The Lonely Dead, Page 2

  My mom looked past me. Something about how her eyes narrowed told me she saw Oliver, too. She grabbed my upper arm, hard enough it hurt. Her laugh sounded like broken glass. “Oh, Adele’s got such an active imagination. You know, only children.”

  I stamped my foot and pointed. “But he’s right there.”

  Mom was already dragging me toward the front door. “Adele must have guessed. The earth is probably still disturbed back there.”

  Once we were outside, she didn’t even buckle me in my booster seat. She just shoved me in the car, slammed the door, threw herself in the front seat, and started driving. Fast. I could hear her muttering to herself, but I couldn’t make out any words.

  After a few blocks, my mom pulled over, turned off the car, and got in the back seat with me. She cupped my face with her cold hands.

  “Listen to me, Adele. This is serious.” Her brown eyes, the same color as mine, drilled into me. “I’ve been hoping I was wrong, but you and I, we have a big secret.”

  “What secret?” I liked secrets. Secrets meant things like presents and being allowed to lick the cake bowl even though it was almost dinnertime.

  “We can see the dead.”

  “What?”

  She took her hands away and pressed one to her mouth. “That dog in Pam’s backyard? You might think he’s alive, but he’s not. He’s dead.”

  My face got hot. Even at five, I knew what dead meant. Dead meant you couldn’t move or play anymore. That it was all over.

  But that clearly wasn’t true for Oliver.

  “Oliver wasn’t dead. He was just old. He licked me.”

  “No, Adele.” Mom shook her head. “The truth is that dog is nothing but buried bones. Even if you and I can still see him.”

  “So he’s a ghost?” She wasn’t making sense. And she was starting to scare me.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head, her eyes unfocused. “I don’t know if we make the dead come alive for a little bit or if they’re always alive in some way, but only certain people can see them.” Her eyes pierced me again. “Listen to me. You can never tell anyone you see the dead. It disturbs people. If you think an animal or a person might really be dead, look for that tether from the back of their head. Or if they look fuzzy or see-through, that’s another sign. The longer they’ve been dead, the fainter they get. The dead are lonely, so terribly lonely. It takes a lot of strength, but you have to ignore them, no matter how much it makes your head hurt. Especially don’t talk to them if other people can see you. They’ll call you crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy!” I was a little uncertain as to what crazy actually was, except for wrong. I had heard my grandpa call my mom that before she stormed out of his apartment, dragging me by one arm. But maybe he was right. Because what my mom was saying didn’t make any sense.

  She put her hands on my shoulders and gave me a little shake. “Imagine if Pam had seen you. She’s not like you and me—she couldn’t see that dog. All she would have seen was you.” She shook me again, making her silver locket bounce on her chest. “To her, it would look like you were talking to nothing and patting the empty air.”

  My lower lip jutted out. “Oliver’s not nothing. He’s not dead. He was right there! You’re lying! He’s alive!” I could still feel his fur against my face, hear the sound of his labored breathing.

  She shook me harder. “Adele! You have to listen! People like us have been killed because other people were afraid of what we can do. When we can’t really do anything! We can’t make others see what we do. We can’t bring the dead back to life. All we can do is talk to them if we’re near their bones.”

  “And pet them,” I said stubbornly, still not wanting to believe her.

  She took a ragged breath. “Do you know what a witch is?”

  “They have pointed noses, and their skin is green.” I thought some more. “And they fly on brooms. And they’re bad.”

  “Well, we’re none of those things, but if you tell people you can see the dead, some of them are going to think you’re a witch.” She gave me another shake. “Or mentally ill. Or a liar.”

  “You’re scaring me, Momma.”

  She lifted her hands away from my shoulders. I saw they were trembling.

  “Good. I’m glad you’re scared. This is serious. You have to keep it a secret. And never even hint about it to your dad—and especially Grandpa. Seeing the dead is the reason your grandma’s gone.”

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 4:39 P.M.

