Between

by Jessica Warman

  I don’t answer him at first. Instead, I look around some more. The house is cluttered as hell. Aside from all the religious knickknacks, the candles and figurines and calligraphy prayers hanging from the walls, there is ubiquitous disarray. In the kitchen, I see a sink piled with dishes. Laundry—I can’t tell if it’s clean or dirty—is heaped into three separate baskets beside the living room sofa. In a corner of the room, a litter box sits in dire need of scooping.

  I wrinkle my nose. “I thought cleanliness was next to godliness. And to answer your question, we took a vote. It wasn’t like I had to campaign or anything.”

  “And you just got elected? Even though you’re not really a Christian?” His annoyance is obvious. It’s like he doesn’t have the first clue what it means to be a teenager. Because that’s the thing: none of it means anything. We’re only kids. What does it matter if I’m not a Christian? Nobody’s going to quiz me on the New Testament in order to challenge my authority as the vice president of the FCA, because there isn’t any authority. I think the most I ever had to do for the position was last spring, when I helped organize a collection for the local food bank. My sole responsibility was to put cardboard boxes in every classroom to hold nonperishable items. Again, the memory seems so random, so meaningless. Why do I know this, yet I can’t recall other things that are obviously important? Being dead, it seems, requires a patience that I don’t have. Not yet, anyway.

  “Big freaking challenge,” I say to him. “Let me tell you, I could never have done it without the intervening hand of God.” From a young age, religion has seemed ridiculous to me. What kind of God takes a girl’s mother away from her at age nine?

  Okay, I’ve pissed him off. He’s visibly shaking with anger. “Don’t say that. Not in my house. Show some respect.”

  “For who? For God?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” My tone becomes light, almost mocking. I can’t help myself. His continued faith seems absurd to me, considering our circumstances. “Let me ask you, Alex, where do you think he is? God?”

  “We’re here, aren’t we? It’s not like there’s nothing after we die.”

  I gaze at my boots, wiggling my aching toes, each one its own special symphony of pain. “I think this might be hell.”

  “If that’s really what you think,” he says, “then you’re way more spoiled than I imagined.”

  At the back of the room, there’s a wooden upright piano pressed against the wall. The lid is crowded with photographs. Alex sits down at the bench and stares at the keys.

  “Do you play?” I ask him.

  He nods. “Since I was four.”

  Every picture on the piano is of Alex, from the time he was a baby up until what I assume was only a few months—weeks, maybe—before he was killed.

  He closes his eyes. His fingers begin to move effortlessly across the keys.

  The odd energy—the web of sadness that I first noticed outside, when Richie was looking through the mail—feels even thicker now, as though it is cloaking the entire house, enveloping us so tightly that I feel like it could almost shatter the windows. As I look at the photographs, it’s like watching Alex grow up, a display of what seems to be every major event in his life, from his birth up to his school photo from sophomore year. There are pictures of him on Christmas morning, an only child sitting under a tree, smiling beside a small pile of presents. There’s a Little League photo: Alex in a baseball uniform, holding a bat, his grin crooked and toothy. Then there’s him at a piano recital: he’s wearing a coat and tie and has his arm around his mother’s waist.

  Only now do I realize how bizarre it is that I can hear what he’s playing on the piano. I don’t understand how it’s possible. But the music is so lovely that I don’t want to question it.

  “What was that?” I ask, once he’s finished.

  “It doesn’t have a name.” He shyly lowers his gaze. “I wrote it. When I was fifteen.”

  “I think I’ve heard it before.” And then I realize where. “I have,” I say to him. “At your funeral.”

  “Oh.” He continues to stare at the keys. “You’re right.”

  He seems distracted for a moment as his expression becomes faraway and his hands slip from the keys. Almost as though I’m not here, he shuts his eyes again. But it’s different from just a moment ago. This time, his shoulders slump, his normally upright posture going slack. He’s slipping away, I realize, into the past. Maybe it’s an accident; he’s never done this before in front of me, except for the day I died, when he showed me the uncomfortable scene in the cafeteria.

