The Lonely Dead, Page 4

  He listened intently, without interrupting. When I finished, I sat back, feeling lighter.

  “So this Rebecca, did she look real to you?”

  “She was real. Just because other people couldn’t see her didn’t mean she wasn’t real.”

  “Did it upset you when your teacher couldn’t see her?”

  I pressed my lips together for a second, remembering. “I saw the way Mrs. Whipple was looking at me. She looked scared.”

  “And have you seen other people like that girl before? People that other people couldn’t see? People you thought had died?”

  “Not people. Just animals.” I told him about the dog in Pam’s backyard, the bird in Tori’s basement, the cat by the dumpsters.

  Once at a restaurant, I had even seen a live fish floating in the air above its dead self. The one on the plate had been one of those fish cooked with the head still on. That was scary enough, the flat, dead silver eye. Everyone thought that was why I started crying. But it was really the second fish hovering in the air right above the first. A thread of mist bound their heads together.

  As I talked, Dr. Duncan occasionally nodded or wrote down a word or two. It was a relief to finally tell the truth. I even repeated what my mom had said about it running in our family, though part of me wondered if I should be revealing her secrets. If keeping secrets still mattered when the person you had made the promise to was dead.

  “And you say you see this little rope coming from the back of their heads if they’re dead?”

  “It’s all misty-looking. It makes it so they can’t go very far. They’re tied to the head of the body they used to be in.”

  He sat back in his chair. “Well, you’re lucky, then. My other patients who see things don’t have a clue like that to tell them it’s a hallucination.”

  “But it’s not a hallucination. Rebecca was real.” I had developed an explanation. “This kid in my class, Dylan, he’s color-blind. He can’t see pinks or reds. But just because he can’t see those colors doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Maybe it’s the same with the things I see. Everyone else is ghost-blind.”

  Dr. Duncan nodded, his face noncommittal. “I’m wondering if it might be a good idea not to tell other people about what you see.”

  “Why?”

  “People can be unkind about things they don’t understand. Even people who are your friends.”

  I nodded, thinking of Tori.

  “I just have a few other questions I need to ask you.” He leaned forward. “Do you ever think about hurting yourself?”

  I pulled back. “No.”

  “Or hurting someone else?” Dr. Duncan’s voice was blandly neutral, as if wanting to hurt other people was something we all did and just didn’t talk about.

  “No.”

  “Do you ever think you’re being given a special message, or are supposed to do a special project, or that you’ve been selected to be someone special?”

  “I guess,” I said slowly. “I mean, most people can’t see what I see. So maybe seeing the dead makes me special.”

  He pursed his lips. Had that been the wrong answer? “Do you think you’re in danger, Adele?”

  That was an easy one. “No.” The dead couldn’t hurt me. Once the dead kitten that hung out by the apartment dumpster had scratched me. I had felt the pressure of its claws, but when I looked down, there wasn’t the faintest of marks.

  “Do you ever hear voices from the TV or the radio when they’re not on?”

  “No.” Seeing the dead made a rough kind of sense. Voices coming from the TV when it was turned off seemed like something that would only happen to someone who was mentally ill. Slowly, I was realizing I had made a mistake. A big one.

  “Do you know what I am thinking now?” Dr. Duncan tilted his head and made his mouth smile. But to me it looked like he was just baring his teeth.

  “Not really. I mean, I could guess.” I was starting to get mad. Underneath the anger was fear. Because what was going to happen to me now?

  “And what would you guess?”

  “You think there’s something wrong with my brain.”

  “That’s not it at all, Adele.” He shook his head, looking sad. “I think you have a disease. But it’s not your fault. We all have circumstances occur that we need to overcome. This is yours.”

  “So you don’t think Rebecca was real?”

