Auracle

by Gina Rosati

  “Yum,” he holds up a big gloppy spoonful and sticks it into his mouth. “Mmmm.”

  I open my mouth and pretend to stick my finger down my throat.

  The usual high school crowd doesn’t come into the store on Saturday, so Robert and Yumi take the opportunity to sleep in until seven. Miraculously, Saya is still asleep, too. Rei turns each page, commenting on this and that, until he comes to the obituaries, and he pushes the paper toward me so we can both see it.

  Taylor Ann Gleason ~ Beloved Daughter

  We both take a minute to read to ourselves all the wonderful things it says about Taylor.

  “There are two viewings. Tonight from six to eight is for anyone local, and tomorrow night is for their Long Island people. The funeral is Monday morning. Should we be going to any of this?”

  Without the computer, I’m essentially mute. I nod.

  “Since we’re not going after Seth, we should focus on what to do about Taylor. That sage stuff obviously didn’t work. Any more ideas?”

  I shake my head. I want to tell him I plan to spend the morning on his computer looking for more ideas, but I can’t do that without a voice.

  “Well, think about it. I have to work today. Will you keep an eye on Seth for me?”

  Of course. I nod.

  * * *

  I ping-pong back and forth from Rei’s house to Seth, who is steadily progressing toward Matt’s college. Rei and his family leave for the store, and it doesn’t occur to me until I hear Rei tell Yumi that Anna doesn’t feel well, so he’ll babysit the kids at the store while Yumi teaches yoga class this morning. Kids love Rei. He’s like a human jungle gym, and since we’ve been taking care of Saya since she was born, babysitting comes naturally to both of us. Still, it’s adorable to watch him wrangle a dozen little kids, all under the age of five. I stay and watch the shenanigans until class is over and Rei goes off to the back room to do some real work.

  I know I’m supposed to be figuring out what to do about Taylor, but I’ve been avoiding the computer because I know what I’m going to find …

  Exorcism.

  I never saw the original movie, The Exorcist, but I’ve heard plenty of rumors. Rotating heads. Puking pea soup. Flagrant disregard for religious artifacts. The list goes on. I really don’t want to go there.

  So I decide to check up on Taylor instead. I find my mom and Taylor bonding at the mall. They look happy. My mom is chattering away, laughing, and Taylor responds to her in an easy, comfortable way. I keep hearing the word lavender, lavender. I really hope they’re talking about the flower or the fragrance, because I despise the color lavender. In fact, any shade of purple depresses me. Watching Taylor and my mom depresses me, too.

  I love my mom and I know she loves me, but aside from a short stature, celery-colored eyes, and an insatiable sweet tooth, we have little in common. She loves shopping at discount stores for designer clothes, trendy jewelry, and knock-off perfume. I like blue jeans, Rei’s hand-me-down hoodies, and unscented antiperspirant. Ever since seventh grade, school picture day has started with an argument at my house. “I will not buy another school photo of you wearing that same old black hoodie with your hair just hanging there!” is her usual battle cry. “Can’t you at least put on some blush? A little mascara?” she begs.

  I respect that my mother works hard to support me and my deadbeat father. What I don’t get is why she lets him get away with being such a lush. Why she expects me to change, but not him.

  They click-clack over the tile floor, mom in her heels and Taylor in my clogs, heading over to Nadia’s Nail Boutique. My nail biting has been a thorn in my mother’s side for many years, and she just can’t contain her excitement that I’m finally interested in acrylic nails. The chemical stench from Nadia’s is overpowering to me. Before I leave, I hear Taylor ask the girl in the white coat for the extra long nail tips.

  Delightful.

  * * *

  In the back room of the store, Rei breaks down cardboard boxes and stacks them. He’s plugged into his iPod, and his attention is equally focused between the music and the boxes. He jumps a mile when I appear.

  “Anna!” He yanks out one earbud and looks around for his parents, but they’re in the front taking care of customers—I already checked. “Could you please give me a little warning?” I point to the pocket holding his cell phone.

  “You want my phone?”

  I nod.

  “Why?” he asks as he pulls it out and holds it in my direction with a confused look.

