How It Began

Four sharp dressed men sat directly across from me, nearly shoulder to shoulder. Their stoney expressions ranged from indifferent to bored. A broad, wooden conference table spanned the middle, and it still didn’t feel like enough distance between us.

Normally, their lack of enthusiasm wouldn’t deter me. But at that point I needed the job more than anything, and my hope dwindled by the minute.

The problem with afternoon interviews was by then the interviewer—or in my case, interviewers—had been at it for the better part of the day. Maybe most of the week since it was already Thursday. Candidates blurred together. Details of résumés were lost to the daily grind.

The only hope of standing out in a sea of applicants was to do something unexpected. Something so extraordinary they’d be hard-pressed to forget you.

A hot flash hitting me during the standard, banal question—“Where do you see yourself in five to ten years?”—wasn’t what I had in mind.

At that moment, the only goal I visualized for myself involved being buck naked and face up in the middle of a dingy Chicago snowbank making snow angels.

Desperation would do that to a woman.

Unfortunately, the image still didn’t help cool things down.

An inferno blazed a path from my sternum all the way to the top of my head as the first trickle of perspiration went the opposite direction, and traced its way down my spine before disappearing somewhere in the confines of my Spanx.

Meanwhile, four blank faces waited for an answer.

The spokeswoman in me acted on autopilot, and I heard myself rattle off something about being a productive, valuable part of a team where I could utilize my skills to make the company shine. Which, as it so happened, I needed to convince this row of stuffy executives I was actually great at.

Unfortunately, I feared the only thing shining right then was the gleam of sweat on my brow. 

Beneath the table, I eased my tired feet out of my black stilettos as the senior partner studied my CV once more.

I knew I should’ve gone with the more sensible kitten heel. I’d forgotten how much these shoes pinched. The sweet relief I’d feel when this interview was over and I could switch back into my winter boots for the short walk to the train station clouded my thoughts.

The itchy bra would be next to go—as soon as I got home. At least Jake finally agreed a few weeks ago to stay at a hotel until the divorce was final and I found a new place.

I could enjoy the peace and not worry about the awkward tiptoeing around each other we’d been doing the last couple months. Besides, it was the least he could do after his family’s advertising firm suddenly decided they could do without their long-term PR consultant, yours truly.

It was the reason I sat there sweating in the first place.

I should’ve listened to my mother. She always warned me it was risky not to diversify my client portfolio.

“Well, Ms...” Mr. Sterling let the word hang open-ended between us, further evidence he’d already forgotten my name.

Never a good sign.

Way to make an impression, Kat.

“Graeber,” I managed, and reluctantly slid my toes back into my shoes. The others had already pushed away from the table, signaling an end to the interview.

“We’ll be in touch once we’ve—” He stood and only then glanced my direction. “Are you alright, Ms. Graeber?”

He remembered!  

“Fine.” I quickly gathered my portfolio, fanning myself as I rose to make a hasty escape. The rest of my body, namely my brain and mouth, failed to get on board with the plan. “I’m fine. Just need to get out of these clothes.” Oh, God. What was I saying? “I mean feet!” Do I mean feet? “These shoes. Killing me.” The words slipped past my lips faster than my brain could filter them.

Heat flooded my face. I didn’t know which was worse, the thought I might say something else equally embarrassing, or the strong possibility I would spontaneously combust on the spot.

With what felt like a stiff smile, I rushed through the obligatory handshakes as I filed past on my way out of the conference room. As if on cue, Celeste, the young woman who’d shown me in earlier, met me in the hall to walk me out.

“I’ll take you to reception for your coat and things,” she said, tucking a lock of blond hair behind her ear, before she took off at a pace worthy of a long-distance runner. I glanced down to see her heels were even taller than mine.

Gone were my days of traipsing around on tortuous stilts we called footwear. Mine were destined for retirement.

I hobbled along beside her. The carpet muffled our steps. We reached the small alcove off reception where I collected my coat and bag, but my comfy boots were nowhere to be found.

“Unbelievable!” I seethed.

Celeste’s eyes widened. “I can go ask around—” she began, but I cut her off.

“There’s no point,” I sighed. Right then, some brazen size seven and a half was headed home in my favorite pair of boots. I hoped they got blisters. Meanwhile, I was stuck braving the slush and cold to catch the train home in these heels.

Celeste walked me to the elevator. “I’m really sorry about your boots,” she apologized again while we waited. Alarm contorted her face when I glanced her way. “Are you alright? You don’t look good. Should I call an ambulance?”

I laughed half-heartedly, recalling my first hot flash when I thought I was dying. This one had been worse, but I was beginning to feel better.

“I’m fine,” I told her, shaking my head. First, the hot flash, then the brain fog. I was pretty sure I botched that interview, and now my boots were gone.

Could this day get any worse?

Celeste appeared to be in her mid-twenties. I wouldn’t have traded places with her for anything. But damn if I didn’t envy those days a little bit, when menopause and the complexities of midlife weren’t even on my radar.

I hoisted up my bag as the doors opened and stepped into an elevator crammed wall to wall with people in business suits all engrossed in their phones.

The close quarters pressed in on me as I watched the numbers on the display panel slowly count down from the fifteenth floor.

Half expecting we’d get stuck somewhere, I released a grateful sigh when the doors finally slid open and we were deposited near the main entrance.

An icy wind hit me as soon as I barreled through the revolving doors and out onto the sidewalk. Winter’s sharp tongue cut through the city, adding further insult to my day.

It had started to snow again while I was inside; huge, wet flakes landed silently all around.

People hurried past, bundled in coats and gloves, wrapped in scarves to ward off the biting chill. I hadn’t bothered to put on my coat but draped it over my arm and turned in the direction of the train station. 

