Hello, I Must Be Going

by Dyan Sheldon

  “You can accuse my family of a lot of things. My dad’s useless. My mom’s a menace. The twins are oblivious. I mean, if no one told my brothers I was dead they probably would never have noticed, they’re always so stoned. And if Meryl the Peril thinks she could fool me with all her tears and acting like her world just ended, she’s wrong. Believe me, she was sobbing from guilt, not sorrow. But you know the one thing you can’t accuse them of? Do you, Orlando?”

  Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Orlando forces himself forward with one last burst of speed.

  Sorrel is right beside him, giving no sign that her lungs are about to burst. “No one could ever accuse my family of good taste, that’s what!” she shouts.

  A horn sounds behind him. Orlando finally stops running and jumps to the shoulder, just managing not to fall over. He bends forward, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. It’s a minute before he realizes that Sorrel is gone.

  He doesn’t let himself wonder if she’ll be coming back.

  Celeste knows she’ll see Sorrel again. There is no way Sorrel would appear just once – twice if you count the time Celeste thought she saw her in the driveway with Astra and Winnie – and then abandon her. But who knows how hard it is for her to visit? If ghosts could just come and go as they please between dimensions, they’d be everywhere. Conquistadors in Disney World. Pilgrims in the supermarket. British soldiers marching across football fields and tennis courts. Whole tribes of women, men and children walking the highways, wondering what happened to all the trees. There is also the fact that Sorrel never had a very good sense of direction – she could get lost just going around the block; how lost can she get moving in space and time? Of course, there is the small matter of ever finding Celeste alone to factor in as well. She shares a room with Astra and is surrounded by people all day at work and by her family all night – everybody wanting her attention – and keeping her busy. What Celeste needs is space.

  “What do you mean you don’t feel like coming?” Celeste’s mother can smile and look hurt at the same time. “You love the mall.” The keys she’s holding jangle unhappily. “My God, Celeste, if you and Sorrel spent any more time there they would’ve given you your own bench.”

  This is a slight exaggeration, of course, but it is true that Celeste and Sorrel loved hanging out at the mall. They would spend whole days there just talking and being together, buying nothing but a coffee or a diet soda, roaming through the wings and levels as hunter-gatherers once roamed the plains – rather than at either of their homes, where they always felt watched. But Celeste has never loved going to the mall with her mother and sister. In their separate ways, they manage to make it as much fun as having your teeth scaled. Astra has to try on everything she sees, Lilah buys her everything she wants, and Celeste usually ends up carrying the bags. Not that she would ever say she hates shopping with her family. Not to them, anyway.

  “I just don’t feel like it today.” Celeste never has the house to herself. Peace and privacy at last. She wants to make it easy for Sorrel to find her. Sorrel has to know how to get to Celeste’s house, no matter how many dimensions she has to cross to manage it.

  “Don’t be silly,” coaxes her mother. “It’s ages since you bought anything new. Why don’t I treat you to something special? How about a Summer dress?” Lilah doesn’t think that Celeste wears enough dresses. Celeste may not have her sister’s looks, but she doesn’t help herself any, doesn’t make enough of an effort. “Something to catch the boys’ eyes.”

  “I don’t really need a new dress.” Or want to catch the boys’ eyes. “I work with little kids. I’m better off in dungarees.”

  “You can’t wear dungarees to a party.” Lilah Redwing fits the world to her, not herself to the world. She is not a woman who is easily defeated. “Or if you have a date. I heard they’re having dances down at the lake every weekend till September. Isn’t that where Orlando’s working?” She sighs. “I really thought that after he broke up with Sorrel—”

  Celeste cuts her off. “Anyway, I have a new song I’ve been writing. I was going to work on that.”

  “A new song.” As if Celeste said she plans to spend the day counting blades of grass. Lilah considers songwriting a waste of time.

  “It’s about oceanic pollution,” explains Celeste. “It’s called ‘Walking on Water’.”

  Lilah might be smiling at a two-year-old who believes Father Christmas is going to turn her into a real princess. “I’m sure it’s lovely, darling, but writing a song is not living. You haven’t gone shopping since Sorrel passed away. Don’t you think it’s about time?”

