Interitum

by M. K. Matsuda

  “I... didn’t know we could do that,” Sloane says.

  “The easiest way is to empty, fill, and focus.” Erim’s face is lit with encouragement. “First, empty your mind. Next, fill it with thoughts of where you want to go or who you want to see. Don’t let your mind wander, or you’ll end up somewhere else. Focus on sensory specifics: smells, sounds, sights. Just using names is tricky, and feelings sometimes work with practice, but let’s focus on the basics for now.”

  Sloane closes her eyes. The gentle prickle of the grass and the distant sound of waves lets her sink into tranquility.

  Empty.

  Sloane inhales the perfume of flowers, tree bark, and wet stone. She pushes it all away, sweeping it from her mind.

  Fill.

  She doesn’t know where her service is, so she imagines her mom. Sloane can see her big red curls and her bright smile that leaves slight wrinkles around her grassy eyes. She holds the scent of home and brings with her the kind of comfort only a mother can.

  Focus.

  The sound of crashing waves fades around Sloane, and she feels the gentle give of turf beneath her.

  Her ears perk up at the sound of chirping birds and the faint whoosh of the breeze—an unnoticeable white noise when she was alive. She opens her eyes to the frosty clouds in the sky. Gravestones dot the grass before them. Some are shiny and new, others illegible and decaying. A canary yellow casket hovers over the hole where Sloane’s body will rest for eternity. Behind them, a large gathering of white chairs sits empty, waiting for guests.

  “That’s a lot of chairs,” Erim mumbles out the side of his amused mouth. “Guess you’re not as unlikeable as you try to be.”

  “You’re a master at it without even trying.” A smile creeps up on Sloane.

  A few funeral directors stand off to the side, their hushed voices reviewing logistics. In front of the casket, a white podium holds a single pineapple that makes Sloane break into a smile, pointing it out to Erim. “When I was little, I told everyone that pineapples were my favorite flower.”

  Erim grins. “You had good taste.”

  A few people make their way to the chairs. Sloane’s chest swells painfully when she sees Adrian helping her mom up the hill. She can recognize him from afar just by his shape, and as they get closer, she can see that he’s wearing his best suit and the Star Wars tie she bought him from the dollar store as a joke. His arm is around her mother’s shoulders like he’s supporting most of her weight. She stumbles a little on a rock, but he keeps her up, practically lifting her off the ground. Sofia and her father are a step behind. Nolan looks so somber. It’s an odd face on him; he’s always smiling. Spitzer pulls him up the hill. Sofia’s makeup is darker than usual. Sloane wonders if she’s hiding swollen red eyes under that sparkly purple.

  Sloane calls Spitzer’s name, and he erupts with anxious whining, dragging her uncle across the grass. “He can see us.” She gasps, reaching out to pet him.

  “Animals are much more intuitive than humans,” Erim says. “They have heightened senses, are more natural conduits to the spiritual world.”

  When Sloane strokes Spitzer’s head, the sensation isn’t the same, like there’s an invisible sheet between them. She doesn’t care. It’s better than her hand being formless and passing right through, which is what she half expected. “Hear that?” Sloane whispers to Spitzer. “You and I can still hang.” His tail pounds on the ground with glee as she ruffles his ears.

  Nolan guides Spitzer away as Adrian sits Sloane’s mom down in the first row of chairs. Sloane wishes she couldn’t read her mom like a book. She can tell that she hasn’t been eating properly, hasn’t been sleeping. Her mother doesn’t speak, just looks down at her hands in her lap, her continuous stream of tears creating splotch artwork on her dress. Black isn’t her color; she must’ve had to buy something for the occasion. If Sloane could, she’d tell her to burn it after. There’s nothing but grief and anguish woven into every thread. It’s more heart-wrenching than Sloane ever thought possible.

  As more guests trickle in, Sloane finds she doesn’t know most people her age. She recognizes maybe one girl from high school who asked to borrow a pencil once. They barely spoke two words to each other. Yet, this girl seems obnoxiously distraught, crying into the shoulder of another boy Sloane doesn’t know.

