The Bodies We Wear

by Jeyn Roberts

  billy ❤ cat.

  emma + don. tru luv 4-ever.

  jezzzzz wuz here.

  We sit for a while without speaking. Chael doesn’t seem to know where to begin. I only have one question. Not really a question but something I need to know. Finally, I decide to take the plunge.

  “Christian?”

  He turns to me. The way he looks suggests he’s not just responding to my voice. No, he’s answering to the name.

  And suddenly I see it. The green eyes. His beautiful dark hair that covers his ears. It always looked healthy, even when it hadn’t been washed. But especially the eyes. I used to spend hours looking at him when I was a little girl. The day after his burial I swore to myself that I’d never forget him. No matter how many years went by.

  He’s been here all along. How did I not recognize it before?

  “You’re dead. I know you’re dead. I went to your funeral.” My words are choked, and as the tears well up, I blink furiously to keep them back. “I saw your body!”

  He nods, turning away as if my tears are too painful to see. He looks down at the ground for a long time. His hands rest in his lap and his shoulders hunch over as if he’s trying to force himself into a tiny ball.

  “Don’t do that,” I finally say. “Say something.”

  “You’re right.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m dead.”

  I reach out and touch him and his body is warm against my skin. I touch his cheek and I swear I can feel the blood pulsing through his veins. He twitches slightly and pulls away. He won’t look at me and I can’t read the expression on his face. So instead I watch his chest as it rises and falls with each breath.

  “You’re not dead,” I finally say.

  “Okay, then,” he says. “I’m not dead.”

  “I watched them bury you.”

  “Was it nice?”

  “What?”

  “The funeral.”

  “It was okay,” I say, and then shake my head in disbelief. “Who cares about that? It doesn’t explain how you’re here right now.”

  “I would have liked to think my funeral was nice.”

  “Quit ignoring my question.”

  He pauses for a few moments and stares up at the sky. “I was dead. I came back.”

  I want to scream at him. I want to jump up and head into the bushes, exposing the hidden cameras that are filming us. This has to be a joke. A sick joke. One of those stupid television shows where they make people believe all sorts of things before exposing the truth. I wait for the film team to emerge from behind the trees to tell me I’ve been playing a part in some insanely cruel game.

  But the park is quiet. Aside from a swing swaying slightly in the breeze, nothing else moves.

  “Explain it to me, then,” I finally say.

  “It’s not that simple. Even I don’t quite understand everything.”

  “Try me.”

  “Let me start by saying that no one told me I needed to return to earth in order to get my wings or some other crap like that. I’m not an angel. I’m not a ghost. If heaven exists, I’ve yet to see it.”

  “But—”

  “Shhhh,” he says. “Let me talk. This is what you want, right?” When I don’t respond, he continues. “I’m not going to pretend I understand any of this. I wasn’t given a manual or explanation, but a few weeks ago I woke up. I was lying in an alley. It was raining and I was cold. I had no idea how I got there. All I know is that I’d been asleep or something for a very long time. My body was creaky; limited, it took a long time before I could make things work again.”

  I remember the first night I met him and how he kept touching himself. His cheek. His hair. As if he didn’t quite understand what he was feeling. Like he was wearing someone else’s body.

  “Where were you?” I ask. “Heaven?”

  “No,” he says. “At least, I don’t think so. It’s all fuzzy. I remember a blur. A lot of darkness but not bad. Peaceful. Quiet.”

  I look straight into his eyes but I can’t tell if he’s lying to me or not. And why am I even contemplating the afterlife when everything else he’s telling me is ridiculous beyond belief.

  “Prove it,” I say. “Tell me something only Christian would know.”

  “I kissed you once,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done it but you pushed me into it. You were very persistent. It was Christmas and you’d somehow managed to find some fake mistletoe. You put it on the edge of the sofa because you couldn’t reach the top of the door. You always were such a tiny thing.”

  My throat has closed up. The tears are pouring down my cheeks now and I’m not even bothering to wipe them away.

  I remember.

  “You told me you wanted to play hide-and-seek,” he continues, and the image of me hiding behind the couch fills my mind. “And when I found you, you said I had to kiss you because of the mistletoe. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure if it was the real thing. It might just have been a bit of Christmas tree wrapped in tinsel.”

  “It was part of Mrs. Tisdale’s wreath,” I say. “I stole it earlier that day. I stuck some cranberries to it with superglue.”

  Chael laughs. “Either way,” he says. “You were sitting there, begging me, no, demanding I kiss you. So I gave you a small kiss.”

  “And then you told me I better not tell anyone,” I said.

  “I was thirteen,” Chael says. “You were eleven. I was embarrassed about what the guys at school might say.”

  I laugh and it comes out more like a huge sob. “I never would have blabbed. I was madly in love with you.”

  Chael stands up and walks a few feet away from the bench. He stares out at the duck pond, his hands tucked tightly in his jacket pockets. “Is that enough proof? Do you want me to tell you another one? How about the time you wanted to run away so you spent the afternoon hiding in the laundry room?”

