Suicide Souls

by Penni Jones

  Daisy smiles softly at first, like she’s enjoying the memory of Luke. Then her mouth turns down and her chin trembles.

  I shift my attention to Luke. He looks like he wants to cry. Too bad he can’t. It would probably help him get through this quicker.

  Daisy pulls her son closer, squeezing him so hard that he says, “Ow, Mom.”

  “Sorry, baby.” She relaxes her grip and wipes a tear from her cheek.

  “What’s wrong?” the boy asks.

  “Nothing, baby. Just thinking about your daddy.”

  “He knows?” It sounds like a statement and a question.

  “Sounds like it.” I only answer to remind him of my existence.

  Time to blow this popsicle stand. I close my eyes and wait for the pull. But nothing happens. My eyes open to the sight of a weeping Daisy and a staring Luke. Why are we still here?

  “Why aren’t we moving?”

  “Dunno.” Luke doesn’t look at me. He just stares with his mouth open.

  My fist balls up and I fake-punch him. It would feel so great to for-real punch him right now. Luke slowly turns his head toward me.

  “Can you please have a little fucking compassion?” he asks.

  “We don’t have time for compassion, you emo nitwit,” I say with my teeth clenched, at least I think they are. It’s hard to tell for sure. “Is the Shadow still here?”

  Luke’s eyes become more alert and he looks around the room slowly. “I don’t think so.”

  “What are we supposed to do now?” I don’t expect him to know, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.

  “I guess I’m not done here.” He turns back to Eben and Daisy.

  This is my hell, my purgatory, my punishment. I wonder if it’s for being generally heartless, or for something in particular. Like the time I was mad at my sister for calling me a slut, so I flashed my tits at her husband. I didn’t want to sleep with him or anything. He had gout and always smelled like he’d just been hovering over a stockpot. It was just a case of me acting out because my feelings were hurt. No big deal, really. She was flashing her tits all the time back then. Mainly because she was breastfeeding or whatever. It was gross.

  At least I am finally feeling regret. Mostly just regretting rushing through my grief watch and getting stuck with Luke. Such a miserable waste of space. I bet he wrote shitty poetry when he was alive. He probably read Edgar Allan Poe like all the other smelly morose 1990s teens.

  * * *

  Luke

  I wonder if Daisy pushed Eben out, or if it was a C-section. Would I have been able to handle that shit? Probably not. I would have been one of those jerks who passes out in the delivery room, creating a family anecdote that would be told for years.

  This is the strangest thing that’s ever happened. More than watching my parents grieve, more than my roommate tasting my brain-and-blood odor on his toast, more than the first time I met Edgar in that weird not quite café food court place.

  None of this has felt real, but this feels the most like a dream.

  As Poe said, “All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”

  “Maybe you have to make Eben cry before we can go,” Naomi says.

  “Yeah. Probably.”

  The revelation that Eben is the reason we’re still here had sat perched on the edge of my brain, not quite ready to dive in, like a child apprehensive about jumping in a swimming pool.

  Making my newfound son cry sounds like pure torture.

  “We’ll have to do the dream thing Edgar told us about,” Naomi says.

  “No. It’s too mean.”

  Naomi inches closer and pushes her tits centimeters from my face. “Do you have a better idea, Cobain?”

  For a second, all I concentrate on is her tits, the once fleshy half-globes spilling from the top of her red dress. I want to squeeze them more than I have wanted anything since I’ve been dead.

  “You want to touch them, don’t you?” she whispers. I can feel her breath again, though I don’t know if it’s some weird spirit pressure or my imagination.

  I nod without taking my focus from her chest.

  “I promise you, Luke. If you cooperate and get us the fuck out of the middle of shithole, Missouri, I will let you touch my boobs as soon as I have a body again.”

  “They won’t be the same tits.” Not this perfect rack, no way. This is a one in a million set of boobs. How could someone with these sweater meats ever have been sad enough to kill herself?

