Liv, Forever

by Amy Talkington

  “Settle yourself into him while he’s sleeping. You have to release yourself. The same way you moved your arm through that branch. Free yourself to him, and you will find him. But, understand, you have no control in the dream. Now I’ll go. I’m terribly sorry to bother you. But I wanted to thank you. We all do. Merci. Consider this our thanks.”

  “Well, thank you for coming and telling me.”

  She passed through the window—now covered with steam again, Malcolm’s artwork nearly vanished—back out into the cold night.

  “Are you still there?” he asked. “Will you lie next to me? Let’s listen to your mix.” He called up his iTunes and put on Liv, Forever. As Bright Eyes played, he lay on his side, and I wrapped around him, trying to comfort and calm him to sleep so I could be with him again.

  It didn’t seem long to me, but according to the clock, it was hours before he was deeply asleep, breathing heavily. He was still lying on his side, so I moved around to the other side, facing him. I got close and then kept getting closer. I tried to ignore the fear that I might disappear altogether or that I might get lost in his dream world. I closed my eyes and just kept moving closer and closer to him until … we merged.

  I HEARD WATER GENTLY lapping. When I opened my eyes, I was at the mountain, but it was an island, surrounded by lake on all sides—now looking more like an ocean. Where was Malcolm? I turned, and he was suddenly where he hadn’t been before. He was frozen, terrified to see me.

  “I’ve been praying to dream about you. And you’re here, finally.”

  I nodded.

  “It’s really you?”

  “It’s really me.”

  He nodded, smiling.

  “But, then again, I’m not really real anymore, am I?” I pointed out.

  “True,” he laughed. At least we both had a sense of humor about it.

  “Can I touch you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  He approached me slowly. I was scared he wouldn’t feel me. That I wouldn’t feel him. He paused. We locked eyes, and I could see he was just as apprehensive as I was. Finally he reached for my hand. He grasped me so firmly it almost hurt. Pain had never made me so happy. He felt me, and I felt him! He pulled me into his arms, wrapped himself around me. “I won’t let go. Ever.”

  “Not even for a kiss?” I asked.

  “For a kiss? Yes, I’ll let go of you for that.” He loosened his grip so I could lift my lips to his, and we kissed.

  In the history of art and poetry and music and novels and everything beautiful that human beings have fought to describe, there was never a kiss like this. Was it the dream that made it so intense? Did it matter? We devoured each other like two starving, deprived lovers. But all at once I could feel that it wasn’t entirely real. And then the setting changed. In an instant we were in the dining hall, surrounded by the entire student body dancing the waltz around us.

  I pulled away from him.

  “This is weird,” I said. “Wouldn’t an abandoned beach be better? Or a chalet in the Alps? Or pretty much anywhere else?”

  “I can’t really control it. We’re here now … so will you dance with me?” he asked.

  I nodded and took his hand. It was just a dream after all. And in this dream I was graceful, a skilled and confident dancer. We moved perfectly together—turning and spinning, not missing a beat—for a long, long time. Ages. Ages of perfection … until I noticed someone near us staring. His face was generic. I glanced at the others, all their faces bland, not even completely formed. Mouthless. Vacant. They weren’t really there. I wondered if we were vacant, too. No! It was Malcolm, and it was me—but it just didn’t feel completely real.

  “Does this feel real to you?” I asked him.

  “Real enough.”

  Then he took my hand and led me off the dance floor and through a door. We were in a home, one more lavish than I’d ever seen. Malcolm walked me through the marble entryway, pointing out a Tracey Emin and a Warhol and a Damien Hirst unicorn. It was like a museum of modern art.

  “Is this your house?”

  “My father’s house. Yes.”

  He led me into a library much like Wickham Hall’s, wood-paneled and stately but chilly and aloof. All the books were off the shelves, stacked in tall piles. Malcolm approached the stacks near the large bay windows. I followed him, glancing outside.

