7 Days

I don’t know my name. I don’t know the purpose for my life, or even if there is one. I don’t even know my gender. How can that be, you ask? Well, I’d bloody like to know that myself.

Currently, my name is William Buckby. My age is around 60, give or take. I will die today. How do I know this, you ask? Because it happens EVERY week. I die, and I end up in someone else’s body for a week. I die again, over and over, with no end in sight. The exact time of death is never the same, but I always die within 7 days, and always on a Thursday. When I get a new body, I remember my past experiences, but I feel compelled to learn about the new me in the short time I have.

William has cancer. I think this may be my 10th time dying of cancer. It’s a painful way to go, and I ought to know. From what his wife, Cindy, has insinuated, William gave up on chemotherapy months ago. It’s just as well. I can feel the certainty of death in this body. William has lots of family coming and going. That’s nice. It’s so much worse when one suffers alone.

I always put on a brave face whenever Cindy or any of their three grown children enter the room. At least I’m at home, and not in a hospital.

The oldest son, Peter, is in the doorway. He rubs his right hand through his bushy, brown hair, which needs a trim. He asked tentatively, “Dad? Are you awake?”

“Come in, Peter,” I say with a nod. “I was hoping to speak with you.” He sits next to the bed and takes my hand. I look him in the eyes and request, “You’re going to look after your mother, right?” I squeeze his hand a bit tighter and continue, “I know she’ll worry but really, I will be in a better place.” (Maybe.)

He rubs his hand down his face, and rests it on his chin. “Sure, Dad.” His feet are fidgeting. Finally, he speaks his mind, “Do you remember when I crashed the Ford back when I was 22?” He looks at me with a pained expression.

I have no idea to what he’s referring, but I play along. “Don’t worry about that right now, son.”

“My friends and I got into your whiskey cabinet, and I never told you I was drunk. It’s been eating me up ever since. I’m so sorry.” Tears were pooling in his eyes and began falling.

I chuckle. “I was young once.” (Many times, actually.) “If you need to hear me say so, I forgive you, but I never gave it a second thought.” (Or a first.)

He sighs, the weight of the world releasing with that breath. I've been witness to that kind of catharsis many times.

After spending the week with the Buckbys, I wish for the thousandth time that I could live out a life with a family like this.

William’s oldest son and daughter come in.

Jane puts a hand on my arm and asks gently, “Can I get you anything, Dad?”

I grin, “Yeah, another body.” (Ironic request, I know) They laugh, but then the mood in the room gets serious, as they glanced at each other with worried expressions. To cut the tension, I look at Jane and say, “How about a deck of cards? We can play poker.”

Jane’s forehead crinkles in a scowl. “Since when do you play poker?”

Oops, I knew William was more of a sports dad, but who doesn’t ever play cards with their kids? I redirect, “Well, I did have a life before I met your mother. My high school buddies and I played penny-ante poker for a while, that is, until they got tired of me cleaning them out.” (I had actually learned how to play poker many weeks ago as Paul Carter, a card shark, who unfortunately got on the wrong side of a loan shark.)

The kids look at each other. I’m not sure if they’re shocked, amused, or both. Jeremy, the oldest, says, “I think we have a deck of cards in the old game tub in the basement. I’ll get Mom, too. Be right back.”

With the family gathered around my bed, I teach them the basics of five card draw. It is all I can do to get the words out, but they seem determined to satisfy my wishes. I want to give them memories, because it’s my deepest, most burning desire to have memories of my own. We played five hands. I won four, but then I have to admit that I’m too weak to continue.

I can’t help but rest my head on the pillow now because it feels heavy. I look at each of the kids and tell them with a small smile, “I love you. and I don’t want you to be sad for me.” Tears steam down their cheeks.

I look at Cindy, grasp her hand weakly, and tell her, “I love you with all my heart. I want you to be happy, even if that means finding another husband.” She’s too young to be alone.

I close my eyes, knowing this is the end of William Buckby.

*

I feel a rush of wind, pulling at me, like I’m being sucked up into a giant vacuum cleaner. I hold my breath and close my eyes, because when I’ve tried to watch this strange journey through some sort of tube-like portal, it makes the new body vomit. Finally, I can breathe again. The transformation is complete. For the thousandth time, I wonder what happens to the consciousness of the person whose body I am now occupying.

A quick assessment. No pain. That’s always a relief. I look down at my new hands and body. I’m a woman now. Milk chocolate skin. A glance around the room determines that I’m alone in what must be my bedroom. It’s clean, but drab. The curtains are navy blue. The old wooden desk has a kitchen chair in front of it. There’s a mirror on the door with a small crack near the top. I check out my image. I have a nice face and an attractive figure.

