No Dress Rehearsal (4 page)

Suddenly Lizzie was hit by a great idea. “Hey, is this like that film? The one with Jimmy Stewart in it?” she began, in wild excitement. “Where he said he wishes he had never been born. Then an angel makes it happen. But the world is far worse without him. So he gets to go back and he's really glad he's alive?” She stared at them, her face mad with hope.

Jim and Jan shared a sad look.

Jim shook his head. “You wouldn't
believe
the number of people who latch onto that idea.”

“
It's a Wonderful Life
, that's what it's called,” Lizzie said, still clinging to hope.

Jim shook his head again. “Sorry, Lizzie. I'm afraid that if you're dead,
you stay dead. There are no second chances.”

“Please,” Lizzie begged, her voice tiny.

“It's not up to me,” Jim said.

“Ah, go on.”

“Honest. It's not up to me. The whole point is you had plenty of time while you were alive. People only come back from the dead in children's fairy tales. Oh yes and the Bible, of course,” he added.

Jan gave Jim an admiring look. He was so tough. Would she ever be as good as him? she wondered.

Lizzie sat very still. She was furious at the thought of all her missed chances.

“So what happens now?” she spat. Her voice shook with rage and grief. “Do I go to Hell or what?”

“Oh, I wouldn't have thought you'd
be going to Hell.” Jan looked into a file on the desk. “You haven't led a bad life. Not entirely blameless either; I don't think anyone will nominate you for the sainthood.”

She paused to tinkle at her own wit while Lizzie gazed at her sourly.

“Ah, sorry. Just my little joke,” Jan said, humbly. “But you have worked here for a very long time. And you did go out with an estate agent for a while. Both of these will go on your account as a credit under the ‘Hell on Earth' scheme.”

She laughed again and Lizzie wanted to kill her. “Give me that!” She tried to grab the file.

“I'm sorry, it's none of your business.”

“But this is my
life
we're talking about!”

“Not any more, it's not,” Jim said.
“In fact, strictly speaking, it was never really your life to begin with. It was given to you on loan but could be recalled at any moment, without notice. As you found out to your cost.”

“I see,” Lizzie said bitterly.

“I was only kidding about Hell,” Jan smiled. “There's no such place. By the way, in case you haven't already noticed, there will be some unpleasant side effects as a result of your death.”

“Yeah like being dead!” Lizzie was in no mood.

Jan stared at her with patient and gentle eyes. Then she continued, “You might experience nausea, feelings of doom, fear and loneliness,” before adding kindly, “a bit like a bad hangover.”

Lizzie sat in sulky silence. Until, out of curiosity, she was forced to speak. “Look, what's going to happen to me?”

“You'll be fine. In a few days you'll see.”

“So what am I supposed to do until then?”

“Whatever you like. Watch a bit of telly. Visit yourself in the funeral home. Or you could attend your own funeral. Most people seem to get a kick out of that.”

“When is it on?”

“The day after tomorrow. Ten o'clock. Don't be late.”

Lizzie realised something. All her life she'd been late for everything. People were forever telling her she'd be late for her own funeral. Well, this was her chance to prove them wrong.

Lizzie went home. She could have stayed at work, but why should she? Especially now that they'd stopped paying her. She passed the rest of the day lying on the couch watching good crap on the telly.
Oprah
and
Countdown
and
Home and Away
.

Spending a day like this was the kind of thing she'd longed to do when she was snowed under with work. But now that she had all eternity to do so, it didn't hold the same appeal. She had to admit that it wasn't much fun being dead.

But it wasn't all bad. On the plus side she found she didn't need her bike to get around. She could simply appear anywhere she put her mind to. She could have gone as far away as Italy or India. She could even have popped up in Brad Pitt's bedroom if she really wanted. But she couldn't be bothered. She wanted to stay close to the familiar. Things were difficult enough.

Later that day, as soon as she felt up to it, she visited her mother and father. She watched her mother cry as though her heart was breaking. The guilt was terrible.

