The Everafter

by Amy Huntley

  I loved. To see the things that were part of my everyday

  life. To find out more about who I was. I can remember

  H

  "But where? That means I can find it."

  Sandra shakes her head at me. "Don't give her the satisfaction.

  She's watching you right now to see what you're

  going to do. Come back after school or something and ask

  Mrs. Sinclair if you can look around for it then."

  The bell rings, and Sandra drags me toward the door.

  —•—

  Suddenly I am ripped away from myself, thrown back into

  the abyss . . . formless again, isolated in a place that just Is.

  There's the sweatshirt, glowing mockingly at me, reminding

  me it's no substitute for what's really missing. I'd rather

  have Sandra and Gabe back.

  l i

  parts, but not all, of my past. And, as I float here aimlessly

  in Is, I'm already forgetting more about my life.

  Now. 1 want to go back to my life again. Now.

  I propel myself through the vacuum of Is, looking for

  something else that will take me home. The closest item to

  me is the bracelet, so I move straight toward it.

  There it is. A circle of light. A phantom wrist longs to

  feel that bracelet encircling it, longs for the soft tinkling of

  silver against silver, for the cool brush of chain link against

  skin.

  Knowledge again tears through me. This time, as I scatter

  through space and darkness, I am sucked toward wind

  and heat, toward ticklish grass.

  I am directly under a tree I have climbed manv times

  with Sandra. I look up into the branches above me, and

  there she is. An eight-year-old Sandra. Curly dark pigtails

  ride behind her in the breeze as she maneuvers her way up

  the tree limbs. And that little girl next to her . . . is me.

  Sort of. I recognize my face and her crooked teeth from

  old photos. But it's hard to believe that I ever moved so

  quickly, or with such freedom. I'm bossing Sandra around,

  telling her to climb one branch higher. Nothing but this

  moment seems to exist to that eight-year-old me. She's cast

  an almost magic spell of oblivion around the whole tree.

  As the younger me reaches for a higher branch, sunlight

  glints off a bracelet dangling from my wrist. The way

  n

  the sun enchants the charms on that bracelet is fascinating.

  Tinker Bell, a kitty cat, a ladybug, a silver star . . .

  I can remember the bracelet now. It was a gift from my

  mother for my eighth birthday, and I lost it one day while

  playing . . . here in Sandra's backyard.

  I'm figuring out how this whole object-to-life business

  seems to be working: see the object I lost in life, imagine

  using it, go back to the moment I lost it. I just have to say,

  this seems like a particularly cruel joke. I mean, why all

  the focus on loss? Isn't losing my life enough? Why is my

  only option for returning to Earth centered on losing something?

  Aa I watch eicht-ycar-old Sandra and mywlf, I remember

  the temperature—mild with a forceful wind trying to

  drive spring into our midst. Earthy spring scents float in my

  memory, too, mingling with the feel of rough bark against

  my hands. Sandra and I are daring each other to move as far

  as we can toward the end of a branch. We are about to—

  Fall.

  And Sandra is about to break her arm.

  I have to do something to stop this from happening. I

  need to get Sandra's father.

  I attempt that strange floating and running movement

  to get to the house, but, just like the last time I tried it, I

  discover I'm not allowed to travel far from the living me. I

  try to stretch the thread of energy that connects the two of

  running. She stumbles over to Sandra. She falls down next

  to her and sobs. "What have you done to her? What have

  you done to her?"

  I try to take in enough air to speak and manage to squeak

  out, "We fell from the tree. I didn't mean to hurt her."

  Mrs. Simpson is breathing all funny. I've never heard

  anyone breathe like that. What if she and Sandra both die?

  It will be my fault.

  Mr. Simpson comes running up. He tries to get to Sandra,

  but Mrs. Simpson just keeps crying and breathing all

  funny and won't let him touch either of them.

  I want to help him pull Mrs. Simpson away. What if

  Sandra's dying and Mrs. Simpson won't let us help her?

  "You must calm down, Genevieve," Mr. Simpson keeps

  telling her. "You'll have an asthma attack."

  Will an asthma attack kill Mrs. Simpson?

  He's shaking her and pulling her away from Sandra all

  at once. There's finally a space big enough between Mrs.

  Simpson and Sandra for him to get into. He kneels by Sandra,

  leans over her, touches her neck, and listens to her

  breathing. He makes a strange sound. I think he might be

  choking on relief. "Sandra'll be fine, but you have to calm

  down, Genevieve."

  I'm relieved that Sandra is going to be all right. If Mr.

  Simpson says she's okay, then she is. I like Mr. Simpson.

  I just don't like Mrs. Simpson. And now that I know

  us. I strain against it like a dog trying to lengthen its leash

  enough to reach a taunting squirrel.

  No luck. I'm only allowed any kind of freedom of movement

  if I stay close enough to her to see and hear her. She

  won't even let me get far enough away to help her best

  friend.

  Once again, the Universe's rules for this game suck.

