Me & Death (16 page)

“There, there,” I said, sympathetic, like I was with the nurse, Bertha. I was going to give my sister a hug, but something held me back. Maybe the way she had her hands balled up into fists.

“Remember …” She took a deep breath. “Remember when that streetcar went off the tracks about five years ago?”

“Yeah, yeah. Down at the foot of Roncy. We talked about it in school.”

A picture of the streetcar on its side, looking like a beached whale, had been all over the news. Couple of people had died.

“Well, I was
on
that streetcar before it crashed. Riding down Roncy, and suddenly there were all these ghosts, shaking their heads and yelling. Tapping people on the shoulder.
Watch out!
they said.
Watch out!
I was terrified. I got out at the next stop. Marion. Then I watched the streetcar roll down Roncy to King and turn the corner and flip over.”

“You never said anything.”

“What could I say?” she hissed. “Who would have believed me? I have dreams, Jim, where I’m in a stadium, and there’s going to be a terrorist attack, and thousands and thousands of ghosts appear, shouting for everyone to watch out. All of us in the stadium are doomed, and I’m the only one who knows.”

For a moment, I felt nothing but pity for her.

CHAPTER 30

S
omething I’d been meaning to ask. “Hey, Cassie, I know it was a long time ago, but do you remember seeing my ghost when you were really little? I was with a Mourner. Actually, it was Maq’s mom, but you wouldn’t know that. Anyway, do you remember? I guess you were four or five.”

“No.”

“I was a baby.” I spoke steadily. “It was the time you pushed me down the stairs and wrecked my ankle.”

She turned away. She remembered all right.

“I have always had this trick ankle, and it’s your fault.”

Did she say sorry? Not hardly. She turned back to glare at me. “Yeah, well, so what?”

“So what? So you hurt me.”

The muscles and strings in her throat went up and down when she drank. She had no fat on her, Cassie. It was like staring at a drawing from a book of human anatomy.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

Pretty bleak. I didn’t know what to say to her. Her anger was stronger than my conviction.

The sounds and smells of a July afternoon drifted into the room. Kids screaming on the playground. Insects buzzing against the screen. Diesel exhaust. A snatch of a song on a car radio. Laughter. Away in the distance, a
siren. A sharp whiff of barbecue from the house next door.

It occurred to me that it was thanks to my trick ankle that I got run over in the first place. If it weren’t for Cassie wrecking my ankle, I’d never have fallen. I’d still be a piece of crap, like Tadeusz. Funny how things work out sometimes.

She relaxed on the bed. Her hands weren’t fists anymore. Her face softened slightly. “All right, maybe I was a rotten sister.”

Was this an apology? I could forgive her, but she’d probably laugh at me. And I had been crappy to her too.

“But I did save your life once, Jim.”

“What?”

“When the cat got in.”

You ever been on the Drop-Zone ride at the amusement park? You know that feeling when the chair drops and your stomach stays up? That’s how I felt then.

“What cat?”

“I don’t know. Some ginger cat from the neighborhood. You were really small, just a baby. And this cat snuck in through the kitchen window. I remember petting it for a while and then forgetting about it. I went upstairs when I heard it mewing and there it was in your crib, sitting on you. I guess you don’t remember.”

“On me?”

“Yeah, right on your chest. It had its head right next to yours, mewing at you, and sort of batting at you with its paw. Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I’m okay. Did the cat …” I took a breath and tried again. “Did it scratch me?”

“Nah. I think it just wanted to play. I took it outside. All right, maybe I didn’t actually save your life, but you did look pretty unhappy there in your crib. Crying, you know. You didn’t cry much.”

I sat carefully on the edge of Cassie’s bed. Stared in front of me. Her dresser was tall and painted white. It had four drawers. The top one was partly open. She had a picture from a magazine taped to the wall over the dresser. A family, it looked like. A mom, dad, two kids. The dad wore glasses. The little girl had a bow in her hair. They were all sitting around the dining room table, laughing.

A cat in my crib.
A cat in my crib
.

“Son of a bitch,” I said.

We went downstairs for a snack. Not much in the cupboard. Ma had a lot of Old Mother Hubbard in her. I made a Froot Loop sandwich, with jam to hold it together. When I offered to make one for Cassie, she frowned.

“You really are different, Jim. Ever since you came back from hospital. You’re like Scrooge in that movie.”

“Who?”

“
You
know. The mean old guy in London. The ghost of Christmas past shows him he’s been bad, and he changes his life. Gonzo was in it, and Kermit.”

“Oh, sure. And Tiny Tom,” I said.

“Tiny Tim.”

“Whatever.”

Come to think of it, I was kind of Scrooge-y. Stealing fruit and cars, and beating people up was like forcing poor Kermit to work on Christmas. Denise, Wolfgang, and Morgan were the ghosts. Now I’d woken up, and I was different. Like Scrooge. Hah. Not bad. At the end of the movie he’s happy.