  “No.” There wasn’t a trace of doubt in his voice. “She wasn’t. I’m going to give you some medication, but in the future, if you see someone or something that might be dead, ask yourself what the likelihood is that it’s not real. And if others can’t see what you are seeing, or if you see that silver rope, just note that you are experiencing a hallucination and move on. Don’t interact with it. The more you act like it’s real, the more weight you give it. Leave if you can. If you can’t, ignore it. Keep busy to distract yourself. Don’t attend to the hallucinations. In the long run, it’s only hurtful.” Dr. Duncan got to his feet. “I’m going to get your grandfather now.”

  Grandpa looked out of place in the office, which was decorated in shades of turquoise and dark brown. In his worn clothes, he sat next to me on the couch, rubbing his twisted hands.

  “All of Adele’s test results are normal, as Dr. Nelson probably told you,” Dr. Duncan began. “She’s a little taller than average for her age, a little thinner. Her blood pressure is great. Her blood tests were all within normal limits—no signs of alcohol or drugs, or chemical exposure, or an out-of-whack thyroid. No signs of a tumor on her scan. I haven’t observed any delays in language or motor development. Her emotions are appropriate. You’re not reporting any problems at school. These are all very good signs.”

  “But she sees things,” Grandpa said between clenched teeth. “She sees dead people.”

  Dr. Duncan corrected him. “What she perceives to be dead people. Adele’s a smart girl. She has a vivid imagination. But it’s more than that. Using her imagination would be a choice. But this girl she thought she saw, this ‘Rebecca’”—I heard the quotes in Dr. Duncan’s voice—“that was something she perceived as being thrust upon her. You need to remember your granddaughter didn’t choose this.”

  After a long moment, Grandpa said, “Then it’s her mother’s fault. She encouraged Adele to have these so-called visions. To pretend to see things just to get attention.”

  “No,” I say, stung into speech. “She told me never to talk about them.”

  “It’s good you brought her in,” Dr. Duncan said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Adele is quite young, but given the family history, it’s not surprising she’s already displaying symptoms. Not only is there a genetic component, but her mother raised her to think that it was possible to see things that aren’t really there. She told Adele to keep it a secret, which of course increased her fascination.”

  “Our family is cursed.” Grandpa’s fingers, stiff as claws, left furrows as he ran them through his hair. “And now history is repeating itself. Adele’s mother, her grandmother—my daughter and my wife—all lost to delusions. I won’t lose Adele too!”

  “That’s why it’s good we’re getting a handle on it now,” Dr. Duncan said as he took out a prescription pad. “I’m going to put her on a medication that should cut back dramatically on the hallucinations, perhaps eliminate them altogether.”

  And then Grandpa squeezed my hand with one of his knobby ones. I could tell he was sure this was good news.

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 6:43 A.M.

  SUPPRESSING THE TRUTH

  I can’t move. A weight presses on my face, smothering me. My arms are pinned to my sides. My legs try to kick but barely stir.

  I’m buried. Just like Tori.

  I try to scream but don’t make a sound.

  And then I wake up with a gasp. I thrash free of the comforter that has wound itself around my body. I move the pillow from over my face to under my head.

  After everything that happened last night, I barely slept. Talking to Tori. Uncoverin
g the face of the dead girl she’d once been. Kissing Charlie. Deciding to start taking my pills again. Then seeing all the cops turning into the park, and flushing my pills.

  I check the local news on my phone.

  “Body Found in Gabriel Park” is the main headline. It doesn’t give the person’s name. But I know who it is.

  So I wasn’t mentally ill yesterday.

  And I wasn’t mentally ill when I talked to Rebecca in the bathroom of the Oregon Trail museum.

  I’ve probably never been mentally ill.

  And that must mean my mom wasn’t either. Or my grandma.

  All these years. All those pills. The doctors were wrong. My grandpa was wrong. The pills weren’t suppressing delusions.

  They were suppressing the truth.

  But what about the other people I’ve seen or read about, the ones who don’t take their meds? The ones who think their fillings are beaming messages at them, or the CIA is following them? The ones who put tinfoil over their windows or wander the streets in filthy clothes, muttering and shouting? The drugs they should be taking are the ones that stopped me from seeing the dead, so are those people also seeing something real?

