The Dead Romantics

PRAISEFORTheDeadRomantics
“ILOVEDthisbook.Abeautiful,poignantstory,fullofbeautiful,poignantcharacters.Florenceisexactlythetypeoflovable,endearing,relatableleadIwanttofallfor,andherjourneythroughlearninghowtoloveagainhadmesquealing,sighing,[and]laughing.TheDeadRomanticsislikeabeautifullycraftedpuzzle:attheendallthepiecesfallperfectlyintoplace,andthepicturethattheyformisatoncetouching,funny,breathtaking,hopeful,anddreamy.”
—AliHazelwood,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofTheLoveHypothesis
“TheDeadRomanticswasanabsoluteandunexpecteddelight.Voicyandquirkyandfun;thepageswillprobablysparkle(butwithblackglitter).”
—ChristinaLauren,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofTheUnhoneymooners
“Thisbookmademefallinlove,brokemyheartthenreassembleditatleasttwice,andleftmeswooning.Ahauntinglyromantic,hilariouslyheartwarmingstory.AshleyPostonistherealdeal.”
—GwendaBond,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofNotYourAverageHotGuy
“TheDeadRomanticstakessomanythingsIlove—quirkyheroines,foundfamilies,cozysmalltowns,fanfics,GHOSTS(!!!)—andgivesthemallafresh,fun,thoroughlymodernspin.Thisistrulyarom-comtodiefor!”
—RachelHawkins,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofRecklessGirls
AJOVEBOOK
PublishedbyBerkley
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Copyright?2022byAshleyPoston
ReadersGuidecopyright?2022byAshleyPoston
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LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData
Names:Poston,Ashley,author.
Title:Thedeadromantics/AshleyPoston.
Description:Firstedition.|NewYork:Jove,2022.
Identifiers:LCCN2021035584(print)|LCCN2021035585(ebook)|ISBN9780593336489(tradepaperback)|ISBN9780593336496(ebook)
Classification:LCCPS3616.O8388D432022(print)|LCCPS3616.O8388(ebook)|DDC813/.6—dc23
LCrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2021035584
LCebookrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2021035585
CoverdesignandillustrationbyVi-AnNguyen
BookdesignbyDanielBrount,adaptedforebookbyCoraWigen
Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously,andanyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,businessestablishments,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_139976559_c0_r1
Contents
Cover
PraiseforTheDeadRomantics
TitlePage
Copyright
Dedication
ABuriedStory
1.TheGhostwriter
2.TheBreakup
3.DeadRomance
4.FatedMates
5.DeadSerious
6.TheDeathToll
7.DaysGone
8.DeathofaBachelor
9.DeadonArrival
10.DeadandBreakfast
11.PastTense
12.EmotionalSupport
13.GhoulIntentions
14.Moonwalks
15.TheSorrowsofFlorenceDay
16.SongsfortheDead
17.DeadHour
18.TheUndertaker’sDaughters
19.ADyingPractice
20.NovelIdea
21.TheCrimeScene
22.GraveMatters
23.TheCasketofTrueLove
24.SuchaScream
25.Deadweight
26.RidgesofthePast
27.GhostofaChance
28.DancingwiththeDead
29.WhentheDeadSing
30.StrangeBedfellows
31.BringOutYourDead
32.It’saDeath!
33.TheLastGoodbye
34.GhostsintheFloorboards
35.UnrulyHearts
36.LovelyMeeting
37.TheDeadRomantics
38.BodyofWork
39.GhostStories
EccentricCircles
Acknowledgments
ReadersGuide
AbouttheAuthor
ToeveryauthorwhoaskedustobelieveinHappilyEverAfters
ABuriedStory
INTHEBACK-LEFTcorneroftheDaysGoneFuneralHome,underneathaloosefloorboard,therewasametalboxwithabunchofoldjournalsinside.Toanyonewhofoundthem,thescribbleslookedlikesometeenagerventinghersexualfrustrationswithLestatorthatoneguyfromTheX-Files
And,ifyoudidn’tmindghostsandvampiresandbloodoathsandleatherpantsandtruelove,thestorieswerequitegood.
Youcouldwonderwhysomeonewouldshovejournalsfullofsmuttyfanfictionunderneaththefloorboardofacentury-oldfuneralhome,butneverquestionthemindofateenager.Youwouldn’tgetveryfar.
Ihidthemtherebecause—well—Ijustdid,okay?BecausewhenIleftforcollege,Iwantedtoburythatpartofme—thatdark,weirdAddamsFamilyside—andwhatwasamorefittingplacethanafuneralhome?
AndIalmostsucceeded,too.
1
TheGhostwriter
EVERYGOODSTORYhasafewsecrets.
Atleast,that’swhatI’vebeentold.Sometimesthey’resecretsaboutlove,secretsaboutfamily,secretsaboutmurder—somesoinconsequentialtheybarelyfeellikesecretsatall,butmonumentaltothepersonkeepingthem.Everypersonhasasecret.Everysecrethasastory.
Andinmyhead,everystoryhasahappyending.
IfIweretheheroineinastory,IwouldtellyouthatIhadthreesecrets
One,Ihadn’twashedmyhairinfourdays.
Two,myfamilyownedafuneralhome.
Andthree,Iwastheghostwriterofmega-bestselling,criticallyacclaimedromancenovelistAnnNichols.
AndIwassorelylateforameeting.
“Holdthedoor!”Ishouted,bypassingthesecuritypersonnelatthefrontdesk,andsprintingtowardtheelevators.
“Miss!”thebefuddledsecurityguardshoutedafterme.“Youhavetocheckin!Youcan’tjust—”
“FlorenceDay!FalconHousePublishers!CalluptoErinandshe’llapproveme!”Itossedovermyshoulder,andslidintooneoftheelevators,cactusintow.
Asthedoorsclosed,agrayingmaninasharpbusinesssuiteyedtheplantinquestion.
“Agifttobutterupmyneweditor,”Itoldhim,becauseIwasn’tsomeonewhojustcarriedaroundsmallsucculentswherevershewent.“Godknowsit’snotforme.IkilleverythingItouch,includingthreecactuses—cacti?—already.”
Themancoughedintohishandandangledhimselfawayfromme.Thewomanontheothersidesaid,asiftoconsoleme,“That’slovely,dear.”
Whichmeantthatthiswasaterriblegift.Imean,Ifigureditwas,butIhadbeenstrandedfortoolongontheplatformwaitingfortheBtrain,havingasmallpanicattackwithmybrotheronthephone,whenalittleoldladywithrollersinherhairtotteredbysellingcactiforlikeadollarapopandIboughtthingswhenIwasnervous.Mainlybooksbut—IguessnowIboughthouseplants,too.
Theguyinthebusinesssuitgotoffonthetwentiethfloor,andthewomanwhoheldtheelevatorleftonthetwenty-seventh.Itookapeekintotheirworldsbeforethedoorsclosedagain,immaculatewhitecarpetorbuffedwoodenfloorsandglasscaseswhereoldbookssatidly.Therewerequiteafewpublishersinthebuilding,bothonlineandinprint,andtherewasevenanewspaperononeofthefloors.Icould’vebeenintheelevatorwiththeeditorforNoraRobertsforallIknew.
WheneverIcametovisittheoffices,Iwasalwayshyperawareofhowpeopletookonelookatme—inmysqueakyflatsanddarnedhoseandtoo-bigplaidovercoat—andcametotheconclusionthatIwasnottallenoughtoridethisride.
Which…fair.Istoodataroundfivefoottwo,andeverythingIworewasboughtforcomfortandnotstyle.Rose,myroommate,alwaysjokedthatIwasaneighty-year-oldinatwenty-eight-year-oldbody.
SometimesIfeltit.
NothingsaidNetflixandchillquitelikeanorthopedicpillowandawineglassofEnsure.
Whentheelevatordoorsopenedontothethirty-seventhfloor,Iwasalone,graspingmycactuslikealifevestatsea.TheofficesofFalconHousePublisherswerepristineandwhite,withtwofluorescentbookshelvesoneithersideoftheentryway,toutingallofthebestsellersandliterarymasterpiecesthey’dpublishedovertheirseventy-five-yearhistory.
AtleasthalfoftheleftwallwascoveredinbooksbyAnnNichols—TheSea-Dweller’sDaughter,TheForestofDreams,TheForeverHouse,onesmymomsighedoverwhenIwasateenagerwritingmysmuttyLestatfanfic.NexttothemwereAnn’snewerbooks,TheProbabilityofLove,ARake’sGuidetoGettingtheGirl(Iwasmostproudofthattitle),andTheKissattheMidnightMatinee.Theglassreflectedmyfaceinthebookcovers,apalewhiteandsleep-deprivedyoungwomanwithdirtyblondhairpulledupinamessybunanddarkcirclesundertiredbrowneyes,inacolorfulscarfandanoversizedbeigesweaterthatmademelooklikeIwastheguestspeakerattheYarnoftheMonthClubandnotoneofthemostdistinguishedpublishinghousesintheworld.
Technically,Iwasn’ttheguesthere.AnnNicholswas,andIwaswhateveryoneguessedwasherlowlyassistant.
AndIhadameetingtogetto.
Istoodinthelobbyawkwardly,thecactuspressedtomychest,asthedark-hairedreceptionist,Erin,heldupafingerandfinishedhercall.Somethingaboutsaladforlunch.Whenshefinallyhungup,shelookedupfromherscreenandrecognizedme.“Florence!”shegreetedwithabrightsmile.“Nicetoseeyouupandabout!How’sRose?Thatpartylastnightwasbrutal.”
Itriednottowince,thinkingaboutRoseandIstumblinginat3:00A.M.“Itsurewassomething.”
“Isshestillalive?”
“Rosehassurvivedworse.”
Erinlaughed.Thensheglancedaroundthelobby,asiflookingforsomeoneelse.“IsMrs.Nicholsnotgoingtomakeittoday?”
“Ohno,she’sstillupinMaine,doingher…Mainething.”
Erinshookherhead.“Gottawonderwhatit’slike,youknow?BeingtheAnnNicholsesandStephenKingsoftheworld.”
“Mustbenice,”Iagreed.AnnNicholshadn’tlefthersmalllittleislandinMainein…fiveyears?AslongasI’dbeenghostwritingforher,anyway.
Ituggeddownthemulticoloredscarfwrappedaroundmymouthandneck.Whileitwasn’twinteranymore,NewYorkalwayshadonelastkickofcoldbeforespring,andthathadtobetoday,andIwasbeginningtonervouslysweatundermycoat.
“Someday,”Erinadded,“you’regoingtotellmehowyoubecametheassistantfortheAnnNichols.”
Ilaughed.“I’vetoldyoubefore—aCraigslistad.”
“Idon’tbelievethat.”
Ishrugged.“C’estlavie.”
Erinwasafewyearsyoungerthanme,herColumbiaUniversitypublishingcertificateproudlydisplayedonherdesk.Rosehadmetherawhilebackonadatingapp,andthey’dhookedupafewtimes,thoughnowfromwhatIheardtheywerestrictlyfriends.
Thephonebegantoringonherdesk.Erinsaidquickly,“Anyway,youcangoahead—stillremembertheway,yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
“Perf.Goodluck!”sheadded,andansweredthecallinherbestcustomerservicevoice.“Goodmorning!You’vereachedFalconHousePublishers,thisisErinspeaking…”
AndIwaslefttomyowndevices.
Iknewwheretogo,becauseI’dvisitedtheoldeditorenoughtimestobeabletowalkthehallsblindfolded.TabithaMargraveshadretiredrecently,attheabsoluteworsttime,andwitheverystepclosertotheoffice,Iheldtighterontothepoorcactus.
TabithaknewIghostwroteforAnn.SheandAnn’sagentweretheonlyoneswhodid—well,besidesRose,butRosedidn’tcount.HadTabithapassedthatnuggetofsecrecytomyneweditor?God,Ihopedso.Otherwisethiswasgoingtobeanawkwardfirstmeeting.
Thehallwaywaslinedwithfrostedglasswallsthatweresupposedtobeusedforprivacy,buttheyprovidedextraordinarilylittleofthat.IheardeditorsandmarketingandPRshadowstalkinginhushedtonesaboutacquisitions,marketingplans,contractualobligations,tours…reallocatingmoneyfromonebook’sbudgettoanother.
Thethingsinpublishingthatnooneeverreallytalkedabout.
Publishingwasallveryromanticuntilyoufoundyourselfinpublishing.Thenitwasjustanotherkindofcorporatehell.
Ipassedafewassistanteditorssittingintheirsquarecubicles,manuscriptspiledalmosttothetopoftheirhalfwalls,lookingfrazzledastheyatecarrotsandhummusforlunch.ThesaladsErinorderedmustnothaveincludedthem,notthateditorialassistantsmadeenoughtoaffordeatingouteveryday.Theofficesweresetupinahierarchyofsorts,andthefartheryouwent,thehigherthesalary.Attheendofthehall,Ialmostdidn’trecognizetheoffice.GonewerethefloralwreathhangingonthedoorforgoodluckandthestickersplasteredtothefrostedglassprivacywallthatreadTRYNOT,DO!andROMANCEISN’TDEAD!
Forasecond,IthoughtI’dmadeawrongturn,untilIrecognizedtheinterninhersmallcubicle,stuffingARCs—AdvanceReaderCopies,basicallyroughdraftsofabookinpaperbackform—intoenvelopeswithaharriedsortoffrenzythatborderedontears.
Myneweditordidn’twasteanytimepeelingoffthosedecalsandtossingthegoodluckwreathinthetrash.Ididn’tknowifthatwasagoodsign—orbad.
TowardtheendofhertenureatFalconHouse,TabithaMargravesandIbuttedheadsmoreoftenthannot.“Romancebelievesinhappyendings.TellAnnthat,”shewouldsay,tongueincheek,because,forallintentsandpurposes,IwasAnn.
“WellAnndoesn’tanymore,”Iwouldquipback,andbythetimesheturnedinherresignationandretireddowntoFlorida,I’msurewewerebothplottingeachother’sdemise.Shestillbelievedinlove—somehow,impossibly.
AndIcouldseerightthroughthelie.
Lovewasputtingupwithsomeoneforfiftyyearssoyou’dhavesomeonetoburyyouwhenyoudied.Iwouldknow;myfamilywasinthebusinessofdeath.
TabithacalledmecrasswhenItoldherthat.
IsaidIwasrealistic.
Therewasadifference.
Isatdowninoneofthetwochairsoutsideoftheoffice,thecactusinmylap,towaitandscrollthroughmyInstagramfeed.Myyoungersisterhadpostedaphotoofherandmyhometownmayor—agoldenretriever—andIfeltapangofhomesickness.Fortheweather,thefuneralparlor,mymom’samazingfriedchicken.
Iwonderedwhatshewascookingtonightfordinner.
Lostinmythoughts,Ididn’theartheofficedooropenuntiladistinctlymalevoicesaid,“Sorryforthewait,pleasecomein.”
Iboltedtomyfeetinsurprise.DidIhavethewrongoffice?Icheckedthecubicles—thebrown-hairedworkaholicinterncrammingARCsintoenvelopestotheleft,theHRdirectorsobbingintohissaladontheright—no,thiswasdefinitelytherightoffice.
Themanclearedhisthroat,impatientlywaiting.
Ihuggedthecactussotighttomychest,Icouldfeelthepotbeginningtocreakwiththepressure,andsteppedintohisoffice.
Andfroze.
Themaninquestionsatintheleatherchairthatforthirty-fiveyears(longerthanhe’dbeenalive,Ifigured)TabithaMargraveshadinhabited.Thedesk,onceclutteredwithporcelainknickknacksandpicturesofherdog,wascleanandtidy,everythingstackedinitsproperplace.Thedeskreflectedthemanbehinditalmostperfectly:toopolished,inacrispwhitebutton-downshirtthatstrainedathisbroadshoulders,thesleevesrolleduptohiselbowstorevealratherintimidatinglysexyforearms.Hisblackhairwassweptbackoutofhislongfaceandsomehowaccentuatedhisequallylongnose,blacksquareglassesperchedonit,andtherewereveryfaintfrecklesspeckledacrosshisface:onebyhisrightnostril,twoonhischeek,onejustabovehisthickrighteyebrow.Aconstellationofthem.Forasecond,IwantedtotakeaSharpieandconnectthemtoseewhatmyththeyheld.Thenextsecond,Iquicklycametotherealizationthat—
Oh.
Hewashot.AndI’dseenhimbefore.AtpublishingfunctionswithRoseormyex-boyfriend.Icouldn’tplacethename,butI’ddefinitelyrunintohimmorethanonce.Iheldmybreath,wonderingifherecognizedme—didhe?
Forasecond,Ithoughtso,becausehiseyeswidened—justafraction,justenoughformetosuspectheknewsomething—beforeitvanished.
Heclearedhisthroat.
“YoumustbeAnnNichols’sassistant,”hegreetedwithoutmissingabeat.Hestoodandcamearoundthedesktoofferhishand.Hewas…enormous.SotallIfeltlikeI’dsuddenlybeentransportedintoaretellingof“JackandtheBeanstalk”wherehewasaveryhunkybeanstalkthatIreally,reallywantedtoclimb—
No.No,Florence.Badgirl,Iscoldedmyself.Youdonotwanttoclimbhimlikeatree,becausehe’syourneweditorandthereforevery,incredibly,stupendouslyunclimbable.
“FlorenceDay,”IsaidasIacceptedhishand.Hisalmostcompletelyenvelopedmineinastronghandshake.
“BenjiAndor,butyoucancallmeBen,”heintroduced.
“Florence,”Irepeated,shockedthatIcouldmutteranythingaboveasqueak.
Theedgesofhismouthquirkedup.“Soyousaid.”
Iquicklypulledmyhandaway,mortified.“Ohgod.Right—sorry.”IsatdownalittletoohardintheuncomfortableIKEAchair,cactusplantedfirmlyonmyknees.Mycheekswereonfire,andifIcouldfeelthem,IknewthathecouldseeIwasblushing.
Hesatdownagainandadjustedapenonhisdesk.“It’sapleasuretomeetyou.Sorryforthewait,thesubwayswerehellthismorning.ErinkeepstellingmenottotaketheBtrainandyetIamafoolwhodoeseverysingletime.”
“Oramasochist,”IaddedbeforeIcouldstopmyself.
Hebarkedalaugh.“Maybeboth.”
Ibittheinsideofmycheektohideasmile.Hehadagreatlaugh—thekindthatwasdeepandthroaty,likearumble.
Ohno,thiswasnotgoingasplannedatall.
Helikedme,andhewasn’tgoingtolikemeinaboutfiveminutes.Ididn’tevenlikemyselfforwhatIwasheretodo—whydidIthinkacactusasagiftwouldmakethiseasier?
Hescootedhischairinandstraightenedapentobehorizontalwithhiskeyboard.Everythingwasneatlikethatinthisoffice,andIgottheverydistinctfeelingthathewasthekindofpersonwho,ifhefoundabookmisplacedatabookstore,wouldreturnittotheshelfwhereitbelonged.
Everythinghaditsplace.
Hewasabulletjournalguy,andIwasastickynotekindofgirl.
Thatmight’vebeenagoodthing,actually.Heseemedveryno-nonsense,andno-nonsensepeoplewererarelyromantic,andsoIwouldn’tgetapityinglookwhenI,eventually,tellhimthatInolongerbelievedinromancenovelsandhewouldnodsolemnly,knowingexactlywhatImeant.AndIwouldratherhavethatthanTabithaMargraveslookingatmewiththosesad,darkeyesandasking,“Whydon’tyoubelieveinloveanymore,Florence?”
Becausewhenyouputyourhandinthefiretoomanytimes,youlearnthatyouonlygetburned.
Myneweditorshiftedinhisseat.“I’msorrytohearthatMrs.Nicholscouldn’tmakeittoday.Iwould’velovedtomeether,”hebegan,wrenchingmefrommythoughts.
Ishiftedinmyseat.“Oh,Tabithadidn’ttellyou?SheneverleavesMaine.Ithinkshelivesonanislandorsomething.Itsoundsnice—Iwouldn’teverwanttoleave,either.IhearMaine’spretty.”
“Itis!Igrewupthere,”hereplied.“Sawmanyamoose.They’rehuge.”
Areyousureyouaren’thalfmooseyourself?mytraitorousbrainsaid,andIwincedbecausethatwasverywrongandverybad.“IguesstheypreparedyoufortheratsinNewYork.”
Helaughedagain,thistimesurprisinghimself,andhehadagloriouswhitesmile,too.Itreachediseyes,turningbrowntoameltingocher.“Nothingcouldpreparemeforthose.HaveyouseentheonesdowninUnionSquare?Iswearonehadajockeyonhim.”
“Oh,youdidn’tknow?There’ssomegreatratracesdownattheEighteenthStreetStation.”
“Doyougooften?”
“Absolutely,there’sevenasqueak-easy.”
“Wow,you’rearealmice-stroofpuns.”
Isnortedalaughandlookedaway—anywhereotherthanathim.BecauseIlikedhischarm,andIdefinitelydidn’twantto,andIhateddisappointingpeople,and—
Heclearedhisthroatandsaid,“Well,MissDay,IthinkweneedtotalkaboutAnn’supcomingnovel…”
Igrippedthecactusinmylaptighter.Myeyesjumpedfrombarrenwalltobarrenwall.Therewasnothingintheofficetolookat.Itusedtobefullofthings—fakeflowersandphotosandbookcoversonthewalls—butnowtheonlythingonthewallswasaframedmaster’sdegreeinfiction—
“Doesithavetobearomance?”Iblurted.
Surprised,hecockedhishead.“This…isaromanceimprint.”
“I—Iknow,butlike—youknowhowNicholasSparkswritesdepressingbooksandJohnGreenwritesmelodramaticsick-lit,doyouthinkI—ImeanMrs.Nichols—coulddosomethinginthatveininstead?”
Hewasquietforamoment.“Youmeanatragedy.”
“Oh,no.It’dstillbealovestory!Obviously.Butalovestorywherethingsdon’tendup—‘happilyeverafter’—perfect.”
“We’reinthebusinessofhappilyeverafters,”hesaidslowly,pickinghiswords.
“Andit’salie,isn’tit?”
Hepursedhislips.
“Romanceisdead,andthis—allofthis—feelslikeacon.”Ifoundmyselfsayingitbeforemybrainapproved,andassoonasIrealizedI’dvoiceditaloud,Iwinced.“Ididn’tmean—thatisn’tAnn’sstance,that’sjustwhatIthink—”
“Areyouherassistantorhereditor?”
Thewordswerelikeaslapintheface.Iquicklysnappedmygazebacktohim,andwentverystill.Hiseyeshadlosttheirwarmocher,thelaughlineshavingsunkbackintoasmooth,emotionlessmask.
Igrippedthecactustighter.Ithadsuddenlybecomemybuddyinwar.Sohedidn’tknowthatIwasAnn’sghostwriter.Tabithadidn’ttellhim,orsheforgotto—slippedhermind,whoops!AndIneededtotellhim.
Hewasmyeditor,afterall.
Butabitter,embarrassedpartofmedidn’twantto.Ididn’twanthimtoseehowmuchofmylifeIdidn’thavetogetherbecause,asAnn’sghostwriter,shouldn’tI?Haveittogether?
Shouldn’tIbebetterthanthis?
WhenIwasgrowingup,mymotherreadAnnNichols’sbooks,andbecauseofthat,Idid,too.WhenIwastwelve,IwouldsneakintotheromancesectioninthelibraryandquietlyreadTheForestofDreamsbetweenthestacks.Iknewhercatalogbackandforthlikeawell-playeddiscographyofmyfavoriteband.
AndthenIbecameherpen.
WhileAnn’snamewasonthecover,IwroteTheProbabilityofLoveandARake’sGuidetoGettingtheGirlandTheKissattheMidnightMatinee.Forthelastfiveyears,AnnNicholshadsentmeachecktowritethebookinquestion,andthenIdid,andthewordsinthosebooks—mywords—hadbeenpraisedfromtheNewYorkTimesBookReviewtoVogue.ThosebookssatonshelvesbesideNoraRobertsandNicholasSparksandJuliaQuinn,andtheyweremine.
Iwroteforoneofromance’sgreats—ajobanyonewoulddietohave—andI…Iwasfailing.
PerhapsI’dalreadyfailed.I’djustaskedformylasttrumpcard—towriteabookthatwasanything,everything,butahappilyeverafter—andhesaidno.
“Mr.Andor,”Ibegan,myvoicecracking,“thetruthis—”
“Annneedstodeliverthemanuscriptbythedeadline,”heinterruptedinacold,no-nonsensevoice.Thewarmthitheldafewminutesbeforewasgone.Ifeltmyselfgettingsmallerbythemoment,shrinkingintothehardIKEAchair
“That’stomorrow,”Isaidsoftly.
“Yes,tomorrow.”
“Andif—ifshecan’t?”
Hepressedhislipsintoathinline.Hehadasortofwidemouththatdippedinthemiddle,expressingthingsthattherestofhisfacewastooguardedto.“Howmuchtimedoessheneed?”
Ayear.Tenyears.
Aneternity.
“Um—a—amonth?”Iaskedhopefully.
Hisdarkbrowsshotup.“Absolutelynot.”
“Thesethingstaketime!”
“Iunderstandthat,”hereplied,andIflinched.Hetookoffhisblack-rimmedglassestolookatme.“MayIbefrankwithyou?”
No,absolutelynot.“Yes…?”Iventured.
“BecauseAnn’salreadyaskedforthreedeadlineextensions,evenifwegetittomorrow,we’dhavetopushitquicklythroughcopyeditsandpasspages—andthat’sonlyifwegetittomorrow—tokeeptoourschedule.ThisisAnn’sbigfallbook.Aromance,mindyou,withahappilyeverafter.That’sherbrand.That’swhatwesignedfor.Wealreadyhavepromotionslinedup.Wemightevenhaveafull-pagespreadintheNewYorkTimes.We’redoingalotforthisbook,sowhenIproddedAnn’sagenttospeakwithher,sheconnectedmewithyou,herassistant.”
Iknewthatpart.MollyStein,Ann’sagent,wasn’tveryhappytogetacallaboutthebookinquestion.Shethoughteverythinghadbeengoingsmoothly.Ihadn’tthehearttotellherotherwise.Mollyhadbeenprettyhands-offwithmyghostwritinggig,mostlybecausethebookswerepartofafour-bookdeal,thisbeingthelastone,andshetrustedthatIwouldn’tmessup.
YethereIwas.
Ididn’twanttoeventhinkabouthowMollywouldbreakthenewstoAnn.Ididn’twanttothinkabouthowdisappointedAnnwouldbe.I’dmetthewomanonceandIwasdeathlyafraidoffailingher.Ididn’twanttodothat.
Ilookeduptoher.Andthefeelingoffailingsomeoneyoulookedupto…itsuckedasakid,anditsuckedasanadult.
Benjiwenton.“WhateveriskeepingMrs.Nicholsfromfinishinghermanuscripthasbecomeaproblemnotonlyforme,butformarketingandproduction,andifwewanttostayonschedule,weneedthatmanuscript.”
“I—Iknow,but…”
“Andifshecan’tdeliver,”headded,“thenwe’llhavetogetthelegaldepartmentinvolved,I’mafraid.”
Thelegaldepartment.Thatmeantabreachofcontract.ThatmeantIwouldhavemessedupsobigthattherewouldbenocomingbackfromit.Iwould’vefailednotjustAnn,butherpublisherandherreaders—everyone.
I’dalreadyfailedlikethatonce.
Theofficebegantogetsmaller,orIwashavingapanicattack,andIreallyhopeditwastheformer.Mybreathcameinshortbursts.Itwashardtobreathe.
“MissFlorence?Areyouokay?Youseemalittlepale,”heobserved,buthisvoicesoundedafootballfieldaway.“Doyouneedsomewater?”
Ishovedmypanicintoasmallboxinthebackofmyhead,whereeverythingelsewent.Allofthebadthings.ThethingsIdidn’twanttodealwith.ThethingsIcouldn’tdealwith.Theboxwasuseful.Ishuteverythingin.Lockedittight.Ipressedonasmile.“Oh,no.I’mfine.It’salottotakein.And—andyou’reright.Ofcourseyou’reright.”
Heseemeddoubtful.“Tomorrow,then?”
“Yeah,”Icroaked.
“Good.PleasetellMrs.NicholsthatIsendmyregards,andI’mveryhappytobeworkingwithher.AndI’msorry—isthatacactus?Ijustnoticed.”
Ilookeddownatthesucculent,allbutforgotteninmylapasmypanicbangedontheboxinmyhead,lockrattling,togetfree.I—IthoughtIhatedthisman,andifIstayedinthisofficeanylonger,Iwasgoingtoeitherthrowthiscactusathimorcry.
Maybeboth.
Ijerkedtomyfeetandputthesucculentontheedgeofthedesk.“It’sagift.”
ThenIgatheredmysatchelandturnedonmyheelsandleftFalconHousePublisherswithoutanotherword.IheldmyselftogetheruntilIstumbledoutoftherevolvingdoorofthebuildingandintothebriskAprilday,andletmyselfcrumble.
Itookadeepbreath—andscreamedanobscenityintotheperfectlyblueafternoonsky,startlingaflockofpigeonsfromthesideofthebuilding.
Ineededadrink.
No,Ineededabook.Amurder-thriller.Hannibal.LizzieBorden—anythingwoulddo.
MaybeIneededboth.
No,definitelyboth.
2
TheBreakup
ITWASN’TTHATIcouldn’tfinishthebook.
Ijustdidn’tknowhow.
It’dbeenayearsinceTheBreakup—everyonehasatleastoneintheirlives.Youknowtheone,right?Thekindofbreakupfromaloveyouthoughtwouldlastyourentirelifetime,onlytofindyourheartrippedoutwithasporkbyyourformerloverandplacedonasilverplatterwithFUCKYOUwritteninketchup.It’dbeenayearsinceI’dhauledmyluggageoutintotherainonthatshittyAprileveningandneverlookedback.That’snotthepartIregretted.Iwillneverregretendingthingswithhim.
Ijustregrettedbeingthekindofgirlwhofellforsomeonelikehiminthefirstplace.
Thetimehadcrawledbyafterthat.Atfirst,Ihadtriedtogetupeverydayandsitdownonthecouchwithmylaptopandwrite,butIcouldn’t.Imean,Icould—buteverywordfeltlikepullingteeth,andeveryoneofthosewordsIdeletedadaylater.
ItwaslikeonedayIknewhowtowrite;Iknewthescenes,Iknewthemeet-cutesandtheswoonymoments,exactlyhowtheherotastedwhenmyheroinekissedhim…andthenthenextday,itwasallgone.Icedoverinablizzard,andIdidn’tknowhowtothawoutthewords.
Icouldn’trememberwhenIstoppedopeninguptheWorddocument,whenIstoppedtryingtolookforaromancebetweenthelines.ButIdid,andnowIwasherebetweenarockcalleddespairandahardplacenamedBenjiAndor.
Absently,IbrushedmyfingersalongthespinesofthebooksatMcNallyJackson,abookstorenestledinthethickofNolita.Ifollowedtherowsoftitlesandlastnamesaroundtothenextaisle—romance—andquicklymovedontosci-fiandfantasy.IfIdidn’tlookatthem,theydidn’texist.
Ineverimaginedbeingaghostwriter.Hell,whenIfirstgotmyagentandsoldmyfirstbook,IthoughtI’dbeinvitedtoliterarypanelsandIthoughtI’dgotobookevents,andIthoughtIhadfinallyfoundthedoortothestairsthatwouldtakemeupandupandupintomyforevercareer.Butthedoorclosedasquicklyasitopened,andsentanemailsaying,“Weregrettoinformyou…,”asthoughmybookfloppingwasmyfault.Asthoughme,agirlwithanonexistentsocialmediafollowing,lessmoney,andalmostnoconnections,wasresponsibleforthefateofabookpublishedbyamultimillion-dollarcompanywitheveryresourceandconnectionavailabletoit.
Maybeitwasmyfault.
MaybeIhadn’tdoneenough.
Andanyway,Iwasherenow,writingforaromanceauthorI’donlyevermetonce,andIwasabouttoscrewthatup,too,ifIcouldn’tfinishthedamnbook.Iknewthecharacters—Amelia,asmart-talkingbaristawithdreamsofbeingamusicjournalist,andJackson,astability-shirkingguitaristdisgracedfromthelimelight—trappedtogetheronvacationonasmallScottishislewhentheirAirbnbhostaccidentallydouble-bookstheproperty.Theisleismagical,andtheromanceisaselectrifyingasthestormsthatrollinfromtheAtlantic.Butthenshefindsoutthatheliedtoherabouthispast,andsheliedtohim,becausewhilethebookingwasindeedhappenstance,shedecidedtouseittotrytowinoveraneditoratRollingStone.
AndIguessedtheplothittooclosetohome.Howcouldtwopeoplereconcileandtrusteachotherwhentheyfellinlovewiththeliestheotherpersontoldthem?
Wheredidyougofromthere?
LasttimeItriedtowritethatscene—thereconciliationone,theonewheretheyfaceeachotherinacoldScottishstormandpourtheirheartsouttotryandrepairtheirdamage—lightningstruckJacksondead.
Whichwould’vebeengreatifIghostwroterevengefantasies.WhichIdidn’t.
IbegantonosethroughtheusedJ.D.Robbsectionwhenmyphonestartedtovibrateinmysatchel.Idugitout,prayingitwasn’tAnnNichols’sagent,Molly.
Itwasn’t.
“Greattiming,”Isaid,answeringthephone.“Ihaveasituation.”
Mybrotherlaughed.“Itakeityourmeetingdidn’tgowell?”
“Absolutelynot.”
“Itoldyouthatyoushould’veledwithanorchidandnotasucculent.”
“Idon’tthinkitwastheplant,Carver.”
Mybrothersnorted.“Fine,fine—sowhat’sthesituation?Washehot?”
Ipulledoutabookthatdidnotbelonginpoliticalthriller—Red,White&RoyalBluebyCaseyMcQuiston—anddecidedtowalkitbacktotheromancesectionwhereitdid,infact,belong.“Okay,wehavetwosituations.”
“OhLord,he’sthathot?”
“YouknowthatbookIletyouborrow?TheonebySallyThorne?TheHatingGame?”
“Tall,stoicyetquirky,hasabedroomwallpaintedtomatchhereyes?”
“That’sit!Thoughhiseyesarebrown.Likechocolatebrown.”
“Godiva?”
“No,morelikemeltyHershey’sKissesonliketheworstdayofyourperiod.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah,andwhenIintroducedmyself,Isaidmyname—twice.”
“Youdidn’t.”
Igroaned.“Idid!Andthenhedidn’tgivemeanotherextensiononmynovel.Ihavetofinishit.Andithastohaveahappyending.”
Heguffawed.“Hesaidthat?”
“Yeah.”
“Idon’tknowifthatturnsmeonmoreorless…”
“Carver!”
“What?!Ilikeamanwhoknowswhathewants!”
Iwantedtostranglehimthroughthephone.CarverwasthemiddleoftheDaysiblingsandtheonlyonewhoknewIghostwrote—andImadehimsweartosecrecyorI’dprintallofhisembarrassingmiddle-gradefanficstarringHughJackmaninthetownpaper.Friendlysiblingblackmailandallthat.Hejustdidn’tknowwhomIghostwrotefor.Notthathedidn’tconstantlyguess.
Imademywayintotheromancesection,half-nakedmengloweringdownatmefromtheirshelves,andslippedthebookintotheMsection.
Carverasked,“So,Ihatetobethatperson,butwhat’reyougoingtodoaboutthatmanuscript?”
“Idon’tknow,”Irepliedtruthfully.Thetitlesontheshelvesallseemedtoruntogether.
“Maybeit’stimetobranchoutagain?”hesuggested.“Obviously,thiswritinggigisn’tworkingforyouanymore,andyou’retoobrillianttobehidingbehindNoraRoberts.”
“Idon’tghostwriteforNora.”
“Youwouldn’ttellmeifyoudid,”hepointedout.
“Butit’snotNora.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It’sreallynot.”
“NicholasSparks?JudeDeveraux?ChristinaLauren?AnnNichols?—”
“IsDadaround?”Iinterrupted,mygazefallingtotheNs.Nichols.IranmyfingersalongthespineofTheForestofDreams.
IcouldhearCarverfrowninginhisvoice.“HowdidyouknowIwasatthefuneralhome?”
“Youonlyevercallmewhenyou’reboredatthefuneralhome.Notenoughworkatthetechfirmtoday?”
“Wantedtoleaveearly.Dad’swrappingupameetingwithaclient,”headded,whichmeanthewastalkingwiththebereavedaboutfuneralarrangements,caskets,andpricing.
“Haveyoutalkedtohimyet?”
“Aboutthechestpains?No.”
Imadeadisapprovingnoise.“MomsayshekeepsrefusingtogoseeDr.Martin.”
“YouknowDad.He’llmakethetimeeventually.”
“DoyouthinkAlicecouldpressurehim?”
AlicewasreallygoodatgettingDadtodothingshedidn’twanttodo.Shewastheyoungestofus,andshehadDadtiedaroundherpinkiesotightly,justthemerethoughtofupsettingherwoulddrivehimtopulldownthemoonifhehadto.Shewasalsotheonewhodecidedtostayinthefamilybusiness.Shewastheonlyonewhowantedto.
“Alreadyasked,”Carverreplied.“They’vegotsomethinglikethreefuneralsthisweekend.I’msurehe’sgoingtogonextweekwhenhe’salittlelessbusy.Andhe’sfine.Ifanythinghappens,Mom’srightthere.”
“Whydoeshehavetobesostubborn?”
“Funnycomingfromyou.”
“Haha.”Ipickedouttwosci-fisandacharming-lookingpaperback.Howl’sMovingCastlebyDianaWynneJones.Buyingbooksalwaysmademefeelbetter,evenifIneverreadthem.“Canyoutryatleast?ToconvinceDadtogosoonerratherthanlater?”
“Sure,ifyoucanconvincehimtotakeadayoffwork—”
Inthebackground,IheardDadyell,“Convincewho?Ofwhat?”
AndCarverreplied,coveringthereceivertoshoutback(notthatithelpedmyeardrums),“Nothing,oldman!GodrinkyourEnsure!Hey—Iwasjoking—oh,what’sthat,Mom?Ishouldcomehelpyouwithsomething?Sure!Here’syoursecondfavorite—”
“Iamnotsecondfavorite,”Iinterjected.
“Okay,bye!”
IheardascuffleontheotherendofthephoneasCarververyquicklyhandeditovertoDad.Icouldimaginetheexchange—CarvertossinghiscellphonetoDadasDadtriedtoswathiminthearmandmissedtocatchthephone,andCarverslinkingawayintooneoftheotherroomsafterMom,laughingtheentireway.
Dadraisedthephonetohisear,andhisbold,boisterousvoiceboomedthrough.“Buttercup!How’stheBigApple?”
Myheartswelledatthesoundofhisvoice,chorusedwithCarverlaughingawayinthebackground.Imissedmyfamily,morethanIreallycaredtoadmitmostdays.“It’sgood.”
“Eatingenough?Stayinghydrated?”
“Ishouldbeaskingyouthat.”Iexitedtheaisleandsatdownonthebookstorestepstool,satchelandbooksinmylap.“Oldman.”
Icouldalmosthearhimrollhiseyes.“I’mfine.Theseoldboneshaven’tquitonmeyet.How’smyeldestdoing?Foundanicecatchinthecityyet?”
Isnorted.“YouknowmylifeismorethanwhoIdate,Dad.Loveisn’teverything.”
“Howdidmybeautifuleldestdaughterbecomesobitter?It’ssotragic,”helamentedwithaheavysigh.“Shewasmadefromtheloinsoflove!”
“Gross,Dad.”
“Why,whenImetyourmother,Iwassosmittenwithher—”
“Dad.”
“—wedidn’tleavethehotelroomforthreedays.Threedays!”
“Dad.”
“Herlipslikefreshrosepetals—”
“Igetit,Igetit!Ijust…Idon’tthinkI’mreadyforanewrelationship.Idon’tthinkI’lleverbe.”
“Maybetheuniversewillsurpriseyou.”
Forsomereason,theangularfaceofmyneweditorcametomind.Yeah,right.Iranmythumboverthepagesofoneofthebooksinmylap,feelingthembuzzsoftly.“How’sthefamilybusiness?”
“Goodasit’llget,”Dadreplied.“RememberDr.Cho?Yourorthodontist?”
“Alicesaidhepassed.”
“Wasagoodfuneral,though.BeautifulweatherforApril.Thewinddancedthroughthetrees,I’mtellingyou.Agreatsend-off,”hesaid,andthenheaddedalittlesofter,“Hethankedmeafterwards.”
Iswallowedtheknotinmythroatbecauseanyoneelsehearingthatwould’vethoughthewascrazy.Maybehewasalittlecrazy,butifhewas,thenIwas,too.“Didhenow?”
“Itwasnice.Gotsomeideasformyownfuneralmyself.”
“It’llbeawhile,”Ijoked.
“Ishouldhope!Maybethenyou’llcomehome.”
“I’dbethetalkofthetown.”
Helaughed,buttherewasalittlebitternessthere.Onethatwebothshared.ItwaswhyIleft,afterall.WhyIdidn’tstayinMairmont.WhyIwentasfarasIcould,wherenooneknewmystory.
Asitturnsout,whenyousolvedamurderatthirteenbytalkingwithghosts,thenewspapersprintedexactlythat.
LOCALGIRLSOLVESMURDERWITHGHOSTS
Youcanimaginehowthatsortofthingcouldhauntyou.Iwasn’texactlythepopularkidinhighschool,andafterthatIdidn’tstandaghostofachanceofbeingaskedtoprom.CarverandAlicecouldn’tseethem,andneithercouldDad’syoungersisterLiza,orMom.Itwasonlythetwoofus.
Weweretheonlyoneswhocouldunderstand.
AnotherreasonwhyIwasbetteroffalone.
“PleasegoseeDr.Martinnextweek—”Ibegan,whenheinterruptedme.
“Oh,there’sanothercallcomingin.I’lltalktoyousoon,okay,buttercup?Don’tforgettocallyourmother!”
Isighed,moreoutofresignationthanregret.“Loveyou,Dad.”
“Loveyoumore!”
Hehungup,andIfinallynoticedthebooksellerglaringatmeforsittingonthestool.Ipoppedupandquicklyapologizedfortakinguprealestate,andscurriedofftowardthecashregister
OneoftheonlygoodthingstocomeoutofthiswritinggigwasthefactthatIcouldwritebooksoffontaxes.EvenifIneverreadthem.EvenifIusedthemtobuildbookthronesandthensitdownandcryonthemwhilepouringmyselfglassafterglassofmerlot.
Itwasstillworthit.
Andthesmallhitofserotonindidmakemefeelalittlelessmurderous.Tuckingthebooksintomybackpack,IleftforthecloseststationthatwouldtakemebacktoJersey.Itwasaboutatwenty-minutewalkuptotheNinthStreetstation,buttheafternoonwassunnyandmycoatwasheavyenoughtoprotectmefromthelastbitingchilloftheseason.IlikedthelongwalksinNewYork.Itusedtohelpmeworkthroughaplotinconvenienceorfigureoutascenethatneverquiteworked,butallmywalksinthelastyearcouldn’tjostlemybrainintocreatingagain,nomatterhowfarIwent.Noteventoday,ontheeveofeverythingcomingunraveled.
AtNinthStreet,Idescendedintothebowelsofthesubway.Itwasmuchhotterinthestationthanoutside,andIunbuttonedmycoatandtuggeddownmyscarftokeepmyselfcoolasItookthestepsdowntwoatatimetotheplatform.
Thetrainpulleduptotheplatformandthedoorsdinged.Ielbowedmywayintothepackedcar,shovedmyselfupagainstthefardoor,andhunkereddownforthelongride.Thetrainbegantomoveagain,rockinggentlybackandforth,andIstaredoutofthedoorwindowaslightafterlightpassed.
Ididn’tpayattentiontotheshimmeringtransparentwomanstandingafewpeopleaway,somehowinhabitingafreespace.Shekeptlookingatme,intently,untilthetrainpulleduptothenextstation,andIsatdowninanewlyemptyseatandpulledoutoneofthebooksI’dbought.
Mydadwould’vehatedwhatIjustdid.Hewould’vetoldmetogiveherachance.Tositdown,tolistentoherstory.
Alltheywanted,usually,wasforsomeonetolisten.
ButIignoredtheghost,asIhaddoneforalmostadecadeinthecity.Itwaseasierwhenyouweresurroundedbypeople.Youcouldjustpretendliketheywereanotherfacelesspersoninthecrowd.SoIpretended,andasthePATHtraincrossedundertheHudsonRivertoJersey,theghostflickered—andwasgone.
3
DeadRomance
IDRAINEDMYglassofwineandpouredmyselfanotherone.
Iusedtobegoodatromance.
EveryoneofAnnNichols’snewnovelshadbeenpraisedbyfansandcriticsalike.“Adazzlingdisplayofpassionandheart,”theNewYorkTimesBookReviewcalledMidnightMatinee,andKirkusReviewssaidARake’sGuidewas“asurprisinglyenjoyableromp”—which,hey,I’lltakeaspositive.“Asensationalnovelfromawell-lovedstoryteller,”Booklistwrote,andnevermindalloftheblurbsfromVogueandEntertainmentWeeklyandamillionothermediaoutlets.Ihadthemallpostedonmydreamboardinmyroom,cutoutfrommagazinesandemailchainsoverthislastyear,hopingthatseeingthemalltogethercouldinspiremetowriteonelastbook.
Justonemore.
Iwasgoodatromance.Greatatit,even.ButIcouldn’tforthelifeofmewritethisone.EverytimeItried,itfeltwrong.
LikeIwasmissingsomething.
Itshould’vebeeneasy—agrandromanticgesture,abeautifulproposal,ahappilyeverafter.Thekindmyparentshad,andI’dspentmyentirelifelookingforonejustasgrand.IwrotethemintonovelswhileIlookedformyreal-lifeequivalentinmenatbarswearingsloppytiesorwrinkledT-shirts,andstrangerswhostoleglancesatmeonthetrain,badideaafterbadidea.
Ijustwantedwhatmyparentshad.Iwantedtowalkintoaballroomdancingclubandmeettheloveofmylife.MomandDadweren’tevenassignedtoeachotherasdancepartnersuntiltheirrespectivepartnersbothcamedownwiththeflu,andtherest,theysay,washistory.They’dbeenmarriedforthirty-fiveyears,anditwasthekindofromancethatI’donlyeverfoundagaininfiction.Theyfoughtanddisagreed,ofcourse,buttheyalwayscamebacktogetherlikeabinarystar,dancingwitheachotherthroughlife.Itwasthesmallmomentsthattiedthemtogether—thewayDadtouchedthesmallofherbackwheneverhepassedher,thewayMomkissedhisbaldspotonthetopofhishead,thewaytheyheldhandslikekidswheneverwewentouttodinner,thewaytheydefendedeachotherwhentheyknewtheotherwasright,andtalkedpatientlywhentheywerewrong.
Evenafteralloftheirkidsmovedout,IheardtheystillcrankedupthestereointheparloranddancedacrosstheancientcherrywoodfloorstoBruceSpringsteenandVanMorrison.
Iwantedthat.Isearchedforthat.
AndthenIrealized,standingintherainthatAprilevening,almostayearagoexactly—I’dneverhavethat.
Itookanothergulpofwine,glaringatmyscreen.Ihadtodothis.Ididn’thaveachoice.Whetheritwasgoodornot—Ihadtoturninsomething
“Maybe…”
Theeveningwassoggy,andthecoldrainstruckthroughherlikeadeathlychill.Ameliastoodintherain,wetandshivering.Sheshould’vetakenherumbrella,butshewasn’tthinking.“Whyareyouhere?”Jackson,forhispart,wasequallyaswetandcold.“Idon’tknow.”“Thenleave.”
“That’snotveryromantic,”Imuttered,deletingthescene,anddrainedtherestofmyglass.Again.
NighttimeontheIslewassupposedtobemagical,buttonight’srainwasespeciallycoldandheavy.Amelia’sclothesclungtoherlikeasecondskin.Shewrappedherjacketaroundherselftighter,toshieldagainstthebitingcold.Jacksonsaid,hisbreathcominginapuffoffrost,“Ididn’tthinktheicequeencouldgetcold.”Shepunchedhim.
“Yeah,greatjob.”Isighed,anddeletedthatone,too.AmeliaandJacksonweresupposedtobereconciling,comingbackfromthedarknightofthesoul,andsteppingintothelighttogether.Thiswasthegrandromanceattheend,thebigfinalethateveryAnnNicholsbookhad,andeveryreaderexpected.
AndIcouldn’twritethisfuckingscene.
Iwasafailure,andAnn’scareerwasdeadinthewater.
Therewaslittlemoredepressingthanthat,saveforthestateofmyrefrigeratorandcabinets.Allthatwehadleftwasdino-shapedmacandcheese.Perfectdepressionfood,atleast.AsIpulledtheboxfromthecabinet,myroommateburstinthroughthedoor,slingingherpursedownonthecouch.
“Fucktheman!”shecried.
“Fucktheman,”Iintonedreligiously.
“Allofthem!”Rosestormedintothekitchen,openedtherefrigerator,andbegantostresseatcarrotsoutofthecontainer.RoseWuhadbeenmyroommateincollege,butshe’dgraduatedayearearlyandmoveduptoNYCtopursueacareerinadvertising.Ayearago,shehadaspareroom.So,Imovedin,andthatwasthat.Shewasmybestfriendandthebestthingaboutthiswholedamncityrolledintoone.
Shewasthekindofpersonwhodemandedtobelookedat—thekindwhocouldwalkintoaroomandcommanditwithasinglelook.Sheknewwhatshewanted,andshealwayswentforit.Thatwashermantra.“Youseeit,youreachforit.”
Thatmight’vebeenwhyshewassosuccessfulattheadvertisingfirmwheresheworked.Onlytwoyearsin,andshewasalreadythesocialmediamarketingmanager.
“Michael,”shebegan,shovinganothercarrotintohermouth,“cameintodayandwastellingmeIdidwrongwithourclient—youknow,theactressJessicaStone?We’reworkingonadvertisingforherclothingline—andhowit’sallmyfault.Bitch,she’snotevenmyclient!I’mnoteveninpublicity!She’sStacee’sclient!God,IhatewhitemenbeingunabletotelloneAsianfromanother.”
“Icanmurderhimifyouwant,”Irepliedwithabsolutesincerity,openingtheboxofmacaroni,extractingthecheesepacket,anddumpingthenoodlesintoapotfullofwater.Ididn’tevenwaitforittostartboiling.Itwouldeventually.
Roseshovedanothercarrotintohermouth.“Onlyifwedon’tgetcaught.”
Ishrugged.“Grindupthebody.Hostabarbecue.Feedtheremainstoyouroffice.There,done.”
“Thatsoundsliketheplottoamovie.”
“FriedGreenTomatoes,”Iadmitted.
Rosecockedherhead.“Diditwork?”
“Oh,hellyeah,andI’vegotagreatbarbecuerecipewecantry.”
Shesighedandshookherhead,twistingthecarrotbagclosedandshovingitbackintotherefrigerator.“No,no.Idon’twanttoriskfoodpoisoninginnocentpeople.I’vegotabetteridea.”
“Woodchipper?”
“Drinks.”
Thewaterbegantoboil.Istirredthepotwithaspatula,sinceeverythingelsewasdirty.“Doyoumeanarsenicor…?”
“No,Imeanwe’regoingout.Fordrinks.”
Igaveherabaffledlook.Me,standinginourkitchen,makingdeadlinemacandcheeseinmycomfyflannelpajamabottomsandanoversizedTiggersweater,nobra,andyesterday’shair.“Out…?”
“Out.”RosewenttothedoorwayofthekitchenandstoodtherelikeGandalftotheBalrog.Noneshallpass.“Wearegoingout.ClearlyIhadabadday,andbythelooksofthenewbooksonthecounter,youdid,too.”
Igroaned.“No,Rose,please,letmestayinandeatmymacandcheeseanddie.Alone.”
“Youarenotgoingtodiealone,”myroommaterepliedadamantly.“Ifanything,you’llatleasthaveacat.”
“Ihatecats.”
“Youlovethem.”
“They’reassholes.”
“Muchlikeeveryex-boyfriendyou’veeverhad,andyoulovedallofthem.”
Icouldn’targuewiththat.ButIdidnothavecats,andIdidnotwanttogooutdrinking,either.Irippedopenthepowderedcheesepacket.“Mybankaccountisaboutaslackingasmylovelife.Icouldn’tevenaffordaNattyLight,Rose.”
Shegavealoudsighandtookthepacketfrommyhand,scootingtheboilingpotofnoodlewaterontoanoffburner.“We’regoingout.We’regoingtohavefun.Ineedfun,andIknowyoudo,too.I’msensing,fromthemacandcheese,thatthemeetingwithyoureditordidn’tgowelltoday,didit?”
Ofcourseitdidn’t.WhyelsewouldIbemakingdepressingmacandcheese?Igaveashrug.“Itwentfine.”
“Florence.”
Iexhaledthroughmymouth.“Annhasaneweditor.Ithinkyoumightknowhimorsomething—heseemsfamiliar.HisnameisBenjisomethingorother.Ainer?Ander?”
Rosegawked.“BenjiAndor?”
Ipointedatherwiththewoodenspoon.“That’sit.”
“You’rekidding.”
“Ikidyounot.”
“Lucky!”Rosebarkedalaugh.“He’shot.”
“YeahIknow—howdoyouknow?”
“HewasinawholeThirty-FiveUnderThirty-FivethinginTimeOutayearago.HeusedtobeanexecutiveeditoroveratElderwoodBooksbeforetheyfolded.Wherewereyou?”
Igaveheranexhaustedlook.SheknewexactlywhereIwasayearago.Makingdepressingmacandcheeseforadifferentreason.
Shewavedherhanddismissively.“Anyway,it’snicetoseehe’sstillinpublishing,butatFalconHouse’sromanceimprint?Wow.”
Ishrugged.“Heprobablylikesromances?DoIknowanybooksheworkedonoveratElderwood?”
Roseputthepacketofpowderedcheesebackintothebox.“TheMurderedBirds?TheWomanfromCabinCreek?”
Istaredatmyroommate.“So…gothicmurders?”
“Gruesome,morbidgothicmurders.LikeI’mtalkingBenjiAndorisamodern-dayRochester,butwithoutthewifeintheattic.Ihearheevenhadafiancéeonce,butheleftheratthealtar.”
IgaveRosealook.“DoyouevenknowwhathappensinJaneEyre?”
“I’vesortahalfseenthemovies.Anyway,that’snotthepoint.So,youhavepublishing’shottestbacheloreditingAnn’sbooksnow.Ican’twaituntilhegetstoyoursexscenes.Seriously,they’resomeofthebestI’veeverread,andIreadalotofsmuttybooks.Andfanfic,”sheaddedasanafterthought.
“Hewon’t,”Ideadpanned.“Ihaveuntiltomorroweveningtoturninthebook.”
“Wow,youreallycouldn’tgetanotherextension,huh?”
Igroanedandputmyfaceinmyhands.“No,andifIdon’tturnitin,he’sgettinglegalinvolved.Andthenthecat’soutofthebag!Hi,I’mtheghostwriter!ButIcan’tevendoghostwritingproperly,andthenthey’llstartwonderingwhereAnnis,andthensomereallygrizzleddetectivewillcomearoundquestioningmeandtheneveryone’llstartwonderingifImurderedAnnNichols—”
“Hon,Iloveyou,butyou’rejumpingthesharkhere.”
“Youneverknow!”
“Isshedead?”
“Idon’tknow!No!”Then,abitcalmer:“Probablynot?”
“Whydon’tyoujusttellyoureditoraboutbeingherghostwriter?”
Isighed.“Icouldn’t.Youshould’veseenthewayhelookedatmewhenIaskedtowriteasadromanceinstead.ItwaslikeIkilledhisfavoritepuppy.”
“Yousaythatlikehe’dhavemorethanonepuppy.”
“Ofcourse.Heseemslikeamulti-dogkindaperson.Butnotthepoint.Thepointis,Ididn’t.Couldn’t.”
“Soinstead,you’regoingtoruinyourcareeranddisappointyouroneliteraryhero.”
Myshouldersdrooped.“Yeah.NowcanIpleaseeatmymacandcheeseandwallowinmydespair?”
Rose’sfaceturnedtostone.“No,”shesaidassharplyashercateyeliner,andgrabbedmebythewristanddraggedmeoutofthekitchenanddownthehallwaytoourbedrooms.“C’mon.Wearegoingout.Weareforgettingourworries.Wearegoingtoconquerthisstupid,loud,exhaustingcitytonight!Ordietrying!”
Atthemoment,I’dratherhavedied
Rose’sclosetwasfulloffashion.Itwasarunwayinourapartment.Beautifulsparklydressesandsoftblousesandpencilskirtswithaslitjustlowenoughtobeworkappropriate.Rosetookoutashortblackdress,theoneshehadbeentryingtomakemewearforatleastamonthnow,andfinallyherevilplanwascomingtofruition.
Ishookmyhead.“No.”
“C’monnnn,”Rosepleaded,presentingthedresstome.“It’llreallymakeyourasspop.”
“Ithinkyoumeanmyasswillpopoutofit.”
“Floreeeeeeence,”shewhined.
“Roooose,”Iwhinedback.
Shefrowned.Narrowedhereyes.Andsaid—
“Catawampus.”
Myeyeswidenedattheword.“Don’tyoudare,”Iwhisper-warned.
“Cat-a-wam-pus,”sheenunciated,andthereitwas.Ouremergencyword.Thewordwithnoarguments.Itwasn’tarequestanymore—itwasanorder.Weallowedeachotheroneayear.“Youaren’tanoldspinsterinatower,andyou’vebeenactinglikeitfortoolong,andhonestly?Ishould’vedonethissooner.Ifyouaren’tmakingprogressonyourstupidstory—”
“It’snotstupid!”
“—thenthere’snousesittinghereeatingdepressionmacandcheeseandgettingdrunkaloneonTwo-BuckChuck.Cat-a-wam-pus.”
Iglaredather.Shesmirked,crossingherarmsoverherchest,triumphant.
Ithrewupmyarms.“Fine!Fine.Iwillonlydothisifyoupromisetodothedishesforthenextmonth.”
“Week.”
“Deal.”
Weshookonit.
Somehow,Ihadthefeelingthatshegotthebetterendofthedeal,andmysuspicionswereconfirmedwhenshesaid,“Nowgetnakedandputthison.We’regoingtogetyouintroubletonightandfindyousomeinspirationtokiss.”
“Idon’tneedtroubleto—”
“Naked!Now!”shecried,andpushedmeoutofherroomandintomyownandshutmeinside.Istareddownatthedressinmyhands.Itwasn’tthatbad.Sure,itwaswaytooshortformylikingandithadatleastahundredtoomanysequins,anditprobablycostmorethananentiremonthofrent,butitwasn’tthegaudiestthinginRose’swardrobe.(ThatwenttotherainbownumbershebrokeouteveryJuneforthePrideParade.TherewerestrangersweneversawtherestoftheyearwhorecognizedherinthatdresseverysinglePride.)Thedresswasn’treallymytaste,butmaybethat’sexactlywhatIneeded.
ToforgetthatIhadfailedattheonethingIwasevergoodat.Topretendliketomorrowwasn’tthelastdayofthebestcareerofmylife.Tobesomeoneelseforawhile.
Justforanight.
Someonewhodidn’tfail.
4
FatedMates
ROSEWASLIKEanencyclopediaofthenight.Sheknewexactlywhatrestauranthadthebestdeconstructedburger,andwhichwarehouseshousedthemostrecentsilentrave.(Andhowtogetthere.)Sheknewwhichcellarjazzbarsmadethebestsidecarsandthebestdinerfor3:00A.M.hangovercuresandthecheapestcocktailsatthelocalartisanalbarwherethenextFranzenlamentedaboutnothavingthetimetopenhisGreatAmericanNovel.ShecamefromasmalltowninIndiana,withonlyaduffelbagandmoneystuffedintohershoes,andsomehow,she’dmadeNewYorkCityherhomeinawayInevercould.
Ithinkitwasthestars.Imissedthestarstoomuch.Especiallythewaytheylookedfromthebrickstepsofmyparents’frontporch.
Therereallywasn’tasightlikeit
Therealsowasn’tasightlikewhatevermurderbackalleyRoseledmetothatnight.Therewerethreestreetlights,andeverysingleoneofthemflickeredliketheywereallauditioningfortheworld’smostclichéhorrormovie.IfollowedRosedownthenarrowalley,onehandstuckinmypurse,aroundmypepperspray.
“You’regoingtomurderme,”Isaid.“That’sit,isn’tit?YouwantmyGuccicrossbodybag.”
Shesnorted.“Idon’tknowhowmanytimesIhavetotellyouthatit’sfake.”
“Youcanbarelytell.”
“Yeah,ifyoucloseyoureyes.”ThenshestoppedatwhatIrealized,amomentlater,wasadoor,andknocked.
“Whoareyourmurderaccomplices?”Iasked.“IsitSherriefromHR?Ormynewhunkyeditor—”
Thealmost-hiddendoorgaveacreakandswungopentorevealatweed-dressedgradstudentwithsmallroundglassesandgelled-backhair.Rosemotionedwithherheadforustogoinside,andIfollowedher.
Ididn’tknowwhatIexpected,butitdefinitelywasn’tanarrowlow-litbarwithwoodenroundtables.Itwascrowded,buteveryonewaswhispering,asiftheydidn’twanttobreakthemood,soitwassurprisinglyquiet.Rosefoundusatableneartheback,asingleflickeringcandleinthecenter.Atthefrontofthebar,wherewecamein,therewasastagewithamicrophoneandasingleamp.Thecrowdwasastrangeamalgamationoftweedy-professortypesandbohoartistswhopaintedthemselvesnakedandpressedtheirtitstoacanvastomakeart.Someofthoseartpieceswereonthewalls,actually.
“Whatisthisplace?”Iasked,baffled.
“Colloquialism,”shereplied.
“Blessyou.”
Sherolledhereyes.“Abar,Florence.It’sabar.”
Ilookedforamenuonthetable,ormaybeithadfallentotheground—buttherewasn’tone.“I’mdefinitelynotcoolenoughforthis.”
“Youaremorethancoolenough,”shereplied,andwhenthebartenderslippedoutfrombehindtheslabofcherryoakthatservedasabartogreetus,Roseorderedsomethingthatsoundedveryfancy.
“Oh,I’mgoodwithEverclear—”
Roseputahandonmyarm,givingmeawarninglook,becausethelasttimewe’dgottendrunkonEverclearwasincollegeandithadbeendumpedintoatubofJungleJuice.Neitherofusrememberedhowwe’dgottenfromBushwicktotheLowerEastSidethatnight,butsomemysterieswerebetterleftunsolved.
Ishifteduncomfortablyatthetable,feelingsoincrediblyoutofmyelementinatoo-tightblackdress,orderingatoo-expensivecocktail,inaquiethole-in-the-wallbarfullofpeoplewhoprobablyallweresomuchcoolerthanme.Iwashalf-afraidsomeonewouldcomeupandaskformyartisticcredentials,andwhenItookoutmyCostcocardandacardboard-printedmembershiptoasmuttybookclub—
Well.
MuchlikewithBenAndor,IfearedIwasnottallenoughtoridethisride.
Roseslippedacreditcardoutfromherglitterysilverclutchandhandedittothebartender.“Puteverythingonthis,please.”
Thebartendertookhercardwithanodandleft.Everything?Howlongwerewegoingtostay?Iguesseditdidn’tmatteranymore,didit?Wecouldstayallnight,oronlyafewminutes,andIwouldstillwakeuptomorrownotknowinghowtowritethatscene.ThebartenderreturnedwithtwoveryfancydrinksnamedtheDickinson,andRoseheldhersuptocheerswithme.Istaredatherlikeshewasnolongermyroommate,butanalienentitywhohadassumedmydearRose’ssmokin’-hotbody.Shegaveaone-shoulderedshrug.“What?It’saMastercard.”
“Ithoughtyouweretryingtogetoutofdebt.”
“FlorenceMinervaDay,youdeservesomeonetotakeyououtandtreatyouniceonceinawhile.”
“Areyougoingtotakemebacktoyourplaceandhaveyourwaywithmeafter?”Iteased.
“OnlyifIgettobethelittlespoonandyouletmemakeyoupancakesinthemorningbeforeIleaveandnevercallyouagain.”
“Perfect.”
“Cheers,”shesaid,raisinghercocktail.“Toagoodnight.”
“Andagoodtomorrow,”Ifinished.
Weclinkedourcocktailstogether.Thedrinktastedlikestrawberriesandawfullyexpensivegin.Definitelynottheten-dollarhandleIusedtobuyatthebodegaincollege.Thisstuffwasdangerous.Itookalargergulpasawomaninabrownshawlstoodfromoneofthetablesnearthefrontandmadeherwaytowardthemicrophone.
“Isthisanopenmicorsomething?”Iasked.
RosetookanothersipoftheDickinson.“Sorta.”
“Sorta…?”
BeforeRosecouldreply,thewomaninthebrownshawlleanedintowardthemicrophoneandsaid,“Thankyouallforstayingwithusthroughourbreak.Now,forournextreading,I’dliketowelcomeSophiaJenkins,”shesaidinasoftvoicethatremindedmeofapatientkindergartenteacher.
Peoplesnappedassherelinquishedthemicandabrown-skinnedwomanwithshortgrayhaircameuptothemicrophoneandtookoutajournal.
“It’sapoetryreading?”IwhisperedtoRose.
“Areadingofanything,really,”mybestfriendrepliedwithahalfshrug.“Ifiguredyouneededsomeinspiration.Writing’slonely,Ihear.It’snicetolistentootherpeople’swords.”
Thewoman’sshortstorywasaboutafishintheoceanwhodreamedofbeingasiren,ormaybeshewasasirenwhothoughtshewasafish.Itwasbeautiful,andsimple,andtheentirebarhadquietedtolisten.
Whenshewasdone,everyonesnappedpolitely.
Ididn’trealizeIneededthatuntilthismoment.Justquietart,spokentoquietpeopletoappreciate.Nosecrets.Noexchange.Noexpectations.“You’reareallygoodfriend,RoseWu.”
Shegrinned.“You’reright,andanygoodfriendwouldtellyoutogoupnext.”
“What?”
“IsaidwhatIsaid.”
Ihesitated,butitdidn’tsoundlikeaterribleidea,whenalldaywritinghadfeltlikepullingteeth.TheartisanalDickinsonhelped.Icouldgoupthere.IcouldreadsomethingthatIjotteddownonmyphoneawhileback.Icouldputalittlebitofcreativityintotheworldthatseemedtowanttosuckitfromyourverymarrow.
Icouldgoupthereandbesomeone—anyone—otherthanFlorenceDaytonight
BecauseFlorenceDaywouldbecurleduponthecouchwithabowlofmacandcheese,herlaptopbalancedprecariouslyonapillowonherlap,tryingdesperatelytowriteastoryshedidn’tbelievein.Becausestorybookloveonlyexistedforaluckyfew—likemyparents.Theyweretheexceptiontotherule,nottheruleitself.Itwasrare,anditwasfleeting.Lovewasahighforamomentthatleftyouhollowwhenitleft,andyouspenttherestofyourlifechasingthatfeeling.Afalsememory,toogoodtobetrue,andI’dbeenfoolingmyselfforfartoolong,believinginGrandRomanticGesturesandHappilyEverAfters.
Thoseweren’twrittenforme.Iwasn’ttheexception.
Iwastherule.
AndIguessIfinallyunderstoodthekindsofliesItoldpeoplewithmywittyproseandpromiseofahappyending.Ipromisedthemthattheyweretheexception.AndeverytimeIlookedatthatblinkingcursorinmyWorddocument,tryingtouniteAmeliaandJackson,allIcouldseewasmyreflectiononthescreen.
Thereflectionofaliar.
Butforonenight—onemoment—Ididn’twanttobethatgirlIsawinthereflectionofmycomputerscreen.Iwantedtogoback.Topretendthattherewastruelovewaitingformesomewhereoutintheworld.Thatsoulsseparatedbyspaceandtimecouldcomecrashingtogetherwiththeforceofasinglekiss.Thattheimpossiblewasnotquiteoutofreach.Notforme.
Thattherewaslove,trueandfierceandloyal,inaworldwherelikecalledtolike…andIwasnolongertherule.
WhereIwastheexception.
Asiftheuniverseanswered,Istoodwhentheemceecalledforanothervolunteer,anotherpersontobaretheirheart.Andsodidsomeoneelse.Someonenearthefrontofthebar,wherethetablesweresotightlypackedthetweedsuitsblendedtogether.
Ifroze.
“Oh,my!”theemceecooed.“Whatatreat.Whichoneofyou’dliketogofirst?”
Themaninquestionturnedtoseewhoelsehadvolunteered.Oureyesmet.Iknewthenthatitwashim.
Icouldrecognizehimanywhere.
Evenafterahundredyears,afterI’dscrubbedmybrainofeverythinghewas,Iwouldknowhim.
Platinum-blondhairandaloose-cutV-neckandtightjeansandabirthmarkjustbelowhisleftearintheshapeofacrescentmoonthatIhadkissedsomanytimesmylipshurtjustthinkingaboutallofthenightsIrubbedthemraw,tryingtoforgetaboutit.Abouthim
ItwastheuniversetellingmethatIcouldn’tforget.Thatiflovewastrue,thenlovewasalie.ThatIhadbeenhappyonce,happythen,butnothappyforever.Becausethatwasn’tmystory.Thatevenmystoriesweren’tmine.
Perhapstheyneverwere.
5
DeadSerious
THEFIRSTTIMEImetLeeMarlow,IwasatapartywithRoseandNatalie,ourotherroommate,whohadsincemovedtoSouthKorea.Thepartyconsistedofalotofpublishingpeople,thoughitwasn’tamixer.Therewereauthors,editors,quiteafewassistants,andagents.Itwasforsomemilestone,butIcouldn’tforthelifeofmerememberwhat.Theyallblendedtogetherafterawhile,partyafterparty,booklaunchafterbooklaunch,swankybarsafterrooftoprestaurantsafterextravagantapartmentsinMidtown.
IhadgrabbedRosebytheupperarmandbroughtherclose.“Ohmygod,fouro’clock.RedVans.ItoldyouIcould’vewornmyConverses.”
“ButthoseLouboutinsmakeyourasslookamazing,”shereplied.
“Ican’tfeelmyfeet,Rose,”Icomplained,envyingtheguyintheredVans.Thenheturnedaroundandmybreathcaughtinmythroat.“Oh.”
“He’dlookbetterinanicepairofGuccileatherloafers.”
“Thatsoundssopretentious.”
“Saysthegirlwearingherbestfriend’sLouboutins.”
“Youmademe!”
Sheinclinedherhead.“AndIdon’tregretitforasecond.”
Idid,however,regretitafewhourslaterwhenmyfeethadgonefromnumbtostabbingpain.Thepartywasinsomeone’sswankyMidtownapartment,andwhilemostpeoplewereinthelivingroomoronthebalcony,Ihadhobbledmywayintothelibraryandsankdownontheleatherhigh-backchairthatprobablycostmorethanmyNYUtuition,andtakenoffthosepricelessLouboutins,andIneverfeltmorereliefinmylife.Ileanedbackintheplushleatherchairandclosedmyeyes,andbaskedinthequiet.
Rosethrivedonparties,ontheenergy,theloudness,thepeople.Ilikedthemsometimes—onspecialoccasions,likeatconcertsorComic-Cons,buttherewasnothingquitelikethesilenceofawell-lovedlibrary.
