Postcards from a Dead Girl

by Kirk Farber

  chapter 63

  Melanie and I agree to meet at The Basement; it’s our familiar safe ground. The dining section is quiet and intimate, with steel-brushed, round metal tables and chairs with funky fabric patterns. A single purple flower stands in the vase on the table, the only thing between us, besides the table itself.

  Melanie looks so alive, I find myself staring at her. I’ve spent so much time studying her from afar, I forget to engage in conversation. It’s like I’ve upped my binocular magnification, lucky enough to get a better view, but confounded by what to make of the new landscape. Me and Melanie and a purple flower in a vase.

  We get the awkward, obvious stuff out of the way. The good-to-see-yous and the I’m-glad-you-could-make-its. I hold out my injured hand and tell her I tripped and sprained my pinky finger. My vulnerable state gives us both an advantage; we have something to laugh at together. I’m such a klutz! And then we’re off.

  “Your sister told me a lot about you,” she offers.

  I’m not sure this is a good start. “Hope it was good,” I quip, and we laugh a little too long, and I want to say, No, really, I hope it was good, but I slurp at my ice water instead.

  “She’s a good egg, your sister. She cares about you.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and start counting in my head the number of times Natalie refused my calls this week. More ice water.

  “I’ve only known her a few months,” she says and smiles. “But sometimes you can tell when you’ve met a good person.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and think: I know exactly what you mean. I smile back. “I know exactly what you mean,” I say. She looks at the flower and smiles again, a declaration of goodness: this is going well so far.

  She tells me much more as the night goes on.

  Some things verbally: she likes going out to movies instead of renting because she likes the smell of popcorn even though she doesn’t eat any; she listens to classical music in the car, but sings out loud—poorly—when Guns N’ Roses is on the radio; she loves to stare at the stars for hours, usually at predawn because this is when the earth is at its most still; she practices yoga during this silent time at Jasmine Beach, right before sunrise, every morning, no matter what is going on in the world. “The sun is so beautiful at dawn, Sid,” she tells me. “You should see it sometime.” I imagine the two of us sitting on the beach at sunrise, our eyes closed as the sun reveals its light and warmth. The two of us, breathing slowly and deliberately, holding our lotus position with great conviction, levitating above the Jasmine sand.

  Other things she says nonverbally: laughing at my unfunny jokes, playing with her hair occasionally, smiling into the purple flower on the table as if it’s the source of her good fortune to be enjoying herself so much, so unexpectedly.

  Time moves faster than it should. A breezy, magical experience I’d forgotten about. And as I walk away from the café and Melanie walks in the opposite direction, I think about our inevitable second date, but I find myself unconsciously anticipating loud noises and mistakes, slipping and silences. “Let’s do this again” plays over in my ears, but I’m also speculating if tonight is the night the stringy things attack my cerebral cortex. We will have dinner again soon, and while I can’t wait, something inside me is fighting.

  It doesn’t help that, when I pull in my driveway, the door to the mailbox has been left open. That can only mean two things: someone took my mail or the mailman left it open. I can’t imagine how either might happen. My trepidation deepens when I see what’s inside—a single bright orange postcard with huge blue letters that read: COSTA RICA! I flip it over, and in that signature frilly penmanship it asks: “Do you know the way to San Jose?”

  I shove it back in the mailbox, shut the door, and hold it closed. As if by pure determination I will make it disappear. I think of the inspirational posters on the walls of Wanderlust. Create your own destiny! If you can conceive it, you can achieve it! I take a deep breath and open the door again: still there. I snatch the postcard and slip it in my back pocket. I look around for witnesses, march straight inside the house, back to my bedroom, and kneel down beside the mattress. I pull out the box of postcards, toss in the latest, cover it back up, and push it back under. I lay down, exhausted.

  I take a few more deep breaths to relax, like I learned on Cherry Hill. But what I’m trying to avoid comes anyway, as if by wishing it away I have actually wished it closer. Time pulls thin like saltwater taffy. Lilac candy fills the room with its sweet aroma, heady fluff spinning through the air like smiling faeries dancing in a sugarplum daydream until I fade away.

  chapter 64

  In my dreams, Melanie and I ride a Jet Ski over dark waters at night. It’s cold. Lightning flashes in the distance. We’re trying to reach land, but it’s not visible.

  I squeeze the throttle; Melanie squeezes me. Our Jet Ski slaps down hard on wave after wave; the icy sea-spray stings our faces. Growing numb from the plunging temperatures, I wonder if we’ll make it.

  Suddenly, our Jet Ski picks up speed, as if a weight has been lifted. We cruise over the water effortlessly and the horizon reveals itself. I turn back to tell Melanie we’re almost home, but she’s not behind me anymore. She’s a hundred yards back, a speck in the sea.

  I maneuver the bike around and head straight toward her, and that’s when I see it: the dip in the level of the ocean, the circular pattern, a vortex of rushing water, and Melanie, swirling helpless in the clutches of a giant whirlpool.

