Ether
By: Dana Michelle Belle
Chapter 1: Alive
My body is crumpled in the grass. There’s blood and glass and smoke. The strange thing is; I’m standing here looking down at myself. That girl down there has huge green eyes and a pixie face. She looks like a child’s doll forgotten in the long, twisted grass. For all the years I’ve spent wishing I was taller, or curvier or anything but cute and freckled, I guess I missed how pretty I was. There’s a lot more blood now. She’s coughing it up and twitching. It’s not pleasant. The scene’s getting fuzzy around the edges and my feet feel lighter. Is it still grass I’m standing on?
It’s not until my body is very still that I manage to look away, to look around me. There are swirling white columns of clouds, rising out of an endless silvery mist. It’s like a colder version of heaven. I’m standing in white ether and all I can think is that death is so much emptier than I imagined. I turn, feeling the coolness on my fingers, the lightness of the air.
It’s then that I see him, watching me out of the mist. He’s stunning. With his large, hazel eyes that sparkle with kindness, his gleaming skin, strong jaw and fine features he’s beyond gorgeous. And every fibre of me, every tiny cell, is pulling towards him. He smiles and I feel a flutter of warmth.
When he takes my hand his touch is warm and strong, but soft. His eyes sparkle in this pale, white world as he turns me around, facing the fading image of my body. “You have to go back,” he whispers as a quiver of energy races from him into my palms, along my arms and down the length of my body, filling me. The energy trembles through me and now, beyond the whiteness, I can see swirling images, shapes, sensations, glimpses of this world that isn’t mine.
His grip tightens. He gives a sudden tug on my hand and we’re running, the fog streaming before us, back towards the crash scene. I try to pull against him, to dig my feet into the ground, but we’re running on air, on mist. There’s nothing to push against.
The scene on the grass, the broken body, the blood, the shattered glass, looms into view before us but it’s shallow and dim, like a shadow. It’s too far away to reach, even if I wanted to. I belong with him. He holds my hand tighter, crushing it in his. Just as the image of my body begins to fade away, he spins me, pushing me backward out of the mist. I flail outward, reaching desperately for him. My hands slip through his. It’s like trying to hold onto the wind. I fall back into the world, back into my broken body.
Those first few days are a blur. My dreams are sweet, peaceful, healing places and I fight to stay in them. Waking up means pain and having to see how worried everyone is. No one tells me exactly how badly hurt I am, but they don’t really have to. I can see with my own eyes that I have huge slashes on my right thigh and all down my right arm where I spun along the asphalt. I look like I’ve been painted in horror movie gore. And around the gashes are the deep blues and purples of badly bruised skin. It hurts even to look at it. What I can’t see is how severe a head injury I’ve got. All I know is that my head hurts, a lot.
But for someone who was dead I’m pretty well off, considering. The doctors tell me I’ll be in the hospital for months. But I’m not. I have two things going for me; I’m a quick healer and my injuries aren’t as severe as they seem.
Less than a month later, I’m standing in front of our two storey, brick house. The same faded blue shutters, patchy grass and old maple tree wait for me, but they look different somehow. Buick comes bounding across the grass with great leaps and wags, his ears flapping and his tail smacking wildly. He, at least, is just the same. I bury my face in his black curly fur, hanging on to him. He smells like the outdoors and damp dog; it’s a smell I’ve missed. He attaches himself to me as we go inside, a giant, black, madly wagging burr.
The entire house shows the signs of my mother’s anxiety. It’s spotless and smells more strongly of disinfectants than my hospital room. Even my room, usually a sanctuary of comfortable chaos, shows signs of her frenetic tidiness. The carpet has been vacuumed and there isn’t a single article of clothing draped on the furniture. A bouquet of cheery Gerber Daisies in ink dipped colours stands on my bureau. If it wasn’t for the embarrassing cartoon pony wallpaper, partially obscured with giant posters, I’d swear I’ve gotten the wrong room. Somehow I expected coming home to feel more familiar. I sigh and limp back downstairs.
