The Ten Best Days of My Life Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Knocking On Heaven’s Door

  It’s Like I Died and Went to Heaven

  All This and Heaven Too

  The Jig Is Up

  They Shoot People in Fourth Heaven, Don’t They?

  Chapter 1

  SOS from Heaven!

  Chapter 2

  Heaven Help Me

  Chapter 3

  Dear Alice in Heaven

  Chapter 4

  Thank Heaven for Small Favors

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  TEN YEARS LATER

  A PLUME BOOK

  THE TEN BEST DAYS OF MY LIFE

  ADENA HALPERN is the author of Target Underwear and a Vera Wang Gown: Notes from a Single Girl’s Closet, a memoir that was based on her popular “Haute Life” essays for the back page of Marie Claire magazine. In addition to Marie Claire, Adena has written for Daily Variety and the New York Times. She has a bachelor of fine arts degree in dramatic writing from New York University and a master of fine arts degree in screenwriting from the American Film Institute. A proud Philadelphia native, she resides in Los Angeles with her husband, television and screenwriter Jonathan Goldstein.

  PLUME

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, May 2008

  Copyright © Adena Halpern, 2008

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Halpern, Adena.

  The ten best days of my life / Adena Halpern.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-4406-3836-7

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES, FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

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  For my husband, Jonathan, my seventh heaven

  Acknowledgments

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I wish to thank my editor, the divine Allison Dickens, for her passionate support and expertise in shaping this book and to everyone at Plume who had a hand in seeing it come to fruition.

  I would also like to thank the amazing Brian DeFiore. Brian is the agent every writer hopes to have.

  A standing ovation of gratitude for my dear friend Eric Brooks for his astute legal expertise.

  To Erin Moore, Susan Swimmer, and Lesley Jane Seymore, who I will never stop thanking.

  And finally, with all my heart, I thank my family and friends on both heaven and earth for your endless love and, most especially, for contributing to my own ten best days.

  With my deapest gratitude,

  Adena Halpern

  aka:

  Arlene and Barry Halpern’s daughter

  David Halpern’s sister

  Samantha Chaikin-Halpern’s sister-in-law

  Michael Halpern’s sister

  Jonathan Goldstein’s wife and truest love

  THE TEN BEST DAYS OF MY LIFE BY Alexandra Joan Dorenfield

  Knocking On Heaven’s Door

  I died today, which is so weird. I honestly thought I was immortal.

  It’s not that I ever took fantastic care of myself. I did go to the gym three times a week (okay, two . . . okay, one or none on a lot of occasions). I ate well. I was very conscious of my figure (though I might have substituted Doritos for something more substantial more times than I should have). I kind of drank a lot on weekends and sometimes on weekdays (like last night and maybe the night before . . . I can’t remember). I always got my full eight hours of sleep (with an Ambien). Still, though, it never occurred to me that one day I’d actually die, be dead, not be alive anymore, ever. You know what I mean?

  Anyway, none of that matters at all. If I knew how, and had accepted the fact that I was going to end up here, I could have smoked and drank and done all kinds of drugs. I would never have gone to the gym or to the doctor for yearly checkups. All that worrying about what I was doing with my life was pointless. All the complaining to my girlfriends about the direction my life was headed was pointless. All those times my parents sat me down and told me they were worried about where my life was heading were pointless. I should have slept with Steve (and without protection) before he dumped me instead of trying to look virginal and telling him that I never slept with someone until we’d been dating for a month. On the other hand, I feel so content that I maxed out my credit cards on clothes and shoes and bags. I’m so thrilled that I never saved a cent for retirement.

  So, here’s how I died.

  The good news is that it wasn’t a Mack truck that struck and killed me at four o’clock this morning, because I would never want to be an old joke. The bad, pathetic news is that it was a MINI Cooper. I can just hear my best friend, Penelope, laughing through her tears at the thought of my fat ass (which to be honest is not that fat, but you know how best friends are with each other) couldn’t cushion the blow of a MINI Cooper.

  In the end it was simple:

  A red MINI Cooper hit me at about four in the morning as I was crossing Fairfax Boulevard in Los Angeles, with Peaches. Peaches is my miniature beagle. I normally don’t walk Peaches at four in the morning, but that was when her bowel obstruction finally decided to clear. She was whimpering beside my bed for a good forty-five minutes before I finally got up to take her
for the walk. I still feel bad about that. Peaches is such a good, sweet, wonderful dog. But you know that feeling when you’re sleeping and nothing else in the world matters, even if your dog is holding it in despite a painful obstruction. Get up to take her out?

