Liv, Forever

by Amy Talkington

Gravity did affect me but only so much as I let it. When I focused on slowing down, I slowed down. I spun around and slowed down so much I could see every crag, every rock. Finally I landed on the water. I started to descend into it. But, as my feet dipped into the still water, they seemed to dissolve into the darkness. It suddenly reminded me of disappearing in the limousine—that horrible moment when I felt myself evaporating, losing my limbs and my thoughts. So I pulled myself out, terrified of what might happen, and tumbled unceremoniously onto the shore.

  I looked down to see if I’d changed, if I’d become more faint. I hadn’t. It seemed I could jump and fly and run without even getting tired. But if I crossed with something—a person or a door or even a piece of paper—it caused that searing pain. And if I so much as tried to lift a leaf or draw in steam on a window—affecting the real world in any way—it didn’t just hurt, it also depleted me in the scariest possible way: I could see it. I was fainter now than I had been when I first died.

  I climbed back up to the top of the cliff and sat down against the tree where Malcolm and I had sat together. Now I was alone. I mean, truly alone. I’d always been a bit of a loner, but this was different. I had no guide, no understanding, and most of the time no one could hear me or see me. I didn’t know why I was trapped here or where I might eventually go.

  When Malcolm arrived, he came right to me as if he knew I was there and sat next to me. Silent. I looked at him. His eyes were tired and muddy. They looked out onto the landscape. As I stared at him, I replayed that day we were here together. Why hadn’t I just let him kiss me when we were in the water? If I’d let him kiss me then, maybe we never would have made the plan to sneak out. Maybe I’d still be alive.

  And why hadn’t I told him how I felt, then or later? Why hadn’t I told him that just looking at him made my stomach implode? Why hadn’t I told him I’d never been in love? That I was afraid to be in love? Why had I always acted so tough? So withdrawn and ambivalent? Why had I pretended? Because, now, I couldn’t tell him anything. Not a word. And it only made every word I’d faked or wasted or swallowed all the more heartbreaking.

  He slid down from the tree onto his back. “Liv, if you’re here, will you lie down next to me?”

  Yes! Of course I will. And I did.

  “Lie right next to me and we’ll both just look up, like that last night. Okay?”

  I was already there, exactly as he requested, which of course made his plea even sadder and made me feel even more alone.

  “I’m so sorry, Liv. It’s my fault you’re gone. I suggested we sneak out. I picked the place. I said we should run opposite ways. I don’t know what happened to you, but I made you vulnerable. And then I lied to the police. I’m so sorry. But please tell me you understand why.” He started to cry but then quickly pulled it back. “The Victors seem stupid to you and Gabe. And I get it. But you have no idea how this club has been inculcated in me—by my father, my grandfather, my uncles—my entire life. It is my entire life. It’s part of me. I have this sense of duty and responsibility that I now see is so skewed. So wrong. Somehow the meetings, the chants, the oaths—I got lost in them. And I’m so sorry I lied for them. But I’ve decided I’m going to go to the police and tell them the truth, help them find your killer.”

  I lay my head on his chest, which was heaving by now, and he shivered. “Is that you?”

  Yes! I proclaimed, unheard.

  He wrapped himself up in his jacket. I wanted to think he heard me, but he didn’t.

  “You know what I wish?” he asked.

  What?

  “That I could just see you one last time—hear your voice. Hold you.”

  I’d give anything for that. Anything.

  After a long time, he fell asleep. Not me, though. Sleep was for the living, not possible for me. No dreams. No nightmares. Only time expanding and contracting. I felt Malcolm’s chest rise and fall. I listened to his breath and heard his heartbeat. It echoed in my own empty chest. I am hollow, I thought. And time just slipped past. I’m not sure how many minutes or hours.

  IT WAS STILL PITCH black when I heard feet approaching. I lurched upright, afraid of being discovered, until I remembered panic was pointless. Panic was a luxury. A gift. I only wished I could be caught in the middle of the night at the mountain. I only wished I could be sent to the headmaster or even suspended or expelled.