“GuessI’mnottheonlyonelookingforalittlequiet,”cameagood-humoredvoicefromtheothersideofthelibrary.
MyeyesflewopenandIsatupstraight—onlytofindthemanintheredVanssittingononeofthoseridiculousbookshelfladders,theautobiographyofsomedeadpoetinhishands.Itwaslikeascenefromoneofthosecheesyninetiesrom-coms—lightstreakinginbetweenthedarkvelvetcurtains,paintinghisfaceinanglesofpalemoonlight.
IfeltmyselfblushingevenbeforeIregisteredhowpicturesquehelooked.Itwashiseyes,Ithink.Whenhelookedatme,theworldaroundusblurred.AllIsawwashim,andallhesawwasme.Andhesawme.ItfeltlikeoneofthosemomentsIwroteaboutinromances,oneofthosedestiny-callingfeelings,wherelikecalledtolike.AndIknew—Iknew—Iwastheexceptiontotherule.
Henoticedmyshoesabandonedbythechair.“Boldofyoutotakeyourshoesoffinastranger’shouse.”
“Thesearen’tshoes,they’retorturedevices,”Iargued,feelingmyselfgorigidindefense.“AndIdon’tseeitbotheringyou.”
Hestudiedmyshoes.“Theydoseemtoberatherpointy.”
“Greatforstabbingmenaloneinalibrary.”
“TheprettygirlwiththeblondhairandtheLouboutinsintheprivatelibrary?”Hegrinned.“Noone’llseethatcoming.”
Inarrowedmyeyes.“AreweflirtingoristhisagameofClue?”
Hedidthatthing—thethingpeopledidsometimeswhentheyrantheirtongueovertheirteeth,justundertheirlips,tohideasmile.“Whichdoyouwantitto—”
“Marlow!”Atallwomanwithstrawberryhairstrodeintothelibrary,twodrinksinherhands,immediatelybreakingthespellwithhersofthoneyvoice.Iquicklylookedaway,downatmybarefeet,ashegreetedher.“Thereyouare.IthoughtIleftyoubytheheadeditorfromElderwood.”
“Youtryholdingaconversationwiththatguy,”themanintheredVansreplied,andacceptedoneofthedrinksthewomanhandedtohim.
“I’vehadtotalktoworse.”Shethentookhimbyhiscoatsleeveandtugged.“C’mon,there’sstillalotmorepeopletomeet.”
Iwonderedwhoshewas.Hisgirlfriend,perhaps?Fiancée?Shewasbeautiful,withblunt-cutbangsandaloudyellowjacket,pairedwithhigh-waistedtartan-printtrousers.IlatercametofindoutthatshewashisassistanteditorbeforeheleftFaux,wherehehadsteadilyclimbedtheladderforyears.
IfthemanintheredVanshadgonewithher,thingswouldhavebeenso,sodifferent.Butheglancedbackatme,asmiletuckedintothecornerofhismouth,andsaid,“I’llbethereinaminute.”
“Ugh,fine,”shesaidassomeonecaughthereyeinthecrowdinthelivingroom.“Oh!Ohmygod,that’shim.That’stheauthor.Mr.Brown!”shecalled,hurryingbackintothefrayofpeople.
Andthenwewerealoneagain.
Hewatchedhergo,settinghisdrinkonthemahoganybookshelf—thatshould’vebeenmyfirstwarningsign,ablatantdisregardforsomeoneelse’sbooks—andcameovertome.Ifeltmychestconstrict;Iwasn’tsureifI’dratherbeleftalonewithmypainfulfeetorifIwantedhimtostay.
“So,”heasked,“doyouhaveanywheretobetonight?”
“Here.”
Hesnortedalaugh.“Anywhereelse?”
Iinclinedmyhead.“Areyouasking?”
“Areyousayingyes?”Hearchedaverypointedeyebrow.ItwasthekindofarchafeaturewriterwouldcallbelletristicwhentheysatdowntopenhisprofileinGQ
Ishould’vetoldhimtoleave.Ishould’vesaidIneededtostayandkeepaneyeonRose.ButIdidn’tknow,andhelookedatmewiththisgenuinesortofcuriosity—whocouldthisgirlbe,inLouboutinsandadiscountblackdress?Andhewasamystery,too,inhisredVansandhisloosebrownsuitandhiswildblondhair.
Heoutstretchedhishandtome,asifwantingmetotakeit.“I’mMarlow—LeeMarlow.C’mon,let’sgosomewhereshoesaren’trequired.”
Ismiledathim,andIknewthen—Ijustknew—thatthiswassomethingspecial.Ifeltlikeastarthathadcomeunhingedfromthenightskyandstartedtofall,andIcouldn’tstopmyself.Ididn’twantto.
Thiswasthemoment.Theonewe’dtellatdinnerparties.Ofhowwemet,andfellinlove,andknewwe’dgrowoldtogether,andevenwhenwedieditwouldn’tbetheend.Becauseiftherewasonethingmorepowerfulthandeathitself,itwastrue,undeniablelove.
Icouldfeelitinmybones.
Ijustwantedtotalktohim,tobreatheinhiswords,tounderstandwhatmadehisbrilliantmindtick.
Iwas,astheFrenchsay,uneputaind’idiote.
“FlorenceDay.”Itookhishand.
AndthatwashowI,thegirlperpetuallyusedasthebackupdate,whowouldratherhideinaburritoofblanketsandwatchtrashyrealityTVonaFridaynight,begantodateoneofthehottestmenIhadevermetinmyentirelife.
ButasIgottoknowhim,asthedatesturnedintomonths,turnedintoanniversariesandsweetkisses,Ithoughtitwasthekindoflovestoryworthyofmyfamily’slegacy.Aromancenovelintherealworld.Ithadtheperfectmeet-cute,themostcharmingloveinterest,andthemostbeautifulsetting—abrownstoneinParkSlopewitharooftopgardenwhereIwouldsneakoutandwritechaptersuponchaptersofwhimsicalwords
Sometimeshewouldfindmeupinthegardenandaskinthatsmoothtenorofhis,“What’reyoudoinguphere,bunny?”
AndI’dclosemylaptopormyjournalorwhateverIwasusingtowritethatevening,andsmileathim,andsay,“Oh,justthinkingupstories.”
“Whatkindsofstories?”He’dsitdownonthebenchbesideme,betweenabusyazaleaandapotofcurlingdevil’sivy.“Ihopethey’renaughty,”hesaidasheburrowedhisfaceintomyhairandkissedthesideofmyneckatthetenderestspot.
Italwaysmademeshiver.
“Very,”I’dlaugh.
“Icouldtakeapeek.Makethembetter.”
“Boldofyoutoassumetheyaren’talreadyperfect.”
Helaughedintomyhairandmurmured,“Nothing’sperfect,bunny,”andkissedmesosoftly,Iwould’vecalledhimaliarifmylipsweren’tpreoccupied,becausethiswasdamnnearperfect.Thewaytheeveninglightcreptovertherooftop,orangeandgoldenanddreamy,andhowhisfingersweregentleashecuppedthesidesofmyface.
Thiswasperfect.Hewasperfect.
Evenso,Ikeptmyghostwritingsecret.
Therewasneverarighttimetotellhim,Ifelt,becauseeverytimeabookheeditedhitthelist,Ihadbeenonthereforafewweeksmore.Itfeltlikelying,eventhoughIhadsignedNDAsandbundledmyselfincautionarytape.
Andso,becauseofthat,Itoldhimeverythingelse.IlaidmyheartbaretohimbecauseIwantedtomakeupfortheonesecretinmylifeIdidn’tknowhowtovocalize.Itoldhimallofmyothersecrets,andmynightmares,andfinally—afterayearofkissesanddatesandpromiseswealwaysintendedtokeep—aswesatonthecouchwatchingPortalstoHell,Iconfessed,“Theydon’treallylikepeopleyellingatthemtoappear.”
“Hmm?”Helookedupfromabookhewasreading,hisglassesperchedlowonhisnose.Yearslater,Irealizedhedidn’tactuallyneedthem—asmalllie,beingbuilton.“Whatwasthat,bunny?”
“Theghosts.Theyreallydon’tlikeitwhenpeopleyell.”Iwashalfabottleofpinotgrigiointothenight,soIwasalittlebraverthanusual.I’dnevertalkedaboutghostswithanyoneotherthanmyfatherandRose,andIthought—stupidly—thatifIexchangedonefortheother,mysecretghostwritingwithastoryofactualghosts,itwouldmakeupforit.
Hegavemeastrangelookoverhisblack-framedglasses.“Ghosts?Likethehauntingkind?”
Inodded,swirlingmywinearoundinmyglass.“DadandI’vedancedwiththeminthefuneralparlor.”
“Florence,”hechided.
“Mostofthemjustwanttotalk,youknow,tohavesomeonelisten.It’snotascreepyasitlooksinthemovies.Iwasn’talwaysabletoseethem,butitstartedwhenIwaseight?Nine?Somewhereinthere.”
Hetookoffhisglassesandturnedtomeonthecouch.“You…you’resayingyousawghosts?Likeactualspirits.The”—hewiggledhisfingersintheair—“woooookind?”
“Iseeghosts.Presenttense.”
“Like—rightnow?”
“No.Notnow.Sometimes.Idon’ttalktothemanymore.Ihaven’tsinceIlefthome—”
Hewaschewingontheinsideofhischeek,asiftokeephimselffromlaughing,andIfeltmyheartsinkthen.Somethingsyoujustcouldn’ttelleventhepeopleyoulovedthemost.Somethingsnoonewouldeverunderstand.Couldneverunderstand.AndLeewasgivingmethelookI’dseeneverydayinhighschool,thatpityinglook,vergingoncurious,wonderingifIwascrazy.
Igrinnedthen,andkissedhimonthemouth.“Ha,whatdoyouthinkofmystory?”Iasked,shovingdownthepartofmethatbegantofracture.ThepartIcouldnever—wouldnever—sharewithanyoneagain.“It’sabookI’mworkingon.”
Morelies.Butclosetothetruth.TruerthanI’deverbeenwithanyoneoutsideofMairmont.Butsomehow,itstillmademefeelashamed.Andalone.Idrainedtherestofmyglassandstartedtogetoffthecouch,buthetookmebythewristandpulledmebackdownontothecushionsagain.
“Wait,bunny.It’sreallyinteresting.”Andthen,verysoftly,heasked,“Tellmemore?”
Ipaused.“Really?”
“Absolutely.Ifthisstorymeanssomethingtoyou,Iwanttolisten.”
Alwaystheperfectwordsattheperfecttime.Hewasgoodatthat.Heknewhowtomakeyoufeelimportantandcherished.
“But,”headded,“thirdperson,please.Thefirst-personkindofthrewmeoff,”headmittedwithalaugh.
So,ItookadeepbreathandIstarted.“Sheknewshewouldseeaghostwhenthecrowscame.”
AndthatwashowItoldhimaboutthepartofmylifeIcouldn’t.
Itoldhimabouttheghostsofmychildhood,andhowraretheyreallywere—someyearswithoutanyatall.I’dseenafewinthecity,butIneverstoppedtoaskiftheywantedanything.Ididn’treallyhaveitinmeanymore,notafterwhatIwentthroughinMairmont.Iwantedtogetawayfromthatlife—thatpartofme.Andthebestwaytodoitwastoignorethem.
Inevershouldhavetoldhimanything.Ishouldn’thaveevenpretendedthattheywereastory.
Myyoungersister,Alice,alwayssaidIwastoogullible.Toogenerous.Toolikethetreeinthatpicturebook,whokeptgivingandgivinguntiltherewasnothingleft.Shesaidonedayitwouldcomebacktobitemeintheass.
LeeMarlowdidliketobite,butnevermyass,andanywayIlovedhim,andhelovedme,andwehadabrownstoneinParkSlopeandhekissedmewithsuchintensitythatanyechoofdoubtfellsilentbetweenourlips.Imighthavebeenthatweirdgirlwhosawghosts,buttohimIwasperfect.
Oncehesaid,whilewewereouttodinnertogetherandIhadjusttoldhimaboutthetimeIhadbeenwokenupbytheghostoftherecentlydeceasedmayor,“Youshouldtrytopublishthisstory.Youmightjustmakemillionsoffit.”
“Itriedpublishingonce.Itdidn’tworkout.AndIdefinitelydidnotmakemillions.”
Hehadbarkedalaugh.“Well,that’sbecauseyouwrotearomance.”
“What’swrongwiththat?”
“Oh,bunny,youknowyoucandobetter.”
Ifaltered.“Better…?”
“Noone’srememberedforaromance,bunny.Ifyouwanttobeagoodwriter,yougottamakesomethingthatlasts.”
Ididn’tknowwhattosay.Honestly,Ishould’vesaidsomething—anything—torebukehim,butthenifIdid,hewouldaskhowIknew,andI’dhavetotellhimthatIghostwroteforAnnNichols.Bythen,weweretwoyearsintoourrelationship,andheknewIwasalwayswritingsomething,butI’dbeensneakyenoughtokeephimoblivious.SoIpressedonasmileandsaid,“Idon’tknow.Ikindoflikekeepingthisstorytomyself.”
“Someoneelse’llbeatyoutothatstoryifyoudon’twriteit.”
MaybeifI’dpressedhim,he’dhavegivenuptheghost,too.
Fortherecord,henevertoldmeaboutthebookhewaswriting.Hedidn’ttellmeuntilitsoldatauctionforamilliondollars—exactlywhathesaidminewouldsellfor.Itsoldtohisownpublishinghouse.Wherehewasasenioreditor.AndwhenIreadthedealreport,Irealizeditdidn’ttellmeanything.
GilliganStraus,atFauxPublishing,hasacquiredinatwelve-houseauctionworldrightstoFauxsenioreditorLeeMarlow’suntitleddebut,andasecondnovel.WilliamBrooksofAngelFireLitbrokeredthedeal.
AndLeewouldn’ttellme,either.
“It’sabook,bunny,”helaughed.“Behappyforme!”
“OfcourseIam,”Ireplied,becauseIwassilly—sosilly.Ishould’vebeenhappyforhim.Ecstatic.Itwasalife-changingdeal!Hecouldquithisjob,writefull-time,doallofthethingshe’dtoldmehewantedtobutcouldn’tbecauseworkweighedhimdown.
Andnowhewassuccessful.
Ishould’vebeenhappy—no,Iwashappy.
Genuinely.
Thenonenight,afewmonthsafterthedeal,helefthiscomputeropenwhilehewenttogopickuphislaundry.I’dneversnoopedbefore—Ineverwantedto.Itrustedhim.
Iwasafool.
Becausehe’dtakenwhathe’dsaidtometoheart.ThatifIdidn’twritethestorythatIwoveforhim,thensomeoneelsewould.
Ijustdidn’tthink…Ididn’tthinkit’dbehim
ThreeyearsandadayafterImetLeeMarlow,IrealizedthatIhadgottenourstoryallwrong.Iwasthemaincharacter,butnotinmyownstory.
Iwasthemaincharacterinhis
Iwassewnintothepages,intoeveryword,lacedintoeverysentence.Thebookhesoldwasabookaboutmyfamily’sfuneralhome.AboutthestoriesI’dtoldhim.Theghosts.Thefunerals.Thegraves.ThebullieswhopickedonmeandcalledmeWednesday.Whopouredinkonmyhair.Thememoriesofmyparentsdancingintheparlorlateatnight,whentheythoughttheirkidshadgonetobed.Ofmeandmysisterfightingovertheurnofourgrandmother,andtheashesscatteringalloverthefloor.OfthestraycatnamedSalemwhomust’vebeenhitbyacaratleastonceayearandneverdied—untilcancertookhimfourteenyearslater.
Itwasallthere.Allofmysecrets.Allofmystories.
Allofme
Heusedmeasinspiration,andthenhejustusedme.
Heusedthebookdealtoquithisjob,becomeafull-timewriter,andwhenIconfrontedhimaboutthestory,hesaidtome—andI’llrememberituntilthedayIdie—“Bunny,youcanstillwriteyourromance.”
“That’swhatyouthinkI’mmadabout?”
“Youweren’tgoingtowritethisbook.”
“Youdon’tknowthat!”
“Bunny,c’mon,aren’tyoubeingalittleunfair?”HehadtriedtosoothemeasIelbowedpasthimonthewaydownthestepsofourbrownstone.Hisbrownstone.
Andmaybe,yeah.
MaybeIwas,but—
“Whathappensattheend?ToyourFlorenceinyourbook?Doessomeguycomeintosaveher,onlytostealtheonestorythat’shers?”
Hisdemeanorchangedthen.Hewasstillcharming,stilllookedatmelikeIwasthecenteroftheuniverseinwhicheverythingelseorbited,butsuddenlyIwassomethingthatwasnolongerprecious.“Ican’tstealastoryyou’dneverwrite,Florence.”
Andthatwasit.Ihadbeenanutterfool.WhateverIfeltwasnothing,itwasimagined.
Thenheshutthedooronme.
Literally.
Hedidn’teventrytoexplainorbegformetocomeback.HesimplyleftmeonthesidewalkonacoldAprileveningwithmyonejumbosuitcaseandtwopotsofdevil’sivyI’dstolenfromtherooftopgarden.
AndallofhisstoriesbegantomakesenseifIthoughtofthemthesamewayhethoughtaboutmystories.
Fictional.
IthoughtIknewLee.HehadstudiedatYale,andleftbecausehewantedtoteachFrenchtoorphansinBenin.Heonlycamebackbecausehismotherdiedofcancer,andhewantedtohelphisfathergrieve.HehadasisterinagrouphomeinTexasaftershesufferedabrainaneurysmonherweddingday,andhealwaysdonatedtotheASPCAbecauseheusedtovolunteerthereinhighschool,andIateallofituplikecandy.Ineverquestionedit
WhywouldI?Itrustedhim.
Ibegantofigureitout,though,afterthenightheleftmeintherain.Iputtogetherhislies,piecebypiece,untiltheyfinallybegantoaddup.Imean,hedidn’tevenknowthecapitalofBenin.(It’sPorto-Novo,bytheway.)
Herewasthetruth:LeeMarlowflunkedoutofYale.HisparentslivedinFlorida,andhissisterwasmarriedtoalibrarianinSeattle.Heneverchasedamaster’satOxford.HeneverinternedattheWallStreetJournal
AndIwasheartbroken.
StandingthereonthesidewalkintheAprilrain,IdidtheonlythingIcouldthinkof—IcalledRose,andshehadaroommatewhowasmovingout.Itdidcrossmymindtogohome,ofcourseitdid,becausewithonebighugfrommyparentsIwouldbeokayagain,butifIwentbackhome,itmeantthateveryonewhosaidIwouldn’tmakeitinNewYork,whoexpectedmetoreturnsotheycouldwhisperbehindtheirhandsaboutthegirlwhotalkedtoghosts,wouldberight.AndthatwasastoryIcouldn’tface.Notyet.
So,IshoweduponRose’sdoorstepthatrainyWednesdayevening,andthatwasthat.
Ihaven’tbeenabletowritearomancesince.
6
TheDeathToll
IHADN’TSEENhimsincethatrainyAprilevening.I’dtriednottothinkabouthisblueeyes,orhisartfullydisheveledblondhair,orhowhiscallousedfingersfeltwhentheytouchedme—
Suddenly,thebarseemedmuchtoosmall.Thewallswereclosingin.Icouldn’tstayhere.WhatwasIdoing?IwasFlorenceDay,andFlorenceDaydidn’tliveherlifelikethis.Shedidn’tshareherstories—whethertheywererealornot—shedidn’tweartinyblackdresses,andshedidn’tdrinkartisanaldrinksnamedafterdeadpoets.
Theuniverseremindedmeofthat.
RosesawLeeMarlowasplitsecondafterIdid,andIheardherwhisper,“Shit.Wecangoifyouwant—Florence?”
“I—Ineedsomefreshair.”
“Icangowithyou—”
“No.”Isaiditabittoosharply,butIdidn’tcare.Thepeopleatneighboringtableswerestaringatusnow,sippingontheirdeadpoetslikeIwaspartofthedinnershow.“I’mfine.Hecan—hecangofirst.Ineedtogotothebathroom.”Itwasabadlie,andwebothknewit,butsheletmegoanyway.
ItoremygazeawayfromLeeMarlowandmademywaytowardthebackofthebar,wherethebathroomswouldbe.TheemceewelcomedLeeuptothemicrophone,andheintroducedhimself,andsaidhewouldbereadingfrom—from—
“WhentheDeadSing.It’salittlebookyoumight’veheardbuzzabout.It’scomingoutinafewmonths,sopleasebegentlewithme,”hesaidmodestly.
Afewmonths?Thatsoon?Thispastyear,timeseemedtoslipthroughmyfingerslikesand.Howcoulditbeayearalreadyandstillmyhearthurtthismuch?Icouldbarelybreathe.Ididn’twatchwhereIwasgoing.IjustknewIneededtoleave,andIneededtoleavenow—
Butthelinetothewomen’sbathroomwastenpeoplelong.Thatwasatleastthirtyminutes.AndIfeltthetearsatthecornersofmyeyesburning.Icouldn’twait.
AndIrefusedtobreakdownwhereLeecouldseeme.
Iwouldn’t
Beyondthewomen’sbathroomwasaglowingemergencyexitsign,andItookitasagirlinasparklypurpledressaskedifIwasokay.“No,”Imumbledtruthfully,slippingpastthelinetotheemergencyexit,andburstoutintothecoldAprilair.
Ihadtobreathe.Ihadtocalmdown.SoIdid.Ifilledmylungsupwithsomuchfrigidair,Ifelttheymightburst,thenIletitoutagain.Andagain.Itiltedmyheadbackandblinkedthetearsoutofmyeyes,huggingmyselftightlysoIwouldn’trattleapart.Nothere.Notanywhere.
Neveragain.
IhatedthatIcriedwhenIwasangry,orupset,orannoyed.IhatedthatIcriedattheslightestfluxofemotionalnuance.IhatedhowhelplessIfelt.IhatedhowIwantedtobothmarchuptohimandgivehimafistfulofmythoughtsandrunasfarawayfromhimasIcould.
IhatedhowIcouldn’tdoboth.
“Itoldyou,”sighedasoftmalevoice,“Idon’tneedtohearyoureadfromyourdamnbookagai—oh.Hello.”
Ispuntowardtheman—andfroze.Atallshadowsulkedagainstthebrickwall.Hequicklypocketedhisphoneandstoodstraight,makinghimselfeventaller,andwithmyeyesalreadyblurrywithtears,helookedlikeashadowynightmare.
Ohno.Narrow,darkly-litalley.Noonearound.Mylifespinningoutofcontrol.
ThiswaswhereIgotmurdered.
“Ifyou’regonnakillme,doitalready,”Ihiccupedasob.
Hepaused.“Comeagain?”
“Noone’saround.Doitquick.”
Hesoundedbaffled.“WhywouldIwanttodothat?”Hesteppedoutoftheshadows,andIcouldseehisfacefinally.Andthatmadeitalltheworse.Itwasamurder-ystranger,butnotofthelifekind.Hewasthekindtomurderacareer.Mycareer.
BenjiAndor.
Andworseyet,hecouldseemyfacenow,too.Histhickeyebrowsknittogether.“MissDay?”
“Shit,”Icursed,quicklylookingaway.Ohno,couldheseemecrying,too?Thatwasmortifying.Iwipedmyeyes.“Whatareyoudoinghere,Mr.Andor?”
“Ben,”hecorrected,“andsameasyou,Isuppose.”
“Cryinginabackalley?”
“Notthat,no…”Hejudgedhiswordscarefully,frowning.
Why—whydidhehavetobehereofallplaces?Ihadhalfamindtoturnaroundandgobackinsidebut…Leewouldstillbereadingfromthatstupidbook.Ididn’twanttohearit.Ididn’twanttorememberitexisted.Ijustwantedtodisappear.
Ipressedthepalmsofmyhandsagainstmyeyesandtookadeepbreath.It’sokay,Florence.Calmdown.Itdoesn’tmatter.Itdoesn’tmatter—
Thenhisvoice,softandalittlehesitant,asked,“IsthereanythingIcando?”
No.
Yes.
Ididn’tknow.
IwantedtogetawayfromLeeMarlowandhiswords.Iwantedtogetawayfromhismemory.Everythingabouthim—becauseheremindedmethatIonlyhadmyselftoblame.AndIdidn’twanttorememberthat.Ididn’twanttorememberanyofit.Myheartstillfeltlikeitwasfreshlybroken,shatteringalloveragain,thejaggedpiecesfallingdeepintothepitofmystomachlikefreshpains.
AndIdidn’twanttofeelthatanymore.Ithadbeenayear.Whywasn’tIoverhim?WhydidIstillwanthimtolookatmelikeIwastheonlystoryhewantedtolearn(irony,thatone),andtuckmyhairbehindmyear,andkissmelikeIwastheheroineinaromance,andtellmeIwasloved?Thathelovedme.
Imissedthatthemost.Imisseditsomuch,thecloseness,thecertaintythatImattered.
AndIwantedtomatteragain.
Tosomeone,toanyone.
Foramoment.
“Yes,”Idecided,andreachedup—becausehewassodamntallandIwasverymuchnot—andtookhisfaceinmyhandsandpulledhimdowntocrushmylipsagainsthis.Theywerewarmandsoftanddry,andmyfingersbrushedagainstthestubbleonhischeeks.Mystomachburned,butitfilledtheache.
Hemadeasurprisednoise,joltingmetomysenses.Iquicklyjerkedaway.“Ohmygod—I’msosorry.I—Ididn’t…Iwasn’t…Iusuallydon’tdothis.”
“Makeoutinbackalleys?”
“Kisstallstrangers.”
Hegaveasnortthatsoundedlikelaughter.“Didithelp?”
Mylipsstillfeltwetandtingly,andhetastedlikearum-and-Coca-Colasortofdeadpoet(LordByron?),andIdidn’tmind.Igaveanod.“Butitdoesn’tmeananything,”Iaddedquickly.“Itdoesn’t—thisdoesn’tmean—I’mnotgoingtofallinlovewithyou.”
“Becauseromanceisdead?”heasked,tongueincheek.
“Sixfeetunder.”
“Soyousay…”
Andhismouthfoundmineagain.Hepressedmeupagainstthesideofthewall,andkissedmelikeIhadn’tbeenkissedin—well,atleastayear.Thenightwascold,buthefeltlikeafurnace.Icurledmyfingersaroundthecollarofhisdarkcoatandpulledhimcloser.AscloseasIcould.Hishandswerewarmashisfingerscameuptocradlethesidesofmyface,andwedancedinthedarkalleywhilestandingstill.
Wedidn’ttalk.Wedidn’tthink—orI,atleast,didn’tthink.NotaboutLeeMarlow,orthebookdue,oranythingelse,eventhoughBendidn’tevenknowitwasmedoingthewriting.Iwasn’thisauthor.Nottheonewhowasgoingtoturnthebookinlate;Annwas.HethoughtIwasherassistant.Themiddleman.Noone.
Iwantedtobenooneforamoment.
Hebrokeaway,breathless.“MissDay?”
“It’sFlorence,”Igasped.Mylipsthrobbed.
“No,um—that’snot—yourphone,”hesaidrigidly.“It’sringing.”
Oh.Wasit?Ijustnoticed.ItwasmyMom’sringtone.ThatstruckmeasoddthroughthehazeofkissingBenjiAndor.Whywasshecallingthislate?Itwaslate,wasn’tit?Iuntangledmyfingersfromhiscoatanddugformyphoneinmycrossbodypurse.Hestillhoveredoverme,bentnear,shieldingmeagainsttheworld,anditwas…
Nice.
Itwasniceinawayfewthingshadbeentonight.
WhenIfoundmyphone,IrealizedIhadovertwentymissedcallsfrommymom—
AndCarver.
AndAlice.
PleasecallMom,Carver’stextread.
Wait—what?Why?
Iwasmoreconfusedthananythingelse.Itwas11:37P.M.WassomethingwrongwithMom?Thefuneralparlor?
“Issomethingwrong?”Benasked.
“I—excuseme,”Imuttered,dippingoutfromunderneathhimandmovingawayafewfeet.Itwasnothing,Itoldmyself.Just—itwasnothing.Iquicklypressedherspeed-dialnumber.ThephonebarelyrangoncebeforeMomanswered.
“Sweetheart,”shebegan.
Somethingwasoff.
Itwasoffbeforeshesaidanything.
“It’syourfather.”
Andthen—
“Youneedtocomehome.”
Thedreadinmystomachbloomedintoasickly,coldflower.“Isheokay?Whathospitalisheat?Ican—Icanbethereonthefirstflightintomorrowand—”
“No,sweetheart.”Andinthosewords,Iknew.ItwasthewayMom’svoicedipped.Thewayithaltedsuddenlyattheend.Itwaslikefindingyourselfattheedgeofacliff—asharpdrop,andthennothing.Mylipswerenumb,andIstillhadthememoryofBen’sfingersinmyhair,andDadwas—
“H-Hehadaheartattack.Wetried…theambulance…itwasduringhispokergameandhewaswinningand…AliceandIfollowedtheambulancebut—”Herwordsweresporadic,tryingtopiecetogetheraneveningofhorrorwhileIhadgottentipsyonDickinsonmartinis.“Theycouldn’t—hewasgone.Hewasgonebythetimewegotthere—by—hewas…he’sgone,darling.”
Gone
Thewordwassoquiet,Ibarelyheardit.Ormaybemyheart,thunderinginmyears,wastooloud.Butwhateveritwas,theworddidn’tregister,notreally,notforalong,longmoment.Andthen,likethecoldwind,itburroweddeepintomybones,andIcouldfeelmyheartbeginningtocrack.Rightdownthecenter,breakingoffallthepiecesofmethatweremyfather,allofthememories—thelatenightsinthefuneralhome,whenIcouldn’tsleepbecauseofathunderstorm,whenthewindhowledbetweenthecracksinthehouseandmadethemmoan,soI’dquietlygodowntothekitchenandgetmyselfsomemilk,andsometimesI’dseeDadthereatthekitchentable.Hewouldbesittingthere,watchingthetreesoutsideofthewindowbendinthestorm.
“Oh,buttercup,can’tsleep?”he’dask,andwhenIshookmyhead,hepattedhislapandIclimbeduptositonit.
Lightninglittheskies,makingthethinsummertreeslooklikebonyskeletonhandsreachinguptowardtheclouds.Icurledmyselfupagainstmydad,whowassturdyandroundandsafe.Ialwaysfeltsafewithhisarmsaroundme,wherenothingbadcouldevergetme.Hewasthekindofmanwhogavethebestbearhugs.Heputhiswholeheartintothem
“What’reyoudoingup?”Ihadasked,andhe’dlaughed.
“Listeningtothedeadsing.Doyouhearthem?”
Ishookmyhead,becauseallIheardwasthewindhowling,andthebushesoutsidescrapingagainstthesideofthehouse.Anditwasterrible.
Hehuggedmetighter.“Yourgrandma—mymother—toldmeoncethatthewindisjustthebreathofeveryonewhocamebeforeus.Allthepeoplewho’vepassedon,alltheoneswho’vetakenabreath—”Andhetookabreathhimself,loudanddramatic,andexhaled.“They’restillinthewind.Andthey’llalwaysbeinthewind,singing.Untilthewindisgone.Doyouhearthem?”
Andhetuckedhisheaddownbymyear,androckedmegentlybackandforth,hummingastrangeandsofttune,andwhenIstrainedtolisten,Icouldstarttohearit,too—thedeadsinging.
AsIshuffledoutofthealleytositonthecurb,numb,abreezesweptanemptypotatochipbagacrosstheground.Iwatcheditgo,butIdidn’thearanysortofmusic.Iheardmyname.“Florence?”
Iglancedback,thoughmyeyeswereblurry,andallIcouldseewasamassivehulkingshape.Hecamecloser,andknelttome,puttingahandonmyshoulderbeforeIrealizedwhoitwas.
BenAndor.
Right.Hewashere.I’dbeenkissinghim.Iwantedtoforgetandnow—
“Hey,iseverythingokay—”
Ishruggedhishandawayandstumbledtomyfeet.Iforcedout,“I’mfine.”
“But—”
“IsaidI’mfine,”Isnapped.AllIwantedtodowasbreakintopiecesandbecarriedoffbythatsilent,deadwind.Becausetherewasn’taworldwithoutmyfather’sstupidparlorplaylistsandhischeesyjokesandhisbearhugs.
Thatworlddidn’texist.Itcouldn’t.
AndIdidn’tknowhowtoexistinaworldwithouthiminit.
Amomentlater,Rosewasthere,shovingBenAndorawayfromme.“Whatthehelldidyoudo?!”
Hewasbaffled.“Nothing!”
“Thefuckyoudid!”Shedugintoherpurseforthepepperspray.Hequicklyhelduphishandsandhurriedbackintothebar.Sheturnedthentomeandhuggedmetightly,askingmewhathe’ddone,whathadhappened.
“Hedied,”Isaid.
“Ben?”
“Dad.”Ifeltasobbubbleupinmythroat,likeabirdwantingtobesetfree,andthenIgaveawailandburiedmyfaceintomybestfriend’sshoulder,onthecurbofanemptystreet,whiletheworldspunon,andon,andon,withoutmydadinit.
Andthewinddidnotsing.
7
DaysGone
DAYSGONEFUNERALHomesatattheperfectjunctionbetweenCorleyandCobblemireRoads.Itsattheresopatiently,likeanancientwardonthecorner,loomingovertherestofthesmalltownofMairmont,SouthCarolina,likeabenevolentgrimreaper.Itstoodatexactlytherightheightinexactlythecenteroftheplotofland,anditlookedthewayitalwayshad:oldandstoicandsure.
ThefuneralhomehadbeenastapleinMairmontforthelastcentury,passedfromDaytoDaytoDaywithloveandcare.EveryoneinMairmontknewtheDays.TheyknewXavierandIsabellaDay,myparents,andknewthattheylovedtheirjob,anduschildren—Florence,Carver,andAliceDay—whodidn’tlovethefuneralhomeasmuchasourparents,butweloveditenough.WeDaysdealtindeathlikeaccountantsdealtinmoneyandlawyersdealtinfees.Andbecauseofthis,weDaysweren’tliketheotherpeopleofMairmont.EveryonesaidthatwhenaDaywasborn,theywerealreadywearingfuneralclothes.Wetreateddeathwiththekindofcelebrationmostpeopleonlyeverreservedforlife.
Nooneunderstoodmyfamily.Notreally.
Notevenme,tobehonest.
Butwhenitwastime,everyoneinMairmontagreedthatthey’dratherbeburiedbyaDaythananyoneelseonearth
IneverthoughtIwouldcomebacktoMairmont.Notlikethis,withasmallcarry-onsuitcaseandabackpackwithmylaptopandanextratoothbrushintow.MyhometownsatintheliminalspacebetweenGreenvilleandAsheville,soclosetothestatelineyoucouldwalkuptotheRidge,spitoffit,andhitNorthCarolina.Itwastheepitomeofnowhere,andIusedtoloveit.
Butthatwasavery,verylongtimeago.
Somehow,IhadmanagedtosnaganUberwho’ddrivemefromCharlottetoMairmont,andwhenthePriuspulleddownMainStreet,itlookedjustlikeitdidinmymemories.SouthCarolinawaswarmerthanNewYork;theBradfordpearsthatlinedtheroadsalreadyunfurlingtheirgreenleaves,speckledwithwhiteflowers.Thesunhadset,butitstillbledredsandorangesintothehorizonlikeawatercolorpainting,andmydadwasdead.
Itwasweirdhowthethoughtjustappearedlikethat.
Myflightwasalmostempty,andtheygaveuspretzels,andmydadwasdead.
TheUberdriver’scarsmelledlikelavenderincensetocoveruptheweed,andmydadwasdead.
IhadalreadybeenstandinginfrontofthestepstotheDaysGoneFuneralHomefortenminutes,watchingthefiguresinsidetheglowingwindowswalkinandoutoftheparlorslessandless,becausethereadingofthewillhadalreadystarted,andDadwasdead.
ThefuneralhomewasarenovatedVictorianmansion,repaintedwhiteeverysummersoitlookedfreshandghostlyforwhateverhappyhauntsdecidedtoarrive.Theshingleswereadeepobsidianthat,whenthesunhittheroofjustright,sparkledlikeblacksand.Thepatternsinthefoundation’sbrickworkwerefadedredsandoranges,andthewroughtironrailingscurvedsweetdeathlydesignsacrosstheupperwindowsanddormers.OnValentine’sitwasfestoonedinpaper-cutoutheartsandpinkandredballoons,ontheFourthofJulyweset
ItlookedjustasithadthedayIlastleftforcollegeadecadeago.IstillrememberedthewayMomkissedmyforeheadandleftabloodredstainintheshapeofherlips,andthewayDadhuggedmesotightly,likehedidn’twanttosaygoodbye.
Icouldn’twaitforhimtohugmeagain—andthenIremembered,likeastonedroppingintomystomach—thathewouldn’t.Everagain.
Itknockedthebreathoutofme.
Ishould’vecomebacksooner.Ishould’vetakenweekendtripslikeCarversuggested.Ishould’vegonefishingwithAliceinthesummer,Ishould’vehelpedDadre-stainthefrontporch,andIshould’vegonewithMomtothoseballroomdancingclasses.
Ishould’ve,should’ve,should’ve
ButIneverdid.
ThefuneralhomelookedthesameaswhenIlastsawit,thestainedglasswindowsandthedormersandtheturrets,buttherewassomethinginherentlywrongasIstoodthereontheporch,musteringupthecouragetostepinside.
Dadwasgone,andtherewerecrowssittinginthebranchesofthedeadtreebesidethehouse,crowing,proddingmetogoinside.Ididn’tthinkmuchaboutthecrows.
MaybeIshouldhave.
It’sjust—theworldfeltallwrong.Dadshould’vebeenansweringthedoor.Heshould’vebeenoutstretchinghisarmsandbringingmeintoarib-crushinghugandtellingmewhatatreatitwastohavemebackhome.
ButinsteadwhenIrangthedoorbell,alargeandlonggongthatreverberatedthroughthehouse’soldbones,mylittlesisteransweredthedoor.She’dcutherblackhairshortsincethelasttimeI’dseenher,andhergaugeswerealittlelargerthanlasttime,thoughshedidn’thaveonherdarkgothiceyeliner.Butthatmight’vebeenbecauseshe’dcrieditalloff.
“Oh,it’syou,”Alicegreeted,openingthedoorwiderformetocomeinwithmysuitcase,andretreatedintothefoyer.
“Hellotoyou,too.”Isteppedinside.Itookoffmycoat—Ididn’tneeditinMairmontatall,itturnedout—andhungitonthecoatrack.Therewereabouttenothercoatshangingthere—soIcouldonlyguesswhowaswaitingintheparlor.PeopleIdidn’twanttosee.
Whichwas,like,everyone.
Alicewaitedinthefoyerformetohangupmycoatandmadeahurryupmotionwithherhand.Shewasdressedinblack,fromtheoversizedsweatershepulledoverherhandstoherblackjeanstoherblackDocMartens,andforamomentIcouldtrickmyselfintothinkingthiswasjustanotherday,anotherfamilymeeting,becauseAlicealwaysworeblack.ShehadthemostDadinher.Alicewearingblackwaslikeabluesky—itwasjustright.
Ihatedthecolor.Foramultitudeofreasons.TurnsoutwhenyouwereknownforbeinglikethatkidinTheSixthSense,everyoneexpectedyoutodressinallblackandquoteEdgarAllanPoe.
DadlovedEdgarAllanPoe.
Don’t.Don’tthink.Itookadeepbreath,smoothingoutthefrontofmywrinkledlightblueblouse,andfollowedmyyoungersistertowardthelargestparlorinthefuneralhome.
Theinsidewasfinishedwithstatelyoakfloorsanddatedredfloralwallpaper.Therewasastaircasepastthefoyerthatledtothesecond—andthird—floorofthefuneralhome,butthosepartswerereservedmostlyformyfamily.WelivedhereuntilIwastwelve,asweirdasitsounded.Thestairsuptotheotherlevelsofthehouselookedtemptinginthatsupernatural-murdersortofway.Mybedroomwasthesecondoneontheleft,thethirdontheleftmybrother’s,thetwodoorsontheoppositesidemyparents’room,abathroomwithaclaw-foottub,andasmallstudy,andthenonthethirdfloorAlicehadtheloftalltoherself.Theroomswereallvacantnow,filledwithdecorationsandsparefurniture,dust-coveredandforgotten.Ikneweverycreakyfloorboard,everyrustedhinge.Electriclampshungonthewalls,givingoffasubtleyellowglow.Onthefirstfloor—thefuneralhomepartofthehouse—therewerethreeparlorrooms,thebiggesttotheleft,whereIreckonedeveryonewaswaitingforme,andasmalleronetotheright,besidethestairstothesecondfloor,andthenonejustbeyondthat.Pastthethirdparlorroomwasakitchenwithagasstoveandoldtiledflooring,andacrossfromthekitchenwasthedoortothebasement.Dadusedtojokeabouthavingskeletonsinourclosetsbecausewebasicallydid.ThebasementwaswhereDad,undertakerandfuneraldirector,preparedthebodies,andI’dbeendownthereafewtimes,butnotenoughtoreallythinkmuchaboutit.Iwasn’tthecadavertype,notlikeAlice,whoalwayslovedtowatchDadwork.
Iwondered,absently,ifAlicewasgoingtoprepareDad,too.
“I’msurprisedyoucameback,”Alicesaid,hervoiceguarded,andmotionedtowardthelargestparlorroom—theredone.“We’realmostdone.”
“Sorry,myflightwasdelayed.”
“Sure.”ThensheturnedawayfrommeandreturnedtostandbesideMom,andIletoutalongbreath.AliceandIweren’talwaysthisunfriendly.Sheusedtofollowmearoundeverywherewhenwewerekids,butweweren’tkidsanymore.
AndDadwasdead.
Mrs.Williams,aBlackwomanwithshortnaturalhair,wasalreadyreadingthewillwhenIcameintotheparlorandstoppedinthedoorway,herneon-yellowglasseslowonthebridgeofhernose.KarenWilliamshadbeenMairmont’ssolelawyerforaslongasIcouldremember.Iwenttohighschoolwithherdaughter,whoendedupmarryingafriendofmine,SeaburnGarrett,thecaretakerofMairmont’scemetery.BesideSeaburn,sittinginawingbackchair,wasCarverandhisboyfriend,Nicki.Mom’sparentswereinaretirementhomeinFlorida,soIdoubtedtheywouldbemakingthetrip,andDad’sparentshadpassedwhenIwasreallylittle.Sothiswasit.
Myfamily.
Myheartfloundered.Itswelledanddeflatedandfeltstrange.AndIfeltsowrongtobehere,gatheredinthisparlorroomthatsmelledlikerosesandthesoftest,baresthintofformaldehyde,withoutDad.
MomlookedupfromherlapwhenIcameintotheparlor,andquicklyjumpedtoherfeet.“Darling!”shecalled,openingherarms,andrushedovertome.Shedrewmeintoahug,sotightitwasribcracking,andIburiedmyfaceintoherwarmorangesweater.Shesmelledlikeapplesandroseperfume,thesmellofmychildhood—skinnedkneesandpancakesinthebreakfastnookandSundaysatthelibrary,sittinginthestacksreadingromancenovels.Shehuggedmesotightly,itfeltlikeeverymemorywasaboneinmybodythatsheneededtoholdonto,tomakesuretheywerestillhere.Stillreal.
“I’msogladyou’rehere,”shesaidsoftly,andfinallyletmego.Shetuckedmyhairbehindmyears,andhereyeswerealittlewet.“You’restillskinandbones,though!WhatdotheyfeedyouinNewYork—lettuceanddepression?”
“About,”Ireplied,unabletohidealaugh.Shesqueezedmyhandstightly,andIsqueezedthemback.“I’msorryI’mlate.”
“Nonsense!Wewerejustgettingtothegoodpart,weren’twe?”Momfinallyletgoofmyhands,andturnedtoKarentoaskhertostartfromwheresheleftoffagain.LeaveittoMomtofindagoodpartinreadingDad’swill.
Seaburnbumpedhisshoulderagainstmineandgavemeanod.“Nicetoseeyouhome.”
“Thanks.”
Karengavemeasadsmileandsaidtous,“ItseemslikeXavierleftsomeinstructionsforhisfuneral.”Shetookoutalistfromthemanilaenvelopeonherlap,andshowedittous.
Carvergaveagroanfromhisseatinthehigh-backvelvetchair.“Chores?”
Alicemassagedthebridgeofhernose.“Evenfrombeyondthegrave,he’smakingusworkforfree.”
“Alice,”Momchided.“He’snoteveninthegraveyet.”
“Blesshissoul,”Karenlamented,andpulledherglassesdownalittletoreadfromthelist.Iwassurprisedshecouldreadhishandwritingatall—itwasrevoltinglybad.“One.Formyfuneral,Iwouldlikeonethousandwildflowers.Bouquetsaretobeorganizedbycolor.”
Amurmurofconfusioncrossedtheroom.
Athousand?Whywould—oh.Wildflowers,liketheoneshepickedeverySaturdayforMom.Iglancedoverather,andshehidasmileasshelookeddownintoherlap.AliceandCarverwereblanchingattherequest—theyhadn’trealizeditssignificance.
Whyathousand,though,Ididn’tknow.
“Two.IwantElvistoperformatmyfuneral.”
Seaburnmurmuredtohiswife,“Isn’thedead…?”
“Very,”shereplied.
Dadwould’vetskedatthatandsaid,“Onlymostlydead,”inthatcrypticwayofhis.Becausemusicwasaheartbeat,too,initsownway,anddeathwasn’tasend-offwithoutsomegoodtunes
Iwasbeginningtogettheworstsortoffeeling.
“Three.IwantUnlimitedPartytosupplydecorations.IputintheorderonJanuary23,2001.Youcanfindareceiptintheenvelopewiththiswill.”AndthenKarenWilliamstooktheyellowedreceiptoutoftheenvelope.
IrememberedDadoncesaying,“WhenIgoout,there’llbestreamersandballoons,buttercup.Therewon’tbeanytears.”
Mythroattightened.Icurledmyhandsintofists.
Karenputthereceiptback,andkeptreading,“Four.Iwantamurderoftwelvetoflyduringtheceremony.”
“Amurder?”Aliceasked.
“Ofcrows.Twelvecrows,”Itranslated.ThesamemurderthatkeptstealingourHalloweendecorations,andgaveDadshinythingswhenhefedthemsparecornonthecob,andsatontheolddeadoaktreeoutsideofthefuneralhomewheneveraghostappeared—howwerewesupposedtocatchthosebirds?
Theyhatedme.
Karenwenton.“Five,myfinalrequest.Buttercup”—Ifeltmyheartskipatmynickname,andeventhoughKarenwasreading,IcouldhearDadinthewords,thesoftlovethere,thelopsidedgrin—“Ihaveleftalettertobereadaloudatthefuneral.Notamomentbefore—”
Thedoorbellrang.
Seaburnaskedthegroup,“We’renotexpectinganyoneelse,arewe?”
Icheckedmywatch.Itwas9:00P.M.Alittlelateforvisitors.
“Couldbeflowers,”Carverpointedout.
“Orsomeonecanvassingformayor,”Karenadded.
“Ourmayor’sadog.Whowouldwanttorunagainstadog?”
Momsaid,“Florence,you’reclosest.”
“Sure,”Ireplied,andmademywaytothefrontdoortoanswerit.
Aletter?WhatkindofletterdidDadwantmetoreadforhisfuneral?Ididn’tlikethesoundofthat.ForallIknew,itcould’vebeenmortifyingstoriesfrommychildhoodhe’dbeenkeepingasblackmail—likethetimeIgotamarblestuckupmynostrilandthenshovedamarbleintheotheronebecauseIwasafraidmynosewouldn’tlookeven.OrthetimeCarverwasplayinginacoffinanditclosedonhim.OrthetimeAlicethoughtshewasawitchandgatheredallthestraycatsintheneighborhoodasherfamiliarsandtheyatetheneighbor’scanary.Hewasthatkindofperson.AndhedefinitelywasthekindofpersontoincludeaPowerPointpresentationintheletter,too
Andthatjustmadememisshimmore.Hecouldn’tbegone,couldhe?He—hecouldstillbehere.Asaghost.Lingering.Hehadunfinishedbusiness,didn’the?Hehadn’tsaidgoodbye.Hecouldn’tbegone.Ihadn’ttalkedwithhimenough,laughedwithhimenough,soakedinthestorieshehadandthecrypticwisdomheespousedand—and—
WhenIopenedthedoor,Ididn’tseeanyoneatfirst.Justtheporchandthemothsthatflutteredaroundtheporchlights,andtherockycobblestonesthatledtothesidewalk,andthesoftstreetlightsandthewindthatrushedthroughtheoaktrees.
Thenacrowcawedintheoaktreeoutfront,andmyeyesfocused,andbarely—barely—Ibegantomakeoutanoutline.Ofashadow.Abody—
Aman.
Aghost.
Myheartleaptintomythroat—Dad?
No—itwasn’t.Themanwas…tootall,toobroad.Slowly,likeadjustingthefocusonapairofbinoculars,theshapetookform,untilIcouldseemostofhim,andmyeyestraveleduptothefaceofthetoweringstranger,framedbydarkhairandachiseledjaw.Itonlytookamomenttorecognizewhohewas—
Well,whohehadoncebeen
Ipaused.“Benji…Andor?”
Andhewasmostdefinitelydead.
8
DeathofaBachelor
BEN’SGAZEFELLonmineassoonasIsaidhisname.Hiseyesweredarkandwideand—confused.Theslightestcreasebetweenhiseyebrowsdeepenedasherecognizedme.“M-MissDay?”
Islammedthedoorclosed.
Oh,no.Ohno,no,no.
Thiswasn’thappening.Ididn’tseeanything.Itwasatrickofthelight.Itwasmyoverworkedbrain.Itwas—
“Florence?”Momcalledfromtheparlor.“Whoisit?”
“Um—noone,”Ireplied,myhandcurlingtighteraroundthedoorknob.Thefaintestoutlineofthefigurestillstoodinthedoorway,shadowedinthestainedglass.Hewasn’tgone.Iclosedmyeyes,andletoutabreath.Nothingwasthere,Florence.
Noonewasthere.
Notyourdad,andnotthecrazy-hoteditorwhowasmostcertainlynotdead.
Iopenedthedooragain.
AndthereBenjiAndorstoodashehadbefore.
Ghostsdidn’tlookliketheydidinthemovies—atleastfrommyexperience.Theyweren’tmangled,fleshrottingofftheirbones.Theyweren’tpaleasifsomeunfortunateactorhadabadrun-inwithbabypowder,andtheydidn’tglowlikeCasper.Theyshimmered,actually,whentheymoved.Justenoughtomakethemlookalittlewrong.Sometimestheylookedassolidasanyoneliving,butothertimestheywerefadedandflickering—likealightbulbonitslastwire.
BenjiAndorlookedlikethat,standingonthewelcomemattotheDaysGoneFuneralHome.Helookedlikehowhismemoriesrememberedhim,thenightinColloquialism,hisdarkhairneatlygelledback,hissuitjacketfittedtohisshoulders,hisblackslackspressed.Histiewasalittleaskew,though,justenoughtomakemewanttostraightenit.Mygazelingeredonhislips.Irememberedthem,thewaytheytasted.
Butnowhewas—thismanwas—
Thespringwindthatrattledthroughthedeadoaktreedidn’tmessuphishair,andthelightfromourfoyerdidn’tsitrightonhisface,andhisshadowwasgone.Heshimmered,slightly,likeaholographinglitter.Ireachedouttowardhim,slowly,totouchhischest—
Andmyhandwentthroughhim.Itwascold.Aburstoffrost.
Hestareddownatmyhandinhissternum,andIwhisperedjustashecursed—
“Fuck.”
9
DeadonArrival
“FLORENCE?”MOMCALLEDfromtheparlor.“Iseverythingokayoverthere?”
Iblinked,andBenjiAndorwasgone.Iquicklydrewmyhandbackandrubbedatmyfingers.TheytingledfromwhereI’dtouched—andgonethrough—him.Hewasn’treallyhere.Hewasn’treallydead.
Iwaslosingmygoddamnmind.
“Florence?”Momputahandonmyshoulder,andIjumpedinsurprise.Shegavemeaworriedlook.“Areyouokay?Whowasthatatthedoor?”
Ishookmyhead,crossingmyarmsovermychesttowarmmycoldhand.“Noone—I’mfine.Itwas,um—someoneding-dongditched.”
Shesqueezedmyshoulder.
“I’mfine,”Ireiterated,andtriedtoshakeofftheencounter.BenjiAndorwasn’tdead.I’djustgroveledinhisofficeyesterday.Kissedhimlastnightbehindthebar.Hecouldn’tbedead.
Hewasn’t.
Butifmymotherwasgoodatanything,itwasseeingrightthroughmylies.“Yousawone,didn’tyou?Aghost.”
“What?No—Imean.No,”Idecided,becauseitwaseasierthantryingtoexplainwhateverhadhappened.Momhadenoughtodealwithalready—shedidn’tneedhereldestdaughtercomingofftherailsalready.Ihadtobethereforher.Nottheotherwayaround.Igrabbedherhandsandsqueezedthemtightly.“I’mfine,”Isaidagain,andthistimeIputmyheartintoit.“I’mokay.Gladtobehome.”
“Iknowit’salot,”shereplied,andwemovedoutofthefoyerandbacktowardtheparloragain.“Butthingshavechanged.Peoplehavechanged.”
Buthowmuchhadstayedthesame?
Icouldn’ttellherthat,attheairport,Ihaddebatedonwhetherornottoturnaroundandgobacktomyapartment.Skipthefuneral.Burrowmyselfinamurderpodcast.TrytoforgetthatDadwasdead.Thathewasnevercomingback.ThatIwouldnevergetto,notever,notwhilehewasalive,tellhimaboutmycareer,andmyghostwriting,andsharewithhimallofthestarredreviewsand—
Stop.Stopthinking.
“Besides,”Isaid,tryingtoburymythoughts,“Icouldn’tletthefamilyfallapartwithouttheirfavoritedisasterchild.”
“Youaren’tadisaster,”Momchided.
“No,shedefinitelyis,”Carverargued,andMomhithimintheshoulder.Karencalledheroverandsheleftusfortheparlor.Carverasked,puttinghishandsinhiswornjeanpockets,“Whowasatthedoor?”
“Aghost.”
Heblinked.Asifhewasn’tsurewhetherIwaslyingortellingaparticularlybadjoke,butthenIsmiledandhebarkedalaugh.“Ha!IfitwasDad,Ihopeyouthoroughlychewedhimout.”
“Gavehimwhatfor.”
“Really?”
“No.Noonewasatthedoor,”Ilied,andhemeltedalittle.
Mybrotherwasalotofthings—asmartass,acomputertechguru,andagulliblemess.HewaslikethegluethatkepttheDaysiblingstogether.Icouldn’trememberthelasttimeAlicetalkedtomeofherownvolition.
“Youneverknow.Imean,whenwewerekids—”
“HowareyouandNicki?”Iinterrupted.
“Good,”hereplied,annoyedthatI’dchangedthesubject,buthetookthehintasheledmebackintotheparlor.“So,didyoufigureoutwhattodowiththeeditorforChristinaLauren?”
“ChristinaandLaurenwritetheirownbooks,”Irepliedautomatically.“Butno,Ididn’t.”
“Sowhathappened?”
“Daddied.Icamehome.”
“Youneverturneditin?”
“Can’tturninhalfabook.”
“Doyouthinkyoucould—Idon’tknow—copyandpastethesamechapterfiftytimes,turnthatin,andbythetimeyoureditorrealizesyouturnedinthewrongthing,you’dhavethebookdone?”
Istaredatmybrotherinsurprise.“That’s…”
“Agreatidea,right?”
“Aterribleidea,”Ireplied.ThenIfrowned,andthoughtaboutitforamoment.“Itmightwork.”
“Ha!See?You’rewelcome.I’magenius.”
MaybeCarver’sploycouldgivemeenoughtime.Notmuch—butenough.TheghostIsawatthedoor—itwasn’taghost.Itwasahallucination.BenjiAndorcouldn’tbedead.I’dkissedhimlastnight!Andhelookedhealthy,andhewasn’tthatold,andasfarasIcouldtell,itwouldtakealottomurdersomeoneakintoatreetrunk.
Hewasfine.
Itwasatrickofmybrain—theimaginaryghostofmyneweditorwhomI’daccidentallymadeoutwithinabackalleyinBrooklyncomingtohauntmebecauseIwasalreadystressedoutandchuggingalongonthreehoursofsleepandfourcupsofairplanecoffee.
Thatwasall.
“Uh-oh,whatnow?”Carvermurmuredunderhisbreathaswecamebackintotheparlor.EveryonehadlefttheirseatsandwashuddledaroundKarenandthewill.Momwaspacingbackandforthontheotherendoftheparlor,herheelsclippingonthehardwoodfloorslikeametronome,nevermissingabeat.Thatwasbad.Sherarelypaced.MostofthetimeshejustfloatedbetweenroomslikeanetherealMorticiaAddams.
“What’sthecommotionabout?”Carverasked,lookingaround.
Nickilookedupfromthewill,andhandedittoSeaburn.“Well,we’vesortofgotaproblem.”
“Whatkind?”
Alicesighed,massagingthebridgeofhernose.“Daddidn’tgiveanyoneinstructionsonanyofthis,”shesaidinherdeadpanvoice.“Hejust—Iguess—thoughtwecouldreadhisfreakingmind.”
“We’vegotareceiptforthepartystuff,butthat’sit.I’mnotsureaboutthewildflowersorthemurderofcrowsor…Elvis?Idunnowhattodoaboutthatone.”Seaburnshruggedandhandedthewillofftome.
Dad’sscriptwaslongandloopy,andallIwantedtodowasmovemyfingersacrossthewords,memorizingthewayhedottedhisIsandcrossedhisTs.ItwaswrittenontheyellowedcardstockthatI’dgottenhimafewyearsagoforChristmas.
“Healwayslikedlivemusic—maybehemeantanElvisimpersonator,”Ithoughtaloudtomyself.“Andtheflowers…”
Carversnappedhisfingers.“Healwayspickedthemoutontheoldwalkingtrail.”
TheRidge.Ididn’twanttothinkabouttheRidge.
“Murderofcrows,then?”Aliceasked,crossingherarmsoverherchest.Everyoneshrugged.
Momjoked,“Perhapswecouldusethecrowshealwaysfedintheevenings.They’reneververyfar.”
“Someoneelse’llhavetocatchthem,”Isaid.“Theydon’tlikeme.”
“Theydon’tknowyou.Youhaven’tbeenhomeintenyears,”Alicepointedout.
“Crowscanliveuptotwentyyears.”
“Sure,it’saboutyou,then,”Alicesaidwitharollofhereyes.
“That’snotwhatImeant,”IsnappedasIpassedthewillbacktoKaren.Shetuckeditneatlyintoamanilafolder,wherethereceiptandafewotherpiecesofpaperresided.
“We’llfigureXavier’sfuneralarrangementsouttomorrow,”Momassuredus,clappingherhandstogethertodismisseveryonefortheevening,beforeAliceandIcouldgetintoafight.“That’senoughforoneday,Ithink.”
Aftereveryonehadleft,Carver,Alice(steadfastlyignoringme),andIwentaroundthehouseandturnedoffthelightsineveryroom.Itwassecondnaturetousatthispoint,evenifIhadn’tbeenaroundfortenyears.Carvertookthebackrooms,Itooktheleft,Alicetooktheright.Wecheckedthewindowstomakesuretheywereclosed;welockedthedoors.
IwouldbelyingifIsaidIwasn’tlookingforDadasIdid.
ThoughIwasaboutassubtleasanelephant,apparently.
“Ifyouwanttoseehim,he’sjustdownthehall,youknow,”Alicesaid,breakingoursilentfight.Shehuggedherselftightly,pullinghersweatersleevesoverherhandsagain.“Thirdfreezerontheleft.Theonewiththeshakyhandle.”
Iclosedthedoortothesecondparlorroombehindme,andmycheeksburnedwithembarrassment.Iwasgladthatmostofthelightswereoff,sohopefullyshecouldn’tseethem.“Iwasn’tlooking.”
“Youwere.Forhisghost.”
“MaybeIwas,”Iadmitted.
Shepursedherlipsandlookedaway.“Well,Idon’tthinkhe’shere.”
“Idon’tthinkso,either,”Iadmitted.
“Who’snothere?”Carverasked,stompingloudlyoutofParlorC.Hestompedeverywhereloudly.Itwasjustwhathedid.Nickifollowedoutintothehallbehindhim,quietasever.ItalwaysstruckmehowdifferentCarverandNickiwere—likeasquarepegandaroundhole—butIguesstheywerelikepiecesinapuzzle.Theyfoundgrooveswheretheotherpersonfit,andthat’showtheyworked.
“Noone.Everything’slockeduponmyend,”Alicesaid,andleftforthefoyer,whereMomwasputtingonherbootsandcoat.
Mybrothergavemeasidelonglook,andputhishandsinhispockets.
“Don’tworryaboutit,”Isighed,andfinishedmyrounds.Ididpassthedoortothebasement—themortuary—wherewestoredthebodiesincoldfridgesuntilitwastimetoprepthemforburial.Thosesetforcremationwenttoacrematoriumthenexttownover.Thebasementdoorwaslikeanyother,thoughthehandlewasdifferent—apulllatchwithaharddeadbolt.
Foroldtimes’sake,Icheckedthedeadboltagain.Locked.ProbablyAlice’sdoing.
Ihadn’tbeendownintothepreproominages.Ihatedthesmellofit—amixofdisinfectantandformaldehyde,andadistinctundercurrentofsomethingyouweren’treallybornrecognizing.Itwasasmellyoufoundinthehospital,too,andextendedcarehomes.
There’sacertainsmelltodeath.
Youdidn’treallyrecognizeitatfirst,butthelongeryouexistedinthosespaces,themoreacquaintedwithityoubecame.Ididn’trealizedeathhadasmelluntilwemovedoutofthishouse.Ialwaysthoughtitwaswhattheworldsmelledlike—alittlesadandbitterandheavy.Onspringmornings,Dadwouldopenupallofthewindows,andturnuptheradio,blastingBruceSpringsteen,andtrytobreathelifeintothehouseagain,wakeuptheoldwoodenfloorsandthecreakyatticbeams.
Itwasaboutthattimeagain,whenthemorningswerecrispbutthesunwasalreadywarmingupthebudsonthetrees.Theairinthehousefeltheavywithincenseanddisinfectantandthatsad,softsmellofdeath,waitingtobeletoutintothewind.
Myhandclosedtightlyaroundthehandletothebasement.MaybeDadwasdownthere,sittingononeofthecoldsteeltables,smokingacigarandwonderingwhenoneofhiskidswouldrealizehe’dbeenplayingusthewholetime.He’dlaughandsay,“Icouldn’tdie,buttercup,untilI’mgoodandready.”
Buthewasdead,andhewasn’tready.
Andhisghostwasnothere.
“We’releaving,”Carvercalledfromthefrontofthehouse.“Florence?Youstillbackthere?”
Iletgoofthehandle.I’dcomebacklaterwhenitwaslightout.WhenIwasinasteadierstateofmind.
“Coming,”Icalledandhurrieddownthehallwaytothefoyer,whereeveryoneelsehadalreadyputontheircoatsandshoes.Carverhandedmemyheavywintercoat,somisplacedhereinMairmontwhereeveryonehadalreadybroughtouttheircutespringcardigansandjeanjackets.
Hekissedmeonthetempleandsaid,“It’sgoodtoseeyouhome.”
“Grossssss,”Icomplained.“Siblingaffection.”
Asweleftthefuneralhome,Momlockedupbehindus.Wemeandereddownthestonepathwaytothesidewalk.Thecrowsweregonefromtheoaktree.HadIactuallyseenthem?Orweretheyjustapartofmymessed-uphead,likemyeditor?
Momsaidasshecaughtuptome,wrappingherarmaroundmyshoulder,“Oh,it’llbesonicetohaveyouhome!Right,Alice?”
Igaveastart.“She’shome,too?”
Mysistersaidpointedly,“Someofusfailquieter.”
“That’snotwhatImeant—”
“Oh,yikes!”Carverinterruptedme,hisarminterlockedwithhisboyfriend’s.“It’spastNicki’sandmybedtime.We’llseeyouinthemorning?OverattheAwfulWaffle?”CodeforWaffleHouse.“Ten?”
“Soundsbeautiful,”Momreplied.Carverkissedheronthecheekashesaidhisgoodnight,Nickitellingmehowniceitwastoseeme,andtheyleftdownthesidewalkintheoppositedirection.
Mairmontwasn’tterriblybusyintheevenings.MostoftherestaurantsdownMainStreetcloseduparoundeight,andtheonesthatstayedopenwerepackedwithsportsfanswatchingalate-nightbasketballgameorfamiliesgoneforalate-nighticecreamrun.NickiandCarverhadboughtahousetogetherjustontheothersideofthetownsquare,onacuteroadwithrainbow-coloredhousesandwhitemailboxes,andinfiveyearsIcouldseethemfosteringafewkidsandintroducingsomepandemoniumtotheirquietlittlestreet.
Honestly,Icouldn’twaitforit.
Whentheyhaddisappeareddownthesidewalk,MompulledAliceandmeclosetoher,adaughteroneacharm,andledushome.Thewalkwasquiet,thenightairchillybutnotcoldlikeitwould’vebeeninNewYork.ThefloweringBradfordpearsdidstink,though.Alot.Inthatunpleasantwayteenboys’bedroomsdid.ButthetreesdidlookbeautifulwiththeirsmallwhitebudsglowinginthestreetlightsthatlinedMainStreet.Thesoftgoldenglowreflectedoffthewindows,andthewindwasquiet,andtheskywaswide.
Myparentsmovedintotheunassumingtwo-storyhousearoundthecornerfromthefuneralhomewhenIwastwelve.NeitherCarvernorAlicereallyrememberedeverlivinginthefuneralhome—theydidn’trememberthatthethirdstaircreaked,orthatatnightwhenthewindrattledtheoldrafterstheymoaned,orthatsometimesyoucouldhearfootstepsintheattic.(Though,later,Imanagedtogetridofthem.)Iwastheonlychildwhorememberedliving—trulyliving—inthefuneralhome.Dadchasingmeacrossthehardwoodfloors,andMomhummingassherestoredthestainedglasswindowabovethedoor.Alicewanderingaroundthefrontyardinherunderwear,afuneralbouquetfixedontoherheadlikeaflowercrown.Carverdrawinggreatstickfigureepicsontheparlorwalls,improvingthefifty-year-oldwallpaperfilledwithflowersandorchids.Me,withmybedroomdoorlocked,whisperingtotheghostswhocametofindme.
AliceandCarverdidn’trememberwhywemoved,butitwasbecauseofme.Becauseonenight,whenIhadbeenpulledoutofbedbyamischievousyoungspirit,Ihadfoundmyselfwanderingtowardthebasement.
“Areyousurethisisyourunfinishedbusiness?”Ihadaskedtheghost.“Tosee—toseeyou?”
Hehadsmiledatme.“Absolutely—Iwannasee.Ihavetosee,”hesaidasheledmedownintothemortuary.IhadgonedownthereafewtimeswithDad,butneveralone.Itwaswherethedeadwerestoredinnarrowfreezerboxesuntiltheirfuneralcame.Ididn’tknowthefactsyet.IjustknewDadpreparedthemfortherestoftheirjourney—likeCharonovertheriverStyx.
Therewereonlytwoguestsinthemortuarythatnight—Dadcalledthem“guests.”Theywerebodies.Obviously.Ihadguessedtherightfreezerboxonthefirsttry,andpulledthedrawerout.Onthenarrowtablelayaboywholookedalotliketheonewhostoodbesideme.Young—twelve,maybe.Dadhadalreadyfixedhimup,paintedhisbluelipstan,andcoveredthebruisesonhisneck.
“Doesthathelp?”Iaskedtheghost—andhelooked…“Areyouokay?”
“IwantedtowearmyTransformersT-shirt,”hereplied,andlookedaway.“I’mreallydead,aren’tI?”
“I’msorry.”
Hetookalargebreath(orasmuchasalargebreathlooked),andthenhenodded—justonce.“Thanks—thankyou.”
Andlikethedozensofghostsbeforehim,thesparklingbitsthatmadehimbegantobreakawaylikedandeliontufts,anddispersedintotheroom—andhemovedon.Afireworkthere,thengone.AndIwasleftaloneinthefrigidmortuary.
Iclimbedthestepstothedooragain,butithadlockeditselfwhenitclosedthefirsttime—Ihadforgottentounlockit.Ipushedonit—once,twice.
Bangedonit—calledforhelp.
Nothingworked.
Dadfoundmethenextmorning.Apparently,theyhadlookedeverywhereoncetheyrealizedIwasmissing,untiltheyfinallycamedownintothemortuaryandfoundmecurleduponthesteeltableinthemiddleoftheroom,ablanketoverme,asleep.
MomandDaddecidedthatmaybe—justmaybe—raisingafamilyinafuneralhomemightnotbeaseclecticandwholesomeastheywereexpecting.
Luckily,therewasanoldtwo-storyhousedownthestreet,builtin1941,soitgaveMomthingstorenovateandfixaroundthehouseaswegrewup.Thatwashercollegemajor—architecturalrenovations.Shewasreallygoodatit,too.IusedtowonderifsheeverregrettedmarryingDad,andmovingtoasmallnowheretownwithnowherepeople,butshenevergavetheslightesthintshedid.Shetookunlovedthings,likethestainedglasswindowabovethedoorinthefuneralhome,andthestoneandbrassfireplaceinthenewhouse,andturnedthemintowonders.
Thenewhousewaslessshowythanthefuneralhome.ItsatonasideroadoffMainStreet,besidetheGulliverfamilyandtheMansons,builtwitholdcrumblingbricksasredasclay,andpristinewhiteshutters.Butatnight,whenCarverandAlice’srespectiveroomlightswereon,thehouselookedlikeithadeyesandagrinningredmouthforadoor.
ThehousewasexactlyasIremembereditaswecameupthecobblestonepathway.Barethreadsofivyclungtothebrickwalls,andalonespiderhungfromthesconcebesidethedoor.Alice’sredconvertiblewasinthedriveway,thoughitlookedalotworseforwearthesedays,besideMom’sunassumingSUV.Dadhadamotorcycle,thoughIdidn’tseeitinthedriveway.Iwonderedwhereitwas.
“Ah!Thatthing,”Momsaidasshefishedintoherheavypurseforthekeys.“Hetookittotheshopthisweekbefore…well,youknow.Before.”Shesmiled,butitdidn’tquitereachhereyes.“I’llaskSeaburntogetittomorrow.”
“I’llgetit,”Alicesaid.
“Oh,Alice,youknowhowIfeelaboutyouridingthatthing.”
“Mom.”
“Fine,fine.”Momunlockedthefrontdoor,anditcreakedwideopen.Shewalkedintothefoyerandflippedonthelights.Alicemarchedinside,notevenbotheringtotakeoffherbootsasshestormedthroughthehousetothekitchen,andflungopentheliquorcabinet.SheaskedMomifshewantedanything.“Oh,anicewhiskeywouldbelovely…Florence?”
“Thatsoundsamazing,”Iagreed,takingoffmycoat.
