Between

by Jessica Warman

  “I just wanted to tell you a few things, though,” she continues. “They’re things I never would have told you when you were alive. Because, Liz, you must have known … it was hard to be your friend. You wanted to be nice, I know that. You weren’t trying to be a bad person. But sometimes I used to wonder why I even hung out with you so much. Do you remember the parties I had last year? My parents were in Egypt. Remember that? They were gone for a whole month, and you and Josie convinced me that I should have a party every single weekend while they were gone. You promised you’d help me clean up after all of them, but you only did it once, the very first weekend. After that, you’d just get up and leave in the morning.

  “I never told you this,” she goes on, “but remember the very last weekend, when you got drunk and threw up in my living room? You puked all over the oriental rug. You didn’t offer to clean up the mess, either. You just left. I was so worried that you wouldn’t get home okay because you’d been drinking, but you promised you’d text me once you got there, and of course you never did. I couldn’t get ahold of you until the next night. I was scared out of my mind. But you know all that, I guess. The thing I never told you is … the rug you threw up on, it was an antique. My parents bought it at an auction in Beijing. It was worth tens of thousands of dollars, and you ruined it. You were drinking vodka and cranberry juice all night, before you switched to beer, and that’s when you got sick. Anyway—the stain was bright red. I couldn’t get it out. And when my parents came home and saw what happened, I took all the blame.”

  She blows out a deep breath, a cloud of fog forming in front of her face. “I didn’t tell them what really happened because I knew they’d tell your parents. I knew they’d want your parents to pay for the damage, and I was so afraid”—she starts to cry—“I was so afraid that you wouldn’t be my friend anymore, that you and Josie would turn on me if I got you in trouble. So instead I got grounded for a month. And now my dad doesn’t have a job, and my parents are starting to sell all their antiques just to pay our mortgage. The other day, my mom told me that if they still had the rug to sell, it would keep us in our house for another three months. Can you believe that?”

  I feel bad for Caroline, obviously. I feel worse about how I acted, and that she didn’t have the courage to tell me what happened with her parents and the rug. “She should have saved herself all that trouble. I still would have been her friend,” I tell Alex. “She ought to know that. My parents would have paid for the rug.”

  “Are you sure?” He’s staring at me intently. “What about Josie? She said she was afraid you and Josie would turn on her.”

  “I don’t know what she means. Josie’s a good person. She just likes being popular, that’s all.”

  “She sure does,” Alex agrees. He doesn’t elaborate.

  “Anyway,” Caroline says, wiping her eyes, “it’s not like any of it matters now. You’re gone, and my parents are still probably going to lose their house, and Josie told everyone at school that my dad lost his job. I don’t even have a date for homecoming. Josie’s going with Richie. You died a few months ago, and he just got arrested a few weeks ago, and your parents are letting her go with him like it’s nothing.” She shudders. “It’s horrible. Everything’s terrible without you.” She pauses. “But it was terrible even when you were around. I know it sounds crazy, but for months before you died, it’s almost like there was this … this sense that something bad was going to happen.”

  She picks up her pom-poms, gives them a shake to get rid of the leaves that have gotten caught in the plastic. “I don’t know why, but when I heard Mera scream that morning, I knew something terrible had happened to you. I just knew.”

  Then she bows her head, says a quick, quiet prayer, and crosses herself with a pom-pom. “You were falling apart before you died, Liz. Everybody could tell. I hope things are better for you now. They sure are awful around here.”

  Caroline takes a few steps backward, like she’s about to walk away. But then she stops. She stares up at the dark sky and takes a long, deep breath, looking around to make sure she’s alone. Then, instead of turning to walk on the path that will take her out of the cemetery, she cuts diagonally across the grass and heads uphill, toward the edge of the graveyard that is closest to a dense patch of woods. “Where is she going?” I ask.

  Alex is suddenly tense as he crosses his arms against his chest. “She’s probably going home.”

  “No, she’s heading the wrong way.” I begin to follow her, but Alex doesn’t move. “Hey,” I tell him, “come on.”

  He hugs himself more tightly. He shakes his head. “That’s okay.”

  I stop to stare at him. “Alex, come on! What’s wrong?”

  He looks at the ground. “Nothing.”

  Caroline is almost at the top of the hill. She turns left onto one of the cemetery’s narrow gravel roads and walks toward a small cluster of tombstones situated just before the woods. In an instant, it becomes clear: she’s going to Alex’s grave.

  But why? She didn’t know him. She went to his funeral, just like me, but so did plenty of kids who didn’t know him. I don’t remember her being overly upset at it, either. They weren’t friends; they obviously didn’t run in the same circles. I just can’t imagine that they might have known each other for any reason at all.

  Yet here she is, kneeling at his grave more than a year after his death. I stand beside her, watching in confusion and fascination as she leans forward and places both of her hands against the top of his tombstone. Coming to rest on her knees in the grass, she tilts her head down until her forehead touches the side of the grave marker.

  She stays that way, keeping her body almost completely still, for a long time. As I’m watching her, Alex approaches behind me. For a while, neither of us says anything.