  “This has nothing to do with Sorrel.” They went to the mall right before Sorrel’s birthday. They bought balloons. “I’d just rather stay home and chill, that’s all.”

  “Darling. We’ve been over this before.” Now her mother’s smile is worried, but it is not worry that contains much sympathy or patience. “You can’t shut yourself away all Summer. Life goes on. You have to get back on the horse. Sorrel would want you to.”

  As if Lilah has any idea what Sorrel would want. She’d be horrified if she did.

  “I’m fine, Mom. I’m on the horse. Really. It just doesn’t want to go to the mall today, that’s all.”

  Lilah puts on an innocent, pleading voice. “Not even for me?”

  There are times when it almost seems as if Celeste is the adult and her mother the child. Celeste, as the adult, can’t say no. It would be like throwing a bucket of water on a purring kitten.

  Celeste sits in the back seat as they drive to the mall, her eyes on the passing scenery – though she’s paying so little attention she probably wouldn’t notice a herd of zebras galloping by. Astra sits in the front next to their mother, head bent over her phone. Winnie is in Orlando at the moment, and Astra (who would give anything to go somewhere so cool instead of being stuck in boring Beaconspoint all Summer) is counting the days till she returns. If she weren’t able to message Winnie constantly she would probably die. Lilah does all the talking.

  She thinks she’s about to clinch the deal on the Westov house on Cedar Ridge. She thinks she’s going to go on that weekend retreat with her friends in the Autumn. She thinks that Celeste is going to be very glad she came along today. A change is as good as a rest. And if you ask her (which no one did) Celeste could use both. After all, what is life but change (asks the woman who has greeted the most major change in her life so far with relentless rage)? That’s why Lilah is encouraging Celeste to get out more and see people. You’re only young once. And then you’re not young and you have nothing but responsibilities and obligations and a hundred things to do. Lilah knows how close Celeste was to Sorrel, of course she was. But it isn’t as if Lilah doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a part of your life. Divorce may not be the same as death, but she went through hell when Tylor left her, absolute hell. She didn’t think she’d ever recover. But look at her now. She has scores of new friends. She’s had dates with some terrific, responsible, serious men. Her career is thriving, and she has more interests than ever before. Celeste will recover, too, in time. It’s just that Lilah worries that Celeste isn’t seeing Sorrel clearly now that she’s passed. Grief can make you idealize the departed. (Something that anger, clearly, doesn’t do.) Make you forget the things about them that weren’t so great. But Sorrel wasn’t perfect, was she? Not that Lilah’s saying anything against poor Sorrel – of course she isn’t – she’s just saying that she had her faults like everyone does. Lilah thinks that after they do some shopping they should have lunch in that French bistro place, the one with the chequered tablecloths? Won’t that be fun? She’s sure they must do hamburgers – Astra’s unlikely to eat anything else on the menu. Celeste watches two Jack Russells pull a woman along the pavement, and wishes she’d stayed home.

  Astra and Lilah get out of the car as soon as they park, but Celeste stays buckled in, staring out at the concrete sprawl and the colours of the automobiles gleaming in the sun, seeing her
self and Sorrel, arms linked, laughing as they crossed the car park, the golden star balloons for Sorrel’s birthday bobbing above their heads. This is too weird without her. What was she thinking? Why couldn’t she simply say no? “Maybe I’ll just wait for you here.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” Her mother yanks open the back door. “You’re coming with us. I know Sorrel could be selfish, but she wouldn’t want you to sit in the car all afternoon just because she passed away.”

  The three of them crawl through the mall, in one shop and out another, Astra and Lilah talking together, their conversation moving seamlessly from an outfit they wouldn’t wear in prison to what they’ve heard about that new Summer blockbuster – Celeste trotting gamely beside them, trying not to show how much she’d rather be home writing about islands of plastic clogging the seas. Or marooned on one. In the past, if she was forced to come with them, she would text or ring Sorrel while she was parked outside the changing room, minding the bags. But not any more, of course. Between the relentless lighting, the tedium of watching her mother and sister shop and the incessant sound of their voices, by the time they reach the second level Celeste can feel a stress headache building behind her eyes.

