The Everafter

by Amy Huntley

  me. She won't let me have any fun.

  Cozy's still yowling, and Kristen's still demanding to

  be let into the room. I try to hold the cat still as I crack the

  door open. Kristen pushes her way through, and I slam the

  door before Cozy can jump from my arms.

  "What's going on?" Kristen asks. She stares in amazement

  at Cozy. I think the cat looks great dressed in 1780s

  clothing, but I can tell from Kristen's expression that she

  doesn't. "You're going to ruin your doll clothes," Kristen

  informs me in her best I'm-fifteen-and-you're-only-eightso-listen-to-me voice.

  "Will not," I say, even though I can see perfectly well

  that Kristen's right. The pretty blue hat ribbon I've tried to

  tie below Cozy's chin is now in her mouth, and the sides of

  it are getting all icky.

  Kristen tries to grab the cat away from me, and now

  we're playing tug-of-war with her. She yowls and scratches

  Kristen on the cheek. Kristen screams and lets go of Cozy.

  The cat slips from my hands, too. She somersaults end over

  end and lands squarely on all four feet. Kristen opens the

  door to let her out, and Cozy stumbles and trips over the

  Felicity dress as she races through the door.

  "You did that just to be mean!" I yell. Kristen's always

  ruining anything I think is fun. Already today she's denied

  me an ice-cream cone, refused to let me swim at the neighbor's

  house, told me I couldn't watch TV because she wanted

  to watch it, and now this?!

  "Oh, stop being such a baby." Kristen snorts.

  "I'm not a baby."

  "You are, too. If you don't get exactly your own way,

  you whine and cry. 'It's no fair,'" she mocks. "That's all you

  know how to say."

  "Well you stink as a babysitter," I tell her. "I hate vou.

  I'm going to tell Mom on you when she gets home."

  Kristen laughs. "Go right ahead. Tell her how I spoiled

  all your fun torturing the cat. She'll give you a big lecture

  about why the cat hates you and runs away whenever she

  sees you coming."

  "She doesn't hate me!" I yell louder, enraged. Kristen

  spins around and leaves mv room. "But / hate you I hate

  you, hate you, bate you!" I scream after her. When she still

  ignores me, I charge from the room, yelling, "Everyone

  hates you. You'll make a terrible mother! Your own kids will

  hate you. You're—"

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  STILL TRYING TO figure out this pinecone thing . . . I try

  imagining that I'm putting it on a Christinas tree.

  Nothing. I used to paint them for Christmas. I try

  imagining I'm doing that. But I'm still here in Is.

  Mom used to spray them with cinnamon scent during

  the holidays and set them out in baskets around the house.

  There's no smell to this insubstantial ghostly pinecone, but

  I imagine myself back in a body, back in a place where smell

  is possible. And I try to imagine the smell of cinnamon and

  pine. I even imagine myself holding the cone close to my

  nose.

  And I'm still here.

  Maybe I played toss with it when I was a kid. I imagine

  throwing it back and forth with Kristen. With Sandra.

  With Tammy.

  Sti/I here.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOI fOR SALE

  r&Kti&uta£Ubft&S&

  a penny for your thoughts

  oge V

  "I think I have enough money," I say, digging around inside

  my wallet to check. I'm even counting pennies. I really want

  to buy these Robeez baby shoes. They are the cutest thing

  ever.

  Too much in my hands . . . shoes, change, wallet, purse.

  I drop my wallet on the floor, and change scatters everywhere.

  "Don't you dare!" I tell Kristen just as she and her eightmonths-pregnant belly are about to btnd over and help me.

  "Here, hold these instead," I say, handing her the baby shoes

  116

  and my purse. I get down on my hands and knees and start

  crawling around on the floor, scrounging up my change.

  Kristen laughs at me. "You look pretty funny," she

  says.

  "Yeah, well, so do you," I tell her, but not unkindly.

  She grins down at me. "The pregnant body is a beautiful

  body."

  From down here her stomach looks even bigger. It's a

  wonder she doesn't just explode. "One of your pregnancy

  books?" I ask.

  "Yeah" she admits. "I'm trying hard to believe it. Supposedly,

  I can have my real body back someday. Hard to

  imagine, though."

  It is. But I don't tell her that. I have most of the change.

  I can see a penny under the rack, but there's a dust bunny

  with it, and I'm not touching that. I'm wealthy enough to

  suck up a one-cent loss.

  "Just remember—" Kristen starts to say as I stand up.

  I've heard this so often I can finish the sentence for her.

  "Take extra precautions when you're on an antibiotic."

  Kristen wasn't planning on becoming a mother at

  twenty-four with only a year and a half of marriage behind

  her. She had been taking the pill, but then she had to take

  antibiotics to fight an infection. Apparently, they reduce the

  effectiveness of the pill, so . . . whammo, she was pregnant.

  She's paranoid that the same thing will happen to me.

  • l . '

  Not that she needs to be.