  It was Kent Steers. He shook his head when he saw Malcolm sleeping. He paced for a beat and quickly sent a text:

  found him. Finally, he sat down next to Malcolm and gently shook him awake.

  “Malcolm, what are you doing? You can tell me. I’m your best friend.”

  Malcolm rubbed his eyes. “She’s here, Kent.”

  “Who?”

  “Liv.”

  “Malcolm, you gotta let go of her.” Kent’s voice was surprisingly tender. Given his perma-smile, I didn’t think he was capable of real emotion. “She is gone. Forever.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s here. Her spirit is here.”

  “You can see her?”

  “No, but I know.”

  “Do you hear her?”

  “No, but I’m telling you she’s still here.”

  Kent smiled strangely.

  “What?” Malcolm asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just … I don’t know. Sweet.” Kent turned away. “Look, I know you think I’m a douche sometimes. What’s your nickname for me? Lil Payne?”

  Malcolm laughed. “Who told you that? Abigail?”

  “We have no secrets here, man,” Kent said.

  Malcolm’s face became stony. “We do. Liv was murdered, and we covered it up.”

  Kent shook his head. “It sucks. And we owe it to ourselves to find the killer. But we did what was right.”

  “Not right for her.”

  “We have a responsibility.”

  “To her,” Malcolm insisted.

  “Yeah, we do. But we also have a responsibility to the Victors. To this school and its history. Its position. It has to stay that way. Always. Our children will go here, Malcolm. And our children’s children. They’ll heal the world. You know that.”

  Malcolm sat up. He ran a hand through his mess of hair. “I’m going to the police. I’m going to tell them the truth.”

  “Don’t say that.” Kent placed his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders, staring into his eyes. “You’re losing it, man. If you go to the police, all that’s going to happen is everyone’s gonna think you’re crazy. They’ll send you away. Again.”

  Malcolm shuddered.

  I shuddered, too. Again?

  “And what is the truth anyway?” he continued. “What exactly would you tell them? That you were with her in the woods? All that’s going to accomplish is getting you in trouble. Probably even make you a suspect in the case. What can you say that you think will help?”

  Malcolm shrugged.

  “Just get some sleep, buddy.”

  “I can’t sleep anymore.”

  “Well, try to relax. Maybe go rowing. Clear your head. We have a big weekend ahead. Isn’t your dad coming?”

  Malcolm nodded, and Kent gave him a big hug.

  I’d kind of come around to Kent. Like he said, he was a douche, but at least he knew it. And all that really mattered was that he cared for Malcolm. Still, as he walked away, I just kept hearing the word again. He’d said it with such weight. Like a bag of sand. Where had Malcolm been sent?

  Malcolm paced. He stressed. He talked to himself and to me. “I don’t even know if you’re still here, and I’m talking to you. Maybe I am crazy.” On and on he rambled. He said he didn’t know what to do anymore. He needed to think. Kent was right; he needed to clear his head, he needed to row. He started down the ridge, and I followed him. As he pushed through the brush, I caught a glimpse of a faint girl through the fall foliage—one I hadn’t seen before. She had long blonde hair, but before I could really see what she looked like, she noticed us and turned and ran the other way, vanishing into the curtain of bright
leaves.

  Malcolm climbed purposefully around the edge of the lake to the boathouse. The fluorescent lights automatically clicked on when he opened the door. In a pool of green light, Malcolm took down his scull, put it in the water, and prepared it.

  I screamed when I noticed another girl had appeared in the boathouse. She had dark hair, delicate features, and no visible wounds, but her skin was a sheer grey and she looked at me with unmistakably dead eyes. She wore dark-colored full-length bloomers and a dress; the outfit looked somewhere between clothes and pajamas. She paused somewhat awkwardly, as if trying to cover herself. Thankfully, Malcolm had finished prepping the boat. I jumped onto it just before he pushed off.

  I looked back and saw her pass effortlessly through the boathouse wall out onto the dock. She didn’t even wince, as if passing through the wall had been painless. As we glided away into the lake, she hissed, “Soon you’ll be like us!”

  What did she mean? I looked back at her. She lingered on the dock watching me with her dull eyes until I had to look away. I wondered if my eyes looked like that.

