by Brian Mercer
My room was dark, lit only by the feeble white light from the lamppost outside. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror over the dresser, swallowing, refusing the tears that threatened to barrel me over. In the faint light my thick black mascara made my eyes look like two shadowy sockets, like a skull whose insides had been eaten away. I felt hollow; insubstantial. Something in my stomach shimmered and pulsated, showering down into my legs like the vibrations that came before my out-of-body projections.
I opened the top dresser drawer and fished through my underclothes until I found it: a bottle of blue sleeping pills. Opening the container, I dry-swallowed a few. They had been my talisman against the out-of-body experiences for the past three weeks. While I wasn't sure if they did anything to keep spirit glued to flesh, they did seem to reduce the memory of my nightly excursions to all but a few broken images and feelings. I liked to think that if I didn't remember them that they weren't really happening.
Plopping on the bed, I tugged my rust-colored afghan over me, trying to press out the cold. A dizzy sense of vertigo twirled through my middle, as if my insides were corkscrewing into the mattress and down through the floor. I clutched the sides of the bed to steady myself and after a minute, the sense of swaying faded away.
I had six more weeks until finals and enough credits to graduate from high school. For the past year I'd pooled all my energy into making that finish line — eighteen years old with diploma in hand, Derrick and I could get away and never look back. I was so close I could taste it! And yet now I lacked the energy to fight anymore. The Universe was telling me I didn't belong here, that continued struggle was useless. I had to get out, right away, even if it meant giving up everything I'd worked so hard for.
I tried to convince myself that all would be better once we were in Vancouver. What would Derrick say when I told him I wanted to get away as soon as possible? All this time I'd begged him to wait until I could graduate. He'd be torqued off that I was giving up in sight of my goal. I didn't like the way we'd been bickering lately. It made me think of my mom and dad in the months after Chris died, when everything had fallen apart.
The last day of Chris's life, that nightmarish afternoon that I'd been looking after him, was stained on my brain like a bug smear on a fender that you could never quite scrape off. Chris had been lying on the floor of the family room, watching cartoons and clutching Kitty Cat, his favorite stuffed animal. I'd been in my room on the phone, talking to the guy du jour. I was only on the phone for maybe twenty minutes, but when I toddled back into the family room to check on Chris I found my five-year-old little brother on the floor, blue, cold, and unresponsive. I'd never forget the way his dead weight felt, the strain on my arms when I squeezed him, trying to pull out whatever it was that prevented him from breathing as the 911 operator's tinny voice coached me over my cell phone.
It turned out there wasn't anything I could have done to save him. Chris was always putting whatever was handy into his mouth and that afternoon it had been a quarter from the pile of spare change Dad had left on the coffee table. When he swallowed it accidentally, it might still have come loose when I tried to dig it out except Chris had evidently reached into his mouth to pull it free and in his panic had wedged it farther down his throat. He died before the paramedics had even arrived.
Chris's passing triggered a living nightmare that none of us could wake from. My parents still functioned somehow, moving about as vacantly as zombies, unable to square our previous life with the horror show that was our new existence. Dad, who'd been a recreational drug user in his wild high school days, quickly sank back into his old habits. For months he was more or less permanently stoned and that's not really cool if you want to have a job. When he lost that, we were up the creek without a paddle, a spoon, or a straw.
Mom blamed Dad for leaving his pocket change within Chris's easy reach; Dad blamed Mom for the garden show that had driven them out of the house that day. While neither of them said it, I was sure they both secretly blamed me for not watching Chris closely enough in the first place and not being able to save him in the second. I missed Chris so much it ached until my bones throbbed. I'd let everyone down and now I was unanimously despised. Yeah, I got crock-faced myself a few times, but every time I came out of it there was Dad — The Loser — checked out and washed up. Unless I wanted to be a universal screw-up like him, I'd have to pull myself together.
