Hello, I Must Be Going

by Dyan Sheldon

  “And you said, ‘My God, you haven’t even met my mother yet.’”

  They wound up laughing in the rain, much as they are laughing in the rain right now. That first time, though, the laughter didn’t end with a front door suddenly opening and a woman with a grim set to her mouth stepping out.

  Celeste freezes, staring at the new figure on the porch the way a deer will stare at oncoming headlamps. The woman doesn’t smile, or give any indication that she can or ever would smile. “Can I help you?” She points the phone in her hand at Celeste. “Is there something you wanted?”

  Celeste has never felt threatened by a smartphone before. But, of course, she has never trespassed before, either. She blinks. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I – I was just—”

  “This is private property, you know.”

  “I know. I mean, I’m sorry. I—” I what? I was talking to my dead friend? Celeste starts walking backwards. “I’m going. I didn’t mean— I’m really, really sorry if I bothered you.”

  She looks over to the rocker, hoping for a little moral support, but Sorrel has already gone.

  It isn’t just the tough who get going when the going gets tough.

  Although the Rossi house is real, and sits on a real street among other real houses, in a very real town, the Rossis themselves live in what almost could be called a parallel world. Especially Sylvia, of course – she is a permanent resident – but when he’s at home Ruben lives there, too. A dark world where science and reason are abandoned on the threshold and where sorcery and magic can work miracles; a world populated by people who don’t actually exist.

  When he’s not at home, Ruben does live in the real world, and in that world he has a Summer job working five days a week in Curiosity Books, Beaconspoint’s independent bookshop. Ruben started working here because of his mother. Sylvia Rossi writes fantasy fiction under the pseudonym of Gaia Pendragon, and is relatively successful. Last Summer, when she was still leaving the house, Ruben accompanied her to a signing at the shop. (HERE TODAY! THE AUTHOR OF THE BESTSELLING MOONDANCER SERIES!) Mr Goldblatt, the owner, was so impressed by Ruben (he organized the signing, handmade the phantasmagorical posters and knows a lot more about fantasy fiction than Mr Goldblatt) that he offered him a part-time job on the spot. Ruben took the offer because it gives him money, keeps him occupied and, haven of fiction that it is, makes his mother seem normal – or, at the very least, more normal.

  Sundays are pretty quiet in the shop and, because there have been only three customers all morning, Ruben has spent most of the day making a display for the children’s window. He drew elaborately detailed pictures of a spaceship, a plane, a sailboat, a camel, a horse, an elephant, a hot-air balloon and a magic carpet – each with at least one person on board – and cut them out to place among the books. Then he painted a sign to go with them: SUMMER FUN – READ YOUR WAY THROUGH SPACE AND TIME AND DIMENSIONS AND AROUND THE WORLD. Right now he is straightening the books on the tables, making sure they’re in the right stacks. He works almost robotically, not really paying much attention to the novels and biographies and cookbooks as he straightens and moves them into the right piles – until he picks up a book that is on the wrong table and finds himself staring at a picture of a girl looking through a window. The window is in a house, not a launderette, and the girl (who is dark, not fair) is looking out, not in, but Ruben immediately travels through space, time and dimensions, and is standing unloading the washing machine in Spin and Rinse. Seeing Sorrel staring back at him. Clear as day. And, despite the striking differences between the cover illustration and what he imagined he saw, the memory it triggers is vivid enough that he drops the book on the floor so quickly you’d think the dark-haired girl had waved at him. He retrieves it immediately, wiping it off on his jeans and replacing it precisely. He goes back to the desk as the phone starts to ring. Saved by the bell. At least for the time being.