  When Caroline finally raises her head, I see that her eyes are red. The letters painted on each of her cheeks are smeared with tears. She looks around again, double-checking to be sure that she’s alone.

  “Hi, Alex,” she whispers. Her voice is so soft that I almost can’t hear her.

  Standing beside me, Alex smiles at her. His expression is kind. He seems more relaxed than he was just a few minutes ago. “Hey, Caroline,” he replies.

  I gape at him. “Alex,” I demand, “what is going on? Tell me.”

  Caroline stands up. She wipes her eyes and cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing the painted letters into unrecognizable blobs of red and white.

  Alex holds a finger to his lips. “Shh.” He continues to smile at her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says out loud. And as she squeezes her eyes shut, she looks ready to cry again. “I’m so sorry, Alex,” she repeats.

  “What is she sorry for?” I ask. “How do you two know each other?”

  Alex glances at me. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s obviously something. Alex, come on. This isn’t fair. Please tell me.”

  He ignores me and continues to watch her. Caroline bows her head, closes her eyes, and begins to speak again. Her voice is sweet and soft, her words haunting as she pronounces them in the silent, empty cemetery.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. Now and in the hour of our deaths …” And she pauses. “Now and in the hour of our deaths,” she repeats. “Now and in the hour of our deaths. Now and in the hour of our deaths … Amen.”

  She opens her eyes. “You rest now,” she says, staring at his tombstone. “Find some peace.”

  She leans over to pick up her pom-poms. Then she walks away, down the hill toward the cemetery’s exit. We both watch as her form grows smaller against the backdrop of the evening, her steps unhurried as she moves between row after row of tombstones. She was uncomfortable when she visited my grave, but not so much at Alex’s. And now, even from far away, she seems calm.

  “Okay,” I say once she’s gone, “what was that
all about? What is she sorry for?”

  Alex tilts his head to one side. “I think she’s sorry for what happened to me, that’s all.”

  But his explanation doesn’t satisfy me; it still doesn’t explain why she would visit his grave or the odd way she recited the Hail Mary.

  “Alex,” I repeat, trying to sound stern, “what aren’t you telling me?”

  He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s hard to explain. But I could show you, if you want.”

  “Show me? You mean like—”

  “Yes.” He nods. “I’ll take you. You can see for yourself.”

  “But I thought you didn’t want me to see anything from your life.”

  He’s still wearing a dreamy smile. “I’ll make an exception.”

  Before I can accept the offer, something occurs to me. “This isn’t the first time she’s been to your grave, is it?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  I almost can’t believe it. Caroline. Here. Visiting Alex. Praying for him, and telling him she’s sorry—but for what? As stunned as I am, I find that I’m also so happy for Alex, that he has at least one visitor aside from his parents. He deserves at least that much. “How often does she come?”

  “Not often. Every few weeks.” If he were alive, I’m sure he’d be blushing. “The first time she came, I was so surprised,” he says. “It’s amazing that she even remembers.” And he gives me an expectant look. “Do you want to know? I’ll show you, but that’s it. Nothing else.”

  “Okay.” I reach toward him and grasp his wrist. “Let’s go.”

  Once we slip into Alex’s past, I open my eyes to see that we are standing in the middle of a big room filled with long wooden tables. I think we’re in a basement of some kind; there are no windows in the room, and at the far end, past a set of double doors, I can see a staircase.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “You don’t know?” Alex seems amused.

  “No.” On the wall with the double doors, I notice a life-sized color drawing of Jesus. His arms are spread wide. He gazes downward, where a group of children is drawn at his feet. There’s a chalkboard on the same wall with several Bible verses written in neat cursive handwriting.

  “It’s some kind of church,” I say. “Is this Sunday school?”

  “It’s CCD,” Alex tells me.

  I give him a blank look.

  “Confirmation classes,” he explains.

  “Confirmation,” I repeat. “What’s that?”

  “It’s something Catholic kids do. You have to go to confirmation classes for a year, and then you get to take your First Communion.” He pauses. “You know what that is, don’t you?”

  I nod. “Sure. Wine and wafer, right?”

  For a second, Alex looks like he’s going to launch into a full explanation of communion—obviously there’s more to it than what I understand—but he stops himself with a smirk and a shake of his head. “I’m in first grade,” he says, nodding at the room. There are about eight kids seated at each of the tables. He points to one of them. “Right over there.”

  I spot him immediately. I clap a hand to my mouth. “Alex,” I say, “you’re adorable!” It’s true, too; Alex looks like such a sweet child. His cheeks are full and pink. He wears a T-shirt with Spider-Man on the front underneath a pair of denim overalls. His hair is straight and a little too long; his bowl cut hangs into his eyes. “Aww,” I say, nudging him. “What a cutie you were.”

  “Stop it,” he says, embarrassed. But he’s smiling, too.

  “Everyone’s so quiet,” I observe. In a room full of kids, you’d think there would be some noise. But they all sit with their mouths closed and their eyes cast downward, like they’re waiting for something to happen. As I’m looking at them, I hear a soft noise behind me and I turn around. There is a door at the back of the room; it hangs open just a crack. That’s where the sound is coming from.