  She scans the unfamiliar young faces, trying to identify any. Some are from high school, a couple from the community center where she swam. Acquaintances, if anything, none she would consider good friends. Sloane certainly doesn’t know any of them well enough for them to be crying and acting like she’s such a devastating loss. But, in a small community like theirs, news of death travels fast, and word of premature death, even faster.

  Not all are imposters, though, and it warms her to see people she does know. There’s Mr. Haku from the local grocery, who always gave Sloane a free apple on her way home from school. Luana, Sofia’s most loyal customer and only friend, showed up too. Sloane sees Mrs. Yao, the kind elderly lady from Adrian’s building who babysat them when they were smaller and babysits Ches now. There are even a few professors her mother works with. Sloane is surprised to see Nurse Craine appear, pushing a boy who she assumes is Levi in a wheelchair. He looks much too excited to be at a memorial. Sloane suspects he hasn’t been outside for quite some time, and her funeral provided the perfect fake excuse. At least her death has benefited someone.

  She sits on the empty chair next to Adrian and notices closer that he isn’t doing well, either. She stretches out her fingers to touch his brow, wanting to relieve the tension knotting it. It’s not something she would’ve done before, but there’s a particular freedom in being dead. Her touch never reaches him; something stops her. She doesn’t want him to feel like a slip of silk, like it’s not real, not him. She doesn’t need that cold reminder that they belong to two completely different worlds now. She curls her fingers back and lays her fist in her lap.

  “You’ve got the hang of conducting now,” Erim says. “If you’d like to be alone for this, I can leave.”

  “Oh, no, sir, you’re the one who dragged me here. You’re not getting out of it now.” Sloane huffs. Erim opens his mouth, clearly at a loss for a response. “Have a seat.” Sloane pats the chair next to her.

  Erim looks down at the chair and then back at Sloane blankly. “I think I’ll stand, actually. Thank you.” His smile quirks oddly.

  Sofia eyes Sloane silently, expressionless. One of the funeral directors asks everyone to be seated, but Sloane’s chair and the one beside remain empty. Since the front row is reserved for family, she’s not sure who could be missing.

  A withered old pastor claims the podium and pulls out a little white notebook. “Aloha, everyone. Thank you for joining us today as we celebrate the life of Sloane Lloyd Rory.” His speech goes on painfully long as he pulls out all the usual stops: how Sloane was taken too soon, how her body is gone, but her soul will live on forever, and how she will be missed by all her beloved friends. Sloane laughs when he gets to that part because one of her “friends” lets out a really loud sob and has to be led away by her companion.

  The pastor rambles on. Strange movement out of the corner of Sloane’s eye makes her turn to see Elena coming up the hill, followed by Michael, who is pushing a little boy in a wheelchair. He doesn’t immediately register as Ches because he looks so slight and feeble. She knows it’s him, though. The ache in her chest becomes nauseating.

  The final three guests make their way up to the group, and Sloane wishes they would stop because as they get closer, she can see Ches’s face clearer. His cheeks are gaunt, and his eyes sunken in, shaded by his hair, which is drained of color. He looks unnaturally tiny, and his skin is eerily ashen. Sloane stands as she realizes the chairs are meant for them. Michael engages the breaks on Ches’s wheelchair and sits with Elena.

  Ches’s eyes remain downcast. But Sloane wonders, if he looked up, would he see her? Being to the other side and back, how will it affect the way he sees
the world? She kneels in front of him, glad to see that his eyes have kept their familiar cocoa hue. He looks odd and distant without a smile on his face. The most colorful parts of him are the red rings around his eyes. Already tasting failure, she searches his eyes for any recognition of her. They remain vacant, but Sloane notices a faint glow within them that tells her he will mend, eventually.

  “I did my best,” she whispers. “I know you’ll be alright.”

  Sloane doesn’t hear the rest of the pastor’s sermon; it blurs and then becomes muted altogether. All she can hear is the wind rustling through the trees, disturbing the birds that complain loudly. She does not even realize that the speaking has stopped until she sees Adrian rise and slowly make his way to the podium. He stands before the crowd for a while, silent. His eyes search the empty podium as if hoping that a speech will appear. When he speaks, his voice wavers at first. “On my eighth birthday, I had a party at my house.” He rests his hands on the edges of the podium and looks up to the sky, talking to the clouds.