  Those two weird incidents – at the Groobers after the funeral and in Spin and Rinse – lasted only a few seconds, and Ruben has tried very hard to forget them. He didn’t think it would be difficult to do in all the other seconds in his life – like losing a grain of sand on a beach – but they don’t want to stay gone. Like bad luck, they keep returning, sneaking up on him when he’s least expecting it. Making him lose track of what he’s doing, where he is. He was shaving in front of the mirror over the kitchen sink when suddenly he imagined he saw Sorrel smiling back at him; he was lucky not to slice off his chin. He was handing a receipt to a man in a straw hat and red-framed glasses when he thought he saw Sorrel’s face in the lenses and more or less threw the slip at the customer. He was gazing in the window of the computer shop, thinking about electricity, when a blonde head suddenly appeared beside his reflection, smiling, and he turned so fast he nearly knocked over Lily-Rose Masuki (who, except for the hair, doesn’t look anything like Sorrel Groober).

  And now this. All he has to do is look at an indifferent illustration and he’s in the launderette holding a basket of wet washing and staring into Sorrel Groober’s smile.

  Is this happening because he had such a crush on Sorrel, is that why? Ruben straightens the stack of bookmarks next to the register. He calls it a crush, but it was almost an obsession. Even in those last six months, when he pulled away from them all and saw her less and less, even then he thought about her all the time – in an if-only sort of way. Or is this happening because he really is beginning to lose his mind?

  The clouds scuddle in after noon, bringing with them the rain. Business picks up. Grateful to be busy, Ruben helps find titles, answers questions, orders books that aren’t in stock and rings up sales. He is busy enough to have no time to think – or to imagine.

  At the end of the day, Ruben straightens the shelves and displays again, and cashes out. Then he systematically goes around the shop turning out the lights, but stops abruptly when he reaches the reading section at the back, where there are chairs and a small sofa. There’s a boy in scruffy jeans, a faded plaid shirt and an old baseball cap sitting cross-legged on the sofa, bent over a book. Where did he come from? How could Ruben have missed him? Ruben starts to say that it’s closing time but gets no further than “Excuse me, but—” when the boy raises his head.

  “Can you believe it?” says the boy. “I never even thought of reading one of these before.” And holds up the book in his hands, Dark Worlds Old and New (Book Four in Gaia Pendragon’s Moondancer series). “It’s really good. Severely. I was gripped from the first paragraph. She has a terrific imagination. Not like most people. You know what I mean. Most people can’t imagine anything they don’t already know. Don’t you think that’s true?” The boy shakes his head. “So how come you never said how good your mom’s books are?”

  The boy, of course, is not a boy, but Sorrel Groober.

  Except for when she fell in the lake, Ruben’s never seen Sorrel dressed in anything that wasn’t just washed and ironed and glaringly female. When she wore jeans they weren’t jeans that were meant to get dirty, and they’d been ironed. He looks behind him, but whether he’s looking to make sure that there’s no one there, or because he hopes that there is, that this is some sort of joke – one of those TV programmes where they trick you into showing the world what a dope you are – he doesn’t know. But there is no one there. He knew that there wouldn’t be. He’s all alone with a dead girl who’s reading one of his mother’s books. There are way worse situations to be in, he knows that, but right now he can’t think of any. He opens his mouth to say something – what? why? – but nothing comes out.

  Sorrel, however, was always a talker, and death has done nothing to diminish her conversational skills. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I know your mom and I’ve seen her books around, but I never even picked one up. God knows why. I guess I thought I’d get around to it. You figure there’s always tomorrow, but then – surprise! – there isn’t. You never had tomorrow, you only had today.” She rolls her eyes. “But look who I’m talking to. You know all about that, don’t
you?”

  Ruben stares at the section of books in front of him – Current Events – and says nothing. He knows a lot more about that than he’d like to know.

  “But, seriously,” says Sorrel. “How come you kept it so quiet? If my mom could write like this I’d’ve told everybody I knew, and everybody I didn’t know too. I mean, hey, this sure as hell beats nagging, arguing and complaining. Which are pretty much my mother’s major skills.”

  By concentrating very hard, Ruben manages to get his heartbeat back to normal and find his voice. “We’re closing. I’m turning out the lights.” He is calm, matter-of-fact – as if he’s talking to someone who’s actually there. “You can’t stay here. You have to go.”

  “But I’m really enjoying the book. I don’t want to stop reading now.”

  “This isn’t a library,” says Ruben. “You have to go.”