You might think that being the family's only remaining child, I'd somehow be more appreciated. But it was clear now that Mom and Dad had emotionally shut down, unable to give me anything they weren't using for themselves. Yeah, they were going through their own baggage, I know, but I felt as abandoned as if I'd been the one who'd died. I might not have choked that day but I felt, over time, like I was slowly suffocating.
It had been years since Mom and I had gotten along and Chris's accident hadn't done anything to bring us any closer. Dad, drugged out and disconnected, lacked the stones to pull the family together. Eventually, Mom moved back to Idaho with her sisters, wanting nothing to do with Dad or me, content to pretend that none of her life in Sacramento had ever happened. I'd been erased from her life.
Now, as I lay there in bed, the effects of the sleeping pills starting to take hold, my thoughts started to drift nonsensically. I kept dreaming of crowds screaming at me, twisted faces cursing from the dark, startlingly hateful expressions distorting their features. I felt unseen arms grabbing at me, dragging me through slushy puddles of freezing mud, as overhead sleet fell in wet, icy shreds.
The turf at the edge of the woods had rent apart, as if something deep in the earth had heaved open to puke out an object that it had swallowed but couldn’t digest. There was something in that hole that terrified me beyond the ability to think and reason. I felt sure that if the hands clutching my arms, my legs, my throat, managed to drag me inside that hole I would never get out.
The crowd shoved me to the edge of the void. When I looked down through the darkness I could see pale limbs clawing and wriggling, as if those trapped in the pit were pleading for help beyond my power to give. The moment I was thrown in, I felt myself hurdling through the abyss, flying as I did so often in my dreams. The last thing I remember as I plunged through the emptiness, certain I was out of my body now, was calling out to Chris. If I truly was in the spirit realm, where Chris had gone, why hadn't I ever seen him? If he'd just come to me, if only for a little while, his bright green eyes gleaming again, all the terrifying out-of-body projections might be worth it.
****
"This is gonna sound psycho, I know." I took a sip of my coffee, wondering if I could remember it all. "Okay, I'm in some kind of ballroom, like at a fancy hotel. It's really bright and I'm sitting at a round table with a white tablecloth, kind of like it's a wedding reception. There are others there, too, sitting at these tables, and we're listening to this old man giving a talk. It's like some kind of hokey seminar."
I waited for Nicole to say something, but she just stared at me intently, her fingers caressing the point of her chin as if she was sitting for an artist who might even now be sketching her from the back corner of the coffeehouse. It was Saturday and even though she didn't work, Nicole was dressed as if she was on her way to a job interview, a silky white blouse beneath a grey, sleeveless wool dress. Her long red hair spiraled charmingly over her shoulders, as if each lock had been meaningfully placed. Why men didn't fall over themselves to get her attention, I didn't know. Everywhere we went she was turning heads, but no one ever approached her. Nicole seemed oblivious to it all.
"The old man is someone I've seen before," I went on. "I think of him as The Butler. I don't know why. Maybe it's because there's a sort of stiffness to him. Like he should be standing here, holding a tray of drinks. He has a white goatee and mustache, white hair, and these sweet, brown eyes." I sighed without thinking about it, wishing — not for the first time — that he were real.
"Do you remember what he was lecturin' about?" Nicole asked, sipping her
hot chocolate. "Do go on. It might be important."
"I wish I did. The next thing I remember I'm outside in the dark. There's this school bus that's gone off the side of the road and its red taillights are blinking. I'm with some of the people from the lecture and we run up to the school bus and go inside. I remember there was this Asian girl maybe twelve or thirteen years old, lying unconscious on one of the seats. Without really thinking about it, I stuck out my hands, which were glowing white, and placed them on her chest. No, wait, I think... I think into her chest.
"Her chest glowed a pale sort of green. The longer I kept my hands there, the brighter the light seemed to grow. When I moved back my hands, her chest was still glowing, like this very bright Christmas light. Just then the Asian girl sat up. She seemed to be okay.
