91 Petals: Chapter 4

by WESTIE in Maryland

Chapter 4
Eighty-fourth petal—eighty-sixth petal

Days passed and every day I went after school to visit Rachel.  Her hair started to fall out until she was completely bald.  Petal, after petal, after petal fell to the ground beside my little flower until there will only seven petals left. 
“It’s spread to my lungs,” Rachel said.  Her voice had gone raspy and she was constantly coughing.  “They say,” she said holding up the book, “I have seven days left.”  Seven petals, seven days.  Seven days, seven nights, seven little tiny petals.  I shook my head not wanting to believe it. 
“No, you said it yourself, you’re a fighter.  Fighter’s never predict their own death,” I muttered. 
“What about that man, the one that fought against segregation in the United States?  Martin Luther King I think.  Right?  He was a fighter.  He predicted his own death on live television,” Rachel pointed out.
A sighed.  She was right.  He had. 
“No, you won’t die,” I said.  Rachel had become one of the best friends I could ask for in the last 84 days. 
“Maybe it isn’t true, maybe I have eight days or nine.  But Max, I don’t think I’ll make it to Christmas—”
“No!  Shut up!  You aren’t going to die! Shut up  shut up shut up!” I hissed.  I jumped up. I was starting to cry now. 
“Max,” Rachel said.  I took a deep breath and tried in vain to suck the tears back into my stupid, ugly face. 
“You won’t die,” I muttered.  “You can’t.  You and your sister.  You guys are like my best friends.  I can’t only have one best friend,” I protested.  Rachel just watched me. 
I ran home that night in the snow.  It was supposed to snow hard tonight.  By now the Empire State building had Christmas lights shining from the top levels and the streets of New York City were ablaze with color.  My mom had put a light-up snowman on our front step.  It smiled stupidly up at me as I walked towards the door. I had an impulse to kick it but just nudged it with my foot. 
When I came in I didn’t say anything.  I just went to my room and shut the door behind me.  Tears started to well up in my eyes again as I collapsed on my bed.  I stared at the ceiling fan hanging from the ceiling in my room.  I rolled off the edge of the bed and knelt beside the bed.
I’ve never been a very religious person.  I go to church every now and then but I’ve never really thought too hard about whether or not I believe in God.  Sometimes I hear some weirdoes give sermons on the street about Jesus and how he’s God’s son and all.  But then I hear that we are all God’s children too.  To me it always seemed like God favors this Jesus (or Christ or Messiah or whoever he is) and I start to think that God is just some idea we’ve all formulated in our head of some head honcho. 
Sometimes I believe in God.  I believe in him on those days when good things happen to my mom or I see some guy on TV with a million bucks thanking God for his money.  And that belief goes away when I look at the homeless guy who practically lives on the curb across the street.  If God so loves the world, why in the h*** does he make a lot of them homeless, friendless, smelly losers that are forced to live on the street and mug people.   If God is so against killing why does he let it happen? 
But today, I prayed.  I prayed for Rachel and her family.  I prayed that I’ll make a friend or two. I prayed for everyone I knew and I prayed that my mom’s jewelry would sell well at that chain store.  At the end of my prayer I said, “Amen,” just like people on TV did when they finished praying. 

The next day I started to feel a little depressed.  Ellie didn’t come bouncing up to me like she usually did.  In fact she wasn’t even at school.  Someone did come up to me that day. Danielle Pfeiffer of my third period English class.  She was pretty and smart and a girl on the newspaper committee.  I think she’s some sort of Junior journalist or something.
“Uh, excuse me? Are you Maxwell Peters?” she asked coming up to me during lunch. 
“Uh, yeah,” I said. 
“Oh, good.  I’m Dan—”
“Yeah ,yeah, Danielle Pfeiffer of the school newspaper.  What do you want?”  
“Uh, I was wondering if I could go with you after school sometime with my photographer, Masha Collins, to”—she cleared her throat—“interview that student in the hospital, Rachel Adair.”
“I guess, as long as you don’t mind keeping up with me,” I said. 
“May I interview you?” she asked.  I shrugged. 
“Whatever.”
I learned in that few minutes I never wanted to be famous.  This girl asked so many questions I didn’t want to answer I couldn’t take it.  I had to stop eating and almost missed lunch for all the da** questions.  Danielle decided to come with me to the hospital the nest day. 
So the next day, she and Masha Collins, a tiny brunette with a little hourglass body and a tiny nose trotted along behind us.  Danielle had her blonde hair tied into a high ponytail and walked like she owned New York.  Her long nose was pointed to the sky and she was strutting her stuff the whole way there. 
She interviewed Rachel for what felt like years.  I sat in the lobby next to Ellie and her little brother, Patrick.  Patrick was still being bullied at school and he was always getting beaten up.  Ellie was sullen, somber, almost depressed. 
“Five days,” she said.  She didn’t look at me.  “Five days.  That’s all she has left.” Ellie sniffed and I could see she was starting to get all choked up.  I put my arm around her shoulders and she rested her head on my shoulder. 
“Five days Max.  What happens after five days?”
“I don’t know.”
We sat there in silence until Danielle came back.  Masha was playing with her camera when we left. 
I walked Ellie home in the knee-high snow.  Before she went into the house she hugged me fiercely and I could hear her start to sob. 
“Say it isn’t so Max.”

***
Ninety-first petal

The hospital was closed.  The notebook lay closed on Rachel’s bedside table and the room was deadly silent.  When she opened her eyes, she wasn’t in her hospital room.  She was in a room that was white in every way.  She was standing in the middle of the room and someone was standing across from her.  The figure was wearing a long black cloak with the hood drawn up so that its face was hid in shadow.  It held an open book in its skeletal hands. 
“Rachel Ivy Adair,” it read from the book.  Its voice was raspy like that of an old man’s.  “Age fifteen, blood type AB positive.  Death date…December 2nd…2:30 am.  Cause of death”—it looked up at her and Rachel gasped.  The face beneath the shadows was thin, with pale skin stretched tight over high cheek bones and hollow pits where the eyes should be—“cancer of the lungs,”
“Who are you?” Rachel asked her voice calm. 
“I,” said the figure.  “am Death.  I’m here to take your soul.  Well…in a few hours.  I’m actually here because I thought you might want to speak to me.”
“About what?”
“Dying wishes.” 
“Like a will.  You’ll write my will for me?”
“No I thought you might want to write one.  In that funny little notebook of yours,” Death said.  He waved a hand and a chair appeared beneath him.  He sat on it and sighed.  “Souls are constantly upset because all of their things are getting sent to the wrong people.”
Rachel watched him.  “How will I die?”
“You’ll just…stop breathing.  Your body will stop working.  You’ll be asleep so you won’t know.  And then I will come and lift your little soul out of your body and take you into the heavens,” Death said lazily. 
“And I can write my dying wishes?”
“Yes. You have the next two hours to do so,” Death said nodding.  “All you have to do is close your eyes and when I say three open them and you’ll be back in your room.” Rachel nodded and closed her eye tight. 
“One…two…three.” 
The second Rachel opened her eyes she reached for her pen and the notebook and started writing.