The Everafter (8 page)

S
TILL TRYING TO
figure out this pinecone thing…I try imagining that I’m putting it on a Christmas tree.

Nothing. I used to paint them for Christmas. I try imagining I’m doing that. But I’m still here in
Is.

Mom used to spray them with cinnamon scent during the holidays and set them out in baskets around the house. There’s no smell to this insubstantial ghostly pinecone, but I imagine myself back in a body, back in a place where smell is possible. And I try to imagine the smell of cinnamon and pine. I even imagine myself holding the cone close to my nose.

And I’m still here.

Maybe I played toss with it when I was a kid. I imagine throwing it back and forth with Kristen. With Sandra. With Tammy.

Still
here.

age 17

“I think I have enough money,” I say, digging around inside my wallet to check. I’m even counting pennies. I really want to buy these Robeez baby shoes. They are the cutest thing ever.

Too much in my hands…shoes, change, wallet, purse. I drop my wallet on the floor, and change scatters everywhere.

“Don’t you dare!” I tell Kristen just as she and her eight-months-pregnant belly are about to bend over and help me. “Here, hold these instead,” I say, handing her the baby shoes
and my purse. I get down on my hands and knees and start crawling around on the floor, scrounging up my change.

Kristen laughs at me. “You look pretty funny,” she says.

“Yeah, well, so do you,” I tell her, but not unkindly.

She grins down at me. “The pregnant body is a beautiful body.”

From down here her stomach looks even bigger. It’s a wonder she doesn’t just explode. “That from one of your pregnancy books?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she admits. “I’m trying hard to believe it. Supposedly, I can have my real body back someday. Hard to imagine, though.”

It is. But I don’t tell her that. I have most of the change. I can see a penny under the rack, but there’s a dust bunny with it, and I’m
not
touching
that
. I’m wealthy enough to suck up a one-cent loss.

“Just remember—” Kristen starts to say as I stand up.

I’ve heard this so often I can finish the sentence for her. “Take extra precautions when you’re on an antibiotic.”

Kristen wasn’t planning on becoming a mother at twenty-four with only a year and a half of marriage behind her. She had been taking the pill, but then she had to take antibiotics to fight an infection. Apparently, they reduce the effectiveness of the pill, so…whammo, she was pregnant. She’s paranoid that the same thing will happen to me.

Not that she needs to be.

Gabe and I aren’t doing anything that would get me pregnant. Don’t get me wrong. I think we’ve tried
every
thing else there is to try. We’re having…well, a lot of fun. So much fun, it doesn’t seem like we’re missing out on all that much. Besides, just about the time we were thinking about the whole sex thing, Kristen got pregnant.

All in all, watching your older sister puking every day is a pretty effective form of birth control. One time when she was at our house, she vomited so violently that she slammed her head against the toilet seat and had a giant bruise on her forehead for, like, a week and a half. And those first three months, it seemed like she was in bed with a headache whenever she was lucky (?) enough not to be feeling nauseated.

“If you and Gabriel are—” Kristen begins. I know this offer, too: She’s willing to take me to the doctor, to help make sure Mom doesn’t know, yadda, yadda, yadda….

“We’re not,” I say. Then, to change the subject, I pull an adorable green baby outfit off the rack. “Isn’t this cute?” It’s mint-colored and has a doggie and a kitty playing together on it.

“Since when do dogs and cats play together?” Kristen asks.

I roll my eyes. “C’mon. Children’s clothes teach an important lesson. This outfit is trying to tell the baby that
everyone can get along together if they just try.”

I admire a pretty pink outfit on the next rack over. It has beautiful combinations of pink and orange and yellow flowing together in a floral print. “I love this one,” I tell Kristen. “Too bad we don’t know whether you’re having a girl or a boy.”