  BALANCING ON THE NOSE of the boat, I watched Malcolm row. He was a champion—an award-winner—and now I could see why. He had perfect rhythm. The oars moved like music. But he was stoic. I don’t know how long we were out there, but all of a sudden I noticed his clothes were drenched with sweat. The sky was still pitch black. How much time had passed? Who knew. It might have been hours.

  He was so deep in thought he didn’t notice—or perhaps he didn’t care—that the boat was wavering and slowing. He just kept rowing and rowing, like a machine. But I looked and saw a side panel of fiberglass was cracked.

  “Malcolm!” I yelled, but it was no use. He just looked out into the darkness with glazed eyes, absorbed in his own thoughts and sadness.

  Before long, the nose of the boat was fighting to keep above the water. Of course he had to notice that. He dropped the oars and inspected the boat. When he spotted the crack, he looked around—we were in the dead middle of the lake, miles from land on every side. And his body was already shaking from exertion.

  “Hello?!” he yelled out. “Help! I need help!!” His voice echoed out across the water.

  Silence. No one was out there. It was the middle of the night at Wickham Hall, so if anyone was out, the last thing they’d do was admit it and attract attention. The water started streaming over my feet, making them invisible to me, and I became almost as frightened for myself as I was for him. What happened to me in the water? Did I just evaporate like ice in the sun? Would I ever even come back? I did not know.

  I walked to the bow of the boat, careful to balance. I imagined myself an angel. I kind of was, wasn’t I? I was immaterial so of course I could fly. Like that girl who had flown from the cupola! I must be able to fly. Not just float, but actually span a distance. I focused, picturing myself as a real angel—not a Raphael or a Banksy. No wings. Nothing bird-like. No real body, even. Something more like pure light. Suddenly I soared up, flying over the lake. I stayed focused on one thing: getting to land. And land I did, in an instant. This time it was fast motion, not slow, and I stumbled onto the grass on the water’s edge.

  But I had much farther to go. I needed Gabe. So I focused again. I sprung up into the darkness, this time more easily. I glided over the pines and the willow and the old rooftops—it was practically effortless if I let it be, like a dream—and landed at Dorm Row, just a few yards from Gabe’s window.

  “Gabe!!” I yelled out. “Gabe! Help! Now!” I screamed bloody murder, doing whatever I could to frighten him, wake him.

  It worked. His second-floor window creaked open. “Malcolm is stuck in the middle of the lake! Now!” He shook his head. “What am I supposed to do?” he whispered.

  “Call security! Tell them to send a boat out. Now!” Every dorm had a phone dedicated for use in emergencies. But our 911 calls didn’t go out to the police; they connected to Wickham Hall’s own 24-hour security.

  Gabe paused. He shook his head again. “We can’t do that. He’ll get in trouble for sneaking out, breaking into the boathouse. He’ll get expelled. We can save him. Wait there.” The window slammed shut.

  WHEN WE ARRIVED AT the edge of the lake, dawn was breaking. We could see the dot of a figure in the water, slowly treading toward land. Gabe stood on the bank and yelled out, “You can stop swimming and just float! We’re coming!”

  Malcolm raised an arm acknowledging him, too weak to yell.

  On the dock next to the boathouse, Gabe quickly prepared a small motorboat, lowering it into the water. The Boathouse Girl appeared right next to him. I backed away toward the boat, away from her. Gabe saw her, too, but he just clenched his jaw and started up the engine. She had a slight smile, as if relishing our peril.

  We found Malcolm floating facedown, breathing only when he had to. The survival float: I remembered it from swimming lessons in that horrible, soupy Las Vegas public pool. Gabe cut the motor and leaned down, hoisting him up onto the side of the boat. Malcolm didn’t even have enough energy to get on his feet. He stayed seated, slumped, catching his breath. Once his breath had calmed, he looked up at Gabe and said, “Thank you.” He paused. “Is she here, too?”

  Gabe nodded, and Malcolm managed a smile. “Thank you, too.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “She says you’re welcome.” Then Gabe turned to me. “You’re going to stick with him. All the time now. Whoever killed you just tried to kill him.”

