running out of time
by Elizabeth Sundstrom
“I need to tell you something,” she says. Her voice is uncharacteristically solemn. Petal is my oldest friend. We’ve shared an unbreakable bond since kindergarten and still speak by phone every Saturday morning. We’re separated by a continent now so it’s evening for her.
“Fire away,” I tell her, keeping my voice light and hoping there’s nothing seriously wrong.
“It’s about you,” she says, piquing my interest.
“Okay,” I reply, drawing out the word. “Let’s hear it.”
“You’re running out of time,” she says softly.
I fall silent. Mulling over the words and wondering if she’s spiked her tea. Petal has at various times worked as a psychic, a palm reader, and a fortune teller. More recently, she converted to an evangelical religion that disdains all of that. Her prognostications now come from God, and she delivers His messages with the fervent reverence of a dedicated and loyal servant.
After a lengthy pause, I find my voice.
“What exactly does that mean?” I ask, as I think of all the projects I have planned. Everything from spring cleaning the closets to completing the book I started writing 10 years ago. Not to mention the anniversary trip to Paris my husband promised me next year on our 20th. This is bad timing.
“What am I supposed to do with this information, Petal?”
“I’m quoting the words exactly as they came to me.” She reiterates, “you are running out of time.”
“And how do you know they were meant for me and not someone else?” I ask.
“Because I was meditating on you,” she says.
I love Petal but this is truly unnerving. After saying our goodbyes and wishing each other a pleasant week ahead, we end our call. Petal has always been a naturally empathetic person, a good listener, full of insights, and, yes, sometimes able to predict certain events. Usually to do with a cheating husband or a friend’s betrayal. Nothing like...this.
I’m shaken but decide to carry on with my day as though nothing is wrong. I prepare a soup for lunch, walk the dog, do a few chores, and attempt progress on a mystery I’m reading. That night I toss and turn thinking of the various ways middle-aged women die prematurely, with an emphasis on breast cancer and murder. I send an email to my doctor requesting a mammogram and search the internet for a women’s self-defense class.
I’m scheduled to meet a mutual friend, Gigi, for Sunday brunch. The restaurant is halfway between our homes, a thirty-minute drive for me. On the way, I’m so tired from not sleeping the night before that I doze off a few seconds on a busy road and awake as my car veers into the bike lane. Fortunately, no one is there. I drive the remainder wide-eyed, wondering if I’m meant to die in a car accident and praying I don’t take anyone else with me.
At the restaurant, I can no longer bear the burden of this news. I present the scenario to Gigi without revealing any personal details. She responds with typical humor.
“No, I wouldn’t share news like that with somebody,” she says. “What if they didn’t die? I’d lose all credibility.” I laugh despite my dark mood.
I divulge to Gigi what really happened and she encourages me to call Petal and ask for additional details. If God is confiding in Petal about my imminent demise, maybe He’d be willing to include a few particulars?
Petal’s response is pious. She quotes scriptures about repentance, death, and eternal damnation. She tells me that I am the one who must ask God what this message means since he is speaking to me. I remind Petal that she received the original notification. She isn't amused.
In the ensuing silence, I picture Petal’s thin lips tightly pursed, the furrows between her large eyes deepened by a disapproving frown. She sighs heavily and I realize that Petal considers my salvation her mission so that we can be together in the afterlife. She believes she has a direct line to the Heavenly Father and his wishes.
We hang up and I am infuriated with Petal for scaring the hell out of me. I don't appreciate being her conversion project. Next time we talk I plan to remind her that I have my own religious beliefs. I pray the rosary every day and attend Mass regularly.
Semi-regularly.
Easter and Christmas.
I won’t mention Mass.
When Saturday rolls around, I’m still nursing my frustration with Petal. I wait a few minutes past our agreed upon time, willing her to make the first move. When a quarter hour passes and she doesn’t ring, I curse our mutual stubbornness and reach for the phone. Petal’s Teddy bear of a husband answers, his voice breaking.
“Rick, what’s happened?” I ask.
“She’s gone,” he sobs. “Petal died Wednesday night.” I hear random words: rain, dark, bike, driver didn’t see her and finally, “I’m sorry I didn’t notify you; it’s been such a shock.”
I feel disembodied as I collapse into a chair, my sobs co-mingling with Rick’s. I cannot imagine Rick alone without Petal or envision her aged parents burying their only child. How will I endure Saturday mornings without Petal’s voice, soft and clear, reaching out across the Atlantic?
Oh, Petal, we were all running out of time.
Photo of Elizabeth Sundstrom
BIO: Elizabeth Sundstrom holds a Post-Baccalaureate Writing Certificate from UC Berkeley. Her work has been published in Half And One. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two Labradoodles.