose. The mugger probably panicked. Peter was the type of man who would fight a mugger, not surrender his things. We argued about that occasionally. I always told him, material things can be replaced, but your life can't be."
 
    "A truer statement was never spoken," said Death. "Was the man who murdered him put in jail?"
 
    "He was never found," said Emily. "The police are still investigating the case, but the chances of him being caught get smaller everyday."
 
    "Every person, saint or sinner comes with me when they die," said Death. "Where they go after, I cannot say. That is between them and God, although they do come back to me, if I request them. And I cannot see into the lives of the living, nor can I follow them. I cannot tell what you are thinking right now. I can only know the dead. Let us move along. You only have eight minutes left." Eight minutes, she thought. Eight.
 
    "Direct your attention to the television screen," said Death. Without hesitating, she followed his directions. The lights in the courtroom dimmed suddenly, just as the huge TV flashed on. Her eyes adjusted slowly. Stuck in a dark room with Death, she thought. The light from the TV slowly filtered into the room. Emily fixed her eyes on it. "Watch," Death commanded.
 
    An image came on the screen. At first she couldn't tell what it was. The image began to move and she realized it was a video recording of Peter as a baby. She recognized him from all the baby pictures that his mother had shown her the first time he brought her home with him. She smiled, remembering his embarrassment.
 
    "There are no secrets here in this courtroom," said Death. "Nothing about your husband is unknown to me. I now know every move he has made, from the time he was born until the second he died. I know what he felt during every moment of his life. It will all be shown to you. You will see everything. You will feel exactly what he felt at any moment. In a way, you will become him, as you watch this."
 
    Fascinated and hypnotized, Emily watched as images rapidly flashed across the TV screen. A young Peter had a birthday party, opened presents beneath a Christmas tree. He played tag with friends, he built a tree house and ran away from home so he could live in it. He grew. Adolescent Peter was shy, somewhat of a nerd. Emily watched him attend his first dance, get his first kiss. She watched as his confidence grew, as he accepted his high school's valedictorian award and decided on Columbia University to get his undergraduate degree, then New York University for medical school. He studied. Got his first serious girlfriend. Lost his virginity. Got dumped. Got his second serious girlfriend.
 
    Her emotions ran wild as they struggled to keep up with Peter's. She felt lost when his girlfriend dumped him, beamed with the joy of achievement when he graduated at the top of his class in college. She watched his father die and felt a crushing pain and anger: almost, but not quite as bad as she had been feeling these past few weeks. She felt pride as she looked in the mirror through his eyes. Daily trips to the gym had paid off. Strong, broad shoulders. Handsome, dirty blond hair with silvery blue eyes, a cleft in his chin. Only a couple of scars remained from the acne that had embarrassed him as a teenager.
 
    Suddenly, the dizzying array of images slowed. Emily watched as her image appeared on the TV screen. The day they met. Feelings of nervousness, excitement and happiness surged through her. They went on a date. Then another one. She felt love blossoming inside of her, she wanted to scream to the world how she felt. He graduated medical school, finished his residency. Pride, and fear as well. The day he finished his residency, he proposed. Nervousness spread through her, when the proposal was accepted, elation. He began his career. They married. Happiness, and a feeling of comfort spread through her. He went to work in the Emergency Room of Lennox Hill Hospital and adrenalin coursed through her body as he saved one life, then another. Pride. A beautiful apartment. A lovely wife. A fulfilling job. Happiness.
 
    The feelings, the images on the TV: they changed slowly, yet abruptly. Love turned to resentment. Contentment turned into a feeling of being trapped. When did it happen, and why? Confusion. Emily watched as her and Peter went out to dinner to celebrate their fifth anniversary. They exchanged gifts: hers, the gold necklace that she was now wearing and a watch for him. No more feelings of love now. Resentment about the money spent on the necklace, on the dinner. Making small talk with a woman he didn't even like. Emily, still trapped with his emotions looked at herself through his eyes as they ate and felt disgusted. She was certainly was no beauty anymore, that was for sure. Not as interesting as she used to be. Downright boring in fact. He wondered how much a divorce would cost. Emily felt a coldness seep through her veins as Peter's resentment grew.
 
    Time passed. Peter's resentment turned to rage, then hatred. Work was his escape. Returning home each day was torture. Emily was repulsive in his eyes. No big arguments, not really. No big troubles. What was the problem? He didn't know, and strong currents of anger and confusion were constantly pumping through his body. The anger was like a white hot stream of acid in his blood. They laid in bed together, reading. He fantasized about killing her. Lay awake, listened to her snore. Thought about smothering her with a pillow.
 