  Down below was a place that looked like Wickham Hall—the same Mount Vernons and Gothic arches and Victorian woodwork—but also like the third panel of Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights. In other words: hell. Dark and soiled with violence and swarming with unrecognizable, half-eaten creatures. The buildings were in shambles, windows blasted out, roofs removed. Shanties pitched along the muddy Dorm Row. And it was dark, a winter’s evening with storm clouds glowering above. There seemed to be no electricity, only small fires dotted the horizon. Crowds swirled, unruly and savage, mingling with insects and animals. Filthy. Clothes tattered. Chaotic. I heard screams of pain. Agony.

  And I could smell it. I’d never smelled something in a dream before, but this scent was so strong—of bile and waste and death—that it made me feel sick.

  There was a man who rose out of the darkness. He stood at the top of the Main steps, protected by a fortress of underlings. He was still somehow, amid all the chaos, well dressed in a dated but formal three-piece suit. He yelled out to the crowds of people as if trying to inspire or galvanize them. He was powerful. He was to be feared. His face was very distinct, very familiar. It was a Wickham. Wallace Wickham, I thought.

  Malcolm pulled me away from the window. “Don’t look out there.”

  “What is it? Something in your imagination, right?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.” He started throwing the books out the window, which was somehow now wide open.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We have to get rid of the books,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure, but I know it needs to happen. Please help me.”

  “What if we hurt someone? It’s a long way down.”

  “They’re already dead.”

  I looked outside again and realized he was right. They all had the look of death I’d become all too familiar with.

  Malcolm became anxious and upset. “Please help me. It has to happen.”

  I hadn’t dreamt in some time, not since my death, but I remembered how it was. Sometimes the most absurd things seemed so important and real. So I grabbed old books and started throwing them out into the misery below. Together we threw them faster and faster until I heard a booming, “Malcolm!”

  I turned and saw Malcolm’s father standing in the doorway—tall, so tall, in a black suit, and displeased with us. Malcolm did not turn, so his father yelled again, even louder. “Malcolm Astor!”

  Then it ended. All at once the images erased.

  Malcolm woke up. His father—the real one—stood in his doorway, his real doorway. And I was, once again, not real. Or at least not material.

  “Malcolm! You’re late. We have the trustee breakfast. And you have some explaining to do. Something about a boy arrested last night?”

  Malcolm sat up in bed, covered in sweat, shaking. “Tell me about the books,” he said urgently.

  “What books?”

  “Something to do with the Victors. There are books. Evil books.”

  “Do you have a fever? I think you’re unwell.”

  “I’m unwell because a girl was murdered. A girl I loved. You have to tell me what you know.”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “You are forbidden to speak to me like that. Now let’s go. We’re supposed to be at Old Homestead right now.”

  “Human sacrifices. Girls murdered brutally. Every ten years. Ring a bell?” Malcolm was fierce, but his father was icy and resolute.

  “You need help, son.”

  “I only need help uncover
ing the truth. I need to know why this was done and how it can end. I need to know who is responsible. If you won’t tell me, I’ll talk to Burr Samuels. He killed one of them.”

  Mr. Astor kept staring at his son, unblinking. But his jaw flickered. Malcolm seized the moment and brushed past him into the common room. His father followed him, starting to look a little flustered. Malcolm burst out the front door. I soared in his wake. Mr. Astor grasped for his cell phone and started to dial a number while yelling after him, “You will not speak to Mr. Samuels!”

  “Yes, I will,” Malcolm spat back at his father as he ran toward Old Homestead. “You can’t control me anymore.”

  Malcolm knew his father would not make a scene in front of the esteemed alumni, so he continued through campus, careful to move only through the most populated parts. He was still dressed from the night before, and as he walked he tucked in his shirt and attempted to straighten his hair. And, still being the most popular guy on campus (at least until the rumors of his association with Gabe started to spread), he did not have a problem borrowing a jacket off an underclassman he passed.

  “And I don’t need it back,” the flattered Third Former yelled after him, smiling as if he’d just been given a gift. Malcolm swept through the Art Center, where a fleet of Wickham Hall staff was putting the final touches on the bonfire setup. As we passed through the cemetery, it fell oddly silent. There was no one in sight. Bad sign. Sure enough, as I spun around, I saw Mr. Astor striding from the road toward Malcolm.