In this day and age, who doesn’t know that before the baby’s born? I just don’t get why Kristen doesn’t want to know what sex her baby is. I’m reduced to having to find every possible cute outfit in green—the only color they make unisex baby clothing in. Well, okay, that’s not exactly true. There are a few yellow outfits that can go either way, too. But it seems like they all have ducks on them, and how many ducky outfits can a kid stand?

“What’s the point in knowing?” Kristen asks. We’ve had this conversation before, so we both approach it a little wearily.

“Uh…let’s see…planning the baby’s room, buying clothes ahead of time, just knowing what to expect when you bring the baby home.”

“Madison, it’s not as if I’d know the baby any better just by knowing it was a girl or a boy. I’m going to have to get to know it after it’s born anyway. Knowing the sex of the kid wouldn’t really help me know who the kid’s going to be. Sometimes I’ll be driving along, and I’ll wonder what this person inside me is going to turn out like, you know?
I’ll be thinking about the kid riding around in the car seat and wondering if it’s going to fall asleep back there because it likes the car. Or maybe it’ll hate the car and cry. I wonder what the kid’s going to laugh about for the first time. And none of that seems to have anything to do with whether the kid’s a boy or a girl.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but if we knew you were having a girl, I could buy her this way cute outfit.”

“Get off it, already,” Kristen says. “There are far more amazing things to wonder about than whether the baby will be a boy or a girl.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like, that this person has never been alive before. There was a time when he or she didn’t exist. And now this kid
does
exist. So much of its destiny is already being determined from inside of me. How can that be? I mean, where really does life come from?”

“Uh…too philosophical for me?”

“Doesn’t it just blow you away? That someone can
not
exist and then all of a sudden
exist?
Where was this person before conception?”

“Is this another side effect of pregnancy?” I ask.

“What?”

“All this wondering about life, the universe, and everything in it?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Some women start cleaning their
houses frantically. Not me. I still can’t stand cleaning. But I guess I do have some bizarre and deep need to understand
life
now that there’s another life inside me.”

We’re quiet for a moment, both looking at outfits. There’s another green one that’s a possibility. I pull it out and show it to Kristen. She suddenly asks, “Do you think I’ll make a good mom? You know, a lot of this kid’s life has already been determined. But there are some things that I can still influence. Wonder if I’ll do it right.”

Okay, I could come up with some kind of smart-ass remark worthy of the younger sister.

In fact, it’s tempting.

But there’s something so serious in her expression, so insecure, so at the whim of fate, that I can’t do it. “Of course you’ll make a great mother,” I tell her.

“I don’t know.”

“I do. I’ve been the understudy for the part of your child several times. I know what I’m talking about.”

“You’re biased.”

“True. But you have to remember that even if there’s no one else in the world who loves you as much as I do, there’s also no one else who can possibly hate you as much as I’ve hated you over the years. That makes me qualified to assess the situation.”

Kristen smiles at me. “Thanks, Maddy. Let’s get the green outfit. If you don’t have enough money to pay for the
baby shoes, I’ll get them. They
are
cute.”

“I want to get them,” I protest. “I’m sure I have enough money. Wouldn’t it be great, though, if I could convince Mom and Dad to get me a credit card?”

“No way. I
know
what you’d spend your money on.”

We start walking toward the registers. “Oh, come on…I’m not that bad. And then I’d have the money to come back and buy that cute little pink outfit in another month if you end up having a gi—”

A
NEW QUESTION EMERGES
:
Did my sister give birth to a boy or a girl?

I’m convinced I would remember whether her child was a boy or a girl, convinced I’d even remember its name—if I ever
knew.
After all, so many other things have come back to me through these visits home, and Kristen’s baby is so fundamentally a part of her that I
know
I would remember this baby if I’d ever met…him? Her?

So what this means is…

I must have died before the baby was born.

Kristen was eight months pregnant, so I must have died some time in the month following that trip to the store.

Without ever becoming an aunt.

I think of all the great mysteries that humankind has made progress toward resolving: the Big Bang, human evolution, weather prediction, the whole Einstein relativity thing.

