Do-Over by Cindy Cramer

Cindy is this month’s winner of $377.50 for her story about second chances and wondering what may have been. If given the opportunity to go back and re-live your life, would you? And what does your answer say about your current life so far?

Cindy is a novelist and short-story writer, living in Gig Harbor, Washington. She has won awards in the Pacific Northwest Writers’ Association and Pierce County Reads writing contests. Her work has appeared in Passager’s Pandemic Diaries, Beginnings, and CP Quarterly. Her Twitter handle is @CindyCramerWA.

Without further ado, “Do-Over” by Cindy Cramer.

The angel sitting on my kitchen counter was really pissing me off.

Not just because I had cleaned the counter earlier in the afternoon, but also because I was not given to hallucinations. What else could a lanky, bearded angel sitting on my countertop be?

I looked him over for a minute and said, “I’m making a margarita. Want one?”

“Sure. Rocks. No salt.”

I glared at him. “I didn’t know that angels drank.”

“You do,” he said. He spoke in a soothing, rich baritone. “Why shouldn’t I?”

He had me there. I shrugged and plugged in the blender. He was a good-looking angel, with long, brown curls and piercing green eyes. His wings swayed as if they were breathing. He had a calm nonchalance that was enviable and irritating.

“Are you here to show me what the world would be like if I never existed?” I asked.

“No.”

I waited for a fuller answer, but he just sat there looking serene. If I was going to hallucinate, why couldn’t I conjure up a lottery win or a sexy movie star eager to run off with me? Anything but an angel of few words.

“Is this Twenty Questions?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?” I was practically shouting by now, but Dan and the kids must have been too absorbed in the football game to wonder about the crazy lady in the kitchen.

“You asked for help,” he said.

My eyes narrowed. “When?”

“Last night, as you were getting ready for bed.”

I turned back to the blender, filling it with tequila and mix. I shot a look at the angel, then added another glug of tequila. “I don’t remember asking for an angel.”

“Not in so many words. You and Dan were talking about some problems.”

“How do you know that? Were you spying on me?”

“No, I didn’t hear it. But there is an all-knowing, omniscient—”

“Jesus Christ!”

The angel looked pained. “That’s a common misperception, but it doesn’t really work that way. He’s quite busy--”

“I didn’t ask for an angel!” Now I was shouting.

The angel looked at me kindly. “Then what did you say?”

I sighed and pushed the button on the blender. It bought me a few moments to think. Dan and I had been arguing, which seemed to be the only way we communicated these days. He had asked what I was so unhappy about. I had said, “Everything.” I meant it. I was tired of the two of us always bickering. The way my three sweet angels had morphed into teenagers, slamming the doors to their rooms, staring at their phones during dinner, and never saying “Thanks, Mom.” The bills that added up to more than our paychecks every single month.

I poured the margaritas into two glasses. I handed one to the angel and said, “I told him I wanted to do the whole thing over. To live my life again and go in another direction. Without him.”

The angel nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

I took a sip of my drink. I had made it too strong. I took a bigger sip. “You can do that?”

He nodded again. “It’s not easy. And it’s not reversible. I want you to think about it long and hard first.”

“I’ll do it,” I said.