The Everafter
Page 6
My fingers fly over the keyboard, rattling away in a
manic rhythm. Memories of words and phrases skitter
through my mind. I wrestle them into sentences: "It is ironic
that Emily Dickinson inquired of the journalist Higginson
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And about a poem with the line "My Life closed twice
before its close"—I mean, who wouldn't be freaked out
about that?
I ignore the sensation and go back to writing: "Dickinson's
'letter to the World / that never wrote to her' is a
collection of poems that explore the depths of human emotion
and its enduring ability to extend beyond the boundaries
of any one life and into the experiences of humanity. Her
body of work is the atom she left behind after 'this brief
Tragedy of the Flesh.' That atom causes within readers a
nuclear chain reaction of human connection."
P r i n t . . . p r i n t . . . print. It's not printing fast enough.
Gabriel honks the horn at me. I swipe the papers out of
the printer tray and then carefully open my folder. I can't
lose this paper again. I will place it right here in the pocket
where I always keep assignments that are due f o r . . .
I freeze. Then shiver.
There it is. The original paper.
Right. There. In. Front. Of. Me. Exactly. Where. It.
Belongs.
It's staring at me with the all-seeing eye of Emily Dickinson.
How is this possible?
Gabriel honks again.
I'll take both papers and compare them in the car.
I shiver once more as I reach to pull from the folder the
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whether her poetry was 'alive' when the subject of so much
of her poetry was death. . .. Her obsession with exploring
the nature of individuality in the face of death demonstrates
her belief in the power of the individual to transcend the
boundaries of life itself.... Her poetic narrators face down
a certain knowledge and understanding of their demise
as they grapple, beyond the barrier of death itself, with a
diminishing awareness of l i f e . . . ."
What was that line about the "Tragedy of the Flesh" that
I'd written? Something about how she believed something
atomic lived beyond that tragedy? W a i t . . . no, I closed the
paper with that line, didn't I?
Ten minutes l e f t . . ..
Hold on. I wrote something about how she isolated herself
in life, her reclusiveness being a form of dress rehearsal
for death itself, and its "partings" of hell How did I put
that?
Words continue to patter their way onto the screen.
Organization? What's that? No time to get these thoughts
to build on one another.
Five minutes l e f t . . ..
A sudden sense of deja vu strikes me. It's like I've been
through this moment in my life before, b u t . . .
Must just be the weirdness of trying to write about
death.
Twice.
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old pa—
•
I shouldn't have done it. And I know it the second I
return to Is.
It seemed like such a small thing, letting myself find
that original paper. Vanity, I know. The first version was so
much better than the second. And, yeah* I wanted the better
grade on it, but even more than that, I wanted my AP
English teacher, Mrs. Bevery , to know how brilliant I was.
I needed to hand in that first paper. I thought.
But now things are changing. A lot. More than they did
when I messed with the whole handbag thing. That time
it felt like the key in my song of life jumped up a half note.
Now it seems like a whole different song is playing. Everything
about space and time seems . . . different. And scariest
of all . . . I'm forgetting who and what I was in the first
version of life, the me who never found the first version of
that Emily Dickinson paper. I'm afraid of losing her . . . that
me.
It's like dying all over again. I'm going to the funeral of
someone who I both hated and loved. And it's scary because
I'm not sure if I'll be as happy with the me I just created as
I was with the old one.
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The music swirls around us. Sandra and I are both wearing
the "spinningest" dresses we could find. We twirl around
on the dance floor watching them spreading out in a circle
around our hips.
Life couldn't be better. We're at the Daddy-Daughter
Dance. There are colored lights all over the communitycenter
gym. Our dads ere both dressed up the way they
usually are when they leave for work. But, right now, our
dads belong just to us.
Daddy is holding bodi of my hands as we sway back and
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wrong. I tell him and tell him that my ticket is gone, but he
keeps saying, "What? I can't understand you." I try telling
him louder, but he still doesn't understand.
Sandra finally translates for me. "You lost your ticket?"
he asks. When I nod, he pulls me into his arms and lets me
sit on his thigh as he tries to dry my tears.
"We'll look," he promises. "Calm down so we can look."
Daddy, Sandra, her father, and I all look around the
room . . . under tables, on the dance floor, on the chairs.
The DJs are packing up all their musical equipment, and
the janitors are starting to turn out the lights. The gym
feels so lonely. All the magic is gone. Why couldn't it stay?
Daddy tells me we have to go now, even if we haven't
found the ticket.
I cry harder. Daddy tries to comfort me by telling me
that we can make a new ticket when we get home; that it'll
be just as good as the real one, maybe even better. But he
doesn't understand: I don't want to leave my ticket in this
lonely place, all by itself. I'm sure it will be frightened.