  Together, Alex and I go to the doorway and look inside. The room is small, barely bigger than a closet. It’s empty except for a few shelves stacked with video cassettes, an old television and VCR on a portable stand, and a metal folding chair. A middle-aged nun sits on the chair. Her expression is bored; she listens as a little girl dressed in a plaid jumper stands before her, reciting the Hail Mary prayer.

  “We had to memorize it,” Alex explains. “Then Sister Barbara—that’s her right there—would take us into this room, one at a time, and we’d recite it for her.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I watch as the little girl leaves the room and is replaced a few seconds later by a chubby boy with curly black hair. “What does this have to do with Caroline?” We’re back among the tables of children as they silently wait their turns, though the younger Alex is now nowhere to be seen.

  “In the hallway,” Alex says. He points at the double doors leading to the stairwell.

  Before the landing to the stairs, there is a dark, narrow hallway with three doors: one to a men’s restroom, another to the women’s room, and a third one, which is shut and unmarked.

  As we’re standing there, little Alex comes out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on his overalls. He looks down, notices that his shoelace has come undone, and bends over to tie it.

  That’s when I hear something. “Listen,” I say.

  Little Alex hears it, too, and pauses mid-tie. He looks up toward the unmarked door. And there it is again: a tinny, clanging sound.

  I look at Alex beside me. He’s smiling; I can tell he knows exactly what’s about to happen.

  His younger self takes a few steps forward, until he’s close enough to touch the door. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes it open.

  It’s a coat closet. And inside, standing on her tiptoes, trying to reach high enough to hang up her jacket, is first grader Caroline Michaels.

  The younger Alex stares at her. “I thought you weren’t here today,” he says.

  Caroline doesn’t reply. She takes a quick step backward and almost falls into a rack full of choir robes. Already, at age six or seven, she is beautiful. She’s small and wiry, her skinny arms and legs sticking out from a pink collared shirt and stone-washed denim skirt. Her long hair is wound into two braids, their ends neatly curled and tied with pale pink ribbons. She stares at Alex, clearly surprised to see him.

  “Caroline?” little Alex says. “What are you doing in the closet?”

  She still doesn’t say anything. At her feet, there is evidence that she’s been here for a while. There’s an open backpack, its contents arranged in a semicircle on the floor: Barbie thermos. Coloring book. Almost empty plastic bag of cheese and crackers. Bottle of glitter nail polish. Half-completed math worksheet.

  “Are you hiding in here?” Alex presses. “Why?”

  Caroline seems terrified. “I-I-I …” Her bottom lip trembles. “Don’t tell.”

  Alex glances behind him. He pulls the door shut. “What’s wrong?” he asks, genuinely interested. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

  Caroline bows her head. “I can’t go to class.” She begins to nibble at the edge of a painted fingernail. “I don’t know the prayer.”

  Alex looks like he doesn’t know what to do. He glances around helplessly, as if he’s searching for an answer.

  “She was hiding in here the whole time?” I ask Alex.

  He nods. “We would all come straight from school every Friday. It’s less than a block. She must have kept her distance from everyone on the way here, and then she hid in the closet so her parents wouldn’t know she missed class.”

  The two of them are sitting on the floor now, their heads close together. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” Alex whispers.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace,” Caroline repeats, but her face still looks panicked. “I know most of it, Alex. It’s just the end. I always forget how the last part goes. And now it’s too late.”

  “No, it’s not,” Alex says. “I’ll help you. Say it again.”

  Caroline nods. “Hail Mary, full of gr
ace,” she begins, “blessed art … blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God … pray for us … pray for us …” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I don’t know the rest.”

  “Pray for us sinners,” Alex finishes.

  “Pray for us sinners,” Caroline echoes.

  “Now and at the hour of our deaths,” Alex pronounces.

  “Now and at the hour of our deaths.”

  “Now and at the hour of our deaths,” he repeats.

  “Now and at the hour of our deaths.”

  “Now and at the hour of our deaths,” he says again.

  Caroline opens her eyes to look at him. “Now and at the hour of our deaths.”

  Alex smiles at her. “Amen.”

  We watch as they sit in the closet for a few more minutes while Caroline practices the prayer. Finally, they both get up and go back into the classroom.

  Alex and I stand in the coat closet, alone. “Caroline remembers this day,” he says, “after all those years. Can you believe that? We were never friends, not even as kids. I don’t think we ever talked to each other again after this happened. It was just a few moments in our lives, but it mattered.” He pauses. “It mattered to both of us.”

  “She never told me,” I say, “not even when we went to your funeral. You’d think she would have said something.”

  He shrugs. “What was there to tell?” He looks around the room for a moment, then back at me. “So now you know,” he says.

  I smile. “Thank you for showing me.”

  Above us, the fluorescent ceiling light buzzes. Without another word, we reach for each other and let the past slip away.

  Back at the cemetery, we both agree that we’re ready for a real-life change of scenery. As we walk, I can’t stop thinking about Caroline at Alex’s grave and how sweet their shared experience was. I want to talk about it some more, to get a better glimpse at Alex’s past, but I don’t want to push the issue. He’s already shown me more than I expected to get from him.