My mother hovers over me. She fusses with the pillows on the couch, props my journal and pen near my hand, scolds Buick when he tries to curl up with me and tries hard to be nurturing. It’s not something that comes naturally to her. I’m relieved when she finally asks if I’ll be all right while she runs out for groceries.
I find myself completely alone for the first time in weeks. I wait until I hear the car pull out of the driveway before I ease myself off the couch. I give Buick’s ears a scratch, pick up the journal, snag a huge bag of cookies and a bottle of Coke and I set myself up on the sun bathed deck out back. Much better.
I’m sitting with a blank journal page open before me. Where to start? I’m only sixteen and already on my second lifetime, a pretty heavy concept. A light breeze ruffles through my bangs and softens the warm autumn light falling on my face. I close my eyes, enjoying the crisp fall air and feeling the sun against my face. For the first time since the accident, I am warm. It would be easy to fall asleep out here, even though I really am tired of bed rest.
Because the sun is lolling me to sleep, I miss the exact moment when I slip from daydreaming in the sun to dreaming about the sunshine. I’m still here on the deck, in the bright autumn sun, feeling the soft breeze on my skin, but when I look up, he is leaning casually on the railing, arms crossed against his chest, hazel eyes full of light. He smiles when he sees me looking at him. “Hello Becks,” he says my name slowly, and his smile spreads from his lips to his eyes.
Usually, I’m pretty good at talking to boys since my two best friends are guys, but gorgeous strangers who say my name like its honey on their tongues and who have that slow, knee weakening smile are an entirely different story, even in my dreams. “uhh,” I stammer. “I’ve seen you before right?”
He nods, “A few times now.”
“From the mist.” I say slowly, the fragments of the memory filling in like scattered puzzle pieces. “You saved me, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Who are you? What are you? I was dead wasn’t I? Did you bring me back?” The questions babble out of me. I clamp my jaw shut but it feels like my brain has been chasing these questions around in circles ever since I woke up in the hospital.
“Is it alright if I join you for a while?” He asks, moving to sit in the chair next to me. “I’d like us to spend a little time together before I try to answer those questions.” So we sit together, looking out over the golden and ruby leaves, watching the birds flit through the sky and land on the bird feeder. When I open my eyes again, I am calmer and happier than I’ve been in months.
* * *
I’ve missed the last green days of summer and landed solidly in golden yellows and bright reds. The next morning the air is crisp and cool as it flutters through my curtains, bringing with it the earthy scents of Fall. It is the kind of day that calls to me, and I have a serious case of cabin fever. I lay on the couch long enough to satisfy my mother that I am meekly following orders. She props the phone up near me, reminds me not to overtire myself and kisses me goodbye.
It doesn’t take me long to be dressed and out the door. Taking short cuts, through backyards and gravel paths, it’s about a half hour walk from our house to the beach. I love our coastline. It isn’t the tame, smooth coast lines and fluffy white sands the tourists come for. No, out here it’s rocky cliff faces and bolder strewn beaches. It isn’t really safe to swim but the high cliffs and the deep, co
ld water give me my own private beach.
I hurry on the way to the coast, pushing my body beyond my comfort point, in my eagerness to see the ocean again. My leg stings where the skin pulls across the new scar tissue. If I take too long a stride the pain springs forward, jumping from a slight pull to a ripping sensation. I have to walk with a strange, small stepped gait, but manage a decent pace.
There is brine in the air. I inhale deeply, letting the clear, salty air fill me up. A large gust of wind carries the tang of sea spray to me. Before me, at last, lies the vast deep blues of the Atlantic. I stand on the bluff, arms thrown wide, feeling the wind and salt spray against my body. I am alive!
The path down to the water’s edge is steep and slippery. I’ve never given it much thought before but limited to one strong arm and leg, I have to choose my footing carefully. A loose pebble turns my ankle as I scramble down and a jarring pain zips along my leg making me wince. Pausing at the base of the cliff, I survey the beach. It hasn’t changed in the month I’ve been recovering. There are no changing leaves here, nothing to mark the passage of time.
