Strange Girl (34 page)

I rode back to Elder with Bart. We followed the white hearse from the mortuary. We didn’t talk much; I suppose there was nothing to say. But one thing was clear. Bart was not in the least bit surprised that Aja had died. His absence of shock, though, did nothing to alleviate his grief. He looked as if he’d aged twenty years since I’d last seen him.

“She told us before we moved here that the days of her body were numbered,” Bart said.

“Is that why she wanted to come here? Was there a purpose to her coming?”

Bart nodded. “It’s nice to think so. That the Big Person was kind enough to give the rest of the world a glimpse of who she was.”

I shook my head. “My classmates turned out to be almost too loyal. As far as I can tell not a single student gave the press a recording of what went on at the PTA meeting. And without proof that Aja could heal people . . . well, she’s already becoming just another fading headline on YouTube. Outside of Elder, I doubt anyone will be talking about her a month from now.”

Bart looked at me. “You’re forgetting one thing.”

“What?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“You’re the one who will keep Aja alive in people’s memories.”

“Are you serious? How? And why me?”

“ ‘Why you’ should be obvious. You were closer to her than anyone. And that includes Clara and myself. And as to ‘how’ you’ll keep her story alive—I’m not worried about that. You’re a smart guy. You’ll think of something.”

It was dawn by the time we reached the Carter Mansion. Bart told the two guys from the mortuary to lay her body on her bed upstairs. They did so and left. And after spending a few minutes with Aja, Bart left me alone with her. But I could hear him down in the garage; I knew what he was up to.

It was peaceful to sit beside her, to be alone with her in the bedroom where we’d spent such wonderful nights, surrounded by the paintings and sculptures her father had made of her mother. She had on the same black slacks and white blouse she’d worn in LA. I tucked her under a woolen blanket Clara had knitted for her when they lived in Brazil and brushed her hair so that it spread over her pillow and down around her shoulders.

I couldn’t stop staring at her face. Honestly, I couldn’t believe she was dead. All the love I’d always felt in her presence, the power, the grace—they were still there. Her body may have died but was she dead? Sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her hand, staring at her serene expression, the idea seemed ridiculous.

Still, I couldn’t talk to her anymore and I knew I’d never hear her voice again. Nor would I ever hold her again. The Big Person inside her may have been alive, as unchanging as ever, but I was just a guy who loved her, a very mortal guy, and already I was beginning to miss her.

TV shows that deal with death and dying, along with cop shows and medical dramas, often speak about how quickly the human body decays. I was lucky Aja granted me one last miracle. The odor emanating from her could not have been more sweet. Her body smelled like a combination of daises and camphor, sandalwood oil and fresh air. I know it makes no sense but somehow she smelled like the dawn breaking outside her window.

Sadly, on top of the divine aroma, through a crack in her bedroom door, I caught a whiff of gasoline and knew it was time to say good-bye. One last time, I leaned over and kissed her lips.

“Thanks, Aja. Thanks for everything.”

I stood and, using my crutches, walked out of her room and down the stairs to the front door. Bart had been busy—the odor of gasoline was growing. Yet he had not overdone it. The fumes would burn off quickly and by the time the firemen arrived there’d be no trace left to say the fire hadn’t been caused by an electrical short. And if later Aja’s remains were found, then it would be up to Bart and his lawyer to talk to the authorities. Yet I had a feeling the police and firemen would find nothing.

Standing on the front porch, Bart handed me a single wooden match. I was surprised to see him smile. “What is it?” I asked.

“In her will Aja left everything she owned to you. Besides the money, that includes a half interest in this house. If you light that match, you’ll be several million dollars poorer.”

“Does that bother you?” I asked.

“Not at all.”

“Good,” I said, striking the match on the top of a nearby wooden post, watching the tiny flame flare bright, before I tossed it through the front door and onto one of the many expensive rugs spread throughout the house. The fire ran from us in half a dozen different directions. A gust of smoke forced us back.

Within minutes flames were pouring out of both ends of the house and again we were pushed away and had to jump in Bart’s car and head to the end of the driveway. There we got out and watched as geysers of flame shattered the mansion’s many windows and leaped toward the gray sky. Fortunately the house was isolated. We were two hundred yards from the blaze and still we could feel our cheeks burning.