  EVERY TIME I TRY TO LEAVE

  “Stop screaming,” I tell Tori now. “It’s hurting my ears.” It’s also not helping the pain in my head.

  The shrieks stop, but not the protests. “I’m not dead!” Tori says. “I’m not!” She keeps her gaze fastened on my face, not looking any lower. I’m still on my knees at the head of the makeshift grave.

  At this point, I’m not too certain myself what’s true. The Tori who’s screaming and arguing—she’s probably not real. But what about the dead Tori whose face I just uncovered? Is that Tori real?

  “This is you, Tori,” I say to myself as much as to her. “Your body, anyway.”

  “No it’s not. I’m me.” She pokes herself in the chest. “That’s just a thing.” She flicks her hand dismissively. “A mannequin, something made up to look like me. It’s a sick joke. You know, for a TV show or something.” She squints up at the trees as if searching for hidden cameras.

  Tori needs to calm down, but she won’t if she can still see her dead self. I push the dirt back into place. Under my fingers, the dead girl’s face is cold and hard, as inanimate as a metal table. When I graze the tether at the back of her head, it feels like cool, plush fabric.

  “I can’t be dead. I can’t,” the other Tori says as I get to my feet. “This is all a dream. I must be asleep.” She extends her bare arm. “Pinch me.”

  I pinch her upper arm. Hard. Not just to convince her, but to convince myself. Was my mom right, and Grandpa and Dr. Duncan wrong? I pinch Tori’s skin until she yelps.

  “See?” I lift my hand from her unblemished arm. “It doesn’t wake you up, and it doesn’t leave a mark. I might be able to see you and talk to you and even touch you, but I can’t really change what you are now. What you were the second you died.”

  Tori grabs my wrist. Her fingernails dig in painfully, but when she lets go, there’s no sign. Just like when that old dog Oliver slobbered on me but left no trace of wetness behind.

  When Tori sees my unmarked wrist, she collapses into my arms. I hold her while she cries. She’s warm and pliable, unlike the girl in the grave. This close, I see the dark red line that runs across her throat. She wasn’t choked with hands, but with something like a thin rope. Other, shallower red marks run from just under her chin to the hollow of her throat. Tori must have clawed her own skin, trying to save herself.

  On the back of her neck, the dark line ends in two purple-red oval bruises. I place my thumb on top of one. It’s about the same size. My stomach drops as the pain in my head worsens. Even though parts of Saturday night are blurry, surely I would remember if I’d killed Tori. It’s just that I have big hands, I tell myself. I’m a big girl, as Tori has pointed out more than once.

  Finally she lifts her head. Even though I heard her crying, her face isn’t red and blotchy. “If I’m dead, how can you hear me? I tried talking to other people. But no one answered.”

  “My mom told me it runs in my family. My grandpa and my doctor just say we’re schizophrenic.” I press on my temple, trying to counteract the pain, but it doesn’t help.

  She grimaces. “What do other people like me say?”

  “I’ve only actually talked to one other dead person. I can only see the dead where their bones are. Mostly I just see pets buried in the yard by their owners. Like that parakeet in your basement.”

  Her snub nose wrinkles. “Does this mean I’m in limbo?”

  “I think the Catholics did away with that.”

  “Well, I’m clearly not in
heaven.” She looks around. “So is this hell? Being stuck here with no one to talk to besides you?”

  “Thanks a lot, Tori.”

  She rolls those baby blues. “You know what I mean. And every time I try to leave, this won’t let me.” She reaches up and grabs the rope of mist fastened to the back of her head. It’s silvery, with milky edges, about a dozen feet long. Tori pulls it so hard her biceps pop up, but the corpse in the ground doesn’t move even a millimeter.

  “That looks like the dress you were wearing Saturday,” I say. “So was that when you died?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember much about Saturday night. We were doing shots, and after that it’s more like a few mental pictures here and there.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” I brace myself.

  “Being at the party. Yelling at you. And at Luke. We broke up.”

