June 2021: Route 39 - Nathan Taylor
According to the clock on the wall, I died at 3:14am. Just in time for pie.
As I searched the function room for childhood pets and departed friends, I was surprised to see only strangers. A small group glanced up as I entered during the blowing-out of the candles. A black pennant banner hung lopsided over cheap wallpaper, white letters in each triangle spelled ‘HAPPY ANNIVERSARY GARY’.
I knew a Gary. Or at least I had known a Gary. I didn’t like to speak about him.
When the candles were finished, a pair of the strangers sidled up to me. An old woman with tightly curled hair took my hand. “Welcome to the afterlife.”
“Uh thanks,” I muttered. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, just an anniversary party,” said a man with a bright red moustache. “One year since Gary’s death.”
“But he’s a bit of an odd duck,” the old woman added. “Prefers pie to cake.”
I nodded, my insides quivered. I pushed my suspicions away. “Where is everyone?” I asked. “My uncle should be here, and my dog, Darryl.”
“Who calls a dog Darryl?” the old woman asked.
“Martha,” growled the man. “Ignore her,” he added, “she’s been here longer than all of us. I’d say old Martha may have been the first traffic accident on Route 39.”
“Route 39?” That rang another uncomfortable bell. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“That’s why you’re here, friend,” said the man. “Sunday school had it all wrong. There are no pearly gates, just a bunch of rooms, and each room is tied to the place where you died.”
My stomach sunk. Sweat dampened the collar of a shirt I don’t remember putting on. “Are you saying that everyone here died on Route 39?”
“You got it,” said the man. “Most of us fell asleep at the wheel. Gary was hit picking wildflowers, Alana was thrown off a truck.” He smiled at me. “How did you go?”
I tasted bile at the back of my throat. I didn’t want to be here. I turned to the glass double door through which I had entered. It was gone.
“You’ve gone all pale,” said Martha. A grin spread across her wrinkled features. “Must have been a colourful ending. Go on. Tell us about it.”
“I… I…” my mind was a mess or whirring gears. “I was laying flowers at a memorial.”
“A memorial?” The man with the moustache nodded. “Then you must know somebody here. Family? Friend? If they died on that road they’ll be here.”
“He didn’t die on that road…” I scanned the room and my worst fear came to life. Seated at the table, enjoying his pie was Gary Straus. The botanist whose memorial cross on Route 39 was the last thing I saw. “He was killed when I lost control of my car.”
Martha’s jaw dropped. “You killed Gary?”
I nodded. “One year ago today. I visited Route 39 to pay my respects. I’d heard he loved flowers.”
July’s Right Left Write competition is open now - theme: The Birds. Enter at www.queenslandwriters.org.au/competitions.
Right Left Write’s June prompt was Anniversary.