  Guess what, I text curtly.

  “Oh … okay, what?”

  I’m getting acrylic nails. Extra long.

  Rei grins. “Oh, boy!”

  I glare at him. My mom likes shopping with Taylor better than me.

  “No, she doesn’t,” he says reassuringly, but we both know it’s true. “Taylor just likes all that trendy stuff your mom likes. Just hope they keep the receipts.”

  Texting is hard. Even with Rei and his super Zenergy right here, texting requires too damn much effort. I hover over a neat stack of empty boxes and fume.

  “So I finally talked to Matt. I told him to call me as soon as Seth shows up.” Rei motions to the stack of boxes. “I need to finish up a few things, and then I’m heading home. You’re not going to the viewing dressed like that, are you?”

  I summon up all the energy I can muster and send the stack of empty boxes tumbling down around him. He laughs, which annoys me even more. “Okay, I deserved that. Hey, can you check on Seth and meet me back at my house in about an hour?”

  I nod and let myself dissolve in front of him. I’ve been checking up on Seth all day, anyway. He’s robotically pedaling along in his bubble of gray, like he’s surrounded by his own personal rain cloud. Ahead of him, the road curves and rises, and the pavement is scarred with frost heaves from the long, hard winter.

  A week ago, Seth had a pretty good idea about where he was going in life. I don’t think he expected anything too fancy: maybe go to tech school, get a job working with cars, hopefully deal with the fact that his mom abandoned him, and realize that not all women are selfish and hurtful. Now he has no idea if he’ll make it around the next bend without getting arrested. And maybe Seth is right: if he didn’t try to save Taylor, things would probably be a lot different right now. Maybe he would still be a suspect, but there would be no evidence against him. Except Taylor would still be claiming to be Annaliese Rogan, the only eyewitness.

  It all comes down to me.

  This does nothing to improve my mood. I’m not a big fan of responsibility and I hate to see people suffer. As soon as Rei gets home, we exchange a wave and he immediately heads for the shower. I leave Rei a message on the computer to read when he comes back, because I don’t want my bad mood diluted by the cheerful scent of his citrus soap.

  I’m going to check on Taylor and her stupid new nails. I’ll see you tonight.

  * * *

  Taylor stands in front of my dresser, brushing blush onto her cheeks in front of my pink magnifying mirror. She’s sporting a sparkly diamond nose stud that wasn’t there earlier, so it must be with my mom’s blessing. What was that woman thinking? Just for my own childish pleasure, I knock her mascara off the dresser. She bends to pick it up, clasping it carefully between her ruby red, extra long nail tips, and sets it back on the dresser. I knock it off again. She looks around suspiciously.

  “So you’re still around, eh?” She picks up the mascara and clutches it in her hand. “I thought by now you would have found something better to do.” She opens the mascara and looks into the mirror, opening her eyes wide to sweep the wand across her eyelashes. My eyelashes. “Your mom is such a sweetie. Did you see all the amazing stuff she bought me? I didn’t even have to use any of your money stash. Which I found, by the way.”

  Great … I’d managed to save close to five hundred dollars by babysitting the kids at Yumi’s store over the past two years, and now that money’s at the mercy of Taylor Gleason.

  Sw
eep, sweep. I nudge her arm, and she pokes herself in the eye with the wand. “Ouch! You little…!” She grabs a tissue from the bookshelf to blot the big black tears. “You can scratch someone’s cornea doing that, you know.”

  Yeah, MY cornea. I flick her blush compact onto the floor, and take great satisfaction in the crunching noise I hear when the powder cake inside shatters.

  “Stop it!” she hisses. I roll the eyeliner, a bottle of foundation, the blush brush, eye shadow, and a small bottle of cologne, one by one, onto the floor. The cologne hits her in the head while she’s leaning over to pick up the other stuff.

  “STOP IT!” she orders again.

  There’s nothing left on the dresser to dump, anyway.

  There’s a knock at my bedroom door and my mom pops her head in, smiling expectantly.

  “Did you just call me, honey?” she asks.

