by Amy Cross
"A cat?" I ask.
"Yes, honey," she replies. "Do you like cats?"
I pause for a moment. "Yes," I say eventually, "but... Do you want me to come right now?"
"If you like," she says. "I just thought you've been standing here for a very long time, and maybe you want to do something else?"
"Where's my father?" I ask.
"He's doing some important work with the documents," she replies. "It's very boring, I don't think you'd like it at all. That's why I thought maybe you'd like to come and see Gizmo instead."
Scratching my nose, I try to understand why she's so keen to introduce me to her cat. I suppose it's her way of trying to make me feel better, which is nice of her, but the truth is that I'm quite happy standing here. I'm trying to build up the courage to go and take a look inside the coffin; I've been thinking that I could probably just slide the lid off, pull a chair over, climb up and stare straight down into my mother's dead face. Frankly, I couldn't care less about some stupid cat.
"Come on," the woman says, taking my hand and carefully leading me out of the room. We walk across the reception area and into the office, where I immediately see a large, fat, gray cat sitting in a fruit bowl on the table. "So this is Gizmo," the woman continues, smiling, "and he's just about the friendliest cat you could ever hope to meet. He's not very mobile these days, mainly because he's so old, but he loves it when people pet him. Would you like to pet him, Juliet?"
"Yes," I say, realizing that for some reason she really wants me to pay attention to her stupid cat.
"Go ahead," she continues, stepping back.
I step forward and start stroking the back of the cat's neck. He stares at me, not looking very impressed, and I can't help thinking that he's probably sick of people coming in and petting him when he's trying to sleep. I guess he'd just like to be left alone, especially if he's so old and fat that he can't even get out of a fruit bowl. I just hope he doesn't think I'm mocking him as I stand here, gently stroking his fur. Looking into his eyes, though, I see nothing but contempt staring back at me.
"Do you like him?" the woman asks.
"Yes," I say, just to be polite. I just hope she'll go back to find my father somewhere else in the funeral home, so that I can go back to my mother's coffin. As it is, she seems content to stand and watch me stroke her cat. I'm starting to feel as if I'm right in the glare of a spotlight, with no option but to do what I'm told.
"You mustn't be too sad about your mother's death," she continues. "I know it's hard, and I know you must be upset, even though you're being so brave, but I hope you understand that she'd want you to go on with your life and have fun. I bet she was a brilliant mother, and I bet she raised you so that you always know what's right and what's wrong. You probably don't appreciate these things at the moment, but trust me, a good mother is very, very important."
I turn to her. "Did you know her?" I ask.
"No, honey," she says, "but I know what mothers are like. And fathers. They only want the absolute best for their children. I can tell just by looking at you that your mother loved you very much, and your father told me the same thing."
"Oh," I say.
"You understand that, don't you?" she asks. "You know she loved you?"
I pause for a moment. "Yes."
"You mustn't think that your mother left you because she wanted to go," the woman continues, her voice droning on and on, "or because she didn't love you enough, or anything like that. She had no choice. I'm certain she fought and fought for as long as she could, but sometimes people just aren't strong enough. Does that make sense to you?"
I stare at her, trying to work out why she's asking me such dumb questions. "Yes," I say eventually.
"And I bet she can see you right now, and she's so proud of you."
"Yes."
"Come here," she says, suddenly pulling me close to her and giving me a big, unwelcome hug. "You brave, brave little girl."
"Yes," I say eventually.
"Okay, honey," the woman says as she finally lets go of me, "will you be okay here if I go and see how your father's getting on?"
"Yes," I say, remembering to smile broadly as I reach out and stroke the cat once again.
"Great," she replies, "I'll be back before you even know I'm gone." She pats the top of my head before leaving the room. Staring at the cat, I can't help wondering if he'd like to be put out of his misery. After all, he looks pretty grumpy sitting in his fruit bowl, and I can't imagine he has much of a fun life. I guess he just sits and sits and sits, and occasionally some kid is steered in to stroke him for a few minutes. From the way he stares back at me, I get the feeling he's kind of annoyed about the whole situation.
"Sorry about this," I say quietly, hoping that Gizmo might at least get some solace from the knowledge that I didn't want to pet him in the first place. Taking my hand away, I turn and head over to the door. Once I'm certain that the woman isn't nearby, I hurry back across the reception area and into the room where my mother's coffin is being kept. As far as I can tell, nothing changed during the few minutes I was in the office, though I keep wondering whether maybe my mother turned to look in my direction when she heard me walking away. Did she wonder where I went?
"I had to go and stroke a cat," I say suddenly, my voice piercing the silence. "Some mad..." I pause for a moment. "Some woman made me." I wait, just in case she might answer me, and then I realize I'm being dumb. My mother's too busy rotting to take time for conversation. I doubt she can hear me, but if she could, she'd probably think I'm being weird. She'd be right. At the same time, I kind of envy her. After all, she gets to just relax in that dark box. As long as she doesn't mind the feeling of having hundreds of maggots wriggling through her body, I suppose she won't have too bad a time. Anyway, she was always very ticklish, so she might even enjoy the sensation.
