by Otto Penzler
“That—that’s not the mulatto woman?” whispered Griswell.
“When I saw her out there in the hallway I knew she was no mulatto. And those distorted features still reflect a family likeness. I’ve seen her portrait, and I can’t be mistaken. There lies the creature that was once Celia Blassenville.”
SCOTT EDELMAN (1955– ) has spent much of his professional life editing various magazines, mainly in the science fiction genre, including Science Fiction Age (1992–2000), which he founded; Sci Fi Magazine (2002–present), the official publication of the Syfy Channel; Science Fiction Weekly (2000–present), the online periodical of the Syfy Channel; and Last Wave (1983–1986), a semiprofessional magazine that he also founded. At his peak of involvement, he read ten thousand stories a year. His work on various science fiction publications earned him four Hugo nominations as Best Editor.
While his editorial chores prevented him from doing much writing, he has had more than seventy-five science fiction, horror, and fantasy short stories published in such magazines as The Twilight Zone, Science Fiction Review, and Fantasy Book. He has been nominated for four Bram Stoker Awards in the category of Short Story and Long Fiction. Among his books are a novel, The Gift (1990), which was nominated for a Lambda Award, and These Words Are Haunted (2001), a collection of horror stories. He has also written for such comic books as Captain America, Captain Marvel, and Omega the Unknown, and he created The Scarecrow for Marvel. Among his television writings were several episodes of Tales from the Darkside.
“Live People Don’t Understand” was first published in the fall 2009 issue of Space and Time.
Everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, and that something has to do with humans.
—OUR TOWN, ACT III
EMILY REMEMBERED WHAT it was like to be alive.
In fact, at first, she had forgotten that she was dead. She lay in a coffin, the confines of which she could not yet bring herself to see, and thought herself newly risen from a nap. Gazing upward, she wondered why the familiar ceiling above, the one under which she had shared a marriage bed with her husband George, had been replaced by stars.
Adding to her puzzle, she sensed other sleepers stretched out nearby. Their presence made her uncomfortable. It had been difficult enough for her to grow accustomed to being a wife, to sleeping with another beside her—she remembered her nervousness on her wedding night and smiled—but to have strangers nearby her as well was more than should be asked of her. Their closeness here did not make sense, but then, dreams on waking often lost their sense, and so she did not let herself worry much about her confusion. She trusted that she would understand soon enough. But then she remembered those who should have been nearby, and all those feelings faded, to be replaced by a greater loneliness than she had ever felt in her life.
If she asked, perhaps these strangers would tell her why George was not at her side—the two of them had yet to spend a night apart, which is exactly as it was supposed to be—and where her newborn baby had gone. She had just had the baby, hadn’t she? George, Jr., was four by now, and could cope without her there every moment, but the little one . . . it must be hungry without Emily there to share her milk. She couldn’t even remember whether she’d had a boy or a girl—how could that be?—but she knew that she had to find her baby.
She had to find her George.
“Wake up,” she shouted. It rattled her to do so, because she was not a person accustomed to shouting. “Oh, you must wake up and talk to me. Where am I? What is this place? Help me, won’t you? Help me understand. One moment I was at home in my bed in Grover’s Corners, and the next I’m waking from a nap . . . where? Hello? You can’t fool me. You’re out there, you can hear me, I know it. Stop trying to pretend that you’re still asleep. It just won’t work, not when I need you so badly.”
“Hush,” came an old woman’s voice to her left. Or at least Emily thought her to be old. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but Emily could not place it, because the woman’s throat was drier and raspier than she remembered it.
“I can’t,” said Emily. “I won’t. Really now, I don’t see how you can ask me to be still, not when there are so many unanswered questions.”
“Nonetheless, just hush,” insisted the woman, and as she continued to speak, Emily realized who she was. “You’ll get used to unanswered questions. Soon enough, they’ll no longer bother you so much.”