  “You will not embarrass me in front of these people! They are far too important. You need help. I’m taking you out of school. Now.”

  A slow-moving dark car pulled up alongside the cemetery. The windows were tinted. Mr. Astor grabbed his son’s arm, easily pulling Malcolm toward the car. Malcolm seemed small next to his imposing father. Desperate, I rushed past his father, trying to give him a chill. I did it again and again. And still it wasn’t enough. I started to panic as Mr. Astor dragged Malcolm closer to the car. Then Mary appeared by my side.

  “We have to stop him. Malcolm’s our only connection. Our only way to get to Samuels, our only way to fix things!”

  She swooped away from Mr. Astor, suddenly fierce. Then she rushed into him, shrieking all the way. She moved too fast for me to see, but it did the trick. Mr. Astor shuddered and lost his grasp on his son.

  Malcolm slipped away, whispering, “Thank you.”

  “To whom are you speaking?” his father demanded, getting pale.

  “The girl I love,” Malcolm barked, scrambling away.

  “The dead one?”

  “Yes, the dead one,” Malcolm shouted back toward his father as he ran.

  MARY COLLAPSED ON A tombstone, trying to recover. “I think that was it,” she said, looking down at her body. It had been drained of its last remnants of opaque color. “I’ve been saving that bit of energy for so many years, but I think that might’ve been the last of it.”

  I asked Mary if she would come with us to find Samuels so she could confirm he was in fact her killer. She actually wanted to see him face to face. As we rushed to catch up with Malcolm, we passed Ruth at the weeping willow. Without a word, she joined us.

  We reached Malcolm just as he was climbing the stairs to the front porch. I spotted Minerva in one of the upstairs windows, but when she saw me looking up at her, she darted out of sight. On the porch, Malcolm noticed the woodwork as if for the first time, staring at the imagery—the angels and fire and strange creatures.

  “It’s the same iconography that’s on the Wickham objects,” he said. “And in the dream. Did you see this in the dream, too?”

  “Yes! I did!” I exclaimed. At least Ruth and Mary could hear me.

  “I’ve seen it, too,” Ruth said. “I think it’s hell. I am afraid of that place.”

  “You won’t be going there,” I assured her. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You tried to save me.”

  Ruth nodded, trying to believe.

  Malcolm opened the front door and held it open for me. Ruth and Mary noticed. “It is love,” Ruth cooed.

  I nodded. It was true. I knew it. And I wasn’t too embarrassed to admit it.

  As Malcolm entered, he forced on his jovial face to greet the Victors. But I was on edge; Minerva knew we were there. What would she do? Ruth, Mary, and I drifted through the room, careful always to face in opposite directions so at least one of us could see her coming.

  The place was packed with the usual suspects, the same crowd as at the Ball. Only now it was blazers instead of suits. Coffee instead of gin. Danishes instead of lobster. The same string trio played classical music. The absolutely most elite of the absolutely most elite rubbed shoulders and muttered empty pleasantries, unaware they were surrounded by spirits. First it was just me, Ruth, and Mary, but over time more and more arrived—sweet Brit, unpredictable Lydia, angry Florence, and modest Clara—a motley crew crashing the party. We were so many spirits in such a small space, we cast a chill over the entire room, so much so that old Mrs. Slade asked one of the catering staff if he’d please turn up the heat.

  I stayed with Malcolm as he worked his way toward Samuels. He had to act casual and stop to say hello along the way. Yes, Harvard was his first choice. No, he didn’t plan to join the family practice. Yes, he’d spent the summer on the Cape. No, he didn’t know yet if he’d be rowing the Head of the Charles. In between clusters, he whispered, almost indiscernibly, “Guess they didn’t hear about my new buddy getting hauled off to the clink yet.” We both smiled, relieved.

  Finally, he got to Mr. Samuels and shook his hand.