  “No, mom, I was just talking to myself,” Taylor says sweetly.

  As soon as the door shuts, she glares around the room. “Go away, Anna,” she says in a cold, quiet voice. “You don’t live here anymore. In fact, you don’t live anymore, period.”

  CHAPTER 18

  McGregor & Sons is the only funeral home in Byers. Separated from Main Street by a wide circular driveway and two adjoining parking lots, it’s a huge white Queen Anne-style house with black shutters and a deep wraparound porch, complete with rocking chairs and ashtrays shaped like genie bottles. Mr. and Mrs. McGregor and their two sons, who are still in elementary school and apparently doomed to follow in their father’s footsteps, live on the top floor. There’s an ornate three-car garage that sits separately from the house, and in back of that, out of view, I discover … the embalming room.

  I dare myself to go inside.

  It smells vile in here, a mixture of potent chemicals and the underlying odor of forgotten meat, which I pick up despite the room’s sterile appearance. No dead bodies, though. Not here on this skinny table. Nope, not in the freezer, either.

  Inside the main house it is eerily quiet now, except for the hum of a computer in an office adjoining the vast viewing room that takes up virtually the entire bottom floor.

  Oh, here is the dead body. The last time I saw Taylor’s body, it was stuck fast to a birch branch, nibbled on by hungry critters, bloated with river water and stone cold blue. I can only assume the undertaker is a magician, because here she lies in her high-collared, long-sleeved blue dress, looking as though she died peacefully in her sleep instead of being brutally beaten against dozens of boulders.

  She looks as though she’s made of wax. After seeing three dead grandparents, I know this is pretty common. I also know if you stare at her stomach long enough, it will look as though she’s breathing. It’s very creepy. Taylor wears the requisite thick layer of beige face powder that undertakers rely on, and you can see little particles of powder clinging to her nose hairs. Other than that, her makeup is much more understated than it ever was when she was alive. There’s a subtle sweep of light pink blush across her cheeks and a natural looking lipstick has replaced her usual burgundy lip gloss. No eyeliner. Her acrylic nails have been replaced and painted pale pink, and her hands are neatly folded across her stomach, a pink rose resting between them. The undertaker has taken care to position her so the deep gash by her ear, which is now filled with some kind of beige putty, is not visible from the side the mourners will approach from, and for added insurance, he has tilted her head slightly to the side. She looks tragically beautiful, lying here so absolutely, hopelessly dead.

  But I know better. I plunk myself down on the coffin and sit cross-legged beside a spray of spicy-smelling stargazer lilies and wait for the first mourners to arrive. Since Taylor thinks I’m the one who’s no longer alive, I should be up here, too.

  At five thirty, Taylor’s parents and little brother arrive, proving that the aura of grief has many colors. Her brother looks to be about eleven and miserably uncomfortable in his navy suit, starched white shirt, tie, and stiff brown dress shoes. He keeps glancing at Taylor’s body as if it’s going to come alive and eat him. Taylor’s father has zombie eyes. He kneels before her body, professing his love and promising to find the little bastard who did this to her and make him pay. I can’t see Taylor’s mother’s eyes through all her tears. They drip all over the satin lining of her daughter’s coffin as she leans over and kisses Taylor’s lifeless cheek. I sigh. And here I am, apparently not alive either, and my mom couldn’t be happier.

  At six o’clock sharp, the funeral director opens the door and a steady stream of mourners files into the room. Taylor’s girlfriends are toward the front of the crowd, and it appears they’ve consulted each other about what the well-dressed teenager should wear to a viewing—black, black, and more black. They sob and lean on one another for support as they wait for their turn to kneel on the prie-dieu in front of the coffin. I wave to each of them, welcome them by name, and let them know they can take those black sunglasses off anytime now.

  As they make their way through the receiving line, I watch the girls cry with Taylor’s mother, shake hands with Taylor’s father, and kiss Taylor’s little brother on the cheek, leaving a bouquet of lipstick marks. I find it odd he doesn’t object until I notice him sneaking peeks down their low-cut shirts as they bend to kiss him. After they’ve all passed through, the girls find a cluster of comfortable armchairs which they pull into a tight little circle. They huddle together like a coven of witches and the whispering begins.