“Really now, you shouldn’t be talking that way, Mrs. Soames,” said Emily, ill at ease at talking so sternly to an elder. “It is Mrs. Soames, isn’t it? Forgive me for saying so, but there’s no need for you to be so rude.”
“There’s no need to be anything any longer,” said Mrs. Soames. “Which is precisely my point. Just settle down and let me be.”
“How can you sleep away the day that way?” said Emily. She did not pause to consider what forces could have possibly brought them together at this time. “It’s Emily, Mrs. Soames. Remember how much you enjoyed my wedding? You always loved a good party. I remember that about you. How can you just lie there when there is so much out there to live for?”
A rich burst of laughter came from somewhere off to Emily’s right. The sound startled her, but gave her no offense. She did not feel that her emotions were being mocked, and remembering back to another who would chuckle with a wisdom Emily had not yet earned, she realized who it was who lay so close beside her, and felt loved and embraced.
“Mrs. Gibbs?” she whispered, stunned to see her mother-in-law there, and yet pleased by her presence.
“Can’t you get her to keep quiet?” said Mrs. Soames.
“Don’t be so hard on Emily,” said Mrs. Gibbs, as the woman’s laughter died down. “She’s only a child. The two of us had plenty of time to make our peace with what would come here. But she was at the beginning of things. Besides, don’t you remember how you felt when you first got here, even with all that preparation? Don’t you remember what it was like when you first took your place?”
Emily listened, and listened hard, for the answer meant everything, but there was only a long silence, as if Mrs. Soames was having difficulty remembering how to speak, let alone the moments of her arrival in this place, whatever this place was.
“Vaguely,” Mrs. Soames finally said. “Yes. Yes, I do remember. Only . . . I don’t think I want to remember.”
“Well, there you go,” said Mrs. Gibbs. “But you weren’t always like that, let me tell you. She’s young yet, in more ways than one. She can’t help but remember.”
Emily waited for Mrs. Soames and Mrs. Gibbs to address her again, instead of just bantering amongst themselves, but instead, their conversation petered out, and they fell to silence. Emily called out to them again.
“I think I know where I am,” said Emily, astonished. “I’m still dreaming, aren’t I?”
“No, dear,” said Mrs. Gibbs, her voice sleepy. “All that happened before, up until the time you found yourself here, that was the dream, dear. Let it go.”
“I can’t.” Anguished, she began to cry, but no tears came. She thought to touch her face to find out how it could possibly be that the weeping failed to dampen her cheeks, but her arms would not move, no matter how hard she tried. Struggling like that, the truth of her situation came upon her with a suddenness that was sickening. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”
“No need to say it that way,” said Mrs. Gibbs. “It’s really not so bad. The experience can become quite pleasant after a while, actually. Now you rest, girl.”
“Please,” said Mrs. Soames.
“I can’t!” she said, feeling herself grow hysterical. How ridiculous was that, to be dead and hysterical? She refused to be either. George wouldn’t want her to be either. “Don’t you see? I’ll never be able to let go!”
“Enough,” said Mrs. Soames. “Someone’s coming! Behave!”
“What if it’s a thief?” said Emily, made fearful by the sound of unsteady footsteps trudging up the hill. George was supposed to protect her
from such things, but now her only comfort was in two old women, and what could they do? “What if he’s here to rob us?”
“Don’t be silly, girl,” said Mrs. Gibbs. “You have nothing more which anyone would wish to steal.”
There was so much more that Emily needed to say right then, but before she could respond further, she sensed her poor dear husband above. George was there, right at the edges of the newly turned dirt of her grave. She was shocked by how much death had distracted her, for until that moment, she had not been aware of his approach. He seemed different to her, though, than when she had seen him last.
“Mrs. Gibbs,” she said. “What’s happened to your son? He’s so . . . old.”
“Tempus fugit, dear,” she said. “You’ll learn that soon enough.”
“Could I really have been asleep so long?” said Emily. “It must have been years. But he’s here! He still remembers us, Mrs. Gibbs.”