  Malcolm protested. “No, it was probably just an accident.”

  “It was no accident,” Gabe said.

  “Let’s go to the police,” Malcolm said. “I’ll tell them I lied. Let’s let them handle it.”

  “The police can’t help.” Gabe was certain.

  “Why not?” I asked. Malcolm asked the same thing almost instantly, like an echo.

  “Because it’s the ghosts. The ghosts are the killers.”

  “What do you mean?” Malcolm demanded.

  “Think about it. They can see us. They can reach over to us. And they’re invisible. No one else knows they’re here. Think of how much power that gives them. All this time I was focused on the Victors, thinking they had all the power on this campus but, really, it’s the ghosts who have the power.”

  Malcolm ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make sense of it.

  Gabe wouldn’t let up. “Who did Liv see at the well right after she died?”

  Malcolm shrugged.

  “Weeping Willow Girl with the bloody neck. And then, who was there, in the boathouse just now while you were stranded?”

  Malcolm was silent.

  “I saw her. She was smiling,” I said. “And she was there before, too.”

  “The Boathouse Girl,” Gabe told Malcolm. “And she was there before, too, smiling.”

  “But how could the ghosts kill?” Malcolm asked.

  “They can reach over to the real world. Liv did.”

  “But I can’t imagine committing a murder,” I said. “It hurts so badly to interact with the real world in any way. And it’s so depleting.”

  Gabe shrugged, undeterred.

  “And let’s say they were the killers. Why would they just hang around the scenes of the crimes?” Malcolm asked. I had the same question.

  “What do they have to lose? They’re dead,” Gabe barked.

  It was a chilling thought because I was trapped in this in-between place with them. Was I surrounded by killers? “Why don’t we try to talk to one of them?” I asked.

  “NO!” Gabe was emphatic. He turned to Malcolm. “She wants to talk to them.”

  “You’re fearless,” Malcolm said toward me with near awe.

  “Or just stupid. We’re not doing that,” Gabe snapped.

  I was not fearless. I was terrified, but I needed to know.

  “Who are they?” Malcolm asked. “And why?! Why are they here, and why would they do it?”

  “Former students? I don’t know—all I know is they
scare the shit out of me—but that’s what we need to find out.”

  “I can get us into the Headmaster’s Quarters to look at the student records,” Malcolm volunteered.

  “But first we need to figure out when each girl was at Wickham Hall, so we at least know where to start looking in the records,” I said.

  “All right, she’s pretty clever, that one,” Gabe said, repeating what I’d said.

  Malcolm smiled. “Yes, she is.”

  I’m afraid I cannot recall every detail regarding the occurrence of my death. In fact, I regret to report that I can recall very little. It’s been such a long time. Or has it? I am not entirely certain.

  I was new to Wickham Hall and searching for my proper place on campus—a friend, a group to which to belong. A girl named Henrietta, who seemed quite popular, asked me to meet her at the boathouse for a swim. I thought it odd, but she assured me it was a bit of a tradition for the new girls to take a cold swim during fall term.

  Considering it was warmer than usual for October, I ventured to the boathouse on the evening she requested. When I arrived, I changed into my swimming attire. It was a new bathing outfit—a splurge we’d made when we heard Wickham Hall had a lake for swimming—and one I was quite excited to show the girls.

  The girls, however, did not arrive. Rather, it was two boys. I was terribly embarrassed for them to see me in such improper attire, so I hid in the bathroom. They knocked on the door—jolly as can be—and said Henrietta had asked them to row me to the swimming hole. It did seem odd behavior and quite inappropriate, but to be honest, I was having a hard time making friends at Wickham Hall. If I were to let down the one girl who had shown an interest in me, I might never make a friend. And I had promised my mother I would make friends, not just study, as I tended to do. I was, after all, one of Wickham Hall’s first students to receive financial assistance, and I intended to show Mr. Wickham I was a worthwhile investment. But my mother, of course, was more interested in my finding a proper husband.

  I had brought a blanket in case we might decide to sit along the bank, so I wrapped myself in that as the boys and I set out upon the chilly ride.