  “Indiana Jones,” Sloane whispers through a smile.

  “It was Indiana Jones themed.” Adrian laughs weakly. “Sloane was the only girl there. She made the other boys uncomfortable because she was faster than them when we ran around on pretend adventures, finding lost treasure.” His smile fades, and he straightens himself up to continue. “When it came time to open presents, she went last. She gave me this big box, all wrapped up with a bow. It looked so exciting, but when I took off the lid, there was only a rock at the bottom.” He smiles and reaches into his pocket, pulling out the rock. The smooth black stone sparkles, fitting in his palm perfectly.

  Sloane lets out a slight gasp. Adrian holds it up to the light, and it glints a little. “I was so disappointed and said to her, ‘this is just a rock.’ She got this funny look on her face and leaned over to look into the box. She pulled it out and said, ‘no Adrian, this is not a rock, it’s a dragon’s egg.’” He nods his head, and the first tear rolls down his cheek. He looks up to the group and grins, holding up the rock. “This is the worst gift that I have ever received.” The crowd murmurs a laugh. “But it is by far my favorite. Sloane was a terrible gift-giver, but she ended up giving me the most important gift ever. Something that we can’t repay her for, and I’m so grateful to her. She saved my little brother’s life. She knew the price and paid it without hesitation. Every time I look at him, I see a piece of yo—of her.”

  His lower lip trembles, and his voice trails off. “See you in Valhalla, Sloane.” He empties a shaky breath into his fist and wipes his eyes with his shirtsleeve. He slips the black stone into his pocket and returns to his seat. Sloane’s mom holds out her hand, and he takes it gratefully, sitting next to her.

  Now, Sofia stands and takes the podium. “My aunt Fallyn has asked me to speak for her today.” She clears her throat and unfolds a small piece of paper in front of her. “We will all miss Sloane.” Her tone is more irritated than sad.

  “Some more than others,” Sloane mumbles.

  “I know this because all of you showed up today to celebrate her life. I choose to think of how many years she had rather than how many she lost. But I still miss her deeply. I miss her smile, her laugh, and her beautiful personality. My job now is to make the best of this life, so I have something to show for it when we meet again. I will keep going because I know that’s what she would want. Until my girl and I are reunited, I can get by knowing that she is always with me.” Sofia’s eyes meet Sloane’s directly.

  Later, Sloane watches as the funeral parlor men fold up the white chairs and stack them onto a cart to be wheeled off. A gentle rustle makes her turn. In the near distance, she sees the silhouette of a bird taking flight.

  “You enjoy your—” Sofia glances down at the pamphlet in her hand, “service of celebration?” She punctuates each word with disdain.

  Sloane’s lips tighten. “So you really can see dead people.”

  “What, like I’ve just been saying it for the street cred?” Sofia growls. “Of course, I can. And if you had just listened to me, and gone home when I told you to, moron, I could’ve broken in these new heels on a bar top in Mexico. But now we’re here, and they have grass stains and probably some corpse in the tread.” She crosses her arms and then seems to notice Erim for the first time. “Erim.”

  “Lovely service, Sofia.” He nods. She shoots him a wink.

  “You guys know each other?” Sloane looks between the two of them, and then it clears in her mind. “Of course.” She laughs dryly and turns to Erim. “That’s how you knew this was today.” Sofia avoids Sloane’s glance and raises her eyebrows defiantly, clearly still peeved. Sloane puts herself between Sofia and Erim so that her cousin has to look at her. “How’s mom doing?”

  Sofia’s posture softens, and she lowers her emotional drawbridge. “She’s being really strong, kid.” That doesn’t mean much to Sloane. Being strong isn’t the same as being okay. Erim’s presence isn’t behind her anymore. He’s backed off to give them some privacy. “You’re such a dummy,” Sofia says, her breathing heavy.

  “Yeah.” Sloane steps towards her. Sofia shrugs off the emotion, as she always does with apologies. The workers begin to lower the sunny casket into the ground. “It’s a cool color,” Sloane admits.