"There you are!" calls out the woman, coming back through from another room with my father. She comes over and takes my arm, leading me back to the office. "Children can be so morbid sometimes," she says as she puts me back in position next to the cat. "It's not very healthy to let them see the details of the service. Better to let it remain abstract."
"Juliet's doing pretty well already," my father says, ruffling the back of my head.
Sighing, I realize there's no point disagreeing with them. I take a deep breath and reach out to stroke Gizmo again. At least this way, everyone will think I'm being a good girl, even if the things I'm thinking are pretty bad. If they knew half the things that I think about, they'd lock me away forever, but at least I know I'll never act on any of my fantasies. I hope not, anyway.
Chapter Three
Today
"You came back," Jennifer says, still watching me from the doorway. "Not a lot of people would have done that."
At first, I don't say anything. It's been almost a week since my first shift at Crestview, and although I've worked every night since, I've been careful to keep away from the abandoned ward. Still, I've been planning to go back once I work out a strategy, and I was pretty certain that Jennifer would come and find me again eventually.
"All this time," she continues, "and you haven't come to see me again. To be honest, I started to feel a little offended." There's something different about her this time. Whereas when I first met her, she talked to me as if she was a normal person, this time she seems much more willing to let me see her darker side. It's as if she's studying me, perhaps so she can work out how best to get me into her trap.
"I was just waiting for the right moment," I say. My heart is racing, but I'm determined not to let her see that I'm scared; I'm worried that she'll see fear as a weakness, and that she'll use that as a way back into my head. Then again, I'm probably just fooling myself. She probably already knows that I'm terrified. "I've been busy," I add.
"So I see." She walks over to Ruth Brown's bed and stares at her for a moment. "Weird," she says. "I remember when she first arrived. She was quite sharp and lucid. She used to talk to Jennifer
about all sorts of things. Some of the residents can be a little dull and quiet, but Ruth Brown was always worth spending time with. It's so sad to see the way she's deteriorated over the past few months. Every day, a little more of her mind slipped away until finally she ended up in this state. Credit where it's due, though... She's hanging on. I guess some part of her is still scared to go into the darkness. I don't blame her." She turns to me. "You're very quiet tonight."
"I don't have anything to say," I reply.
"Really?" She pauses. "No questions? Nothing?"
I take a deep breath. "What are you?" I ask eventually.
"I'm me."
"But you're not Jennifer Mathis, are you?" I pause for a moment. "You look like her, but you're not her."
"I have her memories and thoughts," she replies. "Of course, I have the memories and thoughts of other people, too. I got a taste of yours last time we met. Your memories are particularly interesting, Juliet. I'd like to taste some more of them some time."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I say.
"I've got to admit," she continues, "you've surprised me. I've had other girls who turned out to be tough nuts to crack, but they always broke down in the end. They tried to stay strong and fight back, but I was always able to get them to see things from my point of view. They'd sit and hold the blade for the longest time, but they'd always slice into themselves eventually. You're the first one who ever managed to get out alive." She pauses. "That takes some balls, Juliet, and it makes me wonder what else you can do."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I reply.
"You should."
"Is there something you want?" I ask, wondering why she's apparently come to taunt me. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm supposed to be working."
She smiles. "I just came to see how you're doing, and to invite you to come and visit me again. It gets kind of lonely over there, and no-one ever comes to see me. I thought perhaps we could talk again."
"Maybe," I say.
"Maybe?"
"Maybe."
There's an awkward pause. "Well," she says eventually, "you're braver than I thought. What is it about you, Juliet, that keeps you here when anyone else would have run away?"
I stare at Ruth Brown, determined not to let Jennifer know what I'm thinking. The truth is, I've been planning to go back to the abandoned ward, but I've been trying to work out the best way to go about it. I certainly don't want to just walk through the door and face, potentially, the full onslaught of Jennifer's abilities. My biggest worry is that she might have found some other way to get to me; just because I was strong enough last time, I might not be so lucky again. Given that Jennifer has come through to the main part of the building in an attempt to lure me back to the abandoned ward, I'm pretty sure she must have some kind of plan in mind, and right now I want to retain at least some semblance of control over the situation. If and when I go back to the abandoned ward, it'll be in my own time and on my own terms.
"You'll come," she says eventually, almost as if she was able to read my mind. "I can tell. Most people, after going through what you went through last week, would have run away from this place and never come back. But you're still here, which means you're not scared, or you're scared but you also feel drawn to experience more. Sooner or later, you'll end up coming back to see me."
"I'm just doing my job," I say firmly, still focusing on Ruth Brown's tired, aged face.
"Keep telling yourself that," Jennifer replies, "but unless you come back to find me, you'll never know what I am, or how I can help you."
"Help me?" I look over at her.
"Maybe." She smiles. "What if I can help you deal with certain problems in your life? Those emotions you experienced last week weren't false, Juliet. They were inside you, and they're still there. Just because you kept a lid on them for so long, don't fall into the trap of believing you can control them forever. You've got a lot of pain and fear in your heart, and the strain of keeping it all bottled up is eventually going to cause some other kind of damage. If you share it with me, we might be able to find a way to keep you going. We might be able to help resolve some of the questions that have plagued you for so long. No promises, though."
