I visit on my own, when I choose to leave him behind, we’ve been practically inseparable since the day I died, bonded by an unseen force that I don’t have a name for.
We’re at my funeral. It’s the same funeral home where they held services for my mother when I was nine years old.
“She’s not here,” I murmur, tears coming to my eyes.
“Who isn’t?” Alex asks.
Even though I know nobody can see us, I feel strangely out of place with Alex, both of us so casually dressed among all the mourners in black. I gaze down at my boots. Their gemstones shimmer beneath the light from the chandeliers that hang in the funeral home. They hurt my feet so badly; all I want is to slip into a pair of sneakers, to wiggle my toes freely, but I died with these boots on, and it seems as though they’re here to stay. It’s weird; I can’t feel any pain aside from my feet. I don’t understand why.
“My mother,” I say.
“Hmm.” Alex’s gaze drifts across the room. “Everyone else is here, that’s for sure.”
It’s true. As I’ve reminded him more than once, I was very popular; it looks like practically the whole school has turned up to cry over me. But my close friends have the premium seats. Mera, Caroline, and Topher are seated in the second row, behind my immediate family. The other two—Richie and Josie—are seated with my dad and Nicole. Richie’s parents are there, too, a few rows behind my friends, sitting with Caroline’s and Topher’s parents. I haven’t spotted Mera’s mom and dad yet, but I’m sure they’re here somewhere.
Death is tricky. My personal experience, I’ve learned, is different from Alex’s in a few ways. For instance, I still have sea legs; everywhere I go, even on dry land, I’m bothered by a persistent rocking feeling. And I’m freezing all the time, chilled almost to my bones. It feels like being submerged in cold water. Alex tells me that he feels cold most of the time, too, but more like he’s alone in the wind, in a wide-open space. It makes sense, when I think about it: death by sea, death by land. What follows really should be similar. Sometimes, when I concentrate on the taste in my mouth, it almost feels like I’m swallowing salt water.
And it’s tricky in other ways. In the first day or so after I died, I had to really concentrate to bring myself into a memory. And when I was watching one, it felt very separate from my consciousness in the present. But what were initially so pronounced as flashbacks into my old life come quicker now, drifting almost like memories unfolding before me, the past and the present beginning to blend together—except that I’m not living the memories this time; I’m only a spectator.
Like my mother’s funeral. All of a sudden, in a blink that I’m not anticipating, I see my nine-year-old self sitting in the back row of the funeral home, watching as my father stands before a closed oak casket. Inside the casket, I know, is my mother.
My hair is long and shimmering; I look oddly pretty and docile among so many mourners, their faces somber, an almost palpable grief saturating the room. My head is down. I’m staring at my feet. At nine years old, I am wearing small, black patent leather high heels. At nine . Now, at eighteen, this choice of footwear—did my father let me wear those shoes? Did he buy them for me?—seems embarrassingly improper. Who lets their nine-year-old wear heels?
Josie’s mother, Nicole, comes up behind me and puts her hands on my shoulders. She leans over to whisper in my ear. “Elizabeth. Sweetheart. How are you?”
When she touches me, I flinch. I look up, gazing in confusion at the crowded room. My face is red and tear streaked. I look like I have no idea what’s going on, like a lost little girl who only wants her mommy back. Watching myself, I feel a pang of sadness, of grief so deep that I realize now it never went away, that it has always been with me somewhere inside.
Back then, I knew Nicole as
We’re at my funeral. It’s the same funeral home where they held services for my mother when I was nine years old.
“She’s not here,” I murmur, tears coming to my eyes.
“Who isn’t?” Alex asks.
Even though I know nobody can see us, I feel strangely out of place with Alex, both of us so casually dressed among all the mourners in black. I gaze down at my boots. Their gemstones shimmer beneath the light from the chandeliers that hang in the funeral home. They hurt my feet so badly; all I want is to slip into a pair of sneakers, to wiggle my toes freely, but I died with these boots on, and it seems as though they’re here to stay. It’s weird; I can’t feel any pain aside from my feet. I don’t understand why.
“My mother,” I say.
“Hmm.” Alex’s gaze drifts across the room. “Everyone else is here, that’s for sure.”
It’s true. As I’ve reminded him more than once, I was very popular; it looks like practically the whole school has turned up to cry over me. But my close friends have the premium seats. Mera, Caroline, and Topher are seated in the second row, behind my immediate family. The other two—Richie and Josie—are seated with my dad and Nicole. Richie’s parents are there, too, a few rows behind my friends, sitting with Caroline’s and Topher’s parents. I haven’t spotted Mera’s mom and dad yet, but I’m sure they’re here somewhere.
Death is tricky. My personal experience, I’ve learned, is different from Alex’s in a few ways. For instance, I still have sea legs; everywhere I go, even on dry land, I’m bothered by a persistent rocking feeling. And I’m freezing all the time, chilled almost to my bones. It feels like being submerged in cold water. Alex tells me that he feels cold most of the time, too, but more like he’s alone in the wind, in a wide-open space. It makes sense, when I think about it: death by sea, death by land. What follows really should be similar. Sometimes, when I concentrate on the taste in my mouth, it almost feels like I’m swallowing salt water.
And it’s tricky in other ways. In the first day or so after I died, I had to really concentrate to bring myself into a memory. And when I was watching one, it felt very separate from my consciousness in the present. But what were initially so pronounced as flashbacks into my old life come quicker now, drifting almost like memories unfolding before me, the past and the present beginning to blend together—except that I’m not living the memories this time; I’m only a spectator.
Like my mother’s funeral. All of a sudden, in a blink that I’m not anticipating, I see my nine-year-old self sitting in the back row of the funeral home, watching as my father stands before a closed oak casket. Inside the casket, I know, is my mother.
My hair is long and shimmering; I look oddly pretty and docile among so many mourners, their faces somber, an almost palpable grief saturating the room. My head is down. I’m staring at my feet. At nine years old, I am wearing small, black patent leather high heels. At nine . Now, at eighteen, this choice of footwear—did my father let me wear those shoes? Did he buy them for me?—seems embarrassingly improper. Who lets their nine-year-old wear heels?
Josie’s mother, Nicole, comes up behind me and puts her hands on my shoulders. She leans over to whisper in my ear. “Elizabeth. Sweetheart. How are you?”
When she touches me, I flinch. I look up, gazing in confusion at the crowded room. My face is red and tear streaked. I look like I have no idea what’s going on, like a lost little girl who only wants her mommy back. Watching myself, I feel a pang of sadness, of grief so deep that I realize now it never went away, that it has always been with me somewhere inside.
Back then, I knew Nicole as
Similar Books
