The Messenger

A Short Story

What If I Told You That You Have a Year to Live?

Have you ever wondered, — what if I knew? What if there came a day where I was sent a messenger, a warning, yes, but more importantly, an opportunity.

If you had certainty of when your life would end. How would you respond? Would you change your life, its trajectory? What would be important to you? Would you ever tell someone else, or keep it to yourself? Would people think you mad if you did?

What if?

It’s a beautiful day. You awoke from your sleep, — it’s the weekend. You live alone, but you’re on holidays. The kiosk hotel you’re staying in is comforting. The bed, is warm and comfortable, a huge fluffy duvet lies on top of you, and from the bed you can see through the sheer curtains of the second floor window, out across the street to the wharfs and piers. It’s early, but still, there is lots of activity.

Fisherman on the boats are getting ready for their day. You can see, one man preparing lines, applying long leaders and hooks to a line. He cuts bait and attaches the pieces to the hooks. You look away, and notice a large boat, there are signs on the end of the pier, “Whale Watching”, the sign says. A young woman unlocks a steel drawer on a desk at the end of the jetty and prepares what look to be tickets.

All is as it should be for a Saturday morning.

You’ve decided to walk down to a little coffee shop, not far from the hotel.

You throw on shorts, a loose sweater, and your sketchers.

“Time for a croissant and coffee”, you say to no one in particular.

You pick up the room key from the table at the entrance, check to see you have your wallet and phone. You remember there’s a parking lot across the street from the coffee shop, and check for your car keys.

Great day for a drive down the coast, you tell yourself.

You open your hotel room door and descend the stairs from the second floor, past the lobby. You hear CNN on a TV, above the check-in desk.

“Morning”, you say to the young woman working the desk, and without waiting for a response you push open the double glass doors and step out onto the street. The coffee shop is just two doors down. Your car is parked in the lot beside the hotel, which you pass. You stop for a car, check for traffic, and jay walk quickly across the road.

The sun is warm, even though it’s early, the sunlight shimmering off the waves, the smell of the ocean, salt air and a whiff of —coffee brewing, is in the air.

The coffee shop is what is often referred to as, ‘cute’. It’s an old refurbished fishing shack, on a the end of a pier, above the water where fishing gear used to be kept. Now it has ambiance, floats, nets, gaffs and fishing paraphernalia lines the walls. Small portholes line the booths, that look like they were repurposed from another place. Red leather seats, button down brass nails hold the seat cushions in place. The cushions are worn, as though someone had just left the seat.

You nod your head to another man, sitting opposite your booth, on a stool at what appears to be a take-out counter. He is wizened. Deep furrows mark his face. Dark eyes, recede into sockets, that have seen much, apparently. He is old, a local, no doubt.

Without asking, while you take in the space, a coffee cup appears, filled with the warm, aromatic smell of your favourite beverage. You weren’t asked. It was assumed.

A woman, not old, not young, stands beside your table.

“What would you like, love?” She asks with her melodious voice, a pretty smile.

“I’ll have a chocolate croissant as well,” you say. You can see the picture of pastries, inserting into the napkin holder.

She smiles back, makes a mark on a piece of paper, and states, “Coming up.”

You look out the porthole, relaxed, and begin to plan your drive.

The door opens, and I walk in, turn and head directly to where you’re seated.

I know everything about you that I need to know, and that’s all.

Just for a moment, assume I’m prescient. You’ve never met me. Believe me, you’d remember me. I’ve been ‘around’ for a long time. Longer than you can imagine.

I know, that sounds odd, even silly, to some. I have a gift. Maybe the greatest gift you’ll ever receive. You see, I can see the future, but not in the way you envision it. Not like, you’ll be driving your car and swerve to miss a deer, colliding with a light standard. Not that kind of detail, not that kind of clarity.

I don’t know the how of death. I just know the when.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I used to wonder if there was anyone else, like me. My job? Well, I’ve never known why and I live in hotels. I have a bank account, and for some reason, there’s always money in it. I stopped trying to understand, a very long time ago. Before the wars, before the streets were paved. Back longer now than I care to remember. And, I no longer care to. Too many faces, too many places.

It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. It used to be that people walked, some, had horses. Then came buckboards, but I liked it the most when cars were invented. And planes. Oh, how I do like planes.

I know how to fly a plane. I don’t know why, I just do.

I’ve seen all kinds of planes, trains, automobiles. I’ve seen them everywhere. In the orient, Africa, Italy, Australia, in New York, even here in this little New England town by the sea.

Anyway, that’s not important to the story. Too often, I digress.

I stand in front of your booth. Smiling.

You look up. I’m looking down at you.

“What is it?” You ask.

I say nothing, but slide onto the seat across from you.

You see, I’ve come to see you. No one else. Just you.

You look at me quizzically. You have no idea who I am, nor I you, except, I know something about you. Something very important.

Don’t ask me why I know. I just do.

Yesterday, I was in Cleveland. I hate Cleveland.

You appear bemused. You shouldn’t be.

You see, I’ve come with a message. It’s a bit disconcerting, my message.

I know that you, have a year to live.

The discomfort lasts for just a second, before the strangeness of my visage, my demeanour, leads you to finally ask,

“Can I help you?”

You look around. No one seems to notice me sitting in the booth directly across from you. I’m dressed in what can only be described as unusual clothing. It’s fall, and the weather is still warm, especially for so early in the morning. I am wearing what appears to be almost a stylish uniform of sorts, but one that does not signify anything to you.