  “You’re right. But maybe they’ll be even better.” She bends her knees a little so I’m looking at her face instead of her chest. Her face is pretty, but not as impressive as those boobs. “If they’re not, I’ll buy some new ones. Okay? And I’ll let you motorboat them, even though women hate that.”

  “Even if I’m ugly?”

  “Yes, even if you’re ugly.”

  “Even if I have that weird condition that makes my sweat smell like chicken soup?”

  Naomi purses her lips and says, “Okay. But maybe for not as long.”

  Maybe making my kid cry isn’t such a big deal. It will save me and Edgar, after all. And kids cry all the time, right? That’s kind of what they’re known for. Otherwise people wouldn’t call you a baby when you cry.

  “It’s time for bed, Eben,” Daisy says.

  “But Alex isn’t home yet.” Eben stands from her lap even as he protests.

  “Alex has to work late. You know that.”

  I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m glad to hear Eben say “Alex” instead of “Dad.”

  But who the fuck is this Alex anyway? Please, please don’t let it be Alex from the high school basketball team. That guy took a shit on my front porch one time because he cheated off my math test and made a C.

  “Come on.” Daisy stands up and smooths her jeans before grabbing Eben’s hand and leading him down the tiny hallway.

  “If his bedroom is decorated in footballs and baseballs, I’m going to puke,” Naomi says.

  If Naomi hadn’t killed herself, someone would have eventually done the job for her. She could have just waited and the outsourcing would have taken care of itself.

  “Oh, shit. I can’t puke. Maybe I can make that my first task when I’m in a new body.”

  My first instinct is to wait in the hall while Daisy goes through the bedtime routine. But I don’t want to. I should see everything.

  Eben goes into an orange bathroom and pees sitting down.

  “Does he get that from daddy?” Naomi asks.

  “Actually, yes. It’s less messy.”

  “Sissy.” Naomi goes back to the hallway while I watch Eben brush his teeth. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t do it long enough, but I can’t do anything about that.

  He goes into a bedroom that is indeed decorated in a stock sports theme. I never would have allowed that bullshit.

  My dad forced me to play football. Pee-wee all the way to junior high, when a knee injury put me out for what was supposed to be the season, but I never returned. I hated it. We were children competing for manhood. Who could be the fastest, the strongest, the most enviable? Fuck that. All I wanted to do was read books and play guitar. Later I added smoking pot and having sex to my preferred activities. But never sports.

  I saw a puddle in the field and planted my foot in it right as I ran and turned my knee just slightly. Enough to fall over with a torn ACL. It hurt like a bitch, but it was the smartest thing I had ever done.

  Every time my dad suggested I find another sport, I reminded him how much the knee surgery had cost him. That shut him up every single time.

  But maybe Eben is different. Daisy played softball and ran track in high school. Maybe he inherited her competitive nature.

  Or maybe the bullshit wallpaper came with the trailer and Daisy can’t be bothered to change it.

  Eben puts on robot pajamas and climbs into his twin bed with a pale green comforter. At least there are no balls on the bed.

  Bojangles jumps up and licks Eben on the face. T
he dog plops down and lets out a little grunt. He’s staring at me, but not reacting. He’s just letting me know that he doesn’t trust me.

  Can’t blame him.

  Daisy squeezes Eben and kisses him, then quietly sings “Jesus Loves Me” to him. She hands him a book and whispers, “Only fifteen minutes, okay? It’s a school night.”

  Naomi is here now. I don’t know when she came in from the hall.

  Daisy leaves the room through the door like living people do. Bojangles follows her and keeps his eyes on me until he’s out of the room. Daisy closes the door behind her, leaving Eben alone in the little bedroom.

  His room is smaller than mine was. But I didn’t know mine was small until I grew into an awkward, lanky teen. Eben probably doesn’t know that his room is the size of a walk-in closet.

  Ignorance is the best part of childhood.

  He reads for a while and puts his book on the bedside table. He turns off the lamp. There are two nightlights. He’s afraid of the dark. Just like I was.

  I’ve transferred a phobia to my kid without having anything to do with him.