I settle myself on a boulder near the bottom of the path, ready to catch up on some much needed sunshine. I swing my injured leg up before me, massaging it absently as I looked over the frothing blue water. Becks, the crashing of the waves seems to call my name. I’ve always pretended the ocean could speak to me. I smile at the familiar sea. “Hello, old friend.”
Becks. I smile to myself. No one calls me ‘Becks’ anymore. Becks! The waves pummel into shore, pounding my name more insistently with every crash. The smile fades from my lips. I am just imagining the waves sound like words aren’t I? I close my eyes, listening intently. I hear the surf pounding against the round boulders of the shore. It is rhythmic and familiar. And then I hear it again, Becks.
Under the noise of the crashing surf, the voice is tantalizingly familiar. “Hello?” I call out hesitantly. The skin on the back of my neck prickles.
Becks. The voice calls to me, louder this time. And now I can hear that it is male and melodic. I stand, scanning the sand, the waves and rocks. I am alone. But someone is calling me. My stomach tightens and my breathing picks up. I will not panic. There is nothing to be afraid of. There has to be a reasonable explanation; A trick of the wind, a strange bird call, or something. Forcing back the rising uneasiness, I take a step toward where I think the voice is coming from. The beach is not haunted. Not haunted. I take another halting step forward.
The ground vibrates beneath my feet. For a second I think a large truck is rattling by on the road above the cove. The vibrations increase, making my feet hum, and my legs jump under me. I shift, trying to keep my balance. What the heck is happening? Earthquake, I realize, a few beats too slowly. Now the whole beach is shaking under me.
The faint voice becomes a shout, screaming in front of me. Run. Run. Run Becks! Fear roars through me and my legs jerk forward, pushing against the bucking sand. I stumble. Recovering, I plunge forward again. I run, a plunging, desperate, terror driven run as the land beneath me lurches and bucks. It’s like running in a nightmare. The more I try to run, the slower I go, and the more I fall. The shaking all around me crescendos and becomes so fierce I can’t balance. I throw myself down, hugging the sand, eyes squeezed shut. “Oh God! Oh God!” I pray.
Roaring fills my ears, like a jet passing inches overhead and a tremendous, earth shaking crack splits the air. The rocky face of the bluff cracks and crumbles. A volley of boulders spray over the beach, rolling and bouncing, sending up a mist of sand, dirt and rock chips. Rocks hit me; a painful bruising rain. As the rocks settle a whirlwind of sand and dust fly up and tear the air from my throat, stinging me with each gasping breath I take.
I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and stay down, coughing and spitting the grit out of my mouth and lungs. When the dust stills, I lift my head cautiously. A huge pile of rubble now fills the space I was sitting only seconds before. Still wiping my eyes I look back toward the path. It’s been obliterated.
The entire right side of my body is one giant ache as I kneel, and then stand on shaky legs. I wince when I take my first step; it’s going to be a painful trip home. And a long one, I realize, now that the path down the bluff is gone. I’ll have to walk all the way down the beach to the stairs at the far end, which is at least a mile out of my way.
I’m bruised all over but, for the second time in a month, I am lucky to be alive at all. And this time I can’t pretend it was only luck that saved me. I definitely heard a voice. Someone told me to run. Someone warned me. I’m not alone on this beach. A little push of fear tugs at me but I dismiss it. I’ve had another close call but car accidents are a lot different than earthquakes. This was an act of God; surely it can’t have been targeted at me. Can it?
My leg throbs as I half jog, half walk along the beach. I’m willing to endure a little extra pain to get off this beach sooner. By the time I reach the stairs, I’ve used up all my adrenaline and am limping so badly I have to climb in stages. I take a few steps and then rest. A few more, then a rest. I keep my head down, watching my feet shuffle along, first the sand, then the stairs, then the concrete of the sidewalk. And all the way home, I resist the urge to talk to myself. I am no longer sure I’m alone.
Chapter 2: Reality
If home was disconcertingly unfamiliar, school looks amazingly unchanged. Three weeks in the hospital, a week at home and what is different about school? Nothing. The same rough-hewn, grey stone makes up the front two wings of the school, the same overly cheerful crossing guard ushers me across the road and the same scraggly bunch of kids hang out on the front steps. The building is almost seventy years old and has masqueraded as everything from a church, to a community center, a country club and now finally a mid-range private school. It has beautiful landscape surrounding it and old, dramatic architecture when approached from the front. The back of the building is a new addition and is a purely modern educational facility, complete with state of the art science labs, a double gym and an Olympic sized swimming pool.