  Obviously, I finally did take her out. I’m thrilled that I was tired enough to fall asleep in the clothes I was wearing the night before, my J Brand jeans and my favorite black, sexy cowl-necked sweater that drapes over my left shoulder, instead of throwing on some old sweats and a dirty T-shirt (I’ll get to the why of that later). Anyway, Peaches died too, and she’s here with me.

  I feel awful about that, too. Little Peaches didn’t deserve to die just as she was getting some relief.

  Isn’t it weird that that’s how it all went down? Can you imagine all the things you’d do differently if you knew that a MINI Cooper was going to take you out at twenty-nine years old, at four in the morning, while you were walking your dog? I keep thinking about that. People up here keep telling me that’s the way life goes. Would I have done anything differently? Yeah, no, probably not. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so nuts with my teeth. I really brushed and flossed a lot because my grandmother told me on her deathbed to take care of my teeth because dentures are a bitch. I might have seen all the sights I meant to see, like the pyramids or the Sistine Chapel or the Mona Lisa. I grew up in Philadelphia and I never saw that Liberty Bell. I should have stayed with my tenth-grade class when we went to New York City to see the Statue of Liberty, instead of running off to Bergdorf’s with Penelope. I probably wouldn’t have had all those “age defying” facials that cost $90 a pop and the twice-a-year Botox shots. I definitely would not have been so adamant with the sunscreen.

  I know I should be really upset about my parents losing a child and my friends losing me. But you feel serenely okay about everything when you’re up here. I don’t think they give us any drugs, but that’s what it feels like. You feel like you’re hooked up to an Ativan drip. I asked if I could go down and look in on everyone, even one last time, but all the people here say there’s nothing I can do right now. They keep telling me that when my family and friends die, when they get here, they’ll see that the whole mourning thing was pointless. Isn’t that mean? They tell me that it has nothing to do with heaven. It has to do with the process of growing and learning on earth. Isn’t that just awful? I know my parents are beside themselves right now. I really wish I could do something, scream out, “It’s okay! I’m fine!” Truthfully, I miss them already. I mean, it’s been a pretty busy day with dying and coming here, but I would really like to make sure they know how much I love them. People who die in accidents, like that terrible mining disaster, get to write notes to their families, but I never had that chance. What the hey? That just doesn’t seem fair, though I’m glad for those miners and their families. At least someone’s got some kind of peace.

  Anyway, so by now you might be wondering where I am, what I’m doing, if I’m alive or dead or in some other dimension or something.

  Well, to be honest with you, I’m not sure.

  I only got here a few hours ago and I don’t know everything yet. I can, however, tell you what’s happened so far. (By the way, I’m assuming I can share this with you. No one has told me not to, and I can’t imagine that I’m the first blabbermouth heaven has ever seen.) So here goes:

  You know how everyone keeps talking about that white light after you die? Well, that white light is the gates of heaven. At first I thought it was the light from the sign over Canter’s Deli, because that’s where I was walking when the car came barreling into me, but the light was everywhere. The last thing I remember on earth is seeing that MINI Cooper, and then it hit me and I flew up onto the hood and that’s when I saw the white light. I kept thinking of the movie Poltergeist when that little woman says, “Stay away from the light!” You can’t help it, though. The light is everywhere; I looked behind me, to the right, the left, up: white light everywhere. I must have looked like such a moron, running in every different direction trying to escape the light. To tell you the truth, it really felt less Poltergeist and more Wizard of Oz during the tornado scene, only there wasn’t an actual tornado. Peaches was there, though, playing the part of Toto. I guess that’s when the serenity started, when I realized I had my Peaches and we couldn’t escape the light.

  Also, don’t worry about the light being too bright. You don’t have to shield your eyes from the light, like if you were coming out of a movie in the middle of the day. The light is actually very soothing. Remember Elizabeth Taylor in those eighties’ perfume commercials where it looked like the camera had white gauze over it every time she came on the screen? That’s pretty much what it’s like.

