Marc Rivers, Author

Charles Gaudet had just finished changing into his nightclothes when he began to genuinely wonder if his worries had all been for nothing. Today was, after all, “the anniversary,” the fifth anniversary, at that. That’s what had been promised to him: five more years. Maybe it was just an approximation, he reasoned. After all, it wasn’t like Death to tell someone exactly when they would die, was it?

He had spent all day convinced it would be his last on earth. He had even meticulously planned out how he would spend it: his favorite breakfast of eggs, Belgian waffles, and French toast; a walk through the nearby nature reserve; lunch with his closest son and three grandchildren; and one last listen to the Doobie Brothers’ “Toulouse Street” (on vinyl, of course).

He had assumed by then it would’ve happened. He didn’t expect to have to wait around all day, yet here it was, a quarter past ten in the evening, and he was still as alive as ever. If he had to describe his feelings in that moment, “annoyed” wouldn’t be the correct word. Maybe “irked.” Maybe. But more than anything, he began to feel a creeping sense of disappointment.

Maybe tomorrow, he thought. He began to plan out his day if that were the case. Breakfast would probably be the same, honestly. Why deprive himself of perfectly good waffles and French toast? He might see if he could schedule brunch with his favorite niece, the one who just moved back to New Rochelle with her wife.

And then what? What if it’s not tomorrow, either? What if he’d been wrong this whole time? What if, like everyone else on this earth, he simply wasn’t allowed to know the hour when his time was up?

Do I regret any of it? That question caught him off-guard. He hadn’t been that uncomfortably honest with himself since… well, since that day, five years ago, when one little health scare changed everything.

Well, perhaps “little” wasn’t doing the situation enough justice. After his secretary convinced him to see a doctor about his debilitating headaches, they discovered a brain aneurysm, just in time for it to rupture. The fact that he was already at the hospital when it happened was the only thing that saved his life.

After a successful emergency surgery, he came out the other side of the ordeal with no long-term side effects to speak of. “One of the lucky ones,” his doctors and surgeon kept calling him. Yet Charles had always wondered how much luck played into it.

At some point in all of the chaos, when exactly he couldn’t say, he made a deep, thorough, and very critical analysis of his life to that point and he did not like what he saw. Even though the doctors had given him a good prognosis for recovery, he found himself mourning his own life. He had left too much undone for people he had made promises to and left too much unsaid to those closest to him. He reflected on what difference he had made in the world and if it was even a good one.

As he lay in that hospital bed, hoping for some balm to his pain and bargaining with the universe in general and no one in particular, he was stunned when someone actually talked back.

Do you promise? he heard a voice ask. He was wide awake in his room, so he knew that he was all alone. Yet he could not see anyone the voice could have belonged to.

“Promise what?” he asked back aloud, albeit softly.

Promise to become the measure of man you wish you were.

“I do,” he answered.

The voice then responded, So, too, do I promise—you will have the time you seek. Remember this day. In five years’ time, I will return and your time will be over.

It would have been one thing to wave away the whole conversation as the byproduct of heavy sedation, except for the fact that Charles remembered every word of it for the next five years. In that time, he had dedicated himself to being the best person he could be.

There had been costs along the way. His company, the very one he had founded 42 years ago, voted him out when they got spooked by a dip in the stock price as a result of his newfound conscience. Many of his well-connected friends dropped their association with him as well. Evidently, whatever use he had served them as the head of a major corporation had run its course. That was how he learned that so many people in his orbit didn’t really care about him, only what his connections could do to benefit them. The only real tragedy in all of it was how long it had taken him to see it.

However, he had also gained much in those five years, too. He had never been closer to his own family than he was in that time. He also gained new friendships as he entered the world of grassroots charities. There was also something comforting about seeing his efforts making a direct difference in people’s lives, even if it was only on a small scale, as opposed to throwing money at a Byzantine political machine and assuming (guessing, really) that it would go where they said it would.

Now, five years on, he could make peace with the person he’d become. No, I don’t regret any of it. He turned off his bedside light and slipped under the covers, wondering how on earth he was going to get any sleep while he waited for Death’s promised return.

