Kicking the Bucket

Flora Jones did not want to die. 

She would have expected the thought to occur to her for the first time on a warm spring day while surrounded by her friends and family, or maybe after accomplishing something difficult that she had been working toward. It just made sense- that she would feel so happy, so full of life and joy, that she would suddenly think, I don’t want to die.

But it was a Tuesday, of all days, and the late August rain felt like spit on her face: cold and clammy and downright disrespectful. 

When Flora had woken up that morning, she had discovered a new mole on her back and an envelope hanging halfway through her mail slot announcing that she was losing social security benefits that she was not sure she had ever received in the first place. Over the following hour, she burnt her toast and then her coffee burnt her tongue, The New York Times crossword puzzle was far too difficult, and some politician even older than her was on the TV saying something really stupid that she tuned out almost immediately. 

So she had been- understandably, she thought- a little grumpy as she packed her small tote bag (her larger one had a hole in it and her keys had fallen through onto the floor), put on the shoes that gave her blisters, and departed on her morning walk to the park where she now stood, having a heart attack. 

She wasn’t positive that it was a heart attack, it could have just been gas pains, but when you got to a certain age, you always had to consider that it might be a heart attack. 

“Ma’am, are you okay?” 

Flora hadn’t realized that she had stopped in the middle of the walking trail, one hand clutching her bag and the other pressed to her chest, where a foreign tightness was growing with each passing moment and breathing had suddenly become more of a labor than a reflex.

The person who had spoken was a young woman in running gear standing to Flora’s left, and she had a look of concern on her face that suddenly made Flora feel very old. The young runner had removed one earbud and was holding it out as she waited for a response.

“Today has not been my day.” 

The woman moved a little closer, the furrow between her brows deepening. “Do you need me to call an ambulance for you?” She was already pulling her phone out from some magically hidden pocket in her leggings, and Flora marveled at how far women’s clothing had come in recent years. Maybe she could buy herself a pair if she lived long enough; she had recently discovered an affinity for zebra stripes. 

“Do they make those pants in animal patterns?”

“Ma’am?” 

Another strong twinge in her chest had Flora grimacing and the woman reaching for her shoulder, and then everything stopped. 

The first thing Flora noticed was the sudden lack of bird song. It was her favorite part of her walk, so this only made her grumpier. But when she looked up, she realized that the raindrops that had been drizzling so miserably only a moment before had appeared to pause in midair, tiny spheres of water suspended like a curtain of diamonds. And when she looked to her left, the woman was frozen with her hand outstretched toward Flora, her other one still holding the forgotten earbud and her mouth open as if she was about to say something important. 

Flora had seen a lot of strange things in her 81 years, including the house she had lived in from ‘74 to ‘76 that had most certainly been haunted, but this was undoubtedly the strangest. 

Two thoughts came to her, one right on the heels of the other. The first was that maybe she was dead and this was what happened when people died. She hadn’t necessarily believed in purgatory before, but she liked to think of herself as an open-minded person. 

The second was that she did not want to die, which was a pointless thought to have if the aforementioned theory proved to be true. 

Flora turned in a slow circle, observing the now eerily quiet park. It was like she had been suddenly transported into a painting or a museum exhibit of life-size wax figures, and yet despite its stillness, something about it still gave the impression of life and breath. Children paused mid-chase, their faces frozen in expressions ranging from glee to frustration, mud covering their small shoes. A father was posed pushing a stroller, his phone to his ear and his face crumpled as if he was receiving bad news. Two young men sat on a bench, backs to each other as they drew in matching sketchpads, plastic tented over the pages to keep the rain off. Next to the bench, a little girl was mid-scream with the head of a younger boy- Flora assumed it must be her brother- trapped under her arm as she attempted to strangle him to death and their mother looked on in exasperation. 

Flora’s rotation was leisurely, soaking up the details, and by the time she returned to her original position, a new person stood in front of her. If she hadn’t already been having a heart attack, that would have done her in. 

“Christ on a cracker!” 

“Pardon me?”

Flora had no real way to measure time when nothing around her moved, her own wristwatch had halted all movement, but it suddenly felt like it had been millennia since she last heard someone speak. And it was twice as jarring, certainly, when the person speaking had her voice and her face. When had she gotten so wrinkly? 