  I don’t think about what I do next; it just sort of happens. I reach out and grab Alex’s wrist tightly. I shut my own eyes.

  At first I don’t know where I am; all I can tell is that it’s some kind of store. I’m standing before a glass display case filled with row upon row of high-calorie foods: pasta salads, breaded chicken breasts, glistening filets of sugar-glazed salmon, charred scallops wrapped in bacon. And the desserts—oh, God, the sight of them alone feels so gluttonous that I actually take a step backward. There’s a cheesecake piled with large, glazed strawberries. Beside it, there’s some kind of walnut-crusted, butter-and-cinnamon concoction. A silver tray holds piles of brownies, cookies, and thick squares of fudge.

  “Oh …,” I say, the word catching in my throat. There is genuine yearning in my voice. Now that I’m dead, I assume that I can’t gain weight. It would be like heaven if I could eat whatever I wanted without giving any thought to the calorie content. Taste, though, is a foreign feeling now; I don’t think a binge on sweets would bring me any pleasure.

  “Get out. Now.” I’ve never heard Alex speak so harshly. He’s right beside me.

  “Where are we? It’s your memory, isn’t it? This place is from your past.”

  He doesn’t blink as he glares at me. “You know where we are. Now leave.”

  A brittle-looking middle-aged woman steps between us. “Hello?” she calls. “Does anyone work here?”

  She places her hands on the counter and taps her fingernails impatiently against the metal. A tennis bracelet dangles from her slim wrist. She is dressed nearly all in white, except for a red silk scarf knotted around her neck. A marquise diamond the size of a marble adorns her ring finger. Her fine gray hair is pulled into a tight bun. Even here, standing at a deli counter, she exudes class.

  “Oh, man …,” Alex says, cringing as he looks at her. “Liz, you need to get out of here. I don’t want you to see this. None of it.”

  Then it dawns on me; of course I know where we are. I’ve been here countless times with my friends. Looking around, I recognize the wall lined with racks of freshly baked bread, the charming two-person wrought iron tables at the front of the room, the huge storefront windows that offer a great view of the beach.

  And now, stepping out from the back room, wiping his hands on his dirty apron as he hurries to the counter, here’s Alex. He’s younger, but not by much. We are, of course, at the Mystic Market.

  “Mrs. Boyden.” He gives the woman at the counter a wide smile. “How are you?”

  At the sight of him, her polished, steely demeanor softens a bit. “Alex. So good to see you.” She glances around. “I’ve brought someone with me today, but apparently she’s being shy. Chelsea? Where are you hiding?”

  I tell Alex, “You never bring me with you when you remember things.”

  He shrugs, but I can tell he’s only trying to be casual; he’s obviously nervous. “I don’t do it very much. We’ve been so focused on what happened to you. I had a whole year to go back over things by myself.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not why. You said yourself that you don’t know who killed you yet. You must be remembering things. You don’t want to let me in, do you? Not even a little bit. We’ve been together all this time, Alex. I’ve showed you so much. But you don’t want me to see anything from your life. That’s not fair.”

  “Liz,” he says, his tone growing impatient, “there�
��s nothing that says I have to show you my life. I don’t need your help with anything. This is private, okay? Can’t you understand that?”

  From between two rows of groceries, a pretty young girl steps toward the counter. She wears a Catholic school uniform, complete with navy-blue knee socks and loafers. Her brown hair is pulled into a high, simple ponytail. She’s wearing makeup, but only a little bit, probably nothing more than some blush and lip gloss. Almost immediately, I notice that her ears aren’t pierced. Her fingernails are short and unpainted.

  “But all you’re doing is working,” I say, pouting. “Anybody could walk in here and see you. What could possibly be so private about this?”

  “Nothing. It’s just—nothing.” He sighs. “This is mine. I want to keep it that way.” And he pauses. “I don’t want anything to ruin it.”

  “You think me being here is going to ruin it?” I frown. “How?”

  The other Alex—the one behind the counter—smiles at the girl. Chelsea. “Hey,” he says, “how have you been? Long time no see.”

  There is something odd about Alex’s expression, the tone of his voice, even the light in his eyes. And that’s not all—he appears taller somehow. He leans his arms against the countertop and rests his chin casually in his hands.