"Then I'm back in the hotel ballroom and The Butler's talking again." I shook my head. "I don't remember exactly what he was talking about, but it had something to do with the school bus accident. It was like it had been part of the lesson he'd been talking about earlier and the bus part had been a test.
"That's pretty much all I remember... No, wait. There's one more thing. After the lecture I was thanking him for letting me be there and he looked at me with the nicest sort of smile and he says, 'You're welcome, Cali. Please come anytime.'
"He was like the nicest, most accepting person I'd ever met. It's like... he's like the grandpa I never had."
Nicole didn't say anything for a long time. She put her cup to her lips and looked outside at the heavy Christmas traffic moving in and out of the mall parking lot. Shoppers were passing on the sidewalk outside, some with umbrellas, others with armloads of shopping bags, their shoulders hunched against the wind-driven rain.
"It sounds like you're going through some kind of initiation, sweetie. I wish I could get a better sense of it but I'm drawin' a blank. Whatever it is, it seems important."
"Wait. I thought you were psychic. What, do I gotta start paying you now?"
She lowered her gaze into her cup. "That's not funny."
"I'm sorry. Don't have a fit. What, your aunt charging for your readings now?"
Nicole looked at me guiltily. "Yeah, she kinda does."
"Are you serious? No way. How much?"
"It depends. Sometimes three hundred for an hour session. Sometimes five."
"Five hundred dollars! No flippin' way. People are paying that?"
"Ah-hah. I'm feelin' kind of weird about it, though."
I shook my head. "That is weird. I thought you guys had plenty of money."
"I thought so, too. But Aunt Alice says the trust fund isn't gonna last forever and that I should learn to use my talents in ways that benefit everyone."
I looked at her through narrowed eyes. "That's screwed up. Something doesn't smell right. Don't you have some psychic sense about all this? Can't you just ask your spirit guide what's up? What does Charlie have to say about this?"
"It doesn't work that way. Charlie isn't just going to sit there and give me all the answers. We're all here to learn lessons and we're supposed to figure things out on our own. But I've gotta believe that if somethin' was really cattywampus that Charlie would warn me."
"Isn't there a more real-world way to find out? You must have a lawyer or something. Can you ask for an audit of the trust fund?"
"I can't, actually. Not really. Everything's sealed until I'm twenty-eight."
"Twenty-eight? Are you serious? That's totally messed up. You'll be an old lady by then and your aunt will have squandered all your inheritance. No exceptions?"
"No exceptions, unless somethin' happens to Aunt Alice. Then all the money and property goes directly into my name."
"What if something happens to you?"
Nicole looked at me uneasily. "Then Aunt Alice gets it all."
"Whoa. Dude. That's screwed up."
She sighed deeply. "Sweetie, I hope you don't mind me tellin' you all this family business. I really appreciate your being such a good listener."
Seeing Nicole looking scared and vulnerable made something in my chest tighten. I'm going to miss you, I thought, wishing for the thousandth time that I was running away with Nicole instead of Derrick. Nicole and I had come to be best friends, despite her aunt Alice's attempts to keep us apart. Even that first week, Nicole was already saying that I was her only real friend since her parents died. What I hadn't said back was that Nicole had been my only female friend in the same time period. But Nicole was psychic. She probably knew that already.
At least that's what I thought at the time. As insightful as Nicole was about other people's lives, she had the strange tendency to be rather clueless about her own. Charlie did seem to guide her in vague ways, telling her if people she met would be good or bad to her. He often gave traveling advice, such as which route to take home or the best time to leave. But for all her powers, Nicole seemed as much in the dark about herself as any normal person.
Despite our friendship, I'd never told her about my plans to run away with Derrick to Vancouver. If she knew this by other methods — which was always possible — she'd never said anything about it. I didn't know why I kept it secret. Maybe I worried that she might distance herself from me if she knew I was leaving. Or maybe I thought she'd disapprove and reveal some terrible prediction about my destiny in Canada. More than anything, I found myself hoping that something might happen to alter my plans, something — anything — to force me to stay.