    A new intern began work at the hospital. Tina. Beautiful girl, long hair that was amber colored and always pulled back, per hospital regulations. He wondered how it looked when it was down. Eyes the color of jade. Lust. Nervousness. Peter asked her out to dinner and she accepted. An affair began. He was almost never home. Working extra hours at the hospital, he told Emily. He didn't really care if she knew. Maybe she would leave him. Lying in bed with Tina, he could forget the hell his life had become, forget that thing that waited at home for him. Eventually, Tina asked him to get a divorce. He agreed, without hesitation. Excitement. Went to see a lawyer the next day.
 
    Anger, as the lawyer told him that there was a good chance of Emily getting a hefty settlement. No prenuptial agreement. The only state in America without a no-fault divorce option. Rage and frustration. That bitch wasn't going to get a penny from him. They had no children. She didn't deserve shit. Rage. Heading over to Tina's 5th floor walk-up, excitement at seeing her, mingled with anger. Discussed his conversation with the lawyer. Tina's eyes clouded as he told her, but brightened quickly. She knew a guy, she whispered, who knew this other guy who...
 
    It was going to cost $10,000. Fear, some guilt. Did he really want her dead? What if he got caught? Tina comforted him. There was no way he would get caught. She set up a meeting. Fear, wondering if the hit-man was an undercover cop, along with excitement. Arrangements made. They would meet up after work on the following Monday. He would have all the money, in cash. Peter could pay the man half before and half when finished. Peter didn't mind. The life insurance policy that his wife had would more than make up for that.
 
    Fear. Monday morning, watching his wife get dressed for work, humming. Annoyance. Did she always have to hum? Every damn song that popped into her head, she hummed. He couldn't believe he was really doing this. Some guilt, guilt that he forced aside. Emily kissed him good bye, left. He touched his lips. Sadness, a flicker, gone just as quickly as it had come. Went to work, the day dragged on. It seemed like it would never end, but like every other day, it did. He almost never took his car to work with him, but he had that day. Popped the trunk, got the duffel bag that he usually used for his work out clothes. Slung it over his shoulder, trying to look casual. Fear, excitement. He would soon be free.
 
    Walked down the street, quickly, as if the man wouldn't show up unless Peter moved as fast as he could. The man did show up though, as planned, in a busy cafe that served Italian food. They ordered a pizza. They spoke, briefly. All plans had been discussed before. The wife was going out to dinner with a friend. The man would catch her on her way back into the building. Peter was to immediately head back to the hospital, tell them he had decided to be on-call that night.Rock solid alibi. Pride, for thinking up the idea. Fear. It wasn't too late to cancel this deal, thought Peter. He thought of Tina, his money, his life. Fuck it. The man demanded to see the money. Peter opened the duffel bag under the table, showed him. The man smiled. Peter paid the bill for the food, in cash. Left the cafe. Walked outside into a night that smelled like Spring. He would wait at least one year before marrying Tina, he decided. Any quicker than that would look suspicious. He would get a prenuptial agreement this time, for sure.
 
    A loud noise, a bang. Surprise as pain tore through his back, the smell of gunpowder. Panic. Another shot, pain and shock as he fell to the ground. He felt the duffel bag ripped from his hand, tasted concrete as his face slammed into the sidewalk. Heard a scream, from somewhere, then another one, closer this time. Pounding footsteps that got farther away as the man took off into the night, the man who had everything the needed from him now. A woman, standing over him, yelling at passersby to call the police. Hearing her reassure him that he would be fine. Fear, the most intense fear he had ever experienced as he realized he was going to die. Then exhaustion. He felt so tired. So very tired.
 
    The TV shut off abruptly and the lights in the courtroom were turned on again. Emily blinked. Dazed. He had hated her? That video couldn't be real. They never fought, almost never. How could he...she looked up at Death, confused. Impossible. Not the Peter she knew. Death was trying to trick her, fool her. He had to be. Her Peter loved her, he would never...
 
    "Well?" said Death.
 
    She couldn't find her voice. Shocked, staring up at Him on His high pedestal, too shocked to even be frightened anymore.
 
    "That can't be real," she said finally, choking back tears. "Peter was a good husband. He saved lives, he didn't take them!" A memory suddenly flashed, vividly in her mind. Peter's funeral, receiving condolences as she stood with his mother. A woman who spoke only to Peter's mother, and ignored Emily. The woman was crying, sobbing really. Emily had wondered briefly about her relationship with Peter. Her eyes were beautiful, a lovely shade of green that was nearly blue, her lashes slick with tears.