“Does your chest still hurt?” 

It was like staring into a mirror, and when Flora 2 moved (she had better start thinking of her that way before things got too confusing), it had a disorienting effect, like she was dizzy or floating or falling. Flora stared at herself for a moment, barely registering the question before she realized that her chest did not, in fact, hurt as badly as it had moments before. “How did you do that?” 

“I don’t know, how did you?” asked Flora 2.

“Don’t be a smartass,” said Flora 1. 

Flora 2 shrugged, unperturbed. “We’re the same. Anything I do is technically done by you.” As she spoke, the second Flora began to walk a slow circle around the first, ducking under the frozen arm of the female jogger as she went. 

“Why am I here?” asked Flora. 

“It would appear that it was an accident. You’re dying?”

“Obviously.” 

“Now you’re the one being a smartass.” Flora 2 finally stopped in front of her again and crossed her arms. Flora had the sudden urge to apologize to her daughter for every time she must have made this exact face at her. It was really annoying. 

Flora flapped her arms around, the small suspended drops of rain becoming misty where she touched them. “Yes, I think I’m dead. Everything just stopped.”

“You’re not dead yet, you’ve just paused time.”

“I have done no such thing.” 

Flora 2 snorted in a very unflattering way before she seemed to make up her mind and stepped forward. Before the first Flora could move, she felt a finger in the middle of her forehead and her vision went white. 

It wasn’t a sudden bombardment of memories or even a leisurely slideshow; it was more like a sudden uncovering of things that had been there all along. She remembered herself at five, wandering out onto the front lawn while her mother’s back was turned and toddling into the street just as a car trundled around the corner. She had always remembered this part, but what she hadn’t recalled was the way time stopped just as the car was about to hit her and the identical child that appeared, taking her hand and walking her back to the curb. 

There were so many more: a rattlesnake in the garden when she was nine, a near miss on her bicycle when she was thirteen, a candle catching a curtain on fire when she was twenty-seven. Every memory was suddenly available to her: all featuring a close brush with death, a pause in time, and an identical version of herself that appeared her same age. She could only assume that amnesia after the fact was also a part of the deal. 

Flora had the disorienting feeling like she had suddenly achieved enlightenment, not at all unlike the morning before when the New York Times crossword puzzle had not been too difficult, and then suddenly she was back in her current frozen world, her 81-year-old self looking at her a little too smugly. 

“So what does that make you?” the original Flora asked after a moment spent regaining her bearings. “My fairy godmother?”

Flora 2 harrumphed. “Hardly.” And then she looked at her with the most severe expression yet, which Flora 1 had a hard time taking seriously on her own face, and said “But this time, there’s nothing to save you from.” 

Flora 1 understood: there was no outrunning this heart attack, not like she had the rattlesnake and the car and the burning curtain. There was a feeling like mourning herself, like mourning everything she still hadn’t done yet, and then it passed with surprising swiftness. She had always considered herself a practical woman, and she supposed she would remain practical in death. 

“Walk me to the hospital, then?” 

And so the two Floras walked side by side through the city, dodging frozen pedestrians and pigeons mid-takeoff and a couple pickpockets in progress (Flora gently replaced the stolen items and huffed and puffed as she hauled the mannequin would-be thieves a few paces away). 

When they finally arrived at the entrance to the hospital, they both stopped at the same time, perfect mirrors of each other. 

Flora 2 said, “You could stay like this.”

It had already occurred to the other Flora, and they both knew it. “What, with everyone frozen around me? How horribly boring.” 

Her mirror was already nodding. The air was perfectly neutral without a breeze, there was no sound aside from their voices, and Flora hated every second of it. 

“Thank you, but you can put it back now.” 

Flora didn’t even have time to brace herself before the world came roaring back around her, a riot of life and color and smell and feeling. The rain resumed pouring on her head, the smell of the steam from a nearby grate assaulted her, and her heart and blisters hurt. 

But she remembered, and Flora had never been so relieved in all her life as she turned around, walked inside, and announced that she was dying of a heart attack.