  “Glad you like it because you would’ve hated the horrendous dress we buried you in.” Sofia’s mischievous grin hints on her cheeks. “I picked you out this terrible blush, lacy, trainwreck of a dress.” Sofia laughs a little, which makes Sloane smile. “It had golden pigeons or something on the belt. You would’ve hated it.” Sofia nods proudly. “Anyway, it seemed like fair payback for this avoidable funeral.” She rolls her darkly lined eyes. She looks back down the hill. “Your mom is waiting for me.”

  Sloane jolts forward, drawing her cousin into a hug. There’s a cold sheet to join the rock between them now. She sits in the moment, then releases her reluctantly. “I’ll see you soon, kid,” Sofia whispers. “Come find me. Erim knows the way.” She grins at him over her shoulder. “Stay naughty!” She practically skips down the hill. Erim grins as Sloane rolls her eyes.

  She watches everyone drive away, taking so many pieces of her with them, as the dirt pours onto her casket.

  DECIM

  Erim keeps the silence as he and Sloane return home. He’s happy to leave people to their own thoughts so his words can’t interfere. Every time Erim steals a quick glance at her, her brow is pulled down a little, her posture deflated more than he’s seen before.

  Erim steps off the isthmus, his foot sinking into the damp sand. He can feel the water moving all around him like nerves firing through his body. Sloane follows a few paces behind. The light of the tunnel ahead is their only guide in the dark, but Erim is sure of every step. The sound of the waves fades as they reach the stone entrance.

  Erim slows to a stop outside his door. Sloane doesn’t even seem to notice he’s stopped at first, almost bumps into him before she looks up. “We passed by these doors earlier,” she says, looking at his room. Erim glances at the white letters Custos Anima engraved on the dark plaque next to his door. “Soul Keeper,” Sloane reads.

  “Latin is the common tongue amongst us,” Erim explains.

  She looks at him listlessly. “I don’t know Latin.”

  “Souls don’t even notice the transition.” Erim leans against the corner. “Everyone is provided with the language when they arrive.”

  “The dead language,” Sloane muses.

  Erim’s heard the saying before. Even Somboon, with his hundreds of years, is too young to remember the death of Latin. “No one knows it’s actually the language of the dead until they end up here.”

  “Sooo clever,” she drawls.

  There’s a quick moment of silence as Erim realizes he can’t just leave her like this. “Would you like to come in?” He doesn’t really expect her to agree, confident he’s worn out his welcome by now.

  Sloane swallows, her emerald and steel eyes narrowing sligh
tly. “If I were alive, I would know better than to accept that offer from a stranger.”

  “And if I were a psychopath, I would know better than to kill you in my own apartment.” Erim retorts too quickly for sense to stop him. Sloane blinks at his response, the definition of inappropriate. Erim braces himself for her to scowl and stalk off angrily, but she steps up to the entrance. Apparently, even his poor company is better than the empty loneliness.

  The lights rise as he opens the door, displaying his apartment. Sloane slips out of her shoes at the door, a deeply ingrained habit in many cultures that Erim’s always found curious. He’s never been comfortable in shoes, especially in Aquae; he doesn’t like his toes separated from the water.

  Sloane’s quiet for a moment. Erim watches her take everything in. She runs her fingers through the vines on the wall, her eyes trailing across the bookshelves. “You live here?” She slides her palm across his desk.

  “Home sweet home.” He passes by her into the bedroom, clicking his tongue at the sight of his piano. He unsticks the peg and lowers the top down, scolding himself for forgetting to close it before he left. The sand is near impossible to get out once it blows in. When he turns around, Sloane is peeking in from the office area tentatively. Nim hops delicately onto the bed and watches her like prey. She’s not exactly increasing the welcome factor.

  “Please, sit.” Erim gestures to the blue sofa. Sloane sits stiffly, taking up the smallest portion of a cushion. She takes off her jacket and folds it once to her side. Erim sinks into the seat across from her and then stands abruptly. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Uh, coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Cocaine?”

  Sloane is already halfway through declining when she snaps her mouth shut. Her rigid posture softens a little. “Water, please.”