Page 87 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
His severe frown eased reluctantly. “Some of the movies aren’t bad.”
“Any favorites?”
He nodded his head toward Gabby. “Her last was passable.”
“You watched it?” That made me nervous. Of course he’d be interested in her. I loved her. He’d be interested in anything that interestedme.
Death rolled his eyes. “A man had a heart attack in the theater and hit his head on the way down. I stayed a bit longer when I noticed her on the screen.”
“Well?” I couldn’t help but be curious. “What did you think?”
“She is talented. I can see why you ... love her.”
“If you’re not here for Gabby, whyareyou here?”
“As I said, I’m stopping in to see an old friend.”
“Is that what you think we are? Friends?”
“Given our long history, I thought the term might fit.” We sat there for a while. He was a constant. The only one after decades and decades on earth. He knew the truth of me and I of him.
“Are you happy, Nella?”
Was it a mistake to admit I was? Would he cut Gabby’s life short? I glanced at her, chatting with her circle, still strong, lithe, incandescent. “Yes. I am.”
Death settled forlorn eyes on me. “Can you describe it?”
I sat for a minute, flummoxed. He’d never asked that before. “I can only describe happiness as a light that comes from within. You feel lighter, almost buoyant, maybe giddy. Are you?”
“No,” he said. “And I thought seeing you would fix it.”
I forgot how to breathe for a moment. “And did it?”
“I suppose. I find your happiness means something to me. I thought I’d take a look at it up close.”
He drained the last of the second drink. “Enjoy it, Nella. You deserve it. I’d stay longer, but, alas, duty calls.” He bowed and winked out of existence.
When he was gone, the music sharpened around me again, the sights and sounds of the nightclub refocused and more vibrant after his exit.
I had many years with Gabby. Death had assured me, but how many more? I tried not to think about it, but how could I not, especially as the years passed? As Death had promised, nothing unexpected happened, but I still had to watch the passage of time on her person.
In 1991, Gabby turned sixty-six, and though she was still beautiful, the effects of time were evident in small ways: the creases at the corners of her eyes, the slight thickening of her waist, the touch of gray kissing her temples. I remember one night she sat at her makeup table at our house, squinting at her reflection, pressing back the soft skin from her eyes.
“You are stunning,” I said from the door, watching her.
She smiled at me. “Easy for you to say. You haven’t aged a day. It’s been more than thirty years since we met, and it’s like you just walked through the church doors. You have to tell me your secret.”
“Just good stock,” I lied, then told fiction stories about my family and their slow-aging fountain of youth genes. I hated lying to her. She was more than a lover, a wife, a partner, but a trusted friend, someone I wished I could let in on the truth. But I couldn’t break Death’s rules.
“Still, it’s a marvelous thing. Almost every actress I know would give their eyeteeth for it.” Gabby glanced up at me. “To be forever young looking. A blessing—”
“And a curse.” My thoughts wandered to the true price of living forever. All around me, the world had sped up: turbo jets, bullet trains, cell phones, Walkmans, VCRs, personal computers, and twenty-four-hour news cycles. The only thing remaining unchanged was me.
I’d resorted to dusting my hair with powder, overdoing my makeup, wearing longer skirts and dated blouses, and putting on thick, clear-lensed glasses that took up half my face. Despite my efforts, the comments about how good I looked for my age never stopped.
“Do you mind?” I asked her.
“Why would I?” She stood, her dressing gown sweeping behind her, and wrapped her hands around me. “Intelligent, talented,andbeautiful? Who would complain about that? Not me, that’s for certain.”