  “It’s enough,” I say. There’s no way anyone else could know the mistletoe story. I never told anyone and I’m pretty sure Christian took it to his grave. It happened a few days before he died.

  Chael turns around and comes back to the bench. He doesn’t sit down. Instead, he stands at the edge, his hand resting on the wood behind me. “There was darkness. A lot of it. I was alone but never lonely. It was peaceful. Time passed. If I was aware of it, I didn’t know. It was almost like everything I knew ceased to exist. It was no longer important. There was so much silence, but that’s all I remember. And then one night I came back.”

  “That sounds more like purgatory,” I say. “Not heaven or hell.”

  “I don’t know,” Chael says. He opens his mouth but no words come out. He shrugs. “I wish I could tell you more. But I can’t remember.”

  “So what happens next?” I ask. “Do you need to do some sort of good deed in order to pass on to the next life? Isn’t that what purgatory is? You’re waiting because you’re not ready to get into heaven or some nonsense. Is that why they sent you back?”

  “I’m not sure,” he says. “But I think it’s to save you.”

  “Me? Why me? I don’t need saving.”

  “It was you who brought me back. Your pain is a sound, and that voice was strong enough that it echoed through all the plains of wherever I was. It was hard not to hear you. Impossible not to respond.”

  “You heard my pain.” Not a question. In fact, the thought is just absurd. My words drip with sarcasm.

  “Why does that seem strange to you?” Chael says. “No more unusual than some guy coming back from the dead.”

  “Yeah, to protect me,” I say. “Save it. I keep telling you I don’t need your help. What is it going to take for you to believe me?”

  “Don’t you?” Chael looks right at me. “You’re hell-bent on revenge. It’s the only thing you think about. You’re obsessed. There�
�s more to life, Faye. There is so much opportunity if only you’d open your eyes.”

  “So that’s why you said you’re going to kill Rufus and the others?” I snap. “As an attempt to save me? How hypocritical is that.”

  “I don’t need saving,” Chael says. “My fate has already been determined. I’ve lived it. I’m dead, remember? But you still have a chance.”

  “How do you know that if you’re in purgatory or whatever?”

  “I just do.”

  “God, you sound just like Gazer,” I say. “Except he doesn’t believe in heaven. He doesn’t believe in anything. But he keeps saying that I can determine my future. I have free will. Every choice I make determines my next step. But everyone keeps forgetting. I don’t have a future.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “No, I don’t.” I yank down my shirt enough to show him the top of my scars again. “You’ve been away for a long time. Maybe you’ve forgotten but things haven’t changed. I’m a Heam addict. No one is ever going to give me a job. I’m never going to have a normal life. I couldn’t even make it through high school without getting kicked out. I’ve got nothing.”

  He looks at my scars for a long time. Eventually I let go of my shirt and the skin disappears under the black turtleneck. Not all of my scars are visible. I want to tell him that but I seriously doubt he’ll understand. He’s already determined that everything about me can be fixed if I just give up my crusade.

  “Scars don’t make a person,” he finally says.

  “They do in this world. Especially when I’m a Heam abuser. No employer is going to hire me once they find out. You know the odds. It’s almost guaranteed that I will go back on Heam. The statistics are less than one percent. It’s a miracle I’m still alive. Almost no one makes it more than a year or two afterward. I never stop having to fight it either. I mean, right now I want to be high. It never goes away, the constant nagging, the desire. I live with that every single second. Some days I feel as if I could kill every single person around me, just to get a hit.”

  “Your life is difficult,” he says. “But still—”

  “But? You think there’s a ‘but’?” I’m shouting now and I can’t help it. It makes me angry when people try to make me see the positive aspects in life. It’s all a load of crap and no one can possibly understand. There is nothing affirmative in my future. Anyone who tries to tell me otherwise is full of it. Not a single one of these people knows what it’s like to live through this.

  “There are always choices,” Chael says. “You just said it yourself. You never give in to the desire. But it’s more than that. If you’re going to even refuse to consider living, you’ll end up with nothing.”

  “I’ve been to hell,” I say. “When Rufus shoved Heam down my throat, I died. I didn’t get to see the heaven that everyone talks about. I saw hell. I felt it. They ripped me apart. They shoved poles through my chest. You have no idea what that feels like.”

  “You saw what your mind wanted you to see.”

  “My brain wanted me to be torn apart?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. What goes on inside us, even we’re not sure sometimes. But everything happens for a reason. You saw hell. It doesn’t mean you’re going to end up there. Just like the others who see heaven. That may not be their fate either. It’s all up to you.”

  “You’re so full of shit,” I say.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Chael says. He kneels down on the ground, looking up at me with those big green eyes.

  “What did you see?” I ask. “You took the drug. Where did Heam take you?”

  Chael shrugs. “Nothing. Like I said all along. I saw nothing.”

  There’s a long pause while I wonder whether I should believe him. He doesn’t really have a reason to lie.

