I Brought Them Peace

I was dead for three minutes and twenty-three seconds. It was a pretty bad car crash, and my heart gave out. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but the president’s daughter was in the other car. The press blamed her in a political move, and the crash reached national headlines. And since I had technically died, I became a living martyr.

I was invited on dozens of podcasts and talk shows. I declined the first ten. The price increased. I said yes. Most of the interviewers were in search of a juicy dig at the president’s daughter. They wanted something to make a punchy title for their video and ensure millions of views. I refused to speak ill of her. The crash was no one’s fault. So most interviews fell flat, and when there was nothing left to say about the crash itself, they began to ask about my death.

They asked me what it was like. As if I could remember. I was in and out of consciousness for the ambulance ride to the hospital, and nobody expected me to recount details of that. But for some reason this, this blip of unconsciousness where my heart stopped beating, was supposed to be seared into my memory. It wasn’t. I told them as much. They were disappointed. So I began to make things up.

You have to remember, I was just as bored as they were. At this point I was dedicating half my life to conversations over the same three-hour time period. A period of time in which I could recall very little.

What time was it? Nine, maybe. Was it dark? Yes. How dark? I don’t know. Could you see ten feet in front of you? Sure. Twenty? Maybe. And it was raining? Yes. How much? A lot. And you slipped? Yes. And the president’s daughter slipped? Yes. She hit you on the driver’s side? I guess. You don’t remember? No, I was hit.

You get the point.

I had to mix it up a little. I was never going to slander someone I had never met. They wanted a glaring interview that could be used in political campaigns, and that was a line I would not cross. But fibbing a little about my death… that wasn’t hurting anybody. It just made things interesting.

So you died? Yes. What was it like? Loud. Loud? Yes. How so? Well, there was a lot of jazz. Jazz? Yes. What kind of jazz? You know the jazz that companies play when they put you on hold? Yeah. That jazz.

You get the point.

The story changed every time, but no one seemed to care. They were panning my stories for tidbits they wanted to believe—it didn’t matter what I said. I could have told them that a herd of elephants greeted me outside golden gates while singing Mariah Carrey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You,” and someone would find proof that I saw Heaven, others Hell, and maybe another would say I was between bodies on the path to reincarnation. My story was never mine. That’s what made it okay to tell it.

Then two men in suits knocked at my door. One was tall, the other round. They carried briefcases that I suspected were empty and smelled like showers were reserved for special occasions. I let them in. At the very least, they seemed interesting.

“I’m Dan,” said the tall.

“I’m Phil,” said the round.

“We’re here to change your life.”

My life seemed fine. But I heard them out.

“We heard you died,” said Dan.

“In a sense,” I said.

“We heard you saw something,” said Phil.

“I didn’t.” I said.

“Your interviews say otherwise.”

“Those interviews are a joke.”

It was true. There were always a few people who tried to glean meaning from my nonsensical stories, but they were few and far between. Most watched and called my bluff. The comments on the videos were full of people laughing at my prank, not praising my divine insight. No one really thought I was serious.

“What if they weren’t a joke?” said Phil.

“But they are.”

“But what if they weren’t?” Phil passed me a brochure. I was on the cover. “We think there could be a lot of people out there who want to take you seriously. And since you already have an audience built, now is the perfect time to convert them into a following.”

“A following?”

“Yes. A group of loyal people who will pay to hear you speak and spread the word about your teachings. With these kinds of people, the advertisement comes free.”

“My teachings?”

“Lessons, maybe,” said Dan. “Pearls of wisdom. You can call them whatever you want, you have a lot of freedom here.”

“But what would I teach?”

“Maybe don't think of it as teaching, so much as educating. About what you saw. When you died.”

“But I saw nothing,” I said.

“Come now,” said Phil with a smile, “We know that’s not true. Nothing is nothing. Even if you saw black, that’s something.”

“And we can sell something,” said Dan.

“Exactly,” said Phil.

I frowned. “I don’t want to lie.”

“But you’ve already been lying.”

“I don’t want people to believe my lie.”

“People believe what they want to believe. That’s on them, not you,” said Phil.

“That’s true,” said Dan.

I hesitated. Their logic wasn’t far from my own. I hadn’t cared what people had believed before when I was only joking, because I knew whatever story I told would be twisted to fit whatever the listener wanted to hear. The only difference now was the listener wouldn’t have to twist my words. I would tell them exactly what they wanted to hear. Before, they were manipulating me. Now I would manipulate them.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Just think about it,” said Dan. “You would be giving a lot of people some peace of mind.”

“We all just want to know what waits at the end,” said Phil. “Even if you don’t know, pretending to know could ease a lot of hearts.”

They left, with their brochure and business card left on my table. I sat there for a while longer.

I didn’t know what to do, but lying felt wrong. I grew up Christian, and though I hadn’t been to church in eons, a part of me still squirmed at claiming I died and saw Heaven. Or that I died and didn’t see Heaven. I wasn’t sure I had even been dead long enough for my soul or whatever to leave, so it was possible that there was a Heaven, I just didn’t have time to visit. Maybe I could just say that.

Or I could tell them that I was at peace. That thought was what used to reassure me as a kid, when I was scared of the end. I thought that no matter what was true, after I died I would be at peace. Because if there was a heaven, I could rest easy knowing I was safe. If I was dreaming, then at least in my dreams I still lived. And if there was nothing, then at least my body would relax, and I could finally rest.

But I wasn’t sure if I believed that anymore. Peace implied a state of being, and I didn’t think I was anything when I was dead. What I said to Dan and Phil was true. When I died, I was nothing.

Still. If peace couldn’t be reached in death, then maybe it could be reached in life. Dan and Phil were right. Lying could do no harm, but it could bring peace to a lot of people. If anything, it felt like my responsibility to provide that for them.

I picked up the business card. And dialed the number.

A week later I found myself in an auditorium. The lights were bright. And hot. The audience was quiet. And large. I was sweating, and I rubbed a droplet from my forehead. Dan gave me a thumbs up from the front row. I took a breath.

I stared at the crowd and told the biggest lie of my life.

“I saw a light. And then a voice spoke to me.”

I hardly remember what I said. I tried to walk the line between religions, but being raised Christian, I knew the speech was a little biased. The audience didn’t seem to care. As I spoke, some started weeping. One couple held hands, their palms on the woman’s stomach. Some openly began to pray. Others did nothing, said nothing, their eyes only for me, their attention rapt. I didn’t know what to think.

Then the speech ended and the lights turned on. I saw it in the ease of shoulders and the bowing of heads. I saw it in a shared embrace and quiet tears. I saw it in the first deep breath, and a long withheld sigh. It was peace. And I had brought it.

In the end, wasn’t that all that really mattered?

Dan and Phil came on stage. Their arms were spread, and they looked pleased. I smiled at them.

"What's next?"