The one little mystery I want resolved seems so small by comparison. I just want to know who my sister’s child is. I want to know about one little person in the whole history of the world. Why can’t I?

Okay, so maybe that’s not such a “little” mystery after all. I mean, maybe that’s the entire mystery of life—who we are, why we exist.

Still, I feel cheated. My life was interrupted right in the middle of an important plot element.

Back when I was alive, whenever I read ghost stories, the ghost always haunted other people. It went into the future to see what was happening in the world as life went on for the living. It got to find out what happened to the other characters in its story.

I can see why living people would dream up that vision of ghosts. No one wants to believe life ends this way…interrupted, unresolved, and unfinished.

Now that I’m a ghost I know the truth: Not only is my life incomplete, but I’m imprisoned by it, too. I never get to see beyond the boundaries of what I have already experienced.

I think back to Kristen’s musings about the nature of
existence…and nonexistence. Her wonder about who and what her baby was
before
it was conceived. Now I wonder the same thing. Who was
I
before I existed? Who am I now that I no longer
do?

It strikes me that this death thing is a lot like being in utero. My niece or nephew was alive inside my sister when she was eight months pregnant, but that baby didn’t have the freedom to set any of the boundaries of its existence. It was locked into a dark place.

Just like I am now.

And before the pregnancy? Where was that baby then? Did it exist…at all?

Maybe that’s the next stage in my trip…. I’m going to arrive at being nothing at all…. Death might just be the opposite of pregnancy…going through this dormant stage before arriving back to where we started…nonexistence.

Where is God?

When I was alive, I wasn’t very religious. I mean, I didn’t go to church and stuff like that, but I believed there was a God.

Now I wonder if there is. I sure want one. I want more than this…nothing. I want to feel like more than just some subatomic…thing…that can’t decide whether it’s a wave or a particle so it’s both. Only in my case I can’t seem to decide whether I’m alive or dead.

I’m both.

18 weeks

“Eeeeee eeeee eeeeeee eeeee eeeeeee eeeee eeeee eeeee eeeeeeee eeeee eeeeeee eeeeeee!”

Sh-ch-sh-ch-sh-ch. Sh-ch-sh-ch-sh-ch. Ch-ch-sh-ch-sh-ch-ch.

SH-CHRACK!

“Aaaahhhhh! Aaahhhh! Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh!”

“Shshshsh! Shshshsh…Shshshsh…Hhhhmmmm…mmmmmm…mmmmmm…hhhhhhh…”

Okay. That one was…creepy.

My journeys back to life have been mysterious before this, but when I’ve returned I’ve always I understood what
happened. I’ve remembered the events I experienced. But this time it is as if I experienced nothing.

No, that isn’t right. I have a memory of definitely experiencing something, but it is…so difficult to put into words.

Color, warmth…the sounds of crying and humming. A voice and a smell and a touch I know well. My mom’s.

She’s the rock and the foundation of this experience.

But what happened in that scene? I must have lost my rattle. It’s the object that returned me to life. Did I cry? Did my mother pick me up? Comfort me? Soothe me? The rattle is still here, so she must not have been able to find it for me.

I’m disconcerted by the whole experience and its myriad mysteries, afraid of being sucked into that black hole by gravity, of becoming that baby who has no words to express the impressions of her mind.

There’s no way I’m going anywhere near that rattle again.

age 16

The door opens. I step across the threshold and announce the obvious into my cell phone: “I’m here.”

“So I see,” Gabe replies, tapping
END
on his cell. I do the same, noticing a strange scent in the house. I can’t quite identify what it is.

He doesn’t exactly look thrilled to see me. Uh-oh.

We had plans to go out, but Gabe called me a half hour ago and said, “Sorry, I just can’t go tonight.” I asked what was up. His voice sounded odd, sort of quavery and distant, but he wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. Just said again that
he couldn’t go, was really sorry, would call me tomorrow.

Too strange.

I just didn’t feel right letting it go. I was worried about him.