  “We meet again, my friend,” Samuels said, his expression polite but unreadable.

  “We do. I wonder, Mr. Samuels, if you’d do me the favor of giving me a moment alone. There’s something a little personal I’m seeking your advice on.”

  Mr. Samuels paused.

  “My father thought you might take a few minutes for me.”

  His eyes brightened. “Well, then, yes, of course.”

  Malcolm led Samuels through the swinging door to the kitchen. “There’s such a din in here.” He knew exactly what he was doing. “Let’s go downstairs where it’s nice and quiet, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not good with stairs, my boy.”

  “I’ll lend you a hand,” Malcolm said, grasping Mr. Samuels to lead him through the door (and to prevent him from saying no). As they moved slowly down the stairs, we spirits went ahead, passing through the dim, charred chamber into the séance room.

  I’d been in such a panic last time I hadn’t been able to take much in about the room. But I could now see this place was constructed and designed for the sole purpose of communicating with spirits. Against the long wall, numerous ancient conjuring devices were lined up along a narrow table. Everything was dusty from years of neglect. A good thing: dust was something we could use. In fact, looking around, I saw the room had many possibilities for communication. I guess that was the point. The Wickhams had definitely known something about spirits. We all gathered around the edge of the room, forming a circle around the table.

  When Malcolm and Mr. Samuels finally entered, the old man was winded and red in the face. He took the nearest seat to catch his breath. Mary got up in his face and stared right into his eyes. She studied him until she was sure. After a long pause, she looked to me and nodded—a strange mixture of triumph and revulsion playing on her face.

  “It’s chilly down here, son.”

  “I’ll get right to the point, then. Mr. Samuels, you were president of the Victors in 1965?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Do you recall there was a death that year? A Mary Bata?”

  “I do.” He nodded, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “It was a sad story. Suicide. From what I recall she was disturbed. She couldn’t handle the pressure.” He was nervous, even his politician smile couldn’t hide it. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, we’ve done some research and found there hav
e been numerous deaths at this school. And they all seem to have quite a lot in common.”

  Mr. Samuels carefully folded his handkerchief and placed it back in his blazer pocket. “Is that so?”

  “We believe they might have been sacrifices of some kind.”

  The old man’s nostrils flared. “What are you getting at, son?”

  “I believe you killed Mary Bata, and I want to know why.”

  Mr. Samuels didn’t so much as blink. He chuckled, and I knew right then he was guilty. We all did.

  “I wouldn’t laugh, Mr. Samuels,” Malcolm warned.

  “Oh, would you not?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Because she’s here. Right now.”

  “Obviously this is some kind of jolly prank, but now is not the time for it,” he said, starting to stand up. “Pranks are for Orientation and Headmaster Holiday—”

  Malcolm pushed him back down. “It’s no prank. Please stay seated until we’re finished.”

  “We?” Samuels sniggered.

  “I mean the ghosts who remain here at Wickham Hall. Mary and all of them.”

  “Please. That’s enough.”

  “They’re here right now.”

  Mary, now filled with a rage, rushed at him. The old man’s rheumy eyes widened. He shivered.

  Malcolm smiled. “See?”

  “What are you doing, son?”

  But Malcolm didn’t reply. He let us work our magic. Ruth and I shrieked and soared through the curtains. Lydia, Brit, Clara, Florence, and Mary joined us—all shrieking and moving in a circle through the curtains around them, using their little remaining energy—until the fabric walls of the chamber began to quake.

  Samuels’s lips trembled. The last bit of color drained from his craggy cheeks.

  Malcolm grabbed his shoulders. “Did you kill Mary Bata!?”

  “Stop!” Samuels finally yelled.

  And we did. We waited for him to confess, but he was silent. Mary went to the table. She tried to write in the dust, but she didn’t have enough strength left. She turned to me. “Will you write something?”

  I looked down at my own limbs. I was not as faint as Mary. I knew it might sap my remaining force, but I needed to do it for her. For us. I just prayed I had enough energy. This was the moment to break him.