  Gabe and I aren't doing anything that would get me

  pregnant. Don't get me wrong. I think we've tried everything

  ese there is to try. We're having... well, a lot of fun.

  So much fun, it doesn't seem like we're missing out on all

  that much. Besides, just about the time we were thinking

  about the whole sex thing, Kristen got pregnant.

  All in all, watching your older sister puking every day is

  a pretty effective form of birth control. One time when she

  was at our house, she vomited so violently that she slammed

  her head against the toilet seat and had a giant bruise on her

  forehead for, like, a week and a half. Honest. And those first

  three months, it seemed like she was in bed with a headache

  whenever she was lucky (?) enough no: to be feeling nauseated.

  "If you and Gabriel are—" Kristen begins. I know this

  offer, too: She's willing to take me to the doctor, to help

  make sure Mom doesn't know, yadda, yadda, yadda....

  "We're not," I say. Then, to change the subject, I pull an

  adorable green baby outfit off the rack "Isn't this cute?" It's

  mint-colored and has a doggie and a kitty playing together

  on it.

  "Since when do dogs and cats play together?" Kristen

  asks.

  I roll my eyes. "C'mon. Children's clothes teach an

  important lesson. This outfit is trying to tell the baby that

  everyone can get along together if they just try."

  I admire a pretty pink outfit on the next rack over. It

  has beautiful combinations of pink and orange and yellow

  flowing together in a floral print. "And I love this one," I

  tell Kristen. "Too bad we don't know whether you're having

  a girl or a boy."

  In this day and age, who doesn't know that
before the

  baby's born? I just don't get why Kristen doesn't want to

  know what sex her baby is. I'm reduced to having to find

  every possible cute outfit in green—the only color they

  make unisex baby clothing in. Well, okay, that's not exactly

  true. There are a few yellow outfits that can go either way,

  too. But it seems like they all have ducks on them, and how

  many ducky outfits can a kid stand?

  "What's the point in knowing?" Kristen asks. We've

  had this conversation before, so we both approach it a little

  wearily.

  "Uh .. . let's see . . . planning the baby's room, buying

  clothes ahead of time, just knowing what to expect when

  you bring the baby home."

  "Madi>on, it's not as if I'd know the baby any better just

  by knowing it was a girl or a boy. I'm going to have to get

  to know ii after it's born anyway. Knowing the sex of the

  kid wouldn't really help me know who the kid's going to

  be. Sometimes I'll be driving along, and I'll wonder what

  this person inside me is going to turn out like, you know?

  ii'.

  I'll be thinking about the kid riding around in the car seat

  and wondering if it's going to fall asleep back there because

  it likes the car. Or maybe it'll hate the car and cry. I wonder

  what the kid's going to laugh about for the first time. And

  none of that seems to have anything to do with whether the

  kid's a boy or a girl."

  "Yeah," I say, "but if we knew you were having a girl, I

  could buy her this way cute outfit."

  "Doesn't mean it would look good on her, anyway."

  I ponder that. I never thought before about the difficulties

  of fashionably outfitting a baby. I mean, hair color,

  face shape, all that . . . I suppose you could become obsessive

  about wanting the baby to look just right and have the

  clothes match the kid's looks. But, I mean, what's the point?

  The kid's just going to spit up on the outfit anyway. At least,

  that's what's happened with any baby I've ever babysat for.

  "You know what amazes me, though?" Kristen is saying.

  "Huh?"

  "That this person has never been alive before. There

  was a time when he or she didn't exist. And now this kid does

  exist. So much of its destiny is already being determined

  from inside of me. How can that be? I mean, where really

  does life come from?"

  "Uh . . . too philosophical for me?"

  "Doesn't it just blow you away? That someone can not

  l , ;

  "True. But you have to remember that even if there's no

  one else in the world who loves you as much as I do, there's

  also no one else who can possibly hate you as much as I've

  hated you over the years. That makes me qualified to assess

  the situation."

  Kristen smiles at me. "Thanks, Maddy. Let's get the

  green outfit. If you don't have enough money to pay for the

  baby shoes, I'll get them. They are cute."

  "I want to get them," I protest. "I'm sure I have enough

  money. Wouldn't it be great, though, if I could convince

  Mom and Dad to get me a credit card?"

  "No way. I know what you'd spend your money on."

  We start walking toward the registers. "Oh, come on . . .

  I'm not that bad. And then I'd have the money to come back

  and buy that cute little pink outfit in another month if you

  end up having a gi—"

  I,J

  exist and then all of a sudden exist} Where was this person

  before conception?"

  "Is this another side effect of pregnancy?" I ask.

  "What?"

  "All this wondering about life, the universe, and everything

  in it?"

  "Maybe. I don't know. Some women start cleaning their

  houses frantically. Not me. I still can't stand cleaning. But I

  guess I do have some bizarre and deep need to understand

  life now that there's another life inside me."

  We're quiet for a moment, both looking at outfits.