  “This room looks like it would smell like dirty socks,” Naomi says.

  “Do you ever say anything nice?”

  She responds with a smirk. I guess I deserve to be stuck with a stone-cold bitch. That’s what I get for hesitating so much. For not being sure if I even want to try again.

  Wow. I’m a miserable piece of shit.

  “Aw. He’s cute when he’s asleep,” Naomi says. “See, that was nice.”

  For some reason, a memory of eating candy comes to me. Maybe I was about Eben’s age, and I sat on the porch eating that powdered candy that stuck to the candy stick when you licked it. My tongue had a small, bloody hole in it after I finished the package. But that didn’t stop me from eating it again.

  Failure to learn a lesson is a strong quality.

  “What was your favorite candy when you were a kid?”

  “Starburst,” Naomi says. “I liked chewy shit.”

  “I miss chewing,” I say.

  “Me, too.” Naomi wraps her arms around herself like she left her jacket at home.

  “We will live to chew again.” I put my hand on her shoulder. The warm shift is divine. I’m so used to feeling the same way all the time now. Is it possible to be depressed when you’re dead? All signs point to “yes.”

  “Let’s get this done.” She points to the bed.

  I move over to Eben and lay down beside him.

  Edgar told us that we can make contact when our grief targets are asleep because the barrier between us is more pliable. When someone isn’t awake, the logical part of their brain can’t convince them that we’re not really there. It’s information I could have used the entire time, but I’m grateful to have it now. I can touch my boy.

  I place my hand on top of his head. His short hair is coarser than I expected. But it’s still amazing. My hand moves to his face and then to his shoulder.

  “Are you thinking about his dream?” Naomi asks.

  Another thing we finally learned from Edgar. We can enter their dreams if we’re touching them.

  “Yes,” I whisper, even though my voice can’t wake him up no matter how loud I am.

  Back to Eben’s dreams. I imagine pushing him on a swing even though he’s probably too old for that. We’re both laughing at a joke that happened before the scene in our heads started. It doesn’t matter which one of us told the joke. It’s a win either way.

  Eben’s eyes twitch, and he starts to smile. It’s beautiful the way sunshine is after a four-day rainstorm.

  I imagine stopping the swing and standing in front of him. I tell him that I love him, that I’m sorry I left, that he must always be good to his mother.

  A single tear escapes from his eye to his pillow.

  Maybe my mark of fatherhood is making this kid cry. I did it. I’m a real dad.

  “Why did you do it, Daddy?” he asks.

  Tears pour down my cheeks in the dream. It’s such a relief to find some sort of catharsis, even if it’s imaginary.

  I pull him into my arms. He feels so real that I’m almost certain we are on a playground crying like two pansies, sitting ducks for the Neanderthal bullies who tormented me during my playground years.

  “I was weak, son. I didn’t know about you. I didn’t think I had a future.” My tears flow onto the top of his head. “I’m so sorry.”

  My shirt is wet in the dream. Eben is crying against me. Hard. And he’s crying onto his pillow.

  “Never forget that I love you,” I say. And I mean it. I never loved anyone this much when I was alive.

  “It’s working,” Naomi says. She’s smiling a way no one should smile in response to a weeping child. But she is trying to save me from Oblivion. Maybe I should take it easier on her.

  Eben’s eyes open, and it appears like he’s looking right at me.

  “Is he…” Naomi says right before Eben closes his eyes and rolls over.

  I join Naomi and place my hand over hers. Maybe the transition will feel different when we’re trying to touch.

  But nothing happens.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she says. “Do we have to make the baby cry, too?”

  I start to respond that making the baby cry couldn’t possibly be on the agenda, but then I realize she’s being sarcastic.

  You forget how people talk if you spend too much time alone. Especially people who are sarcastic assholes.

  Chapter 9

  Naomi

  Edgar appears beside us. He looks dapper in his suit. Official. Like someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

  I guess anyone can become a suicide soul. All anybody needs is a little bit of trauma and a little push.