Daddy promises me ice cream on the way home. But
that idea doesn't make me feel any better. Mr. Simpson and
Sandra finally leave. We look around the room one more
t i m e . . . no luck.
Daddy finally pulls me, still crying, from the room.
J4
forth to the music. Every once in a while, he winks at Sandra's
dad and they both spin us around again.
Sandra and I giggle.
Next comes the "Hokey Pokey." 1 love this song Daddy
is so silly when he does the "turn yourself around" part. I'm
laughing so hard, I have a sharp pain in my side. Sandra isn't
laughing hard enough, so her dad tickles her.
For the next song, we change partners, and Daddy
dances with Sandra. I dance with Sandra's fathtr. Even
though I like him, I notice he isn't as tall as my dad is. And
he isn't as handsome, either.
Someday, I want to fall in love with a man like my
daddy. Someone who makes me smile and giggle, someone
who twirls me around, someone who knows how to have
fun doing the Hokey Pokey.
When the end of the even
ing comes, I don't want to
leave. I want to keep dancing, keep playing with Sandra.
Tonight we're pretending to be sisters, and I don't want to
ever stop.
But Daddy reminds me it's time to go, and he helps me
put on my coat. I look in the pocket for my ticket. When we
got here, I put it in my coat. I know I will always keep it. It's
special. B u t . ..
The ticket isn't there.
I look again . . . still not there.
I start to cry. Daddy gets down next to me to ask what's
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Back here in //, I notice that the ticket is drab. It does not
sparkle in pink and white the way I remember it. Instead, it
just glows with a boring sameness.
Part of me wants to go back and allow my seven-yearold
self to find it.
But I won't. No matter how hard she cries.
When I was alive, I thought I was always losing everything.
But I wasn't. There are so few objects here in Is that
can take me back to my life, I can't part with the ones I do
have.
Lost, this piece of paper is my ticket back to the Daddy-Daughter Dance.
And it has to stay lost to keep me the person the night ot
the Daddy-Daughter Dance made m e . . . .
Emily Dickinson referred to life as a "Tragedy of the
Flesh." Losing that ticket was a tragedy to the seven-yearold
me, but that tragedy shaped the soul "I have elected."
Letting myself find that Dickinson English paper has
already changed that soul some, but now I'm electing to
feed and care for the one I have. I like it.
I swear Emily Dickinson's poetry makes sense to me in
a way it never could have when I was alive.
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We are (all ten of us) at my house. Somehow I've managed
to convince my mother to allow us to have a slumber party
here. We've been banished to the basement so our—as my
mother condescendingly puts it—"girl giggle and gossip"
won't disturb everyone else for the night.
And we are planning to make it through the whole night
without sleeping.
So far, so good. We've watched three DVDs, eaten four
bags of Doritos and three pizzas, and plowed through several
two-liters of Coke (caffeine buzz, anyone?), and we're
having a riot fainting. It's the coolest feeling I've ever had.
Tammy taught us how to do it (don't ask me where she
learned). First, we hyperventilate while bending over (gotta
get all that blood to the head). Then we pull ourselves up
quickly and Tammy presses in this one spot, right between
the ribs, and—out we go.
The first time I did it, I fell backward onto the couch
and lost mv new hair clip. I love that hair clip, and I'm sure
that it's somewhere under the couch or between the cushions,
even though I can't find it. Still, even the loss of my
favorite new hair clip isn't enough to discourage me from
fainting a few more times.
Or maybe even seven more. It's such a great feeling.
It's as if everything in the world disappears. It's like gliding
on space for a few seconds. I feel both conscious and
unconscious all at once, and wish I could stay that way. But
eventually full consciousness seeps across the fabric of my
mind, soaking everything in reality.
As I'm getting ready to faint the ninth time, Tammy
says she doesn't want me to do this anymore. She thinks it
might not be very healthy. Is anything fun ever healthy?
Still, she might have a point. I don't know why I suggest
it, but since fainting appears to be coming to an end, I say,
"How about if we get out the Ouija board?"
Cindy groans. "C'mon, Maddy. It's two o'clock in the
morning. Can you pick a creepier time to do that?"
Amber punches her in the arm. "That's the point,
dummy."
"I think it sounds like fun," Sandra—ever the best
friend—says. "Where is it?"
"I'll get it," I assure everyone. But I'm only halfway up
the stairs before I get a major case of the creeps. I run back
down. "I can't do it," I say. "It's too creepy up there."
Everyone laughs at me, but Sandra says, "I'll go get it for
you. Tell me where to look."