  “You did?” I can’t name the emotions roiling in me. I have a sudden flash of Luke’s green eyes and then remind myself that probably none of this is true. Tori’s not dead, and she and Luke Wheaten are still together.

  Still, what if it is real? “There’s marks on your neck.” I touch my own throat. “I think someone strangled you. So who was it?”

  “I have no idea. All I know is when I woke up I was under this stupid tree. And now according to you, I’ll never be able to make up with Luke. I’ll never talk to my friends again.” Her voice breaks. “I want to see my parents.”

  It’s full dark now. I have to get back before my grandpa does and get myself calmed down. Act like I’m my old zombie self. If he finds out I haven’t been taking my pills …

  “Tori, I’m so late. I have to go.”

  “Don’t leave me here alone.” While a command is much more Tori’s style, this is a plea.

  “I can’t stay. I’m already late.”

  Her jaw sets. “Then you have to tell the police I’m here.”

  “I can’t do that! First of all, there’s a pretty good chance you’re not. I don’t want to end up in a mental hospital.”

  “Please, Adele, I’m the one who’s going crazy here. If you won’t do it for me, then do it for my family. If I’m really dead, they deserve to know where I am.”

  “The caller ID will show that I’m the one who called.”

  “Isn’t there a 7-Eleven down the street? With one of those old pay phones in front? Just call 9-1-1. Tell them you were in the park and you saw a dog pawing at what looked like a grave. And then hang up. By the time they check it out, you’ll be long gone.”

  “Okay.” The word isn’t all the way out of my mouth before she envelops me in a hug. Every bad thing that’s come between us over the years fades a bit under the force of that hug.

  I finally pull back. This is the last time we’ll talk. Once I’m back on my meds, this Tori will disappear.

  And even if she’s not a hallucination, once her corpse is taken away, this version of her will have to go wherever her body does.

  Before I leave, I brush the dirt off the dead girl’s face again, telling Tori that it will make it easier for the police to find the body. After giving her one final hug, I push my way out of the branches. Only a combination of muscle memory and luck keeps me on the dark path.

  Finally I reach the road. When there’s a break in the cars, I run across, my pack thumping against my back. In my chest, my heart thumps even faster.

  I want nothing more than to be back in my apartment. I’ll take a pill tonight and another tomorrow morning, and I’ll keep taking them until everything is hazy. Until I forget this ever happened.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 5:07 P.M.

  DOESN’T DESERVE TO

  As I cut across the street, I wonder if putting my turtleneck over my mouth will actually change my voice. Even though people in movies are always doing that kind of thing, does it really work? I decide to pitch my voice lower and rougher. It’s already pretty low. Maybe they’ll even think I’m a guy.

  The 7-Eleven is part of a small strip mall with a windowless bar on one end and a martial arts place on the other. I peer inside through taped-up ads for cigarettes and beer. The clerk is facing away from me, reading a magazine. It’s the lady who’s nearly as old as grandpa. She’s sold me Doritos, Lay’s chips, and Fritos of all flavors, as well as the occasional handheld fruit pie.

  The scratched and dented pay phone is mounted outside. A call costs fifty cents, but when I check my wallet, I don’t have any coins. Maybe I should just take off. But I remember Tori weeping on my shoulder. Despite everything she’s done, everything she’s said, if what just happened was real, she doesn’t deserve to spend another night out in the open.

  My eyes settle on the words printed on the phone. It’s free to make an emergency call.

  When I pick up the black receiver, it’s heavy in my sweaty hand. The shiny metal cord reminds me of the silvery rope of mist running from the back of Tori’s head. That tether, Tori, the dead version of her: Any or all of these might or might not be real.

  I press 9, 1, and then 1 again.

  “Police, fire, or medical?”

  “Police.” I’m trying so hard to make my voice deep it cracks.

  “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “I was just in Gabriel Park, and I found a grave.”

  “A grave?” Does the dispatcher’s voice betray surprise?

  I realize I’m going to have to be more specific. “In that wooded part. Past the dog park. She’s underneath the biggest tree.”