    The strange woman called Peter her savior, the most wonderful person she had ever met. "I just feel so guilty," the woman had sobbed. "This guilt, it's just..." Her hysterical crying continued. Peter's mother had hugged the girl, reassured her that there was nothing that she could have done. Emily was distracted when a friend came up, clutching a wet knob of tissues and hugged her tightly. She didn't give the woman another thought. Until now. Tina.
 
    "It is real," said Death. "Whether or not you want to except it is irrelevant to me. That was his life, his decisions that he made. He was not a good husband. He hated you. Instead of simply leaving, he decided to have you killed. If you were dead, would he be standing here before me? Absolutely not. He would be happy. Celebrating his freedom from you, his ball and chain."
 
    Emily began to cry. This pain was like nothing she had known, this shock and horror. It was even worse than that morning: April 19th at 6:01AM. Bright and early. The phone ringing, startling her awake. Realizing Peter wasn't in bed as she fumbled for it, answered. "Is this Mrs. Klausner? This is Detective Rosado from the 85th Precinct. Ma'am, I'm afraid I have some bad news. It's about your husband."
 
    This was worse. She had never imagined that anything could be worse than that. Suddenly, she was filled with rage, rage for all she had gone through to get to this point. Here was her husband, seeking to murder her as she threw away her one possible appeal on that monster. How could she not have known that he hated her so?
 
    "That fucking bastard," she said.
 
    "He is not a bastard, in the literal sense," said Death. "His parents were married at the time of his conception and his birth. Now the question is, what to do?"
 
    "What to do? What to do? How could he. How COULD he? He was my everything, my life!"
 
    "Yes, and you were not his," Death responded. "Please control yourself. Your time is nearly up and I will then have a decision to make."
 
    Emily had never known how deep anger could go. Love, turned off like a switch, at least for now. Perhaps she would grieve later for that. Right now, there was numbness, there was blood inside of her that felt like it had been mixed with cocaine pumped through her with an unnatural heat. She understood the phrase now. My blood is boiling, she thought. Boiling.
 
    "What decision," she cried. "What decision is left to make? Look what he did? He wanted me dead, he tried to have me killed!"
 
    "You are right," said Death. "But the fact is, however heinous his deeds were to you, he was an admirable doctor. He saved many people, gave hope to many others. Entire families have praised him. When he died, thousands prayed for him. His funeral...how many people showed up? Several hundred, I believe. Loved by many, I see and loved others as well, his patients and his family. He didn't love you. He was not an evil soul. He hated you. Hating an individual does not make one evil. Honestly, neither does killing someone, or trying to have someone killed."
 
    "But what he did, that was surely a sin!" cried Emily. "Had he been caught, he would have been arrested, imprisoned!"
 
    "This is true," said Death. "But I am not the police. I do not judge the true souls of those who die. As I said, that is up to God. I use different criteria for deciding on whether or not to grant one's resurrection. The effect that have had, or potential to have in the future, on mankind. Other criteria comes into effect of course. But the individual's role in society is one that I judge at the highest level. Not their relationship to the one who filed for the appeal. Many people have been in the position you are in now."
 
    "What are you saying?" asked Emily.
 
    "That the decision is no longer in your hands. If you do not want him back anymore, that means nothing to me. It is up to me, and me alone to decide if society would benefit from having this man back amongst the people. It was your decision to appeal. It is my decision to choose. Once the process of appeal has begun, it cannot be stopped. Your time is up. I will return shortly." As abruptly as He had entered the room, He was gone.
 
    Emily sat in stunned silence. She looked up at the bailiff, who had been staring at her; he quickly looked away. Peter didn't love her at all. In fact he hated her. How had she not known? He was polite to her. Too polite? Didn't pick fights or storm out of the house. She was horrified. The decision was out of her hands? How could that be? She was the one who was supposed to prove how wonderful he was, and now...not caring how she looked to the bailiff or the security guards, she laid her head on her arms and cried, gut wrenching sobs that seemed to erupt from within her.
 
    The images she had just seen played over and over in her head. Monster, she thought to herself. He couldn't just divorce me, no that would have cost too much. I guess it's better to pay a quick $10,000 to just be rid of me. And he would have gotten the money from my life insurance policy! She would have given all the money in the world to hold him. He would pay to have her murdered. The irony! As it was, she was the one who now had all the money: his own life insurance policy as well as every penny in his bank accounts, his stocks, his money market account. She alone now held the title to their apartment, the condo in Florida they had bought during their first year of marriage.
 