So that’s when I made the (possibly bad) decision to come visit. And I did at least warn him I was coming. (Oh, okay, so I didn’t give him a whole lot of warning about that. But calling him as I was walking up his driveway was better than nothing, right?)

Now that I see the frown on his face, I’m thinking maybe that wasn’t so much better than nothing. He’s wearing a what-are-you-doing-here expression. This deflates me. I’m used to the you-light-up-my-life one (even if that’s corny, it’s true) that usually crosses his face every time I approach.

My stomach takes a dive down to my toes. What if…? How can it have taken me so long to figure out that he might have ditched me for some other girl?

Maybe even Dana.

Is she…
here?

My expression must reveal my absolute horror as I ask, “Is there some other girl?” because appalled shock flitters in his eyes as he says, “Is
that
what you think?”

“Well…I didn’t. But it suddenly occurred to me just now.”

He sighs. “Maddy…no. No way in hell.” He steps
forward and puts his arms around me. “That’s not it at all. I’m just…in a bad mood. I couldn’t be decent to anyone tonight.” He pulls away as suddenly as he enfolded me.

Strange again.

“But why?” I’m pushing it here, and I know it.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll just leave.” I turn to go, hoping he’ll stop me, but instead he opens the door to help me on my way. I’m contemplating how appropriate that saying is about not letting the door hit you on the way out when there’s a crashing sound upstairs. It’s followed by the ceiling shuddering in protest from whatever’s happening on the floor above. Gabe’s dad.

And suddenly everything makes sense.

Horrible sense.

Ohmygod, I recognize the smell that’s been bothering me since I arrived. How could I have been so idiotic? I’m dense.

Now Mr. Archer is stumbling down the stairs. I want to flee the house, spare Gabe the embarrassment. But I can’t seem to move.

The smell of alcohol gets stronger as Gabe’s father descends. He appears at the bottom of the stairs, bloodshot eyes trying to focus on me. I nearly choke in the cloud of alcohol surrounding us all now.

“Is this the new girlfriend, Gabe?” he asks.

I glance at Gabe, but he won’t even meet my eyes. “Yeah, I am,” I say. He’s never officially called me that, so amid all this other discomfort I start to wonder if I’m being presumptuous. Can this situation get any more nightmarish?

Uh…yeah. It can.

“Invite her to stay, Gabe,” he says. He tries to slap Gabe on the back but stumbles into him instead.

Gabe still won’t meet my eyes. I can tell he wants me as far away from here as possible, and, okay, let’s be honest, I feel like he’s shutting me out.

It hurts.

But so does the pain emanating from Gabe, and more than anything, I want to make Gabe’s life easier.

“Uh, sorry,” I say. “I can’t stay. My mom’s expecting me home.”

Gabe’s dad grins. At least I think that’s what he’s doing. Hard to tell in his current state.

“Well, then, I’ll leave you two to say good-bye to each other.” Now he’s trying to give us some kind of I-know-how-you’ll-say-good-bye-to-each-other look. Disgusting. It would be horrific on any parent, but a drunk one? “I just came down to get…” Mr. Archer gets lost in his thoughts.

Then he suddenly remembers why he made the Great Trek down the stairs. “Crackers. I want some crackers. I’ll get those and go back upstairs.” He toddles his way to the kitchen.

“Call me tomorrow?” I ask. I’m terrified Gabe will never talk to me again now that I’ve intruded into this grim scene from his life.

He doesn’t say anything.

I swallow hard. “Is there anything I can, y’know, do for you?”

Gabe finally meets my eyes, reaches for my hand, and says, “Yeah.”

I wait. And wait.

“What is it?” I finally ask.

“Stay,” he says.

“I thought…”

He puts a finger to my lips to stop me. “I know,” he says. “And you were right. I did want you to leave. But now I want you to stay.”

He leads me into the living room and we sit on the sofa. He puts his arm around my shoulder, and I lean into him. “Why’d you change your mind?” I ask.