“It's too unnatural,” her mother wept, “for a parent to bury a child.”

Like most people, Lizzie hadn't always seen eye-to-eye with her parents. Not that they'd been at each other's throats either. But she realised now she could have spent more time
with them.
Should
have spent more time with them. But she had always been so busy. There was always so much to do …

She was sorry now. Very sorry. With terrible tenderness she watched her mother. She hated the wails that were being pulled from her gut. But when she tried putting her arms around her, her mother shivered as though she was freezing.

Later she went back to her flat and waited for Neil. He'd been running around all day with Sinead, organising the funeral.

When he came home that night, she tried to snuggle up to him in bed. But he shook so badly that she realised that it was better not to touch him.

The thing was, she kept forgetting she was dead. When she saw how upset Neil was by her death, she couldn't
stop thinking it was a good thing. That this was exactly what was needed to bring him to his senses. The commitment from him was as good as in the bag. Maybe they'd get married the following spring.

Then she'd think, But hold on a minute. I'm dead. How can we get married if I'm dead?

And then she was angry. She wasn't finished yet. She wasn't ready to let go of being alive. There was so much still to do. She was meant to live until she was at least seventy. And here she was, not even half that and already out of the game.

The following day, to pass the time, she dropped in to see herself in the funeral home. She couldn't get over her shattered skull. “
Ouch
!” she winced. “Tense, nervous headache? I bet that hurt.”

And while she studied herself she realised something else. She'd been a nice-looking girl. While she'd been alive she'd never been happy with the way she'd looked. The usual list of complaints. Arse too big, boobs too small, hair too frizzy, ears too stickyouty. But she hadn't known how lucky she was. Whatever about arses and hair and all the rest, at least her skull hadn't been in twenty-seven separate pieces.

After that she went into work. She'd always wanted to be a fly on the wall. Just so she could find out who her friends really were. But it was no good. It was impossible to find out what any of the people she had worked with really thought of her. Because they were too busy saying all the things people say about dead people. “She was a lovely girl.” “God takes the good ones young.” “At least she lived life to
the full.” “The place won't be the same without her.”

When it became clear that no one was going to do the dirty on her, she hid a couple of highly important files. But her heart wasn't really in it.

The morning of the funeral Lizzie popped along to the church to see herself lying in the coffin. Though her make-up was all right, she was very cross to see that she was wearing pink. “How could they?” She was raging. “Everyone knows it doesn't suit me. I look like death.”

Her heart lurched when Neil appeared, looking handsome and grim in a black suit. Carefully he placed a huge wreath beside the coffin. Pity he didn't give me those flowers while I
was alive, she thought sadly. They're very little use to me now.

At the very last minute, in ran Sinead. Sweet, sparky Sinead. “Sorry I'm late,” she gasped.

Lizzie admired Sinead's suit. It was a nice, narrow-cut black one. But even though it was new, already the hem was hanging. Lately, Sinead always looked like she was fraying and unravelling. She needed a break.

Lizzie nearly burst with fondness – and longing. She missed her best pal. She hated not being able to talk to her. It was one of the worst things about being dead – apart from being dead, that was. With a real passion she badly wanted life to work out for Sinead. The way it hadn't for her.

The funeral Mass turned out to be a well-attended affair – long-lost cousins and old school friends and neighbours
all showed up. It wasn't unlike Lizzie's 21st birthday party. She really hadn't known that so many people cared about her. She felt the by-now-familiar wash of bitter regret that she'd only found out when it was too late.

Everyone had lovely things to say about Lizzie. The priest just went to town on her. She was “kind, hardworking, a great story-teller. A good daughter, employee, friend.”

Paid her television licence. Always stood her round. As good as invented a cure for cancer.

“Ah stop.” Lizzie was hot with pride. “I'm mortified.”