  Teri and Lisa show up together, looking apprehensive. Teri has apparently never seen a dead body before, and she’s afraid to approach the coffin. Lisa looks relieved and they go off to find friends to talk to. Callie comes in shortly after, looking very appropriate in black slacks and a teal blue blouse that looks nice with her olive complexion. After she pays her respects at the coffin and expresses her condolences to Taylor’s family, she goes to talk with the rest of the swim team.

  It seems just about every student and teacher from Byers/Westover High is here. From my perch on top of the flowers, I study their expressions as they kneel in front of the coffin and pretend to pray for Taylor’s soul. It’s pretty obvious what they are really doing: they’re examining her, looking for the rumored gash in her skull where her brain peeks through.

  “It’s on this side,” I tell everyone and point, but of course, nobody can hear me or see me. For a fleeting second, I consider surging into view, just for fun and to see what people would say, but then I decide this is a stupid idea. What would it prove? I have a feeling Taylor will bring enough attention to my life.

  Rei comes in at about six thirty, wearing beige-colored chinos and a crisp-looking white polo shirt. His hair is damp and combed neatly back away from his face, which makes his eyes look even darker and more intense as he scans the room. He sees Callie and they exchange a wave, but then he sees a group of Seth’s wrestling buddies and chooses to join them instead of approaching the coffin or Taylor’s family. I don’t blame him. The receiving line is out the door now, and the viewing room, foyer, and front porch are packed with at least two hundred people, congregated in small, closed circles whispering hushed conversations.

  Gee, I wonder what everyone is saying!

  I take a break from my place of honor and drift around, eavesdropping. Even though people are trying to keep their voices respectfully low, I have to zoom in pretty close to filter out all the chatter. I think I make people uncomfortable. Some of them shiver a little when I get close. Some stop talking for a few seconds and look around suspiciously. Some just take a step back. I try not to take it personally. Funeral homes are supposed to be creepy.

  Most of the conversations center around rumors the students and faculty have heard about Seth and Taylor, although I do hear several people defend Seth. They are all careful to keep Rei and Taylor’s parents in sight so they can stop talking if necessary, but Rei hasn’t moved from his group, and he manages to keep their conversation centered on wrestling.

  At about seven o’clock
, I notice Taylor is just standing in the doorway, like Cinderella arriving at the ball. Rei catches and holds sight of her out of the corner of his eye as she makes her way to the coffin. She stops about eight feet away and bursts into deep, dramatic sobs.

  All conversation stops, and everyone stares at Annaliese Rogan, who is making a colossal fool of herself in front of the entire school.

  Both Rei and Callie excuse themselves and hurry over to Taylor’s side.

  “Anna?” Callie asks tentatively. “You okay?”

  “I’ve got this, Callie,” Rei tells her. He takes Taylor’s arm and leads her away. It’s obvious to me he is trying to save some last shred of dignity for me, bless his heart. His voice is low and persuasive as he brings her out into the foyer. “You don’t have to do this. Do you want me to take you home?”

  Taylor shakes her head, sobbing.

  Rei pulls a few tissues from one of the many tissue boxes parked around the room and tries to hand them to her. “Come on, let me take you home. Please?”

  She shakes her head. “No! I want to see my … Taylor’s parents.” She finally takes the tissues out of Rei’s hands and scrubs her black tears away. “I’ll be right back,” she sniffles and heads to the ladies room.

  Rei sits alone on the couch, waiting, drumming his fingers on his knee.

  When Taylor finally comes out, the black tear streaks are gone and her face is calmer. “I’m going in now,” she tells him in a stiff voice. “If you still want to drive me home after, you can.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Rei offers.

  “Suit yourself.” She swishes her hair behind her shoulder, walks in slowly, and kneels on the prie-dieu. The effort it takes to control herself is clearly visible on her face, and in spite of everything, I do feel sad for her. It’s bad enough watching myself walk around, but I can’t imagine seeing myself lying dead in a coffin, like she is seeing herself now.