Between (19 page)

“Why are you making me watch this?” I plead.

“It was your idea to show me! Why did you bring me here?”

I stare at him. “Because I want you to understand me. I want you to see that I was like you. I wasn’t always a bad person.”

He stares back. “Then let me see.”

I cover my eyes while he watches. I don’t need to look. I already know what’s going to happen.

At nine years old, I run into the bathroom, and there she is: oh, Mommy. Her fall has broken the glass shower door, slicing her to ribbons.

I do everything you’d expect a little girl to do. I try to wake her up, to help her in some way, cutting my own hands and knees on all the broken glass in the process. I scream at her to get up. I shake her. There is nothing in the world worse than her absolute stillness.

Then I watch as she takes her last breath. Even as a child, I understand that she’s gone. There, in that moment, I think my heart breaks. Forever.

“I want to go,” I repeat, my voice near tears. “Please, can we go? Alex,
please
?”

He lets go of my shoulder. We are back in his house. But it’s too late; the memory is back, front and center. I can’t escape it.

For other people my age, death doesn’t seem like a possibility. Teenagers, as everyone knows, tend to believe they are immortal. But I’m not sure I ever felt that way. See, I knew death so well. I watched it take my mother; a girl doesn’t forget something like that.

Alex looks away from me. He doesn’t seem to know what to say.

I put my hands against my face and shake my head, trying to forget what I’ve just seen for the second time in my life. Even though the memory has always been with me, ever since it happened, witnessing it firsthand all over again makes me feel shaky, heartsick, and very small. I feel like a little girl, all alone in the world. But I don’t think I can explain all of that to Alex. I already regret showing him my mother’s death; I can’t stand him seeing me so shook up now, so vulnerable.

I stare past him, at a print of
The Last Supper
that hangs on the wall. “So to answer your question, maybe there was an inkling,” I tell him, trying to keep a casual tone. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. Neither can you, right?”

“No.” He taps out a sleepy version of “Heart and Soul,” looking down at the piano keys. “Before you died, I spent so much time sitting along the road, just watching the cars go by. My parents nailed a wreath to the tree, close to where they found my body. They used to visit every day, and then it became once a week.” He places his hands an octave lower, begins to play the song again. “I kept waiting for someone else. I thought that the person who hit me would have to show up eventually. I waited and waited.” He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

There is a long pause. Finally, he says, “You were just a little girl. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

I stare at the floor. “Thank you.”

The cat at his feet has been lazily cleaning its paws, until now, when it stops to look suddenly at me. Its pupils dilate as it stares. It reaches toward me, stretching its front leg, claws out.

Alex’s hands go still against the piano keys. He tilts his head at me, his eyes glassy in the dark room. His teeth, I realize, are still as crooked as they were in the Little League photograph. I’m guessing he never had braces; it occurs to me that his parents probably couldn’t afford them. “None of this makes sense, Liz. Do you realize that?”

A car turns into the driveway. We hear the garage door open.

I feel anxious, like we’re trespassing, like Alex’s parents will come in and we’ll be caught. “What do you mean?”

Alex is thinking hard now, suddenly excited. His breath quickens. He claps a hand to my wrist. His touch feels cold and limp; it feels
dead
. “I mean what I said. Things aren’t making sense. Think about it. Don’t you have questions, Liz? Like why would Richie come to my house? I don’t understand. Do you?”

I shake my head. “No. You know more than I do.”

“It can’t be a coincidence,” he says. “And you and me together now. We’re ghosts. Why? We weren’t friends.” He glances at the door, a key jiggling in the lock. “I hated you,” he says.

“I know. I’m sorry. You have to believe me, Alex—I didn’t realize how terrible I was. I used to be different. Everything changed after my mom died.”

“All you cared about were things,” he says simply. “Clothes and cars and parties. Cell phones and purses and … shoes.” He stares at my boots. “Lots of good it did you. Here you are, with me.”

We look at each other. The front door opens.

“Please,” I beg, “let’s go now.”

“Why, Liz? What’s the matter?”

I can barely coax my voice above a whisper. “I can’t breathe.”

“What do you know? Why are we here?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“What was all the money in your room for? Why were you keeping secrets from everyone?”