  I want to motor in and save her, but the Jet Ski will never make it out. I want to tell her there is no way I could have predicted this total nautical anomaly. I want to tell her how sorry I am, that it’s all my fault. But I can only watch in horror as she rides the spiral downward.

  chapter 65

  We’re here again, together, sitting in a restaurant across from one another. This time the flower between us is red, and it’s not one but several—a bouquet of paper flowers, a harbinger of abundance. The Chinese Moon is not a place either of us has dined, but we’ve both heard good things about its authentic food. If the elaborate fan-folded napkins are any measure of quality, I’d say we’re in for an exceptional culinary experience. A neon moon decorates the far wall, but it’s unlighted. I mention this to Melanie. She tells me that according to her friend, the neon moon mimics the lunar cycle of the real moon, and because it’s a new moon, it’s kept dark.

  “The new moon is when the Chinese New Year begins,” she says. “It’s good luck, I think. New beginnings and all that.” She smiles and studies the menu.

  The smells emanating from the kitchen tap into my main-line memories, and I begin to feel like I’m in Chinatown again, forever ago. Behind me, the kitchen doors swing open, followed by a barrage of authentic dialect. Rapid-fire vowels with hard edges sing through the dining room and cease just as suddenly when the kitchen doors swing closed. Did someone say, “Ning maa?” I go for the ice water.

  Looking directly at Melanie puts me at ease. It’s her hair, I think: chocolate brown, no streaks of color, no blue or pink or purple. I decide my best plan of action is to fully engage the conversation. If I’m talking, I’m not thinking. And, in fact, after we order a pot of oolong tea, I find that I can’t stop talking.

  “Do you believe in old souls?” I ask.

  “Oh I don’t know. Souls, yes. Old and young ones? I suppose.”

  “People often tell me I’m an old soul.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s the strangest thing. I don’t get it.”

  Melanie sips her tea. “Well I imagine that would be seen as a compliment,” she says, and smiles, and sips.

  I play with the paper flowers. “These are nice,” I say. “A nice red. Or burgundy, maybe, or crimson.”

  “They’re crimson.”

  “Crimson and clover,” I say. “Over and over,” I continue, and then laugh. I feel like I’m blathering on like an idiot and say as much, but she keeps assuring me she enjoys listening to me.

  We both nod
and sip and are quiet for a moment, but I have an uncontrollable urge to talk about everything. I can feel it rising in me like an unstoppable tide—a slow but steady surge of intimate details and boring stories and memories and—oh God no-philosophies on life.

  “I have a friend who believes you shouldn’t say good-bye to people,” I say, “because that means you’re saying good-bye to their spirit.”

  And Melanie doesn’t seem repelled by the comment; in fact she seems to be ingesting it and thinking—not talking—about this idea. But before she can share her thoughts, I’m on to another one.

  “Some people believe if you’re taken prematurely from life on Earth, you might hang around as a ghost until you get what you need to move on to the next life.”

  Melanie looks at me for a few seconds, considering this last declaration, and opens her mouth to respond, but I’ve got something else to say.

  “Did you know that spirits often talk to mediums in symbols so the medium must not only make contact with the spirit but then translate the symbols to find meaning in the spirit’s living counterpart?”

  And,

  “I used to think that the most exciting way to die was by avalanche.”

  And,

  “Copper is the best choice for plumbing pipes due to the metal’s durability and biostatic properties.”

  And,

  “Fusiform cerebral aneurysms are not actually as dangerous as you might think.”

  And,

  “Moor peat mud is rich in the clays and minerals known to reduce inflammation of the nerves and improve epidermal health.”

  And,

  “There are over 25,000 objects in the sky above us right now floating in space.”

  And,

  Dear God. I can’t shut up.

  I apologize for talking so much, but Melanie says she likes it when I talk, and brushes her hair out of her face. And I read once that if a girl plays with her hair when you’re on a date, that means she’s attracted to you. But the tide is reaching its high point, and who knows what else I might say to her. I excuse myself to the restroom.

  Inside a stall, I brace my hands against the walls to maintain a standing position. I feel the tide ebbing, but not nearly as fast as I need it to ebb. The quiet of the restroom has given me a break from myself, but I can’t believe all the things I’ve said. “Epidermal health?” I ask out loud to make sure I really said it. The question is full of reverb.

  Maybe five minutes go by and I still feel full of words. Scenes and stories want out, to be told into existence, like dying stars gasping for their last light. But I can’t scare this girl any more than I already have. I’ve spent weeks dreaming of coming to her rescue and now I’m here with the real Melanie and I’m drowning instead of helping. Maybe she’s not the one who needs saving. I take a few deep, yogic breaths and walk back out to the dining room.

  The lights have dimmed, indicating another level of evening—a deeper intimacy here at The Chinese Moon. Melanie isn’t at our table. I look back to the restrooms in case she’s taken a trip herself, but the waiter’s expression explains it all: she’s gone.

  Her absence leaves me with a momentary sense of relief, the tide has completely ebbed now. But it’s replaced by the stinking death of stranded sea life, and it makes me a little sick.

  “What time is it?” I ask the waiter.

