Zion's Fiction

by Zion's Fiction- A Treasury of Israeli Speculative Literature (retail) (epub)

  “Um….” I face her again. “Can I go to the bathroom? I’m a bit….”

  “Sure,” she stands up. “Through there.”

  I put the cup down, get up, and walk through the corridor.

  My hand hangs on the handle, and I look around. They can’t see me from here. Behind me and to the other side is Stephanie’s room. I can say I made a mistake, that I didn’t know where the bathroom was.

  I shut my eyes.

  Who cares? I don’t.

  I walk to the door of Stephanie’s room and open it slowly.

  Oh, god. It feels like her. It smells like her. It’s slightly bigger than I thought, but that’s because I’m shorter than her.

  That smell. Slight draft of dust from the bookshelf mingled with a whiff of Margaret’s perfume. She was here recently.

  Her bed is to one side. I can still see stuff under Stephanie’s bed, a hint of the teddy bear she’d had since she was a kid. I bend down and look. She dropped it there a few hours before Michael broke up with her. After Michael broke up with her, it didn’t matter.

  I bend down, and pick it up. It’s tattered, but still soft and familiar and friendly.

  I put it back in its place.

  “The bathroom’s over there,” I hear Sylvia at the door.

  “I know,” I turn around. “I just saw the room. I had to come in.”

  She walks in and sits on Stephanie’s bed. “You remind me of Stephanie.”

  “I do?”

  “Something about you looks like….” Oh, gee. “Oh. You blink like her.”

  “I what?”

  “You blink like her. No, it’s not that. It’s when she was embarrassed, she always blinked to cover it, and crooked her head, just like you’re doing now.”

  I catch myself. I never used to do that. I must have picked it up from Stephanie. And, more embarrassed than before, I do it again. I’ve been picking up the way she moves.

  “I think I got it from her. It’s easy to pick up.”

  Sylvia shrugs. “Well, it makes you look like her.”

  I feel myself going red. “Thank you.”

  I look around.

  I can’t look at the room when she’s here. But I feel closer to her, now.

  “Sit,” she taps the bed beside her.

  I sit next to her.

  We just sit there, silent. I stare at a spot on the wall ahead of me, afraid to make a wrong move.

  It’s so silent, I can hear her breaths. I can hear that they’re harder than they used to be. I feel the rhythm change in the way she breathes. I try to breathe as noiselessly as possible. The fridge in the kitchen kicks in again. Her father is turning on the television sound. I hear the sofa creak beneath him as he changes position.

  “Well,” Sylvia says.

  I lower my eyes. “I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say. And then the tears come, “I miss her. I miss her.”

  And beside me, without touching her, I feel Sylvia’s bitterness a second before the words reach me. “She did it to spite me.”

  My heart stops. “What?” And I look at her.

  “We had an argument. That last day. A few hours before.”

  Oh my god.

  “What….” I can’t say it, but I have to. “What was it … about?”

  “She was depressed because Michael broke up with her. And I came in … to help. And she yelled at me. All the anger and pain she had for Michael, she took out on me.”

  “Sylvia, I mean…. She was depressed. Because of Michael.” I find the most harmless way to phrase it, and I say it with the softest voice I have, “It wasn’t about you.”

  “I knew she was depressed,” her voice drops to a whisper, although there is no one else in the room. “I knew she had depressions. I thought….” She bites her lips. “I thought she might kill herself.” She waits for a response. I don’t give any. “I told her how much it would hurt me. I told her that’s not what you do to people you love. I told her how hard we would all take it.” She grabs my hand and stares into my eyes. Thank god I’m wearing gloves. “And she did it anyway. She didn’t reason, she didn’t wait for it to pass. She did it anyway. I told her how much it would hurt me, and she went and did it. She did it to hurt me.”

  “No, Sylvia. I know Stephanie. She would never do anything to hurt you. This was about …”

  “You know her from now. I’ve known her a lot longer than you. It was the same argument we’ve always had, only now she found a way to blame me and to keep on blaming me forever. She wants me to walk around blaming myself for the rest of my life. That would make her feel good.”