  I don’t know. All I know is I’m not mentally ill.

  But who’s really going to believe me? If I try to tell anyone, it will probably just be seen as more proof that I am mentally ill.

  Suddenly, sadness tinged with horror washes over me. No matter what, Tori is really dead. Despite everything that’s happened between us, I never, ever would have wanted that.

  And she was murdered. I sit up. Did Tori tell me anything that could help the police if they knew it? Is the fact that she doesn’t remember her own death a clue? Maybe that means the killer slipped a roofie in her drink and then strangled her. Or snuck up behind her, hit her on the head, and then finished her off once she was unconscious.

  But there’s no way I can tell the police anything she said. They would never believe me. I slump back. The autopsy should give them evidence, though, right? There must be clues on Tori’s body. A hair from her murderer. Fingerprints. Fibers. DNA.

  There’s nothing I can do to help find her killer.

  The only person I can help is me. And I definitely want to hold on to this feeling of being alive and awake. So I’ll keep skipping my pills. And if I see anything or anyone that might be dead, I’ll stay quiet, the way my mom told me to. It shouldn’t even be hard. Other than roadkill or long-gone pets, how often am I ever near a dead body?

  I get up and get dressed. In the breakfast nook, Grandpa is eating the same thing he does every day: generic shredded wheat topped with a sliced banana. He taps the newspaper with a gnarled finger.

  “It says here they found a body in Gabriel Park.”

  “Really?” I widen my eyes. “What happened?”

  “It doesn’t say. But I heard a lot of sirens last night.” He shakes his head, his gray eyes filled with worry. “I don’t want you cutting through the park anymore. Not until they know what happened.”

  I have to leave ten minutes early so I have time to walk around the park instead of through it. As soon as I get on the bus, Marnie Martin waves me to where she’s sitting. All the seats are taken, half filled with commuters and half with students. As we lurch forward, I grab the back of her seat for balance.

  “Did you hear?” Marnie clutches my free arm. “Tori was murdered!”

  “What?” The metal bar of the seat slides underneath my suddenly sweaty hand as we round a corner.

  Her eyes gleam. She’s like me, always on the edges, but now she’s center stage. “They found her body last night in Gabriel Park!”

  Aspen Wu leans across the aisle. “Don’t talk to her, Marnie.” She points at me. “Adele’s the one Tori had to kick out of her party Saturday night.”

  Marnie shrinks away from me. Her features bunch together. “Adele? That doesn’t even make sense.”

  Everyone is staring at me, even the adults. At the next stop, I push past people and leave through the back door. It’s still a half mile to school, but I don’t care.

  Despite the chill, I’m sweating by the time I walk in the main doors. The halls are buzzing. The guys are talking in low voices, their jaws set, their hands balled into fists. Some of them look red-eyed. Most of the girls are full-out crying, their arms around each other. Sofia Reyes is sobbing in front of her locker, her mascara running down her cheeks in stripes. Next to her, Petra Khan has her mittened hands over her face.

  Even the teachers are gathered in groups of two or three, shock on their faces. Mr. Hardy leans against the wall, one hand covering his eyes. He’s the student teacher in language arts. Half the girls in school have crushes on him. Usually he could be mistaken for one of us, only with more elaborate facial hair, slightly nicer clothes, and a lanyard around his neck that holds his teacher ID card. Today he looks old, with gray skin and exhausted eyes.

  A few feet from my locker, Jazzmin Walters and her boyfriend, Ethan Herrick, are talking in low voices. They were both at the party on Saturday. Usually I’m not on their radar, and today is no exception.

  “But we left the party together,” Jazzmin says. Her straight blond hair is held back by a narrow pink cloth headband. “And we didn’t see anything.”

  “Right,” Ethan agrees, pushing his coppery curls out of his eyes.

  To my surprise, Jazzmin’s blue eyes focus on me. She leans in close to Ethan and whispers, then glances back at me over her cupped hand.