  There's another green one that's a possibility. I pull it out

  and show it to Kristen. She suddenly asks, "Do you think

  I'll make a good mom? You know, a lot of this kid's life has

  already been determined. But there are some things chat I

  can still influence. Wonder if I'll do it right."

  Okay, I could come up with some kind of smart-ass

  remark worthy of the younger sister.

  In fact, it's tempting.

  But there's something so serious in her expression, so

  insecure, so at the whim of fate, that I can't do it. "Of course

  you'll make a great mother," I tell her.

  "I don't know."

  "I do. I've been the understudy for the part of your child

  several times. I know what I'm talking about."

  "You're biased."

  l.'l

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOH SALE

  E

  A NEW QUESTION OIERGES: Did my sister give birth to a boy

  or a girl?

  I'm convinced I would remember whether her child was

  a boy or a girl, convinced I'd even remember its name—if I

  ever knew. After all, so many other things have come back

  to me through these visits home, and Kristen's baby is so

  fundamentally a part of her that I know I would remember

  this baby if I'd ever m e t . . . him? Her?

  So what this means is . . .

  I must have died before the baby was born.

  Kristen was eight months pregnant, so I must have died

  some time in the month following that trip to the store.

  in

  Without ever becoming an aunt.

  I think of all the great mysteries that humankind has

  made progress toward resolving: the Big Bang, human evolution,

  weather prediction, the whole Einstein relativity thing.

  The one little mystery I want resolved seems so small

  by comparison. I just want to know who my sister's child is.

  I want to know about one little person in the whole history

  of the world. Why can't I?

  Okay, so maybe that's not such a "little" mystery after

  all. I mean, maybe that's the entire mystery of life: who we

  are, why we exist.

  Still, I feel cheated. My life was interrupted right in the

  middle of an important plot element.

  Back when I was alive, whenever I read ghost stories, the

  ghost always haunted other people. It went into the future

  to see what was happening in the world as life went on for

  the living. It got to find out what happened to the other

  characters in its story.

  Yeah. Right. I'm imprisoned within my own life. I never

  get to see beyond the boundaries of what I have already

  experienced.

  I can see why the vision everyone alive has of ghosts is

  so . . . well, wrong. No one wants to believe life really does

  end this way . . . interrupted, unresolved, and unfinished.

  I think back to Kristen's musings about the nature of

  existence . . . and nonexistence. Her wonder about who and

  i,-UNCORRECrED E-PROOF— NOT FOR SALE

  ISOMs£pjlinsBiWii!»H

  rattled

  16 Weeks

  Aah, eee, eee, ooo. Aaa-aaa, iii, eee, e, oo-oo. Oh, oom,

 
heee, eee, ah-ah, eee, ah-ah, ooo, oh, oh, ah-ah, eee, uh, uh,

  ooo, ah-ah. Ooo, uh, ah-ah. Hee-hee, oo, uh, ah-ah, eee.

  Ennn, ooo, ah, eee, ooh.

  • • •

  Okay. That one was . . . creepy.

  My journeys back to life have been mysterious before this, but

  ivhen I've returned I've always I understood what happened. I've

  remembered the events I experienced. But this time it is as if I

  experienced nothing.

  l r :

  what her baby was before it existed. Now I wonder the same

  thing. Who was / before I existed? Who am I now that I no

  longer dor

  It strikes me that this death thing is a lot like being in

  utero. My niece or nephew was alive inside my sister when

  she was eight months pregnant, but that baby didn't have

  the freedom to set any of the boundaries of its existence. It

  was locked into a small, dark place.

  Just like I am now.

  And before the pregnancy? Where was that baby then?

  Did it e x i s t . . . at all?

  Maybe that's the next stage in my trip.. .. I'm going to

  arrive at being nothing at all. . . . Death might just be the

  opposite of pregnancy... going through this dormant stage

  before arriving back to where we started . . . nonexistence.

  Where is God?

  When I was alive, I wasn't very religious. I mean, I didn't

  go to church and stuff like that, but I believed there was a

  god.

  Now I wonder if there is. I sure want one. I want more

  than this . . . n o t h i n g . . . that I'm afraid I might be moving

  toward. I want to feel like more than just some subatomic...

  thing . . . that can't decide whether it's a wave or a particle

  so it's both. Only in my case I can't seem to decide whether

  I'm alive or dead.

  I'm both.

  IH

  No, chat isn't right. I have a memory of definitely experiencing

  something, but it is .. . s o difficult to put into

  words.

  Color, sounds, warmth, touch. And there's one word I

  knew, even as an infant: ah-ah. It matches a voice and a smell

  and a touch I know well.

  Mama.

  She's the rock and the foundation of this experience.

  But what happened in that scene? I must have lost my

  rattle. It's the object that returned me to life. Did I cry?

  Did my mother pick me up? Comfort me? Soothe me? T h e

  rattle is still here, so she must not have been able to find it

  for me.

  I'm disconcerted by the whole experience and its myriad