  Wait—wasn’t I supposed to say something about a dog digging up a grave?

  “She?” the dispatcher echoes. “Who’s she?”

  Cursing myself for being an idiot, I hang up.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 5:17 P.M.

  THIS GAME

  Waiting for the light to turn, I check the time on my phone. My grandpa is due home any moment. I don’t want him asking questions about where I’ve been. He’s told me more than once that dealing with my grandma’s and mom’s mental illness almost killed him. And even though I know he loves me, he’s also made it clear he couldn’t—wouldn’t—go through it again.

  What will happen if he figures out I’ve stopped taking my pills? Will he kick me out? Put me in a mental hospital? Either way, my life would be even worse than it is when I’m on the pills.

  I hear the cop car before I see it. Red and blue lights flashing, speeding down the street toward me. Cars pull over to let it pass. The WALK sign blinks on, but I have to stay put.

  And then the police car turns. Toward the park. Toward where Tori, in some form or another, might be waiting.

  I imagine the cop getting out of the car, flashlight at the ready. Will he—or she—be able to find the biggest tree? And what will be under it? A grave? Or nothing at all?

  Shivers chase their way down my spine. The orange DON’T WALK sign is back on. After the lights cycle through again, I’m going to have to run to have any hope of making it home before Grandpa. Run toward my old medicated life, the one I don’t want back.

  The last two weeks I’ve felt more alive than I have in the last nearly seven years. In class, I no longer feel the insistent pull of sleep. Teachers keep looking surprised when I raise my hand. I’ve even lost nine pounds without trying.

  If I start taking the pills again, it won’t be long until I’m back to being the old Adele. Anxious Adele, who has trouble concentrating. Adele with her gummy mouth and shuffling walk. The pills make me feel like I’m seventy-seven, not seventeen.

  On the other hand, if I hadn’t started flushing my pills, I wouldn’t have done that stupid thing at the party Saturday night.

  And today I paid the price. I’ve slipped back into seeing things that aren’t there.

  Haven’t I?

  The light finally changes, and I run across the street. I dart through the parking lot, which doesn’t have assigned spaces, scanning for Grandpa’s truck, then start down the walk. I’m so busy checking that I run straight into Charlie Lauderdale.


  Or rather, into the laundry basket he’s carrying. He loses his grip on one side. It droops, scattering dirty clothes all over the even dirtier walkway.

  “Charlie?” I have no idea where Charlie lives, but it’s definitely not in my complex. No one else my age lives here. The twelve apartments are mostly occupied by older people or single moms with little kids. Having him appear on my apartment walkway is so weird I wonder if I’m hallucinating again.

  “Hey, Adele.” Charlie’s tall and thin, verging on skinny. The tall part is new, and he doesn’t seem comfortable with it. In high school, we’ve had a few classes together, but that’s about it. He went to a different middle school. All I know about him is he’s smart and quiet. Maybe even quieter than me. He’s the kind of guy who’s on the robotics team.

  Even though the only light is at the top of the staircase, I can see a flush creeping up his neck. Awkwardly shifting the basket to one hip, he leans down and starts picking up the spilled laundry. I help. His face gets even redder as I add a sock and a sweater to the basket.

  “You live here?” I ask. Although why else would he be here with a basket of laundry?

  “As of last weekend.” The redness has reached his face.

  “Welcome to the ’hood.” Leaning over, I snag the last item, which reveals itself to be a contraption of white elastic straps, and OMG, is that some kind of pouch? I realize it’s a jockstrap.

  I am holding Charlie Lauderdale’s jockstrap.

  I fling it into the laundry basket and wipe my hand on my pants as Charlie closes his eyes, his face scarlet.

  “Sorry!” As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t said anything. Better for both of us to pretend this moment never happened. “Um, I guess I’d better go.” I start to push past him.

  Above his shoulder, I see something that makes me freeze. The light is on in our apartment. And a shadow is moving over the curtain, toward the front door.