    The one we bought before he started finding me repulsive, she thought. Self consciously, she touched her hair. Was she repulsive? She hadn't thought so...until now. Again, Emily remembered the strong feelings of rage and confusion as she had viewed their marriage through her husband's eyes. He didn't even know why he had grown to hate her. She berated herself again; how blind was she to be married to a man for six years and not have the slightest clue that he despised her? How stupid! Not that stupid, she argued. He wasn't mean! No screaming fights, why, he had never even cursed at her! Oh, they had arguments of course...what married couple doesn't? Small arguments though, or so she had thought. How was she to know how deep his seed of hatred had taken root when he didn't show any anger? Why had he never said? What did it even matter? It didn't matter.
 
    Death entered the room again, climbed up to his seat. A chill ran down her spine, but this was different than what she had first experienced. She feared Him, but right now too many thoughts were racing around her head, begging for her attention: she tried to block them out so she could hear what decision He had come to.
 
    "In the matter of the resurrection of one Peter Klausner," He said, "I rule that he shall be resurrected immediately. Your interactions with him as of this moment forward are entirely up to you. Your feelings of anger are understandable. But based on the importance of his role in society, I have decided that he deserves to live again."
 
    Emily felt the blood drain from her face. He was going to be resurrected? After all he had done?
 
    "But Sir," she started but he waved his scythe, causing the swirl of fog to soar into the air with it.
 
    "All decisions are final," said Death. "You know that. It is clearly stated in the rules. You got your wish, Ms. Klausner. Here is your husband."
 
    He brought the scythe down with a startling crash, and one foggy image rolled away from it and flew to the floor in front of her. It froze briefly, but rapid movement began as the fog began to shake, twisting and bending into the form of her husband. All at once, he stood in front of her. He was wearing the same clothes he had died in, she noticed absentmindedly. Minus all the blood, that is. Those bloody garments had been released to her at the hospital. Momentarily, her breath caught and she was reminded of the first time she had seen him, the strength of the emotions that had run through her. Those feelings were quickly replaced by her new ones though, and rage swept through her body.
 
    How she had prayed for this. Begged and prayed and lit every single candle in every church she passed, praying for her husband's resurrection. She stared at Peter. He stared back at her.
 
    "You know," Peter said. It was a statement, not a question. She didn't bother to answer. "Emily...I don't...I mean, I can't..." he sputtered, knowing that no words, no gestures would matter now. There was no excuse, none that would matter anyway.
 
    "The matter of the appeal for the life of Peter Klausner has been decided," said Death. "You may leave the courtroom."
 
    Emily felt like she was stuck in her chair.
 
    "Now," said Death, and the bailiff grabbed her arm with one hand to remove her. Peter followed, several paces back. She listened to the sound of his footsteps echoing in the empty courtroom, turning briefly, she noticed that Death had already vanished. The bailiff opened the door, led her out and she found Jimmy waiting in the hallway. He beamed.
 
    "Congratulations!" he said, then turned red as the bailiff gave him a stiff glare. Jimmy straightened his posture. "Mr. and Mrs. Klausner," he said formally. "Please follow me. I will escort you out of the building."
 
    The three of them walked down the hallway, Emily next to Jimmy, with Peter lagging behind. Jimmy shot her sideways glances filled with confusion. Wasn't she happy, he wondered? She had looked pale when he led her in, now she looked ghostly white. She's probably in shock, he decided. He probably would be, if it was his loved one who was allowed to escape the grave. Down the stairs and past the security guards, the metal detector. He held open the door for them.
 
    "Best of luck," he told them.
 
    Emily swallowed.
 
    "Thank you, Jimmy," she told him. "Thank you very much. Good luck to you, too. With the job, I mean." Then they were outside.
 
    Emily shrank against the glaring sunlight, not bothering to look at Peter who stood next to her. The crowd looked up at them, old and young, dark skinned and light skinned, from every country all over the world. Smiles spread threw the crowd as the realization of what had happened struck them.  They began to cheer wildly. An appeal had been won. The young woman had gone in alone and now here she was, standing with her husband. Some whistled and screamed praises to God, some began to clap. Others began to cry tears of joy for the lovely couple. She spotted Mabel in the crowd of well wishers. Mabel beamed at her, waved and blew a kiss. Emily wondered who's chance for a resurrection would be denied because of her own winning appeal. Only so many people a year of course.
 
    Would it be Mabel's grandson?
 
    As they had when she went into the building, the crowd parted for her, still cheering, allowing her and Peter to walk down the courthouse steps. Standing on the sidewalk now. She stopped moving. Stood still. Peter stopped next to her, not daring to touch her.
 
    "Emily," he said. Tried to talk. His mouth opened and closed, like a fish. Who looked repulsive now? thought Emily. He was unable to make a sound.
 
    She stared at him. Waited.