  In every shop, Astra rifles through racks and tables, pops in and out of the changing rooms so many times to get her mother’s opinion that she’s quickly on a first-name basis with the woman at the door. Lilah likes everything Astra picks. Cute. Adorable. That colour looks great on you. Fits like a glove. She is less enthusiastic about Celeste’s choices. Everyone says short skirts make you look taller. Everyone says bright colours are more flattering to brunettes. She read somewhere that patterns make you look wider. She’s sure someone told her that stripes make you look fat. “But you’re the one who’s going to wear it,” says Lilah. “Don’t listen to me. You get what makes you happy.”

  Celeste takes the dress that will make her look taller, the one that won’t flatter her, the one that will make her look the width of a doorway and the one that will make her look overweight into the last cubicle and pulls the curtain shut.

  When she turns around, Sorrel is sitting on the narrow bench, feet up, hugging her knees. Flouting all of Lilah Redwing’s fashion rules, she’s wearing a red-and-blue striped top and green-and-yellow striped shorts. On her feet are black-and-white striped socks and metallic-pink high heels. The girl who was destined for the cover of Vogue has become the fashion equivalent of a train wreck.

  “What was that crack your mother made – ‘I know Sorrel could be selfish’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Celeste is relieved to see her, not surprised. She should have known Sorrel wouldn’t let her come to the mall without her. “You know my mom.”

  “Try that one on first.” Sorrel points to the pink and orange tunic. “And no, I’m not sure I do know your mom. Enlighten me.”

  “Yeah, you do.” She pulls the tunic over her head. “She’s friends with Adelita next door to your folks. Adelita told her how you and your mom were always fighting and everything. My mom disapproved. She doesn’t think you showed your mom enough respect.”

  “That’s because you’re the perfect daughter. You ruin it for the rest of us.”

  Celeste has her first laugh of the day. “That’s me. Perfect!” This is just the way it used to be, her and Sorrel in the changing room together. Making each other laugh. “What do you think?”

  Sorrel tilts her head appraisingly. “It looks great. Those colours really bring out your eyes. And anyway, I always knew she didn’t like me.”

  “She’s never said that.” Lilah never says anything that could be held against her in a court of law. Celeste starts taking off the pink and orange tunic. “But sometimes she’d make little comments. I think I’ll try the stripes next.”

  “She’s still making little comments.” Sorrel reaches for the stripes and holds it out. “I like the way she decided Orlando dumped me.”

  “She likes Orlando. She can’t believe any girl would dump him.”

  “Oh, I know she likes him. She wants you to go out with him.”

  “She wants me to go out with anything that breathes.” Celeste gives Sorrel a sideways look.

  Sorrel winks. “As long as it’s a boy.”

  “She didn’t use to be like that. At least I don’t think she was. Well, maybe a little. But she’s a lot worse now because of my dad. She took it really personal.” Celeste frowns at herself in the mirror. “Do you think this makes me look fat?”

  “Of course it doesn’t,” says Sorrel. “And you know what else is irritating? She keeps saying I passed away. I mean, seriously? She makes it sound like I moved.”

  “The short skirt next.” Celeste wriggles out of the stripes. “My mom doesn’t like negativity. She thinks saying somebody’s dead sounds so final.”

  “It is pretty final.” Sorrel hands her the skirt. “It’s not like I’m in Oshkosh or LA. You can’t pick up your phone and call me. Or get on a plane and visit, can you?”

  “But I wish I could,” says Celeste.

  Sorrel says, “Me, too.”

  Celeste tries on the skirt and the wildly patterned dress. The skirt, says Sorrel, shows off her legs. The dress makes her look cool and funky.

  “So which one do you think looks best?” asks Celeste as she gets back into her jeans.

  “I think you look great in all of them.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, re—” Sorrel breaks off. Beyond the curtain someone’s calling Celeste. “Uh-oh,” says Sorrel. “The voice of the mother is heard in the changing room.”