  “Your date left five minutes ago, sir,” he says. He tells me I’ve been gone over half an hour.

  For a brief moment, I wonder if she’s waiting for me on the sidewalk outside, but she’s better than that. I look at the red table flowers, which don’t seem so abundant now that I’ve probably blown my last chance. What is wrong with me?

  “How would you like to pay?” the waiter asks, and I reach for my credit card, knowing that it will never go through.

  chapter 66

  Driving clears my head—the movement, the white noise, the tangible feel of cause and effect as I push the gas pedal or brake. So I drive, and wait for clarity. I guess I should be feeling thankful that the restaurant owner happened to be one of Natalie’s patients, and that Natalie was willing to cover my bill. I wouldn’t have gotten off so easy, otherwise. I should also be feeling grateful that Melanie wasn’t waiting outside the restaurant, ready to punch me in the stomach. But all I can think about is her eyes, how they smiled at me over dinner, how much of a good time we seemed to be having, and how I ruined it for both of us. It’s especially difficult to feel thankful when my sister is yelling at me through my cell phone while I’m driving. But I’m pretty good at talking on the phone and driving at the same time, unlike some people. I put the phone on speaker and let it rest in my lap so I can drive with both hands. Natalie’s voice pierces through the road noise.

  “You just left her there?!”

  “She left me.”

  “Because you vanished!”

  “Just relax.”

  “You’re telling me to relax?”

  “Well, what do you want me to say?” I ask.

  “How about ‘I’m sorry’ for starters?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And then ‘Thanks for paying for my dinner’ would be good.”

  “I didn’t know my card was maxed out.”

  “Jesus, Sid!”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Sorry and thank you,” I say. I keep the wheel steady on the road, focus my stare on the highway.

  “Well that’s not really going to cut it, is it,” she says.

  “I’ll pay you back, don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried about the fucking money, Sid!” Natalie is not the swearing type, so I know I’ve really upset her. She reserves this kind of language for when she’s feeling helpless, or hopeless, and neither one is good. She seems to be feeling like this a lot more often since her pregnancy. And right now her voice sounds hoarse, desperate, as if she’d been screaming previous to our conversation. “I just don’t understand how you could let this happen.”

  I let out a big sigh.

  Natalie winds up again. “You know, I told her about Zoe and Mom. I told her about your past year, and she still wanted to meet you. So what the hell am I supposed to say about this?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” she mocks, then says it again away from the receiver, to imaginary people she wants to have join in her resentment. “That’s all you can come up with?”

  I answer with silence, and continue my study of the road signs. The Highway 20 overpass is three miles away, and I feel a sense of dread when I realize where I’m headed.

  “Let me tell you something, Sid, because there’s a lot I can tell.”

  “I bet.”

  “Let me tell you how it’s been to be your sister for the past year.”

  “That’d be great, Nat.”

  “Let me tell you how it is to have thirty patients in my care daily, but the one who needs the most attention is my brother, who is perfectly healthy. My brother, who calls me five times a day, even though I tell him I can’t talk, not because I don’t want to but because I need to tend to people with real physical ailments.”

  “I won’t ever call you again.”

  “Let me tell you about my brother, who tragically lost his girlfriend—”

  “Here we go!”

  “—but who doesn’t know how to let go, over a year later.”

  My hands form a thin layer of sweat, greasing the steering wheel. I clamp down harder.

  “A year,” she says again, for maximum impact, “that’s twelve months.”

  Still driving.

  “He can’t let go because he feels guilty that he somehow did something wrong, even though it was an accident. He can’t let go because he doesn’t want to admit that the relationship was over anyway.”

  Two miles to the Highway 20 overpass. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. My mouth is dry. I
feel something spark in my chest, a tiny ember burning a hole in my lung.

  “You didn’t love Zoe anymore, and you feel terrible about it.”

  I cough hard, or maybe it’s a laugh. It’s a loud noise, whatever it is.

  “You didn’t love her anymore, Sid.”

  I fucking hate it when she says my name like that. I punch the roof, but she keeps talking. The scar on my hand throbs.

  “You two fought constantly. You were both done with each other, and then she died, and now you can’t stand yourself, so you’re screwing everything up as punishment—some kind of twisted atonement.”

  “That is fucking perfect, Nat. Sounds like you got me all figured out. I didn’t realize you were a psychiatrist, too.” The hot hole in my chest blossoms wider, threatens vital organs. “I just wish you’d be less subtle, you know, say what’s really on your mind.”

  “You want me to be more direct?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great!”

  “I can definitely be more direct,” she snarls. Her voice is muddy and distorted, like her mouth is pressed tight against the phone.

  “Go for it,” I say, and swallow hard against the heat rising in my neck.

  “You got it!”

  “Here we go!” I say, and then she goes.

  “She wanted to travel, so you go to work at a travel agency.”

  “Really—”

  “She wanted a dog, so you go buy a dog. Sound about right?”

  “No,” I say, because I want to tell her that’s not how it happened with the dog.

  “She died in that car accident and you lived,” Nat says, “so you come up with reasons every day for why you should be dead too.”