Thehousewaswarmanditsmelledlikeitalwayshad—ofpinewoodandfreshlinens.Thewallswereabrightgray,andthefurniturewashand-me-downandrestored,wornandloved.Astaircaseoffthemainhallwayleduptomostofthebedrooms,whilethemasterwasonthefirstfloor,acrossfromthelivingroom.Therewerephotosofallofusonthestairwaywall—fromelementaryschoolthroughcollegegraduation,smilingmomentsfrozenintime.Yearswherewewentthroughbadhair,andbluehair,andbraces,andacne.
Ilookedatoneoftheearliestphotosofus—soearly,Alicewasaninfant.Ithadbeentakenoutsideofthefuneralhome,MominasleekreddressandDadinaterribletweedsuit,Carverinonetomatch.IhadpitchedafitthatdaybecauseIwantedtowearmyrainbowunicornhouseshoesinsteadofthewhitedressshoesthathurtmyfeet,andI’dwon.ThereIwasinafluffyreddressand…unicornslippers.
Onthehallwaytabletherewereafewframednewspaperclippings.Dadgettingthekeystothetown.Mombeingpresentedwithalocalrestorationaward.Carverwinningaroboticscompetition.And—
LOCALGIRLSOLVESMURDERWITHGHOSTS
Alongwithaphotoofthirteen-year-oldmesmilingforthepapers.
Itmademesicktomystomach.
“Hereyougo,”Alicesaid,offeringaglassofwhiskeyontherocks.
Ijumpedathervoice,andspuntoher.Sherattledtheiceintheglass,waitingformetotakeit.Suddenly,Iwasverymuchnotinthemood.“I—IthinkI’mgoingtogotothebed-and-breakfast.”
Mompokedherheadoutofthekitchen.“What?Butit’ssolate…”
“I’msuretheyhavearoom.”IgrabbedmycoatwhereIhungitonthecoatrack,andshruggeditbackon.“I’msorry.”Isteppedbackoutintothebrisknightwithmysuitcase.“Ihaveabookdueand—I’llkeepallofyouup.”
“Writingcan’tbethatnoisy,”Momsaid,frowning.“AndIevenblewupthemattressinyouroldbedroomforyou!”
“Badback.”
“Sincewhen?”
“Mom,”Alicesaid,downingmyglassofwhiskey,“letitgo.There’saholeintheblow-upmattressanyway.”
Momgaveherasurprisedlook.“Thereis?”
Aliceshrugged.“Wasgonnaletherfigureitoutherself.”
“Thanks,”Ireplied,notsureifshewaslyingtocoverformeorifthereactuallywasaholeintheinflatablemattressupstairs.Iwouldn’tputitpasther.
Ijustcouldn’tstayhere.Inthishouse.Aftertheepisodeatthefuneralhome,Ididn’twanttotestbeinghome.Momalreadyhadenoughtoworryaboutwiththefuneral.Ididn’twanthertohavetoworryaboutme,too.
“I’llseeyoutomorrowmorning?”Ipromised.“AttheWaffleHouse?”
Momrelentedwithoutpersisting.Shewasgoodatthat—atseeingwhenpeoplewereshuttingdown,andlettingthem.“Ofcourse,darling.Seeyouinthemorning.”
Ismiledasmallthank-you,tryingnottomeetAlice’shardgaze,andwheeledmysuitcasedownthecobblestonestepsagain,backtowardMainStreet.Mairmontwasquietatnight,butwalkingthesidewalkalone,whileallthestorefrontswereclosed,remindedmehowoutofplaceIfelthereinthetownthatneverreallyacceptedme.InNewYork,Icouldwalkdownanystreetandfindanothercreatureofthenightwalking,too.Buthere,everyonehadtheircozyhousesandtheircozyfamilies,allsequesteredforthenight,andIwasalone.
ItoldmyselfIdidn’tmindit.
Ipackedmybagsandleftthedayafterhighschoolgraduation.Inevervisited.Ineverlookedback.NotwhenCarverproposedtheideaofTP’ingmybully’syardformybirthdayafewyearsago,notwhenmyparentshadtheirthirty-yearanniversary.
NotwhenAlicebeggedmetocomehome.
Wehadbeenbestfriendsonce,butthatwasalifetimeago.Ididn’tregretleaving—Icouldn’tregretleaving.Itwasformyownsanity.Butlookingbackonit,Icould’vehandleditalittlebetter.ThatIdidregret.Icould’venotshutAliceoutofmylife.Icould’vevisitedonceinabluemoon.Icould’ve…
Would’ve,should’ve,could’ve.
Hindsightwassuchabitch.BecauseeverythingIranfromhadcaughtupwithme.Eventhecrowsthatnowsatontheroofofthebed-and-breakfast,lookingdownatmewiththeirbeadyblackeyes.
Itightenedmygriponmysuitcase.Theywerejustbirds.Theydidn’tmeananything.Andeveniftheydid,Ihadnowhereelsetogo.
10
DeadandBreakfast
THEMAIRMONTBED-AND-BREAKFASTwasasmallBandBonthecornerofMainandWalnut.Itwastuckedintoagardenthatwasgreeneveninwinter,itsbluevinylsidingbarelyvisiblebeneathalloftheiviesthatgrewonit.Ipushedopenthewroughtirongateandmademywayupthestonepathwaytothefrontdoor.Asoftgoldenlightspilledinthroughthefrontwindows,whichmeantDanawasstillmindingthedesk.TheywerethenightkindofpersonthatsatupreadingStephenKingandobscurenonfictiononQueenVictoriaorLordByron’slovers.TheyweresittingonastoolbehindaheavywoodendeskwhenIfinallyelbowedthescreendooropenandwiggledmysuitcaseinside.Theylookedup,largeroundglassesperchedonthebridgeoftheirnose,securedwithagoldenchainthatdrapeddownoneithersideoftheirpale,longface.Danahadshortcurlybrownhairandawidesmilewithagapbetweentheirtwofrontteeth,andwhentheysawme,theirsmilewidenedevenmore.
“Florence!Ican’tbelieveit,”theysaid,puttingastickynoteintotheirbookandclosingit.TheyworeasweatshirtwithHARVARDonthefrontandrib-huggingjeans,andsomehowalwayslookedmorestylishthanIevercould.Eveninhighschool,theywereimmaculate.“IthoughtyouwereupinNewYork!”
“Iwas.Hadtocomehome,though.For—um—”
Theywinced.“Right,ohshit.I’msorry.Iknewthat.Sorry.It’sjust—surprising.Toseeyou.”
Ifixedonasmile.“Well,I’mhere.”
“Right!Youare.AndI’mbettingyouwantaroom.”
“Ifyouwouldn’tmind?”
“Absolutely!Iknowhowitis.Parentsgettingridofyourroomandall.ThesecondImovedout,mymomturnedmybedroomintoherknittingroom.Knitting!SheeventookdownmyDawson’sCreekposters.I’llneverforgiveherforthat,youknow.”TheypulledupanappontheiriPad,andtappedatafewscreens.“Howlongwillyoubestayingwithus?”
“Probablyuntiltheendoftheweek?”
IfImakeitthatlong,IthoughtasItookoutthelastcreditcardIownedandpainfullyhandedittothem.I’djustclimbedoutofmycreditcarddebttoo,butIcouldn’tstayathome.Notrightnow.NotwhenDadwasn’t…
Ijustcouldn’t.
Danacheckedmein,askingwhetherI’dwantonebedortwo—one,preferablyonthesecondfloorofthethreeinthishouse,andnotbesidethestairsiftheycouldhelpit.“Andtheleastspookyone,”Iadded,sortofjoking.
Sortofnot.
Theylaughed.“Don’twanttosolveanymoremurders?”
“Don’tremindme,”Ibegged,takingthekeytheyhandedme.
“Idunno.Ithoughtyouwerekindofcoolinhighschool.”Theyleanedin,then,secret-like.“Couldyoureallyspeaktothedead?”
“No,”Ilied.“Ijustsolvedamurder.Itwasluck.”
“Stillkindarad.”
“Andweird.”
“Weren’tweall?Anyway,youcanhavemyfavoriteroom—wecallittheVioletSuite.”
Ilookedatthekey,andthekeychainthathungfromit—awoodenviolet.“Letmeguess,there’spurpleintheroom?”
“NotasmuchasI’dlike,”theyrepliedindignantly.“Breakfastisinthemorningfromseventhirtyuntilten.I’llbehereallnight,andJohnwillbehereinthemorning—rememberhim?Hewasafewyearsyoungerthanus.Scruffyguy,buthe’sgotaheartofgoldonceyougettoknowhim.”
“Oh,right—youtwogotmarried.”
Theywiggledtheirringfinger.Itwasablackbandmadeoutofmeteorite.Ofcoursethey’dbecoollikethat.“Alas,offthemarket.”
“Well,congrats.”
Theysmiled.“Thanks!Ifyouneedanything,we’rethetwoyoutalkto.”
“WhateverhappenedtoMrs.Riviera?”
Danagaveasadsmile.“Oh,shepassedafewyearsago.Gavethewholedamninntome.”
“Damnindeed,”Ireplied,startled.“Well—belatedcongratsagain.Theplacelooksgreat.”
“Didn’tthinkI’dstickaroundherefortherestofmylifebut…”Theyshruggedmodestly,andsatbackontheirbarstoolagain,absentlyopeningtheirbooktotheirbookmarkedpage.Icaughtapeekofthebook—TheKissattheMidnightMatinee.“Sometimeslifetakesyouunexpectedplaces.Letmeknowifyouneedanything,okay,hon?”
“Absolutely.Thankyou.”Iputthekeysintomycoatpocket,androlledmysuitcaseovertothestairs.Theyweren’tassteepasthestepstomywalk-upapartment,thankgod,soImadeituptothesecondfloorwithmythighsofsteelandrolledmysuitcasedowntotheendofthehall.Eachdoorhadacutelittlefloweronit,carvedintoaplankofwoodwithanartistichand,andtheywereallplantsthatcouldkillyou.Oleander.Bloodroot.Foxglove.Iris.Marigold.Hemlock.Thefloweronthedoorattheend—theVioletSuite—waswolfsbane.Iopenedthedoorand,havingnotforgottenthecrowsperchedontheroof,hesitantlypeekedmyheadinside.
“Hello…?”Iwhispered.
Theroomwasdark,withonlythegoldenglowfromthestreetlightonthesidewalkshininginthroughthewindow.Therewasnomovement.Noghostlyapparitions.
Coastwasclear.
Iflickedonthelightbesidethedoorandrolledmysuitcaseinside.TheroomwasbiggerthantheoneIpaidforwithbloodandtearseverymonthinHoboken,NewJersey.Therewasafullbedbigenoughtofitmeandallmybaggage,adresser,afloor-lengthmirror,andevenacloset.Therewasacoffeepotontopofthedresser,andaboutiqueassortmentofteasandinstantcoffees,aswellasaflat-screenTVmountedonthewall.Thebathroomwasbeautiful,too,withaclaw-foottubandalargevanity.Iwasdefinitelygoingtotakeadvantageofthat.Travelingmademesore,andthestressfromtodayhadcrampedmyneckbadly,andmyorthopedicpillowwasfivehundredmilesaway.Danawasright,though;therewasn’tenoughpurpleinaroomtheycalledtheVioletSuite.
AsIbegantounpackmycarry-onluggage,puttingmyunderwearinthetopdrawerandhangingmyblackfuneraldressinthecloset,Ihonestlyforgotaboutthecrowsontheroof.Myhandswerebusy,andmyheadwas—forthefirsttimeallday—mercifullyblank.
AndthenIheardanoise.
Iquicklygrabbedmyrazorfordefense—whatcouldarazordo?—androundedthebathroomdoorwayslowly.
“Hello?”Icalledhesitantly.
I’dbelyingifIsaidIwasn’tlookingforasix-foot-threeromanceeditorinoxfordleatherloafers,argylesocks,acrumpledwhiteshirt,andneatlypressedtrousers.Buttherewasnooneinmyhotelroom.
“I’mlosingit,”Imuttered,andfinishedputtingupmytoiletries.
Mydadwasdead,andIdidn’tneedghoststocomplicatethat.Ididn’tneedanyonetocomplicatethat.Myfamilywasalreadycomplicatedenough—nevermindmyhistorywithMairmont.IfIstartedtalkingwithghostsagain,IwassuretolandintheMairmontgossipcircleswithintheweek:“Didyouhear,Florenceisbackandtalkingtoherselfagain?”
PoorFlorenceandherimaginaryfriends.
Florenceandherghosts—
Iswallowedtheknotinmythroat,andwithoutsayinganotherword,Iturnedoffthelightsandfellontomybedandpulledthecoversovermyhead.
AllIcouldthinkofwashowquiettheinnwas,andhowmythoughtsweresoloudagainstit,andhowinNewYorkIneverhadtohearsilence.IneverhadtothinkaboutMairmont,orthepeoplehere,orwhyIleft.
Fortenyears,Ihoppedfromoneapartmenttothenext,chasingafteralovestorythatwasn’tmine,tryingtoforcemyselftobetheexceptioninsteadoftherule,andoverandoveragainallIfoundwasheartbreakandloneliness,andneveroncedidIseeamurderofcrowsinadeadoaktree,oraghostonmyfrontsteps,becauseIwaslikeeveryoneelse,normalandlost,andmydadwasstillalive.
Andjustforasecond—onesecondlonger—IwantedtobethatFlorence,andliveinthatpocketoftimeagain.
Butitwasgone,andsowasmydad.
11
PastTense
ISLEPTFORalmostthreehours.
Almost
Iknewhowghostsworked.Theyalwayspoppedupinthemostunexpectedplaces,andIwasn’tsurewhenBenjiAndorwouldshowupagain.Ifheshowedupagain.Averysmall,veryunreliablepartofmewellandtrulyhopedI’dimaginedhim.Buttellthattomyanxiety,whichwasdeadsetonnotlettingmegetafullREMcycleofsleep.Everygroanandcrackoftheoldhousestartledmeawake,untilmyphonefinallywentoffat9:30A.M
AndIfeltlikeatruckhadrunmeover,backedup,andhitmeagain.
AtleastIhadpackedmyheavy-dutyconcealer—thegoodstuff.IslathereditundermyeyesandhopedIlookedatleastalittlealiveasItraipseddownthestepstothefoyer,wherealargerredheadedmansatonthestoolDanaoccupiedlastnight.HehadonananimeT-shirtandabouthalfadozenpiercingsinhisface,andittookmeamomenttorecognizehim.
“John?”
Helookedupfromhismagazineatthesoundofhisname,andputonasmile.“Flo-town!Danasaidyouwerestayinghere!”Hestoodandquicklyhurriedaroundthedesktogivemeabearhug.ApproximatelythreeofmyribscrackedandIdied.Hesetmedownwithalaugh.“It’sbeen—howlong,tenyears?”
“About,”Iconceded.“Ibarelyrecognizedyou!”
Heblushedandrubbedthebackofhisneck.Hehadonahatwithapizzadesignonit,andaloudfloralbutton-down.MilesfromtheguyIdatedinhighschool—poloshirtsandshortbuzzedhairandafootballscholarshiptoNotreDame.“Ah,yeah,alot’shappened.”
“You’retellingme.CongratsonyouandDana!”
“Yeah,can’tbelievemyluck.How’sNewYorkbeentreatingyou?”
“Good.Well—notbad,”Iamended.
Helaughed.“That’sgoodtohear.Andhow’syourwr—”Theoldrotaryphoneatthedeskbegantoring,andheapologeticallyexcusedhimselftogotakethecall.“MairmontBed-and-Breakfast,Johnspeaking…”Thenheputhishandoverthereceiverandwhisperedtome,“It’sgoodtoseeyou,thoughI’msorryaboutyourdad.Hewasarealgoodguy.”
Thewordshitmelikeahurricane,becauseforamomentI’dforgotten.“Thankyou,”Iforcedout,fixingasmileontomyface.
Hewentbacktothepersononthephone,andIleftasquicklyasIcould.Ithinkheshoutedaftermeaboutbreakfast,butIwasalreadylatetotheWaffleHousetomeetmyfamily,andnooffensetothebreakfastattheinn—nothingtoppedhashbrownsscattered,smothered,andcovered.
TheWaHowasattheendofMainStreet,neartheelementaryschoolandthebookstore,andtheparkinglotwasjammedwithtravelersstoppingthroughMairmontontheirwaythroughSouthCarolinatoNorthCarolinaandTennessee.ItwascloseenoughtoPigeonForgetovisitDollywoodwheneveryouwantedorpopovertoAshevilletotourtheBiltmore.MairmontwassituatedjustontheoutskirtsoftheAppalachianMountains,hillyenoughtohavegreatwalkingtrailsbutflatenoughforthemountainroadstonotkillaPrius.Myfamilysatinthefarthestboothatthediner,alreadyeatingtheircheesyhashbrownsandsausage-and-eggomelets.IquicklyhurriedoverandslidintotheboothbesideMom.
Shesaid,“Wealreadyorderedyouawaffleandhashbrowns,”assheslidoveracupofcoffee.
Itookalongdrink.“Mmh,batteryacid.”
“Lateasusual,”Carveraddeddryly,mockingalookathisexpensiveRolex.
Aliceagreed.“Somethingsneverchange.”
“Noonesaidtherewasahardmeetingtime,”Iscoffed.“Ooh,yum,”Iaddedasthewaitresscameoverwithmywaffleandasideofhashbrowns.Theysmelledabsolutelydelicious,andmystomachgrumbled,remindingmehowmanymealsIskippedyesterday.(Three,allthree.)
“Blessednutritiousbreakfastsugar,”Isaid,starved,asthewaitressleftforanothertable.
Carvergavemeastrangelookfromacrossthetable.“Thathungry?”
“Theydon’thaveWaffleHousesupinNewYork,”Ireplied,diggingmyforkintothesoftwaffle,cuttingoffapiecesolargeIhadtoangleittogetitintomymouth.Itwassyrupyandsweetandsoggy,justlikeIremembered.
Momasked,“Sohow’sthebed-and-breakfast?IhearditwasrenovatedafterNancyRivierapassed.Isitpretty?”
“Gorgeous,”Isaidbetweenmouthfuls.“Danadidagreatjob.”
“YourfatherandItalkedaboutspendingthenightthereonouranniversaryand…”Momfrownedintoheralmost-emptycupoftea.“Well,Iguessthatwon’tbehappening.”
Alicegavemeapointedlook,asifitwasmyfault.
“Anyway,”Momwenton,“stayinginhotelsalwaysgivesmesuchsoremuscles.Youknow,yourroomisexactlyasweleftit.Well,withtheexceptionofasewingmachineinthecorner.Andsomepaints.AndsomereclaimedfurniturepiecesIfoundonthesideoftheroad—”
Aliceinterrupted,“Sheturneditintoherartroom.”
“It’smycraftingoffice,”shecorrectednobly.
“That’sfine.Ilikethebed-and-breakfast.”Itookanotherlargebiteofwaffle.“So,what’sthefamilymeetingthismorning?”
Momclappedherhandstogether.“Right!Theschedule.”
Iblinked.“Comeagain?”
Alicesaid,“There’stwofuneralswehavetogetthroughfirst.Mr.EdmundMcLemoreandJaceyDavis.”
Carvershookhishead.“Iknownooneelse’llpointthisout—butdon’tyouthinkit’sabitinsanethatwehavetodootherpeople’sfuneralswhenDad’sdead?Can’ttheygetsomeoneelse?”
Alicegavehimatiredlook.“Who,exactly?There’snotanotherfuneralhomeintown.”
“Thenthenexttown?Asheville?Popontheinterstateandyou’rethereinnotime.C’mon,Mom,”hesaidtoourmomwhenherealizedthathewasn’tgonnagetAlicetobudge,“youcan’thonestlybeexpectedtoworkrightnow.”
ButMomwashavingnoneofit.Shewavedherhanddismissively.“TheywanttobeburiedbyaDay,andit’sanhonorandaprivilegetodoso!Iwon’tsendthemsomewhereelsewhenwecangivethemthebestending.”
ItwasnexttoimpossibletoarguewithMomwhenshehadhermindset.MuchlikeAlice,shewasimmovable.Carverwasthesensibleone,buthealsoknewwhenitwasalostcause.Heshookhisheadandmumbledsomethingunderhisbreath(thatsoundedsuspiciouslylike“thisiswhyweneverwentonvacation”),andIwasleftsoppingupthesyrupandasking,“CanIdoanythingtohelp?”
“Oh,sweetheart,Idon’tthinkso,”Momreplied.“Besides,Alicehasmostofthefuneralsthisweekundercontrol.Ijusthavetobethereto—tobethere.XavierwouldhauntmeifIdidn’t.ThoughIdon’tthinkIcandoalltheheavylifting.”
“Icandothat,”Carversuggested.“Ihavesometimeaccrued.”
Ifrowneddownintomywaffle.Businessasusual,eventhoughoneofuswasgone,anditwasstrangeinthewaythatTheTwilightZonewasstrange.Asthough,ontheplaneridehome,I’dfallenintoaparalleldimension.Everythingwasoff-kilterenoughtobewonky.Howeveryone’slifewasstillrunning,stillgoing,stillpushingforwardwhenDad—
Ifistedmyhands.“ButwhataboutDad’sfuneralarrangements?”
“Aren’ttheyjustsoeccentric?”Momsighedwistfully.
“Someoneneedstodothem,Mom.”
“Meaningus,”Carverguessed,andstirredhisglassofwater.“I’mafraidIcan’thelpallthatmuch.Ihaveatechreportdueattheendoftheweek,andifI’mhelpingwiththeotherfunerals…”
“Iwon’thavetimebetweenthetwoservicesandtheembalmingprocesses,”Aliceadded,somewhatannoyed.“Hisrequestsarejust—justso—soinane.”
“They’rewhatDadaskedfor.”
“Iknow,butwedon’thavethetime,Florence.”
Thatstruckanerve.“Well,Ihavetime,soI’lldoallofthem.”
Myyoungersisterrolledhereyes.“Youdon’thavetodoallofthem.Ijustmeant—”
“Youdon’thavetime,Igetit.”
Shethrewupherhands.“Sure!Whatever!Doityourself.FlorenceDay,alwaysbeingthelonehero!”
“That’snotwhatImeantandyouknowit—”
“Girls,”Mominterruptedinhersteady,softvoice.AliceandIbothsankbackintothebooth.“Fightingaboutthiswon’tsolveanything.”
No,butIwasn’ttheonepickingthefights.Ibegantosayasmuch,whenCarvercheckedhissmartwatchandsaid,“Karen’ssupposedtocomebywithDad’sfinancesinafew.Wanttogoaheadandheadoverthere,Mom?”
“Ifwemust,”Momsighed.“Xaviercould’veatleastgivenusahintonhowtogoabouttheElvisone…”
Yes,butI’dfigureitout.
Iwantedtoaskaboutthelawyer,andthefinances—Ihadn’theardanythingaboutameeting,butitseemedlikemysiblingshad.Maybetheydidn’twantmetobeapartofit,orI’dmissedthememo,or…Ididn’tknow.Amyriadofthings.
Butwhatever—ItriedtobrushoffthefeelingthatIwasmissingoutonsomethingthatIshould’vebeenapartofasIgrabbedtheticketforthebill.
“Goon,I’llpay,”Isaid.“Ithinkit’smyturn,anyway.”
Myfamilyscootedoutoftheboothandstartedtalkingaboutthefuneralandhowwidelytosendouttheinvitations.TotherelativesintheLowcountry,andthepokerclub,andmostofMairmont(includingthemayor,Fetch,abubblygoldenretrieverwhohadwonreelectionthreetimes).
MomsighedasshefollowedAliceandCarveroutoftheWaHo.“Iwonderifitwouldbefrownedupontodancewithhisportraitatthewake?Youknowthepicture—himinthedovetailtuxedo?Sodashing.”
“No,”CarverandAlicereplied,andthedoorchimedingedastheyleft.
Ibittheinsideofmycheektokeepfromsmiling.IwasstillangrywithAlice—shewashurting,weallwere—butImissedthem.Imissedmorningslikethis,andbadsoggywaffles,andImissedDad.
Ididn’tthinkmissinghimwouldfeelsolonely,though.
Ileanedonthecounter,besideaguymutteringtohimself—smalltowns,theyalwayshadatleastoneweirdguy—andhandedthecashieratwenty.Shesmiledandsaid,“YoumustbeFlorence!”
Themanbesidemewentrigid.
“YourdadcomeshereeverySaturday,”thecashierwenton.“Alwaysordersthesamething—theAll-Starwithextrahashbrowns.Scattered,smothered,andcovered.Whereistheoldmantoday?”
“Hepassedawaytheothernight,”Isaid,andthemanglancedover.Welockedeyes.Darkhair,browneyes,anangularface.Hedidn’thaveanythinginfrontofhim—nofoodorcoffee—andnooneseemedtopayhimanyattention.AndthatwasafeatwhenyousatupatthecounterataWaffleHouse.Youhadtobeeitherhighlydislikedor—
Ornotreallythere.
Andworseyet,Irecognizedhisdarkhairandnavytrousersandthearticulatewayhehadrolleduphissleevestightlytohiselbows.Helookedlikehecould’vebeenapaintingofaforlornbusinessman…
…oftheslightlydeadvariety
Ipaled.
“M-MissDay?”BenjiAndorasked.
Thecashier’ssmilefaltered.“Oh,no.I’msosorrytohearaboutyourfather—”
Suddenly,thejukeboxgavealoudscreech,andthelightsflickeredwithastart.Itpickedarandomalbumandinserteditintotheplayer.Theneonlitup,andasongcrackledfromtheforty-year-oldspeakers.
Iwinced.Andwhispered,“Stopit.”
Hiswideeyesdartedtothejukebox,thenbacktome.“I—that’snotme.”
“Itis.”
“Thatthingkeepsactingup,”thecashierapologizedasshecountedoutmychange.“Gotamindofitsownsometimes,Ithink.”
Thepianobeat.Thetambourine.AndsuddenlyI’mbackintheredparlorafterawake,dancingonDad’sfeetashesings“buttercup,don’tbreakmyheart”inanawfulkey,goldenafternoonlightstreamingthroughthewindow.Itfillsmewithbitterness,becauseit’sgone.Themoment’sgone—allthosemomentsaregone.
Mythroatconstricts.
“Fourdollarsandthirty-sevencentsisyourchange.Haveagreatday,miss,”thecashiersaidasshehandedmeafewbillsandcoins.Iquicklypocketedthemintomycoatandleftthediner.Benfollowed,squeezingthroughtheopendoorasitswungshut.
“Lastnight—atthatdoor—itwasyou,wasn’tit?Youansweredthedoor,”hesaid,followingme.
Itrainedmyeyesatthesidewalkinfrontofme.“Thisisn’thappening.”
“What’snothappening?”
Don’tlookathim.Don’tlookathim.
Anoldergentlemanwalkinghisdogdecidedtocrosstotheothersideofthestreet,andIdidn’tknowifitwasbecauseofmeorbecausethedoghadtotakeapooinanazaleabushontheotherside,butitdidn’tstopmefromguessing.Ifishedmyphoneoutofmypocketandmimedansweringacall.
Intwosteps,hehadcaughtbackupwithme.“Pleasedon’tignoreme—everyoneis.Everyone.Isatinthatdinerfor—forhours—tryingtogetsomeonetoseeme.Noonecould!Noone!What’shappeningtome?LastIrememberedIwasatyourfrontdoor,andthenIwasinthedinerand—thingsdon’tmakesense—andyou’renotlistening—”
“Iam,”Iinterrupted.“Ijustcan’tbeseen,youknow,talkingtomyself.”
Hisshouldersslumped.“Soit’strue…noonecanseeme.Exceptyou?But—why?”Aboutfiftyemotionscrossedhisface,fromdisbelieftoconfusion,beforehefinallysettledonaccusatory.“Whatmakesyouspecial?”
“Wow.You’recharming,youknowthat?”
“IamwhenI’mnotscaredoutofmymind,MissDay.”
Iwinced.EventhoughIwaswalkingataprettyfastpace,hewaskeepinguponhislonglegswithoutevenbreakingasweat.TherewasnowayI’doutpacehim.Sometimes,Ihatedbeingshort.
Often,actually.
Ontopofmyfather’sfuneral,BenjiAndor’sghostwassomethingIdidn’tneed.
But…Icouldn’tignorehim,either.
Especiallyhearinghisvoicecracklikethat,beggingformetoseehimbecause—
Mydadwouldtellmetohelphim.Mydadwouldsayitwasourjob,ourduty,ourresponsibility.AresponsibilityIhadn’trisentoinabouttenyears.NotsinceIleftMairmont.AndofcourseIfeltlikeIhadtonow,becauseifDadwashere,hewouldhave.
Istoppedatthestreetcorner,anddecided,well,tomakemydeardeaddadproud,andspunonmyheelstofaceBenji.Hecametoanabruptstopafewinchesaway,andIrealizedjusthowsillyIprobablylookedtohimfromhisangle.Ididn’tcare.“You’reaghost,”Istarted.“Aspirit.Workingthroughapost-livingexperience.”
“Workingthroughapost-living—what?”Baffled,heranhisfingersthroughhishair.“I’mnotdead.Thisisabaddream.Anightmare.I’llwakeupand—”
“Everythingwillbeexactlythesame,”Iinterrupted.“Becauseyouwon’twakeup.”
“No—no.”
Hisvoicewoundtightagain,likeAlice’susedtowhenshebegantohaveapanicattack.I’dneverencounteredaghostthisadamantaboutbeingalivebefore.WhenIwasachild,everyghostthatcamelookingformeknewtheyweredead.Itwasn’tahardleaptomake,butBenjiAndorseemedtobethekindofstraitlacedguywhodealtinfactsandfiguresinsteadofmidnightghoststoriesandmyths.
AndIcouldn’tbelieveIwasdoingthis.
“Mr.Andor,”Isaid,becauseBenjiorBensoundedtooinformal,andIwantedtokeepasmuchdistanceasIcould.“I’msorry.”
“I’mnotdead—”
Ipunchedmyfiststraightthroughhischest.
“Thattingles,”hemurmured,frowningdownatmyfistthatshould’vebeenmassaginghisheartinhischestifhewerealive.
“See?”Ipointedout.“Dead.”
“Ican’tbe.Idon’t—Idon’tfeeldead.”
Iremovedmyfist.Touchingaghosttingledforme,too.Itfeltcold,andabitcrackly—likemyfingershadfallenasleep.“Noteveninside?Notevenalittle?”
Heignoredmyveryfunnyjoke.“Ican’tbedeadbecauseIdon’trememberdying,thankyouverymuch.Andghostsdon’texist.It’sscientificallyproven.”
“Isitnow.”
“Yes.”
“Then,buddy,I’mnotsurewhattotellyou.”
Wecametotheroundaboutinthemiddleoftown.Therewasagreenparkinthemiddlewithawhitegazebo,andamanwholookedlikemyoldorchestrateacheronthestepspracticingarousingrenditionofJourney’s“Don’tStopBelievin’?”onhiscello.Hewasreallytearingupthestrings.
“IfI’mdead,”Benproposedsmartly,“thenhowcanyouseeme?”
Whataquestion.
OnethatLeeMarlowneveraskedasItoldhimallofmyghoststories.HesimplysuspendedhisdisbeliefasIweavedmymemoriesintohisfiction.DidheeverfindareasonforwhyIcouldseeghosts?Didhiseditoraskhow?DidLeefinallyhavetomakesomethingbyhimself?
Ididn’tknow—andIdidn’twanttoknow.
Butleaveittoaneditortoaskthequestionsthatburnintoplotholes.
“Idon’tknow,”Iadmitted,“butwhatIdoknow,Ben,isthatyou’redead.Verydead.Dead-as-a-doornailsortofdead.Ghostdead—”
Hehelduphishandtostopme,hisothermassagingthebridgeofhisnose.“Okay,okay,Igetit.Ijust…Iwanttoknowwhy.Andwhyyou.”
“Thatmakestwoofus,then.”Icrossedthestreet,backtowardthebed-and-breakfast,andhefollowedslightlybehindmewithhislong,leisurelylegs.“TheonlythingIcanthinkofisthatmanuscript—butifyou’redead,Idon’thavetoturnitinanymore.”
“Notthatyouhaditfinishedtobeginwith,”hemuttered.
Iopenedthewroughtirongatetotheinn—andfroze.“Wait…”Iturnedbacktohim.“Youknew?”
“ThatyouwereAnnie’sghostwriter?Yes,”hereplied,abitperplexed.“I’mhereditor—ofcourseIknew.Ijustdidn’texpect…well,itwasasurprisewhenyouwalkedin.”
Iblinked.“Oh.Wellthen.”
“No,wait,that’snotwhatImeant—”
Iwhirledaroundandmarchedupthefrontwalktotheveranda.“No,no,Idefinitelygetwhatyoumeant.Me,thefailurethatIam.”
“Whydidn’tyoujusttellmeyoughostwroteforher?”
“Wouldithavechangedanything?”Ichallenged,andhepursedhislipsinreply.Lookedaway.BecauseIwasright—itwouldn’thavechangedanything.“See?Itdidn’tmatteranyway.WhetherItoldyouornot,youknewIwasafailure.”
“That’snotwhatIthinkofyou,”hestressedsomberly.
Iwantedtobelievehim.WishedIcould.ButIknewmyselfbetterthansomeonewhohadtalkedwithmeforthirtyminutesandkissedmebehindahipsterbar,andIknewexactlywhatIwas—whoIwas.
Acowardwhoranawayfromtheonlyhomesheeverknew.Agullibleidiotwhofellforguyswhopromisedhertheworld.Andafailurewhocouldn’tfinishtheonethingshewasgoodat.
Suddenly,astrangelookcrossedhisface.Confusion.Thencuriosity.Hecockedhishead.“Doyouhearth—?”
Thenextsecondhewasgone,andIwasleftstandingontheverandaalone.
12
EmotionalSupport
THEPHONERANGfourandahalftimesbeforeRosepickedup.
“Ohthankgodyoucalled.Iwasbeginningtoworrythetownswallowedyouup,”shesaid.Inthebackground,Icouldhearbathroomnoises,andrealizedthatshemust’vebeen…atwork?
Icheckedmywatch.“What’reyoustilldoingattheoffice?Isn’tthisyourlunch?”
“AndSaturday,”shesaidwithatragicsigh.“Butohmygod,Ihavesomenews—butfirst,Iwanttoaskhowyou’redoing.How’sthefamily?Iseverything…well,notfinebecauseofcoursenot,butiseverythingfine?”
“Asfineasitcanbe.”IfloppedontothebedintheVioletSuite.Itcreakedloudly.Iwould’vehatedtobeinoneoftheneighboringroomsifanyhoneymoonersevergotthissuite.ThehingesneededsomeWD-40andducttape.“Aliceisrearingforafight,butIfiguredshewouldbe.Wehaven’treallyseeneyetoeyeinafewyears.”
“Yeah,mymoney’sonAlice—nooffense.”
“Youhaven’tevenmether!AndI’myourbestfriend!”
“Yes,andIloveyou,butyou’reaboutasthreateningasachipmunk.”
“Rude,”Isaid,butIdidn’tsayshewaswrong.Becauseshewasn’t.OfallthefightsAliceandIhadhadoverthecourseofourcontentiousrelationship,Alicehadwonthemajorityofthem.“Thoughsheprobablycouldmurdermeandnevergetcaught.ShedidgotoDukeforforensicchemistry.”
“Wow,sobadass.Andyourbrother’saswankytechbro—whathappenedtoyou?”
“Unequivocalfailure,”Irepliedbluntly.“Andapparentlytheonlyonewho’swillingtoprepareDad’sfuneralasheplannedoutinhiswill.”
“Thatissometal.”
“It’sexhausting.”IrecountedtoRosewhatIneededtodo,andshelistenedsagelyasIrantedaboutthewildflowers,andElvis,andmurdersofcrows,andthepartysupplies.ItoldherabouttheWaffleHouseconversationthismorning,andhowIwassaddledwithdoingallofitbymyself.“Imean,theyhavestufftodo,too,but—sodoI!”
“Maybeit’stoohardforthem.”
“It’shardforme,too.”
Rosegaveahardsigh.“Yeah,Iknow,butyou’rethebigsister,right?You’vealwaysbeenreallygoodatpushingthroughwhateverfeelingsyouhaveandgettingthingsdone.Imean,rememberwhenthatguy—Quinn—stoodyouuponadateandyouhadtofinisheditsforMidnightMatineeinliketwelvehours?”
“Quinnsucked.”
OnalonglaundrylistofguysthatIfellforthatsucked.
“Youpushedthroughandacedthoseedits.AndthetimeourtoiletliterallyexplodedandyoufixeditwiththepowerofYouTubeandsheerdeterminationwhileondeadline.AndthetimeIgotthathorrendousstomachbugandyouendedupmakingendsmeetbywritingallthoseterribleself-helparticlesandpayingallthebillsforthreemonths.Youjustdothings.Youfinishthem.Youpullthrough.”
“TellthattoAnn’sbookIdidn’tfinish.”
“Onethinginaveryshittyyear.”
“WishIcouldtellAnn’sagentthat.I’mjustwaitingforMollytocallmeagainonceAnnfindsouttotellmeallthethingsIalreadyknow—howI’mafailure,howAnnshouldneverhaveputhertrustme,howtheonejobIhadwastheoneIfailedatandIknowIfailedand—”
“AndasIsaid,you’vehadaveryshittyyear.You’regood,Florence!You’rereliable.Mostofthetime.Maybeyourfamilydoesn’trealizeyouwanthelpwithyourdad’sfuneral.”
Atthementionofhelp,Ibristled.“Whosaidhelp?Idon’tneedhelp.Andanyway,whatareyoudoingintheofficesonaSaturday?”Iwantedtochangethesubject,togetawayfromthethingsthatImight’veoncebeengoodatbutwasn’tanymore.Which,asitturnedout,happenedtobeeverything.“Andareyou—areyouinastall?”
“Absolutely.Youknowhowmybosshatesmetalkingonthephoneintheoffice,”sheaddedinahushedtone.“Andeverythingissupernutstodayoverhere.JessicaStone’sfreakingoutoverherclothinglinelaunch,somybosscalledusallheretowork,onourSaturday,becauseapparentlyshe’sauditioningforaroleintheremakeofTheDevilWearsPrada.”
“Yikes.”
“Butthat’snottheohmygodpart.Youwouldnotbelievewhathappenedyesterday.”
Irolledoveronthebed,andthespringscreaked.Istaredupatthespeckledceiling.“You…gotapromotion?”
“BenjiAndorgothitbyacar.”
Ben
Iboltedupinbed.“Hedid?”
“Yes!YouknowErin?AtFalconHouse?Yeah,shesawithappen.Like,youknowrightinfrontofthebuilding?Theintersection?Shehappenedtolookupattheexactrighttime—andwham!She’ssodistraught.Like,sodistraught.Poorthing.I’mgettingdrinkswithhertonighttoseehowshe’sreallydoing—maybeIcanfinallyconvincehertoleavepublishing.Shecoulddosomuchbetterliterallyanywhereelse.”
IwasstillwaybackonBenAndorgettinghitbyacar.Bloodeverywhere.Forsomereason,thatonescenefromMeetJoeBlackplayedinmyhead,overandoveragain,butinsteadofBradPitt,itwasBenjiAndorinadarkbluesuitandstripedtiebeingflungacrosstheroadagainandagainandagain—likeafootballgame’sfourth-quartertouchdowninstantreplay.
Sohereallywasdead.Imean—ofcoursehewas.ButitalsomeantIwasn’tgoingcrazy.Thathewasactuallyhere,hauntingme.Hehadn’tshowedupuntillastnight.Andthatmeanthewasstickingaroundbecausehisunfinishedbusinesshadsomethingtodowithme.
“Shit,”Iwhispered,becausetherewasonlyonethingitcouldbe.TheJumanjidrumsbegantoplayinmyhead,comingfrommybackpackwhereIleftmylaptop.Adirgeofabsolutedread.
“Iknow,”Roseagreed.“Theworldlostanotherfineass.”
“Ohmygod.”
“Iknow—oh,shit,”shemuttered,andIheardhercoverherphonewithherhandsowhatsheyelledwasalittlemuffled.“Um—yes,it’sme!I’llbeoutinaminute,Tanya.”
Therewasavoiceontheotherside,andthentheclipofheelsoutofthebathroom.
Rosepickedupthephoneamomentlaterwithamorosetone.“Thebossjustcametocheckonme.Igottago—butifyouneedme,letmeknow,okay?I’llcatchthenextflightdownandbetherewithyou.”
“Youdon’thaveto.”
“IknowIdon’thaveto,butI’moffering.I’llbeyouremotionalsupportbestfriend.Icangetsomewineandyoucangoshowmearoundyourweirdlittletown.”
Thatsoundedsotempting,butplaneticketswereexpensive,andshewasneededatherjob.I’dbefine.Ialwayswas.“Nah,butthankyou,though.”
“Youdon’thavetodoeverythingalone,Florence.”
“I’vegotsomuchbaggage,I’mneveralone,”Irepliedjokingly,andshelaughed.
“You’reridiculous.Loveyou.”
“Loveyoumore.”
Iwaitedforhertohangup,andfloppedbackdownonthesqueakybed.Havingsomehelpwouldbenice,butIdidn’tneedit.XavierDaywasmyfather.Hisfuneralwasmyresponsibility.SoinsteadIpulledupGoogleonmyphoneandpunchedinwheretofindthenearestflowershop.Icoulddothingsonmyown—Ididn’tneedtobotheranyoneelse.AlicewasuptohergillsinfuneralpreparationsandCarverhadhisownjobandMom—Momcouldn’tdoeverything.
Iwasn’tsureifmysiblingscouldseeit,butshewasbarelyholdingherselftogether.
No,thiswasmyjob.Iwastheeldest.Icoulddothis.Alone.
Ihadforthislong,anyway.
13
GhoulIntentions
THECROWSWEREontheroofwhenIleftthebed-and-breakfastthatafternoon,andthatmeantBenwaslurkingaroundsomewhere.Thoughatthemoment,eitherhedidn’twanttobeperceived,orhewashidinginabushsomewherecrying.Iwouldbe,ifIfoundoutIwasdeadandtheonlypersonwhocouldseemewasafailureofaghostwriterwhogavehimaplantinsteadof,youknow,themanuscriptthatwasdue.
IshouldtellhimwhatRosetoldme—abouthisaccident.Hehaddisappearedsosuddenlythismorning,Ididn’tgetthechancetoaskifherememberedhowhediedornot.Though,thefactthathethoughthewasstillalive,somehow,definitelytiltedthatanswertowardnot.
GoogleMapsonmyphonesaidthattheMainStreetFlowerEmporiumwasstillopenafteralltheseyears,soIleftforthecenteroftown.Mysenioryearpromdateboughtacorsagefromthemthatendedupbeinghaunted.
Ididn’twanttothinkabouthowthathappened.
JustlikeIdidn’twanttothinkaboutthedeep,twistingveinofsadnessinmystomach,andhowastimepassedinMairmontandDadwasn’there,itkeptgrowing.Woulditgoawaysomeday?Wouldthedaggerinmysideslowlyshrinktoapapercut?Wouldthegriefeverdisappear,orwasitstagnant?Woulditalwaysbethere,justunderthesurface,lurkinginthewayonlygriefcould?
I’dalwayswrittenhowgriefwashollow.Howitwasavastcavernofnothing.
ButIwaswrong.
Griefwastheexactopposite.Itwasfullandheavyanddrowningbecauseitwasn’ttheabsenceofeverythingyoulost—itwastheculminationofitall,yourlove,yourhappiness,yourbittersweets,woundtightlikeaknottedballofyarn.
ThebellabovethedoorchimedasIcameintotheflowershop.Itsmelledlikerosesandliliesandmygrandmother’spotpourrithatshealwayskeptinthebathroom.Therewasanoldergentlemanbehindthecounter,fixingupaflowerarrangement.Anold-timeyradioplayedElvisinthebackground.
“Mr.Taylor,”Igreeted,wonderingifherememberedmefromseventh-gradeEnglishclass.
Helookedatmeoverhisthickglasses,andhiseyebrowsjerkedup.“MissFlorenceDay!Ifitisn’tyou,Iswear.”
Ifixedasmileovermymouth.“It’sme.Howareyou?”
“AsgoodasIcanbe,asgoodasIcanbe,”hereplied,nodding.“BeendoingupflowerarrangementsasquickasIcan,butitdon’tseemquickenoughthesedays.Somuchgoingon.Areyouheretoplaceanorder?”
“I—oh.No.Well…”Movementcaughtthecornerofmyeye,andIturnedtowatchBennotsosubtlytrytohidebehindabouquetofrosesonatable.Becausethatwasn’tconspicuousatall.Istudiouslyturnedbacktotheflorist,intentonignoringhim.“IwaswonderingifyouknewwhereIcouldfindathousandwildflowers?”
“Athousand?”Mr.Taylorscratchedthesideofhishead.
“Iknow.It’salot.”
“Idon’treallystockthatmanywildflowers,andifIdidthat’dbe…”BeforeIcouldstophim,hetookoutabeat-upoldcalculatorandpunchedinsomenumbers.“Aboutfifteenhundreddollars.”
Iblanched.Thatwasmorethanmypartoftheapartmentrentforthemonth,andImostcertainlydidn’thavethatkindofmoney.“Well—um.That’sgoodtoknow,Iguess.”
“Isthisforyourfather’sfuneral?Icouldpullsomethingtogether—”
“Oh,no.No,no,no,Icouldn’tpossibly.”
“Ofcourseyoucan!Xavierwasagoodman.I’msorry.Iknowit’stough.How’sBellahanginginthere?”
“Mom’sokay,”Ireplied,butitstruckmethatIdidn’treallyknowifshewasfineornot.ItriedcallingheraftermychatwithRose,butshedidn’tpickup.SheandCarvermight’vestillbeeninthemeetingwiththelawyer.Ididn’tknowhowlongthosethingstook.“Andanyway,I’mjustrunningsomeerrandsforher.Tryingtomakethingseasier.Dadleftalaundrylistofthingstodoforhisfuneral.”
Mr.Taylorbarkedalaugh.“Coursehedid!MindifIaskwhatelseyouneeddoing?”
SoItoldhim—theflowers,andthemurderofcrows,andthepartydecorations,andElvis—
“Youknow,there’sanimpersonatorwhoalwayssingsupatBarNone.Yourdadlovedhim.He’dstopbyeveryThursdaynightbeforeheadingtohispokergameandmakethepoorguysing‘ReturntoSender.’?”
“BarNone,”Iechoed,rememberingthatDaddidlovetogohaveadrinkortwobeforepokernights.
“Yep.Alwaysgotthemhipsgoin’andeverything.”Hemimickedtheimpersonatorasbesthecouldwithoutthrowingoutahip.“Maybethat’swhoyourdadmeant?”
“Maybe,”Isaid.Itwasworthatry,atleast.I’dgofirstthingtomorrow.“Thanks—that’sabighelp.”
“Always.Lemmeknowifyouchangeyourmindaboutthosewildflowers,”headdedasIwavedgoodbye,andthenhegaveastart,asifherememberedsomething.“Oh,Florence—I’dhatetoask…”
“Yeah?”
“AsIsaid,”Mr.Taylorfretted,“we’reuptoourgillsinordersandrunningabitbehind—thoseflowersyourdadorderedmayarriveabitlate.”
Myheartjumpedintomythroat.“Heorderedflowers?”
“Earlierthisweek,”Mr.Taylorreplied.“Abouquetofdaylilies,toFoxgloveLane.”
So,notwildflowers.OfcourseDadwouldn’tmakeitthateasy.ButFoxgloveLane…Iknewwhereitwas.Butwhywouldhesendflowersthere?Ididn’tknowwhyIsaidwhatIdidnext.MaybeitwastoglimpseintotheeverydaylifeI’dmissed.Maybeitwastowalk,foramomentmore,inDad’sshoes.Isaid,“I’lldelivertheflowers.”
“Oh,Icouldn’taskyouto—”
“It’dbeapleasure.Besides,I’venothingelsetodotoday,andit’dbegoodtoexplorethetownabitsinceI’vebeengone.”Ismiledtoreallysellthepoint,andhemust’vebeenreallystrappedforhelp,becausehehandedmetheaddresswritteninDad’sloopyscriptandasinglearrangementofdaylilies,andthankedmeprofusely.
Itreallywasn’tthatbigadeal,andIreallydidn’thaveanythingelsetodotoday.Ididn’twanttogotoBarNone,becauseitwasSaturdayinthelateafternoon,andIwassureitwasalreadygettingabitcrowded.AndwhileIlovedMairmont,Ididn’twanttoseemanyofthepeopleinthere.Ididn’tknowwhofrommygraduatingclassleftthetownorstayed—andmostofthem,unlikeDanaandJohn,hadn’tbeenverynice.
I’dbeenluckytohavenotrunintothemthusfar,butconsideringthatI’donlybeenhereabouttwenty-fourhours…Iknewmyluckwasshit,andit’drunoutsoonerratherthanlater.
AsIlefttheflorist,Itriedtoignoremyuntimelyshadow,andBenwasreallyhardtoignore.Especiallybecausehewaspretendingtonotfollowme,andthatjustmadeitcreepier.
“Iseeyou,youknow,”IsaidwhenIreachedtheendoftheblock.Ilookedovermyshoulder,andhequicklywhirledonhisheelsandpretendedtogotheotherway.“Seriously?”
Hewincedandturnedbacktofaceme.“Sorry.Iwas…IjustsawyouandI…”
“You’vebeenfollowingmesincethebed-and-breakfast.”
Hewilted.“Ihavenoexcuse.”
“Admittingthereisaproblemisthefirststeptorecovery,goodjob.”
“I’mnotsurewhatelsetodo.”Heputhishandsinhispockets,hisshouldershunched.Helookedabitmoreunraveledthanhehadthismorning,hishairfloppyandhiseyestired.“Orwhereelsetogo.”
Therewasnowhereelse.Itwasmeandthen…whatevercameafter.Ifanythingcameafter.Myfamilywasthespiritualbutnotreligioussort.Weallhadourdifferentideasofwhathappened—whetherwereturnedtotheworld,orbecamepartofthewind,orjust…ifwejuststopped.
Andanyway,whateverIcould’vesaidwouldn’thavehelpedhim.
Hewas,onallaccounts,dead.Rosehadverifiedit.AndatleastIknewIwasn’tgoingcrazy—hereallywashere.Forthemoment,howeverlongittook.
AndIwashislaststop.
Ihuggedthearrangementtighter.“Well,youcancomewithme,”Ioffered
“CanI?”Heperked,likeagoldenretrieverwho’dfinallybeenaskedtogoforwalkies.
“Yeah.Wecangettothebottomofthisthrillingmysterytogether,”Isaid,referringtothearrangement.“Whywouldmydadsendflowerstoastranger’shouse?”
“Maybeheknewthemfromsomewhere?”Benguessed.
“Hedidhavepokergames.Maybeit’soneofhisbuddiesfromthat?”ButIdoubtedhe’dsendthemdaylilies.He’dsendthemorchidsorcorpseflowersor—somethingabitmorehisbrand.Dayliliesweren’thisstyleatall.
MyfrowndeepenedasIthought,promptingBentopropose,“We’llseewhenwegetthere,Isuppose.”
“Ihatesurprises,”Iagreedwithasigh.
FoxgloveLanewasoneofthosequietstreetsadjacenttothemaindragwhereyoucouldjustseeyourselfbuyingahousebehindawhitepicketfenceandgrowingoldinit.ThehouseswerealldifferentcolorsofCharleston-typedesigns,withporchesthatfacedthewestandnarrowbuilds.WhenIwaseightornine,IwenttoabirthdaypartyforsomeonewholivedonFoxgloveLane.AdairBowman,maybe?ItwasaslumberpartyandtheybrokeouttheOuijaboardandIsatbackandhadabsolutelynothingtodowithit.
One,becauseOuijaboardsweremass-markettrashmadebyatoycompanytoselltheocculttothemiddleclass.
Two,becauseeventhoughOuijaboardsweremass-markettrashmadebyatoycompanytoselltheocculttothemiddleclass,Istillrefusedtopokethebear.
Adaircalledmeascaredy-cat.Idefinitelywas.ButIalsosleptperfectlywellthatnightwhiletherestofthekidshadnightmaresaboutoldGeneralBartholomewfromthecemeterycomingtohaunttheirdreams.
Thehouseinquestionwashalfwaydownthelane,farpastAdair’soldfamilyhome—thoughIthinktheymovedtheyearafterI’dsolvedtheinfamousmurder.Itwassmallerthantheothers,butverywellloved.Thefrontlawnwasquaint,withtrimmedazaleasaroundthehouseandacolorfulflowerbed,newlyplantedforspring.
Iclimbedthebrickstepstothefrontdoorandrangthedoorbell.
Ittookamoment,butanoldladyfinallyanswered.Shewashunchedover,wrappedinafluffypinkhousecoatanddarnedslippers,andhadthemostbeautifulwidebrowneyes.“Oh,”shesaid,openingtheglassdoor.“Hello.”
“Mrs.—”Icheckedthenameandaddressonthecard,writteninDad’ssloppyhandwriting.“Elizabeth?”
“Yes,”shereplied,nodding,“that’sme,dear.”
Iofferedupthedaylilies.“Theseareforyou.”
Hereyeslitupatthearrangement,andshetookitgentlywithgnarledandbruisedhands.Therewasdirtunderherlongfingernails.Shegardened.Alone?
“Florence,”IheardBenwhisper,becausehesawthegentlemanfirst.
Therewasashimmerinthehallbehindher,anoldermaninanorangesweaterandbrowntrousers,thehairthatwasleftonthesidesofhisheadcombedback.Hemouthed,“Thankyou,”hiseyesglisteningwithtears.
Oh.Iunderstoodnow.
Mrs.Elizabethsmelledoneoftheliliesandsmiled.“Charliealwaysgavemeliliesonouranniversary.Ithinkthat’stoday?Oh,my.Time’salwaysabitwonkywhenyougetolder,”sheaddedwithalaugh.“Thankyou,dear.Youknow,IgettheseeveryyearbutIstilldon’tknowwhofrom!”
“Afriend,”Ireplied.
“Well,thisfriendofminehasverygoodtaste,”shedecided,andgavemeoneofherlemonbiscuitcookiesbeforeIleft.
Sometimes,aspirit’sfinalbusinesswasn’ttalkingtosomeone,orexposingtheirmurderer,orseeingtheirowndeadbody—sometimesitwassimplyawaitinggame.
Benwasplayingadifferentsortofwaitinggameonthesidewalk.Helookedpalerthanhehadafewminutesbefore.“Thatman—helookedlikeIdo.Shimmeryand…”Withahardinhale,hesankintoacrouch,hishandsonthebackofhisneck.“Ireallyamdead,aren’tI?”
Ifinishedmybiteofcookie,andsankdownnexttohim.“Doyoureallynotrememberhowyoudied?”
Heshookhishead.“No.Imean—I—Irememberleavingwork,andthen…”Heinhaledsharply.Halted.Clenchedhisjaw.“Itwas…justoutsideofthebuilding,wasn’tit?Myaccident?”
Silently,Inodded,butIwasn’tsurehesawme.Ifhesawanything,really.Hiseyeshadthisdistantlooktothem,athousand-milestaretoaplaceandtimehe’dneverbeagain.
“I—Iwastypinganemailonmyphonewhen…thevanpoppedthecurband…”Heblinked,hiseyeswetwithtears,ashelookedupatme.Hisvoicecrackedashesaid,“HowdidIforgetthat?”
“Idon’tknow,”Irepliedgently,wishingthatIdidknowsomething—anything—tohelphim.Ikneltdownbesidehim,curlingmyarmsaroundmyknees.“I’msorry.”
Hebenthishead,asifhecouldhidethefactthathewascrying,buthistoo-bigshouldersshakinggavehimaway.Iwantedtoreachoutforhisshoulder,tocomforthiminoneofthosethere,therepats,butIcouldn’teventouchhim.Iwasn’tgoodatotherpeople’semotionsbecauseIdidn’tknowhowtohelp,usually.Whensomeonewasinpain,Iwantedtofixit.AndIcouldn’t.
Whichmademefrustrated.
AndwhenIwasfrustrated,Icried.IfIwasnotalreadymortifiedenough.Thishadtostop—now.ItriedtheonlywayIknewhow.“A-Atleastyou’restillkindahot,”Isobbed.
Hejerkedhisattentiontome.Hiseyeswereredrimmed.“W-What?”
Thetearsjustkeptcoming.IpushedthemawayasquicklyasIcould.“D-Drop-deadg-gorgeous,really.”
“I…Idon’t—areyou—?”
“Ib-betyous-strikeak-k-killersilhouette.”
“You’recryingandtryingtohitonme?”
“I’mtryingtomakeyoulaughsoyoustopcrying,becausethenI’llstopcrying,”Ilamented,butitsoundedmorelikeI’mtryingtomakeyoulaughsoyoustopcryingbecausethenillstopcrying,anditwasamiracleheevenunderstoodmeatall.
Buthedid—andhelaughed.Itwassoft,andweak,moreofapahthanalaugh,butitwasthere.Herubbedhispalmsoverhiseyes.“You’retheweirdestwomanI’veevermet.”
“Iknow,”Isniffed.“Butd-diditwork?”
“No,”hesaid,buthewaslying.Intheafternoonlight,hischeekswereturningaverydelicateshadeofreddespitethetearsinhiseyes,anditonlymadethemarkabovetheleftsideofhisliplookthatmuchdarker.
“Oh,don’tyoudieofmortificationonme,”Iteased.
“I’mapparentlyalreadydead,”herepliedsoftly.“Sothat’simpossible.”
“Idon’tknow,yourcheeksareadeadgiveaway.”
Hepursedhislipstogether,andthensaid,surprisingme,“I’mafraidyou’regravelymistaken.”
Ibarkedalaugh,areallaughthatIdidn’tknowIhadinmeanymore,anditsurprisedme.Itsurprisedhim,too,becausehelookedawaytohideasmile,rubbingthetearsoutofthecornersofhiseyes.Whilethemissionwasn’taccomplished,IthinkIdidgethimtofeelalittlebetter,andatleasthewasn’tcrying,andthatmeantIwasn’tcrying,either.
Isaid,shakingmyhead,“Thatwasaterriblepun.”
“Yoursweren’tmuchbetter.Andyou’resupposedtobeawriterforaliving.”
“Ex-writer,”Ireminded.“Myeditordidn’tgivemeanotherextension.”
“Ex-editor,”hereminded.Andthenhesaidverysoftly,gently,“Thankyou,Florence.”
Icouldn’ttouchhim—thiswasn’tmyfirstghost,andprobablywasn’tmylast—butitwasinstinct.Tocomforthim.EventhoughIwantedsomeonetocomfortme,too.Ijustwantedsomeonetostopme,andsitmedown,andtellmethatthingswouldhurtforawhile,buttheywouldn’thurtforever.
Iwantedtotellhimthatthiswasn’tforever.
Myfingersslippedthroughhisshoulder,numbandcold—
Andthenhewasgone.
Again.
14
Moonwalks
FINDINGATHOUSANDwildflowerswouldbethedeathofme.
Ididn’twanttotakeMr.TayloruponhisofferbecauseIdidn’twantanyonetogooutoftheirwayforme.IfIwasgoingtodosomething,Ididn’twanttoinconvenienceanyoneelse.Itmight’vebeenbecauseIwasstubborn,orbecauseIjustdidn’tlikehelp,butIresolvedtodoallthesethingsonDad’slistalone.So,Icalledafloristwithintwenty-fivemilesfrommeandaskedaboutthepriceanddeliveryfeesofathousandfuckingwildflowers.Turnsout,theycostmorethanmyfirstapartmentinBrooklyn,andthatwastheplacethatIsharedwithacockroachbigenoughtocontendwithGodzilla.
“They’reweeds!”Icried,slammingmyphonedownonthebar.“Whydoweedscostsomuch?!”
AfterBendisappeared,Iwentbacktotheinn,whereIreturnedtomysearchforathousandwildflowers.Ihadmovedfrommyroomtothetinybardownstairsthatdidn’thaveabartender,butabellIcouldringtosummonDanaandaskthemforanotherrumandCoke.WhichIdid.Often.Ihadmylaptopwithme,openedtoYelpandGoogleMapsandtwentyothertabsthatI’drathernotmention.
CouldIpicktheflowersinthewild?Whereevenwasawildflowerfield?MaybetheRidge?ButitwasApril.Andtherehadalreadybeenmorethanonecoldsnap.They’dbedeadandcrispybythetimeIfoundthem.AnditwastheRidge.
Ididn’twanttogothere.Notever
Danapokedtheirheadthroughthedoorwaybehindthebarthatledtothecheck-incounter.“Everythingokayinhere?”
“Weeds!”Icried,throwingmyhandsup.“Theywantathousanddollarsforweeds!”
“IthinkIgotadealerwhocancutyouadeal—”
“Wildflowers,”Icorrected.
“Ooh.Yeah,I’mafraidIcan’thelpyouthere.”Thefrontdooropened,andDanaglancedbackandsmiled.“Butyouknowwhatcanhelp?”
“Abullettothehead?”
“Themayor!Dun,dun,DUN!”theysangastheclatterofpawscameupbehindmeonthehardwoodfloor.
Iturnedaroundonmystool.
AndtheresittingsoperfectlybehindmewasagoldenretrievernamedFetch.AlittlegrayerthanIrememberedaroundhissnout,hewasstilljustasfetchingashehadbeenthedayImethim,beforeIleftforcollege.
Thatwastenyearsago—holyshit,Isuddenlyfeltold.
“Doggo!”Icried,slidingoffmystoolontotheground.Hegaveasoftyip,tailwagging,andsmotheredmeinkisses.Alaughbubbledupfrommythroat.Therewasnowaytonotfeelalittlehappywhenyou’rebeinglickedbyadogwithbreaththatcouldknockanelephantoutcold.
“Yourememberme,boy?Youmissme?”Iasked,scrubbinghimbehindtheear,andinahappyreply,histailwentthumpthumpthump.“Ofcourseyourememberme,right,boy?Haveyoubeenkeepingthetownsafe?”Thumpthumpthump!“Passanygoodlaws?”Thumpthumpthumpthump—
“ThereisnowofficiallyawaterbowlinfrontofeveryshoponMainStreetthatischangeddaily,”saidavoicebehindthedog.
Iglancedup.
Seaburn,hisowner,stoodwithhishandsinhispockets.“Thoughtwe’dfindyouhere.”
Ilookedupasthemayortriedtogotosecondbasewithhistongue.“Momsentyou?”
“Nah.She’sbusywithafuneralthisevening.Iaskedtohelpbut…”
“Ialsoasked,”Isupplied.Aftertheflorist,I’dstoppedbythefuneralhometohelpoutwiththevisitationtoday,butMomwashavingnoneofit.
Infact,sheseemedalittlebitangry.“It’snotlikeIcan’trunmyownbusiness!”shecried.“I’llbefine!I’vebeendoingthisforthirtyyears!”
ItwasallIcoulddotoleavewithmyheadintact.
Seaburnsatdownonthestoolnexttome.“Yourmomdoesthingsinherownway,onherowntime.Weshouldleavehertoit.”
Thatdidn’tmeanIwasn’tworried.Andfocusingonmymotherfeltalotmoreconstructivethanfocusingonmyownsadness.HersIfeltlikeIcouldatleasttrytofix.Mine?Itwasaholeinmychestfilledwithallofthethingsthatmademygriefsoheavy,itwashardtobreathesometimes.
IgavethemayoronelastgoodscrubbehindhisearsbeforeIresumedmyseatandtookanotherlonggulpofmyrumandCoke.
SeaburnandIhadgraduatedwithinafewyearsofeachother.HewasajuniorwhenIstartedatMairmontHigh.HisfamilyownedandmaintainedSt.John’sofMairmontCemeteryontheothersideoftown,soitfeltonlynaturalthat,whenDadneededsomeonetohelpmanagethefuneralbusiness,heaskedSeaburnifhewantedtoworktogether.Forthelastsevenyearsorso,DadandSeaburnhadmanagedthefuneralsandthegravesiteservicesforthemajorityofthetown.AndapparentlyDadhadstartedtotrainAliceinthesamething.
“You’remorethanwelcometokeepmecompany,”Isaid.“I’mnotuptomuch.Just…”IwavedatmyWorddocument.
SeaburnaskedDanaforabeer,andaskedme,“Stillwriting?”
“Stubbornly.”
Hebarkedalaugh.“Good!Ilikedyourfirstbook—ArdentlyYours.Sofunny.Lovedtheromancebits,too.”
“Ohno”—Iburrowedmyfaceinmyhands—“pleasetellmeyoudidn’treadit.”
“Don’tworry,Iclosedmyeyesduringthesexscenes.”
Igroanedintomyhands,mortified.
“Weevendidabookclubforitwhenitcameout,”hewenton.“Everyonelovedit.Itwas—Idunnohowtodescribeit.”Hetiltedhishead,takinganothersipofhisbeer.“Happy’sacloseword.”
Thatwasflattering,especiallyfromSeaburn,whoreadsomuchandsowidelymyreadinghabitsprobablypaledincomparison.“Aromanceleavesyouhappy—oratleastcontent—attheend.Orit’ssupposedto.Ithink.”
BecauseIdidn’tknowanymore.
“Itwasgood.You’reafantasticwriter,”headded.“IthinkeveryoneinMairmontboughtacopy.”Ifonlythesalesinmysmallhometowncouldhavechangedthecourseofthatbook,myentirelifecouldhavebeenso,somuchdifferent.
Irubbedmythumbagainstthecondensationonmyglass.
Themayorcameandputhisheadonmylap.Iscrubbedhimgoodbehindtheearsagain,andhistailassaultedthefloor.THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP—
“Thanks,”Isaid,becauseIfeltasthoughIdidn’tdeservethatsortofpraise—notinmycurrentpredicament.“I’mtrying.”
“Allanyonecando,”Seaburnreplied,andthentookadeepbreath.“Andspeakingoftryingsomething…IheardfromCarverthatyou’retakingontheoldman’swillalone.”
“Nooneelsehastime.”
“That’snottrue.”
Igaveaone-shoulderedshrug.“Icandoit.Everyoneelsehasthingstodo,andanythingIcandotohelpout…Idon’tknowifyouknowthis,butI’vebeenkindofMIAforthelasttenyears,”Iaddedsarcastically.
“Thetownranyouout.There’sadifference.”
“ButIcould’vecomeback,right?Itwasn’tlikeIwasostracizedoranything.Iwasjust…”
Bullied.Calledghouliebehindmyback.Mysocialmediawasbombarded,dayafterday,withmemesandnamesandjokingquestionsof“CanyousolvetheBlackDahlianext?”And“Doyoucommunewiththedevil?”
Or,morecommonly,liar.
AllbecauseIhelpedaghostsolvehisownmurderwhenIwasthirteen—tooyoungtoknowbetterbuttoooldtochalkituptoimaginaryfriends.
“Noonewhoknowsyoufaultedyouforleaving,”Seaburnrepliedsternly.Hereachedovertomyhandandtookittightly.Myknucklesgratedtogether,howhardhesqueezed.“Especiallynotyourdad.”
Aknotformedinmythroat.“Iknow.”
Butitwasstillnicetohear.
“Ijustwanttohelpmyfamily,”Isaidhelplessly.“ThisistheonlythingIknowIcando.Oratleasttryto.CarverandAlice…”TheyhadbeentalkingaboutfinanceswithMombeforeIcametobreakfastthismorning,andhadchangedthesubjectwaytooquicklytobeinconspicuousaboutit.TheyhadmeetingstodaywithDad’slifeinsurancereps,andthebudgetforthefuneral—andIwantedtodosomething,anything,tohelp.“They’vealreadydonealot.Alotmorethanme.ThisistheleastIcando,right?”
Seaburnsighed.“Youdon’thavetodoeverythingalone,love.”
Butoh,itwaseasierthatway.
“Thankyou,”Isaidinstead,withasoothingsmileI’dlearnedovertheyearsofsaying,I’mfine.
“Allright,justaslongasyouknow,”Seaburnsaid,andraisedhisglass.“Totheoldman.Theweirder,thebetter.”
“Theweirder,thebetter,”Ireplied,andweclinkedglassesanddrankquietly.Whenhe’dfinishedhisbeer,hecheckedthetimeandfiguredhe’doughttostartmoseyinghome,soIthankedhimfortheconversationandwenttogiveonelastpattothemayor—buthewasgone.
“Nowwheredidhewanderoffto…”Seaburnbegantogetuptolookforhim,whenIsaidIwouldfindthemayor.Ineededtostretchmylegsanyway.
“I’llgofindthemayor.Stayforanotherbeer—onme,”Iadded,signalingtoDana,andwenttogosearchforthemayor.Hecouldn’thavegonefar.Danapointedoutside,andIfollowedtheirdirection.“Fetch,”Icalled,clickingmytonguetotheroofofmymouth,“here,boy.”
Isearchedaroundthesideoftheveranda.Itwasawarmevening,anditbroughtquiteafewlightningbugsoutofhiding.Theyblinkedbetweenthebloomingrosebushesandthehydrangeasinthegarden.
Outside,IfoundFetch—andafriend
Benwassittinginoneoftherockingchairs,andFetchhadgoneupandputhisheadonthearmrest.Bentriedtopethim,buthisfingerspassedthroughthedog’sears,andhequicklyjerkedhishandaway.
Fetchwaggedhistail,anyway.
Dogswereprettygoodjudgesofcharacter.AndIhatedtoadmitthatitwasnicetoseeBen,andseehimnot…losingit.Likehedidearlier.Becauserealemotionswerecomplicated.Ifsomeonestartedcrying,Istartedcryingwiththem,anditturnedintoawholeordeal—likewithBen.Oh,thatwasmortifying
Iputmyhandsintomyjeanpockets,steeledmynerves,andwanderedclosertohim.“So,youlikedogs,Mr.Andor?”
HeseemedsurprisedthatI’dnoticedhimbecausenooneelsehad.“Oh—ah,Ben,please.”
“Ben.”Isaidhisnameanditsounded—friendly.Nice.Pointedatthefront,andahumattheend.Imotionedtothemayor.“ThisisFetch.”
“He’sagoodboy.Iheardthathe’sthemayor?”
“Yep,wonreelectiontwicealready.”
“Whatagooddog,”hetoldFetch,whosetailbegantowhiptheporchinahappyTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP—
Ohyeah,Benwasdefinitelyadogkindofguy.Nailedit.
FetchwhinedandIclickedmytonguetotheroofofmymouth.HecametrottingoverandIscrubbedhimbehindtheears.Helickedatmyhand.
Thenightwassoftandwarm,likemostspringnightsintheSouth.Therewasstilltheundeniablesnapofthelastofwinter’schill,butthelightningbugswerealreadyoutandperformingloopsinthegardenoutside.Themoonwassobright,itlookedalmostlikeasilverydaytime,andagroupofkidsplayedkickballinthestreet.
Therewasn’tmuchtoMairmont.Itwasquiet,andthetrafficwastoken,andthecicadasbuzzedsoloudyoucouldbarelythink.
Idon’tknowwhyIsaidwhatIsaidnext—maybeitwasthebuzzingoftheinsects,orthekidskickingaballdownthestreet,orthetwoglassesofrumandCoke,butIsaid,“Dadusedtosaythesekindsofnightswerebestforagoodmoonwalk.”
Bengavemeapeculiarlook.“Amoonwalk?”
“It’sastroll—mostofthetime,throughagraveyard.Dadsaysyoucanonlytakeamoonwalkwhenthere’sagoodmoon.Noclouds,norain.Don’tlookatmelikethat—yes.Graveyard.Myfamilyrunsafuneralhome.Mydad’sthedirector.”Istoppedmyself,andcorrected,“Wasthedirector.”Ishifteduncomfortablyontherailandshookmyhead.“Itdoesn’tmatter—”
“Doyouwanttogo?”heaskedsuddenly.