Just as I'd predicted, Derrick wasn't too pleased about my plans to leave for Canada on such short notice, especially just before Christmas. He'd grudgingly relented, but it had taken some convincing. We were leaving in three days, right after my last shift at the smoothie bar. I'd pick up my last paycheck, spend the night with Derrick, and together leave before first light. I didn't know when, if ever, I'd be in Sacramento again. I assumed this was goodbye. But actually saying it was harder than I thought.
"You can always talk to me," I said. "About anything. There's nothing you can't tell me."
"That goes for the both of us," she said, looking back at me meaningfully. "You can tell me anythin', sweetie. You know that, don't you?"
I swallowed uncomfortably. "I do."
We gazed at each other for a long moment. Nicole frequently grew intense like this, looking deeply into my eyes as if searching my soul for what was inside. I liked losing myself in those green eyes and the intensity of emotion behind them. She knows, I thought, she must know I'm leaving. I can't just disappear without telling her where I'm going. Time to fess up.
She suddenly looked down at her watch. "Oh goodness! I've gotta go. Aunt Alice only let me out of the house by myself because she thinks I'm Christmas shoppin' for her."
"No, wait. Don't go yet. I... we..."
She stood, collecting her grey plaid overcoat. "Sorry. But we can talk again next week. No school until after New Year's, of course, but Aunt Alice's havin' a small Christmas party on Friday. You'll come, won't you?" She placed her hand regretfully on her chest. "Where are my manners? I'll send you a formal invite, of course."
By Friday I would be in Tacoma, Washington, or — with any luck selling Derrick's car — in Vancouver itself. I was pretty sure I would talk to Nicole again someday. There was always e-mail and Internet chats, despite her general dislike for using computers. If not that, there was always the phone. Yet this was very likely the last time we'd see each other face to face and I didn't want to let the moment go without saying something.
"Look, there's something I haven't told you."
"You'll come over on Friday?" she asked, ignoring me.
"Well, I don't know if I'll—"
"Okay, it's settled then. Friday at seven o'clock." Nicole hugged me, kissing my cheek. "Until Friday then."
"Wait."
"It'll be all right." She smiled sweetly. "You'll see."
Nicole walked outside, timidly opening her crimson umbrella as if she was firing off a flare gun. I drummed my fingers meditatively on the table, watching N
icole weave through the traffic toward her parked car. Something clenched in the center of my chest. Nicole had been the one light in a very dark time. When I was with her, I could feel a glimmer of a bright future ahead. But as her car swallowed her and threaded through the parking lot and onto the main road, I felt all sense of that future snuff out completely.
Chapter Ten
Cali
Sacramento, California
December 20
The front door of the smoothie bar where I worked opened and a new wave of customers flowed inside with a chill gust of wind. The store was already packed wall-to-wall with Christmas shoppers skipping dinner but fortifying themselves with fruit drinks. Blenders on either side of me fired off like buzz saws, drilling into the high decibel levels like spikes shooting through my ears. My coworkers, two sisters with a fondness for snacking on strawberries, moved about lackadaisically, completely unconcerned about the growing line and the increasing irritation of the customers waiting for their drink orders.
I glanced up at the clock. No flipping way! Still five-thirty? It had been five-thirty the last three times I'd checked. Time had slowed to a trickle. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure that once when I checked, the minute hand had actually moved backwards. What good was having only a half-hour left in my last shift if time wouldn't move ahead to bring it to an end?
My packed suitcase — everything I'd be taking with me to Canada — was already at Derrick's house. I was taking surprisingly little. I'd left my computer, my books, and the little mementos I'd collected over the years to mark life's big milestones. When it came to choosing what was important, there was very little that wasn't practical. I took clothes, shoes, makeup, a few bits of jewelry. I only grabbed two sentimental items: a diary I'd kept in the fifth grade and a small photo album — the very best pictures from my childhood, snapshots taken many years before Chris's accident. Maybe someday I'd be able to look at them without a sour taste filling my mouth.