"It's in the family room closet with all the other
games."
Sandra bounds up the stairs and disappears, A flash of
jealousy streaks through me at the way her thin, graceful
body seems to float up the stairs, her thick hair waving
behind her. Not a single clunk or pound on the way up.
Incredible. How does she do that gliding thing?
While Sandra's gone, the rest of us talk about who's
going to go first and what questions we should ask the
board. It takes Sandra longer than it should to come back,
but she finally reappears. As she hands me the game, she
says, "Sorry. I went to pull it out of the closet, and a few
other games came with it. Made a bunch of noise. I had to
pick the other games up, and your mom came downstairs
78
and yelled at me."
I roll my eyes. I can tell we're both thinking the same
thing: My mom yelling at Sandra doesn't even come close
to the way Sandra's mom yells at me. But I don't say anything
about that. Sandra's totally embarrassed by the way
her mother treats me.
Amber and Lacey set up the board. They're going to go
first, and they want—naturally—to ask for the answer to an
important question plaguing the universe: who is Amber
going to go to prom with her senior year? D-O-U-G-P-RE-S-T-O-N the planchette spells on the board. Amber is
outraged. Doug Preston has wanted to hook up with her for
almost a year now, and she's not interested.
"You pushed it," Amber accuses Lacey. "You wanted it
to say that!"
"I swear I didn't," Lacey counters.
Everyone else is laughing. "It's not funny," Amber protests.
"It's her turn to find out who she's going to prom with
her senior year!" She puts a serious and mysterious look on
her face and demands that the board tell her the answer to
this question.
S-C-O-T-T-T-U-R-N-E-R the planchette spells. Scott
Turner is a total dork. No one is ever going to go to senior
prom with him.
"Now you're pushing it," Lacey says.
"Ha, ha. It's not so funny now, is it?"
'9
"Okay, you two, let someone ask it a real question," Sandra
demands.
Cindy and Diane sit at the board, and Cindy asks, in the
spookiest voice she can come up with, "Is there a spirit in
the room with us?"
The planchette creeps its way over to the word yes.
A quarter of an inch from the word, Diane screams and
removes her fingers. Cindy forces the planchette off the
board. "Ohmygod," Diane says, "I swear I wasn't moving
that thing."
"Me, either," Cindy agree
s.
"There's really a spirit here in the room with us," Diane
says.
"Whooooaaaahhh." Amber's sarcasm rolls out along
with the ghostly sound she makes.
Diane glares at her. "I mean it. You try asking the room
if there's a spirit here!"
"No, thanks." Amber laughs. "I had my turn, and I
already know how it works!"
"Oh, I'll do it." I sigh.
"I'll help," Tammy offers. "Will you pick up that whatever-it's-called thingy?" she asks Cindy, nodding toward
the planchette. "It's by your feet."
"I'm not touching that thing!"
"Whatfwr," Tammy says, and leans over to grab it. "It's
just a game, you guys."
She places the planchette back on the board and looks
expectantly at me. "Who's asking the questions?" she wants
to know.
"I'll do it," I offer. The other girls gather around us, and
I ask, half joking, "Is there a spirit in the room?"
Tammy and I hold our hands steady, trying to relax to
see if t he planchette will move on its own.
It does.
Really.
I truly don't think Tammy's doing anything to it,
because her face is turning ghostly white. "Stop it," she
whispers to me.
"I'm not doing anything," I tell her honestly.
As the planchette spells out I-S-E-E-Y-O-U, the other
girls become deathly quiet. All jokes have ended.
My fingers are shaking. I don't want to know the answer
to my question, but I feel compelled to ask it anyway. "Who
do you see?" Even my voice is shaking.
M-A-D-I-S-O-N.
It's my turn to glare at Tammy. "You're doing this,
aren't you?"
"No. I swear. I'm not."
And I have to believe her, because her hands are shaking,
too.
"Who are you?" I ask the room.
L-I-K-E-Y-O-U-I-A-M-D-E-A-D.
Cindy screams.
"Shhh!" I yell at her. "Shut up. You're not the one that's
getting told you're dead, all right? So just shut up!"
"Why are you here?" Sandra asks the room.
Tammy stands up suddenly, knocking over the chair.
Sandra takes her place at the table. "Put your fingers back
on the planchette," Sandra tells me. I don't much want
to—at this point, who would?—but I've taken orders from
Sandra most of our lives.
I-A-M-S-O-R-R-Y.
Amber starts giggling. "Way to freak us out, Simpson.
Could we be stupider? Why are we trying to scare ourselves
to death?"
"Sbb" Diane tells her.
"Who are you?" Sandra asks the room again.
T-A-M-M-Y.