“Go…where?”
“Onthis,erm,moonwalk.Ihavesomequestionsabout”—hemotionedtohimself—“andaboutyou.Idon’tquiteunderstand,andI’dliketo.Andmaybeyouneedtotalk,too.Besides,achangeofscenerymightbenice.”
“Throughagraveyard.”
“Iamdead.Itseemsapt.”
Ibitmyliptokeepthesmilefrommyface.Hehadapoint.Buthimaskingwas…unexpected.AndIdidn’tknowwhatitwas—probablytherumandCokes—butitmight’vealsobeenthewaythesilverymoonlightfellacrosshisface,andthewayhishairwasalittlefloppyandhiseyesweredarkanddeepandnotatallcoldorcruel,likeI’dimaginedinmyhead.Asthoughhewasactuallylookingatme,reallylooking,andwantedtoknowmeandthisweirdlifeIlived.Nolies,nowallsoffiction—onlythisstrangelittlesecretnooneknew.
And,anyway,Ididneedachangeofscenery.
15
TheSorrowsofFlorenceDay
ST.JOHN’SOFMairmontCemeterywasatinylittlepatchofgreengrasssurroundedbyanoldstonewall.Thereweretombstonesthatstuckoutofthegentlehillslikewhiteteeth.Somehadflowersburstingfromthem;othershadn’tbeentouchedindecades.ThecemeterywasshadowedbyoaktreesthatwerelargeenoughandthickenoughthatIwassurethey’dbeenherelongbeforeanyofthebodiesbelowthelawn.Andsittingineachoneofthem,perchedsocomfortably,werecrows.Awholemurderofthem.Sittinginthebuddingbranchesandlookingdownatuswiththeirbeadylittleeyes,nestledintowatchus.
Thewroughtirongateswereclosedandlocked,butthathadneverstoppedmebeforefromcreepingin.TherewasacrumblingwallabouttwentyfeetdownfromthegatethatIcouldgetafootholdinandhaulmyselfover.
“Oh,it’sclosed,”Bennoted,readingthesign.“Ididn’trealizecemeteriesclosed—whereareyougoing?”Hefollowedmeovertotheplaceinthewallwhereitwasabitcrumbled.
Ipointedatthewall.“I’mscalingthatsucker.”
“Can’twe…Idon’tknow…askpermissionorwalkthroughaparkinsteador—”
“Park’sclosedatnight,too,andbesides”—Itookoffmyflatsandtossedthemoverthewall—“Iknowtheguywhoownsit.We’llbefine.”IdecidednottoaddthepartwhereI’dbeenpermanentlybannedfromthecemeteryafterdarkafterthepreviousownercalledmeinfortrespassingonetoomanytimes.Seaburnwouldn’tcare.Thoughitwasn’tSeaburnIwasworriedabout.
“I’msuddenlysecond-guessingthis,”hemuttered.
“You’redead—whatcouldyoupossiblybeafraidof?”Iasked.
Hegavemealevellook.“That’snotthepoint.”
IrolledmyeyesandputmyfeetintotheoldclimbingholdsthatI’dchiseledoutwhenIwasteenager,andbegantoworkmywayupsixfeettothetop,whereIloopedmylegoverandstraddledit.“YoucomingoramIgoingforawalkalone?”
Heshiftedhisweightfromonefoottotheotherashedebated.Ranthenumbers.Debatedhisoptions.Hisshoulderswerestiff,hiseyebrowsfurrowed,asifitweremorethanjustbreakingintoacemeterythatstoppedhim.
Iswungmylegbackover.“Wedon’thaveto,youknow,”Isaid,softer.“Wecangotoaparkifyouaren’tcomfortable.Or—theRidge?”
Icouldn’tbelieveIjustsuggestedthat.
Heshookhishead.“No,it’sfine.It’sjust…therearen’tothers?Inthegraveyard?Otherslikeme,Imean.”
“Ah,otherpeopleworkingthroughapost-livingexperience.”
Hepointedatme.“That.”
Iglancedbackatthegraveyard.Themoonwassofullandsobright,Icouldseefromthegatestothefarwall,andalloftheoff-whitemausoleumsandgravestonesinbetween.“No,Idon’tseeanyone—wait.Areyouscaredofghosts?”
Hestiffened.“No.”
Hesaidthatwaytooquickly.
“Youare!Ohmygod,you’reaghost.”
“Supernaturalthingsupsetme.”
“Ipromisenowittleghostieisgoingtohurtyou,BenjiAndor,”Iteased,“andifanyofthemdo,they’llhavemetocontendwith.”
“Youcanpunchghosts?”
“No,butI’mareallybadsinger.Unleashmewithamicrophoneonanyofyourenemiesandthey’retoast.”
Hesnortedalaugh.“Goodtoknow.”Thenhetookadeepbreathandsaid,“No,Idon’tgobackonmyword.Thisisn’tturningouthowIexpectedbut—thingsrarelydo,don’tthey?”
Itsoundedlikehewasreferringtohisownpredicament.Hecouldn’thavebeenmucholderthanIwas,andhewasdead.Hehadplans—everyonehasplans,eveniftheydon’trealizeit.Eventheoneswhogobecausetheythinktheydon’thaveplans.There’salwayssomethingthatcomesup.
Iwonderedwhatheregretted,whatpartsofhislifehewishedhe’ddonedifferently.
Iwonderedifmydadhadanyregretswhenhewent,too.
“Thenc’mon.”Inoddedmyheadtowardthegraveyard,andloopedmylegbackoverthewall.“Livealittle.”
“Yes,well,wouldthatIcould.”
“Probablywrongchoiceofwords.Seeyouontheotherside!”Ipulledtherestofmyselfoveranddroppeddownontothegrass.Iwasonly55percentsurethathe’dfollowme—washereallysuchasticklerfortherules?Hewasdead.“Justwalkthroughthewall,mydude,”Icalledovertohim.“You’reaghost—”
Amomentlater,hesteppedthroughthewallandshivered.“Thatfeelssoweird,”hecomplained,dustinginvisiblelintfromhiscrispbutton-downshirt.“Idon’tlikeit.Ittingles.Inweirdplaces.”
Iheadeduptowardthepaththatloopedthewholecemetery,andcalledbacktohim,“You’reaterribleghost.”
“Itwasn’tasthoughIappliedforthisrole.Whatifwegetcaught?”
“IfIgetcaught,”Icorrected,“thenI’llrun.You’reaghost.Nooneelsecanseeyou.”
Hecaughtupinafewquickstrides,andfellintopacebesideme.Leeneverdidthat.Healwaysexpectedmetomatchhis.“Right,”hesaid,“aboutthat.Ihavequestions.”
Itookadeepbreath.“Okay.I’lltrytoanswerthem.”
“Canyousummonghosts?”
“No.”
“Doyouexorcisethem?”
“No.LikeIsaidearlier,mostofthemjustwanttotalk.Theyhavegoodstories.Andtheywantsomeonetolisten.”Ishrugged.“Ilikelistening—don’tgivemethatlook,”Iadded,sensinghisgazeonme,asifhewastryingtopuzzlemeout.AsifIhadsurprisedhim.
Hequicklylookedaway.“Isthis…post-livingpartofyourlifeafamilybusiness?”
Ilaughedatthat.“No.Myfamilyownsthefuneralhomeintown,butonlymeandmydadcanseespirits.Ghosts.Whateveryouwanttocallthem—you.Idon’tknowwhy.Maybeithassomethingtodowiththefuneralparlor?Whoknows.”
“Isthatwhyyouleft?Nottobetooforward,”headdedquickly,realizingthat,infact,itwasalittletooforward.“Ijust…pickeduponit.Peoplearesurprisedyou’rehome.”
“Iguesstheywouldbe.”Forafewsteps,Imulledoverthequestion.Whattotellhim,andwhattoleaveout.Though,whatwasthepointoflyingtoadeadguy?“WhenIwasthirteen,Ihelpedaghostsolvehisownmurder.Beforethat,thewholemediatorthingwaskindofafamilysecret,butwhenyourtownpaperwrites‘GirlSolvesHometownMurderwithGhosts,’itkindofblowsthatoutofthewater.”
“Soyoubecamealocalcelebrity?”
Ibarkedalaugh.“Ifonly!Noonebelievedme,Ben.Bestcase,theythoughtIwasdoingitforattention,worstcasetheythoughtIhadsomethingtodowiththemurder.Imaginebeingthirteenandonthewitnessstandandhavingtosay,‘Aghosttoldme’Itwas…”ItriednottoremembermuchaboutthatyearifIcouldhelpit.Thearticlesaboutme,theweirdnewsstunt,thepeoplecallingmealiar.“Anyway,mostpeoplethoughtitwasjustawildstory.Iguessitmakessense—I’dwantedtobeawritereversinceIwaslittle.Ilikewords.Ilikeshapingthem.Ilikehowthestoriesyoucreatecanbekindandgood,andIlikehowtheycanneverfailyou,ifthat’showyoumakethem.”Ikickedarock,anditskitteredoffintothegrass.“Or,youknow,intheory.”
Ibitmythumbnailaswewalkedoninsilence.Theonlysoundwasmyfootstepssoftonthegrass.
Afterawhilehesaid,“Ilikedthataboutyourfirstbook.”
Surprised,Iturnedtohim.“Rake?”
“No,yourfirstbook.Whatwasit—ArdentlyYours,Ithinkwasthetitle?”
Myeyeswidened.“Youdidn’t.”
“Whyisthatsosurprising?”
“Noonereadthatbook,Ben.Itneverleftitsfirstprinting.”
“IassureyouIdid.”
Iwasn’tsurehowmuchofthatIbelieved.FirstSeaburnsaidhereadit,thenBen—twopeoplewhodidn’tknoweachother.Oncemydadhadsaid,“Don’tworry,buttercup,yourbookwillfindthepeopleitneedsto,”butIdidn’tbelievehim.
Iwasbeginningtosecond-guessmyself.
Wemingledamongthetombstones.IknewwhereDad’splotwouldbe.Itwasalreadysectionedoffatthetopofthehill,underthelargeoaktreewherethecrowsperched.Isatdownononeofthestonebenchesthroughoutthecemetery,andBentookaseatbesideme.
Ioutstretchedmyhandstowardthegraveyard.“So?Worthit,right?OneofthebestviewsinMairmont.”
Hepressedhismouthintoathinline,andhislipstwistedalittle.“Imean,itstillisn’tworththetrespassingchargebut…it’snice.”
Ibitinagrin,andpulledmyfeetupundermetositcross-legged.Theskyunfurledinfrontofus,infiniteanddark.Thestarsweremuchbrighterhere—sobrightIalmostforgotthatyoudidn’tneedlightouthereinnowhere.Thestarsgaveyouallthelightyouneeded.“DadusedtosneakinherewithmewhenIwasakid.We’dstrollthegraveyard.Hecalledithisexercise.SometimeswhentheISSwouldpassoverhead,we’dcomeouthereandwatchit.We’veseenloadsofcometsandspacejunkfallinginthesky.Youreallycan’tbeataviewlikethis.”
“No,”heagreed.“Youkindofforgetinthecityhowmanystarsthereare.IgrewupinMainewheretherewerealotofstars,too.”
“Ann’sinMaine,”Ipointedout.“Maybeyouwereneighborsanddidn’tevenknowit.”
“There’salotofwritersinMaine.HowdoyouknowIwasn’tneighborswithStephenKing?”
“Goodpoint.”
“Hasanyonefamousvisitedyouasaghost?”heasked.
“Famous?”Itiltedmyheadinthought.“No…notthatIknowof.MostofthepeopleIdealtwithwerefromMairmont,andIreallydidn’ttalktoghostsinNewYork,soIwouldn’tknow.You’reaweirdoutlier,cometothinkofit.YoudiedinNewYorkbutyou’rehauntingmefivehundredmilesaway.”
“I’mwonderingthesamething,”hemused,rubbinghischin.“Ineverimaginedmyafterlifewouldbewalkingcemeteriesatmidnightinthemiddleofnowhere.”
“Myexhatedthistypeofthing.”
“What—sneakingintocemeteriesandperformingséancestosummonthedead?”
“Wouldn’tthathavebeenfun?Andno.Hewasn’teverreallyintothisscene.Imean,youaren’t,either,clearly,”Iadded,motioningtohisrolled-upshirtsleevesandneatlypressedtrousers,“buthewouldn’thaveevenentertainedtheidea.EvenifheknewIlikedit,hewouldn’thaveasked.”
Hecockedhishead.“True,heisn’treallythegraveyardtype.Ialwaysthoughtitwasstrangehowhewroteacontemporarygothichorror.”
Istiffened.“Right—youknowhim.LeeMarlow.”
“Weare—were—workassociates,”heclarified,frowningashehadtocorrecthimselftopasttense.“Webothgotintopublishingaroundthesametime,soIsawhimatfunctions—Irecognizedyouwhenyouwalkedintotheofficetheotherday,”headded.“Weneverreallycrossedpaths,though.”
No,butIwasnevergoingtotellhimthatIrecognizedhim,too,whenIfirstsawhimtheotherday.“Wasthatalsowhyyouwereatthatwritingbartheothernight?”
“Colloquialism?Yeah.Iwasthereatthebargettingdrinkswithhimbecauseapparentlyhewantedtoventaboutthefontthey’reusinginhisbook.”
Imadeaface.“Godforbidit’slegible.”
Hechuckled.Itwasawarm,throatysoundthatremindedmeofredvelvetcake.Inabook,Iwould’vecalleditadelicioussound.“Didyoureadit?”heasked.“Marlow’sbook.”
“Oh,”Ireplieddistantly,“I’mveryfamiliarwithit.You?”
“No—Ihaveanadvancecopybutitneverpiquedmyinterest.”
“Might’vesavedyourselfthere.Theheroineinthebookissodryandsaltyandapathetic—abouteverything.”
Benwinced.“Heprobablythoughtthatmeantastrongfemalecharacter.”
Ithrewupmyhands.“Iknow,right?Awomancanbeemotionalandvibrantandlovethings.Thatdoesn’tmakeherweakorinferior—argh!I’mnotgoingtorantaboutit,it’lljustmakemeupset,”Iadded,forcingmyhandsdownbymysidesagain.Ablushcreptovermycheeks.“NotthatIcarewhathewrote.Atall.”
It’snotlikehewrotemeintohisbook.Iwasn’tthatdryandsalty.AtleastIdidn’tthinkIwas.
AndIdefinitelywasn’tapathetic.
“And,”Iadded,unabletostopmyself,“hemadeherabadkisser.Like,patheticallybad.AndIdon’tknowaboutyou,butIthinksaltybitcheskissgreat.”
Henodded,agreeing.“Inmyexperience,womenwithsharptonguesusuallyhavesoftlips.”
“Youkisssharp-tonguedgirlsoften?”
Hisgazelingeredonmylips.“Notoftenenough.”
Myearsbegantoburnwithablush,andIglancedawayfromhim.Hewasaghost,Florence.Verymuchdead.Andoff-limits.“Youknow,ifIwasanyotherkindofperson,I’daskyoutohauntLeeMarlow’shipsterass.”
“Aghostforhire.”
“You’dbechillinglygoodatit.”
“Ihaveabonetopickwithhim,anyhow.”
“Oh?”Ilaughed.“Wereyouinlovewithhim,too?”
“No,butyouwere.AndIcantellthatithurts.”
Thatsurprisedme.“AmIthatobvious?”
“No—yes,”headmitted.“Alittle.Youdon’tseemlikethepersonwhowroteArdentlyYoursanymore.Notinabadway,butinthewayyoufeelwhenyou’rereadingsomethingandrealizewhatyou’vebeenlookingfor—areyoulistening?”headdedasIstoodandbegantopaceinfrontofthebench.“Idon’tthinkyou’relistening—”
“Shush,wait.”Iheldafingeruptohimtogethimtoquiet.Mybrainwasthinking,anditwasconnectingdotslikeaconstellation.“Themanuscript.”
“Whataboutit?”
“Whatconnectsus!It’snotAnn,it’sthemanuscript.You’reherebecauseI’mnotdonewithit.That’syourunfinishedbusiness!”
Hetiltedhishead.“Well,you’realmostfinishedwithit,right?”
“Um…”
“Florence,”hesaidsternly,andashiverwentupmyspine.“You’vehadoverayear.”
“Yeah,andalotofthingshavehappenedinayear!”
“But—”
Suddenly,aflashlightblindedme.Ishieldedmyeyeswiththebackofmyhandandwincedawayfromtheblaringlybrightlight.Therewasthecrunchofgravel,andthejingleofkeys.Shit.Ihadn’tevennoticedhimunlockingthecemeterygateorcominginside.I’dbeentoowrappedupinflirtingwiththisshipcalledDisaster
Idovebehindthebench.Benhidwithme.
“Hello?”thepoliceofficercalled.“Hey,youkids,you’renotsupposedtobeinhere.”
“Shit,”Iwhispered.“Ithinkthat’sOfficerSaget.”
“Bob?”
“What?No—wasthatajoke,BenjiAndor?”
“Toodated?”heasked,ashamed.
“Abit—shit.”Iduckeddownlowerastheflashlightbeamsearchedoverheadagain.HowcouldIpossiblyexplaintoBentheyearsofhateaccumulatedbetweenOfficerSagetandme?“So,funstory:Imightbebannedfromthisgraveyard.”
“Florence!”
“Iwasakid!”
Thepoliceofficercalledouttous,butIpressedmyfingertomylipsandtoldBentobequiet.Hewasn’tgoingtotrickmethistime.Iwasanadult.Withafunctioningandfullyformedbrainthistime!
Well,mostlyfunctioning.Ongooddays.
Theofficerwalkedcloser,overthedarkgrassyhill,towardus.WhileIdidn’thaveanyoutstandingwarrants,IdidabsolutelyhaveaparkingticketIhadn’tpaidintenyears.Ididn’twanttothinkaboutwhatthatcostnow.NevermindtheothermisdemeanorsIhadonmyrecord.Startingafireatschool.StealingCoachRhinehart’sgolfcart.TrespassingintheMairmontCountyMuseum…
Enoughtomakemeapublicnuisance.
Suddenly,withastartledcaw,themurderofcrowssittingintheoaktreetookflightatthesametime.TheyscaredOfficerSaget,whocursedandduckedastheyswoopedinandbrokeoutintothenightsky.ThenIsawBentrytograbformywrist,buthishandpassedthroughit.Helookedmomentarilyannoyed
“Hurry!”hehissed.
Hedidn’thavetotellmetwice.Iturnedonmyheelsandleaptintoasprinttowardthebackofthecemetery,cuttingaroundtombstonesandfakeflowersproppedupagainstplaques,andheadedforthebackcorner.Itgotdarkerthefartherweran,andalittlesliverofwallhadfallendownbehindtheoldoakthere—
IslippedthroughthecrumbledwallandbrokeoutontoCrescentAvenue,andhoppedthroughafewbackyardsuntilIreturnedtothecrossstreetwiththeinn.Ididn’tstoptocatchmybreathuntilIwasinsidethewroughtirongatesandhalfwaydownthepathtothefrontdoor.
“I’veneverbeensoclosetogettingcaught!”IclutchedmysidesasIdissolvedintopealsoflaughter.“Didyoustartlethecrows?”
“Iwouldnever,”herepliedindignantly,foldinghisarmsoverhischest.
Icould’vekissedhim.“Thankyou.”
Thetipsofhisearsburnedredandhelookedaway.“You’rewelcome.”
Tryingtohideagrin,IwanderedupthecobblestonepathtothefrontdoorwhenIpausedontheporchstepswherewebegan,andglancedbackatBen.“I’msorry,”Isaid,“thatIliedtoyouaboutgettingcaughtinthecemetery.”
“Well—atleastnowIknow,”hereplied,andshookhishead.“I’mgoingto—Idon’tknow.GoseeifIcanhauntthedinerorsomething.Smellsomecoffee.Question,”headdedasanafterthought.
“Answer,”Ireplied.
“Isitnormaltohearthings?Chattering—voices—barely?Likethey’rejustoutofearshot?”
Ifrowned.“NotthatIknowof,butIneverasked.”
“Huh.Okay,well,goodnight.Trynottogetintotoomuchtrouble,”headded,andleftdownthesidewalktowardtheWaffleHouse.Istoodontheporchofthebed-and-breakfastforawhile,watchingashistransparentformslowlymeltedintothedarknessandwasgone.
Ialreadyhadonedeadpersontomourn.CommonsensetoldmethatIshouldn’tgetinvolvedwithBen,thatmyheartcouldn’ttakeanothergoodbyesosoon,butIthinkI’dalreadydecidedtohelphim.Iwasn’tsurewhenIdecided—yesterday?Whenhefirstshowedupatthefrontdoor?
Iwasfoolish,andIwasonlygoingtohurtmyself,becauseifIknewanythingaboutdeath,thegoodbyeswereharderwithghoststhancorpses.
16
SongsfortheDead
SATURDAYROLLEDINTOSunday,andItriedtoconvinceMomtoletmehelpoutwiththefuneraltoday—thesecond-to-lastoneDadscheduledbeforehedied—butsheadamantlyrefusedtheentirebreakfast.Ihadn’tbeentoafuneralinyears.Thedirges,thegospels,thecryingwidowsandthegrievingkidsandtheparentswhohadtoburytheirchildrenand—
Theghosts.
IpulledonanNYUsweatshirtandtextedMom,Areyousure?
OnemorewordandIwillgroundyou,Momtextedbackwithaheartemoji.
Well,finethen.
Speakingofghosts,Ihadn’tseenmyresidenthauntyettoday,notevenasIwentdownstairstogrababagelandsomecreamcheesefromthebreakfastselectioninthediningroom.(Secondbreakfastwasalwaysmyfavoritemealoftheday.)Ismearedalargehelpingofcreamcheeseontomybagel,hummingalongwiththemorningradiomurmurinthecorneroftheroom.Ipouredmyselfcoffeeinato-gocupandmademywaybackintothefoyer.
“Florence!Thereyouare.”
Igaveayelp.Sittingatthefrontdesk,hisheadproppeduponhishand,wasJohn.Andbesidehim,leaningsmuglyagainstthedesk,wasOfficerSaget.
“Youlooklikeyou’veseenaghost,”thepoliceofficercommented.Inthedaylighthours,helookedmucholderthanIremembered.Hishairwasalmostcompletelysilvernow,hekepthisbeardtrimmedtightagainsthisjaw,andhelookedtobemadeofnothingbutblocksputtogether.Hewasassquareastheycame.
“Ha,that’shilarious,”Irepliedtightly.“Nicetoseeyou,Officer.”
“You,too.Didyouhaveabusynightlastnight,MissDay?”
“Absolutelynot.Wenttobedearly.Hadagreatnight’ssleep—”ThoughIcouldn’tresistayawn.“AndnowI’mupandabouttogocheckoutthetown.”
“Early,yousay?”
“Absolutely.”
Hedidn’tgetareadonmyfacelastnight.Hedidn’tknowitwasme.
Johnwatchedtheexchangebackandforthlikeabadmintontournament,puttingabookmarkintohiscurrentmangatowatch.
“Youknowit’sillegaltolietoanofficer,”Sagetwenton.
“WhywouldIlie?”
“Soyoudidn’ttakeanymidnightstrolls?”
“Oh,absolutelynot,”Ilied.
Hepursedhislips.Hisnostrilsflared.Butthen,afteramoment,heseemedtothinkbetterofhisstrategy.“Yougetoffthisonce—thisonce,Florence.Ifitwereanywhereelse,I’dbegettingyoufortrespassing.Trytoactyourage,okay?”hewarned,andbidJohngoodbye,beforeheleftoutofthefrontdoor,climbedintohispolicecarillegallyparkedonthecurb,anddroveaway.
IletoutabreathIdidn’trealizeI’dbeenholding.“Shit,thatwasclose.”
Johngavemealook.“Oh,girl,youjustlovechaos,don’tyou.”ThismorninghehadhisredbeardbraideddownhisfrontlikeaViking,andhispizzabaseballcapagain.
“It’sinmyblood,”Ireplied,andtookalongsipofcoffee.“WhatIwanttoknowiswhorattedmeouttothecops.Seaburndoesn’tcareifIgointothecemeteryafterdark,butI’vetrespassedsomanytimeseverywhereelseIfeellikeSaget’sjustgunningtogetmeonsomething.”
“Idon’tthinkheeverforgaveyouforbringinginthatwildpossumtothepolicestation.”
“Ididn’tknowwhatelsetodo!Ididn’tthinkhehadrabies.”
Chuckling,heshookhishead.Onanembroidereddoggiebedbesidethefrontdeskwasourmayor.Helookedup,histailpat-pat-pattingontheground.Iscrubbedhimbehindtheears.“So,Igotaquestion.”
“Imighthaveananswer.”
“DoyouknowwhenBarNoneopens?”
Hecheckedhissmartwatch.“I’msureit’llbeopenforlunchinafewminutes.They’vegotprettygoodcheesedogs.AndtheirTaterTotsare—”HemimickedanA-OKsignal.“Whydon’tyoutakethemayorwithyou?He’sdueforaninspectionofthosetots,anyway.”
IguessedthatSeaburnwashelpingoutwiththefuneral,sotheleastIcoulddowasbringhisdogalong.“Sure.Mayor,wannagowithme?”Thedogpoppedtohisfeet.“Thenlet’sgo!Thankyou,John!”
Iwasn’tlookingforwardtotoday’stasks.WhileCarverandAlicewerehelpingMom,IhadtofigureouthowtodoDad’simpossibletasks.Ialreadymiserablyfailedattryingtogettheflowersyesterday.Icouldn’twaittofailatfindingElvistoday.
AtleastIhadagoodcompanionwithme.
Buttheflowershopownerdidgivemealead,andwhilehewasn’texactlyElvis,Iknewmydadwellenoughtoknowthathedidn’talwaysmeanwhathesaid,andthankgodBarNoneactuallydidkeepstrictoperationalhours,becauseIgotthererightatteninthemorning.
Iletmyselfin,themayoratmyheels.TherewasaDOGSSHOULDVOTEsigninsidethebar,andItookthataspermissionenoughtoletthebestdoginwithme.Amanstoodbehindthebarpreppingfortheday.
“IsthatFlorenceDayIsee?”heasked,andadjustedhisglasses.“Idon’tbelievemyeyes!ThefamousFlorenceDay.”
Dagger,meetheart.“Yougotme,”Irepliedwithapracticedsmile.
“Perez.I’msorrytohearabouttheoldman,”hesaid,offeringoutahand.
Ishookit.“Thanks.Um,Ihaveaweirdquestionforyou.Mr.TaylordownattheflowershopsaidthattherewasanElvisthatplaysheresomenights?”
“Elvis…?Ah!Ofcourse!”Hethumbedoverhisshouldertoaposterontheeventsboardbehindhim.“YoumeanElvistoo.”
Iglancedbehindhimtotheposterhewasreferringto,andfoundmyselfstaringatanaged-outversionofElvisinglitterysequins,abouttoeatamicrophone.“Oh,that’s—exciting?”
“Hey,Bruno!”hecalledintheback.
Thechefpokedhisheadout.“Yeah,boss?”
“ThisisXavier’skid.”
Bruno’sdarkeyeslituplikefirecrackersontheFourthofJuly.Hequicklyexitedthekitchen,wipinghishandsonhispristinewhiteapron.“Well,I’llbe!FlorenceDay!”Hisvoicewasvelvetysmooth.Ihadafeelinghewas—“YourdadcametowatchmesingeveryThursday.Beforethepokergames,”headdedwhenconfusioncrossedmybrow
“Thatmakessense.”
Weshook,andhesatdownonthestoolbesideme.Perez,thebartender,askedifIwantedadrink,andItoldhimalemonadewouldbenice.Brunosaid,“Youroldmannevermissedanight—andwhenhedidn’tcomeonThursday,weknewsomethingwaswrong,”hesaid.“I’msorry.Iknowit’snotmuchandit’snotagreatwordtoexpresstheshitthat’shappened,butit’sallIgot.”
“It’sreallyappreciated.”
Thebartenderslidoveralemonade,andIcurledmyfingersaroundthecool,moistglass.Theiceshifted,condensationpearlingontheoutsidelikeraindroplets.Hesaid,“Yourdadalwaysravedaboutyou.”
Brunonodded.“Alwayssaidyouwereupinthebigcity,chasingyourdreams.Thatyoucouldwritewordsthatcouldwakethedead.”
“Hesaidthat?”
“Absolutely.”
Ifeltheatnibbleatmycheeks.OfcourseDadwouldsaysomethinglikethat.Hedidn’tevenknowthatIghostwrote—thatthosebooksweresoldinairportbookstoresandatgrocerystorecheckoutcounters—
And…nowIcouldn’ttellhimatall.
Ever.
Hepaused.“Xaviersworemenottotellanyone,butIgottaknowifit’struethat—”
“Bruno…,”thebartenderwarned.
Ifrowned.“Knowifwhat’strue?”
Brunoinsteadsaid,“Hewassoproudofyou,MissDay.Sofuckin’proudhecried.Heknewyouwerechasingyourdream,likeCarverandAlice,andhewassodamnproudofallyoukids.”
Butheneverknewthefullstory.InevertoldhimthatIpulledinspirationfromhisandMom’sromance,thatImemorizedallofthestoriestheytoldmeoftheirgrandparents,allthelovestoriestheyhadpasseddownfromgenerationtogeneration.Ihadbeensocaughtupwithbeingtheexceptiontotherule—theonefamilymemberwhowouldneverhaveagloriouslovestory—thatI’dforgottenwhyIwroteaboutlove.
Becauseagray-hairedwomaninanoversizedsweateraskedmeto,yes,butalsobecauseIwantedto.BecauseIbelievedinit,onceuponatime.
“DidIupsetyou?”Brunoasked,andIrealizedIhadn’ttouchedmylemonade.
Itookadeepsipandshookmyhead.“No,”Ireplied,andwincedbecausemyvoicewasanythingbutconvincing.“IactuallycametoaskyouaquestionaboutDad.WouldyoubeavailableThursdayaroundthree?”
“I—Imean,I’dhavetocheckwithPerez—”
“Yes,”Perezreplied.“Heis.”
“IguessIam?”
“Thenwouldyoudothehonorsofsingingatmyfather’sfuneral?I’llpayyou,ofcourse—isthereaspecialrateyouhavefor…strangevenues?”
Brunoblinkedatme.Once.Twice.Thenheleanedforwardandasked,“Lemmegetthisstraight:Youwantmetosingatyourfather’sfuneral.”
“Yes.Inthat.”AndIpointedtotheposter.
Hisbushyblackeyebrowsshotup.“Huh.”
“Iknowit’sstrangebut—”
“Hellyeah.”
Thattookmeback.“Andyourgoingrate?”
Themangrinned,andfinallyInoticedthathisleftcaninewasgoldplated.“MissDay,Elvistoohonorsthedeadforfree.”
17
DeadHour
ICURLEDMYfingersaroundthewroughtirongatetothecemetery.Itwasalreadylocked—Iforgotthatitclosedmosteveningsat6P.M.—andIdidn’treallywanttowalkthegraveyardtonight,butIdidn’tknowwhereelsetogo.Therewasastormrollingin.Lightninglitthebulbouscloudsinthedistance,andtherewasadistinctsmellintheair.
Dampandfresh,likecleanlaundryhungouttodry.
Thunderrumbledacrossthehillsofthecemetery.
“Abitearlyforoneofthosemoonwalks,isn’tit?”askedafamiliarvoicetomyleft.Iglancedover,andtherewasBen,hishandsinhispockets,lookingalittleworseforwear.Histiewasalittleaskew,thetopbuttonofhisshirtundone,exposingenoughofhiscollarandanecklacehangingthere—witharingonit.
Agoldenweddingring.
His?Orsomeoneelse’s?Ididn’tknowwhy,butIwasstartledbyit.Ireallyknewnothingabouthim,didI?Ididn’tknowwhyitbotheredme.Inevercaredbeforewhatkindofjewelryghostswore.Silly,Ichastisedmyself,lettinggoofthegate,andturnedtohim.“Yeah.Storm’scomingin,anyway.”
Heinclinedhisheadtowardtheclouds.“Youcantell?”
“Youcansmellitintheair.Wanttowalkmebacktotheinn?”
“It’dbeanhonor,Florence.”
Again,hesaidmyname,andagaineachvowelcurledachillupmyspineinanot-too-unpleasantsortofway.Itwasactuallyverypleasant.Ilikedthewayhesaidmyname.Ilikedthatheevensaidit.Leeonlyevercalledmebunnythisandbunnythat.
Butoh,whatpowertherewaswhenBensaidmyname.
Agustofwindscatteredafewgreenleaves.Ipushedmyhairbehindmyear,tokeepitoutofmyface,whileitblewrightthroughhim.Itdidn’trufflehishair,orhisclothes.Hewasstagnant,foreverlikethis.Aportraitnow,somethingnevertobechanged.Likemydad—foreversixty-four.Hisexperiencesended.Hislifefrozen.
Benputhishandsinhispocketsandbegan,“Youknow,I’vebeenthinkingaboutourconversationinthegraveyard.”
“Abouthowtohelpyoumoveon?”
“Yes,andIwasthinkingthatperhapsthereasonI’mherehasnothingtodowiththemanuscript,”heproposed.Heturnedtomeandsaid,veryadamantly,“MaybeI’mheretohelpyou.”
Istaredathim.Blinked.Andthenburstoutlaughing.
Helookedindignant.“It’snotthatfunny.”
“Itdefinitelyis!”Ihowled,clutchingmysides.Becauseifthatwasn’ttheplotofarom-com,Ididn’tknowwhatwas.“Ohmygod—sorry.Ijust—thatcan’tberight.WhatwouldIneedhelpwith?”
“Love.Helpyoubelieveinitagain.”
Mylaughterquicklydiedinmythroat.Itsuddenlywasn’tfunnyanymore.Itwaspersonal.Ipursedmylips.“You’renottheGhostofChristmasPast,Ben.”
“Butwhatif—”
“That’snothowthisworks,”Idismissed.“I’veneverheardofaghostcomingbacktohelpsomeonealive.It’salwaysmehelpingyou.Them.Whatever.”
“Andifyou’rewrong?”
“Idon’tneedhelpwithlove.I’mperfectlycontentwithmyeyeswideopen.It’snotmestuckbeingunalive,it’syou.So,Ineedtohelpyou.Makesense?”
“Yeah,”hesaid,notlookingatme,clearlythinkingthatIwaswrong.“Iguess.”
“Good.AndIwillgettothemanuscript,Ipromise.Ijust—Ineedtime.”
“Well,youhaveplentyofthatnow,”herepliedwryly,andIwincedabit.Hewasn’twrong.
Wepassedtheicecreamshop,whereakidandherfathersatatthetablebythewindowsharinganicecreamsundae.WhenIwaslittle,andCarverandAlicewerelittler,Dadusedtotakemetotheparlorandsplitwithmeachocolatebowlwithsprinklesontop.
IwishedIcouldaskDadabouthowtohelpBen.Hewould’veknown.TheonlyleadIhadwasthemanuscriptbut…Ididn’tknowhowtofixthat.AndifthatwaswhyBenwasstickingaround,thenIwasafraidwewerebothshitoutofluck.
AndIwasannoyedthatBenwouldeven…thathewouldevenproposethatI…thathewashereto—
Argh!
Itriedlove.Itdidn’twork.Theend.TherewerebiggerthingsinmylifethatIhadtotacklethansomethingsofrivolous.
“Didyoufindwhatyouwerelookingforatthatbar?”heaskedafteramoment.
“Somehow,yes.ManagedtobookElvisforthefuneral.”
Hegaveastart.“Presley?Ishe…aghost?”heaskedinanalmostwhisper.
Oh,whywasthatcharming?Whywasthatsocharming?
Ibittheinsideofmycheektokeepfromgrinning,becauseIwasstillannoyedwithhim.“No”—ItookoutaposterfrommybackpocketandunfoldedittoshowhimexactlywhichElvisIwasreferringto—“buthe’sthenextbestthing.”
Heheldahandoverhismouthtohidealaugh.“Animpersonator?Forafuneral?”
“Youdidn’tknowDad,”Ireplied,pocketingtheposteragain.
“Hesoundslikeariot.”
IsmiledatthethoughtofDadgoingtowatchBrunoperformbeforehisThursdaynightpokergames—andthenmysmilefadedasIrememberedthatheneverwouldagain.Ifoldedmyarmsovermychestandsaidcurtly,“Hewas.”
“Right—yes.Sorry.”
Wewalkedthenextthreeblocksinsilence,passingthebookstorewithaposterofWhentheDeadSingbyLeeMarlow,andIlingeredonlyforamoment.OnlylongenoughforBentoglancebacktoseewhyI’dstopped,andthenImademyselfputonefootinfrontoftheother,andignoretheposter,thereleasedate.Onlyafewmoremonthsbeforethewholeworldreadmystoryruinedbyhiswords.
“Oh,look!Annie’sbooks.”
“What?”
Istaredthroughthewindowatthestacksofromancenovels,withAnnNichols’snewbooksatthetop.TheonesIwrote—MidnightMatinee,ARake’sGuide—allofthem.DadwalkedbythisbookstoreeverydayonhisdailylunchbreakstoFudge’s.Hemust’veseenthisdisplay,thesebooks.Iwonderedifheeverduckedintothestoreandboughtone.IwonderedifMomlovedthedryhumorinNichols’snewones.MomandIneverreallytalkedaboutbooksafterminefailed.Ididn’twanttotalkaboutbooksatallafterthat.
Iturnedtokeepwalking,whenBenbacktrackedandnoddedhisheadtowardthedoor.“Let’sgoin.”
“Why?”
“BecauseIlikebookstores,”hereplied,andsteppedbackwardthroughthecloseddoor.
Ihadhalfamindtonotfollowhim,butapartofmewonderedwhatsectionhegravitatedtoward.Literary?Horror?Icouldn’tevenimaginehimintheromanceaisle,toweringandbroodyinhispristinebutton-downshirtsandironedtrousers.
ThebellabovethedoorrangasIsteppedintothecozybookstore.Thewomanbehindthecounter,Mrs.Holly,hadbeentherefortwenty-oddyears.Shelookedupfromherbookwithasmile.“Well,I’llbedamned!FlorenceDay.”
EvenmylocalbooksellersbackinJerseydidn’tknowmyname,butitseemedlikeadecadeawaycouldn’terasemefromsmall-townmemory.EverywhereIwentitwas“Holysmokes,FlorenceDay!”likeIwasMairmont’slocalcelebrity.Well,IguessIwas.
“Hi,Mrs.Holly,”Igreeted.
“What’reyouinfor?”
Haveyouseenaghostfloatthrough,byanychance?Sixfootsexy,withjusttheslightesthintofnerd?Iwantedtoask,butinsteadwentwith,“Justlooking.”
“CouldIhelp?”
“Idon’tthinkso,”Ibegan,beforemyeyescaughtthepop-uponthecounterforWhentheDeadSingbyLeeMarlow.PRE-ORDERTODAY!thecardboardstand-upannounced,withthepictureofthecover—arun-downVictorianmansionwithaWednesdayAddams–lookinggirlstandinginfrontofit,unsmiling.Fromoneofthewindowspeeredaghoulofsomesort,demoniceyesandsharpteeth
Riveting.
“Theauthormust’venevervisitedasmalltownbeforeinhislife,”Mrs.Hollysaidwhenshenoticedwhathadgrabbedmyattention.Sheshookherhead.“Oneofmybooksellerslovedit,though.Idon’tgetwhy.”
“Noted,”Ireplied.
Ofcoursehecouldn’twritesmalltowns.He’dneverlivedinone—hethoughteverysmalltownwaseitherStarsHolloworSilentHill.Therewasnoin-between.
“Youwritebetterthanheevercould,”shewenton.
Istiffened.
“YouknowIstillsellyourbook!Notasoftenthesedays,butIdo.It’sapityitwentoutofprintalready.Barelymadeittopaperback.”
“Ididn’tlikethepaperbackanyway,”Irepliedwithabitofbitterhumor,becausethepaperbackhadbeensouglyIcouldn’timagineanyonepickingitupontheirown.Youknewapublisherhadgivenuponabookwhentheylettheirdesigninternmakeabookcover.
ItoldMrs.HollyIwantedtobrowse,andmademywaybackthroughtheaislesofmemoirsandself-help,pastsci-fiandfantasy,tothebackcornerofthestorewherethepaperbackromanceswere.AndtherewasBen,lookingthroughtheusedromanceswithcrackedspinesanddog-earedpages.
“Weren’tyouahorroreditor?”IaskedasIsliduptohim.“Why’dyoucometoromance?”
“Myimprintshuttered.”Heattemptedtotakeabookofftheshelf,buthishandfellrightthroughit.Hefrowned,havingforgot,andsighed.
“Thatcan’tbetheonlyreason.”
“Ireadabookoncethatchangedme.AndIrealizedIwantedtohelpwriterswritemorebookslikethat,andfindmorebookslikethat,andgivethemthechancetheywouldn’thaveotherwise.”
“Must’vebeenagreatbook.Bestseller?HaveIheardofit?”
Hismouthtwistedintoagrin,asifI’dsaidsomethingfunny.“IfI’velearnedanythingasaneditorovermylasttenyears,it’sthatyouneverreallyhearofthegoodones.”
Iroamedmygazeacrosstheshelves—theChristinaLaurensandtheNoraRobertsesandtheRebekahWetherspoonsandtheJuliaQuinnsandtheCaseyMcQuistons—untilmyeyessettledonthemostfamiliarspine.Itookitoutforhim.Therewereonlytwoontheshelf.IwonderedhowmuchlongerMrs.Hollywouldbeabletostockitbeforeshecouldn’tfinditanymore.ArdentlyYours.
Ismoothedmyhandacrossthecover,acrosstheembellishedfontandthelaminatedgloss.IrememberedhowmuchIlovedthisbook.Howeverywordsoundedlikeaheartbeat,howeveryturnofphrasewasalovesong.
“Yousaidyoureadmine—wasitoneofthoseyouneverhearabout?”Iaskedquietly.“Oneofthegoodones?”
Hedidn’tansweratfirst.Iglanceduptoseeifhe’devenheardme,andtomysurprisehewasn’tevenlookingatthebook.Hewaslookingat—atme,withthissoft,quietsadnessthatmademystomachtwist.
“Yes,”hereplied,assureandcertainasasunrise.“Itwas.”
Myeyesburned,andIquicklylookedaway,andwipedthetearswiththebackofmyhand.TheywerewordsIdidn’tthinkIneededtohear.LeeMarlowhadneversaidasmuch—hesaiditwasfluffy,itwaslighthearted.Itwascandy,thoughevencandycouldbegood—sweetandflavorfulandexactlywhatyouneededexactlywhenyouneededit.Butheneversaidasmuch.
RoseneverunderstoodwhyIwassowrappedupinwhatLeethoughtofmybooks,butdidn’tyouwantsomeoneyoulovedtorespectwhatyouwrote?LeewassupposedtobetheclosestpersonIhad.Hewassupposedtotellmeitwasgood,thatitwasworthy—andthatIwasworthyofthatpraise.
ButinsteaditcamefromastrangerIbarelyknew.
BenremindedmeofAnninthatway.She’dsatdownatmytable,andwithacertaintyasifshealreadyknewthatmywordswereworthy,sheaskedmetowriteherromances.ShegavemeagiftIneverthoughtI’dget.AndthroughherIwrotethestoriesIwantedtoread,anditwassopowerful—
Itookadeepbreath,andputmybookbackontheshelf.“Idon’tknowhowtofinishAnn’smanuscript.”
Hecockedhishead.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“ImeanIdon’tknowhow.I…Idon’tthinkIcan.But…”Iswallowedtheknotinmythroat,andsaidwithcertainty,“I’lltry.”
Hewasquietforoneheartbeat,thentwo,thenthree.AndthenIsawhisshinedloafersstopinfrontofme,andwhenIlookeduphehadbentdownalittle,hishandsinhispockets,andhewassmiling,“Thankyou.Anniewouldlikethat.AndI’llhelpyouhoweverIcan.”
“Oh?Gonnawritethehappilyeverafterforme?”
“Icangiveyousomeideas.”
AndIrecognizedthatkindofsmile,finally.Thekindyoudidn’treallyshowtostrangers.Thekindyoukepttoyourselfbecausetheworldhadbeenshit,andyourhearthadbeenbrokensomanytimesbydifferentpeopleandplacesandstories.Hehadstories,too.Theweddingringonachainaroundhisneck.Thewayhefithishandsintohispocketstolookassmallaspossible.Thereasonhelovedromance.
AndforthefirsttimesinceIcriedaboutLeeinRose’smatchbox-sizedapartmentwithabottleofwineandahalf-eatenpizza,myhairstillwetwithrain,Iwantedtolearnanewstory.IwantedtoreadthefirstchapterinthelifeofBenAndorandfigureoutthewordsthatbuilthisheartandsoul.Andokay,yeah,maybealsohissix-foot-threeframe,buthonestlyevenifIwantedtoclimbhim,Icouldn’tbecausehewasverymuchaghostandIwouldgorightthroughhim.
Iwasn’tverygoodatclimbing,anyway.
WeleftthebookstoreafterI’dboughtthenewSarahMacLeanhistoricalromance,andBenwalkedmehomethelasttwoblocks.Bythenthestormwasattheedgeoftown.
“So,inthespiritofbeingamediator,”Ibegan,pausingatthegatetotheinn,“I’mobligatedtoaskifyouwouldlikemetopassonamessagetoanyone.”
Hecockedhishead.“AsinanyoneI’veleftbehind?”
“Yes.Parentsor,um,yourgrandmother,right?Asignificantother?”Isaidthatpartabitquieter,thinkingabouttheweddingringaroundhisneck.Itwasn’tlike…Imean,weweren’t…thiswasn’t—Iwasn’tfishing
“Um.”Herubbedthebackofhisneck.“I…well.”Thenhetookadeepbreathandsaid,“No.”
Igaveastart.“Noone?”
“Don’tlookatmelikethat.”
“I’mnot—”
“Youare.”
Iforcedmyselftolookaway.Downthestreet.Seaburnwaswalkingthemayor,andIwavedtothemastheypassed.NooneTherewasaweighttothosewords.I’dalwaysoperatedalone,butIknewIhadfamily—AliceandmydadandRoseandCarver.Buttobereallyalone.I’dspentmylifewithsafetynets.Icouldn’timaginewhatitwasliketowalkatightropewithoutthem,andthenwhenyoufinallyfell…
Noone.
Itriedtonotflinchawayfromthethought,butitstayedwithme.Becauselonelinesswasthekindofghostthathauntedyoulongafteryouweredead.Itstoodoveryourplotinthecemeterywherealonenamesatcarvedinmarble.Itsatwithyoururn.Itwasthewindthatcarriedyourasheswhennooneclaimedyourbody.
“I’msorry,”Iwhispered,onceSeaburnandthemayorwereoutofearshot.“Ididn’tknow.”
“Ididn’texpectyouto,butdon’tworryaboutit.Itdoesn’tmatter.”
“Itdoes—”
“No,itdoesn’t,”heinterrupted,andplacedhishandsonthewroughtironfence,andleanedagainstit.“Itdoesn’tmatter,Florence,itreallydoesn’t.Everythingisinmywill—Iwasn’tafool.I’mathirty-six-year-oldbachelorwhosecloserelativesarealldead,andIsharemyapartmentwithacatnamedDollyPurrton.”
“Youdonot.”
“Ido.She’sperfect.Andmywillwasprettystraightforwardinregardtoher,”headded.“Ihadplannedmyentirelife.HowIwasgoingtoliveit.WhatIwasgoingtodo,andwhen.Everythinghaditsplace.Itwasneatandorderly.”
“Likeyourdesk.”
Hegaveashrug.“I’mnotgreatwithsurprises.Idon’t—didn’t—takechances.Ididn’ttakerisks.Onanything—oranyone.”Hehesitated,andthencorrectedhimself,“Almostanyone.AndIwasfinewiththatlife.I’devenplannedonwhatwouldhappenshouldIdiebeforeforty,Ijust…didn’tthinkit’dhappen.Iwould’veexpeditedalotofmylong-termplans,”headded,tryingtojoke.
Ididn’tfinditfunny,foronce.“Youcan’tplanforeverything.”
“Trustme,Iknowthatnow,”hesaid,andtherewasthishardnessinhisvoicethatmademethinkthatitwassomethingheregrettedalotrecently.“Ithought,beforeIdied,Iwouldatleastfind…”Heshookhishead.“Butofcoursenot.”
“Findwhat?”
Heslidhiscoolbrowngazetowardme.“Theonethingyoudon’tbelievein,Florence.”Thenheshookhisheadandsaid,“Iguessifeveryonefoundtheirbiglove,thentheworldwouldn’tbesuchaterribleplacemostofthetime,eh?”
“Ben…”
“Idon’tneedyourpity.”
“Pity?”Imockgasped,undoingthelatchtothegate.“Whatevergaveyouthatidea,BenjiAndor?IwasjustgoingtowelcomeyoutotheSinglesClub,it’snotsobadhere.Somepeopleevenlikeit!Ienvythem.”
Hesnortedandwalkedthroughthegate.“Ido,too.”
Atthecounterinside,DanawasreadinganovelbyCourtneyMilanatthedesk,andIwavedatthemasIpasseduptowardmyroom.
“Goodnight!”Icalled.
Bensaid,“Sweetdreams.”
Danasaid,“Night!”
Ileftupthestairsandwenttomyroomandfellontomybed.
Thatnight,asthestormblewoverMairmont,Itriedtolistentothedeadsingthroughthetrees,butasthewindbentthelimbsandscrapedacrosstherooftop,allIcouldhearwastherain.AndallIcouldthinkaboutwasBenAndorinthebookstore,bendingeversoslightlytomewithalopsidedsmile,thankingmefortrying.
Noonehadeverthankedmeforthatbefore.Fortrying.EventhoughIwasfailing.EventhoughAnn’sexpectationsloomedovermelikethishuge,darkthundercloud.Ididn’twanttodisappointher,andIwasbeginningtorealizehowmuchIdidn’twanttodisappointBen,either.Butmorethanthat,though,Iwantedtofinishthatmanuscriptsohe’dknowthathewasn’tsomeemptySharpieunabletoleaveamark.Heleftthemwhereverhewent,evenifhecouldn’tseethem.
Evenifnoonetoldhim,“Thankyoufortrying.”
18
TheUndertaker’sDaughters
MONDAYMORNINGWASanotherbreakfastwiththefamily.
Imissedit,weirdlyenough,whenIwasinNewYork.AndnowthatIwasback,forhowevershortatime,I’dsunkbackintothewell-oiledmachineofmyfamilylikeI’dneverleft.AliceandIdidn’tevensnapateachotherwhenwesatdownforbreakfast,eventhoughIwasstillsaltyfromthatlastchapter.I’dtriedtowriteagainwhenIwokeupbut—itwasthesameproblem.Jacksondidn’tgetstruckbylightningthistime,butIstilldidn’tknowhowtomakeAmeliastay.
Alice,ontheotherhand,seemedtobehavingsometroubleofherown.
“…Nevermindthewrongshadeofconcealercamein,”shewassaying,spearinganotheregg.“Honestly—doyouthinkonethingcangorightforDad’sfuneral?”
Thatcaughtmyattention,andIlookedupfrommyfirstcupofcoffee.Thecaffeinewasbeginningtofireoffthosesynapsesinmybrain.“Youorderedthewrongconcealer?”
Aliceglaredatme.“No!Thecompanysentmethewrongrefill.Andit’sstagemakeup,soitisn’tlikeIcangotoCVSandgetanewjar.Ugh,thisisanightmare,”sheadded,puttingherfaceinherhands.“FirstIranoutofembalmingfluidlastnight,andnowthis.”
Mompattedherontheshoulder.“Murphy’sLaw,hon.”
“Murphycanfuckoffforthisonefuneral.”
JustasIalwayswantedtobeawriter,mylittlesisteralwayswantedtobeamortician.EversinceIcouldremember,she’dfollowedDadlikeashadow.ShewenttoDukeforforensicchemistry,andonweeknights,justforfun,shegothermortuarysciencesandfuneralservicesdegreeonline.ApartofmealwaysthoughtthatitwasAlicewhoshould’veinheritedDad’sgift.Shewould’vebeensomuchbetteratit,andIdoubtshewould’vebeenrunoutoftownbecauseofit.Shewasthekindofpersontotacklethingshead-on.Nothingfrightenedher.EspeciallyafterIsolvedthatcoldcase,andeverythinggotworse.Shefoughtpeopleonmybehalf.AnotherreasonwhyIwantedtoleaveasquicklyaspossiblewhenIgraduatedhighschool—soshedidn’tfeelobligatedtoanymore.
“AnythingIcanhelpwith?”Iasked,pokingatmywaffle.
Alicesaidquickly,“No.”
“Areyousure?Youdon’thavetodoeverythingalone—”
Shelookedupfromherplate,andIinstantlyrealizedI’dsaidthewrongthing.“Oh?Arewegoingtotalkaboutthisnow?”
“Alice,”Momwarned.
Myentirebodywentrigid.“No—whatdoesshemean?Whatdoyoumean,talkaboutthisnow?What’syourproblem,Al?”
“Myproblem?It’snotmyproblemIhaveaproblemwith,”shesnapped.“Thesecondthingsgetdifficult,youleave.Nomatterwhat.Wecanalwaysrelyonyouforthat.”
“That’snotfair.Youknowthat’snotfair.”
“Thenwhydidn’tyouevercomehome?”
“EveryonevisitedmeinNewYork!”Ibattedback.“Everyyear.YoucameupforthelightsandtheChristmastreeand—”
“BecauseDadwantedtoseeyou.Andheknewyouwouldn’tcomehomenomatterhowmuchheasked.YoucanaskMom.Wewould’velovedtostayhomeforChristmasjustonce.”
Thatwasn’ttrue.Iknewitwasn’ttrue.Theylovedcomingtovisitmeduringtheholidays—they’dsaidasmuch!AndDadneveronceaskedmetocomehome,notonce—
“Mom?”Iasked,turningmyattentiontoher.“Isthattrue?”
Sheturnedhereyestotheceilingtiles,thenclosedthemandtookadeepbreath.“Yourfatherneverwantedyoutocomebackwhenyouweren’tready.”
Asinkingfeelingburrowedintothepitofmystomach.
“No,wealwayscateredtoyou,”Aliceaddedandshovedherselftoherfeet.“Weall’vegotghosts,Florence.Youjusthappentobetheonlyonewhocan’thandleyours.”Thensheshovedherarmsintoherblackjacket,andstalkedoutofthediner.
Ididn’tfeelhungryanymore.
Momsaidpatiently,“Florence,youknowshedidn’tmeanthat—”
“I’vegottogowritesomething,”Isaid,lying,obviouslylying,asIexcusedmyselffromthetable.Carvergavemeapainedlook,asiftosay,Sorry,buthehadnothingtobesorryfor.MomaskedifIwantedtotakeato-gocoffeemugwithme,buttherewascoffeeatthebed-and-breakfast,andgodknowsI’dforgettheto-gocontainerinsomeunspecifiedlocationandneverfinditagain.
Thethingwas,Alicewasn’twrong.
Itwasanotherargumentwehadbeenavoiding—foryears.Andnowallofthemwerebubblinguptothesurface.
Notonlythat,butIhadmydeadeditortocontendwith,Dad’sfuneralpreparations,andAnn’smanuscript.Everythingallatonce.
Ihatedcomplicated.
WhenIgotbacktothebed-and-breakfast,JohnwavedatmewithoutlookingupfromhisSpider-Mancomic.Iclimbedthestairsbacktomyroom,anddecidedthatalongandrelaxingshowerwasexactlywhatIneeded.Headempty,waterhot,nothingbutthewhitenoiseoftheshowerechoinginmybrain.Ididn’twanttothinkrightnow.Notaboutanything.
SoIpulledoutmyNYUsweatshirtagainandpickedupmyjeansfromthefloor,andlaidthemoutonthebedbeforeIwentfortheclaw-foottubwithashower.Asitturnedout,thankfully,theinndidn’tskimponwatertemperature.IletitgetashotasIcould—hotenoughtoboilmealive,exactlyhowIlikedit—andstoodunderthesprayforalongtime.Untilthesteamwasthickandtheconstantshowerofwaterovermyheadquietedallthebuzzingthoughtsinmyheadandmyskinwasflushedandmyfingersbegantoshrivel.
Toolong,probably.
Thesoapsmelledlikebutterscotch,andItriednottothink.ItremindedmeofthewayBensmelledinhisoffice,andItriedtostopthinking.Howhiseyeslookedwhenhehadbenttowardmeandthankedme,warmandsoftandocher.Hisshirtsleevesrolleduptoexposemuscularforearms.Howhewassobig,andhishandswerebig,andhowtheywouldfeelagainstmybody,cuppingmybreasts,hislipspressedagainstmine,tastinglikespearmintand—
No.
Iflungmyeyesopen.Shampoosudsleakedintomyeyes,andIcursedandputmyfaceintothehotwatertorinsethemout.
No,no,no,Florence.Hewasdead.
Hewasvery,verydead.
“Stupid,stupid,stupid,”Imutteredtomyself.Whatwaswrongwithme?Iwashomeforthefirsttimeintenyearsformyfather’sfuneralandIwasfantasizingaboutadeadguy.Ihadn’teventhoughtaboutanyoneelsesinceLeeMarlowrippedmyheartoutandfedittothepizzarats.
Sowhynowofalltimes?
Whyhim?
Becausehewassomeoneverysafelydead.Someonesoveryoutofreach.AndIwasthatfuckedup.
Whenthewaterstartedtofinallygetcold,Ifinishedwashingthesudsoutofmyhairandgotoutoftheshower.Theentirebathroomwasstillsofoggy,Ihadtousemytoweltowipeoffthemirror.
Somethingmaterializedoutofthecornerofmyeye.Infrontofthebathtub
Ilooked—andletoutascream.
Benspunaroundtofaceme—andyelped,coveringhiseyes.Iclamberedtocovermy…bits,butImust’vegrabbedtheworld’ssmallesttowelbecauseIkepthavingtoshiftbetweencoveringmynipsandmybush,andafterafewrotationsIrealizedtherewasn’tagoodanswerhere.SoIgrabbedtheshowercurtainandwrappedthataroundmeinstead.
“Ohgod,myeyes!”Bencried.
“Thehell,Ben?”Isnapped.
“Ididn’tmeanto—I’msorry!Ijustkindof…Ididn’tseeathing—Ipromise.”Then,afterabeat,headded,“ThoughIhearthereisashortageofperfectbreastsintheworldandyours—”
“Getout!”
“I’mgoing!I’mgoing!”hecriedasIgrabbedthecomplimentarytoothpasteandconditioner,andlobbedthemathim.Theysailedrightthroughhim,clatteringagainstthecloseddoorashedippedthroughit—andwasgone.
Igaveanotherfrustratedcry,wantingtodrownmyselfinthetubinstead.“Ijustwantedtwosecondsofquiet,”Imoanedforlornlytomyself,andfinallyunraveledfromtheshowercurtain.Thetinytowelhadfailedme.
Ithadfailedmesodeeply.
Iwrappedmyarmsaroundmybreasts,feelingmyearsturnredwithembarrassment.Ican’tbelievehesawmenaked.AfterI’d—
Ohgod.
Noonehadevercalledmybreastsperfectbefore.Ahandful,sure,butperfect?
Ireckonedtheyweren’tterrible.
Complimentingmyboobsdidn’texcusehimfromlooking,though.Theperv.Hedidn’tjustlook,hestared,likehe’dbeenthirstyforyearsandhadn’tseenawateringhole.Well,my—Iwasnotawateringhole.Hewasverydead;hedidnotgetthirsty.
Iwasn’tevenentertainingthis.
WhenIfinallychangedintomywaist-highmomjeansandoversizedNYUsweatshirt,lookinglikethepinnacleofunfuckability,therewasatextwaitingfrommysister.
Itsaidthreesimplewords,butIfeltlikeIwasbeingaskedtomoveamountain:
WriteDad’sobituary.
19
ADyingPractice
XavierVernonDaywasalovinghusband,father,andfriend.HegrewupinMairmont,whereheinheritedtheDaysGoneFuneralHomeandbecameaparagonandbelovedbeaconinthecommunity.Heissurvivedbyhiswife,Isabella,andhisthreechildren,Florence,Carver,andAliceDay.Hewas.
Myfingersfellsilentagainstthekeyboard.Hewas,what?Dead?Very.Andthisdidn’tsoundlikethekindofobithewouldwanttohavesharedintheDailyRam,Mairmont’slocalpaper.
Ipushedmylaptopbackwithafrustratedsigh,andreachedformycoffee—whenBenmaterializedrightintotheseat.Ijumpedinsurprise,spillingmydrink.Thewaitressatthedinergavemeastrangelookbeforesherushedtograbatoweltohelpmecleanitup.
“Thehell?”Ihissedathim,andthensmiledtothewaitressasshecamebackwithatowel.“Sorry,I’msuchaklutz!”
“Youareaterribleliar,”Benremarked,leaninghisheadonhishand,elbowproppedonthetable.
Afterthewaitresswasgone,Iglaredathim.“Wellifyou’dstopjustpoppingupinplaces,Iwouldn’tbesostartled,nowwouldI?”
“Ican’thelpit,”hereplied,abituncomfortably.“Itjusthappens.OneminuteI’m…”Hetrailedoff,andmadeamotionwithhishand,althoughhelookedabittroubled.“AndthenI’mhere.Whereyouare.Itakeitthatdoesn’thappenwithotherghosts?”
“NotthatIcanremember.TheyjusthangarounduntilIhelpthemwithwhateverthey’restickingaroundfor.Theydon’tjustpopinwhenI’mnakedintheshower.”
Hecoughedtohideachuckle,andglancedaway,hischeeksburningred.“Itwasjustasawkwardforme.”
“Wasit?Really?”Iaskedsarcastically,andsighed.“Nevermind,we’regoingtoignoreit.”Ifinishedcleaningupmymess,andrealizedIhad,infact,spilledallofthecoffee.Perfect.Isignaledforthewaitresstorefillmymug,andtookoutmyphone,sothattheoldguyreadingthepersonalsintheDailyRamintheboothnexttomedidn’tthinkIwastalkingtomyself.“Youdon’trememberwhereyougowhenyoudisappear?”
“No.”
Thewaitresscamebytorefillmycoffeemug.
Benfrownedandwavedhishandthroughthesteamrisingfrommymug.Itpassedrightthroughhisfingers.“ItfeelsweirdwhenIdisappear.LikeIknowsomethinghappensbutIcan’trememberexactlywhat.”
Itookasipofcoffee.Ohgod,toostrong.Idumpedhalftheworld’ssugarsupplyintoit,andtasteditagain.Better.“Maybeyougonowhere.”
“That’sfuckingterrifying.”
“You’rewelcome.”
Heleanedforwardalittlebit,asiftotrytolookatmycomputerscreen.
Iangleditdownward.“Rude.”
“Workingonthemanuscript?”
“No.Dad’sobituary,”Iadmitted.Apartofmewonderedif,insteadofaletterDadwroteforustoreadathisfuneral,hecould’vetakenthattimetowritehisobitinstead.Wheneverabereavedpersonwashavingtroublewiththeirobituaries,hewouldhelpthemwritethebestgoodbyes.Hewasremarkablygoodatthem.
Iwasdefinitelynot.
“Ah.”Hesankbackinhisbooth.Tappedhisfingersonthetable.“Itakeitbythelookonyourfaceit’snotgoingwell?”
“Myfacecantellyouthatmuch?”
“Youreyebrowspinch.Rightthere.”Hepointedbetweenthem,socloseIfeltthechillofhisfingeragainstmyforehead.
Isatbackandrubbedatthelinebetweenmybrows.ThelastthingIneededwasmorewrinkles.“Theobitisgoingaboutasgoodaseverythingelseinmyliferightnow,Ben.Fuckingterribly.”Itwasn’thisfaultthatIwasfailingsohardatmydad’sobituary,andthesecondIraisedmyvoiceathimIfeltbad.Isighed.“I’msorry.I’mjust…”
Imissedmydad.
Andthenithitmeagain—thisgriefthatstretchedlikeanendlessfieldofallthethingsIusedtofeelforDad.Iwassousedtocompartmentalizingmylife,butnowthetwobledtogether,anditmademychesthurt.Iwashavingcoffee,writingmydad’sobit,andDadwasdead.
Iblinkedbackmytearsandgavehimafakesmile.Hecouldseerightthroughitbecausehisdarkeyesflickered.
“I’mfine,”Ilied.“Great.Ijust—Ihavetogo.”
Itookoutafewbucksforthecoffee,closedmylaptop,andleft.
20
NovelIdea
DANAFIXEDMEanotherrumandCokewhenIsetupshopatthebarthatafternoon.I’dtextedAliceafterIrealizedthatDad’sobituarywascomingalongaboutaswellasliterallyeverythingelseinmylife,andshewasveryshortinreplyingthatitneededtobedonebyWednesday.
Amazing.AnotherdeadlineIwouldprobablysailrightpast.
Istaredatthecomputerscreen,andknowingIwouldn’tgetanythingdonetoday—myheadfeltlikecottonballs—IscrolledovertoGoogle.
BenjiAndorItypedintothesearchbar.
Iwassurprisedtofindthatthereweren’tanyarticlesdedicatedtohisfuneral,oratleasthispassing,butthenagain,hadn’thesaidthathedidn’thaveanylivingcloserelatives?Thenwhowastakingcareofhisgoodbyes?Ididn’tknowmuchaboutBenatall.
Whowasinchargeofhisfuneral?
WhileIdidn’tseeanythingabouthisdeath,hedidhaveasocialmediaaccount.Iclickedonit,andwenttohispage.Itwasanolderphotoofhim,notquitesmilingbutnotdour,either,leaningagainsttherailingofacruiseship.Andtherewasaveryprettyredheadstandingbesidehim,smiling,withoneofthosefruityumbrelladrinksinherhand.Hispagewasprivate,soIcouldn’tknowwhoshewas,oranythingelsehemight’vedivulged,butthephotowasenoughtomakemefeelalittleuneasy.
“Ihaven’tupdatedthatpageinages,”Bensaid,andIgaveastart.Hewassittingbesidemeatthebar,hisheadrestingonhishand,watchingmesnoopthroughhislife.
Iquicklyexitedoutoftheinternet,mycheeksburningwithembarrassment.“Sorry,Iwasn’tprying.Iwantedtoseeif—therewasanynewsyet.Aboutyourfuneral.”
“Isthere?”
Ishookmyhead.
Hedidn’tseemsurprised.“I’msureLaura’stakenthemantleonthat.Shealwayslikedtobeincontrolofthings—notinabadway.Justina…way.”
“Laura?”Iasked.Theredheadinthephoto?
“She’smyex-fiancée,”hereplied,absentlyrubbingtheweddingringbetweenhisfingers,asifitwereacomfort.Hisring,Iguessed,rememberingwhenhesaidhehadnoonetocontactaboutunfinishedbusiness.Hedidn’tincludeLaurainthat.Thenagain,shewashisex.LeewouldbethelastpersonI’dwanttoseeafterIdied,too.
“CanIaskwhathappened?”
Hetiltedhishead,thoughtfulforamoment,tryingtofindtherightwords.“I’dgoneonabusinesstriptotheWinterInstitute,”hefinallybegan,“butIcaughtacoldandcamehomeearly.Didn’ttellherbecauseIthoughtI’dsurpriseherwithaweekendalltoourselves.ShewasalwayspointingouthowIneverhadtimeforher.Iwasalwaysworking.Iwouldeditmanuscriptsatwork,andthenIwouldbringthemhome,andIwouldeditthemthereuntilIfellasleep.”Hiseyebrowsfurrowed.“Shewasintheshowerwithacoworkerofhers.They’dbeenseeingeachotherforafewmonthsatthatpoint.”
Isuckedinabreath.“Oh,Ben…”
“Itwasn’tallherfault.Shewasright—allIdidwaswork.Ididlittleelse.WewereengagedbutIdidn’t—Iwas—”Hepursedhislipsandtrainedhiseyesonadarkknotinthewoodenbar.Hescratchedatitabsently.“Whatkindofpersonmakeshisfiancéeresorttosomeoneelseforloveandaffection?”
“Makes?”Iechoed.“Ben—itwasn’tyourfault.Youcan’tcontrolwhatotherpeopledo.Hercheatingwasherchoice—”
“AndifI’dbeenpresentwithher?IfI’dbeenthereandlovingand—whatIshouldhavebeen?”
“Shecould’vecommunicatedwithyou.”
“Sheshouldn’thaveto—”
“Yes,sheshould,”Ibitback.“Relationshipsaren’tperfectallthetime.Youhavetotalktoeachother.I’msorry,butyourfiancéewasadumbass,andshemadeamistake,butthatwasherchoice.”
Heswallowedthicklyandlookedaway.“Shesaidasmuch,”hereplied.“Sheaskedifwecouldtryagain.”
“Butyoudidn’t?”
Heshookhishead.
Ididn’tunderstand.Hewasclearlystillverymuchinlovewithher—oratleastunabletoforgetabouther.“Why?”
“Becauseitwasmyfaultinthefirstplace,Florence,andIlovedhertoomuchtocausethatpainagain.Shedeservessomeonebetterthanme.”
Iclenchedmyhandstightlyintofists.IfLeehadcontactedmeonceafterwe’dbrokenup,ifhe’daskedtotryagain,tomeetinthemiddle,Iwould’ve—“You’reanidiot.”
“TellmesomethingIdon’tknow.”
“So—what—youbelieveinlovebutjustnotforyou?Youbelieveinromanceandgrandromanticgesturesandhappilyeveraftersbutyouthinkthereissomethingsofundamentallywrongwithyouthatyoudon’tdeserveit?”
“It’sbetterthannotbelievinginitatall,isn’tit?”hesnappedback.
Irolledmyeyesandslammedmylaptopclosed.“I’vegottogo—dosomething.Butforwhatit’sworth?You’rewrong.”ThenIhoppedoffmystoolandstalkedoutofthebarandupthestairstomyroom,andhedidn’tfollow.Carvertextedmealittlewhilelater,whileIwaspacingbackandforthinmyhotelroom,tryingtocalmdown.
Wannawashsomegraves?heasked.
Notreally,Ireplied.
Toobad,sis.
Ugh,fine.AfterI’dchangedclothesintosomethingIwouldn’tmindsweatingin,Icamebackdownandpeekedintothebar,butBenwasgone.
Good.Iwastooangrytodealwithhimrightnow,anyway.
CarverandNickiwerewaitingoutsideontheporchwhenIcameout.Nickiwasashortandstockymanwithanangularfaceandthickblackglassestomatchhisthickblackhairandwarmbrownskin.HisfamilyownedahotelinCancún,soheunderstoodthetrialsandtribulationsofafamilybusiness.Iwasatleastthankfulforthat—heunderstoodthelittlenuancesinourfamily,theweightDad’sdeathleftonus.IwasgladCarverhadhim,especiallynow.
Carverhadalwaysbeentheonewithhisheartonhissleeve.
Onthefrontveranda,Carverheldupaportablepressuresprayerandabluebucketfilledwithspongesandscrapers.“Readytohavesomefun?”
“Ifthat’swhatyouwanttocallit,sure,”Irepliedcoldly.
Hegavealowwhistle.“What’sgotyoualltwisted?”
Ben.Thefactthathethoughtitwashisfaultthat—“Nothing.Justworkstuff,”Iadded,notquitelying.
“Well,perkup!Becausethisiswork,too,”heinsisted,andthennarrowedhiseyes.“Gravework.”
“Thatwasbad.”
“Deadonarrival?”heasked,scrunchinghisnose.