I sit down on the worn quilt on the bed. There’s a notebook next to me. It says, “Personal Diary of Shara Williams.” Okay, Shara, thank you for the insight.

As I open the cover, a picture falls out. On the back, it says, “Shara, age 7 and the year.” I work the math. She’s 21 now. Too young to die.

Her handwriting is nice. I read:

• September 20 Mama bought this here diary in the hopes that I would write down some of my frustrations. My main frustration is that I can’t afford my own place. F**k this life.
• September 26 Jordan says he don’t want to be with someone who don’t wanna commit to him fully. Screw him. I don’t wanna move into his dump anyhow. I’d rather live with Mama for 10 more years.
• October 2 I had another job interview today. It was at a bank. I dressed real nice like. It went good. I hope I get it.
• October 4 I didn’t get the f**kin job. Screw them. They don’t deserve me.
• October 5 Mama told me they’re hiring at the dollar store. It’s something. I interviewed this morning and they called back this afternoon and told me I start tomorrow!
• October 6 Work sucks. My feet are sore, and the jerks who work there treat me like I ain’t nothin. One called me an idiot to my face. I’m gonna give it a week and see if I can earn enough to get my own place.
• October 12 I quit today. Shit for pay, and I can’t stand no more with those jerks at the store. Mama pitched a fit.

Impatient, I skim through to the end and find the last entry:

• April 8 I think I’m gonna jump in front of a subway train. Life don’t mean nothin anyhow. At least I’m not pregnant.

Clearly, Shara was in need of some counseling, better grammar, some self-confidence, and a job. Maybe I can help with three out of four. It’s early morning. By the rumbling of my stomach, I can tell Shara hasn’t had breakfast. Time to see if Mama is around.

As I head down the hallway, I notice the bathroom on the right. The door on the left is closed - perhaps Mama’s room. The living room is next, open to the kitchen. Everything is worn and dated, but clean. I scan the cupboards and refrigerator, opting for oatmeal and bacon, making enough for two as I’ve seen no evidence of anyone else. As I cook breakfast, I look out the window. It’s a rundown neighborhood. Across the street, I see some people gathered in a vacant lot around a 55-gallon drum in which a fire is burning. They are talking animatedly and laughing intermittently. They look so happy despite their paltry conditions.

As the oatmeal reaches a perfect consistency, a door opens and closes. A shrill voice calls, “What’s that I smell? Shara, you ain’t burnin down the house, is you?”

I say, “No, Mama, I made us breakfast.”

Mama’s large frame comes into the kitchen, her brown eyes wide with surprise. A smile lights up her face. “Well, I’ll be! When you learn to cook, girl?”

“Um,” What would a young person say? “I looked it up on the internet.” Mama shrugs.

I carry two glasses of orange juice to the table. Mama says, “This is right nice! You may find youself a man yet.”

I look at her, carefully choosing my words. “I’m going to put all my effort into finding a good job first.”

“Well now, that sounds like a right good plan. Your mouth to God’s ears, child.”

After I clean up the breakfast dishes, I find Shara’s phone. I’m glad it’s not passcoded. I search for jobs and make notes about what I think I should apply for. I shower and get dressed in the most professional outfit I find in the closet.

Over the next three days, I learn the bus schedule very well. I apply and interview for many jobs with confidence Shara undoubtedly lacked. Finally, I get the call I was hoping for. “Congratulations, we would love you to work here at Martin’s Pharmacy. You will be a cashier to start with, but if you’re interested, we have an on-the-job training program for Pharmacy Technicians.”

By this point, I’m jumping up and down, excited for the future, until I realize it’s Monday. There isn’t much time. I say, “I would love to enroll in your Pharmacy Tech program. Thank you so much. I’m available today if you need me.”

The person on the phone laughs and says, “I like your enthusiasm, but tomorrow will be soon enough.”

Mama makes fried chicken to celebrate the good news. She’s so happy for me. She says, “You done good this week, girl. I’m right proud.”

I beam, smiling ear-to-ear. “Thank you, Mama.”

For two days, I show up early at the pharmacy and don the smock and name tag they have prepared for me. I learn everything as fast as I can. After all, I’m used to being a quick study.

That night, I make one of my favorites, ham with potatoes and gravy and green beans. Mama is clearly happy.

The next morning, I tell Mama, “I love you” and give her a long hug.

As I’m running to catch the bus, a red-light runner slams into me. I feel the weightlessness of flying before smashing into another car going in another direction. There are screeching wheels ringing in my ears.

Then, darkness.

Next, the rush of wind.

Goodbye, Shara.

Thank you for reading! Here is another in this series: