Immortal (Fallen Angels #6)(67)
Author: J.R. Ward

Funny, the discourse of daily life, before she had had hers forfeited, had been like the breath and the heartbeat in the human body—something that happened automatically, and as such was not seen for the miracle it was. It was only after her death that she recognized the fragile power in mortality … and held it in appropriate reverence.

As she walked through the automatic doors and into the lobby-ish part of the store, she faltered. The same Muzak was playing, old Michael Bolton piped in through tinny speakers in the ceiling like they wanted to offend the least number of people possible. The lineup of carts was also just the same, and so were the impulse buys lined up on tables—cookies, bags of chips, garden tools.

She closed her eyes.

The garden tools were new, but the Lay’s potato-chip stand and the three different kinds of sugar cookies in their plastic containers were exactly what had been there before.

Amazing, she thought as she went further on and emerged into the florist’s section. Standing around the buckets of plastic-wrapped roses and the squat cacti in their little clay pots and the free-standing pastel hyacinths, she felt as invisible as she was: People were passing by her without looking over, and that somehow made the divide she felt seem all the more devastating.

Except then she realized … maybe that had always been true.

As she stared back at them, she could remember striding by countless numbers of strangers—and she had rendered them all anonymous because she didn’t know their names, faces, families. They had been sort of irrelevant, other than the fact that she hadn’t wished any of them ill or wanted to be responsible for hurting them.

But that was reductionist. She didn’t know what tragedies had come home or would come home to roost for them. Whether they had had their houses broken into the day before, or were facing an illness, or had lost a child, or had been cheated on.

Joy was worn like a new suit of clothes on people. You could see it on every inch of them, from their step to their stare. But sadness and loss were hidden, kept quiet under composure and the shelter of daily activity.

She had no idea what any of these people were facing in their lives. Any more than they knew she was standing among them, neither dead nor alive.

Invisibility was a two-way street, as it turned out.

Which was sad.

And it gave her a new idea of what she wished Heaven was like. Before, when the destination had been just a hypothetical and she’d been so very, very much younger on so many levels, the eternal resting place in the stars had been nothing but jelly beans and Jujubes, and endless Sunday sleep-ins, and every movie that John Hughes had made on a loop.

Now … she thought it was just love. A forever love that wrapped you up and kept you safe and made sure you were always with your family and your friends.

No separation, even between strangers. No sadness. Nobody leaving or getting left behind.

“Sissy?”

She jumped as Jim’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Sorry. Distracted.” She held up the list. “I’ll go get the salt if you want to handle the lemons?”

“I’m glad you called for another extra apponitment.”

Glancing around her therapist’s office, Devina smoothed her short skirt down her thighs and forced a smile, thinking maybe she should have just waited for her regular.

“I fixed the damage I did to my things,” she blurted. “Well, okay, her minions had done most of that. But she had been the one responsible for telling them to do it. “And I’m…”

She frowned as she ran out of words. Thoughts. Impulses.

“Devina?”

Feeling as though she had to keep the session going, she scrambled for something, anything, she could say. Eventually, she murmured, “You know, it was funny how I found you.”

“You told me that a friend of yours had recommended me.”

“I lied.” She glanced over to see if she’d upset the woman, but nope. Her therapist was just sitting like a Buddha on her beige-colored sofa in her beige-colored office, a beige-equivalent expression on her pleasant face. “It was much more … it was kind of freaky, actually.”

“Tell me more.”

“Well, I knew that I was going to … see, I’d had the same job forever, and I was really happy in the position. I had a lot of autonomy, I was allowed to do whatever I liked. I mean, it wasn’t perfect—but I didn’t realize what a situation I had until my boss decided to change everything up. Suddenly, where I’d been was the good old days, you know? And then, from out of the blue, I was working with this new guy, in a race for this promotion thing—and one day … one day, I guess I just cracked from the stress. I was getting ready for work, sitting in front of the mirror…” She lifted her hands to her face, brushing at her cheeks. “I was putting my makeup on—you know, like I do every day. And I…”

“Go on, Devina.”

She patted at her jawline, her chin. “I was … the problem was the foundation I was using. I couldn’t get it right. It wouldn’t go over my skin … right. It wouldn’t cover up the…” She blinked fast, memories of the panic coming on strong. “I had to get it right. It needed to be right so I looked right so no one could see…”

“Could see what, Devina?”

“What I really am. Who I really am.” She stared down at her hands and smoothed her skirt again. And again. And again. “I couldn’t get it right. The foundation … just…” She cleared her throat, pulling herself out of that moment in the past. “I reapplied it. And then put more on, and did it again. And again. It became paralyzing. I went through an entire bottle and opened another one. Even though I knew I was making it worse, I couldn’t … it was like I was locked in. I was stuck in some kind of loop.”

The therapist nodded gravely. “I know exactly what you mean. The ritual took over to such a degree that you were figuratively imprisoned by it.”

“Exactly.” She exhaled. “That’s exactly what happened. I finally stopped when I just wore myself out. I was covered with the stuff—it had gotten all over my blouse, my hands, my vanity.”

“Here,” the therapist said, leaning forward with a Kleenex box.

“Oh, I’m not…” Except her eyes were watering. “Oh. Thanks.”

As she mopped up, the therapist sat back. “That can be truly terrifying.”

“It was. I wasn’t in control of it—and you know, I’d always been, like, a little OCD-ish. I mean, I like everything perfect, and I like my things where they should be. I like my things, period. I feel … safer … like, when I have the perfect number of lipsticks with me.”