  Mrs. Boyden looks back and forth between the two of them. “I picked Chelsea up from school today,” she says. “She’s spending the weekend with me.”

  “I don’t know her,” I tell Alex. “Should I? Why is she wearing a uniform?”

  “She goes to a Catholic school in Groton,” he mutters, clearly unhappy to be clarifying anything for me.

  “Oh, yeah?” The Alex behind the counter nods with interest. “Any big plans for this weekend?”

  Then it occurs to me what’s so different about him in this memory. He is happy. Calm. Relaxed. More than anything, though, he’s confident.

  “Look at you,” I say, grinning at him. “Flirting like a pro.”

  “Stop it.” He almost looks ready to cry.

  “Alex, what’s the matter? It’s okay. We’re in this together, you know? We’re both dead. I’m not going to make fun of you, I promise.”

  “Whatever.” He stares at the floor. “It’s not that.”

  “Then tell me,” I demand. “What is it?”

  But he ignores the question, choosing instead to focus on his former self with Mrs. Boyden and Chelsea. “Oh, I don’t try to fool myself into thinking that Chelsea wants to spend her evenings with me anymore,” Mrs. Boyden says. “She’s almost fifteen. She wants to go out and have fun with kids her own age, not stay home with her grandmother. Right, dear?”

  Chelsea blushes. She shrugs. “I don’t know many people here, Nana.”

  “She likes to go for walks,” Mrs. Boyden continues. “We live right along the beach. Did you know that, Alex?”

  Alex shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. That’s great.”

  Mrs. Boyden beams. “It’s a lovely property. Mr. Boyden and I had it built shortly after he retired. Of course, we’re only here from April to August—it’s too cold for us old folks the rest of the year. Chelsea will be done with school next week, and I’m trying to talk her into staying with us for the summer.” She winks at Alex. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a great idea,” Alex says. “You’d meet lots of people, Chelsea.”

  She brightens a bit. “Could you introduce me to some of your friends?”

  “Sure. I know tons of people.” He pauses. “I’m older than you, though. Most of my friends will be juniors next year.”

  “Alex,” I say, “this is only a few months before you died. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He nods.

  “So you never got to take her out?”

  He frowns. He doesn’t answer.

  “What do you like to do when you’re not working?” Chelsea asks. Nervously, she begins to wind a thick strand of hair around her index finger. She’s so cute.

  Alex stands up straighter. “Go to parties, mostly,” he says. Then, with incredible nonchalance, he adds, “And I spend a lot of time with my girlfriend.”

  I stare at Alex. He won’t look at me.

  “Oh. You, um, you have a girlfriend?” Chelsea asks. The poor girl looks like someone has just stolen her ice-cream cone.

  Alex nods. “Yeah. We’ve been together almost a year.”

  By the look on Alex’s face, I can tell this wasn’t true. “Why did you lie?” I ask him. “She liked you, Alex. I don’t understand.”

  He continues to look at the floor. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Well, I mean, of course I wouldn’t! It doesn’t make any sense. Here’s a perfectly nice girl who obviously has an interest in you, and you’re totally pushing her away. Why would you do that?”

  He gives me a sudden, fierce look. “Because I didn’t have a ton of friends. I didn’t get invited to parties. And if she knew all that—if she knew the truth—she never would have liked me in the first place. She didn’t really like me. She liked who she thought I was.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t know that.”

  “You heard her grandmother. They live along the beach. They’re rich.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Alex,” I ask, “don’t you get it? You could have taken her out, let her get to know you. At least you could have gone on one date, and probably more than one. But you decided to lie to her instead. You didn’t even want to try.” I shake my head. “And you call me and my friends fake.”

  “I want to go back now,” he says.

  “Of course you do.” But I don’t move; I just continue to stare at him.

  My gaze is obviously making him uncomfortable. “I don’t want to talk about this, Liz.”

  “Did you remember this before now? Did you remember lying to her?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “Don’t you see? You told me yourself—all these memories we’re reliving, that we’re seeing for the first time, it’s like we need to realize something about ourselves. What are you supposed to understand, Alex? Think about it.”