  Before Edgar says anything, I ask him why he did it.

  “Did what?” he asks while pretending to smooth his lapels.

  “Offed yourself.”

  “Heroin.” He sighs and says, “Once I tried it, I couldn’t stand the thought of being sober. My man left and I ran the club into the ground. It was New Year’s Day, 1950. I couldn’t face the new decade. Heroin was all I had left, and I decided to let it kill me.” Edgar’s eyes are on us but he’s looking far away into a life he rejected long ago. “I injected every drop that I had in my apartment. Enough to put down an elephant.”

  “I didn’t know heroin was a thing back then,” Luke says, bringing Edgar back to us.

  “I was an early adapter,” Edgar says. “A trendsetter.”

  Edgar motions toward Eben’s bedroom door and we all walk through it. It’s surprisingly enjoyable to no longer need doorknobs. Makes me feel like a superhero.

  We gather in the living room. Habits from our living days are still with us when we congregate.

  Bojangles is asleep on the couch. His paws twitch like he’s dreaming about running.

  If there is reincarnation, please let me come back as a dog. Then I can dream about running through a meadow instead of my dad yelling at me for dressing like a whore.

  “Why are we still here?” Luke asks. He’s sitting on the couch even though there’s no reason to sit. It’s not like his feet can be sore. I sit down beside him just to feel normal.

  Edgar stands in front of us with his arms crossed. “Apparently you’re not finished yet. But I don’t think you have much time left.”

  As if on cue, the curtains wave even though the windows aren’t open.

  “I saw it that time.” I’m suddenly very cold. But not from the inside out. It’s like the room is freezing.

  “Do you feel that?” Luke’s eyes dart around the room. He stands and his body jerks as a shiver runs through him.

  “Yes,” Edgar says in a loud whisper.

  I stand and we huddle together in the middle of the trailer’s living room. This can’t be my ultimate end. Not here. Not in goddamn Missouri in a mobile home. Why did I kill myself? I didn’t really want to die. I just wanted to get my shit together, but I was to
o lazy to figure out how.

  Black smoke emerges from behind the polyester curtains. Please God don’t let my last sight be mauve polyester curtains.

  * * *

  Luke

  The Shadow is the closest it’s ever been. Direct, confrontational. My time is up.

  I thought I wouldn’t mind going off to Oblivion. But I’m fucking terrified. I’d shit my pants if I could.

  Bojangles wakes up and lets out a deep growl.

  We all grab hands. There is no subtle temperature shift this time. Everything’s just cold.

  Our breath would be visible if we had any.

  We all scoot closer together. A huddle of souls in the middle of a Missouri mobile home. Naomi and Edgar look petrified.

  It’s my fault they’re here. I slacked off on my grief watch, and now we’re all in danger. How hard is it to make people cry about death?

  The dog’s growl becomes a shrill wine. He jumps behind the couch to hide. I want to tell him the Shadow isn’t here for him, but he won’t understand. He probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  I let go of Naomi and Edgar and move backward. Naomi reaches for me, but I move too fast for her.

  “Over here!” I shout. “Come get me, asshole.”

  The Shadow moves away from them and circles around me. The cold becomes nothing. An absence of air. I don’t breathe any more, yet I find myself gasping for air. It squeezes me and a face forms in front of mine. The squeezing causes pain, but not the physical kind. More like the deepest despair I’ve ever felt, like every person I’ve ever known has died.

  The face forms completely. It’s sort of like Darth Vader’s when he took off the mask, but more horrifying. It’s like a burnt wraith with fangs. It’s black smoke from a biblical funeral pyre. Despair, ugly and terrifying and so incredibly sad.

  It meets me nose-to-nose and inhales. I feel a hard tug, but then I’m released. The force of the release knocks me backward. The Shadow shakes its head and retreats.

  It doesn’t want me yet, but I somehow know it won’t be long.

  Edgar and Naomi are holding each other. The Shadow works its way between them and pulls at Edgar. Naomi tries to keep his hands in hers, but her effort is futile.