  She tilts her head, almost as if she’s flirting with him. In which case, she really waited too long. “Why? Who’s going to know if I sit here all night? Who’re you going to tell?”

  He’ll know, that’s who will know. It’ll drive him crazy. Crazier. But she’s right, of course, there’s no one he could or would tell.

  “I’m turning out the lights,” repeats Ruben. “You can’t read in the dark.”

  Sorrel grins. “You don’t think?”

  He’s being ridiculous. Is he being ridiculous? Yes, he’s out-of-the-galaxy ridiculous. Can’t stay here. Can’t read in the dark. For God’s sake, she isn’t real. She’s not a trick of the light this time, because there isn’t much light, but she is a figment of his imagination. The imagination he clearly inherited from Sylvia Rossi. Sorrel’s death must have upset him even more than he’d thought. That’s what this is. He’s more upset than he thought.

  “You’re right,” he says. “Why shouldn’t you stay. Knock yourself out. Read anything you want. Read everything in the shop. Make yourself at home.” And he snaps out the last light at the back and strides away.

  He gets his things from the desk and picks up the keys, but as he reaches the front door he sees Sorrel standing looking in through the children’s window, his mother’s novel tucked under her arm.

  She waves, and he has to stop himself from waving back.

  For a change, as Orlando lies in bed watching the night bleed away, it isn’t Sorrel who is on his mind, as she often is these days. Orlando had a dream. He and Ruben were having lunch, sitting at their usual table in the school cafeteria. Orlando had a thick sandwich and a bowl of salad in front of him, but Ruben had a plate of homemade lasagne that looked and smelled just like the lasagne Ruben’s mother always made. Orlando couldn’t figure out how that was possible. Nobody makes lasagne like Ruben’s mom. And then he looked over at the kitchen and saw Sylvia Rossi working behind the counter. He waved, but she was too busy to wave back. He turned to ask Ruben when his mother decided to become a dinner lady, but Ruben was deep in conversation. He was talking to the person next to him about painting: depth and movement, light and shadow. It’s been a long time since he heard Ruben talk like that, and he was passionate and intense – the way he used to be. The only problem was that there was no one there. “Ruben! Ruben!” Orlando had to kick him to get his attention. “Ruben, man, who are you talking to? Are you talking to yourself?” Apparently, he was talking to Sorrel. “Sorrel’s dead,” said Orlando. “Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember the funeral? You can’t be talking to her.” Ruben said that dead isn’t the same as gone. She was right there, right beside him. Why couldn’t Orlando see her? She was clear as the food on the table. He and Sorrel hung out together all the time now, he said. “Don’t ruin it for us,” ordered Ruben. “Stay out of it. We’re having a good time.”

  The alarm goes off, and Orlando slowly gets out of bed, still thinking about Sylvia Rossi’s lasagne and Ruben talking to Sorrel. He doesn’t need a dream interpreter to know what this one was about. He dreamed that Ruben’s mother was working in the cafeteria because he hasn’t seen her since before Christmas, when Ruben started acting weird. Since Ruben’s father died, Orlando didn’t spend as much time at the Rossis’ as he used to – none of them did – but all of a sudden he wasn’t spending any time at all there; Ruben wouldn’t even let him in the house. No more lasagne suppers, no more hanging out till all hours, no more crashing on the fold-out. Whenever Orlando stopped by to pick up Ruben, he’d be on the porch before Orlando turned up the front path. The reason for the Sorrel part of the dream is obvious, too. It’s because he thought he saw her that time, standing at the side of the road. He didn’t see her, he knows that, but every now and then he gets an instant replay of that moment, and wonders what it was he did see. Obviously, what his brain’s done is conflate these two things – his worry about Ruben because of how odd he’s been acting all year – and his unease about himself, seeing things that aren’t there.