Isnorted.“Let’sgetgoing,yeah?Thesun’sgoingtosetinanhourandIcan’tbethereafterdark.”
“Hellyeah!”Carverpumpedhisfistintotheair,andthenturned,grabbinghispartnerbythewrist,andledhimdownthepathtothesidewalk.“Nickilovesdoingthis.”
Nickinodded.“It’sverysoothing,andgivesyourarmsafantasticworkout.”
“Allthebettertosqueezemetighter.”
“You’remytightestsqueeze.”
Theykissed,andImadeaface.“Ugh,gross.Truelove.”
“TasteslikeaTaylorSwiftsong,”Carveradded,andbegantohum“TheStoryofUs,”whichmademejustwanttothrowmyselfoffthenearestbridge.Resisting,Ifollowedthemtothecemetery,tryingtoshovemyannoyancewithBenasfardownintomygutaspossible
“ShouldweinviteAlice?”Nickiasked.
Carvershookhishead.“Nah.Ibetshe’sabouttohaveamentalbreakdownanyway,whatwiththemakeupnewsfromthismorning.”
“PoorAlice…”
Alicewastheonlyonewhodidn’treallycaretoscrubgravestones.Whenwewerelittle,Dadwouldsometimespickusupfromschoolwithabucketinonehand,andaportablepressuresprayerintheother,andtellusthatweweregoingtovisitsomefriends.ThefriendsalwaysturnedouttobegravestonesintheMairmontcemetery—theolderonesthat’dsurvivedthroughhurricanesandtornadoesandhalfacenturyofgrimeandmoss.Theirlettershalf-hiddenintime,theirdateswornbywindandrain.Dadsaidtheyneededlove,too,evenaftereveryonewhorememberedthemwasdead.
Sowespentsomeafternoonsscrubbinggravestonesclean.Itwasn’tsomethinganyofuseverreallygotoutofdoing—orwantedto.Thecemeteryintheafternoonlightlookedsoftandpeaceful.Inthetopleftcorner,underoneofthelargeoaks,therewasaplottapedoff.Noonehadstarteddiggingyet,butmythroattightenedanyway.
ThatwaswhereDadwouldbe.
Itlookeddifferentinthedaylight.
Carverpointedtowardthebottomrightcorner.“Thoselookprettygrimy.Whatdoyouthink?”
“I’lltaketheonethatlookslikeMadameLeota,”Ireplied,pointingtooneoftheolderonesthathadatleastacenturyofdirtcakedonit.Thoseweremoredelicatework.Ilikedthatkindofwork.Themeticulousnessofit.
Carver,Nicki,andIgrabbedthescrapersoutofthebucket,sudsedoursponges,andwenttowork.Itookthescraperandscrapedoffallofthegrimeandmoss,andsoakeditdownwiththepressuresprayer.Afterawhile,whenI’dfinallygottenbackintothegroove,I’dcleaneditwellenoughtomakeoutthedelicateinsetsoftheface’seyes
“RememberwhenyouandAlicewereplayingtagandaccidentallybrokeaheadstoneandDadhadtoglueitbacktogetherwithGorillaGlue?”Carverasked,wipinghisforeheadwiththebackofhisarm.
Ilaughedatthememory.“Dadwasbesidehimself.”
“Youcouldbarelytellitwasbroken.Iwasmoreworriedaboutyourhead.Youcrackeditgoodagainsttheheadstone.”
“Alicewassoworried,”Imused,scrubbingatthenameanddates.ElizabethFowl.“ShestayedupallnightinmyroomtomakesureIdidn’tdieorsomething.Shewasalwayslikethat.Lookingafterme.”
“Shepickedfightsforyouinhighschool,”Carveradded.“Rememberwhenthatgirl,Heather,triedtocyberbullyyou,andAlconfrontedherinthecourtyard?”
“Well,Idonow,”Irepliedwryly.Ihadn’tthoughtaboutHeatherinalong,longtime.
“ShepunchedHeathersohardthatsheendedupgettinganosejob.”
“IthoughtAlicewasforsuregoingtogetsuspendedforthat,”Ilaughed.
Alicehadalwaysbeenlikethat.Quicktocometomyrescue,quickertothrowapunch.Ineverlikedconfrontation,butAlicelovedme,andshehatedseeingmebullied.We’dbeeninseparableforyears,butthenIleftthefirstchanceIgot.Ididn’tstay.
AndthatwassomethingIjustdidn’tknowhowtotalkaboutwithher.
“IkindoffeelsorryforthisHeathergirl,”Nickimused.
“Don’tbe,babe,she’sdoingquitewell,”Carversaiddismissively.“Stillintown,too.”
“HopeIdon’trunintoher,”Isaid,andsatbackonthegrassasCarverstood,takingthepressuresprayer,andwasheddownbothhisstonesandmine.Theylookedagoodcenturyyounger.“IwouldhavetoeventuallyifImovedbackhere.”
Carvergavemeasidelonglook.“You’rethinkingaboutit?”
“Imean—Idomisseveryone,”Iadmitted.
NewYorkwasagreatplacetoliveifyouhadrootsthere.Ifyouwerepartofit.Butsomepeopleweren’tbornforsteeljunglesandthefast-pacedlifestyleand—let’sfaceit—thecostofliving.IusedtolovethatIblendedinwiththecrowd,thatIwasanotherfaceamongfaces,anotherwriterchasingtheirdreamsintheneighborhoodcoffeeshop.ButthelongerIlivedthere,themoregumlitteredthesidewalkandrustcreptin.
Ididn’timaginebeingthereforever,butIdidn’tknowwhereIwantedtogo,orwhatfeltlikehome.Nowherereallydid,ifIwashonestwithmyself.Dadalwayssaiditwasneverabouttheplace,butthepeopleyoushareditwith.InNewYork,IhadRose—andforawhileIhadLee,andforawhileitfeltlikeIfinallyhadfoundhome.
Somewherepermanent.Somewheresafe.
Then,intheblinkofaneye,Iwasonthesidewalkwithmysuitcaseintherain,andLeewasclosingthedoor.
AnddespitewhatItoldhim,ifLeehadcometome,askingforasecondchance,beggingtotryagain—
Iwould’vesaidyes.
ButIwasn’tsurewhyanymore.
Aquietwindwhisperedthroughthedogwoodtrees.I’dgottensousedtocarsandconstructionandthesoundsofpeoplelivingsoclosetogether,Iforgotwhattruesilencesoundedlike.Itwasn’tsilenceatall,butasoftsighbetweenthegravestones.Thesteadycreakofanoldandendlesshouse.
Carvercockedhishead.“Itwouldbenicetohaveyouhome.Butdon’tcomehomebecauseyouthinkyoushould.Comehomebecauseyouwantto.”
Ididn’tknowexactlywhatIwanted
Butitwasn’twhatIhad.
“Let’sdoafewmorestonesbeforethesungoesdown,”Isaid,pushingdowntherestlessnessinmyhead.NeitherCarvernorNickipushedback,thankfully,andwemanagedtodothreemoretombstonesbeforeOfficerSagetpulledupatthegates.
Heeyedme.“MissDay.Nicetoseeyou.”
Istrainedtosmile.“Lovelyevening,Officer.”
Asweleftthecemetery,Carvertsked.“You’renotevenbackaweekandyou’realreadygettingSagetantsy.Scandalous!What’lltheneighborsthink?”
“I’vedonenothingwrong,”Isaiddismissively.“Ican’thelpitthathe’ssuspicious.”
“Youdidreleasearabidpossuminthepolicestation.”
“Whydoeseveryonekeepbringingthatup?Possumsusuallydon’tgetrabies.Itwasafluke!Idon’tseewhyhecan’tjustmoveon.”NevermindthetrespassingviolationsandprobablytheslewofotherthingsIdidasateenagertohelpaghostmoveon.“Ijustwentforamoonwalktheothernight.That’sit!”
Mybrotherlaughed.“Youshould’veaskedmetocomewithyou.Ilovemoonwalks!Nicki,onetimewhenFlorenceandIwere—what?Twelve?Ten?”
“Somethinglikethat,”Iagreed,alreadyknowingthestoryhewasabouttotell.
“Anyway,itwasrightafterastormandwewereallupandprettywired.Thelightshadgoneout.SoMomandDadtookusforamoonwalk…”
Ilistenedaswewalkedbackalongthesidestreettothemainpartoftown.Mostoftheshopswereemptyingoutfortheevening.NothingstayedopenlatehereinMairmont,asidefromtheWaffleHouseandBarNone.ItwassounlikeNewYork,whereeverythingwasbusyandfranticallthetime.Hereitfeltliketheworldwasinslowmotion.Everythingtookitstime.
IfeltlikeI’dalreadybeenhereforayear,andit’donlybeenafewdays.
“How’stheobitgoing?”Carveraskedastheydroppedmebackoffatthebed-and-breakfast.
“Great,”Ilied.“Ishouldbedonesoon.”
Morelies.
“Can’twaittoreadit.Dad’dbegladyouwroteit,”headded.“Hewasproudofeverythingyouwrote.”
“Oh,yeah,theonething.”Thatheknewabout,Iaddedtomyself.
Carveropenedhismouthtorespond,butIturnedawaybeforehecould—Ididn’tneedconsoling—andIwalkedintothebed-and-breakfast.
Benwasn’taround,soItookmylaptopoutofmyroomandwentdowntothebaragain,andorderedmyselfanotherrumandCoke.Islidontomybarstoolandopenedmylaptop.
DeletedtheparagraphI’dwritten.Crackedmyknuckles.
AndstaredattheblankWorddocument.
Ididn’tknowhowtoformthewordsforwhatIwantedtowrite.Ididn’tknowhowtotakeallthejumbledfeelingsinmyheadandputthemontopaper.Thereweren’twordsbigenoughorstrongenoughorwarmenoughtoencompassDad.Hewasuntranslatable.
IwassuresomeonelikeBen,whohadwordsforeverything—andalwaysseemedtohavetherightones—wouldn’thavehadthissortofproblem.Ibethisbrainwasasneatandorderlyashisdeskhadbeen,andhisthoughtsasironedashisshirts.
WritingDad’sobitwasadifferentkindoffailurethanwritingAnn’sbooks.
OnehadtoomanywordsIwantedtosay,andonedidn’thaveanyatall.
ImovedmymouseovertoFile>OpenRecent,andscrolleddowntothefirstone.Ann_Nichols_4.InevertitledthebooksuntilIwasalmostdone,andmostofthetimethetitlescamedirectlyfromthetextitself.
ThedocumentopenedtowhereIleftoff.
Ayearago.
Iremembered,soviscerally,thebeginningoftheend.WhenIhadlookedonhislaptop,convincingmyselfthatIdidtrusthim,butIwantedtoknowwhathisbookwasabout.Irememberedthathe’dgoneoutforlaundryandlefthislaptopopentotheWorddocument.Irememberedsettingdownmylaptop—openedtothisveryscene—andcrawlingacrossthecouchtowherehehadjustsatafewminutesbefore.Thespaceheaterhummedsoftly.
AndasIread,myworldbegantobreakapart,piecebypiece,likeapuzzlecomingunglued.Whenhecamebacktotheapartment,hislaundryintow,hefrozeinthefoyer.Ididn’tlookupfromhiscomputer.
“WhentheDeadSing,”Iread,andfinallyturnedmygazeuptohim,refusingtobelievewhatIread.“Babe—isthis…isitaboutme?”
“No,ofcoursenot,”hesaiddismissively,dumpingthelaundryontheground.Hecameover,tookhislaptopfrommylap,andclosedit.“Yourstoriesgavemeinspiration.You’remymuse,”headded,andkissedmeswiftlyonthelips.
Asifitwouldshutmeup.
Asifitwouldmakeeverythinggoodagain.
Spoileralert:Itdidn’t.
HowcouldIwriteabouttwocharacters,AmeliaandJackson,reconciling,trustingeachotheragainwhen—whenImyselfcouldn’t?OnemomentIhadeverygrandromanticgesturerightatmyfingertips,Ihadfaiththesetwocharacterswouldcomebacktogether,andIcouldsowthemahappilyeverafter.Butthenitfeltlikethestoryhadbeenrippedapartattheseams.Ididn’tfeelthemanymore.Ididn’tknowwhotheywere,thiswomanwhoalwaysknewwhatshewanted,andthisworld-wearymusicianwithaheartofgold.Ididn’tknowthekindoflovetheyhad,oriftheyevenbelievedinit.
IknewIdidn’t.
Hesitantly,testily,Iplacedmyfingersonthekeyboard,feelingtherigidbumpsontheFandJkeys.Itwaslikesteppingbackintoold,wornshoesthathadgonestiffwithoutapartnertodancewith.
Itookadeepbreath.
Theonlywayoutwasthrough—
Wait.
Itookabiggulpofmydrink,andthensettledmyfingersbackintoposition.
NowIwasready.
“Youcandothis,Florence,”Imuttered,andsankintothescene.
Ameliadidn’twanttohearhisconfessions.Aboutthelieshewoveaboutalifehedidn’tlive.Sheknewwhyheleft.Whyheabandonedher.Thefactsstucktoherskinlikeherwetclothesintherain.Hehadliedtoher—omittedthestorythatwasmoststitchedintohislifeasthough,ifshelearnedaboutit,she’dlookathimdifferently.Well,hewasrightinthatregard.Shedidlearnabouthisex-wife,andshedidseehimdifferently.“Wereyouevergoingtotellme?”sheasked.“Abouther?”Hehesitated,rubbingnervouslyatthescaronhishandthatshethoughtwasfromoneofhiswildpartynights,buthadbeenfromtheaccident.“Ididn’tthinkyou’dunderstand.”“Didyougivemethechoice?”“I—”“No,youjustmadeitforme.”“Amelia,I—”Suddenly,Jacksonwentpaleanddroppeddeadfromallhislies—
“Nope.”Ideletedthelastsentence.
Suddenly,Jacksonwentpaleanddroppeddeadfromallofhislies.Ameliadidn’twanttohearhisexplanations.“Youlied.Youwantedto.WhyshouldItrustyounow?WhydoIstillloveyou?”“Becausetheheartwantswhatitwants.”“Thenmyheart’samotherfuckingjokeifitwantsyou.”
“Thatdoesn’thelp,Florence.”Isighed,anddeleteditagain.
Istaredatthecursor,butallIcouldhearwasmyfightwithLee,ourvoicesgrowinglouderandlouderuntilwewerescreamingateachother—andIwonderedifitwasme.
IfIhadjustoverreacted.Andwhycouldn’tIgetoverhim?Whydiditstillhurt?
WhywasIsoweak?
“Becausetheheartwantswhatitwants.”“Thenmyheart’samotherfuckingjokeifitwantsyou.”Shegavehimasad,defeatedlook.“Butwhyyou?”
“That’sgoingwell.”Thistimeitwasnotmewhosaidit,butavoicetomysidethatmademejump.Bensatonthestoolnexttome,leaningoverjustenoughtoreadmyscreen.
Islammedmylaptopshut,cheeksburning.“Rude!”
Danaleanedforwardoverthecheck-incountertogivemeapuzzledlook.
IsmiledpolitelyatthemandsaidquietertoBen,anglingmyfaceawayfromthem,“It’srudetolookatsomeoneelse’swork.”
Especiallywhenit’sasbadasmine
Hesatbackwithhisarmscrossedoverhischest.“Ihaveafeelingyouarewritingfromaveryrawplacerightnow.”
“Noshit,”Ideadpanned.“Whatevergaveyouthatidea?”
Hevisiblywincedatthatone,andlookedalittleashamedofhimself.“Ithoughtyouwereworkingonyourfather’sobituary.Ididn’tmeantospyonyourwriting.”
Inarrowedmyeyes.
Hehelduphishandsindefeat.“Ipromise,darling,nothingmore.”
Darling.AknotcaughtinmythroatandIquicklylookedaway.IthoughtIhatedallkindsofpetnames.Dear,sweetie,honey,butIguessedIhateditwhenLeecalledmebunny,becausehesaidIlookedlikeastartledrabbitwhensomethingcaughtmeunawares.Hesaiditwasendearing.
Itwasn’t.
Butthenwhydidtheworddarlinggetmyheartracing?
“And,”headded,“Iwantedtoapologizeforearlier.Isnappedatyou,andIhadnorightto.”
“I’msorry,too,”Ireplied.“Ihadnorighttojudgeyouoryourlifewhenmine’samess.Clearly,”Iadded,motioningtowardmylaptop.“I’msofuckedupIcan’tevenwriteakissingscene.”
Hetiltedhishead,debatingquietly.Hewaschoosinghiswords.Ilikedthatabouthim,thatwhenwordsmattered,hethoughtaboutthembeforehesaidthem.“Itwas…nice,actually,tohavesomeonetellmeitwasn’tmyfault.EvenifIdon’tagree.”
“Ihopeyouchangeyourmindsomeday.”
Hesmiledalittlesadly.“Idon’tthinkitmattersanymore.”Becausehewasdead.Iopenedmymouthtosaysomething,toconsolehim,totellhimitstilldidmatter,whenhesaid,“So,whathasyoustuck?Remember:IsaidI’dhelpifIcould.I’dliketo.”
Hedidn’twanttotalkaboutitanymore.
IdrainedmyrumandCoke.“Okay,so:Here’smyproblem.Ihaven’tbeenabletowriteforaboutayearnow.Idon’tseethepointanymore.Iusedtobelieveinlove,butIreallydon’tnow.EverytimeItrytoimagineit,Icanonlythinkabouthowmineended.”
“Onerelationshipdoesn’t—”
“One?”Ishookmyheadwithasoftlaugh.“Ifitwasone,Ben,I’dbelucky.DadsaidIhadastringofbadluck,butIdon’treallythinkthatanymore.Guysjust…don’twantsomeonelikeme.Ormaybetheydo,buttheyjustdon’twantme.”MyeyebrowsfurrowedasIstaredatthecondensationonmyglass,butallIcouldseewerethetimesI’dbeendumped,brokenupwith,leftoutsideinthecoldAprilrain—literally.“MaybeI’mtheproblem.”
Hepursedhislipstogether,notknowingwhattosay.
Buttheworstpart?
Danaslidmeashotofsomethingclearwithasadsortofnodandsaid,“Ifeelyou,sister.”
AndIrealizedthattheythoughtIwastalkingtomyself.Commiseratingwithmyself.Throwingmyownsolopityparty.Andwhatwasapartywithoutashotortwo?
“Thanks.”Ithrewbacktheshotof—ohgod,vodka.Straightvodka.Isettheglassdownwithacringeandswoopedmylaptopintomysatchel.
Ineededtogoforawalk.Getoutofhere.Dosomething—anything—else,becauseclearlywritingwasn’thappeningtoday.Nokindofwriting.Atall.Iusedtowritemywayoutofutterdespair,butnowIcouldn’tevenwritemyselfoutofasexscene.
Itwasembarrassing.
ButasIturnedtoleave,Benwasthere.
Ijumped.
“Ididn’tevenstartleyou!”
“It’sbeenalongday,”Isaid,fumblingformyphone.IgaveDanaanotherpleasantnodonmywaybackuptomyroom,andBenfollowedmelikeavulturewaitingtopickmycarcassclean.
“Ihaveanidea,ifyou’rewilling,”heproposedwhenwewereoutofDana’searshot.
“Oh,thisshouldbegood.”
“Itwillbe.”
Ilookedhimupanddown.Hewassuchaconundrum.Tootallandtoobroadandtooneatlyorganized,hedidn’tfitintoanyoftheboxesinmyheadreservedforleadingmanmaterial.Hewasdoggedlysmart,andinsistent,andsomehowhealwaysendedupbeingsoverypolitetomeevenwhenhewasangry(andIbegantotellwhenhewasbecauseamuscleinhisjawwouldtwitch).
Iunlockedthedoortomyroomandmotionedforhimtogoinside,andIclosedthedoorafterhim,andpulledoffmyNYUpullover.Whilethenighthadgottenchilly,theheaterinmyroomdefinitelyworkedwell.
“Okay,shoot,”Isaid,turningtohim.“Let’sthrowallthespaghettiatthewallandseewhatsticks.”
Hesmiled,andtherewasaglintinhisbrowneyesthatturnedthemalmostocher.“Meetmeinthetownsquare.Tomorrowatnoon.Don’tbelate.”Thenheturnedonhisheels,anddepartedrightthroughthecloseddoor,andIwasleftinthequietroom,baffledandalittlebit—okay,alot—intrigued.
WhatthehellcouldBenjiAndorbeupto?
21
TheCrimeScene
IYAWNEDANDpouredmyselfcoffeeintoapaperto-gocupanddumpedhalfthejarofsugarintoit.WithoutStarbucksrightaroundthecornertogivememytripleshotsoychailattesinthemornings,IhadtomakedowithwhatIhad.Whichmeantterrible-tastingcoffeesosweetthegrainsofsugarcrunchedbetweenmymolarseverytimeItookasip.
LastnightIcouldn’tgettosleep,tryingtobalancemyselfsomewherebetweenthesadnessthatstillfeltlikearockinmygut,andwonderingwhatthehellBenhadplanned.Mymindlikedtowanderatnightandshutupinthemornings,attheexactoppositetimesIneeded.
RosealwaystoldmethatIwasagoblin.Ididmybestworkbetweentenatnightandfiveinthemorning,whenmostnormalpeoplewereeitherasleeporgettingdowntobusiness(todefeattheHuns).(Sex,Imeansex.)Meanwhile,IwaswritingaboutcouplesbangingitouttoFallOutBoy.Imissedthosedays.WhenIcouldwrite.WhenIdidn’tjustsleepallday,andstareatmyceilingallnight,andscrollthroughTwittertoseewhoelseinthewritingcommunitygotbookdealsandwentontourandhitbestsellerlists.Itwasacertainkindofsoul-suckingyearI’dhad,andIdidn’trealizehowemptyIwasuntilIneededtowrite.
Andbythen,Icouldn’t.
Lastnightfeltalittledifferent,though,asIstaredupattheceilingofthebed-and-breakfast.WhatifBencouldhelpme?Whatifitwasassimpleasturningonaswitch,andI’djustlostit?
Andadeeperpartofmeasked,HowcanyouthinkaboutBenandwritingandbookswhenyourdadisdead?
IthoughtaboutthembecauseifIthoughttoomuchaboutDad,thatstoneinmystomachwouldweighmedowntothecenteroftheearth,andI’dnevercrawloutagain.
SoIsippedonmybatteryfuelandtrainedmymindonthethinginfrontofme—namely,Ben.
Themainthoroughfareofthetownwasalreadyfilledwithpeoplewalkingtowork,andmomspushingtheirstrollers,andhighschoolersplayinghookyfromschool.Therewasacouplesittinginthegazebo,settinguptwocellos,andamaninabusinesssuitreadinganewspaperononeofthebenchesinthegreen.Ontheotherbenchsatamannooneelsecouldsee.Hewasleaningback,hisarmsfoldedtightlyoverhischest,hisfaceturneduptowardthesun.EverytimeIsawhim,helookedalittlelessputtogether.Abuttonwasundoneonhisshirt,orhisshirtsleeveswererolledup,orhishairhadfallenoutofitsgel.Thismorningitwasalittleofallthree.
Itriednottolingertoomuchonhisforearms.Hehadatattooontheundersideofhisrightarm,halfwayuptowardtheelbow,thoughhisarmswerefoldedsoIcouldn’tseethewholething.ThoughIreallywouldn’tmind.Somepeoplewereshoulderpeople,somepeoplewerebackpeople,somepeoplewerebuttpeople—
I,forallintentsandpurposes,wasaforearmkindofgirl.
AsIwatchedhim,hecrackedopenaneyetolookatme.“You’relate.”
Icheckedmyphone.“Bytenminutes!”
“Tenminutesisstilllate,”hereplied,andsatupstraight.Ijoinedhimonthebenchandtookanothersipofcoffee.Thegrainsofsugarcrunchedbetweenmyteeth.Heeyedthecup.“Imisscoffee.”
“Connoisseurorlifeblood?”
“IlikedthenotesinsomeverylimitedroaststhatIprocuredfrom—”
“Connoisseur,right.You’dhatethisstuff,then.Definitelymotoroilandsugar.”
Hewrinkledhisnoise.“Thatsoundsdisgusting.”
“IdrinkthebatteryacidjuicesoIcangozoom-zoom,”Ireplied.“Okayso—whyarewehere?Howisthisgoingtohelpme?I’mwastingtime.IfI’mnotwriting,Ishouldbehelpingmyfamilywiththefuneralarrangements—”
“Thisisn’tawasteoftime.Putyourzoom-zoomjuicedown,takeadeepbreath,andtrustme,yeah?”
Ieyedhim.“I’mkeepingmyzoom-zoomjuice.”
Heletoutalaugh,said,“Fine,fine,”andmotionedouttowardthecenteroftown.Themansittingontheoppositebenchreadingthepaper.Themothersrollingtheirstrollerstobrunch.Thekidsplayinghookyfromschool.Themayortakingaleakonafirehydrant.(Hellyeah,stickittotheman,MayorFetch!)“ThisisatrickIlearned—justsitandwatchpeople.Settheirscene.Imaginewho’dthey’dbe.”
“Really?”Ideadpanned.“Thisisstupid.”Ibegantogetup,whenheclearedhisthroat.Isatbackdownwithahuff.“DoIhaveto?”
Heraisedasinglethickeyebrow.Ihatedit.Itwasso—soperfect.
“Fine!”Ithrewmyfreehandintotheair.“Showmetheway,OgreatJedimaster.”
“Learnyoushall,youngPadawan.”BenleanedtowardmeandnudgedhischintowardacouplewalkingtheirPomeranian.“TheymetonTinderlastweek.One-nightstand.Butthentheymatchedagainthenextnight—andthenextnight—”
“Tinderdoessuckaroundhere,”Iagreed.“Notalotofchoices.”
“Andonthefourthnight,hecalledherup.Askedheronadate.They’vebeeninseparablesince.”
“Andthedog?”
“Astray—keptfollowingthemaroundeverywhere.So,theydecidedtoadoptit.Together.”
Ilookedathim,baffled.“Wow,you’resowholesome.”
“Iknow,isn’titcharming?”
“It’sannoying,”Ireplied.“It’slikeyouwalkedoutofaHallmarkmovie.”
Hepursedhislipsintoathinline.“Fine,”hereplied,andmotionedbetweenthetwoofus,“thensetthisscene.”
“Youmeanbetweenyouandme.”
“Perfectdynamic.Arefinededitorandhischaoticgremlinofanauthor.”
“Oh,thanks.”
“Callthispractice—awarm-up.Whatkindofscenewouldwebe?”
“Thekindthatdoesn’thappen.”
“Andyethereweare.”Hecockedhishead.“YouwriteforAnnNichols,forgod’ssake.Yourimaginationhasbeenpraisedas‘illuminating’and‘masterful’—andI’mconfidentthatitstillis.Soplease”—heshiftedonthebenchtoangletowardme—“givemeascene.”
“Well…we’retwopeople.Onabench.”
“Arefinededitorandachaoticauthor,”heremindedme.
“Buttheeditorisn’tnearlyasrefinedashethinksheis.”
“Ouch.”
“Andtheauthoristired.Andmaybeshewasnevergoodatwritingtobeginwith.Maybesheneverreallyunderstoodromance.Maybeshe’snotcutoutforlovestories—”
Heleanedinclosetome—soclosethatifhewerealive,Iwouldbeabletosmellthecolognehewore,thetoothpastehebrushedwith,theshampooheused—andhesaidinalowvoice,“Ormaybeshejustneedssomeonetoshowherthatsheis.”
Thetipsofmyearsbegantoheatup.Theywereturningred.Iwasturningred.
StupidFlorence.He’saghost.Heknewhewas.Andhewasprofessional,goddamnit,andorderly,andverystraitlaced.Thethoughtofthrowingmeontothebedandrippingoffmyclothesprobablyhadn’tevencrossedhismind—notonce.
Notthatit’dcrossedmine,either,but…
Damnit,Iwasintrouble.
Thenheliftedhiseyesabitbeyondme.Hiseyebrowsfurrowed.“Is—isthatyoursister?”
“Mywhat?”
Thesoundofanenginerevvedbehindme,andIglancedovermyshoulderintimetowatchAlicepeeloutofasidealleyonDad’smotorcycle,anddisappeardownthestreet.Well,Iguesseditwasfixednow.
Andthenoisebroughtmebacktomysenses.
Thiswasbad—thisscene,thismoment,thistightnessinmychest—
“I—Ineedtogorunsomeerrands,”Isaid,standing,andquicklyleftthetownsquare.WhenIwaswellandtrulyoutofearshot,Iglancedbackandhewasstillthere,loungingbackonthebench.Thenacarpassedbetweenus—
Andhewasgone.
22
GraveMatters
STOPTHINKING!Ichastisedmyself,slappingmycheekstowakemyselfup.Snapoutofit.Hewasdead,Iwasalive.Thereweretragedieswrittenwiththispremise.Therewerenohappilyeveraftersbetweenanundertaker’sdaughterandherghost.
Heknewthat.Iknewthat.Iwasn’tgoingtomisreadhisintentions.Hewantedtohelpmesothathecouldmoveon.Ghostsneverstayed.ItwasonegoodbyeIwasaccustomedto.Whywouldhewanttostay?WhereonlyIcouldseehim?Hewouldn’t.Hewasbeingnice.
Thatwasall.
WiththeflowersstillimpossibletoobtainandElvisbookedforthefuneral,itwashightimetogetthereceiptfromDad’swillandvisitUnlimitedParty.Karenwastheheadcounselatthelocallawfirmintown,nexttothebookstore.IpurposefullyavertedmyeyesasIpassedthestore’swindowdisplayanddippedintothebrickbuildingatthestreetcorner.Luckily,IcaughtKarenbetweenclients,soIquicklyborrowedthereceiptfromthefilesandslippedbackoutagain.
UnlimitedPartywasagoodfifteenminutesaway,inalargerstripmall,butatleasttheUberdriverwasquiet.Hewaslisteningtoamurdermysterypodcast—itmademethinkofRose.Itwasoneshewasobsessedwith.She’dseentheladiesliveatComic-Conmorethanonce.Imissedher.
What’reyouupto?NewYorkstilltherewithoutme?Itexted.
Workmust’vebeenslowbecauseRoserespondedimmediately.Somehow.TheapartmentisSOcreepytherealonetho.Imissyou.
I’llbehomebytheendoftheweek,Irepliedquickly.
Takeyourtime!How’severythingbackhome?
Oh,IguessIhadn’tupdatedher.SoIdid.Abouthowfindingonethousandwildflowerswassomehowalotharderthanitappeared.AbouthowIsomehowbookedElvistosingatmyfather’sfuneralandneededtowriteDad’sobituary.AboutthemysteriousletterDadleftforhisfuneral.AndnowhowIwasheadingtowardUnlimitedPartybecause—well—Dadhadbeatustothekazoosandstreamers,apparently.
Ireaddownthereceiptwithagrowingdespondency.Halfofthethingsweresmudgedoutbecausesometimebetween2001andtoday,ithadgottenwet.Didhethinkweweregoingtothrowafratpartyinsteadofafuneral?
Probably,inallhonesty.
YourDadalwayssoundedrad,Rosetexted.Thenthereweredots;shewaswriting.Thennothing.Thendotsagain.Finally—Areyoudoingokay?Youknowwith…everything.
Everything.IwishedIcouldtellheraboutBen.Iwantedto.Aboutthestrange,muddledfeelingsinmychest.Iwasmourning,butIwasblushing.Iwassofuckingsad,andyetthereweremomentswhenthetidewouldgobackoutandIwasn’tdrowninganymoreinit—andtheywereallmoments,Irealized,withBen.
BecauseofBen.
Hetookmymindawayfrommysadness,whenallIwantedtodowasburrowmyselfinthatsadness,makeanestofit,livethereclingingtowhatwasleftofmydad.
EventhoughDadwould’verathermefallinlovethanfallintoadepression.
I’mfine,Itextedback,andthankedmydriverfortherideasIgotoutofhisHonda.
ThecashieratUnlimitedPartylookedboredasheplayedagameofsolitaireonhisphone.Icameuptohimandhandedhimthereceipt,andgavehimatightsmile.“Um,I’dliketopickthisup,please.”
Myphonevibrated.Roseagain?Iignoredit.
Heasked,dumbfounded,lookingatwhathehadpulleduponhisscreen.“Uh,areyou—areyousure?”
“Yeah,why?”
“Well,becauseitsayshere—”
Myphonevibratedagain.Thatusuallywasn’tRose’sMO.“Excusemeforamoment?”Iasked,andturnedaroundtoreadthetext.
Itwasfrommysister.
COMETOTHEFREEZERBOXNOW!!!!
Then,aminutelater:PLEASE!!!
WhenAliceusedplease,itwasanemergency.
“Okay,newplan.Yestowhateveryouweregoingtoask”—Imean,Dadhadalreadyboughtthestuff,sowhateverhehadboughtIcouldn’texactlysaynoto—“anddeliverittotheDaysGoneFuneralHome?”
“Uh…wecandelivertheitemsonThursday?”thepoorcashiersuggested.
“Perfect!Thankyou!”IwavedasIleftthestoreandhailedanotherUber.ThesameguyinthesameHondapulleduptothecurb,andIgotin.“Oh,thisisagreatepisode,”Isaid,andhenoddedinagreement.Thedrivebacktotownwasanotherfifteenminutes,andbythenithadstartedtorain.
Thefrontpathwasslippery,andIalmostbitithardasIhurrieduptothefrontporch.CarvercrackedthefrontdooropenasIrightedmyselfagain.“Thatstep’sslippery,”hewarned.
Istuckoutmytongue.“Abitlate,bro.”
“You’reinabettermood.”
WasI?
Carveropenedthedoorwidertoletmein.“Aliceisinthefreezerfreakingout.”
“Aboutwhat?”Iasked,takingoffmyshoesinthefoyersoIdidn’ttrackmudthroughthehalls.Hegavemealong-sufferinglook.Freezer,Alicebeingdownthere—“Ah.Dad.”
“Yeah.”
“Andyoucouldn’tdoanything?”
“YouknowIhatethebasement.”
“Youweren’tlockedinthereovernight,”Imuttered,butIsupposedthatwastheresponsibilityofbeingabigsister.
IshruggedoutofmycoatasIcamein,andrealizedthatSeaburn’sandKaren’scoatswerehangingontheracktoo—andMom’swhitefauxminkjacket.Ifrowned.“Isthereameetingorsomething?”
Carverhesitated.“Justsomestuff—abouttheestateandthewill.”
“Andeveryonewashereforitbutme?”Iinferred.
“It’snothing,Florence.”
“Nothing—likewheneveryonemetattheWaffleHouseearlybeforeIwastoldtobethere?”
Heclosedthedoor,andbreathedoutthroughhisnose.“Florence,it’snothingpersonal.Youhaven’treallybeenapartofthefamilybusinessinafewyears.Andyouhaven’tcomehomeinadecade.We…didn’tthinkyouwantedtobeapartofit.”
“OfcourseIdo,Carver.”
“Well,wethoughtyoudidn’twantto.Imean,youknewaboutit,right?Youdidn’task.”
“That’skindofashittywayofturningtheblamebackonme,bro.”
Herolledhiseyes.“Sorry.”
“Whatever,”Isighed.ThefuneralhomewasquietasIshuffleddownthehallwaytotheverylastdoorthatledtothemortuary.Itsmelledlikeitalwaysdid,offlowersanddisinfectant.Momwasinthekitchenmakingtea,itsoundedlike.Therewerealreadyafewbouquetsdeliveredfortomorrow’swake.ThenThursdaywe’dsaygoodbye.
Timewasbothpassingtoofastandnotfastenough.
Thebasementdoorhadalatchontheoutside,butitwasunlocked.WhenI’dbeentrappeddownthereforanight,Ihadn’tbeenafraidofthecorpsesinthefreezers.Theywerelikeshells,andwhenthepersonwasdonewiththem,theshellcrackedandbroke.
Ididn’tstarthatingcorpsesuntilmuchlater.Ididn’tliketheirstillness,orhowbluealways—always—creptthroughtheheavyfoundation,orhowtheysmelledafterbeing,youknow,embalmed
Alicewasdownstairs,ablack-and-white-stripedclothheadbandinhershorthair.Shelookedlikeablacksmudgeinanotherwisesoftgrayroom.Evenherlatexgloveswereblack.Onthesteeltableinfrontofherwas—
Ifortifiedmyself.Itwasfine.Thiswasfine.
Aliceglancedoverhershoulder,andthrewupherhands.“Finally!Whattookyousolong?”
“IwasatUnlimitedParty,”IrepliedasIreachedthebottomofthestairs,andonefootatatime,onestepcloserandcloser,Icametowardthecorpseonthetable.
No,thatwasunfair.Icouldn’tsayitwasacorpsebecauseitwasn’tjustanyshell.
ItwasDad.
AndAlicehaddonesuchawonderfuljob,helookedlikehewassimplysleeping.Shealreadyhadhimdressedinhisfavoritetux—thetackyredonewiththelongtailsandthegoldenlapels.Hehadonhisfavoritecufflinks,goldskullsheboughtfromsomeboutiqueinLondonseveraldecadesago,andtheymatchedhisearrings,andhisfavoriteskullandcrossbonesandswordrings.
Heusedtospinthoseringswhenhewasanxious—especiallytheoneonhisthumb.Myeyesightbegantoblur.
Aliceshifted,tappingherfootontheground.“Well?”
“Wellwhat?”
“Doeshelookokay?”sheburstout.ItwasonlythenInoticedthemakeupkitonarollingtrayontheothersideofher,concealerandeyeshadowandlipstickscatteredacrossit.“Doeshelooklikehimself?Igothiscolorright?It’snottoomuch?”
“Helooks—”Myvoicecaughtinmythroat,crackedattheedges.“Fine.”
DadlookedlikeIremembered,atoo-stillsnapshotfrommymemories,andIcurledmyfingersintotightfiststokeepmyselffromgrabbinghisshoulders,shakinghim—askinghimtowakeup.Itwasthekindofprankhe’dpull.Pretendtobedead.Thenhe’dsitupinthecasketathisfuneralwitha“Surprise!I’mretiring!”but…thatwasthekindofhappilyeverafterinmyhead.Thekindthatdidn’texist.
BecausethelongerIlooked,thestillerheseemed.Frozen.Unmoving.
Dead.
Alicewenton.“Hehadalotofbruisesfromthehospital,butatleastthetuxjacketcoversmostofthat,andhischeeksarealittlesunkenbut—thewake’stomorrowandIthinkhedoesn’tlooklikehimselfatallsoIkeepcheckingthepictures.Ismymemoryofhimalreadygoingor—”
“Alice,”Irepeated.“HelookslikeDad.”
Shehesitated.
“WhywouldIlietoyou?Ifhedidn’tlooklikehim,I’dtellyou.”
“Hedoesn’tlooktoo…TonySoprano?”
“HelovedSixFeetUnder—”
“Florence!”Then,afterabeat,“Thosearen’teventhesameshows!”
Irolledmyeyes.“Dadlooksgreat.Trustme,you’regoodatwhatyoudo.BetterthanDad,even.”
That,atleast,madeheralittlecalmer.“IcanneverbebetterthanDad,”shesaidandcrossedherarmstightlyoverherchestagain.Sheshiftedherweightbetweenonefootandtheother,staringdownatourfather.Inevercouldhavedonewhatshedid.Icouldn’tevenlookatDadforverylongbeforeIburstintotears,soIdecidedtoleavethatspectaclefortomorrow.
I’dalreadycriedmoretimesthanIcouldcountthisweek—ifIkeptthisup,I’ddieofdehydrationmyself.
Instead,IbumpedmyshoulderwithAlice’s.“C’mon,”Iproddedgently,“you’redone.Dadlooksgreat.Pophimbackinthefridgeandgowatchsomeanimeorsomething.”
Shebittheinsideofhercheektokeepfromsmiling.“Dadusedtosaythat.‘Oh,justletmepop’embackinthefridge!I’llmeetyouuptop’—god,Florence,Imisshim.”
“Ido,too.”
IwaitedforhertoreturnDadtooneofthefreezersbeforeweclimbedthestepstogether.Alicelockedthebasementbehindus,andsomehowImanagedtoconvinceCarvertotakehertodinner.Theyinvitedme,butIwasn’treallyhungry.
Imadeanexcuse.“I’vegotwork,sorry.”Anditwasonlyahalflie.“Theobitwon’twriteitself.”
“It’snotsupposedtobeabook,Florence,”Alicesaid.
Igaveherapolitesmile.“It’shardtofindwordssometimes.”
“Ifyouneedhelp…”
“No,I’mfine.”
Andsuddenly,thecomraderywehadinthebasementmeltedandsherolledhereyes.“Whatever,justdon’tbelateonit,”shesaid,andwenttogofetchKaren,Seaburn,andMomfromthekitchen.Theydecided—loudly—togotoOliveGarden.Myfamilywasalotofweirdthings,butsometimestheywerejustpredictable.Andthatwasnice.
Carverputonhiscoatandbegantobuttonitupslowly.“Youtwookay?YouandAl?”
“Shedidn’tsnapmyheadoffthistime,”Ireplied.“Well,atleastnotuntiltheendthere.”
“Maybeafterallofthis,youtwoshouldhaveatalk.”
“Carver…”
Hegavemealook.“Listentoyourmiddlestbrotherforonce.”
Andthevoiceofreason.Somehow.ThelongerIstayedinMairmont,thedeeperthetownburrowedintomyskin.ItwastoosmallandtoocomfortableandtoosteepedineverythingIlovedaboutDad.Andmyfamily.AndwhyIleft.Ithurtjustbeinghere.
Isaid,“Iwill.”
Hehelduphishand,pinkieout.“Promise?”
“Promise,”Ireplied,hookinghispinkie,andheleftwithAliceandKarenandSeaburnoutthedoor.
Momlingeredforamoment,slippingintoherancientfauxminkcoat.WithitonsheremindedmeofMorticiaAddamsandCruelladeVilandsoftwintereveningsinthefuneralhome,closingthecurtainsandturningoutthelights.“Areyousureyoudon’twanttocomeeat,Florence?”
“Theendlesssaladandbreadsticksaretempting,”Ireplied.“Howdidthelasttwofuneralsgo?”
“Withoutahitch.Nowallwehaveisthebigone,andIthinkwe’llclosefortherestoftheweekafterthat.Giveussometime.”
TheDaysGoneFuneralHomeneverclosedbefore.Notforsnowstorms,orhurricanes,orfloods.
ItwasfittingittookDad’sdeathtoshutterthedoorsforafewdays.
“Ithinkthat’sagoodidea,”Ireplied.“Andthanks,butIsortofwanttostayhereforawhile.Ijustwantto…sit.Inthequiet.”
Momnoddedandpulledmeintoatighthug,andkissedmycheek.“Ican’tseethingslikeyoucan,”shesaid,“butIknowhe’shere.”
Ididn’thavethehearttotellherthathewasn’t.Thathisghostdidn’troamthecreakyhallsandsitinhisfavoriteparlorchairandthatthewhiffofcigarsmoke,strongandsweet,wasjusthermemoriesplayingtricks.
“I’llorderyousomechickenAlfredotogoandkeepitatthehouseifyouwantitlater,”shewenton,andwithonelastlingeringlookatthefoyerandtheoakenstaircaseandtheparlors,sheleftandclosedthedoorquietlyinherwake.
AndIwasalone.
Thefuneralhomefeltsoempty,andbig,andold.Isatdownintheredparlor—Dad’sfavorite—inhisfavoritehigh-backvelvetchair,andsankintothesilence.Theeveningwassoquiet,Icouldhearthewindcreakthroughtheoldhouse.
Thedeadsinging.
IwonderedifthewindwasDad.Iwonderedifhewasinthisgust,orthenextone.IwonderedifIwouldeverrecognizethesoundsthroughthefloorboards,thewindswirlingbetweenoldoakwood,makingsoundsthat,perhaps,couldhavebeenvoices.
Itallfinallybecamereal.Thisweek.Thisfuneral.Thisworld—spinning,spinning,spinningwithoutmyfatherinit.
Andthewindrattledon.
23
TheCasketofTrueLove
“FLORENCE?”
Iglancedupatthevoice,quicklywipingthestraytearsoutofmyeyes.
Benstoodintheentrywaytotheparlor,hishandsinhispockets,butallIcouldseewashisfaintoutline,hisfaceshadowedintheyellowstreetlightpouringinthroughtheopenwindows.Ofcoursehewouldappearnow.WhenIleastwantedhimto.
“Greattiming,”Imuttered,sniffing.God,Iprobablylookedhideous.Halfofmyeyelinerhadalreadywipedawayontomypalm.
Hecameintotheparlor,hisfootstepssilentagainstthehardwoodfloor.“Is…everythingokay?”
Itookadeepbreath.Ifitwasn’talreadyobvious…“No,”Iadmitted,“butit’snotreallysomethingyoucanhelpwith.Thankyou,though.Forasking.”Then,abitquieter,myvoicecrackingattheedges:“Imisshim.Imisshimsomuch,Ben.”
Hecameoverquietlyandsatdownonthefloorinfrontofme,andforthefirsttime—ever—hehadtolookuptomeetmygaze,andhegavemesomethingthatIhadn’treallythoughtIwanted:hisundividedattention.
“Whatwasyourdadlike?”heasked,becausehewasdecent.Becausehewasgood.
WhatwasthesongDadliked?“OnlytheGoodDieYoung”?
IwasquietasItriedtothinkoftherightwords,afraidtoopenup.Totellhimmystory.BenandIwerestrangers,andheneverknewDad.Neverwould.AndeventhoughBenwasbeingdecent,andkind,andmademefeellikemyhurtwasworthyofthiswastedtime—
Iwasstillafraid.
HadIalwaysbeenthisguarded?Icouldn’tremember.I’dbeenclosedoffforsolong,lockedtightly,thatitjustfeltsafeandnatural.ItrickedmyselfintothinkingthatIcouldlivelikethatforever,anduntilBenshowedup,IthoughtperhapsIcould.
Butnow…
“Mydadwaskind,andhewaspatient—exceptwhenhissoccermatcheswereon,thenhewouldgetsomadattheTV.Hesmokedtoomuch,andhedranktoomuchathisThursdaynightpokergames,andhealwayssmelledlikefuneralflowersandformaldehyde.”Talkingabouthimoutloudfeltlikearelief,inaway,asthoughIwereslowlydismantlingthedamIhadbuilt,brickbybrick,memorybymemory,untilIcouldfeelagain.IwishIcouldsayIwasn’tcrying,butIwasbecauseItastedmytearsastheyslippedintomymouth.“WhenIwaslittle,welivedhere—inthisoldfuneralhome,andsometimesIcaughthimandMomdownhereintheparlors,windowsthrownopen,dancingtoasongtheyheardintheirheads.HewastheonewhosaidIshouldbeawriter.Hesaidthatmywordsweresoloudandsovividandalivetheycouldwakethedead.”Ilaughedandsaidalittlequieter,becauseitwasasecret—oneI’dnevertoldanyonebefore,“Somewhere,underoneofthesefloorboards,I’vegotsmuthidden.”
“Oh?Scandalous.”
“You’llneverfindit,”Iadded.“Carverlookedforyears.Finallygaveup.”
Helaughed,andIreallylovedthewayhelaughed.Softanddeepandsincere,anditmademyuptightmusclesandmyrigidbonesrelax.Itwasendearing.Imean,foradeadguy.Heleanedagainstmychair,hisheadrestingonthearmrest,eyesclosed.IclenchedmyhandsbecauseIwantedtorunmyfingersthroughhisthickblackhair.AndIcouldn’t
“So,didthegreatBenjiAndoralwayswanttobeaneditor?”Iasked.
Hetiltedhisheadtotheside,thoughtful.“Ineverwantedtocreatewords,Ialwayswantedtoburymyselfinsomeoneelse’s.Buttobehonest,IbecameaneditorbecauseI’mchasingthisfeelingIfeltwhenIreadmy—”Hequicklystoppedhimselfandclearedhisthroat.“WhenIreadmyfirstromance.”
“Whichone?”
Benshifted.Hedidn’tsayanythingforalongmoment,asifhewasdebatingwhethertotellmethetruthortellmeatall.Idoubtedhewouldlietomeatthispoint—Ididn’tthinkhecouldliehiswayoutofapaperbagifhehadto.“TheForestofDreams.”
That…wasnotwhatIwasexpecting.“Seriously?AnAnnNicholsnovel?”
Heshrugged.“Iwaselevenmaybe?”
“Youmust’vebeenapopularkid.”
“Imean,IreadTolkienandplayedDungeons&Dragons,ifthat’sanyindication.”
“Wow,yeah,reallypopular.”
“Ifeellikeyou’reroastingme,”hecommenteddryly,turninghisfacetowardme,andtherewasasmiletuckedintothecornerofhismouth.
Igaveahalflaughthatmight’vealsobeentheremnantofasniffle.“Admiringyou,really.Doyouknowhowhealthyitisforakidtoreadsomethingotherthan‘boybooks’aimedatboys?”
“SoI’veheard.Ijustlikelovestories,Iguess.IlikethewaytheypainttheworldinthisTechnicolordreamland,wheretheonlyruleyouhavetofollowisahappilyeverafter.AndI’vespentmostofmyadultlifechasingafterthathigh.”
“AndthenIcameintoyourlifeanddeclaredthatromancewasdead.Nowonderyouhatedme.”
“Ididn’thateyou,”heclarified.“Iwascaughtoffguard.Herewasabeautifulyoungwomandeclaringthatromancewasdead.”
Ishookmyhead.“I’mnotthatpretty,Ben.”
Hegavemeastrangelook.Hiseyelasheswerelong,andtheocherflecksinhisbrowneyesglimmeredinthedimeveninglight.“Butyouare.”
Mybreathcaughtinmythroat.Becausehere,sittinginthedarkwithbothmymascaraandmynoserunning,hethoughtIwasbeautiful?Atmyworst,selfishandneedyandcold?
Iquicklylookedaway.
Suddenly,agustofwindwhistledthroughthehouse.Thebeamscreaked;thewindowsrattled.Bengaveastart.
“It’sjustthedeadsinging,”Ireplied.MaybeitwasDad,somewherecaughtonthewind.
“Thedeadsinging?”Hehadapeculiarlookinhiseyes.“LikeLee’sbooktitle?”
Ididn’tanswer.Hedidn’treallyneedit.
“Florence…”
“Surprise.”Ipickedatmycuticles,somethingthatRosehadtriedtogetmetostopdoingforyears,butshewasn’thereandIwasnervous.“IthoughtLeewasit,youknow?Ithoughthewastheone.Mywholefamilyismadeoftheseimpossiblelovestories—andIthoughtthiswasmine.ImeanhewasLeeMarlow.ExecutiveeditoratFaux.Andhelikedme.Forthefirsttime,aguyIdatedlookedatmelikeImattered,andwantedtoknoweveryweirdlittlethingaboutme.”Ishrugged,chewingonthesideofmylip.Ididn’tlikeadmittinghowstupidIwas.Evenayearlater,itwasallstillsoraw.“HewastheclosestpersonIevertoldaboutmy…gift.AbouttheghostsIhelped.Ichickenedout,though.ItoldhimtheywerestoriesIwantedtowriteoneday.IputupabarrierbecauseIcouldn’tfacehowhe’dlookatmeifItoldhimitwasreal.Ishould’veknownbetter.Ijustbecameastorytohim,too.”
Andwhenthestorywaswritten,Iwasn’tanyusetohimanymore.
Acrowcawedsomewhereoutside.Theywereperchedinthedeadoak,unsurprisingly.Therewasacertainkindofsilencethatpermeatedplacesofdeath.Thesoundwasclosedandprivate,asifthespaceswherethedeadwerehonoredwereseparatefromtherestoftheworld.WhenIwasyoungerandmybrainwasfullofanxiousspirals,Iwouldliedownonthefloorbetweenfunerals,andpressmycheekagainstthecoolhardwood,andlistentothehouse’ssilence.Italwaysgavemespacetothink.
Now,Ifearedthesadnessinmysoulwassoppingupthesilencelikeasponge.Ifeltheavierwitheachbreath.Itwasnolongerasoftsilence,butastillone.
Heliftedhisheadfromthearmrest.Amusclefeatheredinhisjaw.“Thatbastard.”
Igavehimasurprisedlook.“Comeagain?”
“Thatbastard,”herepeatedalittlelouder.“Ofallthefuckingshittythingstodotoyou,heruinedyourmemories.Thingsyoutoldhiminprivate—intrust.Thatfuckingdead-eyednarcissisticasshole.”Behindhim,avasefulloforchidsbegantorattle.Ididn’tthinkBenknewhewasdoingit.“ThenexttimeIseehimI’mgoingto—”
“Whoa,tiger,you’redead.”
Thevasestoppedrattlingalmostinstantly.
Hefoldedhisarmsacrosshischesttightly,andharrumphed“Minorinconvenience.”
Hisangertookmesooffguard,sofaroutofmyrangeofemotionsaboutwhathappenedtome,Idunno—Ijustlostit.Ibegantolaugh.Andcry.ButmostlylaughasIslidoffthechairandontothegroundbesidehim.Itwasoneofthosespiralingsortsoflaughs,becauseIdidn’trealizehowIwassupposedtofeelaboutthisstoryuntiljustnow—
“AmIthatfunnytoyou?”helamentedtragically.
“No—yes,”Iadded,butmyvoicewastingedwithnothingbutadoration.ForaguyIbarelyknew.“DoyouknowhowlongI’vewantedsomeonetogetangryforme?IthoughtIwasgoingcrazy,thatmaybeIwasn’tallowedtogetangrybecauseItoldLeetheywerejuststories.Ithoughtmaybe…”AndIhesitated,becausehadIsaidtoomuch?Iusuallydidn’ttalkaboutthesethings—withanyone,notevenRose.Theyweremyproblems,andnotanyoneelse’s.Butheleanedinalittlecloser,asifgentlyaskingmetogoon,andIfeltsafeadmitting,“IthoughtitwaswhatIdeserved.Ithoughtthat’swhatIgotfor…”
“Forhavingtheaudacitytotrustsomeoneyoulovedunconditionally?”heasked,andtheangerwasgonefromhisvoice.Itwassofternow,warmlikeamber.
Iquicklyturnedmyheadawayfromhim.Lookedtowardthefoyer,andthecolorfulmoonlightthatslippedthroughthestainedglasswindow.
“Itisn’tyourfaulthe’sadick,Florence,”hesaid.“Youdeservesomuchbetterthanthatfuckhead.”
“Stronglanguage,sir.”
“Doyoudisagree?”
Iturnedmyheadbacktowardhim,thespectersittingsostillintheparlorroomwhereIhadburiedmyhopesanddreamsbeneaththefloorboards.“No,”Irepliedsimply,andthenIsmiled.“Youknow,youbeingangryonmybehalfiskindasweet.IwishI’dmetyousoonerwhenyouwerealive.”
Hereturnedthesadsmile.“Me,too.”
24
SuchaScream
KEYSJINGLEDINthefrontdoorasMomunlockeditandsteppedin.IonlytookmyeyesoffBenforasecondasIscrambledtomyfeet,butwhenIturnedback,hewasgone.Disappearedagain,thoughIdidn’tknowwherehewent.Momjumpedwhenshesawmestandingintheparlor,andputahandoverherheart.
“Don’tscaremelikethat.Ithoughtyouwereyourfather,”shesaid.
“Expectinghim?”
“WouldIbecrazyifIsaidyes?”sheventuredwithasecretivesmile.
Ishookmyhead.“Notatall.”
“Good!I’dhateformyowndaughtertothinkIwascrazy,”shesaidwithalaugh,andheldoutatakeoutboxfromOliveGarden.“Well,sinceyou’restillhere,takeyourAlfredo.”
ShehandedmemyfoodafterIpulledonmycoat.“Thanks.Ihaven’tbeenhereforthatlong,haveI?Youguysjustleft.”
Sheshrugged.“ItwasweirdwithoutXavier.Wecouldn’tstay.”
“Everythingisweirdwithouthim.”
“Yes,thoughnotsad.Yourfatherwouldn’twantustobesad.”Thenshefixedmyscarfandwrappeditoncemorearoundmyneck.“Ifyou’reonyourwayout,wouldyoudomeafavorandescortyouroldmotherhome?”sheaskednobly,crookingherarmsothatIcouldtakeit,andIdid.
ShewastallerthanIwas,andthinlikeAlice.Theybothhaddarkhair,andwhenAlicewasgoingthroughherrebelphase,shewouldstealdarklacydressesfromMom’sclosetandwearthemtoschoollikeareal-lifeLydiaDeetz,thoughbythenIwasalreadyincollegeandwellawayfromMairmont.
Momlockedthefuneralhomedoorsonthewayout,andwesteppeddownintothebriskAprilnight.Therewasstillachilltuckedintothewind,butIcouldrememberthewayAprilwarmedsosuddenlytosummeritwasalmostashock.Oneweektherewerecoats,thenextshortsandflip-flops.Maybetonightwasthelastcoldone,maybetomorrow,buteitherwaytimewaspassing,slowlyeveron,leavingpeoplebehindlikeaflowerlosingitspetalsonebyone.
“I’mgladyou’rehome,”Mombegan,lookingaheadofus.“TheoccasionIcoulddowithout—butI’mglad,nonetheless.Xaviersaidhe’dgetyoubackhereonewayortheother.”
“Idoubthe’dhaveplannedthis.”
“Certainlynot!Butitdoessuithisstyle,”shesaidwithasoftlaugh.“Oh,hewasgonetoosoon,Florence.Gonemuch,muchtoosoon.”
“Iwishhewasstillhere.”
“Ido,too,andIwillfortherestofmylife.”Shesqueezedmyarmtightly.“Butwe’restillhere,andhe’llbewithuslongafterthewindisgone.”
Iswallowedtheknotinmythroat.“Yeah.”
WepassedtheicecreamparlorwheresheandDadwenteveryweekendwhenIwaslittleandshewaspregnantwithAlice.Shealwayscravedpistachioicecream.IfIclosedmyeyes,IcouldseeDadintheboothbythewindowwithhissundae,feedingCarverwithasmallplasticspoon.“HerecomestheDouglasDC-3aircraftinforlanding!Zzzzzzoom!”
Buttheparlorwasdifferentnow,withanewcoatofpaint,anewowner,newicecreamflavors.HowevermuchMairmontstayedthesame,itkeptshiftingeversoslightly.Justenoughformetofeellost,formypasttofeellikeanotherlifetimeago.
“Ishould’vecomehome,Mom.Yearsago.Ishould’vevisited.Ishould’ve…”Myvoicecracked.Iswallowedtheknotinmythroat.“Ican’trememberhowmanytimesyoutriedtoconvinceme.Butthenyoustopped.”
“Tryingtochangeyourmindwasliketryingtolassothesun,”Momreplied.“You’restubborn—likeyourfather—andyoutakeeverythingonyourshoulderslikehedid.Everyoneelse’sproblems.Neverhisown.”
“ButI’mtheopposite.I’mselfish.I—Inevercamehome.Ishould’ve.InevertoldDad…”ThatIwasaghostwriter.ThatIdidkeepwritingnovelsafterIfailed,likehewantedmeto.That,althoughinthestrangestsenseoftheword,I’ddoneexactlywhathebelievedIcoulddo.Andheneverknewit.
“Ihatedthistownaftertheychasedyouout,”shesaidscornfully.
“Theydidn’tchaseme,Ileft.”
“Becauseotherpeoplecouldn’tstandthatathirteen-year-olddidsomethingtheycouldneverdo.”
“Talktoghosts?”
“Helppeople.Listen.Dosomethingsoincrediblyselfless,youhadtoleaveforit—oh,don’tgivemethatlook.”Sheadded,“Youdidn’thavetogotothepolice,butyoudid.Youhelpedthemsolveamurdertheywouldn’thaveotherwise,andthenwhenyoutoldthemthetruth—itwasn’tyourfaulttheydidn’tbelieveyou.ForallIcare,thisentiretowncanfuckoff.”
“Mom!”
“IsaidwhatIsaid.Thatboy’sbodywouldstillbeburiedontheRidgeifyouhadn’tsaidsomething.”
Andhisghostwouldprobablystillbebadgeringmeabouttryingoutforthedebateteam.HewasadamantthatIcouldarguemywayoutoftroubleifIhadto.AndIprovedhimrightmyjunioryearofhighschoolwhenOfficerSagetcaughtmeonetoomanytimesdoingsomethingslightlyillegalforverygoodreasons.
Halfwaybacktothehouse,Momsaidwithasighofremorse,“Oh,whatarewegoingtodowhenCarverandNickigetmarried?Itisn’tquitelikeIcandancewithyourfather’scorpse.”
Inoddedseriously.“Youdon’thavetheupperarmstrength.”
“Icouldn’tcarrythatsortofdeadweight!”
Gallowshumor.
Imissedit.Imissedtalkingaboutdeathlikeanotherstepinthejourney.LeeMarlowhatedmyhumor.Hethoughttalkingaboutdeathwasgrossandimmature.AndtheguybeforeLee—Sean—thoughtIwasweirdwhenIjokedaboutdeath.Williamdidn’tmuchcare.AndQuinnabsolutelywouldnothearofit.
Imissedmyfamily.
Imissedthis.Mairmont’squietevenings,andtheblackdotsthatwerepalmettobugsskitteringacrossthesidewalk,andthemothsflutteringaroundthestreetlights,andthesoundoftheeveningsbuzzingwithinsectsandthewindthroughthetrees.ImissedthecertaintyofMom,andthedefianceofAlice,andthemiddlenessofCarver,andthesteadfastnessofSeaburn,andtheslowbloomofMairmont
ItseemedlikeNewYorkwaschangingeverytimeIblinked.Onewayonemoment,andthencompletelydifferentthenext—achameleonofacitythatneverfitintoonebox,thatneverclungtoonedescriptor.Itwasalwayssomethingnew,somethingexciting,somethingneverbeforeseen.
Ilovedthatforalongtime,thesteadymarchtosomethingimpossible,theabilitytoreinventitselfagainandagaindespitehurricanesandpandemicsandelections.AndIlovedeveryonewhoImetonthosestreets,theWilliamsandSeansandLeeMarlows…
Buttheskywasalwaysdark,andonlythebrighteststarsshonethroughthelightpollutionofthecitythatneverslept.
DadsaidthatI’dmissthestarstoomuch,andtheirpermanence.InNewYork,itwashardtopickanyout,buthereinMairmont,Icouldseethemfromhorizontohorizon,andthespringthunderstormsthatbubbleduponthesouthernedgeoftown.
ThekindofthunderstormsDadloved.
TheonesthatnevermadeitintoLeeMarlow’sbook,andwithasuddenrealizationIunderstoodwhyIhadfeltsouncomfortablehere.Cominghomewasonethingbut—eversinceI’dbeenhome,I’dkeptMomandCarverandAliceatarm’slength.Itwasn’tbecauseIdidn’tlovethem,ordidn’tmissthem.
Iwasashamed,buttalkingwithBenhelpedmerealizethatIhadnocontroloverwhatLeeMarlowwrote.Thatitwasn’tmyfault.
Icouldn’tshouldereveryburden,andespeciallynothis.
“Mom?”Shestoppedontheporch,andturnedbacktomewitharaisedblackeyebrow.Itookadeepbreath.“IhavesomethingIhavetotellyou.Before—beforeyoufindoutfromsomeoneelse.”
“You’repregnant.”
“No!”Iquicklyreplied,repelled.“No—noabsolutelynot.”
Shebreathedoutasigh.“Thankgod.Idon’tthinkIcouldburymyhusbandandwelcomeagrandchildallatonce.Myrangeofemotionsisnotthatflexible.”
“Mineneither,”Isaidwithalaugh.Imotionedtooneoftherockingchairsonthefrontporch,andshesatinone,andIintheother.“I…rememberthatmanIdated?LeeMarlow?”
“Theassholewhokickedyououtontothestreet?”
Ihesitated.“There’smoretoitthanthat.”
AndthenItookadeepbreath—andItoldher.AboutLeeMarlow,andthestoriesItoldhimaboutourfamily.Itoldherabouthisbookdeal,andhowIfoundout,andthelastconversationwehadbeforeIfoundmyselfoutsideintherain.Ithadbeenmychoicetowalkout.Mychoicetoleave.
Butreally,whatwastheotheroption?Staying?
“Ithinkwhat’sworse,”Isaidfinally,“isthatMarlowwroteDadwrong.Hewasn’tweirdorcrypticorterrifying.Ithinkthat’stheworstpartaboutthisentirenightmare—Dad’simmortalizedbythatasshole,andhediditwrong.”
Momcrossedonelegovertheother,andtookoutapackofcigarettesfromherbackpocket.“Fuckhim,”shequipped.
“Mom!”
“No,truly,”Momrepeated,lightinghercigarette.“FuckthatsonofabitchfortwistingeverygoodmemoryyoutoldhimintosomederangedTwilightZone.Wearen’tagothichorrornovel.We’realovestory.”
I…neverthoughtofmyself,mystory,mylife,asanythingmorethanaboringbookshelvedinaboringlibraryinaboringtown.ButthemoreIthoughtaboutmyfamily,aboutthesummersIandmysiblingsranaroundinthesprinklers,andplayedhide-and-seekinthecemetery,andtheHalloweensMomdressedasElviraandDadhidinacoffinandpoppedouttoscareeverypoorkidwhocametrick-or-treating,andtheyearsAliceandIplayeddress-upwiththevintageclotheswefoundintheattic,andthesummerscollectinganimalbones,andlightingcandlesformidnightwaltzesthroughtheparlors,andsittingsoquietlyinthekitchenwithDadtolistentothewindsing—
Therewasnothingbutloveinthosememories.
Wemight’vebeenafamilyinblack,butourliveswerefilledwithlightandhopeandjoy.AndthatwassomethingthatLeeMarlowneverunderstood,neverwroteinhiscold,technicalprose.
Itwasakindofmagic,akindoflovestory,Ididn’tthinkhe’deverunderstand.
Fromtheoaktreeinouryard,acrowcawedinthebranches,andafewofhisfriendsechoed.Mychesttightened.
Ben
“Andsomeday,”Momaddedsurely,ascertainassunrisesandspringthunderstormsandwindthroughcreakyoldfuneralhomes,“Iknowyou’llwriteourstorythewayitwasmeanttobetold.”
“I—Idon’tthinkIcould—”
“Ofcourseyoucan,”shereplied.“Itmightnotbeinonebook.Itmightbeinfiveorten.Itmightbelittlebitsofallofusscatteredthroughoutyourstories.ButIknowyou’llwriteus,howevermessyweare,andit’llbegood.”
“YouhavealotmorefaithinmethanIhaveinmyself.”
Momtappedmegentlyonthenoseandsmiled.“That’showIknowI’magoodmother.Now,theseoldbonesneedsomerest,”shesighed,andstood.Shekissedmeontheforehead.Intheporchlight,shelookedolderthansheeverhad.Weigheddownbysadness—butheldtogether,still,byhope.“I’llseeyouattheWaffleHouseinthemorning.Sweetdreams,dearest.”
Thenshewentintothehouse,andclosedthedoorbehindher.
Isatthereforawhilelongerasthewindbegantohowlthroughthetreesasthestormgrewcloser.Aflashoflightningstreakedacrossthesky.
Inmymemories,IcouldseeDadsittingonthestepsofthehouse,smokingastinkingcigarashewatchedthestormrollin,abeerinonehandandasmileonhisface,Momleaningherheadagainsthisshoulder,aglassofmerlotinherhand,hereyesclosedasshelistenedtotherumbleofthunder.
“There’snothinglikethesoundoftheskyrattlingyourbones,youknow?”heoncetoldmewhenIaskedwhyhelovedthunderstormssomuch.“Makesyoufeelalive.Remindsyouthatthere’smoretoyouthanjustskinandblood,butbonesunderneath.Strongerstuff.Justlistentothatskysing,buttercup.”
Anotherstreakoflightningcrawledacrossthesky,andIfinallysteppedoutintothenight.
Theairwasheavyandhuman.Alicesaidshecouldn’tsmelltherain,butIneverunderstoodhowshecouldn’t.Itwassodistinct,sofull,soalive,likeIwasn’tonlybreathingair,butthemovementofelectronssparkingtogether,ignitingthesky.
AsIstartedbacktowardtheinn,thunderrolledacrossthetowninabooming,house-shakingrattlethatleftmyearsringing.IhopedthatwhentheyeasedDadintotheground,thedirtwouldpartforthethunder.Ihopedthesoundwouldrattlehisbonesstill,makethemdance,liketheydidmine.Ihopedthat,whenthewindwashigh,blownfromsomefar-offshore,Icouldhearhimsinginginthestorm,asloudandhighandaliveasallthedeadI’deverheardsinging.
“Florence?”IheardBen,andsuddenlyhewaswalkingbesideme.
“It’sgoingtorainsoon.”
“Shouldn’tyoubeheadinghome?”
“Ialreadyam.”
Ipassedtheinnandkeptwalkingtowardthetownsquare.Itwasemptywiththenightandthecomingstorm.Andthentheraincamewithasoft,lowhum.Firstadroplet,thenanother,andthentheairbrokeandthehumidityrushedawaytocool,sharppinpricksofwater.Itiltedmyheadback,facetowardthethunderoussky.
InLee’sbook,whenitrained,Mairmontsmelledlikemudandpines,butstandinginthemiddleoftown,myflatsfloodingwithwater,theworldsmelledsharpfromtheoaksthatlinedthegreensandthesweetnessofthegrass.Hesaidthatwhenitrainedthetownwasquiet.
Butmyearswerefullofnoise.
Iwassoakedinamatterofmoments.TherainpassedrightthroughBen.Helookedasdryashehadbeenbeforebecausehewasn’trealanymore.Hewasaghost.
Buthewashere.Now.Inthemoment.Nevertheless.
“You’llcatchacoldifyoustayoutheremuchlonger,”saidBen.
“Iknow,”Ireplied.
“Andyou’regettingwet.”
“Ialreadyam.”
“And—”
“Idon’thaveanumbrella,oracoat,andit’scoldandit’sstormingandwhatifIgetstruckbylightning?”Ifinishedforhim,andtiltedmyheadback,andlettherainwashmyface.“Don’tyoueverdothingsyouaren’tsupposedto?”
Hedidn’trespond,soIguessedheneverdid.
MyentirelifewasbuiltonthosekindsofthingsthatIwasn’tsupposedtodo.Iwasn’tsupposedtomoveaway,andIwasn’tsupposedtoghostwriteforaromanceauthor,andIwasn’tsupposedtofailinturningthelastbookin,andIwasn’tsupposedtofallinlovewithLeeMarlow,andIwasn’tsupposedtocomebackhere.
Notlikethis.NotforDad’sfuneral.
“Itprobablyworkedoutbetterforyou,”Isaidtohim.“Thinkingeverythingthrough,followingtherules,beingwhoyou’resupposedto.”
TothatBenreplied,“Well,I’mdeadandIhavenothingtoshowforit.Nothingtoexistafterme.IwasjusthereandnowI’m…I’mgone.”Hesoundedfrustratedandsad.“Ihadsomanyplans—somany.AndnowIwillneverbeabletodoanyofthem,andIjust—Iwant—”
“Youwanttoscream,”Ifilledin.
Helookedatmeinsurprise.“Yeah.Ido.”
“Thendoit.”
Hepaused.“Doit?”herepeated.Andsuddenly—Benscreamed.Justaloud,viciousyellthatechoedoffthestorefrontwindowsandthetownhall.
Istaredathim,startled.
Hesaid,“Likethat?”
Asmilecurvedmymouth.Ididn’tthinkhe’dactuallydoit,but…“Doyoufeelanybetter?”
“Notyet,”hereplied.
