Page 50 of Having the Time of My Midlife

“Next,” Alex said with his eyes closed.

Was he about to fall asleep? This was crazy.

He scowled. “What goes up, but never comes down?”

I Buffalo Billed my buzzer and came out on top. “What is age, shit stain?”

Old Alex woke right up after that one. His eyes narrowed and he looked like he might throw a tantrum. The jerk could dish it out but clearly couldn’t take it.

“That is correct, simpleton.”

“Thanks, douche canoe,” I replied.

His eyes opened wide and the announcer laughed through his mic.

“Moron,” he snapped.

“Cocksucker,” Alana Catherine chimed in, much to Fake Alex’s horror.

I winced at the word ‘cocksucker’. Where in the heck did she learn that? It had to have been Candy Vargo. I was going to help Gram wash Candy’s mouth out with soap in the very near future.

“Ignoramus,” Alex growled.

“You can kiss my go to hell,” Gram ground out. “You peckerhead.”

Fuck this,” Fake Alex said, throwing his notes into the air. “I don’t get paid enough to deal with this shit. You cretins win. You can have your fucking ghosts. What do I care?”

The man-baby stomped off the stage, but right before he was out of sight, he turned back and smiled. It was oily and vicious. “Your ghosts are behind the board. You’ll have exactly five minutes to put the pieces together and remove them from the studio or they’ll turn to dust. Good luck, wankers.”

And on that note, Fake Alex left the building.

“What was all that gibberish about?” Gram asked. “I tell you what, that man was so nasty I wouldn’t walk across the street to piss on him if he was on fire.”

“That’s very colorful,” Daisy said, putting her arm around Gram.

“Thanks, darlin. I’m good that way.”

I moved quickly to the area behind the board. What I saw made me furious and want to sob at the same time. There were two piles on the ground—piles of body parts. One belonged to Sister Catherine and the other to Agnes Bubbala.

“No. No, no, no, no, no,” I said, dropping to my knees and snapping my fingers to conjure up some superglue. “I can do this. I have to do this.”

My stomach dropped further when I realized the piles might not be correct. It was difficult to tell what belonged to Agnes and which parts were Sister Catherine’s. Whoever planned this was psychotic.

Less than four minutes were left. Staring at the piles wasn’t going to work. “I’m just going to start gluing and hope for the best.” My voice was thick with unshed tears. Why in the world would anyone be this shitty?

As I desperately searched for a hand that would match the arm I held, I felt my daughter’s gentle touch on my back.

“Mom, stop,” she said.

“Can’t,’ I told her as I crawled into the middle of the piles and searched harder. “I can’t let them turn to dust. It’s not fair.”

“Mom,” Alana Catherine said in a sterner tone. “Stop. Now.” I turned my head to look at her. Her voice may have been harsh, but her eyes were gentle. “Do you trust me?”

Immediately, I nodded. “With my life.”

“Then you have to stop and back away. I’ve got this,” she said.

Stepping back wasn’t in my nature, especially when something so dire was on the line—like the afterlives of two of my friends. However, I did. I stepped back and held my breath.

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