I gasped and looked around for a mirror. “Oh, my god, do I look like a meth head?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Absolutely not.” After casting a furtive glance over her shoulder, she added, “Or, well, not much.”

Looking down at my arms, I realized they were a bit skinny. And my coloring was bad, but couldn’t that be chalked up to the whole death thing? If only I could remember who I was, how I died. I just remembered falling. That was it. And reaching out for something as I fell, but what?

“Is it normal for people to forget who they are after they, you know, pass?”

She shrugged while stirring her coffee. “Doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. Especially if the death was particularly traumatic.”

“Maybe I was murdered.” I tried so hard to remember, to push past the fog in my head. “Wait. I can’t drink coffee. I couldn’t even when I was alive.”

“Why not?”

“I think it nauseates me.”

She grabbed the cup and walked into her tiny living room. That was when I noticed a small, painfully thin man in her corner, his back to us, his bare toes hovering several inches off the ground.

“Told you it would jog something. Coffee is multifunctional that way. Maybe you were sick.

Were you in the hospital?”

I pointed. “There’s a guy—”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Wong.” She sat at her computer and nudged the mouse to bring things out of hibernation. “Hey, Mr. Wong,” she said, offering a wave. “How’s it hanging?”

“He’s just—”

“Hovering. Yeah, you’ll get used to it. So, any idea what your name is yet?”

I refocused on her but kept tabs on Mr. Wong from the corner of my eye. “Not really. Is he dead?”

“Sure is. And he doesn’t talk much, either. Have a seat.” She gestured to the chair beside her desk, so I sat down while she logged onto a database. “I’m going to check out recent deaths, starting with the Albuquerque News Journal, see if anything local rings a bell.” As she waited for the server, she folded her legs in the chair and propped her chin on a knee, careful not to spill the coffee she held in both hands, and I realized she was wearing thick knitted socks. Her hair, which hung just past her shoulders, was still in utter disarray. She looked like a kid on Saturday morning, waiting for the cartoons to start.

“You don’t really look like the grim reaper.”

“I get that a lot,” she said, then leveled a pointed stare on me, “Mary Jane Holbrook.”

“Who?” I asked.

She looked back at the screen. “Oh, crap, never mind. She was like eighty-four when she died.”

I looked at the screen as well, but the colors pixelated and made me dizzy.

“Damn, she looked good for her age.”

“Why can’t I see right?”

“You’re on a different plane,” she said, studying the screen. “Things don’t always translate well.

How about Jennifer Sandoval?”

“Doesn’t sound familiar,” I said, shaking my head. “Do I look like her?”

“No idea. I’m on the police blotter, now. No pics.”

Another memory surfaced, one so unbelievable, so horrid I bit my lip to keep from gasping. I had to be remembering it wrong. That couldn’t have happened.

“I got nothing,” she said, refocusing on me from behind her cup. She took a long draw, eyeing me from head to toe. “Not to mention the fact that you could have died anywhere in the world and, quite honestly, anytime. I’m not really getting a read off your gown or hairstyle other than you probably died sometime within the last twenty years.”

“Twenty years?” I asked, appalled. “You mean, I could have been walking around for decades?”

She nodded. “But time doesn’t really work the same on your plane. It’s not as linear. But things are starting to come to you, right? Did you remember something else?”

It must have shown on my face, the horror of realization, the crackle of dread that rushed down my spine. “Yes, but it can’t be right. I just... It can’t be right.”

She cast a sympathetic gaze from under her lashes. “You can tell me anything. I have a very stringent confidentiality rule. Well, that and nobody would believe me anyway.”

I glanced down at my hands, or more importantly, my wrists, but they were unmarred. But I remembered falling. Maybe I’d jumped off a building or a bridge. “I think I committed suicide,”

I said, shame burning my face.

“Oh. I’m so sorry, hon.” She put a hand over one of mine, and though I couldn’t seem to feel anything physically, I could feel warmth radiating off her, pure and inviting. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to cry. How could I do such a thing? I loved life. I remembered. I wanted nothing more than to live, to be healthy and normal.

“Wait,” I said, glancing back at her, “if I’d committed suicide, wouldn’t I have gone to Hell?”

She squeezed my hand. “It doesn’t work that way, though many religions would have you believe it does. Sometimes our physical bodies send us to a place we just can’t seem to crawl out of. It’s not our fault.”

I felt a wetness slide down my face, surprised that I could still cry.

“Can you tell me what you remember?”

I wiped the back of my hand across my cheek and took a deep breath. “I just remember deciding to die. It was a conscious decision.” I pressed my mouth together to keep from bursting into tears. How could I have done that? What kind of person did that make me? I took the sacred life that was given to me and threw it away. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.