“Good-bye, Aja,” I said as I stared at the inferno. At some point Bart took my hand and I thought I heard him utter a few last words. But what they were I could not say, lost as I was in my own thoughts.

• • •

Ten years have gone by since I met and fell in love with Aja. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say I’ve spent the better part of that decade trying to figure out who she was. I suppose like most people I like to think the years have granted me more insight—not just into Aja but into life itself.

Yet I’m afraid, even after all this time, that Aja remains as much a mystery as when I first saw her sitting in the park across the street from my old high school, picking flowers and staring at the students as they walked by in the hot summer sun.

Writing about the time I spent with her has been very satisfying—therapeutic in its own way. It’s caused me to recall with razorlike clarity moments that the years had begun to blur. It’s also caused me to
feel
her near me. That, I think, is what’s most precious about her story. Because simply reviewing what she said or where she went or who she spoke to or even what miracles she performed doesn’t begin to convey who she was.

Of course most people will say that’s crazy, especially when it comes to her miracles. They’ll say that healing Mike Garcia and Lisa Alastair and Barbara Kataekiss—and others we don’t even know about—was what made Aja unique. Just as the miracles Christ performed in the Bible are what caused Christianity to become the most popular religion on earth.

That’s fine, I say. I still think I’m right. Aja was much more than the person we saw walking around and living in Elder. She said it herself many times. She wasn’t the body. She wasn’t the mind. She was none of those things we like to think about when we stop to remember a person.

But that said—how are we to remember her? Even more important—for those who never met her—how are we to imagine her?

Fair questions that deserve reasonable answers.

I only wish I had the answers to give.

But let me come back to that in a minute.

Two months after Aja died, after the nasal sound caused by my broken nose had vanished, I flew back to Los Angeles and rerecorded “Strange Girl.” The song was released too late to take advantage of the holiday season but it managed to get decent play on the radio and rose as high as number ten on the Billboard Chart. Paradise Records asked me to cut a full album. I asked if I could wait a few months. My grief over losing Aja had yet to diminish; if anything it was getting worse. Richard Gratter said no problem, he understood, take all the time you need. I don’t know why I was surprised when he refused to take my calls when I called him four months later. But hey, that’s the music business. You’re lucky if you get one shot.

Yet my music career was far from over. After graduating from Elder High, I left town with my acoustic guitar and bummed around the country, playing short and long gigs at whatever clubs would hire me. I didn’t have a manager—Janet had gone off to Harvard—but I got by. Although “Strange Girl” never became a major hit, it quickly developed a cult following. That one song became my calling card. And since I refused to live off of Aja’s money—I gave it all away to charities—the song literally fed me for years.

Still, no major labels came knocking.

Maybe it was my voice, I thought. Maybe it was my face. Whatever, I eventually decided I could make more money writing songs for existing stars rather than trying to become a star myself. And that’s what I’ve been doing up until this day. I’ve written exactly one dozen top-ten hits. Naturally, outside of the business, no one knows my name. A funny thing about the celebrities I write for. They like to take credit for everything they sing. Actually, they insist upon taking credit. I’m well paid but I never get invited to walk the red carpets.

That’s okay. I get to do what I love for a living.

I can’t complain.

After graduation, Mike and Dale moved to San Francisco and got involved in the health food industry. They started a company that sells herbal formulas that are supposed to do everything from increase a person’s IQ to make Viagra a thing of the past. I tried their products but didn’t notice much. Then again, what do I know? They’re making money hand over fist and they’re lucky. Because Mike married only two years out of high school and his wife quickly popped out four kids.

I played at Mike’s wedding; Dale was his best man. And the male actor Dale was with that day—two years ago I heard they got married. I was in Europe at the time, playing mostly London clubs, and didn’t make it back for the ceremony. But I just heard through the grapevine that Dale and his partner are close to adopting a child.