Then Neil gave a speech and played a blinder. He spoke about his love for Lizzie. How he wished he'd shown it more while she'd been alive. He had them all in the palm of his hand. Seventy per cent of them were openly
weeping. Then, all of a sudden, the mood of enjoyable sorrow was broken. By a horrible, quavery version of “The Camptown Races”.

Everyone present turned and glared at the scarlet Sinead.

“Sorry,” she whispered. She looked at the caller-display panel, and switched the phone off. “My boss.”

Lizzie's aunt leant over and muttered to Michael who worked at the offlicence nearest to Lizzie's flat, “What kind of boss rings a person when they're at their best friend's funeral?”

And Lizzie had to agree. It was crazy carry-on.

When the service ended Lizzie suddenly became aware of certain changes in the way she felt. The nausea and feelings of doom and isolation were definitely getting fainter. When she saw her parents and Sinead and Neil crying,
the sorrow wasn't as bad as it had been a couple of days before. Now she could watch their grief with some distance.

And as for her own, as yet unknown, future, a calmness had crept in and settled inside her.

After she'd been buried and the mourners had gone their separate ways, Jim and Jan caught up with her.

“How was your funeral?” Jim asked.

“Lovely. You'd want to have seen the crowds!”

“And how do you feel now?”

“Not at all bad, actually.”

“Great.”

“There's just one thing …”

There usually is, their faces said.

“I feel …” she tried to find the right word, “…regret about the way I only half-lived my life …”

Jim and Jan were looking at her. Their faces were giving nothing away.

“I wish I'd known,” Lizzie pushed on. “I'd have done things differently. I'd have made the very most of my life. And I wondered if there was any chance I could tell this to … some people?”

“What people?” Jim asked. “Neil?”

“Well, I'm not so worried about him. Neil is very good at living life to the full. It's why he didn't want to marry me – that's very clear to me now. No, the person I was really thinking of was Sinead.”

Jim and Jan raised their eyebrows at each other. “Why not?”

“So what should I do? I don't want to scare her.”

“Grand. Well, appearing in a dream is a popular way.”

“Can I pop by and visit my parents too?”

“Ah, sure, you might as well.”

“And Neil?”

“Go on then. While you're at it.”

First Lizzie visited her parents and had a lovely talk with both of them at the same time. She told them to make the most of the many years they had left. Then she told them that she was fine and that she loved them both. “Even me?” her dad pressed. “Even though I never spoke to you when you used to ring up.”

“Of course.”

“That's nice,” he murmured.

“Shergar,” she added.

“Ah stop,” he said.

“I'm only messing. Bye Mum, bye Dad.”

In the morning they both remembered their dream in exactly the same way. Right down to the smallest detail.

“She called you Shergar,” Mrs. Whelan said.

“She did,” Mr. Whelan agreed.

They both agreed that she had actually visited them. It gave them some comfort, over the days and weeks and months ahead, when the grief got too much to bear.

Next on Lizzie's list was Neil.

“I should have loved you better,” he said. “I didn't mean to be unkind. You know …”

“… that was the last thing on your mind. Have some respect for the dead,” Lizzie chided with good humour. “Spare me the song lyrics.”

“Sorry. I did love you, I just wasn't very good at showing it.”

“Well, you'll know better the next time.”

“Will there be a next time?”

“Oh yes.”

“With you?”

“Cripes no. Someone else.”

“And you don't mind?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Janey, there is a God.”

Last call to Sinead.

“How's it going,” Sinead said sleepily. “But you're meant to be dead.”

“Oh, I am,” Lizzie agreed. “I just wanted to have a quick word. I'd like you to do something for me.”

“What's that?”

“Don't wait until you're dead to want to live your life. Just do it. Go to Italy or Greece or Paris or
somewhere
. You're always saying you're going to.”

“Only when I'm drunk,” Sinead mumbled. “And what would I live on?”

“Teach English. Work in a bar – it doesn't matter. Making a living isn't the important thing. Living is.”