Andhescreamedagain.Inhisvoicetherewasaggravation,andheartache,andsadness,becausehewasaghost,andhehadlefthislifebehind,andhehaddiedintheprimeofit—andIhadn’teventhoughtaboutwhathemust’vebeenfeeling.Tobedead.Tobeignored.Invisible.
Iwastheonlyonewhocouldhearhimscreaming.
Buthedidn’tdoitforotherpeople.Hedidn’tdoittobeheard.
SoItookadeepbreath,andIscreamedwithhim.Iscreamedintothehowlingstorm,andmyvoicewascarriedoffinthewind,itwasstruckdownbythunder,itwasdampenedbytherain.Iscreamedagain.Andagain.
Anditdidmakebothofusfeelalittlebetter.
25
Deadweight
BYTHETIMEImadeitbacktothebed-and-breakfast,Ilookedlikeadrownedratandmyteethwerechattering,butIdidn’treallycare.Ifeltokayagain—betterthanIhadsinceIlandedattheairport.Likeaweighthadbeen…notlifted,no,itwasstillthere,butithadgottenalittlelighter.Dadwasgone,andIwasgrieving,anditwasgoingtobeokay.
Itwasn’tyet—butitwouldbe.Ididn’tknowyoucouldfeellikethat.Ididn’tknowIcouldfeellikethatagain—okay.
Notgood,butbetter.
“Thankyou,”ItoldBenonceIlatchedclosedthewroughtirongatetotheinn,andstartedupthestonepathtothefrontporch.Therewasalightburninginthefoyer;Danasittingatthedeskreading.Ipausedinsidetheporch,soIwasnolongergettingrainedon,andturnedonmyheelsbacktotheghostofmydeadeditor.Iwasalmosteyelevelwithhimstandingonthethirdstep,thoughhewasstillalittletaller
“Ishouldprobablybesayingthat,”hereplied,hishandsinhispockets,sleevesrolleduptohiselbowstoexposethetattooonhisforearmagain.Itwasnumbers.Adate,Irealized.Fromaboutfiveyearsago.Andhalfofasignaturethatlookedfamiliar,butitwashalf-hiddenbyhissleeve.Helookedlessputtogetherthanhehadafewhoursbefore.Thetopthreebuttonsonhisshirtwereundone,histielostsomewhereinthenetherworldbetweenhereandthere.
Heasked,“Youalwaystakeghoststoscreamintherain?”
Itoremyeyesawayfromhisforearm.“No,IonlytakepeopleIlike.”
“Thenyoulikeme?”
“Ihaven’texorcisedyouyet.”
Hebarkedalaugh.“Anothertalentofyours?”
“Youshould’veseenthelastghost.Hadtoshoohimawaywithholywater.”
Helaughedagain,andshiftedonhisfeet.Westoodawkwardly.Myhearthammeredinmythroat,andIcurledmyfingerstightlyintomypalmsbecauseallIwantedtodowasreachout,brushhisfloppyhairoutofhisface.Heneededahaircut.Thenagain,Ilikedhishairwhenitwasn’tgelledtoperfection.Itcurledathisearsandatthenapeofhisneck,thekindofcurlsI’dwraparoundmyfingersandtoywith.
ThisfeltlikeoneofthosemomentswhenIshould’vesaidsomething.Anything.HowmuchIappreciatedhishelp,andhowmuchIlikedhimnear,andhowsorryIwasthathewasdead—
Wewereonaboatpassingunderabridge,forasecondintheshadow,amoment—themoment—likethemomentIfeltwithLeeinthatprivatelibrary,whenIacceptedhishandandlethimpullmetowardplacesunknown,likethemomentwithStaceyinthecollegebarinSoHo,whenheaskedmyfavoriteicecreamflavor,andQuinnwhenheofferedmeastickofgumincivics,andJohninhighschool,invitingmeouttopizzawithhisfriendsafterprom.Smallmomentsyoucatch,andkeepinglassjarslikefireflies,oryouletgo.
Icouldn’tcatchthismoment;Icouldn’tkeepit—Icouldn’tkeephim.Betterthananyoneelse,IknewwhathappenedwhenIgottooclosetosomeonealreadydead,whenIopenedmyheartandletsomeonein.Ithadhappenedbefore,andIfoundhismurderedcorpseontheRidgethreedayslater.Astupid,smallpartofmehadthoughthewasstillalive.Buthewasn’t.Hewasaghost.
Ben,too,wasaghost.Notalive.
Notreal
IfIwasn’tcareful,I’dmakethatmistakeagain.
Andheknewitwasamistake,too,becausewebothletthemomentpass,andfoundourselvesontheotherside.Hewasmeticulous.Hethoughtthingsthrough.Ofcoursehewouldn’tdoanything,hewouldn’tsayanything,he’dkeepmeatarm’slengthforbothofoursakes.
ButthenwhywasIsofrustratedthathedid?
Heclearedhisthroatandnoddedtowardthedoor.“Youshouldprobablygoinsidebeforeyoucatchyourowndeath.”
“Yeah,you’reright,”Ireplied,andquicklyturnedawayfromhimandwentinside.
Danawassittingatthefrontdesk,readinganotherbook.AnN.K.Jemisinfantasythistime.Theylookedupwhentheyheardthebellabovethedoorchime,andjumpedofftheirstool.“You’resoakingwet!”theycried,grabbingatowelfromunderneaththedesk,andcomingaroundthesidetohandittome.
“Thankyousomuch.”Itookthetowelfromthem,anddriedmyhairbeforeitdrippedallacrossthehardwoodfloor.ThenIwrappeditaroundmyselfandgaveashiver.“Damnweathertonight.”
“You’retellingme,”theyreplied,returningtotheirpost.“Theweatherappsdidn’tevengiveusawarning—”
“Oh,look,there’sourfamousauthor,”cameavoicefromthelivingarea.Achillcurleddownmyspine.Andthere,sittingsoproperlyinoneoftheIKEAchairsinthelivingarea,wasHeatherGriffin.
Everyonehadthatonepersonwhomadetheirhighschoolcareerunbearable,andHeatherwasmine.Wehadbeenfriendsforabriefmoment,untilshecametotheconclusionthatIwascrazyafterthemurdercase.SheneverbelievedthatItalkedwithghosts—shethoughtIwaslookingforattention.ShewasalsooneofthemainreasonswhytherestofMairmontthoughtso,too.
“Whowereyoutalkingtooutside,Florence?”Heatherwentonwithaninnocentlook.Shewasaccompaniedbyagroupofwomenwholookedlikeabookclub,laughingbehindtheircopiesofAnnNichols’sMidnightMatinee
“Iwasjust—youknow—talking.Tomyself,”Imumbled.Idiot.IwasanidiottogetsocomfortableinMairmont.Ishould’veknownbetter.
Outofthecornerofmyeye,Benmovedslowlyintothelobby,hishandsnolongerinhispocketsbutonhiships.Hestaredinatthebookclubwithpursedlips.
Dana,blessthem,leanedforwardontheirstoolandsaidloudly,“How’syourstay,Florence?Doyouneedanything?Towels,shampoo?Peaceandquiet?”theyaddedpointedly,dartingtheireyesatHeather.
Shesmoothedonasmileandpouredherselfaglassoflemon-infusedwaterfromthedispenseronthefarsideofthedesk.“Well,IknowwhenI’veoverstayedmywelcome.Itwasnicetoseeyou,Florence.Maybeweshouldcatchupsometime,”sheadded,scrunchinghernosewithagrin,andclippedherwaybackintothelivingarea,wherebookclubresumed.
Isighedandleanedagainstthedesk.“Damn.FortwosecondsI’dforgottenabouther.”
“Lucky.”Danalaughed.“Icouldsendyouupwithabottleofwine?We’vegotanewredinfromtheBiltmorethatisgloriouslybitter.”
“Don’ttemptme!IstillhaveDad’sobituarytowrite.AndIsomehowhavetofindwildflowers.”
“There’ssomegrowinginthebackgardenifyouneedthem.”
“Athousandofthem?”
Theywinced.“Yikes,sadlynot.”
“See,that’smyproblem.Andwildflowersaresovague—nevermindIdon’thaveathousanddollarstospendonafloristtofindmesome.”
Inthelounge,thebookclubtitteredsomemore.IwouldbelyingifIsaidIdidn’twanttohearwhattheyweresayingaboutMidnightMatinee.Benwasleaningagainstthedoorway,handscrossedoverhischest,listeninginonthem.Hisfacedidn’ttellmeanything,exceptthathewaseitherboredwiththeiranalysisofmywritingorhewasn’tpayingattentiontothematall.
“Hmm.”Danadrummedtheirfingersontheoakdesk,thinking.“YoucouldtrytheRidge,maybe?It’sbecomepartofthestateparknow.Youmightfindsomethere,iftheseason’snottooearly.”
Iwinced.“Yeah,I’vethoughtabouttheRidge.”Hadn’tbeenbacktheresincethatday.Ofcoursewildflowerswouldbethere,theoneplaceIdidn’twanttolook.Butitturnedout,Imightnothavehadthechoice.“Thanks.I’llhikeuptheretomorrowandseeit.”
“Great,andlemmeknowhowitgoes?”
“Surething.You’realifesaver.”
“Shucks!”
Igrabbedoneofthemintsfromthebowlandbegantoheadupthestairswhenmynamecaughtmyears—abarewhisper,butthere.Fromthelivingroom.Thewomeninthebookclubweretalkingaboutmenow,andifwhotheyhadbeeninhighschoolwasanyindication,itwasn’tanythinggood.Myshoulderstensed.
DanamouthedthatIdidn’thavetogo,butIdid.I’dspenttenyearsrunningfromtheseassholes,andIwassickanddamntiredofit.
BenwarnedasIpassed,“Don’tpickafight.”
Oh,Iwasn’t.
Heatherquicklyrightedherselfinthechairwithanairofinnocence.She’dbeenbentintowardsomeoftheotherwomen,whisperingovertheirbookmarkednovels.Iwonderedifthey’devenreadit,orifbuyingromancenovelstoneverreadandgossipoverthemwasthenewesttrend.HeatherlookedlikeIrememberedher,prettybrownhairandprettybrowneyesandaprettysmileoversoftpinklips.Sheworeasleekblackskirtandapaisley-printedblouse.IrememberedDadoncetellingmethatKarenhadhiredherasaclerkatherlegalfirmintown.
Shesmiledwithstrikinglywhiteteeth.“Wouldyoucaretojoinus?We’rebigfansofAnnNichols.”
Ibetshewas.
Iswallowedtherebukebubblingupinmythroatandsatdownonthefaintingcouchbesideher.“IloveMidnightMatinee.”
“Nicholshasn’twrittenabadbookyet,”saidoneoftheotherbookclubattendeeshappily.“Idevourallofthemthesecondtheycomeout.”
“Ihearthere’sanewonethisfall,”saidanotherwoman.Shewasolder,withcurlygrayhairandinaleopard-printsweater.“Haven’theardanythingaboutityet,though.”
IcouldfeelBenstaringatthebackofmyheadatthatcomment.
Heatheraskedmewithafixedsmile,“Whatwasthatonebookyouwrote,Florence?We’dlovetoreaditforourbookclubnextmonth.”
Ireturnedthesmile,anditwasarealone.“Seaburnsaidyoualreadyreaditwhenitcameout.”
“Oh?Must’veforgotten…”
Iwassureshehadn’t.Itookadeepbreath.Wrestledmyemotionsundercontrol.Iwasanadult,andIwasn’trunninganymore.“Iknowyoudon’tlikeme,Heather,andIknowitwasyouwhospreadthoserumorsaboutmeinhighschool—thatIwascrazyoradevilworshipperorwhatever.”
Shewentrigidanddartedhergazearoundtherestofthebookclub.Afewofthemwenttohighschoolwithus.Theyknew.Theothershadapassing,vaguerecollectionofwhathappened.Itwasasmalltown,afterall.“Itwashardlyjustme.ItwasBradleyandTJand—”
“Iforgiveyou.”
Sheblinked.“Excuseme?”
“AndIforgiveme,too,”Iwenton.“IwassowrappedupinwhateveryoneelsethoughtofmeIdidn’trecognizethatIactuallydidsomethinggood.”
“Youfoundabody,Florence,”shesaiddismissively,rollinghereyes.“Itwasn’tlikeyousolvedthecaseofwhat’shisname—”
“Harry.HisnamewasHarryO’Neal.”Mymouthflattenedintoathinline.“Hewasinourgrade.Hesatrightbehindyouinmath.”
Shenarrowedhereyes.Didsheremember?Probablynot.Sheprobablyhadn’tthoughtabouttheboymurderedontheRidgeinfifteenyears.
“Thethingis,Heather,”Iwenton,“Ibelievepeople.Evenifit’sweird,evenifitdoesn’tmakesense,Iwanttobelievethem.Iwanttoseethegoodinthem.IgivemyhearttoeveryoneImeetandIputitineverythingIdo.Andsometimesithurts—oftenithurts,actually…”AndIglancedbacktoBen,wishingIhadtakenthatmomentontheporchandtrappeditinajar.“Ican’tevercontrolhowsomeoneelsetreatsme,butIcancontrolhowIchoosetoliveandhowIchoosetotreatothers.AndI’dworriedaboutwhatotherpeoplethoughtandwhatotherpeoplewantedfrommeforyearsbecauseIactuallythoughtitmattered.”MyeyebrowsfurrowedasIrealizedthatIwasn’tjusttalkingaboutHeathernow,butLee,too.Peoplewhohadtakenwhattheywantedfromme,twistedmygoodintentions,andturnedthemintosomethingsour.
“Florence,Idon’tknowwherethisiscomingfrom,”Heathersaid,feigningshock,buttherestofthebookclubwasquiet.Somehadopenedtheirbooks;otherswerescrollingthroughtheirphones.Ididn’tknowwhattheythoughtofme,butIrealizedIdidn’tgiveasinglefuck.
“SoIforgiveyou,”Isaidtoher,“becauseyoudon’tunderstand,andI’mnotgoingtoexplainittoyou.Helikedyou,though.Harry.Rightupuntiltheend.”ThenIstoodandtookoneofthecookiesfromthecoffeetable,andbitintoit.“Havefun,y’all,”Iadded,andlefttheloungearea.
DanagavemeaweatheredsaluteasIclimbedthestairsandmouthed,“Holyshit.”
Holyshitindeed.Ididn’tletmyselfpauseuntilIwasalmostatthetopofthestairs.Myhandswereshaking.
Iletoutasolidbreathanddugaroundinmysatchelformyroomkey.
Bencameupthestairsbehindme.“Harry?He’stheboyyouhelped?”
“Yeah.WhenIwasthirteen,Harry—hisghost—cametomeoneeveninglikeyoudid,butIdidn’tthinkhewasdeadbecause,youknow,I’djustseenhimthatdayatschool.Buthewas.Wedidn’tknowwhyhewasstillaround.Hecouldn’trememberhowhedied,either.SoI…helpedhimfindout.”Itriednottothinkaboutthatyear,thepoliceinvestigation,thenationalnewscoverage,therumorsatschoolwherepeoplecalledmecrazyatbest,anaccompliceatworst.“Youknowtherest.”
Hesaid,abitsadly,“Youlikedhim.”
“Ialwayshavehadtolearnthingsthehardway.”Itriedatajoke,butitfellalittleflat.
Hereachedout,butthenstoppedhimselfandcrossedhisarmsoverhischest.Hisbicepsstrainedhistailoredshirt,notthatIwaslooking.BecauseIwasn’t.Becausehewassoveryoff-limits.
ThelockclickedandIshoulderedthedooropen.“Andanyway,thankyoufortonight.”
“Sweetdreams,”herepliedandpushedoffthewalltoleave.
Athoughtoccurredtomeashemadehiswaybackdownthehall.“Wheredoyougo?”Thequestionsurprisedhimbecauseheturnedbackaroundonhisheelstowardme.“Imean—ghostsdon’tsleep,so…”
Heshrugged.“Iwander.UntilIdisappear,thenIusuallyjustcomebacksomewherenearyou.”
“Andyoustilldon’tknowwhereyougo?”
Heshookhishead.
“Well,you’rewelcometo…”
Sitinmyroom,butthatsoundedweird.Itwasweird.ForallIknewIwasinvitinghimtostareatmewhileIsleptálaEdwardCullen.Hesaidhewasaromantic,soitwasreallyacointossonwhetherhe’dbeflatteredtorole-playTwilightoraghastthatI’dremotelyconsiderit.Ishookmyheadandsaid,“Nevermind.Haveagoodnight,Ben.”
“You,too,Florence.”
Iclosedthedoorandpressedmybackagainstit,becauseIfeltmyheartbeating—sofastitfeltlikeitwantedtojumprightoutofmychest.Hehadbeensoclosetome,socloseInoticedthethinscarunderhisrighteyebrow,andthebeautymarkabovehislip,andthefineblackhairsonhisarmsand—
“Iaminsomuchtrouble,”IsaidundermybreathasIopenedmylaptop.
AndnotjustbecauseIwasfallingfor—
Iwasn’tfalling.
Icouldn’t.
ItriednottoentertaintheideaasIpulledupDad’sobituaryagain,andstaredattheblankdocument.
ThenItookadeepbreath,andrememberingwhatmyMomtoldmeearlier,Istartedwithasimplestory.
Istartedwithgoodbye.
26
RidgesofthePast
IWASN’TTHEoutdoorsysortofperson.Infact,Ireallyhatednaturethatwasn’tgrowninacemetery.Ihatedthebugs,thehiking,thesnakesyouhadtowatchoutfor,thepalmettobugs,theants,theticks,theweirdhairycaterpillars,theraccoons.Onetimeinhighschool,onmywaytomycarinthemorning,Iwaschasedbyanopossumwithabenttail.Chased.Straighttomycar!
Igatheredveryearlyoninmylifethatnaturedidn’tlikeme,either.EvenwhenImovedtoNewYork,pigeonsdive-bombedmeandsewerratsalwaysseemedtozeroinonskitteringovermyfeet.Ididn’twanttotalkabouttheGodzilla-sizedcockroachesthatlivedinmyfirstapartment.Iwillneverbeabletositdownonthetoiletandpeeinpeacefortherestofmylifebecauseofthatdamninfestation.
Soitwassafetosay,hikinguptotheRidgethenextmorning,Iwasnothavingafuntime.NevermindthehistorywiththeRidge.Itwasn’tsomuchthatIavoideditbut…coupledwithhatingnature,Ineverreallyhadareasontocomeback.
Whatwasworse,Ihadn’tseenBenallmorning.Iwonderedwherehewas.Usuallyhewaitedformeinthelivingareadownstairs,butthismorningwhenIwenttofixmydailycupofbatteryacidtoheadtofamilybreakfast,hewasn’taround.
Icouldn’twaitforhim,either,soaftermywaffleandeggsIheadedfortheRidge.TherewasaforestpathonthefarsideofMairmontthattraileduptothefields.NowthatIthoughtaboutit,DaddidusedtopickwildflowerswhenhewentforwalksaroundtheRidge.He’dgatherabunchofdifferentcolorsandbringthembackdownthetrailwithus,andpresentthemtoMomathome.
ThetrailhadchangedinthedecadeI’dbeengone.TherewerenowbenchesalongthepathtocommemorateHarry,andthedirttrailwasmoredefined,butthetreesweremostlythesame—largeoldoaksandpinesunfurlingtheirleavesforspring.NewYorkseasonswerewonderful,sinceyouactuallygottoexperienceallofthem.InMairmont,itwaseitherwinterorsummer,withaweekofspringandfallinbetween.Thisweekmust’vebeenspring,andI’dcomedownatjusttherighttime.Themorningairwasbrisk,andthesunwasbright,andthewoodswerequiet.
ItwasjustmeandmygaspingbreathasItrekkedupthepath.
WhenIwasalmostatthetop,Ileanedagainstapine,bentover,tocatchmybreath.Sweatwasdrippingdownmybackandthatwasnotacomfortablefeeling.
“Youknow,mostpeopledon’thikeinflats.”
Ipulledmyselframrodstraight—andalmostblackedout.Bengaveayelp,flinginghishandstowardme,asIcaughtmyselfonatree.Iblinkedthespotsoutofmyeyes.“Whatwereyougonnado,catchme?”Iasked,annoyed.
“Itwould’vebeenrudenottotry,”hereplied.
“Oh,wellthen,thankyoufortheattempt.”
Hemockedabow.“Tryingtofindthosewildflowers?”heaskedasIpushedmyselfoffthetreeandclimbedthefinalfewstepstothetopofthetrail.
Thetreelineabruptlyended,andinitsplacestretchedawidemeadownearlyafootballfieldlongbeforeitdroppedoffabit—the“ridge”—andmoretreesbegan.Therewasabenchovertotheleftofme,andatrashcanthatsmelledlikeithadn’tbeenemptiedinatleastaweek.OnthefarsideoftheRidgewasasmallplaque,donatedbythetownandplacedbythetowncouncil,whereI’dfoundthebody.Harry’sdaddidn’tthinkanyonewouldfindhimouthereforatleastafewyears,soitsurprisedhimwhenpolicecameknockingonhisdooraweeklater.
LastIheard,hewasrottinginthestateprison.
WhatsurprisedmemostabouttheRidge,though,wasthatthefieldwascoveredinsmallwhitepuffs.Dandelions.Stretchingonandonlikeafreshpowderingofnewsnow.Itwasbeautiful,struckagainstthecontrastoftheclearbluesky.Icouldliedowninitandbeburiedbeneaththeblooms,totallysubmerged,andsleepthere.
Theywereweeds—technicallywildflowers,Iguessed,butnotthekindIwaslookingfor.
Iletoutalongbreath.“Well,shit.”
Benstoodbesideme,lookingoutontothefield.“Lotsofwishesthere.”
“What?”
“Youknow,wishes,”hereplied,motioningtothefield.“Didn’tyoueverblowondandeliontufts?”
“OfcourseIdid,”Ireplieddefensively.“It’sjustdandelionsareuselesstomerightnow.They’renotwhatIneed.”
“No,but…doyouthinkwecouldstayalittlelonger?”heasked,andmotionedformetofollowhimintothefield.Inthesunlight,helookedalittlemorewashedoutthanhedidintheshade,alittlemoreghostly,sparklinglikehewasmadeofthetwinklelightsIstrungupinmydormincollege.Thedandelionsbentsoftlyinthebreezethroughhisankles,andIwantedtowalkwithhim.
“Justalittle,”Iagreed.
Hewaitedformetocatchup,hishandsinhispockets,patientandtallasalways.“Imaginehowmanywishesyoucouldgetoutofthese.Atleastoneisboundtocometrue.”
Benneverstoppedfascinatingme.“Youbelieveindandelionwishes?”
“Statistically,oneisboundtocometruewithallofthesedandelions,soyes.”
“Andifyouonlymadeonewish?Onallofthem?”
Hetiltedhishead,actuallydebatingthequestion.Finallyhedecided,“Itdependsonthewish.”
Whatkindofwishwouldthatbe?
Ipluckedadandelionandtwirleditaroundbetweenmyfingers.“Thensetthescene,”Ibegan.“Whatwouldarefineddeadeditorwishfor?He’swalkingwithhischaoticauthor.It’smidmorning—well,probablyafternoonnow—andtherearehundredsofthousandsofdandelionstowishon.Whatwouldhewishfor?”
Theedgeofhislipstwitched.Thenhebentdownclosetome,andmyskinprickledathisnearness,andhesaidinasoftrumble,“Ifhetellsher,thenitwon’tcometrue.”
Mybreathcaughtinmythroat.“Shewon’tfinishhermanuscriptontime.”
“Hewouldn’twishforthat.Heknowsshe’sperfectlycapableofitonherown.Shejustneedsalittlemorefaithinherself.”Hisearsstartedturningpink.“Becauseeventhoughshecan’tseehowtalentedsheis,heknowsshe’llfigureitoutsomeday.”
“Andifshedoesn’t?”
“Maybethat’swhathewishesfor.Thatshedoes.”
Iquicklylookedaway,mycheeksburninginablush.“That’saterriblewish,”Iforcedout.“Wastedpotential—myeditorwouldcirclethatandtellmetorecast.”
Hequirkedaneyebrow.“Fine,thenwhatwouldtheauthorwishfor?”
“Worldpeace,”IrepliedsmartlybecauseIcouldn’tbeartotellhimthetruth.
ThatI’dwishthatthismomentinthefieldwouldlastforever.Thatweneverhadtoleave,thatwecouldfreezetimeandliveinthismomentwherethesunwashighandwarmandtheskywasacrystallineblueandmyheartbeatbrightinmychestandhewashere.
Iwantedamomentthatneverended.
Thismoment.
Standingthereinthemiddleofthedandelionfield,lookingupintoBen’ssoftochereyes,Ibegantorealizethatlovewasn’tdead,butitwasn’tforever,either.Itwassomethinginbetween,amomentintimewheretwopeopleexistedattheexactsamemomentintheexactsameplaceintheuniverse.Istillbelievedinthat—Isawitinmyparents,inmysiblings,inRose’sunabashedone-nightstandslookingforsomepeace.ItwaswhyIkeptsearchingforit,heartbreakafterheartbreak.Itwasn’tbecauseIneededtofindoutthatloveexisted—ofcourseitdid—butitwasthehopethatI’dfindit.ThatIwasanexceptiontoaruleI’dmadeupinmyhead.
Lovewasn’tawhisperinthequietnight.
Itwasayelpintothevoid,screamingthatyouwerehere
Bentookabreath.“Intruth,I’dwishfor—”
Aroarofwindsweptacrossthetrees,andwhenithitthefield,itpluckedupthewhitefluffofdandelionslikearoilingwaveontheocean.Itsweptacrossthefieldandrushedtowardmeinawhirlofseedsthatlookedlikesnow.Ishieldedmyfaceasthewavesplashedagainstme,overme,aroundme,andcarriedthedandelionsacrosstherestofthefieldandupintothecrystallinesky.
Iwhirledaroundandwatchedthemgo.“Holyshit,talkaboutspringwinds.Right,Ben?”Therewasnoresponse.“Ben?”
Buthewasgone.
27
GhostofaChance
WHENIREACHEDthebottomoftheRidge,Carver’sblueFordpickuptruckwasparkedinthelot.Hedippedhisheadoutoftheopenwindow,aJohnDeerehatflippedbackwardonhishead,andwavedmeover.Hehadabeautifullycarvedwoodenbirdcageinthepassengerseatthathe’dmadehimself,strappedinforsafekeeping.
IletoutalowwhistlewhenIsawit.“Isthatmahogany?”
Hescoffed.“Hellno.It’scherrywood.WhatdoyouthinkIam,madeofmoney?”
“Youdohaveasteadyhigh-payingjobintechandcantakeallofthevacationyouwantwhileworkingfromhomeso,like,yeah,Ido,”Ireplied.
Heplayfullyslammedmeonthearm.“Shush.JustwaituntilyousellthenextHarryPotter.Thenyou’llberollinginthedoughandeveryone’llwantyoutobetheirbestfriend—perhapswithbenefits,ifthey’relucky.”
Irolledmyeyes.“NoonewillsellthenextHarryPotter.Ithitazeitgeistthat’llneverbere-created,andbecausethereissomuchtochoosefromnow,it’snearimpossibletopredictthenextpublishingtrend—”
“Okay,okay,”hegroaned,“Igetit!Uncle,Icalluncle!”
Istuckoutmytongue,andthennudgedmychintowardthebirdcage.“What’sthatfor,anyway?”
Hegrinnedthen.“IgotanideaforapartofDad’swill.”
“Youwerethinkingaboutthat?”Iasked,surprised.
“OfcourseIwas!Whatdoyoutakemefor,anonmeddlingmiddlebrother?”
“Touché.”
“Okay,Isaywefeedthelittlefuckerswhokeepstealingthesquirrelfood,traptwelveofthem,andletthemgoduringthefuneral.”
“Thosearegoingtobesomemadcrows…”
“So?What’retheygoingtodo?Shitonmywindshield?”
“StealyourRolex.”
Helookedannoyed.“Doyouhaveabetteridea?”
“No,butIdolikethebirdcage—canyougivemearidebacktothebed-and-breakfast?”
“Sure,hopin.Justbecarefulwiththecage,”headdedasIwalkedaroundtotheotherside.Islidin,andnoticedacopyoftheDailyRamontheseat.Ipickeditup,andflippedthroughtotheback.“Theobitwaslovely,”headdedasIfoundit.
Good,theyusedoneofmyfavoritephotosofDad.It’dbeentakenafewyearsago,wheneveryonehadcometoNewYorktocelebratetheNewYearandwe’dallgrabbedourchampagneandclimbedthefireescapetotheroof.Hehadacigarinonehand,laughingintothenight,hisfacelitbyNewYear’sfireworks.Ismiledatthememory.
CarverpulledoutontotheroadagainandmadeaU-turnbackintotown.“Youknow—youdon’thavetodoallofthisalone.Ilovescavengerhunts.”
Ifoldedthenewspaperbackupandstuckitbetweentheseats.“Iknow,butyou’reallsobusy.I’mthebumofthefamily.”
“Iwouldn’tsaythat,”hereplied.“YoughostwriteforStephenieMeyer.”
“Noteventhesamegenre,bub.”
Heshrugged.“Worthashot.”HepickedupaSlimJimfromtheconsoleandtoreopenthewrapperwithonehand.“Wantsome?”
“Icanneverstopchewingit.”
“Halfthepoint.”Hebitintotheendandtoreitwithhisteeth.“Iheardyouhadarun-inwithHeather…”
Iwinced.“Wordgetsaroundthatfast?”
“Danacouldn’tstopgushingoverhowcoolyouwerewhenIranintothematthecoffeeshopthismorning,”hereplied.Werolledtoastopattheonlystoplightintown.Themayorwasmakinghisroundswithahighschooldogwalker,andhewasthehappiestboyashecrossedthestreetinfrontofus.Wewaved,andthehighschoolerwavedback.“IalsoheardyoutalkedtoMomaboutfeelingexcluded.”
Seriously,wasnothingsacredinthistown?
Irolledmyeyes.“It’sfine,sheexplainedit—”
“I’msosorry,”heinterrupted.
Thatsurprisedme.
“Iwasn’tthinking.NeitherwasAlice.Wejust…youneverwantedto…wethoughtitwouldbetoomuch,”heconfessed,“especiallyafterwenoticedthatyoustartedtalkingtoyour—”Hechangedcoursequickly.“Someonewecan’tseeagain.LikeDaddid.”
Iclenchedmyhandsintofists.“Didyouthinkhewascrazy,too?”
“Idon’tthinkyou’recrazy,Florence.”
“Thentellme,whatdoyouthink?”Isnapped.Eventhoughit’dbeentenyears,thatsameangerwasquicktosimmerbeneathmyskin.“ThatI’mtalkingtosomeimaginaryfriend?ThatI’mlosingit?”
“YouknowI’dneverthinkthat—”
“Fakingit—?”
“IsitDad?”heinterrupted.Oh.“Wouldyoueventellus?Orkeepittoyourself?Likeyoukeepeverythingelsetoyourself?Florence,thelonelyisland!”
Thatwasit.Iwasout.
FirstitwasBen,whodidamiraculousHoudiniactatjusttherighttime,andnowCarverwaslayingintomeaboutthingsIobviouslydidnotneedtoworkon.
Mypatiencewasalreadythin,butnowitwasabsolutelydemolished.
Ireachedforthehandleandforcedthetruckdooropen,forgettingIwasstillbuckledin.SoIunbuckledmyseatbelt,afteralmoststranglingmyself,andshovedmywayoutofthecar.“I’llseeyouatthewake,Carver.”
Hecursed.“No,wait,Florence—!”
Islammedthecardoorbeforehecouldfinishwhateverhewasabouttosay.Ididn’twanttohearit,anyway.Florence,thelonelyisland,wastiredandsweaty,andshedidn’twanttotalkaboutherfaultsbeforeanicehotshower.
AndwhatwasmoreworryingwasthatsomeonecaughtmetalkingtoBen,andtherumorswereatitagain.Ipulledmyjackettightlyacrossmychest,foldingmyarmstogether,asIhurriedbacktothebed-and-breakfast.Peopleweren’tlookingatmeasIpassed—butwhatiftheywere?Whatiftheywereleaningintowardeachother,whispering,“Theregoestheghostwhisperer,”andlaughingundertheirbreath?
Stopit.Theyweren’t.
Itwasmystupidbrainturtling.Thiswasn’thighschoolanymore.Iwasadecadeoutofit.Iwasolder.Iwaswiser.AnddespiteCarver,myheadwasstillfilledwiththememoryofdandelionsinthewind—andIrealizedthattherestofthisdidn’tmatter.
AndIwasokay.
Somehow.
28
DancingwiththeDead
IHADBEENtoplentyofwakesbefore,butneveronelikethis.
AsIslippedonmykittenheelsonthefrontporchandmademywaydownMainStreettowardtheDaysGoneFuneralHome,thetownsfolk,wearingblacksandreds,begantocloseuptheirstores,carryingplattersofcheeseandcrackersandlasagnaandfriedchickenandcollardgreensandvariousovenbakes.
Foranhour,Mairmonthadpaused,allsavefortheloneVictorianhousewithblackshuttersandwroughtironfencingontheparapets.ThecloserIgot,themorepeopletherewere.Aseaofpeople,spillingoutofthefrontdooranddownthesidewalk.
Seaburnwasstandingatthefrontgateinabrownsuit,anorchidinhispocket.HesawmeasIcrossedtheroad,andpulledmeintoatighthug.“Why’retheyalloutside?”Iasked.
“Well”—Seaburnextendedahandtowardthefrontdoor—“seeforyourself.”
Iwalkedupthepathwaytothefrontsteps,andhesitantlyopenedthefrontdoor—andstoppeddeadinmytracks.Becausetwoofthethreeparlorroomswerefullofflowers.Notjustanyflowers—wildflowers.Allseparatedbycolorinclearglassvases.Theremusthavebeen…theremusthavebeenathousandofthem.
Iwasbaffled.“How…howdid…”
Momcameoutoftheredparlorroom,whereDad’scasketsat.“Oh,Florence!Aren’talltheseflowerslovely?”
“Who…howdid…when—”
ThenHeathersteppedoutofoneoftheparlorrooms,wipingherhandsoffonahandkerchief.Whatwasshedoinghere?Ibegantoaskthatexactthingwhensheoutstretchedherhandtomeandsaid,“Yourdadwasagoodman.Wewillalwayswanttohelpwhenwecan.Andyouwereright.Butpeoplechange.Evenme.”
Ilookeddownatherhand,thenatheragain.“You…didthis?”
“Danahelpedme,”Heatherreplied,notretractingherhand,waiting.“Weorganizeddonationslastnightandthismorningtobuyanddelivertheflowersneeded.I’msorry,”sheadded.
Ididn’tknowifshewastellingthetruth,orifshehadsomeulteriormotives—tolookbetterifwordgotoutaboutourconfrontation?Topaintmeasthespoiledwomanwhonevergrewup?See?Heatherdidchange,itwasFlorencewhocouldn’tletthepastdie!
Or…maybethatwasmybrainbeingcoldandbitter.Thinkingeveryonehadanulteriormotivewhenmaybe,thiswasjustwhatitlookedlike.
Itookherhand.“Thankyou,”Isaid.
Weshook.
Thenshetookthevaseofbluewildflowersanddisappearedintotheblueparlorroom.MommotionedformetocomeintotheviewingroomwhenIwasready.
Seaburnelbowedmeintheside.“Goseeyouroldmansowecanopenupthehouse.”
“Yeah,Ishould.”
Ibreathedoutalongbreath,steelingmyshoulders.Onestepatatime.CarverandAlicewerewaitinginsidetheredparlorroom—Dad’sfavoriteroom—andoutstretchedtheirhandstome.Itookthem,andsqueezedthemtightly,andtogetherwewalkeduptothedarkmahoganycasketdecoratedinwildflowersofbluesandredsandyellowsandpinks,tobegintofigureouthowtosaygoodbye.
Theafternoonwasablurofpeopledriftinginandoutofthefuneralhome,shakingmyhandandgivingmetheircondolences.Casserolesbegantopileupintherefrigeratorinthekitchen,andmorethanonebottleofchampagnewasspilledonthehardwoodfloors.Theentiretownwashere,crowdedintotheoldVictorianhouseandacrossthelawn,intheirbestblackclothes.TheypaidtheirrespectstoDadoneatatime,andthethreeDaysiblingsstoodofftotheside,ourhandsclaspingoneanother’s,keepingourselvesupright.Momwasstalwart,sippingonaglassofchampagne,sogracioustoeveryonewhocametosaytheirgoodbyes.
“Ofcoursehe’dbeburiedinthatgod-awfulredsuit,”Karensaid,dabbinghereyessohermakeupwouldn’trun.“Ofcoursehewould.”
“Alicedidagreatjob,”Johnsaid,inhisbestblackboatershorts,blackshirt,andpizzahat.“Lookslikehe’sstillkickin’.”
Someoneelsesaid,“Hewassoproudofyou.”
Andeveryoneelsejustwentbyinablur.Ibarelyregisteredtheirfaces.
“Youthreearethebestkidsanundertakercouldhave.”
“Soproud.”
“Greatguy.”
“Hewassoproud.”
“Suchagoodman.”
Mybottomlipwobbled,butIbitittokeepmyselffirm.WheneverIfeltmyselfgivingway,Carverwouldsqueezemyhandtightly,asiftoask,Doyouneedamoment?AndIwouldsqueezebackthatIwasokay,andtightenmygriponAlice’shand,too.Theworldspunon,andwewerestillhere.
Whenthelastofthevisitorsfinallyleft,includingMrs.Elizabethinaprettypinksuitbecause,shesaid,“Blackisn’tmycolor,”withherghostlyhusbandintow,Iclosedthefrontdoorandlockedit.Thesmellofthewildflowerswassooverpowering,weelectedtokeepsomeofthewindowscrackedtoairtheplaceout.Butevenwiththemopen,thefuneralhomefeltsoquiet,Ialmostcouldn’tstandit.Mombusiedherselfintheredparlorroom,pickingupthedriedflowersoffthegroundandsituatingthewildflowervases.Thearrangementswouldn’tbemoveduntiltomorrow,whenwehadthegravesideservice,andIhadtowonderhowwe’dgetallofthesedamnflowershauledovertothecemetery.
Ileanedbackagainstthefrontdoorandbreathedoutalongbreath.
“Everythingokay?”
Iglanceduptowardthevoice.Benwasstandingawkwardlyinthemiddleofthefoyer,hishandsagaininhispockets.Ihadn’tseenhimsincehedisappearedontheRidge,andIfeltinstantlybetterjustseeinghim.Hispresencewasabalm.
“Youmissedallthefun,”Isaidingreeting,wipingtheedgesofmyeyes.ThankfullyI’dwornwaterproofeyelinertoday.
Heglancedaround.“Thewake…isoveralready?HowlongwasIgone?”
“Afewhours,”Ireplied.TheRidgefeltlikeanelephantintheroom.Whathadhebeenabouttosay?Whatwouldhehavewishedfor?
“Areyouokay?”heasked,worried.“Imean—that’sthewrongquestion.Is…isthereanythingIcando?”
Eventhoughhecouldn’tinteractwiththeworld,eventhoughnooneelsecouldseehim,eventhoughIwastheonewhowassupposedtobehelpinghim…“You’reverythoughtful.”
“You’rehurting.It’shardtosee.”
“AmIthatuglyacrier?”
“No—Imeanyes,butno—Imean…”Hepursedhislips.“IwishIcoulddosomething.Anything.Takeyouinmyarmsandhugyouandtellyouthatthingsaregoingtohurtforawhile,butitgetsbetter.”
Aknotformedinmythroat.Thegroovesonthefrontdoorpressedintomyback,Ileanedsohardagainstit.Isn’tthatwhatIhadwantedtotellhim,whatfeltlikeeonsago?“Doesit?Getbetter?”
Henodded.“Bitbybit.Ilostmyparentsatthirteeninacaraccident,andmygrandmotheradoptedme.Thisismydad’sring,”hesaidashetookoffhisnecklace,felttheringbetweenhisfingers.“IkeepitwithmesoIdon’tfeelsoalone.Shetoldmethatyoudon’teverlosethesadness,butyoulearntoloveitbecauseitbecomesapartofyou,andbitbybit,itfades.And,eventually,you’llpickyourselfbackupandyou’llfindthatyou’reokay.Thatyou’regoingtobeokay.Andeventually,it’llbetrue.”
“Yourgrandmasoundslikemydad,”Isaid,andsniffed,wipingmyeyeswiththebacksofmyhands.
Hecurledhisfingersaroundhisringandputitinhispocket.“I’msorry,Florence.Iknowyou’veheardthosewordsalottoday,but…”
“Thankyou,”Ireplied.“You’vebeenreallygreat.”AndthenIcouldn’thelpit—Ilaughed.“Oh,god—Ijustrealized.Benandbeen,getit?Yourname?It’saplayon—I’msorry,you’retryingtohaveaseriousmomentandI’m…amess.”Iscrubbedmyfacewithmyhands,mortified.
“You’veBenwaitingtomakethatjoke,haven’tyou?”hecommentedwryly
“I’veBenresisting,honestly.”
Hesighed,andthengavethesmallestchuckle.Itcrackedthesidesofhisface,andtherewasasmile.Ialmostcouldn’tbelievemyeyes.Ibenttowardhimtogetabetterlook.“What?”heasked.
“Iwantedtoseeifyouwereactuallysmiling,orifIwashallucinating.”
“You’resostrange.”
“Absolutely.Don’tyouwishyou’dneverletmewalkoutofyouroffice?”Ijoked.
“Yes.”Hesaiditsoresolutely,itmademeblush.
Wasthatyourwish?TheonefromtheRidge?Iwantedtoask,butitwouldn’tdoanygood.Iwasheretohelphimmoveon,andhewasheretoleave.
Ghoststoriesneverhadhappyendings.
“Well,yougotofflucky,then,”Ireplied,grabbingthetinytrashcanfrombesidethedoor,andIstartedpickinguptrashtheguestsleftbehind.Plasticchampagneglassesandnapkinsfromthefingerfoodsoutside.Itwaslikepeopleforgottrashcansexisted.
Forthenexttwentyminutes,Iwalkedaroundthefuneralhomeinthesilence,rightingeverything,cleaningthetables,closingtheguestbook.
WhenIroundedtotheredroomwhereCarverstood,lookingdownatDadinthecoffin,Ipaused.Hewasmutteringquietlyunderhisbreath,andslowlyreachedoutahandtoDad’s,foldedsoneatlyoverhischest,andresteditthereforamoment.
Quietly,Ibackedoutoftheroom.
Benleanedagainstthedoorway,lookingintotheroomwithmydad’scoffin.Hesaid,“IlikeyourDad’sstyle.Greattux.”
“Itwashisfavorite,”Ireplied.
Carvergentlyclosedthelidofthecoffin.Forthelasttime.ThenhemovedoutoftheredparlorroomwhereDadwasandgatheredupthecupsfromtheendtable.Iluggedthetrashcanwithme,andhelditoutforCarvertodumpthecupsinto.
Astereosatatopthetable,usuallyreservedforsomesortofsomberorganmusicduringwakesandvisitations.Icouldn’trememberifwehaditplayingtoday.
Mybrothergaveasadsortofsmileashisfingersskimmedacrossthestereobuttons.“RememberwhenDadplayedmusicwhilewecleanedup?”
Igroaned.“HehadBruceSpringsteenonrepeat.”
Hechuckled.“Rememberthattimehepulledhisbackoutwailingonanairguitarto‘BorntoRun’?”Hiseyessqueezedattheedges,pricklingintheonlywayheknewhowtocry.Hisvoicewasthickashesaid,“God,Florence,Iwishhewashere.”
“Me,too.And—Idoneedhelp.Withthewillthing.Mostlythecrows.Andyour…cherrywoodbirdcage.”
Hegaveamockgasp.“Oh.My.God.IsFlorenceDayactuallyaskingforhelp?”
“Pleasedon’tmakethisabigdeal—”
“Al!”hecalledtoouryoungestsister,intheblueroom.“Florenceactuallyaskedforourhelp!”
Alicepokedherheadoutofthedoorway.“Fuckthat,”shereplied.
“Sothat’sayes?”Irebutted,andmysisterstuckouthertongueandwithdrewintotheblueroomagain.
Carverbumpedhisshoulderagainstmine.“Alwaysayes.”ThenMomcalledhimfromthethirdparlortohelphermovesomevases,andhescrubbedmeontheheadashewent.Ismootheddownmyhairagain,mutteringtomyself.
“Question,”Bensaid,comingbacktomeasIfinishedcleaningthetablewiththestereo.“DidLeegetanythingright?”
“Hmm?”
“Inhisbook.”
Itiltedmyhead.“HewrotethatwelistenedtoBeethoven’sFürElise—Carverwentthroughaclassicalmusickick—andthatDaddancedwithskeletons.Whichhedid,”Iadded,“butonlyonHalloween.”
Hesnortedalaugh.“Ibetitwasterrifying.”
“Oh,absolutelynot.He’ddothisthingwherehe’dthrowhisvoiceandmoveSkelly’sjaw—itwasfunny!Hewasfunny.Andmaybealittlefunnylooking,”Iconceded,andabsentlyranmyfingersacrossthestereo’sbuttons.“IthinktheworstpartisthatLeethoughtmychildhoodwassomethingsadandlonely.Andmaybesometimesitwas.Anditwasn’talwaysgreat—butgod,Ben,itwasgood.Itwasbrokenalittle,andbangedup,butitwasgood.”IpulledopenthedrawerbeneaththestereotoshowBentheCDswehad,theonesDadplayed.“Itwassogood.”
BecauseDadcollectedsongsanddancedMomaroundtheparlor—andtogethertheytaughtushowtosaygoodbye.Theytaughtusalotofthingsthatmostkidsrarelyeventhoughtof.Theytaughtushowtogrievewithwidows,andhowtoconsoleyoungkidswhodidn’tquiteknowdeathyet.Theytaughtushowtoputmakeuponcorpsesanddrainoutthebloodtoreplaceitwithformaldehyde,howtoarrangeclothessothehospitalbruisesfromtheIVsandshockpaddlesandstickersweren’tquiteasprominent.Howtoframeflowersonacaskettodisguisehowfewsomepeoplereceived.MomandDadtaughtussomanythings,andallofitledtothis.
Theygaveusthetoolstofigureoutwhattodowhentheyweregone.
AndnowDadwas.
ItookoutthetopmostCD.AburnedsilverdiscwithDad’sscratchingscrawlonit.
GoodGoodbyes
Icouldn’trememberhowmanytimes,afterlongviewingsandsadwakes,Dadwouldcallustothefuneralhometohelpcleanup—justlikethis.Justlikenow.TheDaysGoneFuneralHomewassmall,andDaddidn’tlikeoverworkinghisemployeesifhedidn’thaveto,soheworkedusinstead.IalwaysmadelikeIhatedit,thetoo-cleansmellofdisinfectantandfloralbouquets,thebrightrooms,thedeadpeopleinthebasement,butIhadasecret:
IneverhateditasmuchasIsaidIdid.
BythetimeMomhaddraggedmeandCarverandAlicetothefuneralhome,usuallyonschoolnights,Dadhadalreadyshruggedoutofhiscoat,hissleevesrolleduptohiselbows,exposingthetattooshe’dacquiredinhisyouth(thatmostofMairmontwouldgaspatiftheyknew).He’dputonthisCD,andbeckonusintothehouseofdeathwithasmileandagoodsong.
“Wantalisten?”IaskedBen,showinghimthedisclikeitwasasecret.
“Whatisit?”
IputtheCDintothestereo,andpressedplay.
Thehissofthespeakerssighedthroughtheparlor,andIclosedmyeyes,andthemusicstarted.Theantiquatedbophoppedfromroomtoroom,theshakeofthetambourine,happyandjoyfulandlight,andfinally—finally—IfeltlikeIwashome.Thesongsettledintomybonesasifitwantedmetomove,likeitwantedmetothrowmyarmsup,totwirl,tojump.
Ididn’tneedtoseewhereIwasgoing.Everycornerofthisfuneralhomewasmychildhood,everyinchsearedintomysoullikealong-losttreasuremap
IrememberedDadstandingbythestereo.Irememberedthesnapofhisfeet.PointingtoMom,beckoningherclosewithanorchidinhismouthandtheshakeofhiships.
“Ididn’texpectthis,”Benremarked,surprised.
“Wearefullofwonders,BenjiAndor.”ImimedthetambourineasIboppeddownthehallway.
Carver,puttingtheguestbookawayintheoffice,lookedatmelikeI’dlostmymindasMompokedherheadoutofthesmallestparlorroom.Asmiletuggedattheedgesofherrose-redlips.
“What’sthatmusic,babe?”askedNicki,fixinghisrolled-upsleeves.Hemust’vebeentheonehelpingMomsituatetheflowersfortomorrow.
“Dad,”Carverreplied,andhewasfightingasmileasIwiggledtheinvisibletambourine.
Iundidmyhairfromitstightbunandshookitout,becausethewakewasover,andbegantosingalongtotheFoundations’“BuildMeUpButtercup”Dadusedtoturnupthestereoasloudasitwouldgo,soloudIwassurethecorpsesrattledinthebasement,andtakeMombythehand,mouthingthewords,andshe’dlaughastheydancedthroughparlorssoaccustomedtodeath,andtheylookedlikehome.
Theywerehome.
Thiswashome.
BecauseDadleftusthings—littlethings—sothatwewouldn’tbealone.SoMomwouldn’tbealone.Sohecouldstillbewithus,evenifjustinthemelodyofasong.Anysong.Everysong.NotjusttheFoundations,orBruceSpringsteenorBonJoviorFleetwoodMacorEarth,Wind&FireorTaylorSwift.
Whateversong,whatevermadeusfeelalive.
Carvergrabbedhispartnerbythehand,andpulledhimintothehalltodance.
Thegoodgoodbyes.
IalwaysthoughttheCDwasmeantforthepeoplelaidupincoffins,withfloralarrangementsandbouquetsandguestbooks—andmaybeitwas.
Butmaybeitwasfortheliving,too
Tokeepusmovingforward.
Benwatchedwithabaffledlook,somisplacedinafuneralhomefilledwithlightandsound,andbeforeIcouldstopmyselfIreachedouttotrytotakehishand,togethimtodancewithus—whenmyhandfellthroughhis.
Hegaveasadsortofsmile,andoutstretchedhishand.“Wecanpretend.”
“Ilikepretend,”Ireplied,andreachedoutmyhandagain,hoveringitoverhis.ThenImimedtakinghisotherhandandheplayedalong—
Andsuddenlywewereallmovingandsinging.Hetwirledmeout,andbackin,andIlaughedinawayIhadn’tinyears.AndBenwassmiling.Really,trulysmiling.Itsentashockstraightthroughmycorebecausehe’dneversmiledlikethatbefore.Atleastnotforme.
Hewasbeautiful.
Itmademyheartskipatthethought,andthenthemusic,rattlinginmybonessobrightly,andIrecognized—quitesuddenly—thisfeeling.ItwasthekindIwroteaboutyearsago,thekindhetalkedabout,thekindthatitchedjustbeneathmyfingers,lostonthedoorstepofsomeBrooklynbrownstone—orsoIthought.
Itwastheanswertoaquestion,softandsubtle,butitwasthere—thekindoffeeling,thishope,thathadjustbeenhiding,waitingforsomespectertotakemyhandanddancemeacrossthefloorboards.
Itfelt,foramomentintime,likehappiness.
29
WhentheDeadSing
“PIZZA’SHERE!”ALICEcalledasshebroughtaboxofDomino’sintothekitchen.Wewereallsittingaroundthekitchentableatthehouseplayingspades—Mom,Alice,Carver,Nicki,andme(well,andBen,buthewassittingonthecounterbesidethesink,welloutofthewayofanyoneafterNickiaccidentallypassedthroughhimearlier,shivered,andsaid,“Ithinksomeonerolledovermygrave”).Alicetookdowntheplatesfromthecabinetandsetthemdownbesidethepizzabox,beforegrabbingahelpingforherselfandMom.“Noonelookedatmycards,right?”sheaskedasshesatbackdownatthetable.
“Notasoul,”Carverlied.Nickipushedhischairbacktogetplatesforthemboth.
Aliceeyedourbrother.“Liar.”
“Sister!Youhurtme!”
“You’venevernotcheatedatspades,”Ipointedout,leaningbackinmychairtograbaslice.MyhandwasabsolutelyterribleandIwaslosing,butIwastoostubborntogiveup.Theloserhadtocleanupthekitchen—anditwasnotgonnabeme.Ihadskirtedthatresponsibilityfortenyears.
I’dbedamnedifIwasgonnastartnow.
CarverthankedNickifortheplateandcasuallykissedhimonthecheek.Wewereallstilltechnicallyinourwakeclothes,butwe’dlostourjacketsandshoesandmostofourjewelrybythen.Ahalf-emptybottleofMaker’ssatonthetable,alongwitheveryone’sglasses.
“Iam,bynomeans,acheater.Nicki,tellthemI’magoodandhonestman,”Carverwenton.
NickipattedCarverontheshoulder.“Youarehonestlysomething.”
“Babe!”hecried.
Benchuckledagainsthisshoulder.Ididn’tthinkhenoticedmewatchinghim,notatfirst,notashetookinmyfamily.AliceandherchippedblacknailsandCarverandhisboyfriendsneakingsofttouchestoeachotherandMomhumming“BuildMeUpButtercup”quietlytoherselfassherearrangedhercardhandagainandagain.Itwasendearing,thewayhepushedhisfingersthroughhishair,andleanedforwardtosneakalookatCarver’shand,andhowhelaughedwheneverAlicemumbledsomethingsmarttoherself.
AndIthought—withapangofsadness—howmuchDadwould’velikedhim.
Hefinallycaughtmestaring,andquirkedathickblackeyebrow.Iwasinthemiddleofshovingpizzaintomymouth,andquicklylookedaway.“So,wherewerewe?”Iaskedbetweenamouthfulofcheese,settingthepizzadownonthetableliketheheathenIwas.Hedidn’tcatchmelooking,Iliedtomyself.
Hedidn’tseeanything.
“NickiandIwereabouttokicky’all’sasses,”Carverreplied.
Momsatquietlyattheheadofthetable.Shetookanothersipofherdrink.“Now,now,sweetie,XavierandIneverraisedyoutolie.”
“Mother!NowI’mgettingsnipedfrombothsides?”
“ObviouslyI’mwinning,”sheadded,andwiththatdrewacardfromherhandandsetitdownonthetable.Ajackofhearts.Whichmeant,inspades,thatifyouhadaheart,youhadtoplayit,andwehadplayedheartsonlyoncebeforeduringthisgame.Ifyoudidn’thaveaheart,youcouldtrumpwithaspade.
I,sadly,hadaheartleft.Two,actually.
Aliceflippedacardoutofherhand.Shetosseditintothemiddle.Afourofhearts.Excellent.Carverplayedaneightofclubs.Whichmeantheeitherdidn’thaveheartsorspades…orhedecidedtothrowacard.BecauseheknewNickiwouldwinthehand.
Carvermadeatickingsoundwithhistongue.“Yourturn,sis.”
Ichewedonmythumbnail.
“Ordoyougotnothing?Ifyoulosethishand…it’sdishesforyou,”headded.
“ThankgodIdon’thavetodothemforonce,”Alicesighed.
Beneasedhimselfoffthecounterandcamearoundthekitchen.Heleanedoverme,hishandanchoredonthetable,ahmmmmmsoftinhisthroat.Wherehewasnearme,myskintingledwithcold.Itfeltlikewhenyourhandgoesnumb,quitetheoppositeofifhewerealiveandleaningsoclose.Iwonderedwhathehadsmelledlikewhenhewasalive.Whatcologneheused,whatshampoo,whathelookedlikenaked—
“Toughchoices,”hemused.“You’reinarealpickle.”
“Shush,I’mtryingtofigureoutwhattodo,”Isaid,tellingmyselfthatmycheekswereburningbecauseofthewhiskey,anddrainedtherestoftheglass.Theiceclinkedatthebottom.
“Youshouldplaythatone,”hesuggested.“Nickihasaheartleftand—”
“I’mnotgoingtocheat—”
“Whatareyouwhispering?”Carveraskedthroughamouthfulofpizza.
Aliceadded,tongueincheek,“Yourghostfriendhelpingyouout?”
“No,”Irebuked.
Carveragreed.“Ifshehadaghostfriendhelping,shewouldn’tbelosingsobadly.”
Nickislappedhimonthearm.“Benice!”
“Iam!”
Benbentdownagainstmyearandsaid,thewordsalowrumbleinhisthroat,“Annihilatethem.”
Iwasthinkingthesamedamnthing.Itwasn’tcheatingifnooneknew.Ipulledthequeenofheartsfrommyhandandslammeditdowninthemiddleofthetable.And,likeBensaid,Nickihadtoplayhishearts.Iwontheround.
Andthenextone.MyfamilywouldplaytheirhandsandthenBenwouldadvisemeonwhattoplaynext,hisvoiceticklingmyear.
WhenItookthefifthroundinarow,Carvercrossedhisarmsoverhischest.“Well,thisisn’tveryfair.”
“Whateverdoyoumean?”Iask.
Momrecordedthescore.“Florence,you’reonlytwentybehind.”
Hethrewhishandsup.“That!You’renotthisgood.”
“WhatifIam?”
Momsetdownherpenandgavemealevellook.“Florence,isyourghostfriendhere?”
Alicerolledhereyes.“Mom,youknowshewon’ttalkaboutit—”
“Heis,”Iinterruptedmysister.MaybeitwastheglassandahalfofMaker’sinme,ormaybeitwasjustbeinginproximitytoBen,feelinglikeIwassafe.InawayIhadn’tfeltinaverylongtime.
“He?”Carverenunciated.
Alicenarrowedhereyesatme.“You’recheating.Tellyourghostiefriendtostoplookingatmyhand!”
“It’sBen,preferably,”theghostsaid.
“He’dratherbecalledBen,”ItoldAlice.
“Sure,sure,Ben,”shesaid,and—asifsensingBenmovingoverbehindher—snappedclosedherhandandputthecardsfacedownonthetable.“Tellhimifhe’sgoingtobesittingherelookingatourcards,hecanatleastplaywithusandletmekickyourass.”
“Strongwordscomingfromsomeonewhosehighestcardisatenofpuppy-toes.”
Iblinkedathim.“Youmeanclubs?”
“Puppy-toes,”herepeatedwithashrug.
Aliceeyedmesuspiciously.“Whataboutclovers?”
“Clovers?It’sclubs.”
“AsIsaid:clovers.”
Iignoredher.“Hesaidyou’vegotstrongwordsforsomeonewhosehighestcardisatenofclubs,”Itoldher,andhereyeswidened.Shejabbedafingeratme.“Ohthat’snotfair!Automaticdishduty!Cheater!”
Carverpressedhiscardsagainsthischest.“Hasheseenmyhand,too?”
“Seriously?”Iadded,baffled.“Not‘Ohmygod,ghostsarereal!’Or‘Ohmygod,thishouseishaunted!’?”
Myfamilyshooktheirheads—evenNicki.
“Xavierdidthesamething,sweetie,”Momclarified.
Carveragreed.“Howelsedoyouthinkhealwayswonatthosepokergames?”
“Canyourghost—Ben,sorry—playspades?”Momasked.
“Ihaven’tinawhile,”Benmuseddelightfully.
Inodded.“Yeah,hecan.”
“Good!Becauseyou’reterrible,sorry,sweetheart.Hecanhelpyou—butnomorecheating,areweclear?”
“Crystal,Mrs.Day,”Benreplied.
“Hesaid”—andIadoptedmybestBenimpression—“?‘Crystal,Mrs.Day.’?”
“Idonotsoundlikethat.”
“Youdefinitelydo,”Ireplied.
Momlaughed.“TellhimtocallmeBella.IhateMrs.Day.Nicki,dear,it’syourturn.”
Andthatwasthat.Bencamebackaroundtostandbehindmeandpointatcards,mutteringabouttheprobabilityofmyfamilymembershavingcertainhands,andwhichweresafesttoplay.Ialwaysthrewdowncardsasachaosagent,buthewasmeticulousandstrategic,muchlikehowhekepthisoffice.Sometimeswhenheleanedovermetopointatacard,mutteringlowandquickly,ashiverwouldcrawldownmyspinebecauseIlovedthewayhetalkedsoftly,pinpointsontheedgesofhiswords—
Loved
Oh.
Afewroundslater,wealldecidedtocallitagame.Carverhadwon,whichwasnosurprisetoanyofus,andNickipolitelythanked“theghost”forplaying.Theyleftthekitchen,laughingabouthowIwasstillsaddledwiththedishesdespitehavingghostlyhelp.Icouldheartheminthelivingroom,talkingloudlyaboutthevisitorsfromthewake
AsIpulledinallthecardsandshovedthembackintotheirboxwiththejokers,Momsaidtomeasshecleanedoffthetable,“Hewasalwaystorn,youknow,aboutthegiftyoushared.Hewishedyoucould’vechoseninsteadofbeingburdenedwithsomethingyoudidn’twant.”
Thatsurprisedme.“Ineverthoughtaboutitthatway.Ialwaysthought…itwould’vebeenputtobetterusewithsomeonelikeAliceorCarver.They’resomuchbetterthanIam.”
“Ithinkyouallwouldhavehadhillstoclimb.AliceishotheadedandCarverisfickle.Yougivetoomuchofyourheart.Likeyourfather.”Sheputthedishesinthesinkandturnedonthewater,waitingforittowarm.
Oneofmybiggestflaws.“Whatdoyouthink’sintheletterthatIhavetoread?”
Momgaveathink.“I’mnotsure,actually.”
“You’vegottahavesomeidea.”
“Ido,”sheagreed,“butI’mnotsure.Thoughwhateveritis,hewantedyoutoreadit.”
“Butwhy?AliceandCarveraremuchbetteratspeakinginfrontofpeople!”
“Becauseheprobablyfeltlikeyouneededtothemost,”Momreplied,andsqueezedDawnsoapovertheplatesinthesink.“Honestly,youthinkIunderstoodeverythingthatwentoninthatman’shead?Ofcoursenot.Healwayssurprisedme.Ithinkhewillagain.Areyouhelpingthisghostfriendofyours?”sheadded,changingthesubject.
“She’sdoingawonderfuljob,”Bencommented.
“I’mtryingto,”Ireplied,decidingnottodogherabouttheletteranymore.“He’sleaningbesideyou.Againstthecounter.Toyourright—Imeanleft.”
Momturnedtoherleftandsaid,“You’rewelcomehereanytime,Ben.”
“Itwouldbeatreat,”Benremarked,andIbitinasmilebecauseIwonderedwhatMomwouldreallythinkofhim,sotallhisheadalmostbrushedagainstthetopofthedoorframe,hisdarkhairfloppyandhiseyesbright.
“Hesaysthankyou,”Itranslated.
“Good.Now—”
“Dishes!”Carverpointedatme,stickinghisheadbackintothekitchen.“Youlost!”
“Ididnot!”Iargued.
“Youcheatedandyoustilllost!Mom,stopdoingthedishes—”
“Igotthem,”Aliceinterjected,shoulderingpastCarver.
“But,Alice—”
“Chill.Idon’tmind.Youlooktired,”mysisteraddedtome,takingthespongefromMom.“Youshouldprobablygetsomesleep.We’llseeyoutomorrow.”
Ihesitated.“ButIcandothem…”
Sherolledhereyes.“Fine,wecandoittogether.Mom,IthinkCarverwantstogosetthatwoodencageouttoseeifhecantrapthosedamnbirds,andNicki’sscaredshitlessofthem—”
Fromtheotherroom,Nickicried,“Iamnot!”Then,afteramoment,headded,“Buttheyareterrifying!”
AlicegaveMomalook.“Canyouhelphimsohedoesn’thurthimself?”
Momsighed.“IfImust…”
“Idon’tneedhelp!”Carverargued,butMomtookhimbytheshoulderandguidedhimoutthebackdoor.
AliceandIdidthedishesinsilence.Benhadleftthekitchen,butIdidn’tknowwherehe’dgoneinstead.Hopefullytooverseemyridiculousbrother,becauseIhadverylittlefaiththatMomwoulddoanythingotherthannodsagelywithoutreallyknowingwhattodo.
IkeptwantingtosaysomethingtoAlice—thiswasthefirsttimewe’dreallybeenalonetogether,notcountingDad’scorpseinthemortuary—butnothingsoundedrightinmyhead.IusedtobesogoodattalkingtoAlice.Wewerebestfriends,withalltheinsidejokesofsisterswhoactuallygotalong.
Andthenweweren’t.Ididn’treallythinkabouthowleavingMairmontwouldhurteveryoneIloved,butespeciallyAlice,andIcouldn’tgetourlastfightoutofmyhead.Well,thelastfewfights.
“I’msorry,”Ibegan,“thatInevercameback.”
ShealmostdroppedoneofGrammyDay’sfavoritedishes.“Ohmygod,warnmebeforeyoudothat.”
“Ijustapologized!”
“Yeah—Iknow.Gross.”
“Fine,”Isaid,alittlehurtbecausehonestly,Imeantit,andtooktheplatefromheranddrieditfuriously.“Iwon’tdoitagain.”
“Pleasedon’t,”sheagreed,scrubbinganotherplateangrily.Thenshesighed,andhershouldersunwound.“You’reapologizingforthewrongthing,anyway.Idon’treallyblameyouforleaving.”
Iblinked.“Youdon’t?”
“I’mnotamonster.Leavingwastheonlythingyoureallycoulddo.AndIdon’treallyblameyoufornotcomingtovisit,eventhoughIsaidIdid.Dadneveraskedyoutocomehome.Heneveraskedifwewereokaywithgoingtovisityou.Wejustdid.”Shesighedandshookherhead.“Ijust…foralongtimeIwasjustsomadyoudidn’ttakemewithyou.DoyouknowhowmanyfightsIgotintooveryou?”
Iactuallyhadtothinkaboutthatone.“Thirteen?”
“Fourteen!Igotintooneafteryouleft.YouknowMarkErie?”
“ThefootballguyHeathermarried?”
“Bingo.Crackedhisjaw.Hadtosipoutofastrawforamonth,”sherepliedtriumphantly.Andthenshesighedandtookasipofherdrink.“And,Iguess,afterawhileIstartedjustbeingmadatyou.Becauseeventhoughyouweregone,youwerejustastightwithDadasyoualwayswere.Iwasjealousofthat.OfyouandDadandy’all’sghosts.”
Ididn’tknowwhattosay—I’dneverthoughtaboutitthatway.ThattheonethingthatIhadrunawayfromwasalsotheonethingIrememberedmostfondlyaboutDad—andtheonethingthatneitherAlicenorCarvernorMomcouldeverhavewithhim.
“Dadwasagoodman,”shewenton,“buthewasn’tperfect.Hesavedthatpartofhimforyou.Isawhimeveryday.Igotintofightswithhim.Iwatchedhimneglecthishealthbecausehethoughtgivingotherpeopletheirgoodbyeswasmoreimportantthanstickingaroundforus.Ithoughthe’dforgottenaboutus.”
“Alice…”
“Hejustforgotabouthimself.AndIcouldn’tdoanything.”Shesniffed,andIstaredatherwithmymouthopenbecausehereyeswerewet,andAlicenevercried.Shedidn’tcrywhensheskinnedthesideofherleginthirdgradewhiletryingtoskateboard.Shedidn’tcrywhenshebrokeherfirstfingerwhenCarveraccidentallyslammedthecardooronit.Shehadn’tcriedatweddingsorfuneralsorgraduations—soIdidn’tknowwhattodo.
Idroppedthetowel,tornbetweenhuggingherandcallingforhelp.Myvoicewobbled.“Alice…”
Becauseshewasabouttomakemecry,too.
Shewipedhereyeswiththebackofherhand.“Maybeifyouwerehereinstead—”
“Don’t,”Icutheroff.“Don’tfinishthat.”
“Butit’s—”
“Nottrue,”Istressed,mortifiedthatshe’deverthinkthat.“DadnotgoingtothedoctorwasDad’sfault,notyours.Itneverwillbeyours.”
Shelookedatme,andhereyeswererimmedred,andherbottomliptrembled.“Icouldn’tprotecthim,”shesobbed.
“Ic-couldn’teither,Al.”
Wepulledeachotherintoatighthug,andcrieditoutoneachother’sshoulders.Itwascatharticinawaythatnothingelsehadbeenthisentireweek.Ikeptholdingallofthepainin,andIcouldn’timaginehowAlicefeltthiswholetime.Ishouldhaveaskedher.Ishouldhavewonderedifshewasokaybecausenoneofuswere.
Butwewouldbe.
Afteramoment,shesquirmedoutofmyhugandpushedtheremainingtearsoutofhereyes.“Icanfinishthedishesalone.”
“Youwon’tholdthedishesagainstme?”Iaskedsuspiciously,wipingmyowneyes.
“ObviouslyIwill,”sherepliedwithalaugh,tellingmethatshewasgoingtobeokayandneededsomespace,andshooedmeaway.
IgrabbedmycoatfromtherackandslippeditonasIcaughtaglimmerofBensittingonthefloralcouchinthelivingroom.Hewasrelaxedoutonit,hiseyesclosed,onelegcrossedovertheother,hisarmssoftlyfoldedoverhischest,almostasifhewasasleep.Overthepastfewdays,hehadslowlyunwoundinfrontofme,firsthishairbecomingdisheveled,hisshirtsleevesrolledup,histrouserscuffed,histielostsomewhereinthenetherworldbetweenFridaynightandhere,andnow—eversoslightly—therewastheshadowofabeardcrossingthestronganglesofhischin.I’dneverseenaghostchangebefore.Theywereimmovable.Stagnant.Thenagain,Ihadneverpaidcloseattention,either.
Hecrackedopenaneye.“Readytogo?”
Myhearttwisted.Itfeltsofamiliarintheweirdestway.Asifinsomeotheruniversehewashere,real,alive,sittingonthecouch,waitingformysisterandmetofinishthedishessowecouldgohome.
Perhapsinanotherlife.
Inodded.“Yeah.”
HestoodandcameovertothefoyerasIputonmyshoes,andwelefttogetherdownthefrontstepstothesidewalk.“Walkyouhome?”heoffered.
“Oh,howgentlemanlyofyou.”
“Iamoccasionally.”
Itwasnice,walkingbesidehimbackupthestreettotheinn.Heaskedaboutmysister,andifwewereokay,withouteverprodding,andItoldhimaboutourconversation.Ididn’tknowAlicehadbeenhurtingsoterribly,andherhurtingmademewanttopunchwhoevermadeherhurt.Butinthiscase,itwasDad.Andme,tosomeextent.IknewthatAlicedidn’tlikemeleaving,butIdidn’tthink..
Ijustdidn’tthink.
“It’sokay,atleastyoutalked,”hesaidgently.
“Yeah.”
Leeneverescortedmehomeuntilwelivedtogether,andeventhensometimesIwouldduckoutofhispublishingfunctionsearlyandtakethetrainhomealone.IalwayssaidtomyselfitwasbecauseIneverwantedtobotherhimwhilehemadeconnections,butthetruthwasIusuallyfeltlikeanunwantedpurse,standingquietlybesidehimashetalkedtoexecutiveeditorsandpoetslaureateandgodknowswhoelse,feelinglikeanoutsidereveninanindustryIwasverymuchapartof.
Evenifonlysecretly.
Iwrappedmycoataroundmyselftightly.Benglancedoveratme,frowning.“Areyouokay?”
“Fine,”Imuttered.“Just…exhausted.”
“Thisisexhausting,”heagreedsoftly.“Allofit.Pretendingtobeokaywhiletheworldchangesaroundyouandleavesyoubehindtositwithwhateverlossyoufound.”
