The Fourth Meeting With Death

By J. L. Thurston

HE COULD HEAR THEM TALKING AT THE DESK OUTSIDE HIS ROOM.

“How many times has his heart failed?”

“Three. Two of them were cardiac arrests on the operating table.”

“Oh, God.”

“And now…”

“A dissecting aorta.”

This was not news. Nelson had known about his problematic pipework for almost a year. The shredding walls of his body’s most major artery were discovered after his third heart attack. A follow-up exam had ended with a sweating doctor giving him a choice; surgery with a 50-50 chance of surviving, or live every day knowing it could be the last.

Nelson quit his job and became a stay-at-home grandpa. He’d gone almost a year this way. Almost. Now the pow-wow of nurses outside the ER room was further proof that this was it. It was a waiting game, but only for a little longer. He was waiting to feel something. The nurses were waiting for all the buzzers and beepers that will tell them to save him.

That morning he’d woken up dizzy. He’d been cold and clammy. He could feel something wrong in his chest. He tried to go back to bed, but his son wouldn’t allow it. The ambulance argued with him for ten minutes before he allowed them to take his blood pressure. It was so high he was surprised his aorta hadn’t popped entirely.

He wouldn’t be allowed to die at home. For a fourth time, he’d die in the hospital.

The first time he’d been scared shitless. He’d drove himself to the ER from work with chest pain and a numb left arm. While surrounded by nurses, the world had gone black and he’d met Death for the first time.

Then, during his first pacemaker surgery, he’d coded on the table. He had been dreaming when Death joined him.

The third time was not the charm, as Death surprised him in his sleep. He was under the knife for a pacemaker revision when he accidentally tried to die, again.

The first three deaths were sudden, quick, mostly painless. Sitting in a stiff ER bed, waiting for the curtains to fall and the lights to dim was the absolute worst. It was just like waiting in the airport terminal for a flight to be boarded. The plane was ready, the passengers were all set, but the damn door wouldn’t open and the lady at the desk was too busy looking busy to help a poor guy out.

Death was a funny thing. Nelson supposed he was sort of a man. Tall, thin, covered in a white robe. Yes, white. Everyone expects black, but Death was fond of white. He said he only wore black when he reaped the souls of the damned, which wasn’t as often as people would think. He did not carry a scythe, either. The time Nelson questioned it, Death gave a chuckle.

Scythes are for reaping wheat. I reap souls.

Death liked Nelson, but Nelson wasn’t exactly sure why. Perhaps because they’d spent a lot of time together. At their last meeting, Nelson asked Death how he was able to remember their meetings. He’d done weeks of research, trying to find others who claimed they’d met Death. He had only found whackos.

Only very special humans can remember me, said Death.

And before Nelson could ask for an elaboration, he woke up in the ICU with tubes coming out of every body part.

Nelson sighed. He wished his son wouldn’t have stepped out for coffee. He was growing terribly bored listening to the nurses wait for him to die.

A shadow entered the room. Vaguely, beeps and buzzers resounded. Nelson only had to search for a moment.

Death stood in the corner, his old, wrinkled face smiling out from inside the white hood.

“I’ve never seen your face before,” Nelson said by way of greeting.

You’ve never been this close to me before, said Death.

“Close?” Nelson felt wrong. He’d been so close to Death his fingers brushed the white robe. It had terrified him. Now Death stood an arm’s length away. He’d have to climb out of bed to touch him. Death meant an entirely different type of closeness.

His room was very crowded. All who had been waiting outside were springing to action. He wondered what they were going to do. He’d signed a DNR, finally.

You’re ready this time, Death said.

“It happened a little fast, I think,” said Nelson. “I thought I’d be holding my son’s hand, giving him sage advice.”

Death let out a chuckle and reached for Nelson. He’d never done so before. Nelson found it very difficult to move. He was trembling. He thought his fourth time around, he’d be a seasoned pro.

Regrets?

“Many. But they don’t matter now.”

There was nothing to do but follow him. So, Nelson rose from the bed and passed through the bodies of the nurses as though they were nothing more significant than a pocket of air. He approached Death, and with an unfurling of the great, white robe, he was engulfed briefly by fabric.

He passed through it the way he would have a curtain hanging over a doorway. All the noise was gone. He stood alone with Death in a grassy patch. A tiny frog pond teeming with gnats and tadpoles rippled at the touch of a cool breeze. A grove of trees shaded him from a bright, midday sun.

Nelson was home. Home, home. Where he’d spent the first ten years of his life. Before his mother died. He breathed deep. He could smell the muddy water of the pond, the pines around the nearby house, and even… Yes. Dinner was cooking. His mother’s famous shepherd’s pie.

“Is this heaven?”

Death shook his head. He reached up, pulled back his hood and sunk down to sit on the top of a gray boulder.

It is going to be a long time before you cross over.

Nelson stared dumbly. “But, I thought you said it was my time, this time.”

Yes, you cannot return to your body. That part of life is over. Most humans cross over immediately after they depart from their flesh. You are special. You are as I was.

All he could do was stare. The sun was shining on Death’s head, causing the white fuzzy hair to glow like a halo.

I have served my time as Death. I have ushered souls across the veil through the power of my robe, and soon it will be time for me to cross over at long last. Nelson, go to the tree.

Nelson did not have to ask which tree. It was not far from the pond. Just out of sight, actually. It was the tree. He’d read a library of books while resting within the tangled branches. He’d hid from his older brothers countless times, watching squirrels play while he was secured in a sea of leaves. It was where he’d climbed so high after his mother died. He’d said goodbye to his first best friend there, just before the move.

This time, as he approached the tree, he saw heavy white cloth hanging from the lowest branch, swaying in the breeze. He knew the cloth before he touched it, and with shaking hands he pulled it down and found that he was suddenly wearing it.

The white robe of Death was thick and pleasantly heavy. It was soft and carried the smell of his home. He returned to Death, who remained resting on the rock.

“I don’t think I understand.”

You are in the veil. It is the place between living flesh and living souls. It is the crossing station. It is Death’s home. But Death, every Death, all Deaths, are human souls. Special human souls. We are the crossing guards who conduct the traffic of passing souls by the power of our robe. I will teach you to do this. Once you’ve learned, you will be Death for many souls. And when you meet another special soul, you will teach that soul to replace you. This is the way of things. Nelson, do you understand now?

If Nelson could sweat, he’d be drenched. What a day he was having.

“You know, Death,” he said. “You talk too much.”

Death threw back his head and laughed. He rose from the rock and approached Nelson, reaching out and sliding the hood over his head. My name is Tom. Let us begin.