“I don’t
know
!” The cat hurries away. I close my eyes, pressing my palms to my lids. There is a flurry of memories, stacked almost violently in succession: my mother on the bathroom floor. My first cross-country meet, complete with remnants of the butterflies in my stomach. My own body as I first saw it the night I died, lodged helplessly between the boat and the dock. Lying on the beach with Caroline, Mera, and Josie, listening to Top 40 music and working on our tans. And air, crisp and fresh and filling my lungs as I recall running through town, my feet hitting the ground with a
slap-slap-slap
rhythm that feels like a heartbeat, life-affirming and strong. The sweat used to drip down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I could taste salt: from the air around me and dried on my lips, which were always open slightly when I ran.

I wanted to keep running forever.
Slap-slap-slap-slap
. I realize now that I wanted to disappear. To get so lost that nobody ever found me. To go so far away that I’d never be able to make my way home again. But I have no idea why.

Twelve

We go back to my house, both of us quiet and solemn after the memories we’ve shared and the conversation we’ve just had. It’s evening, the streetlights glowing, illuminating the haze from the cool night air as we make our way up the steps of my front porch. The pain in my toes is so intense that I can barely walk. I didn’t walk home; Alex and I just blinked ourselves here magically, but now with every step I feel a fierce stabbing sensation in my feet, so unbearable that I’m almost out of breath, tears in my eyes by the time we get to my bedroom door.

The door is closed, but I can hear voices on the other side before we walk through. Immediately, I recognize the noises as my friends: Mera, Caroline, and Josie.

“Think they’re back for more clothes?” Alex asks. I can tell he’s trying to be casual, but the remark stings. After witnessing the incredible display of mourning at his house, I can’t help but feel a little bit miffed that my friends seem to have moved on from my death so quickly.

“I don’t know. Probably.” I stare at the door to my room. “Let’s see.”

I gasp as we step inside. In the space of a couple of hours, my room has been almost entirely cleared out. The bed has been stripped of its dainty, pink-and-white-striped sheets; all that’s left behind is the bare mattress and box spring on the frame. There is no makeup strewn on the vanity, and the closet—its door hanging open—is practically empty. My ribbons and plaques from cross-country have been packed away somewhere, and are probably collecting dust in the basement—or worse, I think, in a landfill. The only thing that’s left from my life is the pile of old running shoes. It’s funny—you’d think they’d be the first things to go. They probably seem like garbage to everyone else in my family. I wonder why they’re still here.

My closest friends are back here, too. The three of them are in a semicircle on my floor, sitting around a Ouija board. And right away, just from looking at them, I can tell that they’re drunk. Even before I hear Caroline hiccup. Even before I see the almost-empty bottle of red wine sitting beside Josie.

“Josie …,” Mera murmurs, obviously reluctant. Her cheeks are flushed from the booze. Her lips are stained a deep red. “This is weird.”

“It’s okay,” Josie says, putting a hand on Mera’s arm. I notice right away that Josie is wearing one of my favorite outfits: black skinny jeans and a tight red sweater. “My mom took me to church this morning. I know how to do this. They have séances there all the time.”

“With a Ouija board?” Mera is doubtful.

“No, but I’ve seen them contact people from the other side. Don’t worry.”

“I thought you weren’t religious,” Alex says, staring at them, his eyes wide with fascination.

“I’m not. I mean, we aren’t. She means the Spiritualist Church. It’s nondenominational.” And I roll my eyes. “It’s real hippy-dippy kind of shit. They’re into trances, auras, tapping into the collective subconscious—that kind of mumbo jumbo.”

“So what happened at church?” Caroline asks. “They told you to have a séance to try and contact your … sister?” She clears her throat. I can tell she’s working up the drunken courage to speak her mind. “Because I find that hard to believe, Josie. I think this is a bad idea.”

Josie’s eyes flicker in the almost darkness; the only light in the room comes from a lamp on my nightstand and a single candle burning on my dresser. “Actually, they told me
not
to have a séance. There was a psychic there this morning. He’s there a lot.”