“You’ve already seen the worst.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just marched over here. It was just, well, you didn’t sound so hot on the phone, and I thought something was wrong, and, well, it was, but still I should have respected your need for privacy because I should have known you wouldn’t just dump me for the night without some reason, and that you’d tell me if you wanted me to know, and—”

“Take a breath,” Gabe interrupts.

“Huh?”

He squeezes my hand. “Take a breath. Calm down. It’s not the end of the world. I’m fine. We’re fine. And now you know.”

“But I don’t.”

He looks at me quizzically.

“I don’t know at all. What it’s like, I mean. To deal with all this. To be you.”

We hear his father stumbling up the stairs.

Gabe sighs. “It’s been a year since the last time he had anything to drink. Then tonight—wham! Well…not even tonight. I came home this afternoon and he was already blotto. Must’ve come home from work early. Who knows how much he managed to drink before I got here? I tried to throw away what alcohol I could find, but shit—”

Okay,
this
surprises me. Gabe doesn’t swear. At least not around me. This draws my attention to how worked up he is.

“—when he gets like this he hides that fucking stuff who-knows-where.”

Now I’m getting freaked. The
F
word?

“The thing is,” Gabe goes on, “I somehow feel like I can keep him from drinking so much if I stay here with him.”

My heart quivers as I come to understand
why
it always feels to me as if Gabe is…
older
than me. “Gabe, I don’t
know anything about alcoholism, but I do know that I’ve never been able to keep my parents from doing something they were determined to do. Can you actually
stop
your dad from drinking?”

He sighs again, pulls away from me, and flops over sideways on the sofa. “I don’t know,” he says. At least I think that’s what he’s saying. It’s hard to tell for sure because he’s mashed a pillow on top of his face.

I try to pull the pillow away from him, but he’s strong.

“The thing is,” he says, “I know he manages to drink even when I am here. But how much
more
would he drink if I weren’t here to try to stop him?”

Obviously not a question I can answer.

“Maybe having to try to hide what he’s doing from me slows him down some, y’know? Then again, maybe I’m just fooling myself thinking I’m doing any good at all.”

I’m still scrambling around in my head trying to find a reply to this when he says, “Still, if there’s a chance I’m making it better, I have to try.”

Seems like a psychologist would have a few things to say about that. But even if
I
could figure out that he was taking on too much responsibility here, it doesn’t seem like
he’s
quite ready to think about that.

I run my fingers through his hair. I’m not sure exactly what I’m managing to say with that, but it seems to work. He lets me pull the pillow farther away. I stretch out next to
him and navigate my way between his face and the pillow.

And since we’re horizontal anyway…

And since his dad has disappeared into an upstairs stupor…

And since the feel of Gabe’s lips on mine and his hands wrapping around my waist is so fantastic…

Yeah. Well…

At least until Gabe’s dad stumbles back down the stairs. We sit up quickly as he wanders into the living room. Mr. Archer looks at me all surprised. And even though I know he’s drunk, it’s still a little disconcerting to be so easily forgotten. Makes me wonder what other important things about his son he forgets when he’s like this.

Then Mr. Archer wanders into the kitchen, and things start clattering out there. Gabe jumps up and starts taking care of Drunk Daddy Dear, so I tell him, “I better go. I told my mom I wouldn’t be gone long.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Gabe promises.

I decide I should call my mother to tell her I’m on the way home. That’s when I realize I don’t know where my cell phone is because—and this is totally me—I set it down somewhere when I came in and wasn’t paying any attention to what I was doing. We check every surface in the living room and the front entry hall. We look under the sofa. Behind the cushions (no kissing detours there this time, unfortunately). In desperation, Gabe finally uses his
cell phone to call mine. We track the sounds of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” back into the entryway.

Where my purse is sitting on the entryway table.

Imagine that. For once, I put something where it belongs.

No wonder I couldn’t find it,
I think in disgust as I open the bag to pull out—