  No, no, you’re getting it all wrong. “Sylvia,” I gently caress the fingers that touch me. “We talked about you a lot.” There’s a flash of danger in her eyes. “No, nothing bad. She said nothing bad. She loved you, and I know—I know, Sylvia—that what she did, it wasn’t meant to show you a thing. If anything, it was meant to show you that it wasn’t about you.”

  “She wanted to hurt me …,” self-pity gushes out of her, “… and she did.” Her mouth turns into a cynical smile. “Well done.” It’s still all about her. It’s still all about Sylvia, and nothing about Stephanie, nothing about Stephanie’s pain.

  “Sylvia,” I’m fighting myself to keep my voice soft and encouraging. “You’re talking as if this was just another argument with you two, just a bigger one. But this is so big. Can’t it be that it was about something else entirely?”

  “You weren’t here,” she states emphatically. She turns her back to me and gets up. “Anyway, what does it matter now?” She straightens her clothes, and whispers. “I’ll never forgive her.”

  I want to cry. She committed suicide—Stephanie gave her life—and you can’t even hear what she was saying. It was in front of your face, and you’re treating it like it’s the same old same-old, damn you!

  “What does it matter why she did it?”

  We both turn around. Charles is standing by the door. He’s looking at Sylvia, speaking to her, not to me. “It was the easy way out.”

  “The easy way out?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize I’m talking. “It was the bravest thing she ever did!”

  Sylvia looks at me, shocked, but Charles, behind her, says, “Brave? It would have been brave to stay alive another day. She didn’t. It would have been brave to go to the university again. She didn’t. It would have been brave to strive, to survive. But Stephanie…. She ran away. From responsibility, from friendship, from pain, from facing her fears. She ran away. The way cowards do.”

  “But…. You don’t know what a bad state she was in. You don’t know what great pain she was in.”

  “How much pain could she possibly have been in? Her boyfriend broke up with her.”

  “To some people, that’s life and death.”

  “I’ve known heartache. Trust me when I say you can walk away from it alive.”

  “When she went through it, Charles, her pain was so huge, it was so awful, that she killed herself. Otherwise, like you say, she would never have killed herself. The fact that she did take her life shows you how awful her pain was.”

  “No. She killed herself because she was a coward. It had nothing to do with her depression.”

  That bastard! He won’t admit it!

  “I really think we should not be talking about….” Sylvia steps between us.

  But I practically shove her aside. The man drives me so crazy. “You never believed she felt what she felt! You’ve been delegitimizing her emotions since she was a kid! She killed herself to show you how strongly she felt! She killed herself because her pain was so great that none of us could understand it!”

  He snorts. “I thought you said she killed herself to show me how strongly she felt.” He looks down, and I can feel how much he needs a smoke. He looks back up and says softly, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” God, how he needs a smoke. “She was weak. She was always weak. She always ran away from problems. She neve
r had the heart to face them. That’s what happened.”

  What the hell is this? The Spanish Inquisition to your recently dead daughter? It’s like she died for nothing! It’s like she lived for nothing! Weren’t any of you listening when she cut herself and bled to death!

  “Look.” I hear tears in my throat. “She was the bravest woman I’ve ever met.”

  He shrugs. He doesn’t care to talk to me anymore.

  “Look,” I force him to look at me. “Give me one time that she ran away. One incident!”

  He half turns away. “What does it matter?”

  “Because!” And it sounds like I’m speaking each word separately as I say, “You don’t remember her right. You don’t understand her. You have to remember …” and I almost lose my voice “… who she was!” I feel tears coming, and I can’t stop them. “There’s a great hole in the world, and it’s shaped like Stephanie! She’s gone and the world has changed and none of you can see it! She’s gone and the world is different!”

  “Alexandra….” Sylvia takes a step toward me.