“That isn’t always a good thing, dear. No, not at all. And he’s here to see you, not me. Listen.”
“Emily,” George moaned. He dropped to his knees directly above Emily’s head. As he sobbed, she wished she could touch his lined cheek to comfort him, but she could do nothing. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“You needn’t apologize, George. Not you.”
She could feel a wrenching in his heart, could feel his essence seeking her out but not being able to find her. Their two hearts had once beat as one, destined for each other from the very start, but now, his lone heart was barely a heart at all. She pleaded for a way to break the barrier that kept them apart, but it was useless. Though he was alive to her, she was dead in all ways to him. His fingers bunched in the wet dirt, pawing it like a soggy blanket that he hoped to pull from across her face.
“No one should have to die in such a horrible way,” he said, gasping. “I cannot change that, so I will myself to forget it. But I can’t do that either, Emily, no matter how hard I try. Do you forgive me after all these years, Emily? Could you?”
He wanted an answer from her, one that she, in turn, wanted to give, and he listened for words she could not make him hear. But she would forgive him anything, could not recall having ever wavered from such a thought, in part because she knew that he could not possibly do anything that it would actually be necessary for her to forgive, not in a thousand lifetimes. Not George.
The urgency of his yearning was overpowering, though, and it came back to her then, not all of it, not the details, just enough to know what had delivered her to her final resting place. Her mother had told her during those few times when she’d tried to impart the lesson of womanhood to her, that some women were not built for childbirth. How unfortunate for Emily to have to learn that first hand. But at least . . . at least their baby lived. She had that much to be thankful for. At least she had seen that much before she vanished from her first world and was forced to take her place in the next one.
“Don’t blame yourself, George,” said Emily. “You need to be strong for our child.”
Emily wondered how old their littlest one would be, considering the sprinkling of gray in George’s hair, and wanted to ask him, but he would not have heard, had heard none of it up until then. Feeling his pleas unanswered, he fell forward, and sobbed into the dirt, his cheek pressed so close to her that she could almost feel his breath.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” he said. “I know that. I even knew it then. But I was a coward. And I’ll keep paying for that until the day I die.”
George stood suddenly, and shook off his raw emotions as easily as he slapped the dirt off his knees. She felt her window on him closing down to be replaced by the face that he let the world see.
“I’ll try to forget you,” he said, a coldness to his voice. “With enough time, perhaps I could do that. But I doubt I’ll ever be able to forget what I did. Goodbye, Emily.”
He ran off too quickly, stumbling as he had when he’d arrived. Emily could not hold on to him, so she held on to his words.
“What did he mean?” asked Emily. “He was your son, Mrs. Gibbs. Is your son. Help me understand.”
“Better not to know,” said Mrs. Gibbs. “Let him just go. Let it all go.”
“Should I?” said Emily. “Really? But you know. I can tell. You’ve figured it out. Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because I care about you, dear. You’ll be much happier that way.”
“Then I’ll have to ask Mrs. Soames to help. Mrs. Soames!”
No matter how Emily whined, she could not rouse the woman. She had slipped off to her final sleep. Only Mrs. Gibbs was left, perhaps invigorated by the visit from her son. Emily had no choice but to badger her mother-in-law further.
“But you must tell me what he was talking about,” said Emily. “You must! Why was he asking for my forgiveness? He’s your son, you know him best. I don’t remember him ever doing anything I’d need to forgive! Do you?”
There was a sudden silence, and in that space, months seemed to pass.
“Mrs. Gibbs!”
“Dear?”
“George, Mrs. Gibbs. Tell me about George.”
Mrs. Gibbs sighed.
“It’s much better that way,” said Mrs. Gibbs, “to not remember. I’d rather not think about my son, if you don’t mind. And you should do the same.”
“No! I could never do that. This is my life—”
“Was your life, dear.”
“—and I can’t let it go as if none of it happened. I need to remember. How sad he was up there! What could have happened to make him so sad? Don’t you care? You’re his mother!”