Itdidfeelexactlylikethat.“Butyougotthroughit,soIthinkIcan,too.”
“Iknowyoucan.You’rebraverthanIcouldeverbe.Icouldn’tdowhatyoudo.Helpingghostslikememoveon.Youhavetosaygoodbyesooften.”
“It’sdifferentwiththem—erm,you—becauseIgettosaygoodbye.ThelastthingIsaidtoDadwas…”Ihesitated,tryingtoremembermyconversationwithhim.Fridayfeltlikesolongago,andtheconversationwasalreadyablur.HadItoldhimIlovedhim?IknewIdid,butIkeptsecond-guessingit.WhatifIhadn’tthatonce?
Icouldn’tremember.
Iblinkedthetearsoutofmyeyesandclearedmythroat.“Anyway,Iappreciateyourhelpduringthecardgame.”
Hesnortedalaugh.“Well,youdosuckatspades.”
“Idonot!”
“Ohyouabsolutelydo.”Hecockedhishead,andacurlofblackhairfellacrosshisforehead.“Butyouknow,that’skindofwhatIlikeaboutyou.”
“That’swhatyoulikeaboutme?Ithoughtitwasmyperfectbreasts?”
Thetipsofhisearswentpink,andhequicklylookedaway.“Yes,well,they’renotwhyIlikeyou.They’reabonus.Likeabooksale.Buytwo,getonefree.”
Ichewedonthesideofmycheek,tryingtohideasmile.“Andthat’swhatIlikeaboutyou.”
“Mybroadandveryperfectchest?”
“Itisverybroad,”Iagreed,andhelaughed.Itwassoftandthroaty,andIreallylikedit.
Thelastcrispsofwinterclungtothechillyeveningairasaspringwindblewitswaythroughthebuddingoaksanddogwoodtrees,andIfelttheitchinmyfingerstowritethisalldown.Topainttheskyindarkbluesandpurplesandsilversandpaintthesidewalkinshardsofglitteryglass,andwaxabouthowitfelttowalkquietlybesidesomeonewhoenjoyedyourcompanyjustasmuchasyoudidtheirs.
Icouldn’tbelievethatIwasswooningoverthebareminimum—decency
Danawasatthecounterwhenwecameintotheinn,andtheysmiledatmeoveranotherromancenovel.ThistimeChristinaLauren.“Evening,Florence.”
“Goodnight,Dana!”Igreeted.
Benwalkedmeupthestairstomyroomattheendofthehallway,wherehestoodandwaitedasIfishedfortheroomkeyinmypurse.“Yourfamilyisreallycool.”
“Oh,yousawthemonagoodnight.”
“I’veseenthemeverydaythisweekwhiledealingwiththeworst,”hereminded.
Iwinced.“True.Imagineusduringweddings.We’reariot.”
“I’dlovetoseethat,”herepliedwithasoftsadness.Becausethechanceswere,hewouldn’t.I’dfinishAnn’sbookandreleasehimfromthisweirdhalf-lifebeforeanyofthathappened
Tryingnottothinktoomuchaboutit,Ifoundmykeyatthebottomofmypurseandunlockedthedoor.“Honestly,it’snotthatspecial—Ben?”
He’dgonepale,suddenly,andcaughthimselfagainstthesideofthewalltokeepfromfalling.Idroppedmykeyandreachedforhim,butmyhandspassedthroughhisarm.
“Ben—Benareyouokay?”
“Doyouhearthat?”heasked.Hiseyeshadgoneglassy.
“I—Idon’thearanything.”
“Itsoundslike—like—”Butthenhewinced.Thelamponthetablebegantorattle.
Danacalledfromdownstairs,“Florence?Iseverythingokay?”
“Fine,”Icalledback,hopingtheydidn’tcomeupthestairstoseetheportraitsslowlyslidingwonkyonthewalls.Ishovedopenmydoor.“Inside,please,”Iwhispered,andhenoddedandslippedthroughthewallintomybedroom.
Well,thatwasonewaytodoit.
Igotinsideandclosedthedoor.Thelampoutsidestoppedrattling.“Please,sit.I’mworried.”
Hewasholdinghischest,shakinghishead.“I’mfine.”
“Youarenot.”
Hepursedhislips,abouttorebukeme,buthemusthavethoughtbetterofitandeasedhimselfdownonthebed.Heswayedgently.Didhelookfainterthanusual?Paler?Icouldn’tdecide—thoughIdidknowthatIwasfrightenedenoughthatitkilledmybuzz.
“You’renotfine,”Idecided.“What’swrong?”
“Nothing,”hereplied,rubbinghisfacewithhishands.“It’snothing.”
“It’snotnothing—”
“I’mdeadsowhydoesitmatter?”hesaid,andhisvoicewasgruffandthick.“I’mdeadandeverytimeIdisappearIcomebackalittleless.I’mdeadandIcanstillhearmyheartbeatinginmyears,fainterandfainter.I’mdeadandgoneandI’mhereandit’snotthebook—itcan’tbethebook,Florence.”
“Ofcourseitis.”
“Idon’twantittobe.Becausewhenyoufinishit…”
Myheartjumpedintomythroat.“You’rejusttired.Youcanstayhereandrestallyouwant.I’mgoingtowashmyface,okay?I’llbeback.”AndasIleftforthebathroom,IthoughtIfeltachillofcoldbrushthroughmywrist,butIignoreditbecauseifIdidn’t,Iwasafraidwewouldstartdancingonatightrope,andthegroundwastoofardown.
Itookalongtimeinthebathroom.Toolong.Ididn’tknowifIwantedhimgonebythetimeIgotout,orifIwantedhimtostillbetheresittingonthesideofmybed.No,IdidknowwhatIwanted,butIwasafraid.
Iwantedhimtostay.
“Ben—”MyvoicecaughtinmythroatasIleftthebathroom,andfoundhimlyingonthebed,turnedontohisside.Hewassolongthathisfeetalmostreachedtheend.Hewasstill—ofcoursehewas,hewasdead—butitunnervedmeuntilIcrawledgentlyunderthecoversontheotherside.
Hiseyesflutteredopen.“Mmh,I’llgetup—”
“Stay,”Isaid.
“You’reverybossy.It’scute.”
“Andyou’restubborn.”Then,quieter:“Please.”
Heputhisheadbackonthepillow.“Ononecondition.”
“What?”
“Tellmetostayagain.”
Iscootedclosertohim,soclosethatifwewerealive,ourbreathswouldmingleandourkneeswouldknocktogetherandIcouldpullmyfingersthroughhishair.Isaidsoftly,asecretandaprayer,“Stay.”
30
StrangeBedfellows
MORNINGLIGHTPOUREDinbetweenthevioletcurtainsasIwokeup,andIrolledovertocheckmyphone.Eightthirty.Thursday,April13.Todaywasmydad’sfuneral.Ihuggedapillowtightlytomychest,andburiedmyfaceintoit—whenIrememberedBen.
Hewaslyingbesideme,eyesclosed,stillasstone.Ghostsdidn’tbreathe,andtheydidn’tsleep,either,buttherewerethebeginningsofdarkcirclesunderhiseyes.Therewasabitofstubbleonhischeeks,too,andIthoughtlesslyreachedtotouchitwhenheopenedhiseyes.
Iretractedmyhandquickly.Ablushcreptupmyface.“You’reawake—sorry.Ofcourseyouare,youdon’tsleep.Goodmorning.”
“Goodmorning,”herepliedsoftly.“Sleepwell?”
Inodded,andhuggedthepillowtomychesttighter.“Idon’twanttogotoday.”
“Iknow.I’llbethere.”
“Promise?”
Henodded.“ThoughIdon’tknowhowmuchit’llhelp.”
“Morethanyouthink,”Ireplied,pressingmymouthintothepillow,mywordsmuffled.Helookeddoubtful,soIpushedthepillowdownandadded,“Idon’tfeelsosharporrawwithyouaround.Ifeel…okay.Ihaven’tfeltthatinsolong—likeIdon’tneedtoputonanymasksforyou.Idon’thavetopretendtobecoolorcuteor—ornormal.”
Hiseyessoftened.“Ilikebeingaroundyou,too.”
“BecauseI’mtheonlyonewhocanseeyou.”
“Yes,”hereplied,andmyheartbegantosinkintomychest,untilheadded,“butnotbecauseI’maghost,Florence.”Thenhereachedtobrushastrandofhairoutofmyface.Whenhisfingertipspassedthroughmycheek,itfeltlikeabloomofcold.Ishivered—Icouldn’thelpmyself.Heretractedhishand,hislipspursedtogether.“I’msorry.”
Ishookmyhead.“I’mtheonewhoshouldbesorry.Ihaven’tfinishedthatmanuscript.Idon’tknowwhenIwill.I—IfeellikeIjustkeepfailingyou.”
“There’smoretolifethanwork,andyouaregrievingforyourdadrightnow.Askingyoutodothat…no.Idon’texpectyoutokillyourselftryingtofinishit.”
“Saystheworkaholic.”
“IwishIwasn’t.IwishI’dtakenavacation—donesomething.”Herolledontohisback,andstaredatthepopcornceiling.Heswallowedhard,andhisAdam’sapplebobbedintrepidation.“Iwish…Ihadclosedmyofficedoorafteryouwalkedinandkissedyouuntilyousawstars.”
Iletoutasqueak.“Youdonot!”
“OhyesIdo,”hereplied.“Iwould’veaskedfirst.”
Icouldimaginethat,insomealternatetimeline.Wherehestood,andshutthedoorbehindme,andkneltdownbesidewhereIsat,clutchingacactus,andaskedmeinthisexactsoft,growlingvoice—“MayIkissyou,FlorenceDay?”
AndIwould’vesaidyes.
Ishookmyheadfervently.“No—noway.I—Ihadunwashedhair!AndIworemyGoodwilltweedcoat!Andmyscarfhadcoffeestainsonit!”
“Andyouweresexyashell.Butyoucouldn’tmeetmygaze,”hesaidwithalaugh.“Ithoughtyouhatedme.”
“Hatedyou?Ben.”Ipushedmyselfupontomyelbowtolookhimintheeyes,andsaidveryseriously,“Iwantedtoclimbyou.”
Hebarkedalaugh,loudandbright.“Climbme!”
“Likeagoddamntree,”Imoanedregretfully.Letmedieofmortificationhere,Ithought.AtleastthenIwouldn’thavetoattendthegravesideservicetoday.“Icouldn’tlookatyoubecauseIwashavingaminorcrisisinmyheadoveryou.Imean—hereyouwere,thisgorgeousneweditor,andIhadtodotheonethingthatnoauthorinthehistoryofbookswantstodo:admitthatIhadn’tfinishedthenovel.”
“Tobefair,Ididknowthattheghostwriterwouldbecomingtomeetme,”hepointedoutasIrolledovertotheedgeofthebedandpushedmyselftositup.HefollowedmewithhiseyesasIwentovertomysuitcaseandbegandiggingthroughitfortoday’sclothes.“AwomannamedFlorenceDay.”
“AndthereIwasshowingupwithacactus.”
“Whichyoupromptlytoldmetostickupmyass,basically,whenyouleft.”
“Iknow,Ifeelbadaboutthat.Itwasagoodcactus.”Icockedmyhead.“Idon’trememberyouatmanypublishingfunctions,though.Didn’tyougotoany?”
“Notmany,butIdidgotothepublisherofFaux’spartyforthereleaseofDante’sMotorbike.”
Ipickedmydressoutofthesuitcaseandfroze.“Wait—afewyearsago?”
“Yeah.Youhadonthoseheelswiththeredbottoms?Youcouldn’twalkinthemtosaveyourlife.”
“Louboutins,”Icorrectedabsently,hangingtheoutfitovermeasIjudgedwhetherIneededtightsorknee-highs,butmymindwasyearsaway—backinthatcrampedprivatelibrary,feetthrobbingfromthoseshoes.“Youwerethere?ThatwasthepartywhereImet…”
Lee
Henoddedattheunspokenname,hishandabsentlygoingtotheringaroundhisneck.Herubbedatitthoughtfully.“YouwereinthelibraryandIcan’trememberhowmanytimesItoldmyselftojustgooverthere.Totalktoyou.ThisstrangerwhosenameIdidn’tevenknow.”
“Anovelidea.”
“Forme,itwas.ButI’djustmetLaura,too,andI’mnothingifnottorturouslymonogamous.Andthen…themomentwasgone.Leewalkeduptoyou,andthatwasit.”
Tothink,hehadbeentheresincethebeginning.WehadpassedeachotherlikeshipsatseaandIneverknew.Allofmyheartachecouldhavebeencircumvented—allofhispaincouldhavebeenmended.Whatkindofpeoplewouldwehavebeenifhehadfoundmeinthatlibrary?OrifIhadmingledwithRoseandfoundhiminstead?
“Iwishwehadmetinstead,”Iwhispered.
“Iwould’vebeenterribleforyou,”hereplied,shakinghishead.Hisvoicewassofter,closer.He’dgottenoutofbedandcamearoundtowardme.Iwatchedhiminthemirror,andhiseyesweretrainedonthecarpet.Hecouldn’tmeetmine.“Iwould’vebeenterribleforeveryone.Iwasterribleformyself.”
“Lauracheatingonyouwasn’tyourfault.”
Hedidn’trespond.
“Itwasn’t.Itwashers.Youtoldmethatafterthatyoufeltlikeshedeservedbetter.Someonewhowouldkeepherfromcheatingbut—you’rewrong.”ItookadeepbreathbecausethiswassomethingIhadtocometounderstand,too.Thatworthwasn’tdependentonsomeoneelse’sloveforyou,oryourusefulness,orwhatyoucoulddoforthem.“It’snotherwhodeservesbetter.It’syou,Ben.”
Heswallowedthickly.“HowcomewhenItoldmyselfthesamethingathousandtimesIdidn’tbelieveme,butwhenyousayit,itfeelstrue?”
“BecauseI’mrarelywrong.”
“Youdidsayromancewasdead.”
Itiltedmyhead,lookingathisreflectioninthemirror.“Aren’tyou?”
Hechuckled,andfinallylookedupagain,andhiseyeswereawarm,meltedocher.Likeinthedandelionfield.“Idon’tthinkthisiswhatyoumeant,”hereplied,hisvoicesoftandgravelly,andIrealizedhowbadlyIwasburningupontheinside.Iwantedhimtotouchme,torunhisfingersacrossmyskin.Iwantedhisfaceinthecrookofmyneck,hislipspressedagainstthefreckledskinthere.Iwantedtofoldmyselfintohissharpanglesandstaythere.Existthere.Becausethere—thereIwassureIwouldn’tfallapart,Iwouldn’tdisassemble,Iwouldn’tfeelbroken.
NotbecauseIcouldn’texistonmyown,butsometimesIjustdidn’twantto.
SometimesIjustwantedtoletmyguarddown,letthepiecesofmefalltotheground,andknowthatIhadsomeonetherewhocouldputmebacktogetherwithoutmindingthesharpbits.
“Thoughdeadiswhatyoumakeofit,”hemumbled,hisdarkgazealmostfeverish,ifheweren’tsopolite.“Therearesomanythingswecando.Wecantalkbooks,wecanwaxabouttheromantics—LordByronandKeatsandShelley—”
“MaryorPercy?”
“Mary,obviously.”
“Theonlychoice,”Iagreed.
Helaughed.“AndIwanttocomplainaboutalltheyouthsandtheirTikToksandsitonparkbenchestogethermakingupstoriesandgoforwalksingraveyardsatmidnight.”
“Ifeellikewe’vedoneafewofthese…”
“ButIcouldnevertouchyou.”
“I’dbeokaywiththat.”
“Nooneelsewilleverseeme.”
“Thatmeansyou’dbeallmine.”
Hesighedandsatbackontheedgeofthebed.Morningsunlightslantedinsuchaway,itcarvedastarkgoldenshineacrosshim.“ThatsoundsawfullysimilartotheplotofTheForeverHouse.”
“OneofAnn’sbest.”
“Andit’stheonlyonewithoutahappilyeverafter.”
Igavehimastrangelook.“Whatdoyoumean?”IaskedasIgatheredupmyclothesandwentintothebathroomtochange.Ileftthedoorcracked.“Theygottogetherintheend!”
“Youthinkso?”
“Ofcourse.Shemovesintothehouseandthenthedoorbellrings.Ofcourseit’shim.”
“Comebackfromthedead?”
“Strangerthingshappenedinthatnovel,”Ipointedout,andthroughthecrackinthedoorIwatchedhimthinkbackonthetimetravelandthemaybe–maybenotwerewolfneighbor.
Finally,hesaid,“Fair.How’dyoucometostartghostwritingforAnnie?”
“WhydoyoukeepcallingherAnnie?”Ishimmiedintomyhose—theknee-highsweren’tgoingtocutit—andtuckedmywhiteblouseintotheskirt.
“Ahabit,Iguess,”herepliedinthataloofwaythatverymuchsoundedlikebullshit,butIdidn’tpressit.Maybeitwasaweirdeditorthing.“Didshecontactyou?”
“No,actually.Well,sortof.Imetherinacoffeeshopaboutfiveyearsago.Youknow,theoneonEighty-FifthandPark?”
“Oh,they’vegotgreatscones.”
“Right?Totallythebest.Anyway,itwasempty,andI’djustbrokenupwithmyagentaftermypublisherdumpedme,soIwaswritingsomesaucysmut—”
“Noted,youwritesexsceneswhenyou’redepressed.”
“Justsomegoodforeplay.Verytitillatingstuff.Anyway,shesatdownatmytableandcritiquedwhatIwaswriting.She’dbeenreadingovermyshoulder,apparently,andIaskedherwhatthehellandthatwasthat.ShecritiquedmyworkandthenaskedifIwantedajob.”
“Fiveyearsago?”heasked,perplexed.
“Yeah.”Ituggedonmyskirt,andzippeditupintheback.“Why?”
“BecauseIwas—whatthehellcouldyouhavebeenwritingtoattracther?”heasked,thoughIgotthefeelingthathewantedtoasksomethingelse.
Ipokedmyheadoutofthebathroom.“Guess.”
“Hadtobesomethingoffthecuff.Alienbarbarianerotica?”
“No,butI’dreadthat.”
“Omegaverse?”
“Anyway,”Isaidloudly,pullingmyhairbackintoabun,andleftthebathroom.“Shegavemepointersonaconfessionscene.Shesaidthatpeopleusuallyweren’toverlyeloquent,andgrandromanticgesturesareobtuseandobsoletebecausethey’retoocorny.Iarguedtheopposite—thatpeoplelikegrandromanticgesturesbecausetheyarecorny.Becausepeopleneedmorecornyintheirlives.Likethis”—Ioutstretchedmyarmstoencompasstheroom,thismoment—“iscorny.Allofit.RightdowntohowmuchIwanttotouchyou,andhowIcan’t.”
“Anddotell,howmuchdoyouwanttotouchme?”
“You’reterrible.”
“Youbroughtitup!AndIwouldpointoutthatthissceneisnotsomuchcornyasrifewithromantictension.Ifit’scorny,thenperhapsyou’rewritingitwrong.”
“Oh,thentellme,howwouldyouwritethisscene,maestro?”
“Well,firstoff,”hebegan,andturnedhisdarkeyestome,“Iwouldaskyouwhatyouwanted.”
“Ooh,consent.That’ssexy.”
“Very,”hemurmuredinagreement,hisvoicelowandgravelly.Hestoodandsteppedclosetome.Thehairsonthebackofmyneckstoodonend.“Skipthebanter,shelvethesoul-searching.It’smorning,andthesunlightisgloriousonyourhair,andyouareexquisitelystubborn.You’dnevertellmewhatyou’dwant.”
“Ha!Goon.”Itriedtokeepmyvoicelevel.“ThenwhatdoIwant?”
Hecameupbehindme,outstretchinghisarms,hoveringovermyskinashetracedthecontourofmyhipstomymiddle.“Ihaveaninklingthatyouwouldlikemetoreachmyhandbeneathyourprettylaceunderwear,”hewhispered,hislipspressedclosetomyear,“andstrokeyouslow.AndwhileIdid,Iwouldkissyourneckandnibbleatyourear.”
Ifeltmyselfflush,myheartbeatinginmythroatasquickasarabbit.Iheldmybreathashebentcloserstill,closerthanhe’deverbeen,nevertouching,hisfingerspaintingovermelikeasculptor’s,relishinginmydesign
“Andthen?”Myvoicewastight.Controlled.
I’dwrittenmoreintensescenesthanthis.Thiswasnothing.
Thenwhywasthisgettingmeallhotandbothered?
Itwasthelookinhiseyes,thatdarkglimmer.Thepromisethathewoulddoexactlywhathewastellingme.Foramanwholikedhislists,andlikedhisorder—thatwaspowerful.
Hismouthhoveredbesidemyear.“Romanceisn’tasprint,Florence.It’samarathon.Youstartslow.Withyourblouse,onebuttonatatime.YousaidIwasmeticulous,butIwouldshowyoujusthowmeticulousIcouldbe.”Hisfingersmimedundoingthebuttonsofmyblouse.“Foreachbutton,I’dplantanotherkissonyourneck,yourcollarbone,andfinallyyourperfectbreasts…”
“Youreallyareaboobguy,aren’tyou?”
“They’renice,”washisresponse.
“Yes,butIseeoneproblemhere,”Isaid,perhapsalittletooloudlybecausethiswasgetting—Iwasgetting—right,yep,aproblem.“Thereisverylittlepleasingyouinthisscenario.”
Theedgeofhislipstwitched.“Oh,who’stosayitisn’tforme,too?Iamquitetheselfishmanwhenitcomesdowntoit—”
“So,gettingmeoffgetsyouoff?”
“Why’sitaboutmeatall?Whynotjustyou?Youareworthyofthat.”
Iswallowedtherocklodgedinmythroat.Iwas?Worthyofthatkindofundividedattention?BecauseIneverfeltthatwaywithLee,notevenashekissedmeandtoldmewhattodo,wheretoplantmylips.
“God,”Ihalflaughed,“youreallydoreadtoomanyromancenovels.”
Hechuckled.“Iwouldn’tcallthatafault.Wouldyou?”
“Depends.Wherewouldthisscenego?”
“Iwouldaskyou—”
Itookadeepbreath.“Thenaskme.”
Inthemirror,hiseyesfoundmine.Theyweresharp,considering,thinking.Hesaidthiswasformypleasure,butIwasterribleatbeingselfish.Icouldseeitintheglintofhiseyes,theswallowofhisthroat.Hewantednothingmore—forhowlong?Sincehefirstsawme?BeforeIeverknewhisname?
Iheardhimtakeinashakybreath.Then,“Unbuttonyourshirt.Slowly.”
Myfingerssliddownmywrinkledbusinessshirt,undoingthebuttonsonebyone,untiltheywereallundoneandtheshirthunglooseovermybra.Irelaxedmyshoulders,andtheshirtdroppeddown,puddlingaroundmyelbows,exposingwhatheverymuchconsideredtobeverygoodbreastsinmyverybestlacebra.“Likethis?”
Hemadeanagreeablenoise.“Youareperfect.”
“AmI?”
“DoIneedtorepeatmyself?”
“AsoftenasIdeemnecessary.”
Hisfingerstwitched,andhecurledthemtightlyintofists.“Youareperfect,”hesaidagain.“Ilikeadmiringtheview.”Then,“Closeyoureyes.”
Idid.
“Imaginethescene.Iwouldpullmyfingersthroughyourhair;Iwouldrakemyteethacrossyourskin—Iwouldundothatprettylacebraofyoursandcaressyournippleswithmytongue.Iwouldslipafingerinsideofyou—two,andyouwouldbesowetandIwouldpleasureyousoslowly,asslowasyouwanted—”
“Iwoulddriveyoucrazy,”Icommented.
“Florence,youalreadydo.”
Ilaughed,andopenedmyeyes,onlytofindhishandsovermine.Iturnedaround,andfinallylookedathim—truly—forthefirsttime,andpulledmyshirtbackupontomyshoulders.“It’dbeagoodscene,”Isaid,andmyvoicebrokealittle,myfingersbuttoningmyshirtbackup.“Corny,butinagoodway.”
“Ilikecorny,”heagreed,hisgazelingeringonmylips.
Myalarmwentoff,makingbothofusjump.Iquicklysteppedawayfromhimandhurriedacrosstheroomtoturnoffmyphone.Andrealitycrashedbackin,becausetodaywasmyfather’sfuneral,andIstillhadtwothingstocheckoffhiswill.“I—I’msorry.Ihavetofinishgettingdressed.Somuchtodo.Solittletime.”
“CanIhelp?”
Itiltedmyhead,andsmiled.“No,youjustbeinghereisenough.”
“CanI,then?”heasked,sittingupalittlestraighter,hishandscurlingintonervousfists.“CanIstay?Likethis—withyou?”
Myheartleaptintomythroat.ButwhataboutAnn’slastbook?Ithought,butIdidn’twanttovoiceit.Ididn’twanthimtochangehismindbecause—“I’dlikethat.”
Becausepeoplealwaysleft.Iftheyhadachoice—theyleft.
AndBenwantedtostay.
Iclearedmythroat,tuckingmyshirtbackintomyskirt.“Ibetterhurryup.Dadwon’tburyhimself,”Iadded,andwentbackintothebathroomtobrushmyteeth,butmybloodrushedwiththethoughtofallthecornymomentsIcouldhavewithBenjiAndor.Eventhoughhewasdead.
Itdidn’tmeanhewasgone.
31
BringOutYourDead
ACCORDINGTOMOM’Stext,wewereallgoingtomeetatthefuneralhomebeforewalkingovertothecemetery.AndI,intrueFlorenceDayfashion,wasmiserablylate.Mysiblingswerealreadyoutside,abouttoleaveforthecemetery
“Sorry,sorry!”Icried,hurryingupthestonepathtotheporch.“Ilosttrackoftime.”
“Wefigured,”Carverreplied.“Theflowersarealreadyatthegravesite.Afewguyscamebytotakethemtherethismorning.”
“AndElvishastheprogramlist,”Aliceadded.“Wegavehimthelistofsongsyouleftlastnight.Almostcouldn’treadthembecauseofyourchicken-scratchhandwriting,butDad’shandwritingwasjustasbad.”
Listofsongs…?Iputthequestionawayforlater.“Thankyou,guys.Andthecrows?”IaskedCarverhopefully.
Hesighedandhefteduptheemptycherrywoodbirdcage.“Yeah,didn’tcatchasinglefucker.”
“ItoldyoutouseyourRolex.”
Hegasped,stricken.“Never!”
ThoughIfiguredthemurderdidn’tleavetherooftopoftheinnlastnight,sinceBenhadn’tleft,either.Thatwas…justslightlymyfault.NotthatI’dadmitit.Alicecockedherheadandlookedupintotheoldwillowtree.Beneathit,Benwasstandingwithhishandsinhispockets.Helookedup,too.Shenudgedherheadtowardthemurderofcrowsperchedinthetree.“Doyoumeanthosebastards?”
“Imaginethat,”Momsaid.“Youknow,yourfatherusedtosaytheyonlyshowedupwhen—”
“Ben’sunderthetree,”Isupplied.
“Wellthat’sourluckybreak,”Carversaid.“Doyouthinkwehavetocatchthem?”
“Nah,they’llfollow,”Ireplied,andgaveBenawink.Herolledhiseyes.Itoldmyfamilytogoaheadwithoutme,thatI’dcatchupinamoment.Istillhadtoputonmymakeup,andIwantedtodoonelastroundthroughthehouse.IwaiteduntiltheyweredownthestreetbeforeIclimbedthestepstothefuneralhome,andpeekedinside.
Itookadeepbreath.“Dad?”
Myvoiceechoedthroughthebuilding.Iwaitedpatiently,buttherewasn’tareply.
“Iknowyou’rehere.Ididn’tleaveAliceanysonglist.”Ipaused.“Butyoudid.”
Thehousecreakedinreply.
“Everythingdies,buttercup,”heoncesaidaswesatonthefrontporch,watchingastormrollin.Carverwastoddlinginhisplaypool,andAlicewasgurglingonhisknee.“That’safact.Butyouwannaknowasecret?”
AndIhadleanedin,sosureitwasacurefordeath,awaytobatitaway—
“Everythingthatdiesneverreallygoes.Inlittleways,itallstays.”
NotinthehorrificwayLeewroteit.Notwithmoaningghostsandterrifyingpoltergeistsandlivingdead,butinthewaythesuncamebackaroundagain,thewayflowersbrownedandbecamedirtandnewseedsbloomedthenextspring.Everythingdied,butpiecesofitremained.DadwasinthewindbecausehebreathedthesameairthatIbreathed.Dadwasamarkinhistorybecauseheexisted.HewaspartofmyfuturebecauseIstillcarriedon.
Icarriedhimwithme.Thishousecarriedhim.
Thistown.
“Florence?”Benaskedtimidly.“Areyouokay?”
Isqueezedmyeyesshut,willingthetearstostayback.Iwasgoingtocryenoughtoday.Ididn’twanttostartearly.“Yeah.Weshouldprobablybringthecrowsover.”
“AtleastI’musefulforsomething.”
“That’swhyIkeepyouaround,”Iteased—andhesuddenlypitchedforward.“Ben!”Icried.
Hecaughthimselfonthedoorframe.Shookhishead.“Sorry—I—dizzy,”hemuttered.Hishandswereshaking,andhisskinhaddroppedtothatpale,sicklytonefromlastnight.
Aknotformedinmythroat.“You’renotokay.”
“No,”herepliedtruthfully,“Idon’tthinkIam.”
Thedoorbellrang.
BenandIexchangedalook.
Itrangagain.
Myheartfluttered.ThelasttimeIansweredthedoorbell,itwasBen.Perhapsthistime…maybethistime…Ihurriedtothefrontdoor,almostcrashedagainstit,andflungitopen—
“Rose?”
MybestfriendstoodonthedoormattotheDaysGoneFuneralHome,aduffelbagintow.SheflippeddownherRay-Bansinawe.“Holyshit,bitch!Youdidn’ttellmeyoulivedintheAddamsFamilyhouse!”
“Rose!”Ithrewmyarmsaroundherandhuggedhertightly.“Ididn’tknowyouwerecoming!”
“OfcourseIwas.Iknowyoucanhandleitalone,but—youdon’thaveto.”Shetookmebythefaceandpressedourforeheadstogether.“You’remylittlespoon.”
“Youneverceasetomakeitweird.”
“Never.Nowwhere’syourbathroom?IhavetopisslikearacehorseandhavetochangeintomyLouboutins.”
“It’sanoutsidefuneral,Rose.”
Shegavemeablanklook.
“Nevermind,c’mon.”Iletherintothehouse.Shedumpedherduffelbagintomyarmsandsprintedtothehalfbathunderthestairs.Iputherluggageintheoffice,whereit’dbesafewhilewewereatthefuneral,andwenttocheckonBeninthehall.Hewassittingonthebottomsteps,hisheadinhishands.
“Hey,”Isaidquietly,givingaknockonthedoorframe.“Iseverythingokay?”
“Mmn,no.Alittle?I’m…notsure.Ikeephearingthings,”hesaid.“Itwasquietatfirst—butnowit’ssoloud.”
“Whatkindsofthings?”
“Talking.Voices.Sounds—”
ThetoiletflushedandRosesteppedoutofthebathroominherred-soledhighheels,thesameonesthatIworeyearsagotothathorribleDante’sMotorbikebooklaunch,andgrabbedmeunderthearm.“Areyoureadytosaygoodbyetotheoldman?”
IhesitatedwithalookatBen,buthesmiledatmetogivemesomecomfortandpromised,“I’llseeyouthere.”
Shejostledmyarm.“Florence?”
Isqueezedherhandtightly.“Yes.Let’s.”
Rosewasmycopilot.Myrock.Myimpulsive,wonderfulbestfriend.
AndIwasso,sogladthatshewashere.
32
It’saDeath!
THECEMETERYWASpeaceful,andthegrasslookedlikeawatercolorpaintingagainstthepaleshaleofthetombstones.Theystuckoutlikejaggedbottomteeth,somecrooked,mostcleaned.Aswepassedsomeofthedarker,mold-grownstones,Imadeamentalnotetocomebackandscrubthemprettyagain—andthenstoppedmyself.
Iwasn’theretowork.Iwasheretomourn.
ThoughIwassureDadwouldhavedonethesame.
Almosttheentiretowncameout,withlawnchairsandpicnicsnacks.Thewildflowerstheyhaddonated—allonethousandofthem,arrangedbycolor—satstackedaroundDad’scasketlikeamountainofpetals,asElvistoocrooned“SuspiciousMinds”fromhisportablekaraokemachine.
And—perhapsbestofallwere—
“Ohmygod,thoseballoons,”Rosegasped.“Doesit—doesthatactuallysay…”
Icouldn’thelpbutsmile.“Yeah,theydo.”
UnlimitedPartyhaddelivered—anddecorated—thefuneralhomelawn,tyingballoonstothebacksofchairsandhangingstreamersfromtheoaktreesthatreadIT’SADEATH!andHAPPYDEATHDAY!Theyhadalsopassedoutpartyhatsandkazoos,andsomeofthetownkidswereplaying“TheImperialMarch”nearastatueofacryingangel.
RoseandIjoinedmyfamilyinthefrontrowofchairsthathadbeensetout,anditlookedlikeAlicewasnursingamigraine.
Carversaidregretfully,“Theballoonsgother.Shealmosthadastroke,shewassolivid,”whileAlice,poorAlice,wasmuttering,“I’mgoingtokillhim.I’mgoingtokillhim—”
“Al,he’salreadydead.”
IintroducedRosetomyfamily.Wheneverthey’dcomeforChristmas,RosehadgonehometoIndiana,alwaysmissingeachotherbymerehoursattheairport.Butfinally,now,theygottomeet.MomleanedoverAlicetoshakeRose’shand.“Pleasure,thoughI’msorryit’sunderthesecircumstances.”
“I’msorryforyourloss,”Rosereplied.
“Didhehavetoordertheballoons?”Alicewailed,andNickipattedherontheshouldercomfortinglyandaskedRosehowherflightwas.
IscannedthecrowdforBen,butIdidn’tseehim.Hadhedisappearedagain?Ihopedhewasokay.Onebyone,thecrowslandedinthenearbyoaktreeandquietlyruffledtheirfeathersagainstthewind.Sohehadtobeheresomewhere.Thatgavemesomerelief.
Afterafewminutes,Elvistoo’srousingrenditionof“ReturntoSender”interruptedmythoughts,andIglanceddownatthesetlist.
“You’reup,”Carverwhispered.
Right.
Dad,inhiswill,saidhedidn’twantapreacherorabishoporanysortofholyperson.Weweren’treallytheorganized-religionkindoffamily,eventhoughwedealtindeath.Allhesaidbywayofaspeakerwastheletterhewrote.
ItookitfromKaren,Dad’slawyer.Thepaperwassoftandcrinkly.“It’sshowtime.”
Alicelookedworried.“Florence…”
“Icandoit.Really.”
“Youdon’thavetodoallofthisalone—”
“I’mnot,”Iinterruptedgently.“BecauseIwanteveryoneuptherewithme.Ifthat’sokay.”
ThetensionthathadcoiledAlice’sshouldersamomentbeforeunwound,andsheagreed.Carverbumpedagainstmegently,givingmealittlenod.ItookMom’shand,andshetookAlice’s,andAlicetookCarver’s,andwemadeourwaytothespaceinfrontofDad’scasket.Elvistoohandedmethemicrophone.
Ialwayswentabouteverythingonmyown.IthoughtIcouldsolveeverythingmyself—thoughIguessIneverreallyhadto.Ihadfamily,andIhadfriends,andIhadparentswholovedmeandwouldalwayslovemeuntiltheendoftimeand—
Andtherewerepeopleoutthere,too,thatIdidn’tknowandwantedto,likeBen,whosawmeforallmychaoticflawsandmystubbornnessandstillwantedtostay.
Hewantedtostay.
Iwantedhimtostay,too.
Iclearedmythroat,andlookedoutoverthecemetery,andallofthepeoplewhohadcomewiththeirlawnchairs,wearingpartyhatsandtellingthekidstoshushontheirkazoos.“Hi,everyone.Thankyouforcoming.Thisisgoingtobeadifferentkindoffuneralthanyou’reusedto—thoughIthinkifyouknowmydad,you’realreadyexpectingthat.”Iopenedtheenvelope,andtookouttheletter.“Dadgavemealettertoreadtoyou.Idon’tknowwhatthecontentsare,solet’sfindouttogether.”
MyhandswereshakingasIunfoldedthepieceofyellowstationery.Dad’shandwritingunfurledlikeastory.Hemust’vewritteninthequillIgavehimforhisbirthdayafewyearsago,becauseoftheinkstainsandthewaythelettersbledtogether.
“?‘Mydearestdarlings,’?”Ibegan,myvoicealreadyshaking.
Whatthelettersaiddidn’treallymatter.Itwasanexplanationofwhyheaskedustogothroughsomuchforhisfuneral.Itwasanapologyfornotbeingabletostaylonger.Itwasagoodbyefilledwithhorriblepunsandtheworstdadjokesimaginable.
Itwasaletteraddressedtome.ToAlice.ToCarver.ToMom.
Itwasasoftgoodbye.
WildflowersforIsabella.Athousandflowerswithten-thousandpetalsforeverydayhewouldlovehertoeternity.Songswedancedtointheparlors,softandgoodandbrightgoodbyes.Bannersandkazoosandpartyhatsforallofthebirthdaysthathewouldnevergettoattend.Amurderofcrows,toremindustolookforhimstill.Becausehewouldbehere.
Always.
Andformetoreadthisletter—becauseheknewIwouldtrytodotheseimpossibletasksalone.
Carvercoveredupalaugh,andAliceelbowedhimintheside.
HehopedIaskedforhelpbecauseaskingwasnotaweakness—butastrength.HehopedthatIwouldaskmoreoften,becauseIwouldbesurprisedbywhowouldcomeintomylifeifIletthem.
Notallofmycompanionswouldbeghosts.
IwishIcouldsaythatatthatmomentwindrustledthroughthetrees.IwishIcouldsaythatIheardmydadinthewind,tellingmethosewordshimself,buttheafternoonwasquiet,andtheblackbirdsintheoaktreecawedtooneanotherasifIhadmadeaparticularlyfunnyjoke.
AndBenstoodatthebackofthecrowd,hishandsinhispockets,andIfeltasafesortofcertaintythateverythingwasgoingtobeokay.
Maybenotrightnow.Notforawhile
Butitwouldbe—eventually.
Notallofmycompanionswouldbeghosts,butitwasokayifsomeofthemwere.
BecauseDadwasright,intheend,aboutlove.Itwasloyal,andstubborn,andhopeful.Itwasabrothercallingbeforeafuneraltoaskhowthelatestbookwasgoing.Itwasasisterscoldingheroldersisterforalwaysrunningaway.Itwasalittlegirlonastormynighttuckedintothelapofanundertaker,listeningtothesoundofthewindthroughthecreakyVictorianhouse.Itwasaballroomdancerspinningaroundinanemptyparlorwiththeghostofherhusbandandasonginherthroat.Itwaspettinggooddogs,andquietmorningswakingupbesideamanwithimpossiblydarkeyesandavoicewiththesyrupysweetnessofthird-shelfvodka.ItwasabestfriendflyinginfromNewYorkonamoment’snotice.
Itwaslife,wildandfinite.
Itwasafewsimplewords,writteninaloopylonghand.
“?‘Loveisacelebration,’?”Iread,myvoicewobbling,“?‘oflifeanddeath.Itstayswithyou.Itlingers,mydarlings,longafterI’mgone.Listenformewhenthewindrushesthroughthetrees.Iloveyou.’?”
Ifoldedtheletterbackupandwhisperedsoftly,privately,onefinaltime,“Goodbye,Dad.”
33
TheLastGoodbye
“ANDNOW,ELVISTOOtakeitaway,”Isaid,voicecracking,andhandedthemicrophonebacktothemandressedinwhite.
AssoonasBrunointroducedhimselfagainandstartingtosing“LoveMeTender,”AliceandCarverandMomembracedme,threadingourarmstogetherinahug.Ilovedthemsomuch,Istartedcrying—ormaybeIwasalreadycrying?Icouldn’trememberwhenIstarted,andIcouldn’trememberwhentheystartedcrying,either,butwehuggedeachotherastightlyaswecould.BecausetherewasasecretaboutalltheDays—wecriedwheneverwesawsomeoneelsecrying.SoifoneDaycried?Alltheothersfollowed,andatthatmomentIwasn’tsureifI’dstartedit,orCarver,orMom(definitelynotAlice,neverAlice),butitdidn’tmatter.
“You’ret-terribleatspeeches,”Alicesaidafterawhile,wipingthetearsoutofhereyes.Hereyelinersmeared,andIcleaneditupwithmythumb.
“Iknow,”Ireplied.
Carvertookabreath.“IthinkI’mgoingtopropose.ToNicki.”
Momgasped,“Oh,darling!I’msohappy!”
“Here?”Aliceasked,flabbergasted
“No—coursenot!Butsoon.”
“Good,becauseIcouldimagineAlicedoingithere,butnotyou,”Iremarked,earningapinchfromAlice.“Ow!Hey!Thatwasacompliment!”
Alicestuckouthertongue.“Idon’tevenhaveapartner.”
“Doesn’tmeanyouwon’tforever,”Momsaidsagely,dabbingherrunningmascara.“Lovecomeswhenyouleastexpectit.Why,whenyourfatherandIfirstmet…”
IglancedovertoBen,onthefarsideofthefuneral,withthegoodmayorhappilykeepinghimcompany,asMomrecountedwhenshefirstmetDadataconferencethatwasone-thirdfurrycon,one-thirdballroom-dancingchampionships,andone-thirdmortuaryseminar.Itwasagoodstory,butwe’dhearditathousandtimes.
Wecouldhearitathousandtimesmore.
Icouldn’ttellthosekindsofstoriesaboutBen.Halfofthepeoplewouldn’tbelieveme,andtheotherhalfwouldthinkitwasatragedy.Maybeitwas.DadsaidIwouldn’tkeepghostsascompanionsmywholelife—butwhatiftherewasoneIwantedtokeep?
Whatifonewasdifferent?
Benmusthavefeltmestaring,becauseheturnedhisdarkeyestome,andmouthed,“Youdidgreat.”
AndIcouldn’thelpbutsmile.
“Oh,sheseesherghostboyfriendagain,”AlicemockwhisperedtoCarver.
Myshoulderssquared.“He’snotmyboyfriend!”
“Mm-hmm,”Carverrepliedskeptically.“Oh,comeon,youwerebasicallyoverthemoonforwhoeverhelpedyoucheatlastnight.”
“IwishIcouldseehim,”Mommused.
“Istillwishit’dbeenDad—nooffensetoyourghostguy,”Aliceaddedwithahalf-heartedshrug.“ButIrealizedyouprobablywouldn’thavekeptthatasecret.”
“Yeah,no.Ihaven’tseenhim,”Iconfirmedalittlesadly.Mysiblingsexchangedthesamelook—beforeItookthembytheirhandsandsqueezedthemtightly.“Heknewwe’dhaveeachother.Hedidn’tneedtostickaround.”
Alicetuggedherhandoutofmine.“Ugh,thisisgettingtoomushyforme.Gogetyourghostboyfriendorwhatever.”
“He’snotmy…”ButjustasIbegantoargue,mysiblingssplitforoppositeendsofthefuneraltotalkwithotherpeople,andMomwiggledhereyebrowsbeforeshejoinedthesmallgroupofpeoplemovingbackandforthtoElvistoo’srousingrenditionof“BuildMeUpButtercup.”
Benstoodandtiltedhisheadtowardthefarsideofthecemetery,wherewesatafewnightsago,andasIthankedthepeopleforcomingandacceptedtheircondolences,hepatientlywaitedundertheoaktree.
“Theflowersarebeautiful,”ItoldHeather,whoagreedinthatItoldyousowayofhers,andIfoundthatIreallydidn’tcare.ShecamethroughformewhenIneededitmost,andthatcountedforsomething.Noteverything—Icouldforgiveher,butIwasn’tgoingtoforgethowshemademefeelinhighschool
Butshewasn’tworthanymoreofmytime,either.
Ididn’tmanagetomakemywayovertothebenchuntilElvistoowasonhissecondglassofchampagneandhaddevolvedintosinginganythingthecrowdshouted,sohewascurrentlyhowlingthrough“WelcometotheBlackParade”
“IcanhonestlysayI’veneverbeentoafuneralthisfun,”BensaidwhenIfinallysatdownbesidehim.“Peopleareliterallydancingongraves.”
“Well,aroundgraves.It’dbedisrespectfultodanceonthem,”Icorrected,andnoticedthathishandswerewhite-knuckledfistsonhisknees.“Areyoustillhearingthem?Thevoices?”
Henodded.“They’relouder.Andit’s—gettingharder.Tostayhere.”
Achillcreptovermyskin.“ButIhaven’tworkedatallonthebook!Youshouldn’tbegoinganywhere,”Irepliedinalarm.
Towhichheswallowedthickly.Pursedhislips.Andadmitted,“Idon’tthinkit’saboutthemanuscript,darling.”
“Ithastobe.That’stheonlyreasonyouwouldbehere,hauntingme,and—”
“It’snot,”heinterruptedresolutely,andwincedinpain.
Inarrowedmyeyesathim.“Why?Whathaven’tyoutoldme?”
Heshookhishead.Hehadn’tbeenabletomeetmygazesinceIcameovertothebench.WhywasIjustnoticingthis?Hecouldn’tmeetmygazebecauseheknewI’dseethetruthifhedid.“I…”
“Ben.”
Heclenchedhisjaw.
“Benji.”
“It’salongstory,”hebegan,staringdownatapatchofdyinggrassbyhisleftloafer,“butIthinkIneedtotellyou.IthinkIshouldhavetoldyoufromthebeginning.”
Iclenchedmyfists.Iwasn’tsureIwantedtoknow.Ifhewasn’therebecauseofthemanuscript,then…whatelsecouldtherebe?“Okay.Whatisit?”
“AnnNicholswasmygrandmother.”
Iforcedalaugh.Really?“Ben!C’mon,Iknowyouloveher.Shewaslikethematronsaintofromancetoallofus—”
“Idon’tmeanlikethat.”Slowly,hedrewhiseyestomine.Theywereglassyandwet.Theworldslowed.Ohno.“Shewasmygrandmother.”
Therewasalotofinformationinthatsentencethatcouldhavesurprisedme.Thefactthathehadn’ttoldmethemyriadoftimeswetalkedabouthisgrandmother.Theslantofhisnosethatperhapslookedabitlikehers.Thesharpnessofhisjawline.HowmuchheknewaboutAnnNichols.HowhealwayscalledherAnnie.
No,itwasn’tanyofthat.Whatsurprisedmewasonesimpleword:“Was?”
Hetookadeepbreathandclosedhiseyes.“Shepassedawayfiveandahalfyearsago.”
Five…andahalfyears?JustaboutthetimewhenImether,whenshesatdownacrossfrommeandofferedmeajob.Iwasshakingmyheadvehemently.“That—thatcan’tberight.No,wemetatthatcoffeehouse…”
“Shecouldn’thave,”Benrepliedgently.“Shehadbeenbedriddenforatleastayearpriorwhileshewaswritingherlastbook—TheForeverHouse.Wehadaquietfuneral.Shewanteditthatway,becauseshehadanidea.Therewerefourbooksleftinhercontract,andshewantedthemwritten,butshedidn’twantthecloudofherpassingtodefinethem.Soshelaidoutaplantofindaghostwriterandfinishthosebooks.Shealsotoldmenottonotifyherpublisher.”
“Andheragent?”IcouldjustimaginetheflamesspittingfromMolly’smouthwhenshefoundout—
“Mollyknew.”
Iwasn’tsureifthatmadethingsbetterorworse,actually.Itriedtokeepmyselfcalm,butIwasanythingbut.Myheadwasspinning.“And—you—theestate—justletme?Withoutknowingshewasdead?”
“No.”Hefinallyopenedhiseyes,andfacedme.“Ihadbeenonthehuntforaghostwriterforafewmonthsatthatpoint,butnoneofthewritersfit.Thenyouasked,andIthoughtperhapsAnniehadreachedouttoyoubeforeshediedandjustnevertoldme.”Heshruggedalittlehalf-heartedly.
“Butshedidn’t.Sheaskedmeherself.Aftershedied,”Irealized,andsighed.“Itookajobfromaghost.Neverhadthatonmybingocard…”
Benletoutasoftlaugh,leaningclosetome.Hishandwassonearmine,Icouldalmostreachoutandtakeitifhewerealive.“Anniedidusedtosaytheuniversesendsyouthethingsyouneedexactlywhenyouneedthem,andIwanttothinkitsentyou.Idon’tknowaboutafterlifesorwhathappensafter—afterthisbut…findingyourbookwasdivine.GivingyouAnnie’slegacyandwatchingitflourishunderyourpenwasablessing.Andthis?”Helookedintomyeyes,andsuddenlythisnolongerfeltlikeaconversation.Itfeltlikeagoodbye.“Theselastfewdayshavebeen…beautiful.It’sagoodending,darling.Asyoureditor,Ihavenonotes.”
Mythroatconstricted.“Ben…”
“I’msorry,butI—IthinkIknowwhyI’mhere.Withyou.Itisn’tbecauseofAnnie’sbook.It’sbecauseofyours.Tothankyou.”Andhesmiled.Itreachedhiseyes,butinthewaysmilesdidwhenyouweretryingtoswallowdownasob.“ThelastyearofAnnie’slifewashard—Iwasheronlyfamilyleft,andshewasmine.Ican’tbegintoexpresshowmuchyourbookhelpedme.Thatentireyearwasbleak,butIcouldopenitandgetlostinyourwords,andinthosemomentsitfeltlikeeverythingwouldbeokay.Idon’tknowwhyitwasthatbook,exactly,butitwas.So,thankyouforgivingmewordswhenIdidn’tthinktherewereanyleft.Ihopeyouneverstopgivingtheworldyourwords.”
Icouldn’tcounthowoftenIwantedtohearthoseexactwordsfromsomeone—anyone—andherewasthismantellingmehelovedthem.Cherishedthem.
Mymouthgrewdry,andIdidn’tknowwhattosay.IfIsaid,You’rewelcome,wouldhedisappearinasparkleofdust?Wouldthewindcarryhimawayintotheafternoon?
“I’msorryIhavetogo,”hesaidsoftly,guiltily,“butIpromisethatnotallofyourcompanionswillbeghosts,darling.”
I’dheardthatbefore.“NoteventheonesIwanttostay,”Ireplied.Myheartwasbreaking.
“I’msorry,”herepeated,andgavemeasadsortofpleadinglook.Ittwistedmygut.“Iwanttobewithyou—butnotlikethis.Iwanttogrowoldwithyou.Iwanttowakeupeverymorningandseeyouonthepillowbesideme.Iwanttocherisheverymomentofourlivesand—”
“Wecan’t,”Iinterrupted.“Iknow.”
Somethinginsideofmegavethen.Nothope,exactly,butthesmallthreadofhappinessIhadthispastweek,becauseitcouldn’tsupportme.Iwasbalancingprecariouslyonastringthatsnapped,thinkingitwasmadeofsturdierstuff.
“Florence—”hebegan,andwincedagain.Heclutchedhischest.“I—IwanttostaybutI…”
Hecouldn’t.Hewasbeggingmetolethimgo.
Itookadeepbreath.Thegoodgoodbyeswerewhatyoumadeofthem.ElvistoocrooningTheSupremes’“YouCan’tHurryLove”inthebackground,MomlaughingthroughhertearsasSeaburnspunherthroughthegrass.
IturnedbacktoBen,andIsmiledtheonlykindofsmileIcouldmuster.Itwassadandbroken,butitwasmine.“Thankyou,BenjiAndor,forlettingmeliveinyourgrandmother’sworldforafewyears.Andthankyouforwantingtoliveinmine.”
AllIwantedtodowastakehisfaceinmyhandsandkisshim,butasIreachedouttotry,hiseyeswidened.Hesuckedinashortbreath.
Asifhesawsomethingpastme.SomethingIcouldn’tsee.SomethingIneverwould.
Andthenhewasgone.
Foreverthistime.
34
GhostsintheFloorboards
INTHECORNERoftheDaysGoneFuneralHome,beneathaloosefloorboard,therewasametalboxfullofmydeepestdreamsandmysmuttyfanfic.Whenyougrewupinafamilywhereeveryonekneweveryoneelse’sbusiness,youhadtofindwaystokeepyoursecrets.Carverhidhisinthebackyard.AlicewrotepoetryandstasheditinatreesomewhereontheRidge.AndIhidminebeneaththefloorboards.
“I’mgonnafixmyselfadrink.Doyouwantanything?”Aliceasked,hanginguphercoatandheadingdownthehalltothekitchen.IhadexcusedmyselffromthegravesitesoonafterBendisappeared,andAliceaskedifIneededcompany.Ithinkshesensedsomethingwaswrong.
SomethingbeyondburyingDad,anyway
“Whateveryou’rehaving,”Ireplied,andheadedintotheredparlorroom.Iknewexactlywherethelooseboardwas,hiddenunderanendtable,andwedgedafirepokerbetweentheplanksofwood,andprieditup.
Itookouttheboxanddusteditoff
ThenIopenedit.
Therewasaletterontop,writteninthatfamiliarloopyhand.Dad’shandwriting.Hemust’vefounditwhilecleaningtheparlor—steppedonaloosefloorboard,andpriedituptoseewhatwasunderneath.
OrmaybeIwasneverthatsneaky.
MaybehealwaysknewIhidmysecretshere.
I’msoproudofyou,buttercup.
Andstapledtothebottomwerereceipts.Asobcaughtinmythroat.Theyweresalesfromthebookstoreintown.ARake’sGuidetoGettingtheGirl,TheKissattheMidnightMatinee,andTheProbabilityofLove.Hehadboughtthem.Andheknewtheyweremine.
Heknew.
Ihuggedthenotetomychest.
Andifheknew,thenthatmeant—whenthebarownerinterruptedBruno.Thehalf-finishedsentencesaboutmywriting.AnnNichols’snewbooksinthewindow…
Alicefoundmeintheredparlorroomlikethat.Shefrozeintheentryway,eyeswide,holdingtwoglassesofwhiskeyontherocks.“Thehell?ThisissomeGooniesshithere.”
“It’smystash,”Irepliedwithahiccup.Shecameoverandsliddowntothefloorbesideme,andsetdownourdrinks.ShepickedupMidnightMatineeandflippeditovertotheback.“Heknew,didn’the?”
“Knewwhat?”Aliceasked,feigninginnocence.Icouldtellshewaslying—whatkindofoldersisterwouldIbeifIcouldn’ttell?Iglaredatherandsheshrugged,puttingthebookbackintothelockbox.“Ihavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout.Hedefinitelydidn’ttellthewholetown.”
“Alice!”
“OhI’mgoingtokillwhoevertoldyou.”
“Noonedid.Well…Daddid.”Ishowedhertheletter.
“Good,”Alicedeclared.“Turnsoutnoonewantstopissofftheguywho’llputtheminacasket.Don’twannabelookinglikeaclown.”
“Ohmygod,hedidn’tthreatenanyone,didhe?”
Shegaveaone-shoulderedshrug.“Iamsworntosecrecy.”Weputthenoteandtherestofthebooksbackintothebox,andIslowlybegantoshufflethroughtherestofit.Journals,concertstubs,littlenotesfilledwithsmallerstories.Shewatched,stirringtheiceinherglass.“Dadfoundmine,youknow.”
“Yourstash?”Iasked.“Yeah,it’sintheknotinthetreeoutneartheRidge.”
Shegavemeanastonishedlook.“Youknew?”
“Carverfounditagesago.”
“Hisis—”
“Underthewoodpileinthebackyard,”wesaidtogether,andlaughed.
Itookasipofmydrink.ItwasalotstrongerthanthedrinksDanamade.ItpersonifiedAlice—shewasthere,inyourface,unabletobeforgotten.Iadmiredthatabouther.Shewouldn’thaveletherex-boyfriendstealherstoriesandpublishthem.Shewould’vechasedhimdown,andshitinhisshoes,andpennedanarticlefortheNewYorkerpainstakinglydetailinghowmuchofaliarLeeMarlowwas.Notjusttome—buttohiscolleagues,tohisfriends,tojournalists,andtocollegesanddeansaskinghimtobetheirguestprofessor.
Shewouldhaveannihilatedhim.
Asthesunbegantosinkacrosstheeveningsky,theshadowsintheparlorgrewlongeranddarker,butwedidn’tgetuptocutthelightson.Therewasacertainkindofsoftnesstothewaythegoldenlightfilteredinthroughthewindowsandkissedthedarkcorners.Weknewthisfuneralhomewithoureyesclosed,anyway,andthefloorwasn’tthatuncomfortableyet.
“So,I’vesomethingI’vebeenmeaningtotellyou.”Aliceshiftedtositcross-leggedanddownedhalfofherdrink.
“Thisshouldbegood,”Iteased.
Alicesquirmed.Shedidthatwhenshewastryingtokeepasecretthatwasphysicallytryingtoescapeherbody.“Karenreadmostofthewillbeforeyouarrived,soyoumissedthispartofit.”Shepursedherlipstightlytogetherandwasquietforalongmoment.“YouhadyourghostswithDad,andIthoughtIhadnothing.But…”Shelookedaroundtheparlor,asfondlyasDadalwaysdid.“Ihadthisplace.Well,Ihavethisplace.”
Irealizedwithagasp.“Dadgaveyouthebusiness?”
Shegavethesmallestnod.“AfterMomdies,ofcourse,but—heputitinhiswill.Hesaiditwenttome.AndMomsaidshe’dhappilyturnitoverbeforeshekicksitbutIreallydon’twantitthatbadlyand—”
“Oh,Alice,I’msohappyforyou!”
“Really?”
“Yes,really,youidiot!I’msofreakinghappy!You’retheonlyonewhounderstandsthisplace—reallyunderstandsit.Ican’timagineitinbetterhands.”
Herbottomlipwobbled,andthenshethrewherarmsaroundme.“Thankyou,”shesaidintomyshoulder.
Ihuggedhertightly.“Iknowyou’lldoagreatjob,Al.”
Shefinallyletgoandsatbackonherfeet,andwipedhereyes.“IthinkImetmycryingquotafortheyear.”
“It’sokaytocrysometimes.”
“Notwiththirty-dollarmascaraon!”
“Well,whosefaultisthat?”
“Impossiblebeautystandardsandmylackofthickeyelashes?”Shesniffedindignantly,andtookadrinkofherwhiskey.“So,what’reyoudoingwithyoursecretstash?Afraidsomeonefoundit?”
“Oh,no.IguessIwasjustlooking…forsomething,”Ireplied.Shecockedherheadinquestion.“Ananswer,Ithink.Someonewhojustlefttoldmethatmybookwashisfavorite.Hethankedmeforit.That—thatwaswhyhewashere.”
Alice’seyeswidened.“Oh,sis.Ben?”
Forsomereason,someoneelsesayinghisnamemademesadalloveragain.Tearsburnedattheedgesofmyeyes,butIdutifullybrushedthemaway.I’dhelpeddozensofghostsinthepast.MostofthetimeIjusthadtolistentothem—toastory—beforetheyleft.
“Idon’tunderstandwhyI’msomesseduprightnow,”Iadmitted.“I’vesaidgoodbyetosomanypeople—shouldn’titbeeasynow?”
Alicegavemeastrangelook.“Whotoldyouthatlie?It’snevereasy.It’salsoneverreallygoodbye—andtrustme,we’reinthebusinessofgoodbyes.Thepeoplewhopassthroughhereliveoninyouandmeandeveryonetheytouched.Thereisnohappyending,there’sjust…happilyliving.Asbestyoucan.Orwhatever.Metaphor-metaphor-simileshit.”
Ibitmycheektokeepfromlaughing
“Andthatgoesfortheghostsyouhelp,too.Ithinkyou’llseehimagain.”
Iwipedmynosewiththebackofmyhand.“He’sgone.”
“Tellthattothewind.”
MaybetherewassometruthinAlice’swords,thoughIdidn’treallybelievethemyet.AsItookoutmyfanfictionandleafedthroughmyjournals,therewasacertaintyinthatteenagegirl’swords,inwhatshewanted,inwhoshewas,thepartsthatIclungto,thepartsofmyfirstbookBenloved.Shebelievedinhappilyeveraftersandgrandromanticgesturesandonetruelovesthatstretchedonbeyondtheircanonendings.Iwasn’tthatgirlanymore—orsoIalwaystoldmyself.ButmaybeIwas.
Andmaybethatwasn’tabadthing.
LeeMarlowhadsaidthatromancewasonlygoodbecauseyoureaditwithonehand.
Hewaswrong.Hehadstolenmystoriesandrewrotethemintosomeliterarycirclejerkwithawardpotential,butIhadthememoriesofmyparentswaltzingintheparlors,ofCarverandNickikissinginthecemetery,ofAlicepinningawildflowerinherhairwhenshethoughtnoonewaslooking.Hemighthavehadtheplot,buthedidn’thavetheheart.
Benwasgone,butAlicewasright.Hewasstillhere,andIstillhadabooktowrite.AndnowIfinallyknewhowtowriteit.Istilldidn’tknowhowtowriteAmeliaandJackson’sending,butIknewthatIcould.IknewthatIwascapable.
Ithinkknowingthatwould’vemadeBenproud.
“HowdidIgetsuchasmartsister?”Iaskedheratlast.
Alicegrinnedandpunchedmeintheshoulder.“AboutdamntimeyourealizedhowsmartIam!YoucancallmeSaintAliceifyouplease.”
“That’sgoingalittlefar.”
“SageAlice—”
“Really?”
“Andnameyournextbookcharacterafterme.”
“Absolutelynot,”Ilaughed,whentherewasaknockonthefrontdoorandRose’svoiceechoedintothefoyer.
“It’sjustme!AndIsoneedtopiss—ohmygod,isthatasecretstash?”Roseaskedwhenshesawussittingontheparlorfloorwithmyboxofsecrets,butthenshequicklyhurriedtothebathroom.AliceandIwerestilldrinkingonthegroundwhenshecamebackout.“Wow,lookatallthissmutMaybeyoureditor’lltakeoneoftheseforyournextbook,”Rosejoked,glancingoveranX-Filesfanfic.“Bendoesn’tseemtheMulder-Scullytype,though.”
Igaveherastrangelook.“Who?”
Rosesaid,“Youreditor—Imean,”shesaid,andglancedatAlice,“Ann’seditor.”
Alicewavedherhand.“Ialreadyknow.”
“Rose,thatisn’tfunny.”Benbeinggonehitmeagain,rightinthestomach,anditmademewanttopuke.
Mybestfriendtookherphoneoutofherbra.“ErintextedmewhenIwascomingbackfromthecemetery.Hejustwokeup.”
“He’sdead,”Isaid.
“What?No—Icould’veswornItoldyouhegothitbyacar.”
“Yeahandthathedied!”
Roseshookherheadslowly,aboutthreetypesofconfusioncrossingherface.“I…didnotsaythat.”
Didn’tshe?Imean—itdidn’tmatter,Benwasrightthere.Hehauntedme.Hewasdead,hehadtobe.ButthemoreIthoughtbacktoourconversationthelessIbecamesureaboutitbecause…Iwasn’tsureifshehadsaidhedied,orifIinferredit.Shesaidthathewashitbyoncomingtraffic,andIinferredtherest.
Imean,hewasafuckingghost.
Andnowhewasgone.Iwatchedhimfadeintothewind,but—
Whatif…
Whatifthatwasn’tbecausehemovedon?
“And—andhewokeup?”Iasked,myvoicebrittle.IgottomyfeetandfacedRose,mychesttightwithanxietyanddisbeliefand—andhope.
Itwashope
RoseshowedmethetextmessagefromErin.
HOTTIEMCHOTCAKESHASRISEN!He’sawake!!
“HottieMcHotcakes?”Iechoed,readingthetextoverandover.Itwassooutlandishlyfunny.BecauseI’djustsaidgoodbyetohim.I’dwatchedhimpassonandheresomeonewastalkingabouthimasifhewas—
Asifhewas—
“He’salive.”
Thetimeshedisappearedwithoutwarning.Thevoicesheheard.Thesounds.Thepain—I’dignoredmostofitbecauseitdidn’tmatter.Hewasdeadbecausemystubbornasssaidhewas.Buthewasn’t,andwhileheexistedhere,somepartofhimwasstillbeingpulledbacktohisbody,wrenchedback,eventhoughhekepttryingtostayhere,thinkingthatwhereverhewasgoingwasworse.
IfI’dbeenmoreperceptive.IfIhadn’twrittenoffhisweirdexperiences.IfI’djustthoughtalittle,thatthingsweren’talwaysthesame,notalwayscertain.
Ipressedmyhandovermymouthtomuffleasob.
Rosetookmebytheshoulders.“Florence?Babe?Areyouokay?”
Ishookmyhead.Theworldblurredwithmytears.“H-He’salive,”Isaidbetweensobs.“B-Benisalive.”
Alicelookedupfromherspotontheground.“Yourghostboyfriend,Ben?”
Tothat,Roseasked,“Aghost?”
Andthatmademecryevenharder,andRosepulledmeclosetoherandwrappedherarmsaroundme,eventhoughshedidn’tunderstand.Hecouldfeedhiscatagain,andhecouldgotobookstores,andreadhisfavoritenovels,andhecouldtakeallofthosevacationsheneverdidbefore,andmeetnewpeople,andfindanewfamilyand—
Andme.Hecouldfindme
IwantedtohavememorieswithBen.Iwantedtoseehimonthefrontporchandsitwithhimandmakeupsillystoriesaboutthepeoplethatpassedonthesidewalk.IwantedtoshareabeerwithhimdownatBarNone,andIwantedtodancewithhim—reallydancewithhim,ourhandsintertwined,myunrulyheartbeatingsolouditgavemeaway.
Iwantedtokisshim,obviously,butitwassomuchfuckingmorethanthat.
WhenIwaswithLee,Icouldseemyentirelifeunfoldaroundhim.IknewwhereIfitin,Iknewwhatparttoplayandhowtoplayit.Ihadaplaceinhislife,andIboxedmyselfintoitasbestIcould,andItriedtobetheperfectgirlfriendforsomeonewhowaslookingforasaint.
ButwhenIthoughtaboutBen,abouthisdisheveledhair,histimidsmileandsoftvoice,aheartstringpulledsotautinmychestitalmostbroke,andithurt.BecauseIthoughtIcould—
IthoughtIcouldlovehim.
Cautiousandorganizedandstoicashewas.Justashewas.Hedidn’tneedtofitintoaperfectplaceinmylife.Hejust…neededtobe
Heexisted.Andtherestofmyworldmaderoom.
Hewasrightintheend.Romancewasn’tdead,afterall.
35
UnrulyHearts
USUALLYWHENYOUflewintoLaGuardia,youkissedyourassandhopedforthebest.IhatedflyingintoLGA—theturbulentair,howyou’regoingrightoverthewater,howyouthinkyou’regoingtolandinthatwaterwhenatthelastminutethetarmaccomesupandyourplanejutsdownand—
Ididn’tlikeflying.
Atall.ButIbravedit.Infact,Ididn’tquiteminditatall.BecauseIwasgoingtoseeBen
Afterthefuneral,Ihadthoughttostayafewdayslonger,butassoonasmyfamilyheardaboutwhathadhappened—fromAlice,becauseshewasaboutasgoodatkeepingsecretsasmydadwas—theyalltoldmetogo.CatchaflightbackwithRose,comehomeinthemorning,gotohishospital—tofindhim.
“Goodthingsdon’twait,andneithershouldyou,”Momhadsaid.
Perhapsthiswasn’tmygrandromance,butthiswasmystory,andwhetherIwastheruleortheexception,Ididn’tcare.Ijustwantedtoseehim.Iwantedtomakesurehewasokay.
Rose’sphonepingedwithafewtexts.ProbablyallfromAlice.TheyhadgoneonadatelastnighttoBarNone,andRosehadn’tbeenabletoshutupaboutmysistersince.Ilovedit—andhatedit.Mychaoticbestfriendandmysmart-assyoungersister?Itwasarecipefortrouble.
WhatwereBenandI?Wereweanything?Iwondered.Ididn’tknow.Ithoughtbackonmylastconversationwithhim,andIwasfilledwithmortificationalloveragain.HisgrandmotherwasAnn—he’dreadallofmysexscenes!He’dseenmenaked!
Iwasn’tsurewhichwasworse.
Theywereallprettybad.
Though,didherememberanyofthat?Orwhenhewokeup,wasitlikewakingfromadream?ErinhadtoldRosethathisinjurieswereminimal,andthedoctorshadn’tknownwhyhewasn’twakingup.Becausehewasn’tthere.Hissoul—spirit—whatever.Iwasn’tsurewhatmadeustick.Thememoriesinourelectrons?Thewindinourlungs?Theechoofourwords?Whateveritwas,hewasawakenow,andeventhoughitfeltlikeaneternitysinceIsatinhisofficeandgavehimacactus,ithadonlybeenaweektoeveryoneelse.
“Oh,hey.”Roseelbowedmeintheside.Passengerswerebeginningtofileoutoftheplaneandontothejetbridge.“Erintextedmewhilewewereontheflight.He’stakingvisitorsnow!”
“Oh.”
Iwantedtopuke.
Leavingtheairportwasalwaysaloteasierthancoming,butLaGuardiamadeithardnomatterwhat.Itwaslikewhoeverdesignedtheplacewantedeveryonewhocamethroughittosufferasmuchastheycould.Alloftheopengateswereononesideoftheairport,butthelineforthetaxiswasacrosstheparkinggarage,downanincline,throughaconstructionzone,atthefarendofwhatwasprobablyonceabusstop.Ittookthirtyminutestogetthere,andcallingacarwould’vetakenjustaslongbecausethepickupareawasrightnexttothetaxis.
Butwefinallymanagedtonabone,andRosetoldourdrivertotakeustoNewYorkPresbyterianinLowerManhattan—andtaketheshortestroutepossible.BecauseofthelayoverinCharlotte,wedidn’tactuallymanagetogetbacktothecityuntilrush-hourtraffic,soadrivethatusuallytookthirtyminutestookanhourandsomechange.ThatwasonethingIdidn’tmissaboutthecity.AtleastinMairmont,thereweren’tenoughpeopleforanhourandahalf’sworthoftraffic.
Bythetimewepulledupatthehospital—andtherightbuilding—Ijustwantedtogohome,butRosewasnothingifnotstalwart.
“Don’tyouwanttoseehim?”
OfcourseIdid.Thatwasn’tthequestion.Itwasn’tifIwantedtoseehimbut—thislastweekhadbeenstrange,andotherworldly,andwhowastosaythathewantedtoseeme?
Rosepaidforthetaxianddumpedherduffelonthesidewalkbesideafirehydrant,outofthewayofmostofthepeople.“I’llbeouthere,”shesaid,wavingmeinside.“Idon’treallylikehospitals.”
“Idon’t,either—youknow,thewholeghostthing,”Ihissed.
“Andone’swaitingforyouupstairs.Fivethirty-eight.Don’tforget!”
AsifIcould.I’dbeenrepeatingthenumberoverandoverinmyheadfortheentiretaxiride,butasmallvoice,onethatIhadbeentryingtoignore,tryingtoshoveaway,keptasking,Whatifhedoesn’trememberyou?
WhatwouldIdothen?
Ididn’tknow,butIdidn’tthinkaboutit,either,asIgotintotheelevatorandhitthefifthfloorbutton.Amomentlater,anolderwomansteppedinwithme.ShehadontheloudestsweaterI’deverseen—everycoloroftherainbowvomitedontoitandknittogether.I’dseenasweaterlikethatonlyoncebefore.