I gave the waistband of my shapewear a tug while hiking up my tote bag in one fluid, practiced move, and threw myself into the melee of the midday crowd.

Whoever decided to shortchange women on comfortable dress clothes with adequate pockets and then market industrial-sized bags as fashionable in order to placate us into thinking the tradeoff was worth it must have been a man.

Every agonizing step, my feet reminded me what a shitty day it’d turned out to be. With any luck, my toes would be numb soon, and I wouldn’t notice.

Halfway to the station, my cell phone chimed from inside my bag, and I fished around blindly for it while I waited at the corner for the light to cross.

Cars rushed past. The sound of their tires on the wet Chicago pavement filled the air.

Finally grasping my phone, I pulled it out to unlock the screen. Loudner and Associates, an investment firm I’d interviewed with the day before, was at the top.

They’d been looking for someone to strengthen their online presence. It wasn’t my first choice and meant a significant pay cut from what I was used to. But considering the partners back there at Aloof, Apathetic, Detached, and Reserved probably saw me as a walking HR nightmare, the opportunities were dwindling.

Thumb hovering over the email with only “Social Media Strategist” in the subject line, I worried at my lower lip. My stomach twisted in knots as I opened it and skimmed the first few lines to find, “We regret to inform you…”

Head buzzing, I teetered, lost my footing, and stepped off the edge of the curb.

A horn blared. Pain hit.

Then I was flying.

A brief thought came to mind that my feet weren’t meant to leave the pavement at the same time like that.

My breath left my lungs when I landed.

Blurred faces hovered over me.

Lights, sirens.

A man. Handsome, I thought, but in need of a shave. His brows furrowed as he stared down at me.

“What a shit way to go,” I heard him say. Sunlight broke behind him and blocked my view of his face.

He squatted next to me, his tattooed, muscular forearms resting on his knees. He had to have been freezing in his short sleeves.

Or he was having a day like mine.

I hissed out a laugh, but it hurt too much.

Why did he look so confused? I was the one who’d suddenly somehow ended up on the ground. I opened my mouth to tell him so, but I was lifted up and away.

He started to follow, but stopped. The scowl that reached the corners of his steel-colored eyes was the last thing I saw before everything went dark.

As far as Thursday’s went, this one had gone straight to hell.

* * *

The man at reception didn’t bother looking up from his tablet when I approached. Instead, he glided a finger over its screen, his focus intent on whatever he saw there.

Probably a game of solitaire.

After wandering up and down empty hallways for what felt like hours, I finally found an actual person, and apparently, he had better things to do.

There weren’t any signs. I had no idea where the hell I was, but it was only getting one star from me on Yelp. Just as soon as I found my phone. I patted myself down again in case I overlooked it the first dozen times and then remembered my lack of decent pockets.

On the plus side, my feet no longer hurt, but I just wanted to go home.

I wanted to enjoy a long soak in a hot bath and a glass of wine. Or maybe three.

It’d been a long day.

I cleared my throat to get his attention.

He peered at me over the top of a pair of oval, wire-framed glasses, then glanced behind me.

“Where’s your Reaper?” he asked.

I looked around, assuming he was talking to someone else, but we were alone. “My what?”

He gave an exasperated-sounding sigh and set his tablet to the side before he laced his fingers together and placed them in front of him on the desk as if he were about to mansplain something. “Your escort,” he said, blinking back at me. “To the Afterlife?”

“Excuse me?”

He shook his head and sighed again. Picking up his tablet, he jabbed a finger at the screen to wake it up. “What is your full name?”

His voice was monotone bordering on rude, but if it would get me out of here and back home sooner, I could play nice. “Katrin Estelle Graeber. G-r-a-e-b-e-r.” I inched forward to watch him type it all in.

He paused mid-way, and his attention suddenly flicked back to me. Leaning across the desk, his eyes narrowed and then widened slightly as if he just now saw something he’d missed earlier.

“They better be a real looker, Winston,” a woman’s voice called from somewhere behind him, and his posture sagged. “I was in the middle of a rousing game of spin the bottle.”

The receptionist—Winston, I guessed—worked his jaw sideways. “That’s not my name,” he muttered. The woman rounded the corner and came into view.

“Granny?” My mouth fell open and my brows shot up as I stared back at her in disbelief.

“Well, well! Didn’t expect to see you so soon,” she said, giving me her patented once-over.

Granny Graeber’s short white curls and petite, slightly stooped frame were just as I remembered. Normally, I would be glad to see her.

There was only one problem; she’d been dead almost ten years.

Not-Winston shot me a hardy look of disdain from over his screen. “According to my list, she’s not supposed to be here.”

As if any of this was my fault! I bounced from him to Granny and back again. “Can someone please tell me what is going on?”

“There’s obviously been some—”

“You’re dead, Toots,” Granny piped in, imitating a 1920’s gangster. “Jose here’s just too PC to say it.”

“My name’s not Jose,” he told her before consulting his touchscreen again.

Ignoring him, Granny turned to me. “How’s your mom?” she asked. But before I could process, she looked over at Not-Winston-or-Jose again. “What about River? I knew a River back in the 60’s.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t be dead dead. It had to be a bad dream. Or a coma. Possibly an aneurism.

Maybe-River waved his tablet around. “She’s going back.” He sounded relieved.

The air between us shimmered. “Catch ya later, Toots,” Granny called.

“You won’t remember any of this,” What’s-His-Name added, both of them fading.

“Wait—” I wanted to say a proper goodbye to Granny, but I felt myself being pulled away.

“Is your name Rumpelstiltskin?” Granny’s laugh echoed.

“For the last time—”

And then they were gone. 

* * *

Want to find out what happens next? Dead Wrong, the first book in the Midlife Medium series, is coming January 2027. Stay tuned on social media and through the newsletter for preorder news and updates leading up to the release.