I don't reply. Instead, I focus on Ruth Brown. She's so old and frail, and I can't help thinking that maybe I'm giving her a little comfort by being here. Reaching out, I take her hand in mine, hoping that she can feel the human contact. I'd like to do something good. I'd like to help someone.
"She can't feel anything," Jennifer says. "She's alive in a physical sense, but her mind is long gone. Try not to get too sentimental about the situation, Juliet. You can stroke her hand all you want, and try to persuade yourself that she gives a damn, but the truth is pretty clear. Her mind is already gone."
"Maybe," I say, "but I still want to try."
"Whatever gets you through the night," Jennifer says, smiling. "You really should watch this sentimental side, though. It's not like you at all. Makes me wonder whether you're really as strong as I thought."
"Yeah," I say, "well if you -" Looking over at the door, I suddenly realize that Jennifer has disappeared. I turn and look over at the other side of the room, but there's no sign of her anywhere.
Once again alone with Ruth Brown, I take a deep breath and try to calm my nerves. I guess most people - most normal people - would have run screaming from this whole place long ago. As for me, however, I'm fascinated by the whole situation, even if I'm also scared. I feel as if, finally, I've encountered something that's so strange and unusual, it seems completely separate from the rest of the world. Whoever and whatever this thing is, it seems to be interested in me. I'm not going to let this opportunity go to waste, but I need to think of a better way to deal with what's happening. I wish I was the kind of person to run away from something like this, but I'm not. I've waited too long to be helped.
Chapter Four
Eleven years ago
"Amanda Collier was a loving wife and a devoted mother," says the priest, standing at the front of the church. "For her husband Brian and her daughter Juliet, her loss is a devastating blow that leaves an irreplaceable hole in their lives. At the same time, they can at least take solace in the knowledge that she was part of their lives for so many years, and they know that she will always be in their hearts." He smiles at me; I stare back at him, and I can tell that just for a moment, he feels a little uncomfortable. "At least for her family," he continues, "Amanda will never really be gone. They will have their memories, and in this at least they will be secure for the rest of their own lives."
"Are you okay?" my father whispers, reaching over and squeezing my hand.
I nod, preferring not to say anything. We're in the front row and there are more than a hundred people sitting behind us; I really don't want to do anything to draw attention to myself.
"Let me know if you start feeling emotional," my father continues. "It's okay if you get upset, but you need to tell me. I can take you outside for a few minutes if necessary, so that no-one sees you cry."
I nod again.
"Do you want me to take you outside now?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"Good girl," he says, patting me on the shoulder. "Very good girl."
"Amanda's friends knew her as an intelligent and compassionate woman who never failed to give her all to any endeavor," the priest says. "For this spirit of enthusiasm and dedication, she was known for her role as the heart of so many community events." Once again, he glances at me and I stare back at him. It's fun to see how easily I'm able to freak him out; all I have to do is fix him with a determined glare.
Turning to look at the coffin, I still can't help thinking about my mother's body. She's completely still and lifeless in there, just a collection of meat and bones waiting to be chewed up by maggots. All I can think about is the fact that I want to watch as she decomposes, but I know that other people would think I was being strange. I want to sit next to her and just stare at her face as it falls
apart. Finally, I'd be able to see her cross the point where she'd completely stop being my mother at all; she'd just be a mass of putrefied, dried-out flesh. Then, and only then, would I be happy to turn away.
"She was a woman who lived her life to the fullest," the priest says. "She brought excitement and joy to those around her."
Suddenly I realize what I'm going to do. The idea just hits me in a flash: I'm going to let them bury her, and then I'm going to sneak out of the house tonight and come back with a shovel. I'll dig her up, open the coffin lid and watch her body as it decomposes. If necessary, I'll hide her somewhere, and then I'll come back night after night and keep watch. I know my father would think it was a little strange to do something like that, so I'll be careful to make sure he doesn't ever find out that I'm here. Hopefully, I can document the entire process as she rots down to nothing. I'm quite certain all her skin and meat will go fairly quickly; the rest, I'm not so sure of, but I can probably compromise and end the project once the bones are all that's left. It's in this way that I'll finally be able to understand exactly how death works. I want to remove the mystery and know precisely what happens to a body after the person has died; I want to know what it'll be like for me when, one day in the far future, I too break down and die. So many people are scared of death, but I want to look it right in the face and know what it's like.
"Amanda was also known for her love of animals," the priest continues. "She worked as a volunteer at a local animal hospital, and she was often seen out walking the family dog Jasper. Just like Amanda, Jasper was a rescue dog."
At that point, I start laughing. I know the priest meant well, but the way he phrased that last sentence, he made it sound as if my mother was rescued from a dog sanctuary. Lowering my head so that no-one can see me laughing, I suddenly feel a hand touch my shoulder from behind, and I realize that someone in the next row has mistaken my laughter for tears. I take a deep breath, determined to recover from this embarrassing moment, and eventually I'm able to look up again, watching and listening as the priest continues to talk. For someone who never actually met my mother when she was alive, he sure seems to be good at telling everyone else about her.