For a moment, I wonder if it’s the same psychic who told me to beware of the redhead in disguise. But like Richie said, I don’t even know any redheads. The guy was obviously way off in his warning.

“He said that under no circumstances should we use any tools of the occult to contact Liz.”

“Then why did you break out the Ouija board?” Mera practically shrieks.

“Shhh,” Josie says. “You’ll wake up my dad. He’ll freak if he sees what we’re doing.” She pauses. She stares at the ceiling for a moment, and when I follow her gaze, I can see that she’s focusing on the faint but still-visible brush strokes.
BFF.
“I want to know that she’s safe,” Josie says. “I have to know that she’s okay, wherever she is.”

“Let’s stop, Josie,” Caroline pleads. “She’s not here. She’s gone.”

Josie looks at Caroline. She narrows her eyes. “You don’t know that. There’s so much about life that none of us understands.” She attempts a smile; it’s shaky. “Have another drink.” Josie picks up the bottle of wine and hands it to Caroline, who stares at it for a minute, then reluctantly takes a swig.

Good old Caroline
, I think to myself.
She always wants to fit in
.

“Don’t you feel like you have to know?” Josie implores. From her tone, I can tell she’s being sincere. She’s truly worried about my place in the hereafter. “Don’t you want to know that she’s at peace now?”

Mera and Caroline nod.

“Well, this is how we’ll do it. It’s going to work.” Josie is breathing heavily, her face flushed with wine and anticipation. “But we all have to concentrate. We have to want it.”

Alex shudders. “Nice friends you’ve got.”

“They don’t want to,” I murmur, staring at them. “It’s just Josie.”

“Do you think it will work?” Alex asks.

“I don’t know. I’m standing right here. Maybe.”

“You could go over to them. You could put your hands on the pointer and try to make it move.”

For a second, I consider it. With the exception of Richie, I can’t make real contact with physical objects. But it
is
a Ouija board; I suppose I could give it a try. I know that it’s just a cheap board game—Josie probably got it at a toy store—but she’s right about one thing: obviously, there’s a lot that none of us understands about life—and death. If I can connect with Richie just by being in the same room with him, like I did when he was talking to Joe Wright after my funeral, then what might happen if I put my hands on the pointer? Could it possibly work?

Something stops me, though, just as I’m about to walk over to them. I’m here; I know I’m safe. I want to see if the Ouija board tells me anything I don’t already know. Even if it is just a toy, I’m willing to give it a shot.

“Let’s watch,” I tell Alex. “I want to see what happens.”

All three of my friends place their index fingers slightly above the pointer, which is positioned in the center of the board.

“We are trying to contact Elizabeth Valchar,” Josie intones, her voice low but firm. “Liz, are you there?”

After a few moments of stillness, slowly, the pointer glides across the board to
yes
.

“Oh my God,” Caroline whispers. “I didn’t do that. Are you moving it, Mera? Josie, is it you?”

“It’s not me.” Mera swallows. “I want to go home.”

“Shhh.” Josie’s eyes are positively ablaze with excitement. “Liz, are you safe?”

The pointer swings to
no.

“That’s not moving all by itself,” I tell Alex. “Somebody’s doing it. One of
them
is moving it.”

“You think?” he murmurs.

“Alex, yes. Who’s doing it, though?”

He takes a few steps closer. He kneels down, trying to get a better look at the board and the fingers hovering above the pointer, barely even making contact. “I can’t tell. All three of them are kind of touching it. They’re all shaking, Liz.”

“Liz, why aren’t you safe?” Josie asks.

After a brief pause, the pointer starts to move again. It begins to spell.
L-I-E-S
.

“Lies?” Josie repeats. “What kind of lies?

It continues to move, spelling clearly, pausing for just a moment on each letter before moving on.
C-H-E-A-T-E-R
.

“What does that even mean?” Caroline asks. “It doesn’t mean anything. This is creeping me out. Josie, I want to stop.”

“Me, too.” Mera reaches past Caroline, picks up the wine bottle, and takes a long drink.

“She was cheating on Richie,” Josie whispers, her eyes wide, pupils dilated. “And now she’s sorry.”

Above Josie’s lowered head, Mera and Caroline exchange a glance.