  Just as I realize this, the tree branch cracks under the

  combined weight of two eight-year-olds. We crash through

  branches, screaming as we fall. I land flat on my stomach.

  Despite all the years that have passed since this moment,

  despite even death, I can remember the feel of the air being

  forced from my lungs as I struggle co breathe.

  I can't help running back to try to help these two little

  girls somehow, but I get too close to the living me. She

  sucks me i n . . . .

  age 8

  My jaws have slammed together with a force that leaves

  my head spinning. Blood is warming my mouth as it oozes

  from a cut, but it takes me a moment to realize this because

  I still can't breathe.

  Sandra is deathly silent. Is she dead?

  Now that I can breathe, I scream hysterically.

  The back door opens, and Sandra's mother comes

  Sandra is going to be okay, it's fine with me if Mrs. Simpson

  dies of an asthma attack. W e l l . . . unless Sandra thinks it's

  my fault her mom dies.

  I want my mom. She can make things better. She doesn't

  have asthma, and she doesn't yell the way Sandra's mom

  does.

  I want my mom now.

  Where is my magic charm bracelet? I reach for it on my

  wrist, but it's not there. Where is it? Did all this bad stuff

  happen because I lost it?

  I want to cry but don't dare.

  "Genevieve," Mr. Simpson says, "you have to go to the

  house and call 911."

  "I thought you said she'd be okay," she protests.
/>
  Mr. Simpson whips around on her in anger. 'Dammit,

  just go call 911," he growls. I want to cheer.

  "I can't b-b-breathe," Mrs. Simpson says, gasping.

  Mr. Simpson closes his eyes. He looks just like Mom

  when she's counting to ten as she's ordering me to go to my

  room to "think about what you've done." When Mr. Simpson

  opens his eyes, he touches Sandra's cheek lightly—like

  my dad touches mine at bedtime. Then he stands up and

  rubs Mrs. Simpson's arms to calm her. When he speaks, his

  voice is gentle and firm. "She'll probably be fine, Genevieve,

  but we can't risk moving her ourselves. Go call. Now."

  Mrs. Simpson stumbles away. I crawl around, looking

  13 19

  for the bracelet. Now that she's gone, I let the tears stream

  down my face, but I try to hide them from Mr. Simpson.

  He turns to me and sees the tears. "Are you all right,

  Maddyr" he asks me. "Do you hurt anywhere?"

  Everywhere, I want to say, but mostly just in my hart

  Instead, 1 say. "I'm okay," but not because 1 am. I'm terrified,

  but I can't admit it because I can tell Mr. Simpson isn't

  reallv thinking about me, and I don't want him to have to.

  "So is Sandra, I think," he tells me reassuringly. "There's

  a giant goose egg on the side of her head. I think she's just

  been knocked unconscious. Happened to me once when I

  was a kid. Looks like her arm might be broken, too, but

  1 think she'll be okav." He starts feeling gently along her

  other limbs. Then he calls into the house, as if he's surprised

  to have thought about it, "Genevieve, call Maddy's

  mom. She'll have to come pick her up. We can't leave her

  here by herself while we're off at the hospital."

  Mommy. She'll make everything okay again. I know she

  will.

  Mrs. Simpson has just started out the door. She gives me

  a mean look, and the screen door slams shut as she moves

  back into the house. I don't quite understand why she has

  never liked me.

  Mr. Simpson coos gently to his daughter, sparing me a

  glance as I begin turning in circles. "What are you looking

  for, Maddyr" he asks me.

  I swallow my sobs and try to breathe deeply.

  The paramedics carry Sandra off on a stretcher, and

  Mom takes me by the hand. We walk in circles around the

  tree Sandra and I were climbing u n t i l . . . finally . . . there it

  is . . . broken but shining against the grass. Mom picks it up

  and lovingly begins to drape it over my wrist. The second

  its cool metal touches my skin—

  •

  I am gone. Ripped from myself. Thrown back into the

  abyss . . . formless again, wandering around in a place that

  just Is. I want my mom back. I want to see her again.

  My longing to touch her, to be with her, is even greater

  than the ache I was left with after my first trip back to life.

  ..'

  "Nothing," I say, even though it's not true.

  Mrs. Simpson returns to Sandra's side, crying. And

  when Sandra's eyes flutter open, Mrs. Simpson squeals

  in delight. I feel the same way, but mv glee has to flutter

  around inside where it can't be seen or heard. I don't dare

  draw Mr. and Mrs, Simpson's attention away from Sandra.

  She's alive. And groaning. In pain.

  Time passes, and flashing lights speed up the road

  toward the house. I recognize my mother's car right behind

  them. She stays out of the paramedics' way, trailing behind

  them to the backyard, looking for me. She sees me, runs

  toward me, pulls me away from all the action, kneels down

  in front of me and wraps me in her arms.

  My mom. She smells like apples: sharp, sweet, and natural.

  "Are you all right, sweet pea?" she asks.