Shelly . . . it’s hard to talk about Shelly. Only a year after Elder High released us into the big bad world, she entered a liquor store late at night in New York City where she was attending NYU and stumbled upon a holdup—a messy one. It appeared at the start that the owner didn’t mind handing over his money, but the instant the robber turned to leave, the owner went for a shotgun he kept behind the counter.

The owner got off one shot; the robber two. The robber’s first bullet hit the owner in the shoulder, which threw off the man’s aim. When the owner did pull his trigger his shotgun was pointed at Shelly’s left leg. The blast came close to amputating the limb; it definitely ruptured her femoral artery. Shelly bled to death before the ambulance could arrive.

The robber’s second bullet struck the owner in the hand. The man made a full recovery, while the robber escaped with fifty dollars in cash. Dale, Mike, Janet, me—we all returned home for Shelly’s funeral. It was good to see everyone again, especially Janet, but it was a grim affair. I was told Shelly had finally met a guy she was wild about. Actually, I met the guy; he was at the funeral. Everyone said how much he looked like me.

I still think about Shelly every day. It makes no sense but I seem to care more about her now than when she was alive. But I don’t blame myself for what happened to her and I have no regrets about how I treated her when we were in high school. Aja taught me a few things. One was that guilt had nothing to do with love.

My parents, they divorced. They split up right after I left home. My mom kept the house and remarried within a year. Another wedding I played at. My stepfather—he’s all right. He doesn’t talk much, which is never a bad thing.

My dad, he remarried as well, twice. The first time was bad. The woman was coming out of a marriage too and the double dose of rebounding made them both sick of each other before the honeymoon was over. But the third time was the charm for old Dad. He’s happy; at least he acts like he is. Yet it does worry me that he just happened to buy a house around the block from where my mom lives.

Janet, being Janet, finished her undergraduate degree at Harvard in three years instead of four and got accepted into their prestigious law school and naturally graduated number one in her class. The girl who said she had no interest in money took a job on Wall Street and is currently making more cash than she can possibly spend. More impressive, to me at least, is the fact that she’s married to a guy who’s at least as smart as her and she has a baby daughter named . . . Aja.

Janet and I keep in touch online. She says she sees her father at least once a year, although less since her daughter was born. I always tell her how happy I am for her. But when it comes to Bo I keep my mouth shut.

To my surprise Janet admits she still goes to therapy to deal with what happened to her as a child. Indeed, she started seeing a psychologist only a month after Aja died. In my mind that doesn’t take anything away from the miracle Aja performed on her. Aja opened the door so that Janet could see the truth. No one could have asked for more.

Yet I still don’t know why Aja healed Bo. Did the fact that she’d seen her own mother killed in front of her play a role in what happened that cold and dark night? If that’s true then it means she ignored Janet’s request; that she didn’t let the Big Person decide whether Bo should live or not. That the Aja we knew, the one we could see with our eyes and hear with our ears, simply decided to lay down her life for him, probably for Janet’s sake.

Or else it’s possible Aja wasn’t influenced by her personality; that the Big Person was fully in charge from start to finish. I lean toward this belief because only moments before Bo was healed it was obvious the Big Person was in control.

Now, looking back, I realize that every word that came out of Aja’s mouth during those tense moments had been aimed at Janet’s wound. That the phrases Aja chose meant nothing to her. They were simply finely crafted sounds spoken aloud to pluck a splinter from Janet’s heart.

But if Aja didn’t act on her own volition, if she was wise enough to set aside her personality and let the Big Person decide Bo’s fate, then why did she die? I think the answer is simple. So simple it’s near impossible to believe.

I think healing Bo killed Aja because Bo was already dead.

The guy was just lying there, not making a sound.

He wasn’t moving. I couldn’t see him breathing.

A life for a life. Is it so impossible to believe that Aja had the power to raise someone from the dead? She said on several occasions that she was one with the Big Person. And who’s to say the Big Person does not operate by certain karmic rules—necessary rules that keep the scales of cause and effect balanced. For example, perhaps for Bo’s body to stand up and walk away, Aja’s body had to lie down and breathe no more. Jesus said he was the Son of God. Aja never said she was His daughter. Perhaps she could raise a person from the dead but only once.