We’re one of those private schools where they don’t make you wear uniforms. Except for the teachers caring a bit more and smaller class sizes, it’s just like an ordinary high school, in a very nice building.
Hundreds of eyes turn toward me as the heavy blue hallway doors swing open. I’m frozen on the spot until a high pitched squeal shatters the silence. Mandy, head a mass of rich glowing curls, comes bouncing up to me with the frenetic energy of a cocker spaniel. She speaks with a fevered rush, “OMG, you’re really here! The rumours are totally flying. Piper swears that you died and then came back. Don’t worry, I set her straight, you just mostly died. I can’t imagine. It was terrible right? Were your parents totally furious with Derrick or are they more ‘accidents happen’ and stuff? Can you believe how rude Matt was to me at the hospital? We’ve been friends since we were babies! How could I possibly over stimulate you?”
I alternately smile and shrug as she races on, leading me down the hallway. Mandy is everything I’m not; rich, popular and talkative. We’ve been friends since before Mandy could speak, if there was ever such a time.
We’re sitting next to each other in first period English when Mandy finally pauses and looks at me expectantly. “Uhh...” I stall, trying to recall her most recent questions, but I tuned her out after the first barrage, so I take a wild guess. “My mom is still in overprotective mode; I’m supposed to go right home after school.”
Mandy makes a slight ‘tsk’ sound, “You have to see Derrick some time, you can’t avoid him forever. It was a terrible accident but he was pretty badly hurt too. You know it’s not his fault. It’s a completely vicious rumour about him drinking. He would never do something like that. And besides, he was doing you a favour. If you hadn’t asked for a lift, you’d both be completely fine right now. Not that I’m blaming you. I’m just saying it’s not really fair to blame him either. You know? So don’t, like, hate him okay? Or me, I would never have introduced you if
I’d known what would happen-”
My hand balls into a fist at my side, but I keep the smooth, impassive look on my face. I want to scream at Mandy, tell her it sure as hell wasn’t my fault. But a little part of me wonders. Why did I get into that car with him? I don’t even remember that part.
Our English teacher, Mrs. McTab, a shrivelled, angry woman who always dresses in cheerful floral prints and made me cry in seventh grade, glares in my direction, like I’m the one talking. “Ms. Pierce?” she says in her clipped nasal voice.
I ignore her, as always, and lean closer to Mandy, “Seriously, I’m not blaming anyone. I’m just supposed to rest and take it easy.”
“Ms. Veltz.” It’s amazing how much aggravation and venom teachers can squeeze into two syllables. Mandy turns her bright white, winning smile on Mrs. McTab, all at once the perfect, diligent student. Her ability to dissemble is easily her most useful talent.
The day quickly turns into a series of make-up homework assignments, high speed Mandy prattle, and whispering voices. All of my teachers and the bulk of the student body have developed a keen interest in me. I’m starting to miss the days of being invisible and unknown.
By the time gym class rolls around, my head is aching and I’m fed up with all the attention. When Mr. Tenison (otherwise known as Coach T) banishes me to the bleachers, I’m prepared to accept it as a blessing, until I realize that the entire class will have nothing else to look at while they ran laps. Lucky me.
Matt waves to me as he passes the bleachers, which earns me a few scathing looks from the other girls. I let my eyes wander the green field beyond the track and beyond that, the wild wooded area. The school is very proud of the ‘natural beauty’ of our campuses. It is a pretty view from the windows but it’s usually populated with smokers of both kinds and kids ditching class, not my normal crowd. As I turn my head I notice a flash of colour and movement. I swing my head around, staring at the forest at the end of the field, but see nothing. I start to look away, and catch another flash, which again is gone as soon as I looked for it. I rub my eyes; the headache is bad enough by now that I know I won’t make it through lunch. Reluctantly, I stand and made my way over to the office.
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