  Orlando puts on his running clothes, and silently leaves the house. Beyond any doubt, Orlando’s twice-daily runs are the best part of his day. This is one of the ways he gets rid of tension; this is one of the times he feels most like himself. Out of the house and away from his father’s expectations, completely alone with just his own thoughts and no one talking to him or wanting him to talk to them or needing anything from him or seeing him as a sports legend in the making. The morning run is his favourite, out at first light when almost no one else is stirring yet. He always chooses a route where the houses are few and far between, so that it is just him and the road, the sky and the trees, and, on this morning, a pale wash of sunlight and the smell of roses in the air. Because it’s so early, no cars pass him and the houses still have their eyes closed. Usually he listens to music while he runs, but today he’s turned it off and the only sounds are the occasional call of a bird, rustlings in the woods and underbrush, and his own feet slapping against the ground.

  A plane flies overhead, a bird calls and Orlando’s footsteps thud against the asphalt, steady as a heartbeat. The further he goes, the more the dream recedes. His breathing is measured, his back wet with sweat as he turns onto Brandywine. It’s a long, narrow lane with a creek running on one side and a hill rising up on the other. There are only four houses on the entire stretch, three of them up steep drives and out of sight, the fourth across the creek and guarded by a wall of pines. A chipmunk scoots across the road, a kingfisher whistles thinly over by the water, a deer steps delicately through the trees. As if Orlando is the only person in a perfect world. He rounds the bend, and the world quickly becomes just a little less perfect as another runner comes up beside him. Without turning his head, Orlando can see purple shorts and hairless legs. She must have come out of the woods on the left. Silently. Orlando slows down, expecting her to pass him. When she doesn’t, Orlando picks up speed. To his surprise, his unwanted companion keeps pace. It’s only then that he realizes that, besides the roses, he smells lilacs.

  In the same instant that his heart jumps a beat she says, “So what’d you think of the funeral? Was that a farce or what?”

  This can’t be happening. He knows that. There is no evidence to support the existence of ghosts. None. Nada. Zilch. Ghosts are all about light. Lights and shadows. Reflections. Electricity. Optical illusions. Maybe he should add bad dreams to that list.

  “I mean, seriously?” Sorrel glides along beside him as if she’s on wheels. The girl who always said that running was for giraffes. “My closest two hundred friends? What a joke.” Now he looks over. She’s wearing a top to match the shorts and her favourite earrings – chains of gold stars – that gently swing as she moves. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Ponytails are for children, was another thing she always said. He can hear himself breathe, but he can’t hear her breathe. Her voice, however, is loud and clear. Instead of stopping, he goes even faster. “God, what hypocrites people are. Did you catch Cati Grear and her coven? You must’ve. Like a murder of crows around a stranded fish. And crying like they didn’t hate my guts and always made sure I knew it. Thank God
for waterproof mascara, right? Where would the world be without it?” She shakes her head. “It’s weird, isn’t it? People either pretend to like you when you’re alive, or they pretend to like you when you die. You’d think they could come up with one policy, and stick to it.”

  Maybe he’s still dreaming. That has to be it. He hasn’t woken up yet. He thought he woke up, but he didn’t. It’s one of those dreams. On and on and on. He’s still back in bed, still sleeping, but his dream has moved on from Sylvia Rossi making lasagne in the cafeteria and Ruben telling him not to ruin things for him and Sorrel, and now he’s dreaming that he’s running and she’s beside him, critiquing her own funeral. “I’m dreaming,” he gasps. “There’s no one else here. It’s just a dream.”

  “And what about all those guys?” Sorrel is not gasping; Sorrel might as well be sitting down. “Every boy I ever went out with was there. It was like a Who’s Who of losers. Except you, of course.” She laughs. “You’re not one of the losers. You’re my friend. You I liked. But the rest of them? God help me, even that jerk Shoehorn was there. I mean, seriously? After the way he bad-mouthed me because I broke up with him? Give me a break.”

  “I know that this is a dream,” says Orlando – not to her – there’s no way he’s talking to a hallucination – but to the road ahead of him. “All I have to do is wake up.”

  “And let’s not forget that stupid dress they buried me in. I looked like I was going to a dance, not a grave. And that coffin. Chrissake! What was I supposed to be? Barbie in a box?”

  Orlando digs his nails into his palms. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!