Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Death was lying in the middle of his beautiful bed, and had been tucked in with no small amount of care, which almost distracted from his ghastly visage.
His vivid, bloodred hair was fading to a mottled dark pink.
His eyes, normally a match for his hair, were a muddied red.
His hand, when he lifted it in greeting, was a bundle of sticks and dry skin.
“How’re you so pretty when you do that to your hair and eyes?” he croaked. “Enough with the dyeing already.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.” Amara swallowed her shock at his appearance. “And a backhanded compliment right out of the gate? Thanks, Dad.”
“It’s just silly, is all I’m saying. Be you. Look like you.”
“You mean look like you. If you’ve got a problem, take it up with the good people at L’Oreal and Bausch I don’t know if Death can get dehydrated, but let’s not take any chances. Third, why am I here? Do you really think you’re going to die? Because that’s not how it works. For anyone, and especially you.”
“Now you’re an authority on ‘how it works’? You’ve spent your life running from it. From me. It breaks your mother’s heart.”
“Annnnd now you’ve dragged Mom into it. Well done, Dad; you’re checking every box.”
“Amara . . .”
“You’re the one who butchered her sisters back in the day,” she retorted, already heading for the door. “But sure. Moving out when I was eighteen was somehow worse.”
“Amara!”
Go. Put your hand on the knob and go-go-go.
“I—I’m sorry. I just . . .” Her father gestured helplessly at himself, the Kleenex boxes, the room’s general disarray.
Doesn’t matter. Go-go-go! Her arm was suddenly too slow and too long. The doorknob was about a mile away. Streeeetch! You’re almost there.
“I don’t know what to do,” he whined. “Neither does your mother. Please don’t go. I—I’m thankful you came home. We both are.”
Dammit! So close to a clean getaway.
She turned back with a sigh. Smelling victory, Death was heaving himself up to a sitting position. “I am. And I apologize again. Being overwhelmed is no excuse to belittle my last child. Any child,” he admitted.
Argh, don’t let him off the hook, don’t let him off the hook, don’t . . .
“Okay. That’s . . . I understand. You’re having a difficult week. I accept your apology.”
Dammit!
“But Dad, in all seriousness: What do you expect me to do? Fluff your pillows and ply you with orange juice while you don’t die? Because, obviously, you’re not dying.”
Silence.
Her desperation was a palpable weight, pressing the air from her lungs. “Death can’t die,” she whispered.
“No, but Death’s avatar can.” He blew his nose and looked even more woebegone than before. “And I am. And so the time has come.”
“No.”
“At long last.”
“Nope.”
“The passing of the torch—or scythe, if you prefer.”
“You hear the noises coming out of my face-hole, right? The way I keep saying no, no, a zillion times no? And shaking my head like I’m trying to dislodge a tick? Dad? Are you listening?” Dumb question. He never listens.
“Don’t worry.” He coughed again, wiped his mouth with a Kleenex that came away bloody. “You’re a natural. I’ve known that since you were six.”
“No. Nyet. Non. Nie. N?o.”
“If not you, then who?” he asked, and she had no answer.