  “I have thought about it. And in the future, I’d like to think about it alone.” To drive the point home, he adds, “By myself. Without your help.”

  “Okay. Fine, then.” I sniffle. “Whatever.”

  “Thank you.” He reaches toward me, putting his hand on my wrist. “Ready?”

  I take one last look at the old Alex as he stands behind the counter. Mrs. Boyden and Chelsea are leaving now. As soon as they’re gone, Alex turns around. He takes a few deep breaths. He shuts his eyes and tilts his head back. Then he walks toward the back room. As he steps through the doorway, he kicks the wall hard with a sneakered foot.

  “I’m ready,” I say, nodding. A part of me wants to hug him after what I’ve just seen. But I know that even my grip on his arm is bad enough. Everything I was, and everything I represented—it wasn’t just that he disliked me and my friends, I realize. It was so much more complicated than that.

  Once we’re back, it seems that there is nowhere comfortable: not here at Alex’s house, not anywhere. Aside from my dad’s obvious grief, my house is too full of life and energy, my stepsister and friends so clearly moving on. But I’m beginning to think that any place is better than here, the atmosphere absolutely suffocating, the grief so palpable it almost seems to breathe around us.

  “Can I ask you something?” Alex looks up at me, leans against the piano. His forearm resting against the keys produces a crush of sound that makes me wince. “Sure,” I say, positive he won’t ask me anything about what we’ve just seen together. He undoubtedly wants to change the subject. “Did you ever think this would happen?” he asks. “That you’d die while you were still young?”

  There’s a sound from the stairwell. A cat, a fat calico with long, thick whiskers and a puffy tail that sweeps the air as though cutting through invisible netting, struts into the room. Alex was right about animals; there is no doubt it can see us: it stro
lls directly to Alex and weaves in and out of his legs, purring, arching its back, and finally settling at his feet. I’m not sure why—it isn’t like we can really communicate with it—but knowing the cat can see us, like being able to hear Alex playing piano, makes me feel reassured somehow, certain that our ties to the living world have not yet been entirely cut.

  And I feel such sympathy for Alex all of a sudden. It’s not only because of what I’ve just seen. Maybe it’s also because we’re in his home, which is cloaked in such sorrow in the wake of his passing.

  “Death was familiar to me, in life,” I tell him.

  He blinks at me. “Because of your mom?”

  I nod. “Yes. It’s hard to explain. It’s like … it’s like it had a place in my heart. When I was nine …” Just saying the words out loud hurts so badly. But suddenly I want him to know the whole story, the one I’ve been holding back on telling him since we ended up together. I want him to see that I was a little girl once—that, like him in the photographs on the piano, there was a time when I was innocent and kind and knew very little of the social echelons that would come to dictate my life as a teenager. I want him to know what happened to me, to understand that it changed everything.

  “I want to show you something,” I tell him.

  He blinks a few more times. “What?”

  “Put your hand on my shoulder.”

  He’s hesitant. “Why?”

  “Alex … come on.” My tone is gentle. “It’s okay. There’s something I want you to see.”

  So he does. As soon as I feel his touch, I close my eyes. And we’re there.

  It’s a summer day in the middle of the afternoon. I am nine years old, and my dad is at work. It’s a Tuesday. I’ll never forget this day.

  “Look at you, all dressed up,” Alex remarks, not unkindly. We’re standing in my parents’ bedroom. There I am, just a kid, walking back and forth across the room in a pair of my mother’s strappy high heels. I’m wearing a floor-length fur coat and dainty pillbox hat—both my mother’s—and striking poses in front of the mirror, hands on my hips, sashaying like a pro while I bat my eyelashes and kiss the air. My lips are a shade of red called—I’ll never forget, never—crimson heat. I’m wearing mascara and eyeliner and big pink circles of blush, and as I watch myself, I remember so clearly how I could barely believe how lovely I looked. My fingernails are press-ons. I hold a pen between my index and middle finger and bring it to my mouth with a deep inhale, pretending to smoke. Just like my mom.