  She’s not the only one looking at me. My stomach churns as I grab a book and slam my locker closed. For a second, I find myself wishing I was back on my meds, because then I wouldn’t notice or care that people are staring.

  But then something happens that makes everyone’s head swivel. Luke Wheaten walks in. Tori’s boyfriend. Except she said they broke up Saturday night. I can’t imagine what he’s going through. The last memory Luke will have is of her yelling at him. At least my memory is going to be of Tori weeping in my arms, begging me to help her.

  He looks like a different guy from the one I saw at the party. His jaw is stubbled, his face hollow with grief. Normally his hair is swept back, but today it hangs over his shadowed eyes.

  Just the sight of his reddened eyes is enough to make some girls start crying. For a second he’s surrounded by respectful silence. Then the other football players, led by Murphy Lockhart and Justin Booth, move forward and surround him, like all the times they’ve huddled on the field.

  “Man, I can’t believe you’re here,” Murphy says, slinging his arm around Luke’s neck.

  The hall is so silent we can all hear Luke’s response.

  “Where else am I going to be?” His voice cracks. “I would rather be here than home by myself with nothing to do but think. Think about what some creep must have done to her.” He holds up his hands and stares at them, turning them from side to side like he doesn’t recognize them. “It’s like a loop that won’t stop.”

  Suddenly Luke pivots. With a roar, he shakes off Murphy’s arm. He takes two steps and begins to hammer the sides of his clenched fists on the wall.

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 8:22 A.M.

  OUR FAULT

  The bell rang as Murphy and a couple of other football players were trying to calm Luke. By that time, his hands already looked bruised.

  As I take my seat in economics, the speaker on the wall crackles. It’s time for the announcements, read each morning by two students chosen at random. But today the voice belongs to the school secretary. Mrs. Cox tells us to go to the auditorium for a schoolwide assembly.

  Back in the hall, more people side-eye me, whispering to each other. And then behind me, I hear the hiss of a word. It’s not a word I ever would have thought anyone would call me. And maybe they’re not. Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe they’re talking about someone else.

  In the auditorium, the teachers don’t even try to be in control. Rather than being required to sit together by class, people wave and call to each other
, even climbing over rows of seats to make sure they sit with friends. I find a seat near the front. Too late, I realize Charlie is in the row behind me, a few seats to one side. He opens his mouth and leans forward, like he wants to say something to me, but luckily he’s too far away to talk to me.

  A finger taps on the microphone. It’s Ms. Chaudry, the principal. People settle down much faster than normal. All of us are hungry for news.

  “As you may already have heard, one of our own was found dead in Gabriel Park last night. Tori Rasmussen.” She pauses, swallows. “She was murdered.”

  A few girls wail dramatically, but for the most part, the auditorium is silent and still. No one is whispering. No one is nudging their neighbor. No one is looking down at their laps, checking their phones.

  I surreptitiously glance at Luke. He’s on the other side and farther back. He sits slumped, his chin on his chest and his left hand covering his eyes. I wonder if he’s changed his mind about coming to school.

  Ms. Chaudry continues, “Even though the police do not believe the murder occurred on school property, until they make an arrest, our first priority must be keeping all of you safe. I’ve asked our school resource officer, Jim Werdling, to talk to you about that.”

  As he steps up to the mic, Officer Werdling throws his shoulders back. He constantly roams the halls and the cafeteria, but I’ve never talked to him other than to echo one of his overly enthusiastic hellos. He looks like he’s close to retirement, a short, gray-haired man with a small gut perched just above his belt. Even though he works at Wilson, he’s a real cop. His utility belt carries a flashlight, handcuffs, a Taser—and a gun.

  He clears his throat. “Driving here this morning, I passed a couple of young women jogging in the dark with their earbuds in.” He shakes his head. “I saw both males and females walking alone in isolated areas. Or looking down at their phones because they were texting. They were not situationally aware of what was going on around them. They had no idea if someone was targeting them.”