  “The world is different,” I back away, half-screaming, tears streaming down my cheeks, “but you’re both the same! What’s the matter with you people!”

  “Alexandra….” Sylvia gently brushes away a tear from my cheek. I get a whiff of paranoia—a fear so powerful it taints every image I see. I shove her hand aside quickly, and, backing away, I fall onto Stephanie’s bed. The familiar sheets embrace me. The mattress bends to fit my body again. Sylvia takes a step closer. I turn around, and scream into the pillow.

  “Leave us here,” I hear Sylvia say.

  The feeling I get from Charles grows distant. He’s walking away.

  “Take as much time as you need, dear.”

  She stays for a minute, her hand on the back of my shirt. Eventually, she stands up and walks away. She turns off the light and then shuts the door.

  I take a huge whiff of the pillow and stretch out on the bed. I take the blanket, fork it in between my legs, just the way she used to, and hug it.

  Stephanie! Stephanie will show them. She’ll show them.

  There are birds chirping outside, and light blinds me when I try to open my eyes.

  Oh my god! I sit up, ramrod straight.

  What’s the damned time?

  I almost choke. Five thirty! And I’m not even…. And I slept in my clothes…. And I slept in her room…. Hi, room…. And I yelled at her parents…. And I need to see Stephanie…. Dammit, I need to go.

  I stand up and straighten my clothes. I straighten the mattress and the bed.

  They couldn’t possibly have left me here without looking in. Sylvia must have come in to check on me at least once and seen me asleep. She let me sleep in her daughter’s bed. Jesus.

  I don’t want to see them again.

  I cling to the door, trying to feel if anyone’s there.

  Nothing. I’m not getting anything. Either they’re asleep or not home.

  I straighten the mattress and the put the pillow back in the room. I look at the room.

  Bye, room.

  I open the door. Silence. I walk into the living room, and, as silently as possible, I call a cab.

  I go past the guard at six fifteen a.m.

  There’s plenty of time. But I can’t, I can’t, I can’t go to the morgue in the same clothes again.

  I go to my dorm, take the quickest shower I’ve ever taken, get dressed, take my cell phone, and get to the morgue at fifteen minutes to seven.

  I unlock the door as quickly as I can, close it behind me, and go for the freezer. I wheel her out and remove the sheet.

  Oh, that face. I love, I love, I love that beautiful face.

  I take off my glove and stare at her.

  Show me they’re wrong, Stephanie. Let’s go through the end again. Show me how powerful your pain was.

  I touch her, readying myself for the shock I felt yesterday. And….

  Nothing.

  What? No!

  I play another emotion in my head.

  Nothing. She lies there, unmoving, beautiful.

  Still touching her, I replay a memory I’ve gone through.

  Nothing.

  Dammit!

  Bendis said we usually had a week, well, six days, and it’s only been four! You can’t do this to me!

  I try again.

  Nothing.

  Please.

  Nothing.

  No! I didn’t get everything from her! I didn’t get her essence into me! I’m missing memories! I’m missing experiences! You can’t disappear on me, Stephanie. You have to let me remember you. You have to let me carry on your memories forever.

  I touch her again.

  The coldness of her cheek hurts me. There is nothing.

  There is nothing left of her.

  Oh, god.

  There’s a hole in the world, and it has Stephanie’s shape.

  There’s a hole in the world. There’s a hole in the world.

  I didn’t get all of her. Oh, god, I didn’t get all of her.

  I leave the lifeless body in the fridge. I lock the door behind me and just stand there.

  What time is it?

  Seven a.m.

  Maybe I should try again?

  Leave her alone, she’s gone.

  My stomach tightens.

  Parks. Yes. Professor Parks touched her, and she’s my friend.

  I walk up to her office.

  It’s closed. What time is it? Seven-oh-eight.

  I’ll wait.

  There’s probably a procedure about what to do with the dead bodies. As soon as the rest of them find out about her, I’ll probably have to go with the wagon or burn the body or something.