  Finally, Chael takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I can’t possibly know what you’ve been through. I haven’t lived your life. So let me demonstrate to you how things should be. Like how beautiful the world is. Remember the night I first met you again? I told you the sun would look good on you. Will you give me the chance to show you?”

  “There’s nothing pretty here,” I say.

  “Let me prove you wrong.” He stands up. “It’s cold. I should take you home. Come with me?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  We ride the train home in silence. The coach is empty except for a homeless lady and her shopping cart full of treasures. She looks over at us several times, winking at me, giving me the thumbs-up as she checks out Chael.

  I laugh and shake my head, making a crazy motion with my finger while pointing at him. The whole experience leaves me feeling melancholy, so I spend the rest of the trip staring out the window into darkness.

  At one point, Chael tries to reach out and take my hand but I refuse him. I’m still too stunned to think about this properly. The whole evening has exhausted me. I don’t even have the strength to ask him any more questions. All I want now is to crawl into my bed and turn out the lights. I won’t look at any photos tonight. I have the feeling it will only make the tears come again and I’m so tired of crying.

  I let Chael walk me back to the church.

  “Meet me tomorrow,” he says. “At noon. I want to take you somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s a secret,” he says. “But you’ll like it. I guarantee.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Meet me at the station.”

  “Goodnight.” He picks up my hand and squeezes it but I’m too tired and wary to respond.

  “Christian?”

  “No, don’t call me that anymore. I’m not Christian,” he says. “But I was him. A long time ago. Christian is dead. There’s no bringing him back. My name is now Chael. But I have Christian’s thoughts and”—he pauses and looks right at me—“I have all his memories.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “What did you want to ask me?”

  I shake my head. It’s not important. He turns away and I watch him disappear into the darkness of the night. I dig my key out of my pocket and head inside.

  I’m numb. I don’t know how to change that.

  Sleep. No dreams. I really don’t want to dream tonight. I can’t bear what ghosts might come visit me.

  Thirteen

  Morning.

  I’ve been up since five. My hair is soaked. Bits of wet strands have escaped my ponytail and are hanging annoyingly in front of my eyes. Gazer stands in front of me with punch pads protecting his hands. Mine are wrapped in tape to prevent my knuckles from popping and to support my wrists.

  Fifty punches with the right. Fifty with the left. Uppercut. Jabs. Hooks. Sweat pours down my chest, soaking my shirt, and the cotton sticks to my scars. Every now and then Gazer throws something back at me so I can block it. I duck down and pull to the side like I was born to do this. I keep my hands raised perfectly to protect my face.

  We continue on for a long time. I love this kind of workout. I don’t have to do anything except move my body. I can shut down my brain. Who has time to think when the endorphins completely take over? Move to the right. Block the left hook. Jab. All my movements join together into a single performance. I’m dancing. My own demented version of ballet. And this stinking church basement is my stage. All my enemies surround me in the audience, waiting, terrified for the moment when I’ll call them up to tango with me.

  Gazer brings his knee up and that’s my sign to put my all into it. Right. Left. Left. Side kick. Step back and cover my face to avoid his jabs. Block. Kick.

  Finally, he puts down the pads and signals for me to stop. I’m panting heavily and I didn’t even notice until now. I go over and grab the water bottle and take several long swallows. I wipe my face down with a towel. So much sweat.

  I feel so alive.

  “Impressive,” Gazer says as he goes over to wipe down the pads
and put them away. “You actually knocked me back a few steps today. I almost couldn’t keep up.”

  I swallow more water. The pounding in my chest begins to slow as my body takes a break. “Not bad, huh? Now, that’s a workout.”

  “Indeed.” Gazer comes over and picks up his mug of coffee. It’s probably gone cold by now but he never seems to mind. “Bit more like that and we could even put you in the ring. You could probably go pro.”

  “Not a chance,” I say as I start to unwrap the tape from my wrists. “No drug users allowed, remember?”

  Gazer shakes his head. “That’s always your answer to everything, isn’t it?”

  I don’t want to get into this. Instead, I decide to change the subject. Anything to steer away from the “What do you want to do when you grow up” talk that never ceases.

  “Why don’t you believe in heaven?” I take another drink of water and shrug, as if this conversation means nothing to me except as small talk.

  “That came out of the blue,” Gazer says.

  “Just thinking about it,” I say. “Don’t you ever wonder if your wife and daughter are up there looking down on you? I mean, it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

  “Lovely, yes,” Gazer says. “But just a thought.” He puts down his coffee mug beside some stray dumbbells. “There’s no validity to it. I guess it’s the scientist in me.”

  “You were never a scientist. You were a cop.”

  “Semantics, girl.”

  I give him a grin.

  “I guess I look at the world and how it came into existence,” Gazer says. “We’re a small planet stuck in a galaxy. There are billions of other galaxies out there. I guess I have trouble believing that one creator could invent all of this. I look at mankind and think it makes more sense that we evolved from the ooze than were created out of God’s image and then Adam’s ribs. The Bible was not written by God, it was written by man. It’s a lovely piece of work but I think it’s fiction.”