She poured herself a glass of water. I asked for one too. She poured it and then slammed it on the table. “Don’t expect
me
to turn nice,” she said.

My sis. I was glad I’d talked to her. It was a relief to share this huge thing, this knowledge, with someone who understood. For almost the first time in our lives, we connected. Freak-os together. I told her about trying to pay back Mr. K. She didn’t think it was funny.

“It’s what Scrooge would do,” I said.

“I hate Tiny Tim,” she said.

CHAPTER 31

C
assie went out for dinner with Louise. I stayed at home and worried about what I might find when I broke into the Lincoln’s trunk later that night. A cat, say. How about that for a revelation? Cassie’s cat story, I mean. Talk about your anti-climax. I walked around the empty house, feeling anxious, giggly, embarrassed, then anxious again. I ate handfuls of Froot Loops, drank milk from the container. I made my bed. I kept having to pee.

Now I was flipping through the TV with the sound down. The clock on The Weather Channel was exactly one minute behind my digital watch.
The Simpsons
episode was the one where Marge becomes a cop. I turned up the sound to hear Chief Wiggum say he wouldn’t give the psycho a gun until he knew his name. I laughed and kept flipping. It was getting dark.

Ma came home and fell onto the couch beside me. “Jim Jim Jimmie,” she said, sort of singing. “How’s my poor boy?” Her makeup was smudged, and she smelled of cigarettes and liquor.

“Fine,” I said.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, sleepyhead. I’m glad you’re looking better. Your hair is coming in nicely.”

The Weather Channel had caught up to my watch. They now both said 9:18.

The weather guy was talking about forest fires out west. They were a big story. We watched this one tree burn for thirty seconds. I really got into it. At first it seemed like a sexy dance between the tree and the fire, the flames climbing slowly up the trunk, saying, Come on, honey, while the tree shivered like, No thank you. The fire spread along the branches like, You know you want to! But the tree shook back and forth like, No! No! Please no! It wasn’t a dance anymore. There was an explosion, and the fire was suddenly huge and happy, and all over the tree. And the tree was crying.

The segment ended. I flipped up and down the TV, finding nothing but commercials.

I wanted to ask Ma about the cat getting in, because the whole thing was still freaking me out. But she hadn’t been there. Instead, I asked her what she remembered about my dad.

She was falling asleep. “Your father?” she muttered. “That prick. ’Course I remember him.”

“You do?”

“What do you think I am, some kind of slut? His name was Walter. He had red hair and eyes like winter.”

“Did he get sick when I was born?”

“Walter? No. Cassie got sick. They thought she was going to die. Walter was arrested for credit card fraud and skipped bail.”

“Oh.”

I watched an old music video where flakes of soot fell on dying children. I thought about Cassie getting very
sick. Did she get to the Jordan Arms? That’d explain how she could see ghosts.

When I flipped back to
The Simpsons
Marge had quit the police force and Moe was playing poker with the counterfeit jeans guy.

“Do you think he loved us?” I said.

Ma snuggled against me. She was falling asleep. “Who?”

“Skip it.”

She yawned wide enough to swallow a tennis ball. Her head fell back against the cushions and she started to snore.

I went upstairs and opened the spiral notebook.

Dr. Driver said to put down my memories, and that’s what I’ve been doing. I’m surprised at how regular I’ve been. It helped that I’ve spent so much time in my room. I mean, there I’d be, yawning, and there was the notebook lying open on my bed or on the orange crate I use as my bedside table. I’d write a page or two and then fall asleep, and when I’d wake up there it’d be, ready to hand. There are lots of blank pages left in the book, but I don’t know how much more I have to say. I’ve written down everything that happened from the day I got run over until now. When is a story finished? I dunno. When the notebook’s full?

I keep my tools hidden under the floorboards of my closet. I take them out and put them on the table. Flashlight, sharpened screwdriver, plastic shim, and a
hook made from a half a coat hanger. Raf uses a set of blank car keys, but it takes just as long to find the right one as it does to use the shim and hook. I put on a black long-sleeved shirt and check the time. 10:46. Still way too early to go.

CHAPTER 32

O
ne final entry in this book. A lot
almost
happened in the last hour. It’s still too early to go, so I’ll take a few minutes, sitting here at the bottom of my bed next to Louise’s bare toes.

What did happen is that Cassie came home with her friend. They were flushed and couldn’t stop giggling. “Hi, little brother,” said Louise.

“No, no,” said Cassie. “He’s my little brother, not yours.”

They blinked at me. We were in the hall upstairs. I could hear Ma snoring in the living room.

Louise gave me the down-up look. “He’s not
that
little.”

Neither was she. She was wearing a T-shirt with a picture of SpongeBob on it. His goggle eyes were a lot closer to me than his feet, if you know what I mean. When she shook her head back and forth, it looked like SpongeBob was caught in a typhoon. Her hair fell in front of her face and stayed there.

“Jim’s almost as cute as that one waiter,” said Louise.

“Uh-huh,” said Cassie.