By the way, I love Paul Stuart’s clothing, by the way, (such an odd expression I think) it seems perfect for New England, especially at this time of year. It’s so convenient now. They didn’t have these styles, so long ago.

But I digress.

My clothes actually look like something a diplomat might wear, or a trendy CIO in Oslo. Somewhere where the cold is more normal. My hair is immaculately kept, my skin, flawless.

You would think me young, professional, successful, clean cut, physically fit.

I speak English, along with most languages, so I clearly understand the question. In return, I respond,

“No. But I can help you.”

You look at me, hard, as though expecting either a sales pitch or threat. Fight or flight. You look around and notice that no other person seems to notice me. Why not?

The feeling of uncomfortableness increases. You appear to want to call to others to help intervene.

But, unsure of what is happening, — not knowing what is real or imaginary, you don’t dare yell or wish to jump up and bolt for the door. So, you ask a question.

Is this man a threat? Is he mentally ill? You ask yourself, but I can hear you.

“How can you help me?” You ask.

I say, “You need to prepare yourself, — for what I’m going to tell you.”

This shocks you. I can tell. I can see the thoughts racing through your mind. Your face can’t hide the rising panic. Perspiration runs down from your brow, your heart races, you feel hot, claustrophobic. Your fingers clench on the table.

Does he have a gun? You ask yourself.

“No”, I say. “No, I don’t.”

“What?” You say.

And then,

Why? As the first beads of perspiration form, — a tiny rivulet of perspiration runs off your eyebrows, landing on your cheek.

Time seems to slow, you can feel your pulse in your temples.

“Because you have to be ready to change. You don’t have much time.” I say.

You are about to attempt to flee, to rise out of the chair, — but you can’t. You don’t know why, but you feel, paralyzed. Is it fear? Am I having a heart attack? Why can’t I move? You ask yourself, “Am I Dreaming?” Is this really happening?

You are in full panic attack, diaphoretic, cold, clammy, your skin feels numb, wet.

“Relax”, I say.

“You’re not going to die, — now.” I say.

Your breath comes in short gasps, you feel faint.

I can hear your thoughts, racing.

“Relax”, I say, again.

“Listen to me now.” I say.

My voice is calm, comforting. I say,

“This is important. You have to focus.”

Through your intense fear and discomfort, somehow you relax, your panic stops. Cold sweat still trickles down your back, — and now, — the fear is gone. You don’t know why, but it’s obvious.

“You have a year to live”, I say. “Exactly a year.”

“Why, — how?” You ask. Now, less fearful, more concerned.

“I cannot tell you that”, I say, “That, I cannot see.”

You laugh, at first, laugh again, Then laughter quickly turns to anger.

“Who do you think you are?” You say. Your eyes a mix of fear and loathing, “This isn’t funny.”

I say nothing, simply tilting my head, ever so slightly.

“Then I suppose you should leave”, I say.

You attempt to move, –nothing. Your muscles, your connective tissue, your nerves, — nothing responds. You remain frozen.

Your eyes widen, comprehension roars through your mind.

“I’m paralyzed, I can’t— move.”

I smile, again.

“Of course you can move. You’re talking to me, aren’t you?”

Your mind races.

Am I talking? You ask yourself.

You shift your eyes to the server behind the counter. Her eyes meet yours, — she smiles in recognition.

Your eyes plead with her, “Help me”, they say.

You look back at me. But the chair is empty. Your eyes take in the entire space, the entrance, hallway, washrooms. The old wizened man at the bar. Nothing. There is no one there.

You turn your head, yes, I can turn my head, you tell yourself.

You quickly look at the server behind the counter, and ask.

“Did you see a man leave a moment ago, wearing a beige uniform?”

“Where?” She asks, uncertain.

“Here in the booth, — across from me.”

She takes a step back from the counter, warily, bringing her hand to her chin.

“Ummm..no, I didn’t. I didn’t see anyone but you at the table sir.”

She has a croissant on a plate. It’s apparently for you.

A customer breaks the awkwardness, and asks the server for a refill for her coffee.

You smile, “Thanks”, you say, ignoring the croissant, and the woman.

“Are you alright, Sir?” She asks, obviously concerned.

You lean back against the booth, relax a bit, let out a long exhale, and let out a small laugh. The woman two table down looks over. A quick smile in recognition of your laughter.

“I’m fine.” You say, unsure of what you just saw, or said.

You think you must have fallen asleep and dreamed all of what just happened.

You pick up your still full coffee cup, walk over to where the used cups are placed in a tray. Putting down your cup, you look back towards your seat and take in the entire room. No one.

You walk to the counter and put down a ten dollar bill, without explaining, you turn and walk out the door.

Your back is still clammy, your eyebrows , wet with sweat. You wipe your brow, dig in your pockets for your car keys and look to cross the street.

A car horn blares. You’re standing in front of a car. The driver’s arms in the air, saying something you can’t make out.

You continue and cross to the entrance to the hotel’s parking lot.

You hurriedly walk across the parking lot, unlock your car with the fob, open the door and sit down, closing your eyes.

What the hell is wrong with me? You ask yourself.

Starting the car you reach into your pocket and take out your phone, placing it in the phone holder on the dash.

You are about to put the car in gear, when you glance at your phone. There is an image on your phone’s screen of a man in a uniform, his smile is familiar.

Slowly, his eye, winks at you, and you hear,

“Relax, You have exactly, one year.”

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