  Now that she's here, the tears turn to sobs. I don't have

  to hold anything back. But the words I'm trying to say can't

  be understood, so Mom just keeps reassuring me, "Sandra's

  okay. She was just knocked unconscious."

  Finally I am able to get out the words clearly, "I can't

  find my chann bracelet."

  She squeezes me tighter. "Shh," she whispers into my

  ear. "As soon as they've all left with Sandra, we'll look for

  it."

  If she's going to help me look for it, I know we'll lind it.

  She always makes everything all right.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOf—NOI FOR SALE

  H
  the purse

  THE FEEL OK MY MOM'S ARMS around me has awakened a

  hunger beyond any I've ever experienced.

  I wade back through Is, looking for the bracelet. I want to

  return to that scene in Sandra's backyard. I want to feel my

  mother's arms around me again—even if it means watching

  Sandra fall all over again. I refmd each of the objects I have

  encountered before—all except for the bracelet. It's gone.

  Strange.

  The sweatshirt is still here.

  The bracelet isn't.

  Loss again. I want to scream, but . . . I don't have a

  voice.

  Is there any other object here that might lead me to rnv

  mother? I return to them one at a time, looking for a clue

  about which will take me where I want to go, but I can't

  remember where I lost these various scraps of existence.

  There are the keys, but I don't think they will take me to

  her. The cell phone's in the next pocket of space. No, that's

  not a gateway to my mother, either.

  Then there's the purse. It hums and glows more intensely

  than the other objects do when I get close to it.

  Is it connected to my mother? I don't think so, but I

  can't help feeling drawn in by the intensity of the object's

  presence. I want the answers it seems to be offering. .Maybe

  those answers will ultimately lead me back to my mother...

  and everything else I want to reach. I muster every phantom

  feeling11 can to remember carrying a purse. And once

  again those powerful feelings rip through me. I am propelled

  toward something . .. unpleasant.

  I'm in an uncomfortable, stuffy environment, surrounded

  by the scent of urine. I realize I am in a bathroom

  stall at Overton High School. An alive and seventeen-yearold

  me is entering through the bathroom door, getting

  closer to me, and I am . . . sucked in.

  oge W

  When a girl has to pee, she reallv has to pee. I slam the

  door of the stall behind me and dump my purse—unusually

  heavy today with all the extra change in it—on top of the

  roll of toilet paper.

  It falls off. Gross. Who knows what this floor has had

  on it? Taking a pee will just have to wait until I pick it up.

  Why was I stupid enough to bring it with me?

  I'm just putting it back when voices bounce off the tiles

  of the bathroom wall. I recognize Tammy Havers's voice.

  "Anyone in here?" she asks someone.

  "I don't think so," comes the reply.

  So I'm just unbuckling my belt when Tammy demands

  payment from the mystery voice. I realize what's happening

  on the other side of the stall door: Tammy is selling drugs.


  Damn.

  Peeing is going to have to wait. I don't dare make any

  noise right now.

  Apparently not making any noise is one of those "easier

  said than done" things. Especially if you're stupid enough

  to set your favorite purse on top of a roll of toilet paper for

  a second time and you then back into it. And if said purse

  has about three dollars in coins in it because you're stupid

  enough to have lost your lunch debit card... well, it hits the

  ;s

  floor with a pretty loud thud.

  The kind of thud that alerts the drug dealer there's

  someone else in the bathroom.

  Tammy wouldn't kick in the stall door or anything,

  would she?

  And why exactly couldn't this have happened—if it had

  to happen at all—after I'd already gone pee? I'm dying here.

  Tammy pushes on the stall door and finds it latched.

  "Come out of there," she demands.

  "Uh, no, thanks," I say.

  Fortunately, she doesn't try to force it open.

  Unfortunately, she crawls under the partition on the left,

  knocking my purse into the next stall.

  If I'd had any brains, I'd have realized sooner that my

  incredibly heavy-with-change purse would make a good

  weapon. I'd have already picked it up and smacked her on

  the head with it, hopefully knocking her unconscious. Now

  it's too far away for me to reach.

  I guess it doesn't matter anyway. The truth is I wouldn't

  have actually hurt Tammy. I mean, she and I were friends

  until eighth grade. And not only wouldn't I go whacking

  her over the head, but I also can't believe she'd truly hurt

  me, either.

  Well, other than torturing me by sending me to another

  bathroom to pee. Ohmygod, would I even make it at this

  point?

  And wasting time thinking about all this has now left

  me completely at Tammy's mercy, because there she is.

  Standing in the stall with me. Glaring at me.

  She unlatches the door, grabs me by the hair, and yanks

  me out of the stall. I want to scream in pain. It really hurts.

  But I'm too afraid to do anything more than gasp. So much

  for old friendship protecting me from Tammy's wrath.

  "What are you doing in here, Stanto n?" She vanks on

  my hair for emphasis.

  If she yanks on it again, I swear she'll unleash a puddle

  of pee right beneath us.

  "I asked you a question," Tammy says. "What are you

  doing in here?"

  Duh. Going to the bathroom, perhaps? But I don't