“Whatfloor?”Iasked.
“Oh,Ithinkit’sfinallytimetoheadtothetop.”
“Surething.”Ipressedthehighestnumber.
Theolderwomanleanedtowardme.Shesmelledlikelilacperfumeanddumplings.“Thankyou,Florence.”
“You’rewelc—”ButwhenIglancedover,shewasgone.Achillslithereddownmyspine.Icould’veswornshewashere,justamomentago.
Andthatsweater—shelookedlike—
ShelookedlikeAnn.
Theelevatordoorsdingedandopenedtothefifthfloor.Isteppedoutandglancedbackonemoretimetomakesurethatthewomanwasn’tthere,butofcourseshewasn’t.Shewasdead.Fiveyearsdead.
Ididn’thavetimetothinkaboutAnn,becauseastheelevatordoorsclosed,Iheardafamiliarvoicesaymyname.Anditwasn’tthevoiceIwantedtohear.
“Florence?”
Iturnedaround,andstandingthereinthelobby,withblondhairandatrimmedbeard,wasLeeMarlow.HewasholdingabouquetofyellowflowersinhishandwithacardstuckinthemthatreadGETWELLSOON!
Ifeltmyselfgoclammyallover.“Lee—h-hi.”
“Whatasurprise!”Heseemedconfused.“What’reyoudoinghere?”
“Um—I’mheretoseeBen.”
Hefrowned,asiftryingtopuzzleoutexactlyhowIknewhim.AndIdidn’tknowwheretostart.ThoughIshould’veknownbetter,becauseitturnedout,Leedidn’tmuchcare.“?’Coursehe’spopularwiththeladies.”
Ben?Right.I’msurehetoldhimselfthatbecausenoonecametoseehimwhenhehadhisappendixoutonourtwo-yearanniversary.
“It’snicetoseeyoumadesomeconnectionsatallthosepublishingpartiesItookyouto,”headded.
Hereallycouldn’tthinkaboutaworldbeyondhimself,couldhe?Charmingandsuave,ofcoursehewas,andtheworldheknewdancedaroundhimlikeplanetsaroundthesun.
Iforcedmylipstosmileasmyhandsballedintofists.Justonepunch.Justone—
No,Florence.
You’rebetterthanthat.
“Ijustaskedthenurses,”hewenton,andpointeddownthehall.“He’srightdownthisway.Wecanwalktogether.”
Ididn’twantto,butIdidn’twanttodothisalone,either.Mychestwasbeginningtofeeltight.Thiswasn’thowIpicturedseeingBenagain,withLeeMarlowtowitness,butIbegantocarelessandlessabouthowwemetagainandjustthatweweregoingto.BecauseBenwashere,andthepanicinmyveinswasslowly,witheachstep,transformingintoexcitement.
Hewashere.Inthisbuilding.Alive
Benwasalive.Benwasalive.
Benwasalive.
Hospitalsdidn’tlooksodifferentfrompublishinghouses—atleastnotFalconHouse.Glasswallsseparatedpatientsfromeveryoneelse,sometimesfrostedbutneverprivate.Thecacophonyofbeepscoalescedintothisjaggedsortofrhythmthathadnorhymeorreason,andmyheartwaslouderthanallofthem,beatinginmyearslikeafuneralmarch.
Leeneverknewhowtodoanythinginsilence.Hedidn’tlikequiet.Hehadtobeeithertalking,orlistening,ordoingsomething.So,aswewenttogetherdownthehall,hetalked.“It’sgoodtoseeyou—areyougoingsomewhere?”headded,oncehenoticedthesuitcaseIwasrollingwithme.
“Ijustcamebackfromvisitinghome.”
“Home?Noshit.Youalwayshatedhome.”
“Mydaddied,”Ireplied,andhiseyebrowsjerkedup.
“Oh.Florence,I’ms—”
“Isthathisroom?”Iinterrupted,lookingstraightahead.Towardtheendofthehall,toroom538.Icouldseethenumberontheplaque.Andthroughthefrostedglass,therewasashadow—ashape—sittingupinbed.
Iknewthatshape.Iknewhim
“Oh,whatasurprise.Laura’sstillhere,”Leeobserved.Ididn’tnoticethewomansittinginthechairbesideBen’sbedsideuntilhesaidsomething.Softredhairandaheart-shapedface,snuggledinablanket.Thesameredhairfromthesocialmediaphoto.Thesamesoftface.
“Laura?”Iechoed.
“Shehasn’tlefthissidesincetheaccident,”hewenton,andIdidn’tthinkhetoldmethatinmalicebecause—hecouldn’tknowwhyIwashere.OrwhatIfelt.“Ikeeptellinghertogohomebutyouknowhowitis.”
Icametoastop.
Fifteenfeetaway,inroom538,Benlaughedatsomethingshesaid.Itwasloudandbrightand—andhappy.Hewashappy.Ididn’tneedtoseehimtoknowthat.
“Ithinkshestillmisseshim,”hesaid.“Maybehe’llgiveherasecondchancenow.”
Asecondchance.WhatLaurahadbeggedofBen,aftershecheated,andBenhadwantedthat.Asecondchance—buthedidn’tthinkhedeservedit,becausewhatguydrovehisgirlfriendtocheat?Butitwasherfault.Shemadethechoice.
Andhemadehis.
But…shehadbeenathisbedsidethiswholetime.Waitingforhimtowakeup.Shelovedhim.Reallylovedhim—andtheyhadthekindofsharedhistorythatBenandIcouldn’thaveinthesevendayswekneweachother
I…knewverylittleaboutBen.Whatwashisfavoritefood?Hisfavoritemusic?Whatwasheafraidof—whatdidhedoontheweekends?Didheownoneofthosesquattypotties?QuestionsIhadn’tthoughttoaskinthelastweek.
Thenagain,I’dbeengrieving.Iwasstillgrieving.Itwashardtomakespacewithasorrowthatfull.
“Whydidn’tyoucomeafterme?”IaskedLeeabruptly.“WhenIleft?”
Hegavemeastrangelook,andoh,Iwishedhecould’vesaidthathemissedme.AndIwishedhecould’veapologized.AndIcould’vetoldhimthatmystorieswerereal,andthattheywereprecious,andthatIwantedtotellthemsomeday.Becauseghoststorieswerejustlovestoriesabouthereandthenandnowandwhen,aboutpocketsofhappinessandmomentsthatresonatedinplaceslongaftertheirera.Theywerestoriesthattaughtyouthatlovewasneveramatteroftime,butamatteroftiming.
Andthiswasnotmine.
LeeMarlowsaid,ofallthethingshecould’ve,“Idon’tthinkwewould’veworkedout,bunny.Idon’tlikedatingrivals,thoughyougotawhiletogo.Ididn’twanttoseeyoujealous—”
Myhandwasalreadyinatightfist.
Itwould’vebeenashametowasteit.
SoIturnedandIslammeditstraightintohismotherfuckingnose.
Hegaveahowlofpain,backpedalinginsurprise.Hisnosewasn’tbroken.Ididn’tknowhowtothrowapunchthathard.Butitdidhurtmyknuckles.Hewhirledbacktomewithwild,angryeyes.“Thehell,Florence?!”
“I’mnotyourrival,LeeMarlow,”Itoldhim,shakingmyhandbecauseithurt.“You’renoteveninmyleague.Butyoubetterwatchme,”Iadded,andgrabbedmysuitcasehandleagain,“becauseI’llbethewriteryouwillneverbe.”
ThenIleftdownthehallway,backtowardtheelevators.
AndIdidn’tlookback.
Evenasheshoutedatmetostop,toldmehe’dcallthecops,fileareport—Ididn’tcare.
Itfeltgood,andhedeservedit.
AndIwasnevergoingtothinkaboutLeeMarlowagain.
Rosewasstillwaitingformeoutside,andthelookonmyfacemust’vesaiditall.Hereyebrowsknittogetherandsheshookherhead.“Oh,honey,”shewhispered,andpulledmeintoatighthug.
ItoldherIcouldn’tdoit.Ididn’ttellherwhy,butitdidn’treallymatteranymoreanyway.Itwasn’tmymovetomake,andthiswasn’tmypartofthestorytotell.Ihadhelpedhimgethislifeback,andhehadhelpedmethroughmine—andifthatwasit…thenitwas.Hewashappy,andsoitwastimethatIwas,too.
Iwenthomewithmybestfriendintheentireworld,tooursmallapartmentinNewJersey,andIfinishedwritingalovestory.
36
LovelyMeeting
AmeliaBrownstoodintherain,andsheknewshedidn’twanttobealone.“I’msorry,”Jacksonsaid,andhemethergazeandheldit.Hiseyeswerethedeepblueofasummerskybackhome,andhoweverangryorsadshewasathim,shestillfoundherselfyearningforthoseskieswhenevershelookedintohiseyes.“Iwasashit,andIshouldn’thaveliedtoyouaboutMiranda—itjusthurt.AndIthoughtifIjustforgotabouther,thepainwouldgoaway.ButIwaswrong.Andinstead,Ihurtyouintheprocess.Iwasafraid.”“Ofwhat?”sheasked,makingherselfstandherground.Inthedimlightsfromthehousebehindher,helookedlikeaspecterfromherdreams.Cometohaunther.Shehadwantedhimtoreturn,butshedidn’tthinkhewould.“DidyouthinkI’duseyourpastforalittlemoneyandfame?”“Didn’tyoutry?”Shewinced.“Ineversentinthatarticle.Icouldn’t.”Becauseshehadrealizedoverquietdinnersatthekitchenetteandsavingdogsandrunningfrompaparazzi—sherealizedshedidn’twantthat.Shedidn’twantaloudlife.Shejustwantedagoodone.Hesaid,“Iknow.Thankyou.”Shehuggedherselftighter.“We’reeven,then.”“Yourentedthehouseforanotherweek,Ihear.”“Ilovetheweather,”shereplied,shiveringinthecold.“It’squitegood.Wouldyou…wantthecompanyofamessed-up,burned-outmusician?”Shecockedherhead.“Depends.Istheguitarincluded?”Shemotionedtotheguitarslungonhisback.“Iwasgoingtoserenadeyouifyouwouldn’tlisten,”headmittedalittlesheepishly,andwipedhiseyes.Hewascrying,thoughhe’dtellheritwastherain.Shetookasteptowardhim,andtheywerecloseenoughthatallshehadtodowasreachoutherhandsandtakehis,andpullhimintothewarmthofherhouseontheIsleofIngary.“Whatwouldyouplay?”Hereachedoutslowly,softly,andtookherhandsinhis.“Don’tworry,”hereplied,“itwouldbeasongwithonlythegoodnotes.”
Iwrote.AndIwrote.Forthreemonths,asAprilturnedtoMay,turnedtoJuneandintoJuly,IpolishedandIeditedandIcleanedthedraftasIsatinfrontofafananddranksweetteaandfellinloveoverandoverwithAmeliaandJacksonandtheirmagicalIsleofIngary.Icheckedmytexts,thoughtheyweremostlyfromRosecheckinginonme,andCarveraskingaboutplanstoproposetoNicki,andevenAliceafewtimes!ThoughwhenevershetexteditwasmostlyaboutRose.
Icouldseethattroublecomingfromamileaway.Mybestfriendandmylittlesister?Godhelpme.
IatetakeoutThaifromtherestaurantdowntheblockandwenttobedtoolateandwokeupatnoontofixmyselfapotofcoffeeIwouldtakeonesipofbeforeabandoningitasIfellintothestoryagain.
Ihadn’twrittenlikethisinyears,notsinceIfirstbeganwritingforAnn.
Itfeltlikeeverythingoverthelastyear,allofmypent-upfrustrations,allofmyfailures,allofmywantsandhopesanddreams,theyallcametumblingoutofme.OnthepageIcouldmakesenseofallofthem,moldthemintoabeginning,amiddle,andanend—becauseallgoodlovestoriesended.
Andthen,justlikethat,Iwasnolongerinthedarknight.Iwassteppingoutintothedaylight,intothehappilyeverafter,anditfeltgoodandwholeandbright.
Andsomethingtobeproudof.
Oneevening,Carvercalledtotellme,“Hesaidyes,”onavideochatwithNicki,showingbothoftheirgoldenengagementbands.“Andwe’regonnahavetheweddinginafewweeksatthefuneralhome.IfiguredsinceAlicebasicallyownsitnow,shecouldbumpawakeortwoandgiveusafamilydiscount.Brunoisofficiating.”
“Elvistoo?”Iasked,surprised.“Ididn’tknowhedidweddings,too.”
Threeweekslater,onthehottestdayofJulyonrecord,IfinishedthelastbookIwouldeverwriteforAnnNichols.
Anditwasgood.
IsentthenovelattachedinanemailtoMolly,whothenforwardedittoBen’snewassistanteditor,Tamara,theonewhohaddonealotoftheheavyliftingwhilehewasawayonmedicalleave.TamaraknewIwasAnn’sghostwriter,too.Iwasn’texpectingtohearback.Ithadbeenthreemonths,andifBenrememberedme,ifhemissedme,thenhewould’vefoundme.Heknewhow.
Afewminuteslater,Mollycalled.Andofferedmerepresentation.
“Iknowyourworkisgood,andsincethecontractisover,IthoughtI’dpoachyoubeforeanyoneelsegotyou,”shesaidfrankly.“So,whatdoyousay?”
ItoldherI’dthinkaboutit,justtomakehersweatalittleforkeepingAnn’sdeath(albeitasecret)fromme.Mollywasoneofthebestagentsinthebusiness,andIlikedworkingwithher,soitwasano-brainer,butyouknow,Ihadtimetositandthinkonit,sinceIwasn’tsurewhatIwantedtodonext.
I’djustfinishedabook,afterall
WasBengoingtoloveit?No,Ialreadyknewhewould.HewasgoingtoloveitbecauseforafewdaysduringachillyspringinMairmont,helovedme,andlikeJacksonsingingasongwithonlygoodnotesforAmelia,thebookwasfilledwithonlythegoodpartsofus
Thatevening,insteadoftakeout,IdecidedtomakesomecelebratorymacandcheesewhileRosestoppedbythediscountliquorstoretogetourfavoritepineapplewineonherwayhome.MyphonedingedasIwasdrainingthenoodles.Anemail.
Ilookedatwhoitwas—
Andmyheartslammedagainstthebonycageofmychest.Ialmostdroppedmyphoneintothehotnoodles.
TheemailwasfromBen.
MissDay,Itwasapleasureworkingwithyou.Iwishyouallthebestonyourfutureendeavors.Best,BenjiAndor
Andthatwasallitsaid.
Forthenextfourhours,Ipacedtheapartmenttryingtodecodeeverysecretmessagewithinthosetwenty-twowordswithRoseandabottleofpineappleRiesling.
“Wedidn’tevenworktogether!”Icried,carvingaholeinthehardwoodfloorsthefasterIpaced.“Whatdoeshemean?”
Doesheremember?No—hecouldn’t.Ifhedid,thenhewouldhavecontactedmesomuchsoonerthanthis.Thatcouldn’tbeit.
Rosewatchedmepacefromherperchinthemiddleofthecouch,sippingonherwine.“Perhapsitwasjustapoliteemail?”
“Ididn’tevengetoneofthosefrommyoldeditor.”
“Youshouldrespond.”
Istoppedpacing.“What?”
Shetookanotherlargegulp.“Tellhimyou’dliketomeet,andthenfinishupyourunfinishedbusiness.”
“Idon’thaveany—”
“Florence.”
“Rose.”
“Iloveyou,butyoudo.”
“Iloveyou,too,butyoujustexpectmetowaltzintohisofficeand—andtellhimwhat?ThatI’machaoticmess?Sevendrunkferretsinatrenchcoat?”
Inreply,Roseforciblysetdownherwineglassontothecoffeetableandreachedbehindheronthecouchtoourbookcases.Shegrabbedoneandpresentedittome.“Sign,seal,deliver.”
Istareddownatmyownbook,ArdentlyYours.ThebookthatBensaidwashisfavoriteinthewholeworld.AndIletoutaverylongsigh.“RememberyourlastideainvolvingBen?”
Sheshrugged.“YougottopunchLee,didn’tyou?”
Shehadapoint.
So,thenextmorning,whileInursedahangoverandatecongealedoatmeal,Iwroteareplyemail.
Mr.Andor,Itwasapleasure.ThoughIdohavesomethingforyou.Doyouthinkwecouldsetupameeting?Sincerely,FlorenceDayMissDay,WouldthisFridaywork,atnoon?Best,BenjiMr.Andor,Noonwouldbelovely.Withallmybest,Florence
Andthatwasthat.
Isecond-guessedmyemailtheentireweek.Waslovelytoostrongaword?ShouldIhavesigneditMissDay?ShouldIhaveaddressedhimasBenjiinsteadofMr.Andor?RosetoldmethatWednesdaythatifIspiraledanymore,I’ddrillmyselftothecenteroftheearth.
SoItriedtospiralmorequietly
IthinkImight’vehadafull-onpanicattackifitweren’tforhavingtofinalizeplansforCarverandNicki’sweddingthatweekend.RightafterthemeetingwithBenonFriday,IwastotakeataxitoNewarkandhoponaplanehomefortheirweddingonSaturday.Fridaywastherehearsaldinnerandbachelorparties,andasthebigsisterwhodidabsolutelynothingtohelpwiththeweddingwhileIwasinthedeadlinetrenches,Ihadtoatleastshowupforthose.Ireservedmyroomattheinn(toJohnandDana’spureecstaticjoy),andwalkedMomthroughthewhiplashof“I’msohappy!”and“Mybaby’sallgrownupandleavingthemortuary!”andImanagedtotalkRoseintocomingwithmepurelybecauseIwasthebesteldestsisterintheentireworldandIknewforafactthatAlicewouldneveraskher.Shewasboldatdoingabsolutelyeverything,exceptwhenitcametoherownhappiness.
Iguessitraninthefamily.
SoIgavemyselfalittleleniencywhenIrealizedthatIhadn’tbroughtanysortofWELCOMEBACK!orGLADYOULIVED!cardtogowithBen’sgiftuntilIwasalreadyintheelevatorgoinguptoFalconHousePublishers.Ibouncedonmyheels,quiteunabletostopmoving.
“Beautifulday,”IcommentedtoamansweatingthroughhisArmanisuit.Hegruntedandpattedhisforehead.
Itwassummerinthecity,andthemenintheelevatorlookedliketheywereabouttosweattodeathintheirironedbusinesssuits,thewomeninflouncyskirtsandkittenheels.
AndIwasinwhatIfeltbestin,anoversizedblouseandstraight-legjeanswithaholeintheleftknee,andredConverses.Ididn’tlooklikeIfitinhere,butlooksweredeceiving,andbestofall?
Ididn’treallycareanymore.Itdidn’tmatter.WhatmatteredwaswhereIwasgoing.
Iwasn’tscaredoftheloomingfloornumberthatwerosetomeet.ExecutiveeditorBenjiAndorhadbeenbackintheofficeforalittlelessthanamonth,thoughIwasbeginningtosuspecthehaddonemorethanalittleworkfromhomebeforethat.Heapparentlystillhadalotofcatchinguptodo,fromwhatErintoldRose.Thenagain,whendideditorsnothavealotofcatch-upworktodo?AslongasI’dknownLee,he’dbeenmajesticallybehindoneverydeadline.ButIhadafeelingthat,unlikeLee,Benactuallywantedtocatchup—butthenwhywouldheagreetoentertainameetingwithme?
Iwasnervous.WhatifhethoughtIwassomesortofweirdowhowantedtogivehimhisfavoritebook?Couldn’tbeanyworsethanaweirdogivinghimacactus,Iguessed.
Becauseithadbeenthreemonths,andIwasn’tgoingtolie,quiteafewofthosenightsIspentdrowninginabottleofwine,wonderingwhathappenedwithLaura.Wonderingifshestayed.Ifhewantedherto.Iftheydecidedtotryanew.
IwasalonebythetimetheelevatorstoppedatthefloorforFalconHousePublishers,andIsteppedoutintothecleanwhitelobby.Theglass-casedbookshelveslookedexactlythesame.AnnNichols’sbestsellerssatonashelfalltothemselves,andtheglassreflectedme,freckledcheeksanddrylipsandmessyblondhairpinnedupintotwinbuns.
ErinwasreadingabookasIcameuptothefrontdesk,butshequicklyputastickynoteonthepageandclosedit.WhentheDeadSingbyLeeMarlow.
Itcameoutthisweek.
“Florence!Goodmorning!”Eringreeted.“How’sRose?Isshealive?”
“Youtworeallyneedtostopgoingtothatwinebar,”Ireplied,rememberingRosestumblingintotheapartmentlastnightandimmediatelypassingoutonthesoftshagruginthelivingroom.
Eringaveapout.“Buttheyhavesuchagoodcheeseplate.”
Rosewasn’tgoingtoworktoday;she’dalreadycaughtherflighttoCharlotte,whereAlicewouldpickheruptodrivetoMairmont.Afterthismeeting,I’dbeonmyway,too.IaskedifIcouldstashmysuitcasebehindErin’sdesk,andshehappilyagreed.“I’llringBenjiandtellhimyou’rehere.”
“That’dbegreat,thanks.”
AsErincalledBen’sofficephone,IleanedagainstthefrontdesktogetabetterlookatLeeMarlow’snovel.Thecoverwasdecent,Iguessed.AbittoomuchlikeTheWomanintheWindowformyliking.Itwasn’tasifIcouldforgetthatLee’sbookcameoutthisweek.Ithadbeeneverywhereinthecity—onsubwayads,inmagazines,anentirearticleintheSundayeditionoftheNewYorkTimes,andeveninmyfavoriteindiebookstore.Itwasn’tsomethingIcouldquiteescape,butInolongerfeltundertheshadowofit,either.
LeeendedupnotfilingapolicereportafterI’dpunchedhimatthehospital.Probablyforthebest,becauseIhadsecretsthatcouldmakehislifeveryuncomfortableforawhile,andhedidn’tneedthatsortofbadpressbeforethereleaseofhisinstantbestseller.
Afteramoment,Erinhungupthephoneandsaid,“That’sodd,hedidn’tanswer,butheshouldbeinhisoffice.Youcanheadbackthere,ifyouwant.Hisdoorshouldbeopen.”
Sotookadeepbreath,andIwent.
37
TheDeadRomantics
IREMEMBEREDTHISwalkthreemonthsago.IrememberedhowterrifiedIwas,howIhopedwhoeverthisneweditorwaswouldgivemealittleslack.IdidendupgettingtheextratimeIneeded,butitdidn’tquitegothewayIhadplanned.Ipassedmeetingroomsseparatedbyfoggyglass,andassistanteditorsandmarketersandpublicistsworkingdiligentlytomakethemachinethatwaspublishingrun.
Itreallywasamiraclethatanythingcameoutontime.Well,amiracleandwaytoomuchcaffeine.
Attheendofthehallway,Ben’sofficedoorwasopenlikeErinsaiditwouldbe,andtherehesatasifhe’dalwaysbeenthere.Asifhehadn’tbeenaspectatorduringtheworstweekofmylife.Hishairwasalittlelongerandwavy,notgelledbacklikethelasttimeI’dmethim,andcurlinggentlyagainsthisears.Hissleeveswererolledup,andtheslightesthintofhisfather’sgoldenweddingringpeekedoutfrombeneathhiscollar.Therewasashallowscarrunningslantwiseacrosshisleftcheek,stillalittleredandtender,buthealing.Heworelargethick-framedglasses,thoughtheydidn’tseemtohelphimseeanybetterbecausehewasstillsquintingatsomethingonhiscomputerscreen,apenhangingoutofhismouth
Itwasasnapshotofhislife.Iwantedtotakeaphotoofit,memorizehowthedoorframedhiminaperfectsetting,thewindowbehindhimwithmiddaylightfloodinggoldintohisoffice.
Isteeledmyself—andmyheart.
Evenifhedidn’trememberme,itwasokay.Itwasgoingtobeokay—Iwasgoingtobeokay.
Irappedmyknucklesagainstthedoorway.
Hegaveastartatthenoise.Thependroppedfromhismouth,buthecaughtitandshoveditinanaccessorydrawerinhisdesk.“MissDay!”hegreetedinsurprise,andquicklystoodtowelcomemein,knockinghislonglegsontheundersideofhisdesk.Hewincedatthepain.“It’sapleasuretoseeyouagain.”
Heheldoutahandoverhisdesk,andItookit.HiswaswarmandcallousedandIthoughtIhadpreppedmyselfforthissortofmeeting,butatthatmomentIrealizedhowwoefullyunderpreparedIactuallywas.Becausehewasalive.Whensolonghehadbeenaspecterthatfadedinandoutofmylife,firstaghostandthenamemoryandnow—
Nowhewasstandinginfrontofmeandnomatterwhetherherememberedmeornot,hewashere.Thefeelingofhishandinminemademehappyinastrangeandcomfortingway.
Andthatsortofhappiness,evenbittersweet,mademyheartsofullitmightjustburst.
Isqueezedhishandtightly.“Thankyouforfittingmeintoyourschedule,”Ireplied,smiling.“I’vegottogettoNewark,soIwon’tbestayinglong.”
“Goingsomewhere?”
“Home!”Irepliedhappily.“Mybrother’sgettingmarriedthisweekend.”
“Congratulations!Well,thenbyallmeans,let’sgettoit.Please,sit,”hesaid,andmotionedtowardtheIKEAchairfacinghisdesk,andIsankdownintoit.ThelasttimeIwashere,Ihadallbutbeggedhimforanotherdeadlineextension.Ihadevenarguedthatlovewasdeadinordertowriteadifferentgenre.Nothingworked.
TheSwellofEndlessMusicwouldhavebeenadamngoodrevengefantasy.
Butitwasabetterromance.
Tomysurprise,hehadkeptmyapologycactus.Itwassittingonhisdeskbesidehismonitor,anditwasstillalive.He’dmaderoomforit,onhistidydeskwhereeverythinghaditsplace.
Ihadchangedsomuchintheselastfewmonths,andIwonderedhowmuchhe’dunknowinglychanged.Ifsomewheredeepdownbeneathhisfleshandbonestherewasanechoofmoonlitwalksingraveyardsandscreamingintherainanddandelionfieldsandfunerals.
Orweretheymysecretsnow?Iheldthemcloseeitherway,thoughnotascloseasIheldmypurserightaboutthen
“So,MissDay—”
“Florence,please,”Icorrected,tearingmyeyesawayfromthecactus.
“Florence,then.Sorry,”headded.“IwasjustrereadingAnn’smanuscriptwhenyouwalkedinandcompilingsomefinalnotesforher.We’llprobablydoasmallroundofeditsandsenditofftocopyedits—it’sreallyquitesolidalready.”
“SeewhatAnncoulddowithafewmoremonths?”Ijoked,tongueincheek.
Hesmiledsoftly.“Youwereright.Andthetitle?TheSwellofEndlessMusicissolyricalandsoft.It’sgreat.Ithinkwemightuseit—where’smymanners?Wouldyoulikesomethingtodrink?I’msurethebreakroomhasteaorburntcoffee,ifyou’dpreferthat?”
“Batteryacidatnoon?Oof,I’llhavetopass.”
Hegrinned.“Mightbeforthebest.Yourzoom-zoomjuicemightbackfireontheflight.”
Igaveastart.“Mywhat?”
“Oh—um,yourcoffee,”hecorrectedhimself,hisearsturningredwithembarrassment.
Wesatforanawkwardlyquietmoment
Thenheclearedhisthroat.Therednessofhisearswasinchingdowntowardhischeeksnow,andhecheckedhiswatch.“Anyway,there’sareasonyouwantedtomeetwithme?”
Yes,butIdidn’twanttoleaveafterthis,andgoonaboutmylife.Iwantedtostayinthisuncomfortablechairaslongashumanlypossible,becauseIknewwhenIleft,Iwouldneverbecomingbackagain.
Dadoncetoldmethatallgoodthingscametoanend,eventually.
Eventhis.
Iopenedmypurseandtookoutabook-shapedpresentwrappedinbrownpaper.“Iwantedyoutohavethis.Asathanks.Or—Idon’tknow—aget-wellpresent?Iwasthinkingaboutgettingyouacard,butitjustfeltweirdtowrite,‘GladYou’reNotDead!’onit,youknow?”
Helaughed—actuallylaughed.Itwasdeepandrumbly.“Apparently,Iwasprettyclosetodeadforafewdays.IdreamedthatIwas.”
Mythroatbegantoconstrict.“Well,goodthingitwasjustadream.”
“Itfeltrealenough,”hereplied,acceptingthegift.Heopeneditverymeticulously,oneedgeatatime,barelytearingthepaper.Hiseyebrowsfurrowedwhenhefinallyunwrappeditandreadthetitle.Booksdidn’talwaysfindsuccess,buttheyfoundwheretheyneededtogo,likeDadhadsaid.BenflippedopenthebooktothetitlepageandranhisfingersalongtheblackSharpieIusedtosignit.I’donlysignedahandfulofbooksbefore,soIdidn’treallyhaveasignatureoracertainwaytosign.Itwasjustmyname,plainandsimple,nexttohis.
Hewasquietforalongmoment,toolong.
Ohgod,hadIbecometheweirdowhogavehimacactusandabooknow?Thiswasaterribleidea.Iknewitwasfromthebeginning.IwasgoingtoputgooglyeyesonallofRose’svibratorsforeversuggestingthis.
“Oh,lookatthetime!”Igatheredmythingsandquicklypoppedtomyfeet.“Ireallyhavetogo.Hopeyouenjoythebook,youknow,assumingyouhaven’treadit,becausewhywouldIassumeyou’vereadit,right?Noone’sreadthatbookand,um,it’sdefinitelyadifferentFlorenceDayand—”
“Florence,”hewhispered,hisvoicecracking,butIwasalreadyatthedoor.“Wait—Florence—please.Wait.”
Istoppedinthedoorway,andsteeledmyselfwithabreath,andturnedtofacehim.Hewasstaringatmestrangely.Thenhewasonhisfeet,browneyeswide,andthewayhelookedatme,Icouldhavebeentheghost.
MaybeIwas.
“Whatwouldthisscenebelike?”Ibegan,hopemakingmychesthurt,knottedtight.Imight’vejustbeenthatweirdgirlwhogavehimacactusandabook,butmaybe—justmaybe—Iwasmore.“Arefinededitorfromaprestigiousromanceimprintand—”
“AchaoticghostwriterwhotakesgraveyardwalksatmidnightandshoutsintherainandunironicallyordersrumandCokesandbitesherthumbnailwhenshethinksnoone’slooking.”
“Idonot,”Ilied,myvoicecracking,ashesteppedcloserstill,andsuddenlyhewasinfrontofme,andcuppedmyfaceinhishands,therecognitioninhiseyesbloominglikedandelions,andtheacheinmychestturnedintosomethingwarmandbrightandgolden.
“Iknewyouonce,”hesaidsoardently,itmademyheartflutter.
“Ithinkyoustilldo,”Iwhispered,andhebentandpressedhislipstomine.Theywerewarmandsoft,andtastedvaguelyofChapStick,andIwantedtosavorit.Becauseherememberedme.Herememberedme.AndIjustwantedtokisshimforever,becausehesmelledlikefreshlaundryandspearmintgumandhishandsweresowarmcuppingmyfaceandhewaskissingme.BenjiAndorwaskissingme.IwassohappyIcoulddie.
Metaphorically.
“Itwasn’tadream,”hewhisperedagainstmylips.
Ishookmyhead,andmyheartwasbeatingsobrightIcouldbarelystandit.“I’monehundredpercentreal.Ithink.But…maybekissmeagaintoseeifI’mactuallyhere?”
Helaughed,deepandhumming,andkissedmeagaininthequietcornerofficeofFalconHousePublishers.“I’msorryImadeyouwait.I’msorryIdidn’trealize.”
“Wait,wait.”Ieasedawayfromhimalittle,thinking.“DoesthismeanI’mliterallythegirlofyourdreams?”
Hescrunchedhisnose.“Wouldn’tthatbeabitcliché?”
“You’reright,you’dprobablyflagitforbeingtoounrealistic.”
“Especiallyconsideringoneofusthinksloveisdead,”heagreed.
“Okay,tobefair,youweremostlydead.”Iranmyfingersacrosshisface,hisstubblyjawandredscar,andtwinedintohisraven-softhair.“Butyouaren’tanymore,andIwaswrong.”
“I’mgladyouwere,”heagreed,andbenthisheaddowntokissmeagain.Hisstubblebrushedacrossmycheek,roughandreal,andIwantedtodrinkallsix-foot-whateverofhiminlikeoneofthosestupidlylargecowboy-bootbeerglassesatroadsidebars.Thenheanchoredmyheadandkissedmedeeper,andforamomentIknewIwasstillinFalconHousePublishers,butIfeltlikeIwasshootingthroughthestars,infinite,withmyheartbeatingbrightly.
Untilmystarry-eyedasscamebacktoearthlikeArmageddon.“Oh—ohgod,”Igasped,pullingaway.“WhataboutLaura?”
Hesnappedhiseyesopenandgavemeastrangelook.“Laura?ShejustwantedmyNoraRobertsbooksifIkickedit,Iassureyou.”
Iunwoundwithrelief.“Thatmustbeonehellofacollection.”
Hechuckled.“I’mproudofit.Doyouwanttogetdinnertonight?”
“Iwouldlovet—”Ifroze,rememberingmyself.“Oh—ohshit,whattimeisit?”
Benglancedattheanalogueclockonhisdesk.“Almosttwelvethirty—wait,didn’tyousayyouhadaflight?”
“Definitely.Atthree,andifImissthatflight,Aliceisgoingtokillme,soIcan’tdodinnertonightbecauseI’llbeinMairmontbutI—”
Ididn’twanttosayno.Ididn’twanttoleave.AndthenIfoundmyselfthinkingaboutwhatcamenext.Dates,andmovies,andholidays,yearspassinginasingleblink.He’dkeephishairfloppy,andI’dcutmineshort,andwe’dbesomewhereelseinthestory,ormaybesecondarycharactersinsomeoneelse’s.AndIthoughtaboutyearsafterthat,whenhe’dgottenusedtomychaosandIhiscautionandtheworldwasalittleblurry.Ididn’tknowwherewewouldbe,orifhewouldgettiredofme,orifIwouldbreakhisheart—
ButIthought—IthoughtIwantedtofindout.
Isaid,“Comehomewithme.”
Hedidn’teventhink.Hedidn’tweighanyodds.Hedidn’tpausetofindhiswords.Theywerethere,assureandcertainashissmile.“Canweswingbymyapartmentfirstonthewaytotheairport?”heasked.
“OnlyifIcanmeetDollyPurrton.”
“She’dlovethat,”heassured,andkissedmeagain.
38
BodyofWork
“FLORENCE!NICETOseeyouagain,”Danagreetedwithasmile,andputdowntheircurrentread.
TheNorthCarolinianafternoonwasswelteringhot,soallthewindowswereopenedtoletthegoldensunshinespillin.Mairmont’sonlybed-and-breakfastlookedsomuchdifferentinthesummertime,withthewindcatchingonthesheercurtains,andthesoundofinsectshummingthroughtheoldhouse.Alloftheflowersandbushesoutsideinthegardenhadfloweredintobloomsofredsandpurplesandblues,andivyandjasminecrawleduptheterracesoneithersideofthehouse.Itwasoddlypicturesque.
IhuggedDanaastheycamearoundthedesk.“It’snicetoseeyou!How’sJohn?”
“Insufferableasalways,”theyrepliedendearingly.“He’stryingtoconvincemethatweneedagoat—agoat!—forthebackyard.Iwantchickensinstead.”
“Tinydinosaursoralawnmower,that’satoughchoice,”Bencommented,hishandfindingmineagain,sonaturallythatitmademyheartflutter.IneverthoughtIwastheheart-flutteringkindofperson,butitwasn’tsobad.
Attheairport,heusedthemileshehadaccruedfromyearsoftravelingtowritingconferencesandbookexpostobuyaticket,andhe’dtradedseatswithaniceolderladywhohadneverflownfirstclassbefore,andshewasdelighted.Bensqueezedhimselfintotheaisleseatbesideme,andcurledhisfingersthroughmine,anditwasassimpleasthat,asifhehadalwaysbeenapartofmylife,andIhadbeenapartofhis.
Hedidthisthingwhereherubbedsmallcirclesaroundmythumbjointwithhisownthumb,anditmadetheskintheretingle.Wetalkedaboutourfavoriteplaceswe’dbeen,andhewasalotmoretraveledthanIwasthankstoAnn’sbooktours,andhehatedflyingalmostasmuchasIdid,butwebothwantedtotakeacross-countrydrive.Hehatedskiing,butwebothlikedsnowtubingandburntmarshmallows.HiscomfortfoodwasranchdressingonHotPockets,whileminewasboxmacandcheese,andneitherofuscaredaboutthatnewhipsterdeconstructedmeatballjointinSoHo.Wewereindifferentaboutthebeach,butwelovedbeachreads,andthetwo-hourflightfeltliketwominutes.
Thenwe’drentedacarfromCharlotte,andhe’drolleduphissleevesandsaidthathecouldmostdefinitelydriveanSUV,butafteraccidentallyknockingthecarinneutralandalmostrunningintotheairportbus,weswappedplacesandIdrovethedistancetoMairmont.Hewasmuchbetteratpickingthedrivingmusic,anyway.
Isqueezedhishandtightly,too.Itwasareassurancetomyself,standinginthissmallbed-and-breakfast,thathewasactuallyhere.Real.Thegirlwhosawghostsstandingbesideamanwhohadoncebeenalittlebitghostly.Mairmont’sgossipringcouldeattheirheartsout.
Dana’seyesflickedtoBen.“Andwho’sthis?”
“Ben,”hegreeted,andoutstretchedhisotherhand.“Nicetoseeyouagain,Dana.”
Theyacceptedit.“We’vemetbefore?”
“Um—no,”Benquicklycorrected.“Youjust—Iwas—”
“I’dtalkedaboutyoualotiswhathe’stryingtosay,”Icoveredforhimquickly.“YoumakeameanrumandCoke,soIhadtobrag.”
Theygrinned.“Ido,don’tI?”Theycheckedusinandtookakeyoffthehookbehindthemanddangleditfromtheirfinger.“Enjoy.”
Itookthekey.“Thanks,”Ireplied,andgrabbedhishandagain,andwedisappearedupthestairswithoursuitcasesintow.Ilikedhowhefeltbesideme.Ilikedthecompanywekept.Andwheneverhebrushedhisthumbagainstmyknuckles,therewasashiverthatwentfrommytoesallthewaytomyscalp,andIcouldn’tstandit.Notinabadway.
Butinawaythatdrovemecrazy.
Attheendofthehallwasthehotelroomwiththewolfsbaneonthedoor.I’dbookeditagainforoldtimes’sake,beforeI’deveraskedBentocomewithme.IthoughtIwouldbespendingitalone.Funnyhowafewhourscouldchangeeverything.
Iunlockedthedoor,andherolledoursuitcasesinside.Sunlightspilledthroughthesheercurtains,catchingthedustmotesthatfloatedintheair.Irememberedalotaboutthisroom—fromthefakewolfsbaneinthevaseonthedressertotheknotinthehardwoodIkepttoeingthenightIwrotemydad’sobituarybecauseIcouldn’tstoppacingtothesideofthebedwhereBensleptthenightthingsstartedtospiral,thenightbeforeDad’sfuneral.
Thehotelroomhadn’tchangedatall.Stillcouldusemorepurple,butIwasfarfromcaringwhatcolortheroomwas.AllIcouldseewasBendrawingashadowagainstthewindow,sunlightshininggoldenonhisdarkhair,andI’dreadaboutachingbefore.Ihadachedbefore.
Butthiswas—Iwas—
Irememberedthemorningwewokeuptogether,andthethingshesaidhe’ddotome,forme,anditallcamebackinsuchvividdetailIhadtotellmybraintoslowdown.Breathe.Iwasn’tsomeweirdlyhornyteenageranymore—IwasabsolutelyarefinedwomanwithexquisitetasteinrumandCokes,thankyouverymuch,and—
Oh,whowasIkidding.
“Well,it’snicetobealonefinally,”hesaid,turningbacktome,pocketingandunpocketinghishands,asifhewasn’tsurewhattodowiththem.
“Ifeellikeweneedachaperone,”Itriedtojoke,comingupnexttohim.Myskinfeltlikeitwasonfire.
Don’tclimbthemanmountain,Itoldmyself.Don’tclimbthemanmountain.Don’tclimb—
“Florence,Ithink—”
“Don’t.”
ThenItookholdofthefrontofhisjacketandpulledhimclose,andtomysurprisehemetmehalfway.Ourlipscrushedtogether,andthenhepulledaway,whispering,“Sorry,sorry,you’rejustsobeautifulandIfinallygettotouchyouand—”
“Ifeelthesameway,”Ireplied,ourlipslingeringtogetherforamomentlonger,beforehedecidedtofollowwithanotherkiss,rougherthistime,biting.Hewassohot—like,furnacehot—andwhenhisthumbbrushedagainstmycheek,itwaswarm.Hewaswarm,andaknotformedinmythroatbecausehowmuchhadIwantedthismonthsago,whenwewereinthisveryroomtogether?HowmuchdidIwanthimtokissme—onmyneck,behindmyear,tracemycollarbonewiththeedgeofhisteeth,murmuringdevotionsintomyhair?
Alot,itturnedout.
Inascatteredmesswetippedbacktowardthebed,steppingoutofourshoes,droppingmypursetothecarpet,histieabandonedsomewhereonthebenchatthefootofthebed.Heliftedmeupandsatmeonthebed,andkissedmelikehewantedtodevourme,teethscrapingagainstmyskin,nibblingmylip,andIcouldn’tgetenoughofhim,either
Iwantedtoexplorethecurveofhisneckasmyfingerssliddownit,andIwantedtoaskaboutthescarjustabovehiscollarbone,wherehisfather’sweddingringalwaysseemedtocatch.HekissedthebirthmarkundermyleftearthatIalwayskepthiddenbecauseitwasshapedalittlelikeaghostandthatwastooonthenoseforme.Itwaselectric,ourcontactskintoskin,asiflittlesparksignitedbetweenourcellseverytimewetouched.Ifourpastssanginthewind,ourpresentwasinthetouchofhishandsonmywaist,thewayhisfingerstrailedacrossmybody,thebreathlesskissesheplantedagainstmymouth,asifhewantedtowritemeintohismemory—burnitthere.
Myfingerstentativelyfoundtheirwayunderneathhischarcoal-grayjacketasIbegantoslipitoffhisbroadshoulders,andheshruggeditofftherestoftheway.Itpuddledonthefloor.Heleanedintome,deepeninghiskisses,andIjustwantedtosinkintohim,andburymyselfintothecrookofhisbody,andstaythereforever.
Ipressedmyhandsagainsthishardchest—andpaused.Camebacktomyselfforavery,verybriefmoment.“Wait.Wait-wait-wait,”Imutteredtomyself,andstartedtounbuttonhispristinewhiteworkshirt.Hedidn’thaveanundershirton,andImostdefinitelyhadfelt—“OhsweetchiseledJesus.”ItracedmyfingersacrosshishardchesttohisabsandverydistinctiveVcutintohistrousers.“Whatareyou—anunderwearmodel?Arethesesuckersairbrushed?”
Hisearswentredwithembarrassment.“I’mananxiousperson.IswimwhenI’manxious.WhichmeansIswimalot.”
“Luckyforme.”
“You’reridiculous,”hesaid,notunhappily,andplantedakissatmyjaw.“ButIlikethataboutyou.”
“Oh,IamgoingtobeevenmoreridiculouswhenIdemandtoputgooglyeyesonallsixofthoseabs—”
Hepressedhismouthagainstmine,stillravenous,andmademeshutup.Andyouknow?ItwassexyandIwassuperokaywithitbecausewhateverI’dbeenabouttosaysuccumbedtothepartofmybrainthatseemedtoalwaysgoofflinewheneverhekissedmethathard.Andquitefrankly,mybrainhadbeenonforway,waytoolong.Itneededahardreboot.
“Doyou…?”heasked,breathless.“Wantto?”
“Please,”Iwhispered,andwemeltedintoeachother,exploringeachother’ssofthiddencorners.
Atsomepointheundidmybra,andatsomepoint,Islidoffhisbelt,andatsomepointhewaskissingme—everywhere.Hepressedakissbetweenmybreasts,thenjustbelowthem,thenagainstmysoftstomach.Hewentlowerandlower,mutteringinalovelanguageoftongues.
AsanEnglishmajor,Ihadstudiedrisingactions,Ihadchartedclimaxes.Makingloveandmakingstorieswereclosetothesamething.Youwereintimateandvulnerableandwandering,travelingacrossthelandscapeofeachother,learning.Youtoldastorywitheachgesture,eachsound—everykissaperiod,everygaspacomma.
AndthewayBentouchedme,thewayheplayedhistongueacrossmyskinandburrowedhisfingersintome,madeastorywithmybody—thewayIbitmyliptohushamoan,andcurledmyfingersaroundtheduvet—Iwantedhimtoreadeverywordalouduntiltheverylastpage,whenourlipswereswollenandourbodiesintertwinedintoeachother’sspaces,andhethreadedhisfingersbetweenmineandraisedthemtokissmyknuckles.
Afteramoment,heasked,“Ihaveaquestion,”inasoftandthoughtfulvoice.
Ishiftedalittletolookathimbetter,flatteningoutthefluffyfeatherpillow.“Imightjusthaveananswer.”
“Whatarewe?”
Myeyebrowsshotup.“Youaskthatnow?”
“Well—yes,”hereplied,abitembarrassed,andhisearsbegantoturnredagainandtraveldownthelengthofhischeekbones.“Imean—howareyougoingtointroducemetoyourfamily?Iwanttostartwithagoodimpression.Theymeanalottoyou,andthatmeansalottome.So…whatdoyouwantmetobeforyou?”
Ithoughtaboutitforamoment.“Well,this—us—we’reabitstrange.Technicallywe’veonlyknowneachotherforaweekandsomechangebut…”
“Itfeelslongerthanthat,”headmitted,rubbingcirclesonmythumbknuckleagain.“Eversincetheaccident,I’vethoughtaboutyoueventhoughIwassureitwasadream.Iscouredforums,talkedwithothercomapatients,butnothinghelped.Icouldn’tgetyououtofmyhead.IthoughtIwasgoingcrazy.”
“Nocrazierthanagirlwhocanseeghosts.”
“Idon’tthinkyou’recrazy,Florence.”Andhesaiditsoseriously,Ipursedmylipstogethertokeepthemfromwobbling,andrestedmycheekintohisshoulder.
“Well,thenwhatdoyouwanttobe?”Iasked.
Heclosedhiseyes,andtherewasamomentofpausewhenhewassearchingfortherightwords.“Ilikeyoualot,borderingonthebiggerword,but…”
Itiltedmyhead.“But?”
Headmitted,“It’sabitclichéthissoon,andifwe’regoingtotellourchildrenthisstoryintenyears…”
Ilaughed,becauseofcoursehewouldflagthatinthisstory.“ThenI’llsayitfirst,”IsaidasIsatupandleanedclosetohim,myhairfallinginacurtainaroundusasIpressedmyforeheadtohis.“Iloveyou,BenjiAndor.”
Hesmiledsowideitreachedhisbrowneyes,andturnedthemocher,asifthatwerethehappiestthinghe’deverheard.“Iloveyou,too,FlorenceDay.”
“ThenIthinkweshouldmostdefinitelybeplatonicfriendswhoswapvideostreamingservicepasswordsandonlyseeeachotheronceayearatholidayparties.”
Hegavealongsighandsankfartherintohispillow.“Okay,wecandothat—”
“Iwaskidding!”Iexclaimed,sittingbackagain.“Ididn’tmeanit!”
“Toolate,I’vealreadylostmywilltolive.”
Iplayfullyshovedhimintheshoulder.“Fine.Let’sbebunkmates,then.”
“Only?”
“Gymbuddies?”
Thelightbegantoleavehiseyes.
“Pocketpals!”
“You’reridiculous.”
“Andmaybepartners.Intheromanticsense,”Iadded,ourhandsstillintertwined,andIsqueezedhistightly.“Asuitor.Aparamour.Mycourter.Mysecond-bestfriend.”
Hequirkedaneyebrow.“Second?”
“Rosewillalwaysbenumberone.”
“FuckyeahIam!”cameavoicefromthedoorwayasIrealizedasplitsecondbeforemysisterandRoseburstintotheroomthatIhadforgottentolockit.AlicescreamedandcoveredhereyeswhileRosetookalongdrinkfromachampagnebottle.Clearly,they’dstartedthepartyearly.
“Wow,”Rosenoted,givingathumbs-up.“Wesurehavegoodtiming.Greatsesh,bestie.”
“We’releaving!”Aliceadded,grabbingRosebythearm,andpullingherbackoutthedoor.“Putasockonthedoornexttime!”
IthoughtBenwasgoingtodie—again.Whenthedoorwasclosed,hepulledthecoversoverhisheadanddisappearedbeneaththem.“Pleasekillme,”hismuffledvoicemoaned.“Endmymisery.”
Grinning,Ipulledthecoversoffhimagain,andhelookeddejectedandmortifiedinthedeathbedofpillows.“Absolutelynot,sir.IfIhavetolivewiththem,sodoyou.”
“It’llbeaquickdeath.Justsuffocatemeinyourperfectbreasts.”
“Theyaren’tthatbig.”
“Buttheyareperfect.”
“Soyoukeepsaying.”Icombedmyfingersthroughhishairafewmoretimesbecause,poorguy,hereallydidn’tknowhowtohandlemortification,andthenIkissedhimonthelips.“Let’sgetdressedandgohelpMomkeepthoseheathensinline.”
Ibegantocrawloutofbed,whenhegrabbedmebythearmandswallowedmeupunderneaththecoverswithhim.“Justafewmoreminutes,”hesaid,hisbreathhotagainstmyneckasheheldmetightly.
“Onlyafew,”Iagreed,thoughinmyheartIknewIwould’vebeenhappierwithforever,butjustthismomentwoulddofornow.
39
GhostStories
WEDIDNOTendupcatchingeitherofthebachelorpartiesthatnight,butIwasverycertainneitherCarvernorNickirememberedthenightverywellanyway.FromwhatIheard,there’dbeenanimpromptuconcertwhereBrunoalmostthrewouthisbackhowlingthelamentsofDollyParton,Carveraccidentallylitthebarcounteronfire,andAlicemoonedOfficerSagetrightinthemiddleofMainStreet.SadthatImissedthatpart,butIwasgladwedidn’tendupgoing.Someonehadtobecoherentontheweddingday.
Ibusiedmyselfwithfinalweddingpreparations,rearrangingtheflowersintheparlorroomswhilesneakingtastesofdessertsinthekitchen.Iwasn’tsurehowCarvertalkedAliceintolettingthemhaveitinthefuneralhomeforfree,soImadeamentalnotetoaskhimwhatsortofblackmailhehadonAliceforhertobesoagreeableaboutitall.
TheDaysGoneFuneralHomelookedlikeitwasdecoratedinaflowercrown,withlargesunflowersontheporchandwhiteribbonsdrapedacrosstheoldwoodenroofbeams,andtheonce-suffocatingfloral-and-formaldehydesmellwasreplacedwiththescentofbrightandbeautifulsunshine.Thewindowswereopen,aswerethedoors,andeverysooftenaclever,happywindracedthroughtheoldVictorianhouse,andthefoundationcreakedandgroanedinhello.
Benlookedsoathomeintheredparlor,helpingmearrangethesunflowersinvaseskeptfromDad’sfuneral,asifhe’dbeenhereallthistime.
Aliceelbowedmeinthesideandsaid,withallhonesty,“Goodcatch,sis.Notmytype,butgoodcatch.”
“Yeah,Ithinkso,too.”
“Thatdoesitfortheflowers,”Bensaid,finishingupthevasehewasworkingon.HewipedhishandsonhistrousersandsaidtoAlice,“Nicetoformallymeetyou.”
Alicegavehimaonce-over.“Youtakecareofmysister,youhear?”
“Yes,ofcourse.”
“Andnomorecheatingatcards.”
Heraisedhishandsinsurrender.“Iwouldn’tdare.”
“Mm-hmm.”Herphonevibratedandshetookitoutofherbackpocketandquietlycursed.“Thecaterersarehere—ugh.Canyoutwofinishsettingoutthedecorations?”
Igaveherasalute.“Aye,aye,boss.”
“Weirdo,”shemutteredandleftoutthefrontdoor,shoutingatthecatererstomovethevanaroundback—“No,notthroughthegrass,youheathens.”
Whenshewasgone,Bentookasunfloweroutofoneofthevasesandtappedmeonthenosewithit.“Yoursister’sdoingagreatjobwiththebusiness.”
“Sheis,isn’tshe?”Ilookedaroundattheparlors,strewnwithcolorfulflowersandpearlywhiteribbons,andIwishedDadcouldhaveseenit.Aweddinginahouseofdeath.IkissedBenonthecheek.“Thankyouforbeinghere.”
“Thankyouforinvitingme.There’snowhereelseI’dratherbethanbesideyou.”
Irolledmyeyesandplayfullyshovedhimaway.“Stopbeingsosappy,”Icomplained,hopinghedidn’tnoticemyreddeningears.Ifhetalkedlikethatmuchmore,Iwasgoingtobeinapermanentstateofblush.
Helikedme;itwasstillsohardtobelieve.
BenjiAndoradoredme.
AndforthefirsttimesinceDadpassed,everythingfeltalmostperfect.Theskywasthisalmost-perfectcrimson—thecolorofDad’ssuitwhenweburiedhim—andtheswelteringJulyheathadabatedtoasofthumiditythatstillfeltsticky,butitwasasclosetoperfectasyoucouldgetinthesummer,andtheentiretownhadcometowatchmybrotherandhishusbandsaytheiractuallyperfectvows.
Theyslippedoneachother’sringsandprofessedtheirloveundertheancientraftersthathadechoedmoresobsthancheers,andthepurplinglightofeveningeasedsoftlyinthroughthewindows,paintingeverythinginshadowyhuesofrose,anditwasafittingweddingforafuneralhome.
Dadwouldhavelovedit.
AftertheweddingwepoppedchampagneandplayedDad’sfavoriteburnedCDanddancedthroughtheparlorstoallthegoodgoodbyes,becauseendingswerejustnewbeginnings.Andrightnow,wewerehappy,andCarverandNickiweredancingwitheachother,andRoseandAlicewereflirtinginthekindofwaythatwouldleadtosomethingelse.
(WhatkindofromancewriterwouldIbeifIdidn’tseehowtheyfell?)
Becausethesamelookwasonmyface,too,everytimeIlookedatBen.Whenhelefttogetusarefresherofchampagne,Momslidupbesidemeandgaveahardsigh.“Woulditbefrowneduponif,duringthecouples’dance,Idanced,too?”
Iofferedoutmyarmtomymom.“I’mnotDad,butIcandancewithyou.”
“I’dlovethat,sweetheart,butIwasreferringtoyourman.”
Andjustasshesaidthat,Benswoopedinandofferedhishandto—mymom.Igasped,scandalized.Bensaid,“Patiencemakestheheartgrowfonder.”
“Whatcharm!”MomcackledandwiggledhereyebrowsatmeassheletBenleadherintothethrong.
Hewinked.
(Ugh,thiswasforsayingI’dputgooglyeyesonhiswashboardabs,wasn’tit?)
Imopedaboutontheedgeoftheparlorlikealonelyisland,swillingtheredpunchthatwasmostdefinitelyspiked.Everyonehadsomeonetodancewith—eventhemayor.AndhereIwas,lefttoleanagainstoneofthetalltableswiththeownerofBarNoneandBruno.TheyweresmokingcigarsthatremindedmeoftheonesDadliked—strongandsweet.
BrunonudgedhischintowardBenandMomdancing.“Ihaven’tseenyourmomsohappyinages.”
“He’sacatch,”theowneragreed.
Ibitthesideofmycheektohideagrin,watchingBentripoverhisownfeet.HeandMomlaughed,anditpulledatsomethingdeepinmychest.Itached,butnotinthewayI’dfeltwhenDaddied.Itwasagoodsortofpain.ThekindthatremindedmethatIwasstillalive,andtherewasstilllifetoliveandmemoriestomakeandpeopletomeet.
“How’dyoumeethim?”Brunoasked
Itiltedmyhead.Thesongended,andIwonderedhowtoexplainit.HewasaghostwhohauntedmeafterIfailedatturninginhisgrandmother’slastmanuscript—“Imethimatwork,”Ifinallysupplied.“Ithoughthewasanabsolutestuck-upassholeatfirst.”
“Andshewasachaosgremlin,”Benreplied,surprisingme.Heputhishandonthesmallofmyback.“Ididn’tthinkIstoodaghostofachance.”
“Youweresodeadlyserious.”
“Andyouweretoomuchofafreespirit.ButIthinkIlovethatthemost.”
Iturnedaroundtohim.“Isthatwhatyoulovethemost?”
Hislipstwisted.“ThatIcansayincurrentcompany.”Thenheofferedhishandtome,andItookit.Hespunmearound,awayfromthetableandontothedancefloor.
“Ididn’tknowyoudanced,”Isaid,tongueincheek,becausewe’ddancedbefore.
Alifetimeago.
Helaughedandbroughtmeclosertohim.“Whatloveinterestdoesn’t?”Wedancedacrosstheancientoakfloorboards,aroundMomandAlice,andSeaburnandhiswife,andKarenandMr.Taylor,thoughIonlyknewthatlater,becauseallIrememberedwasBen.Themusicwasalittledampened,andtheeveninglightslidthroughtheopenwindowinlazyhuesoforangesandpinks,andhelookedsoperfectpaintedinit.
Wedancedslowly,hishandssoftonmyhips,swayingtoaslowsongthatIdidn’tknow,butIlikedit.Itwassweet,withviolins,withlyricsaboutwantandyearningandeverythingthatyoureallyneededforagoodlovesong.
Aglimmerinthecornercaughtmyeye.Iglancedover.
Anoldwomanwithbeautifulwidebrowneyesstoodinthedoorwaytotheparlor,herhandoutstretchedtoanelderlymaninanorangesweaterandbrownpants,whotookittightlyandkissedherknuckles.Theyshimmeredinthatstar-glitterwayspiritsdid.BenglancedinthedirectionIwaslooking.
“Canyou…seeher,too?”Iwhisperedinwonder,lookingfromhimtotheelderlywomanandbackagain.Shehadgardeningdirtunderhernails,andacontentsmile.
“Nowhecangiveherlilieshimself.”
“Youcan.”Icurledmyhandstightlyaroundhisjacket.Becausehecouldseethem.Hewasone,andnowhecouldseethem,andthatmeant—
ItmeantIwasn’talone.
WhenIlookedbacktowardthecouple,theyhadalreadymeltedintoabrilliantflashofsunlight,andHeatherwalkedthroughthedoorway,arguingwithherhusbandabouttheirbabysitter,asifnothinghadbeenthereatall.
“Wouldyouliketogoonawalk?Inthegraveyard?”heasked,drawingmefrommythoughts.
Igavehimasurprisedlook.“You’reasking?”
“It’snotnightyetsoit’stechnicallynotillegal,”hereplieddutifully.“Andit’sabitstuffyinhere,andbesides,I’dliketoseeyourdad.”
“I’dlikethat,too.”Ilacedmyfingersthroughhis,andweslippedoutofthereceptionanddownthefrontstepsoftheoldandsurehouseofdeath.Andlife.
Lifehappenedinoldfuneralhomes,too.
Thecemeterywaswarmandquietinthesummerevening.Theirongatewasalreadyclosed,butweknewtheperfectlittlebrokenbitofwalltoclimbover,andweheldeachother’schampagneaswedid.Myfamilyhadbeenbusy,itseemed,sinceDad’sfuneral.Almostallofthetombstoneswerewashed,gleaminglikeboneshardsstickingupfromthehillsofbrightgreengrass.
Dadwaswaitingforusonhisfavoritehillinthecemetery,inanondescriptshadedplotclosetohisfavoriteoldoaktree,easilylostintheseaofstones.Hismarkerwaspristineandtheweedspluckedout.Momhadputfreshorchidsinthevase,andIpickedoutthespoiledleaveswithcare.Hisplaqueonlyhadasingleword—beloved.MomsaiditwasbecausethereweresomanythingsDadhadbeentosomanypeople—“Belovedson,belovedparent,belovedhusband,belovedpainintheass…”—butsecretlyIknewMomhadrequestedonlythatwordbecauseitwasherwordtohim.HersoftIloveyou.
Herbeloved.
Ibrushedaladybugofftheplaque.
Itstillfeltlikehewasheresomedays,liketheworldstillturnedwithhiminit.Andpartsofhimstillwere.
Bencroucheddownbesidethetombstone,andIlethimhavesomeprivacyasIfollowedthepathuptothebenchundertheoaktreeandsatdown.Thenighthadcooledoff,andthewindwhisperedthroughthetrees,andamurderofcrowscawedinthedistance.Iclosedmyeyes,andIcouldimagineDadsittingbesidemelikeheusedto,chattingaboutratesofflowerarrangementsandthecostofcoffinsandCarver’snewestchairhebuiltandAlice’slatestchaos.Ibreathedinthesweetscentoffreshlycutgrass.
Andthingswereokay.
Bencameovertositdownbesidemeafterawhile.
“So,whatdidy’alltalkabout?”Iasked.
“Thisandthat,”hereplied,rubbinghisfather’sweddingringonthechainaroundhisneck.“ToldhimtogiveAnnieahello.Andathank-you.Ifshehadn’taskedyoutoghostwriteforher…”
“Aghostaskinganauthortoghostwrite,thathastobeafirst.”Isighed,andleanedmyheadagainsthisshoulder.
“What’reyougoingtodonext?”heasked,foldinghisfingersthroughmine.Hebegantorubcirclesonmythumbknucklethoughtfully.“YouturnedinAnnie’slastbook.Hercontract’sup.”
“Well…”Idebatedmyanswer.IstillhadtogetthroughlineeditsofAnnie’sbook,andcopyedits,andpasspages,butthosewereallthingsBenalreadyknew.IalsostillhadtoacceptMolly’sofferofrepresentation,butI’ddothatonMonday.“Ithink…I’mgoingtowriteanotherbook.”
“What’llitbeabout?”
“Oh,theusual—meet-cutesandhighjinksandgravemisunderstandingsandconciliatorykisses.”
“Willtherebeahappilyeverafter?”
“Maybe,”Iteased,“ifyouplayyourcardsright.”
“I’llbesurenottocheat.”
“Unlessit’stohelpmewin,ofcourse.”
“Always.I’myours,FlorenceDay,”hesaid,andkissedmyknuckles.
Thosewordsmademyheartsoar.“Ardently?”
“Fervently.Zealously.Keenly.Passionatelyyours.”
“AndI’myours,”Iwhispered,andkissedhiminacemeteryofimmaculatetombstonesandoldoaktrees,anditwasagoodbeginning.Wewereanauthoroflovestoriesandaneditorofromances,weavingastoryaboutaboywhowasoncealittleghostlyandagirlwholivedwithghosts.
Andmaybe,ifwewerelucky,we’dfindahappilyeverafter,too.
EccentricCircles
INTHEDAYSGoneFuneralHome,inthebackcornerofthelargestparlor,therewasaloosefloorboardwhereIoncekeptmydreams.Ikeptthemlockedtightinabox,storingthemliketreasure,untilthedayIcouldtakethemoutandbrushthemoff,likeoldfriendscomingtogreeteachother.
Ididn’tstoremydreamsinasmallboxunderneaththefloorboardsanymore.Ididn’tneedto.
Buttherewasagirlwhowasalittlebittallandlankyforherage,darkhairandwideeyes,whowroteherdreamsonsparepiecesofpaperandputtheminajarlikefireflies,andwhenshefoundhermother’soldmetalboxanditssmutty,smuttyX-Filesfanfic,shedecidedtostoreherdreamsthere,too.
Andthewindthatwhistledthroughtheoldfuneralparlorsangsweetandsoftandsure.
Likeloveoughttobe.
Acknowledgments
Justasittakesavillagetoraiseachild,ittookavillagetoraiseBenjiAndorfromthedead.TheDeadRomanticscouldn’tbepossiblewithoutalotofpeople,mostofwhomIwillprobablyforgetintheseacknowledgments,butyouknowwhoyouare.ThankyouforgivingFlorenceandBenaghostofachance.
Thisbookwouldn’tbepossiblewithoutthetenderloveandnecromancyofmyagent,HollyRoot;myphenomenaleditor,AmandaBergeron,andassistanteditor,SareerKhader;mycopyeditor,AngelinaKrahn;mywonderfulpublicist,andthewholeteamfrommanagingtoproductiontomarketing,ChristineLegonandAlainaChristensenandJessicaMangicaroandeveryoneelse.Andtomycritiquepartners—NicoleBrinkley,RachelStrolle,AshleySchumacher,KatherineLocke,andKaitlynSagePatterson—forbeingtheRosetomyFlorenceandencouragingmewhenIwasatmylowest.
Speakingoflowest,Iwouldalsoliketogiveaveryenthusiasticfuckyoutomyanxiety.Thanksfor,asalways,beingtheworst.
Andfinally,toanyonewhohasproclaimeddrunkenlyatabarthatloveisdead—I’vebeenthereandtrustme,loveisnotdead.It’ssimplysleepingoffaraginghangover.GiveittwoTylenolandtellittocallyouinthemorning.
Thankyouforreadingthisbook.Ihopeyoufindalittlebitofhappinesswhereveryougo.
READERSGUIDE
TheDeadRomantics
?????
BEHINDTHEBOOK
ISEEDEADpeople.
Kidding.Ireallydon’t,andifIdidIwouldprobably:
One,talktomytherapistand—
Two,scheduleanexorcism.
Jokingaside,Idokindofseedeadpeople.Wealldo.Weseetheminfamilyphotos,whenwerememberthewayyourgrandmausedtotalktoherflowers;andthewayyourgranddadhappilysatinhisfavoriterockingchairontheporch,watchinglightningarcacrosssummerstorms;andthewayyourauntusedtohavealaughsoinfectiousshewouldlightupawholeroom.Wereadaboutthem,allthetime.Englishclassisfullofdeadpeople.JaneAusten?Dead.Shakespeare?Dothbedeadandburied.CharlesDickens?Ataleoftwodeads.Welistentothemontheradio,wewatchtheminfilms,withoutreallythinkingthatthey—youknow—caughtthemidnighttrainalready.
But,honestly?
Deathscaresme.
That’sthecruxofit.Deathitself,inallitsferociousunknown,scaresthelivingcrapoutofme.Sowhy—whygod,why—doIgravitatetowardghoststories?Andifthere’saghostromance?YoubetyourassI’mgoingtobeupallnightreadingit.Deathandghoststoriesgohandinhand,likepeanutbutterandgettingitstucktotheroofofyourmouth.
Idon’tunderstandmyfascinationwhatsoever,andyouknow?I’mnotthekindofpersontothinktoomuchonit,becauseifIdomyanxietyisgoingtostarttospiralandthenallIwillthinkaboutismyunknown,eternalend.
WhichisprobablywhyIwrite.
There’sthisillusionarypermanencetowriting.MybookswillbeherelongafterI’mgone.Imean,hopefully
Forever.(Usually.)
Peoplewritefordifferentreasons—tofeellessalone,tounderstandtheirownfeelings,totellstoriesthatmakethemhappy—andpeoplereadbooksfordifferentreasons,too.
Forme?
IreadbecauseIwanttobeheld.Notlike,literally,byabook.(That’dbeweird.)Butmetaphorically.Iwanttosinkintoanovel.Iwanttoberomancedbythepossibilityofsunsetstooprettytodescribeandkissesthatyoufeelallthewayinyourtoesandlovestoriestoowideandwildforyoutoeverfeelalone.
Ifanythingstavesoffthecreepingunknownofdeath,Iproposethatit’sagoodbook.
Maybenotmybook—Imean,Ihopeit’smybook.Oratleastmybookisastepping-stoneforwhatwillbeyourfavoritebook.IhopeIcanwriteoneforyou.IhopeIcanwriteoneforme,too.
Ididn’tstartwritingTheDeadRomanticstoexploremyfeelingsonanauthor’slegacyandwhatthedeadendupleavingbehind.Ijustwantedtowriteafunghoststory!Achaoticgremlinofawomanmeetsthesternghostofaman(who,secretly,hasacinnamonroll-flavoredheartofgold)!Theyhavesexyhighjinks!Everythingturnsoutfineintheend!
Well,Iwasthefool,apparently,becauselittledidIknow,Ihadthetalenttodoboth
Somehow.
Itmightbeaone-timedeal,soIamrelishinginthismoment.ImanagedtodosomethingIdidn’trealizeIcould.(Well,twothings.Ididn’tthinkI’dbeabletowriteanythingin2020butIshowedmyselfthatanythingispossiblewithafewhealthycopingmechanismsandnowheretogoduringapandemic.)Mostofthetime,ItalkaroundmyowninsecuritiesandmakefunofthemuntilthepersonI’mtalkingtogetsfedupwithmyturtlingandtellsmetojustwriteahappynovel.
Well,Idid!Sojoke’sonthem!It’salsosad!Andalittlesappy!
Butyouknow?IlikealittlecornyinmylifeandIhopethatyoudo,too.
Ithink,asreaders,weallhaveacomfortread,theonebookthatprotectsusintheexactwaysitneedsto—whetheritisaromanceoreroticaorathrilleroracrimestoryorafantasy.Abookthatwefindourselvesin,likelookinginamirror.Oh,you,too?Itwillask,asitfillsthatsoft,hollowplaceinyourheartthatnothingelsedaredtotouch.Ithinkwealldeserveabooklikethat,whateveryoursis.
It’snotabouthowmanybooksaresoldorwhethertheyareturnedintofilmsorre-releasedwithdifferenteditionsthatmakesabook’slegacy.Ithinkitisthereaders,whetherthereareonlysevenofthem,orseventythousand.You’rethelegacy,you’rethelifebeyondthestoryIgiveyou.
Florence’sdadsaidthatthepeopleweloveareinthewind,andIbelieveit.Ithinkthatthepeoplewelovecanbeinthepagesofbooks,too.
Ihopeyoufindyourselfinabooksomeday.
AndIhopethatbooklivesforever.
DISCUSSIONQUESTIONS
FlorenceisaghostwriterforAnnNichols.Doyouthinkbookswrittenbyghostwritersarejustasimportanttoanauthor’slegacyasthosewrittenbytheauthorthemselves?
Usually,keepingsecretscanshakeaperson’strustinsomeoneelse.ButFlorence’sdadkeptthesecretthatheknewwhoFlorenceghostwroteforandhadreadallofthosebooks.Doyouthinksomesecretscanactuallybuildtrustoncerevealed?
Throughoutthenovel,Florencestruggleswithtryingtowritetheperfectending.Ifyoucouldwriteanysortofhappilyeverafter,howwoulditgo?
BothBenandFlorencefindcomfortinromancenovels.Whataresomeofyourfavoritecomfortreads?
Therearemanydepictionsofafterlivesinthemedia—ghosts,reapers,spirits—fromalldifferentcultures.Whydoyouthinkthethemeofdeathissouniversallyexploredinstoriesandtheconceptoflife(orsomesemblanceofit)afterdeath?
Whatisabookyoulovedthatyoubelievemorepeopleshouldread?Whatdidyoulovemostaboutit?
Death,andhowapersonhandlesit,isabigpartofthenovel.Ifyoucouldleavealistbehindforyourlovedones,likeXavierdoesinthestory,whatwouldbeonit?