  “Celeste?” Lilah’s feet appear under the curtain. “Celeste? Is that you? Did I hear you talking? Is someone in there with you?”

  “No, of course not. I’m just coming. I—”

  “What’s taking you so long?” Her mother whips the curtain aside. “Your sister and I are starving.”

  Celeste glances over her shoulder. Sorrel, of course, is gone.

  She’s getting really good at making an exit.

  In some ways, Ruben’s house is very like a medieval castle. Impenetrable; exclusive; visible but isolated – although there is, of course, no moat surrounding it, just a front porch and a small yard. It is an ordinary wooden two-storey built in the early twentieth century, in the middle of an ordinary suburban street made up of similar houses, not an imposing stone fortress set high on a hill. But it’s no less impassable for that. There hasn’t been a visitor since before Christmas.

  Ruben wakes up with sunshine in his eyes and the thought in his head that Van Gogh’s genius may have been the product of insanity, unsure of whether he thinks this is good news or bad. It’s early yet, but Ruben gets out of bed, pulls on yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt, and pads onto the landing. His bedroom, on one corner of the house, has windows on two sides and, because he never shuts the blinds, is as light as outdoors, but the landing is as dark as a stormy winter night. His mother is still up; he hears her typewriter clacking away in the room across from his.

  “Mom?” He taps on the door of what used to be the spare room in the days when they had guests and is now her office – ratatattattattattatat, so she’ll know that it’s Ruben and not some imposter. “You want anything? I could fix you a snack.”

  “Good morning, dear!” Her voice is bright and cheerful, as if she just got up and is looking forward to the day (rather than not having been to bed at all and planning to miss the day completely). “You know what I’d love? A nice camomile tea. Help me sleep.”

  “Coming right up.” Ruben’s been Sylvia’s son for a long time now; his voice, too, is cheerful and bright. Most families believe themselves to be normal no matter what evidence there is to the contrary; Ruben knows that his isn’t.

  Ruben descends the stairs in the dark and crosses the living room into the dining room and then to the kitchen as if the curtains are open and the lights all on. An example of practice making perfect.

  The kitchen and the basement are the only places i
n the house where the electricity is allowed to function. In the kitchen are a refrigerator, a stove, a toaster, and the table where Ruben works on his laptop; in the basement are the boiler, the dryer and the broken washing machine. He makes a tea for his mother and a coffee for himself, and brings them both upstairs. Sylvia Rossi sits at her desk, dressed in tartan leggings, a shirt that once belonged to her husband and slippers that look like bats, working on her ancient manual typewriter. The only light in the room comes from a Coleman lantern, which leaves the corners of the room shadowy and dark.

  Ruben puts the cups down on the desk and kisses her cheek.

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” She touches his hand. “How did you sleep?”

  “Great.” Which is what he always says. If he were awake all night while the hounds of Hell clawed at the door of his bedroom and bayed for his blood he’d still say he slept great. His mother generates enough anxiety and disappointment herself without Ruben adding to it. She has to believe that he’s always fine. My son, the problem-free zone. “What about you, Mom? Isn’t it time you got some rest?”

  “I just want to finish this chapter.” Sylvia Rossi (or Gaia Pendragon, as she’s known to her many fans) started writing in her spare time when Ruben was little. It was Ruben’s father who encouraged her to give up her job and concentrate on her writing, which turned out to be a prescient decision. If you’re agoraphobic, electrophobic, paranoid and generally view the world as a hostile environment, being a writer is the perfect job. You don’t have to deal with other people, go outside, open the curtains or even turn on the lights if you don’t want to. You can spend most of your time all by yourself in a room where the windows are protected by space blankets, safe from the threats and dangers that lurk beyond your walls. “It only needs another paragraph. Then I’ll get some sleep.” She has the lifestyle of a hermit and the hours of a vampire.

  He sits in the armchair next to the desk to drink his coffee while she has her tea – their morning ritual on mornings when she’s still awake when he gets up – and he makes a list of the things she wants him to buy while he’s out.