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He wasn’t sure if he had actually drifted off to sleep or not, but one thing Charles Gaudet was certain of when he sat up in bed was that he was very much awake and lucid. It was still dark outside, or at least as dark as it was allowed to get in the city. He thought of looking for his phone to check the time, but he immediately became distracted by the sight of someone in the room with him. They were sitting in his favorite reading chair, in fact. He should have been startled, but he innately knew this person was no intruder. No, this was an expected visit.

The person looked like a man with a pale, hairless face, wearing a black cowl and robes. He bore no accessory or decoration. He was just sitting in the chair, fingers knit together in his lap, legs casually crossed at the knee, and looking in Charles’s direction as though he had been patiently waiting for him to wake up.

“You came,” Charles said softly.

“I did,” Death replied, “as promised.” His voice was surprisingly warm and friendly.

“I never said ‘thank you’,” Charles added.

“Haven’t you? You’ve certainly held to your promise, which speaks to me of gratitude.”

Charles smiled weakly. This was all so surreal. Now standing beside his bed, he felt an odd sense of comfort (and even boldness) growing within him. “You look … different than I imagined.”

“Do I? That’s odd. I usually look exactly as people imagine me.”

Come to think of it, he was right. It had taken Charles a moment, but he now realized that the figure before him was very familiar indeed—he looked just like Death from the film “The Seventh Seal.” The realization made him chuckle.

“Of course,” Charles said. “Of course that’s how I would see you. Forgive me. Perhaps I didn’t recognize you at first because you weren’t playing chess with Max von Sydow.”

“There’s time for that later, if you prefer,” Death said.

“I think,” Charles said, “I’d rather get it over and done with, if that’s all right with you.”

“Of course.”

“Will it hurt?”

A half-smile appeared on Death’s face and he chuckled softly before answering, “No. It did not.”

“Did…?” In his confusion, Charles looked around, expecting to see evidence of the afterlife unfolding around him. That was when he saw himself lying in bed, looking as serene as could be, without even a hint of care on his face.

It was surreal to behold his own body, as though suddenly watching himself in the third person. And yet, there was also the recognition that the figure lying in bed was not really him—he wasn’t there. It was what was left behind. He, Charles, was standing a few feet away, observing.

“I’ll be damned,” he whispered. “You did it painlessly.”

“Me? I didn’t do anything. I only escort souls to the next life. Your brain suffered a stroke and your heart stopped beating as a result. You merely had the fortune to not wake up from it.”

“I see… So, what happens now?”

Death stood from the chair. “Now, you move on, hopefully without protest. Sometimes a person is a little too attached to this world and can’t accept that they no longer belong here.”

“Well, not me,” Charles replied. “I’m not interested in haunting anyone or anything like that. In fact…” A spark of recognition shone in his eyes. “I think I’d very much like to say ‘hi’ to my mother, if she’s there.”

“Her and many others. Moving on often means a lot of reunions.”

“Then… I think I’m ready to go.”

Death extended his arm, beckoning Charles to follow him. “This way, then.”

Charles watched as the walls of his apartment faded from sight and a scene unlike any he had ever imagined took its place. He found himself in a garden of the most intricate design, filled with plants of surpassing beauty, and brimming with people all dressed in white.

As he looked, he realized that he knew these people: long-dead family members and close friends, all of them. No one was old anymore, nor did they look sick or injured. And as Charles looked at himself, he realized that he, too, was now dressed in white and had lost the wrinkles and spots that had marked his old age.

At length, Death spoke again. “Thank you for treating your gift with care. I don’t often get the opportunity to so directly intercede like that. I appreciate that my intervention was not wasted.”

“I should be thanking you,” Charles responded. “This is… wonderful!”

“Go, then. They have been patiently waiting to see you again. It’s time you rejoined them.”

Charles could barely get out the words “Thank you… for everything,” but by then, Death was no longer by his side. He was now surrounded by those he loved and who loved him in return, embracing him again for the first time in ages.

For only a second, Charles wondered if the person he was even five years ago would have been so warmly received or could have appreciated this moment. The knowledge that he no longer had to fear such a scenario was perhaps the greatest relief he had ever felt.