With no seeming provocation, Mrs. Soames spoke up.
“If you really must know—” she began.
“Hush!” said Mrs. Gibbs. “Now I’ll say it. Hush! Don’t tell her any more! It will only bring more pain. She’s here to learn to put the pain away, not to pick it up again.”
“Tell me what?” said Emily. “I have to know.”
“You can go back, you know,” said Mrs. Soames. “You can go back and see how it was. How it used to be. Others have done it before.”
“It isn’t a good idea, though,” said Mrs. Gibbs softly.
“I’m going to do it anyway!” shouted Emily. “I have to do it! I have to know again, to feel.”
“Feelings are overrated, dear,” said Mrs. Gibbs. “You’ll learn that soon enough, whatever you do. So you might as well take the easy way. Walk around the pain, don’t walk through it. That’s always the better way.”
“I don’t care!”
“Oh, give up,” said Mrs. Soames. “You’re not going to talk her out of it. She’s a tough one, all right. The sooner she gets it out of her system, the sooner we’ll all manage to get some rest.”
“I can see that you’re right, Mrs. Soames,” said Mrs. Gibbs. “I guess you knew better all along. So go, dear. You won’t be able to change anything, you know. That much will always be true. But you’ll be able to see. And it will hurt, dear, it will hurt a great deal. Knowing what you know now, how you’ll end up, how there’s no permanent way back, well, it won’t be pretty. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“As long as I can see my Georgie again, see what it’s like to be alive, that’s all that matters.”
“You’re braver than I ever was,” said Mrs. Gibbs. “And a great deal more foolish. But I knew that when you became a Gibbs, Emily. No matter. I suspect that you’ll feel quite differently when you come back.”
“If I can see my George, I’m not coming back. I’m never—”
Before another syllable could pass through her stiff lips, the stars above Emily were replaced by her husband’s eyes. There was no strength in them as he looked down at her. She saw only fear.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. He was young again, his hair dark, his face smooth. And she was young again herself. She could feel her baby struggling within her to be born. All seemed well with the child—her experience with George, Jr., had taught her so—and there should h
ave been no reason for her husband to be afraid.
“I don’t know,” he said.
She remembered having done this all before, remembered herself asking, and him answering, just that way the last time, but now, there was a difference. This time, the surface of things revealed the truth beneath. When in response to her questions about his demeanor, he’d said, “I don’t know,” she could tell that he was lying. She knew.
Emily was stunned by this revelation. George had never lied to her before. But then, shifting her head on the sweat-soaked pillow, she corrected herself. Her worldview was not the same as it had been mere moments before. She now knew that she had only believed that George had never lied to her before. Mrs. Gibbs had been right in telling her that she would see things she did not wish to see. And what was worse, though she could watch events unfold, she found that she could not change her words, could not respond using the new information she had earned.
“But everything will be all right, won’t it, George?” she said. “The baby—our baby will be all right, won’t it? Tell me that the baby will be all right, George.”
She already knew what he would say, but still, Emily was distressed when George could find no other words than the words he had spoken before.
“I don’t know,” he repeated.
Emily lay in the bedroom in which she’d expected to be when she instead woke to find herself in her grave. She could see all the possessions that once were hers, and the happiness at seeing them brought tears welling up, but because she could change nothing about this scene, they were tears from the pain of childbirth that her new self only interpreted as joyous. She was happy to feel them wet her cheeks as they could not do before, to know life again, but that joy did not stay long, for she could also see the bedroom as if from above, as if she’d lifted the top off a doll’s house to peer down. And so when George turned his back on her in her pain, Emily could see that his action was not entirely motivated because he was overcome with grief, though that is what her earthly self would have thought, had thought years before. With the eyes in her body, she could see George reaching to the end table for a glass of water, but with God’s eyes, with the sight she had been given, she could see through him and around him and beyond him to the other side, watch helplessly as he slipped a small vial from his shirt pocket and tilted its clear contents into her drink.