  Maybe I should try to touch her again?

  Leave her alone. Leave her alone. Stephanie’s not there anymore.

  What time is it?

  I sense Professor Parks coming from around the corner.

  She appears around the corner, surprised to see me.

  “Stephanie is gone,” I tell her.

  There’s a flash of something in her eyes, but I can’t detect what it is. She looks at me and, at length, says, “I’m sorry.”

  She takes out her keys and opens her office. She walks in. I follow her. She settles in the chair behind her desk.

  “I need your help.” I say.

  She looks up at me, and I still can’t sense anything she’s feeling. “How can I help you?” she asks, her words deliberate.

  “You read her mind.”

  “I did.”

  “And you probably read more of her memories than I did. You’ve seen more of her emotions. You read her more deeply than I did.”

  “It stands to reason.”

  “Please … I need to see who she was. I need to see her core.”

  She leans back, and as she changes into her teacher mode, she lets slip some worry. “What do you mean when you say ‘her core?’” And her question is so cold that it’s as if she asked for a definition.

  “I mean her soul, the center of everything she was. The core that made her…. Her core.”

  Parks leans forward. “Sit down.”

  I sit down and lean forward, my right hand on her desk. She looks at my hand. “Take off your glove.”

  And suddenly I’m afraid she’ll know about last night. But I have to do this.

  I have to know. I do as she says.

  “Put your hand back on the desk.”

  I put it on the desk.

  She takes off the glove on her left hand. My heart hammers. I can’t let her know! I can’t!

  “I’m not going to touch you,” she says, as she slowly puts her hand down, fingers spread, a few millimeters from mine.

  “From this distance, with my ability, we’re safe. I only feel what you want me to feel, and you only feel what I want you to feel. Let’s test it.”

  And suddenly I’m smack inside Stephanie’s and Michael’s kiss. I feel his tongue inside mine, I feel the buzz it gave h
er, and it feels like blood actually fills her eyes and blots her eyesight. She slides her cheek down the wall of her bedroom slowly, playing that kiss again, exhilarated, fearful.

  And then it’s gone. That was her.

  Thank you! I send her waves of gratitude.

  She ignores them and says, “What do you mean when you say ‘her core?’ Give me an example.” And with her eyes she gestures at my fingers.

  When did I feel it? When did I not feel it?

  She’s looking at her eyes in the mirror. So ugly, so disgusting, she thinks.

  “It’s the power of her emotion!” I say. “The way she hates hers….”

  “Don’t use words,” she says. “Give me another example.”

  “Oh, gawd!” Stephanie shouts into the pillow, and her pain is unbearable. This is exactly like her mother. “This isn’t about you! Not everything is about you! This is my pain! Stop making everything about yourself!” And she shouts so loudly that she becomes hoarse, having uttered just those words. And without words, she keeps shouting in her head: This is mine. Mine! Don’t you get that?”

  Did she see? I look into Parks’s eyes. There’s something noble in the pain. Something so deep….

  It slips out of me before I can finish my sentence—

  She looks at her body before she dresses for the date with Michael, checking for spots, blemishes, new fat, old fat, each depressing her more, each an impossible hurdle. Will he notice? Will he still like me?

  Beyond my control, faster than I can think—

  I’m sweating in my bra, and it’s not even hot. My panties are too tight in one place and too baggy in another. My dress is too conservative. They’re going to know.

  I pull my hand away. “I’m sorry. That was mine. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I think I understand what you’re saying. Put your hand back in place. This time it will be my turn to transmit.” I put my hand back on the table, a millimeter away from her fingers. The part closest to the tip of her closest finger is slightly warmer, but I feel nothing else.

  “Tell me if I have it right,” she says.

  And suddenly I’m Stephanie, again. It begins slowly—Parks is giving me a chance to look around.

  Stephanie is nervous because of Mrs. Wright. She’s been ordered to stay after school to talk to her about her behavior. We’re in the eighth grade, now. Stephanie is thirteen.