  Now, remember how I was saying I was so happy I had on what I was wearing the night before instead of repulsive sweats? That’s because when you get up here you’re wearing what you were wearing when you died. I’m told that you get to change once you get to your home. Evidently, you have clothes at this home. (Hope they’re decent.) While you’re checking in, though, you’re wearing what you were wearing when you died. A lot of people are in hospital gowns; a couple of people are naked. The rest are clothed. No one looks sick or has blood on them or even has a paper cut. I was sure that I’d have some black-and-blue marks. I mean, I’m sure I scraped along Fairfax for half a block before I finished. The lack of blood or cuts or bruises has something to do with being a spirit now and not an actual being, which I don’t really understand yet.

  So when you get up here, you’re immediately put in a line. You don’t walk over to the line, it’s like you wake up and you’re in this line, only you’re not asleep; it’s like all white and then boom: line. The gates of heaven are one big, huge, white space. You really do walk on clouds and air, and you can see for miles. You’re not floating, you’re actually walking. It sounds strange but it’s true: they have gravity but they don’t. I don’t know, you’ll just have to take my word for it. I’m told that I’ll be taken to my home soon enough to settle in, but for now I’m still at check-in. I’m envisioning my home looking like a room in an Ian Schrager hotel: all modern and clean, with white walls and a great big fluffy white bed and a Bose stereo. I guess I’ll report on that later, but back to the line.

  Normally, lines really annoy me. This line was huge, like the worst day at the DMV times a thousand. There were like ten thousand people before me, and it should have pissed me off to no end, but since I had no idea what I was doing in the line, I wasn’t flipping over it. That, and they make it really comfortable for you. There’s the sense of serenity I mentioned earlier. Angels (yes, angels with wings, you heard me, the myth is true) come around with trays of hors d’oeuvres: canapés with caviar or pigs in a blanket, fried mozzarella, chicken skewers, chips and dip, crudités, bruschetta, shrimp cocktail—the list goes on. I ate nothing. I wasn’t sure what was coming next and my grandmother always said, “Don’t fill up on the appetizers.” They also serve drinks: champagne, hard liquor, mixed drinks, wine, soda, fruit juices, tea, coffee. Whatever you want. I chose the champagne, which was wonderfully sweet and yet dry at the same time. I had five glasses.

  Now, finally to the part about why I was glad I was wearing my outfit from the night before. I’ve already mentioned that I am single and was about to turn thirty before I died. For me, if there is anything I’d want heaven to have, it’s a cute guy. Wouldn’t luck have it, the cutest guy was, oh, about fifteen people down the line. Since you’re in that line for quite a while, you get to know the people around you. I met the twelve schoolchildren from Germany who died in a bus crash. They mostly played with Peaches. I met Harry and Elaine Braunstein, who winter in Boca Raton, Florida, but are really from Long Island. They died in their sleep, from gas poisoning, because Elaine didn’t turn off the oven completely. Jean-Pierre from France had prostate cancer. Mrs. O’Malley from Ireland lived to be 104 before she tripped over a gap in the sidewalk, broke her hip, and died from complications.

  To tell you
the truth, it was less a line and more a party. Instead of asking, “What do you do?” we asked each other, “How’d you die?” I could see the cute guy a little ways down. It was one of those things where our eyes met each other at the exact same time, and then we each turned away because we were embarrassed. When I looked back and smiled, he was looking and smiling, too. Then he walked up to where I was standing, so I slouched my black sweater until it fell over my shoulder (my number one guaranteed move back when I was alive). He was hot, mid-thirties, a full head of dirty blond hair—very Hubbell Gardner. Fantastic eyes, green. He was in sweats and a T-shirt.

  “Is that your dog?” he asked me, bending down to pet Peaches.

  “Yes,” I told him, cocking my head and smiling down at him. Then I was mortified when I realized that I was flirting like I was in line for a club in LA, not in a line for the gates of heaven.

  “How cute,” he said. “I’m Adam Steele, by the way.” He straightened up and put out his hand.

  “Alex Dorenfield,” I smiled.

  “What do you think of this line?” he asked.

  “What a pain.” I winced, as if waiting in line to get into heaven was something I did every day.

  “How’d you die?” he asked.

  “Car hit me. You?”

  “Heart attack. I was at the gym, elliptical, Crunch. It sucks; I didn’t know I had a heart condition. I was only in my mid-thirties and I’m in really good shape, who knew?”

  “Bummer.”

  “Yeah, you too,” he said, adding, “Where were you from?”

  “Los Angeles. You?”

  “New York.”

  We paused. Would he ask me for a date? Did people date in heaven? Where would we go? Was there a Zagat Heaven Restaurants guide?

  “Well, I guess I should get back to my part of the line,” he said.