by Amy Huntley
I loved. To see the things that were part of my everyday
life. To find out more about who I was. I can remember
H
"But where? That means I can find it."
Sandra shakes her head at me. "Don't give her the satisfaction.
She's watching you right now to see what you're
going to do. Come back after school or something and ask
Mrs. Sinclair if you can look around for it then."
The bell rings, and Sandra drags me toward the door.
—•—
Suddenly I am ripped away from myself, thrown back into
the abyss . . . formless again, isolated in a place that just Is.
There's the sweatshirt, glowing mockingly at me, reminding
me it's no substitute for what's really missing. I'd rather
have Sandra and Gabe back.
l i
parts, but not all, of my past. And, as I float here aimlessly
in Is, I'm already forgetting more about my life.
Now. 1 want to go back to my life again. Now.
I propel myself through the vacuum of Is, looking for
something else that will take me home. The closest item to
me is the bracelet, so I move straight toward it.
There it is. A circle of light. A phantom wrist longs to
feel that bracelet encircling it, longs for the soft tinkling of
silver against silver, for the cool brush of chain link against
skin.
Knowledge again tears through me. This time, as I scatter
through space and darkness, I am sucked toward wind
and heat, toward ticklish grass.
I am directly under a tree I have climbed manv times
with Sandra. I look up into the branches above me, and
there she is. An eight-year-old Sandra. Curly dark pigtails
ride behind her in the breeze as she maneuvers her way up
the tree limbs. And that little girl next to her . . . is me.
Sort of. I recognize my face and her crooked teeth from
old photos. But it's hard to believe that I ever moved so
quickly, or with such freedom. I'm bossing Sandra around,
telling her to climb one branch higher. Nothing but this
moment seems to exist to that eight-year-old me. She's cast
an almost magic spell of oblivion around the whole tree.
As the younger me reaches for a higher branch, sunlight
glints off a bracelet dangling from my wrist. The way
n
the sun enchants the charms on that bracelet is fascinating.
Tinker Bell, a kitty cat, a ladybug, a silver star . . .
I can remember the bracelet now. It was a gift from my
mother for my eighth birthday, and I lost it one day while
playing . . . here in Sandra's backyard.
I'm figuring out how this whole object-to-life business
seems to be working: see the object I lost in life, imagine
using it, go back to the moment I lost it. I just have to say,
this seems like a particularly cruel joke. I mean, why all
the focus on loss? Isn't losing my life enough? Why is my
only option for returning to Earth centered on losing something?
Aa I watch eicht-ycar-old Sandra and mywlf, I remember
the temperature—mild with a forceful wind trying to
drive spring into our midst. Earthy spring scents float in my
memory, too, mingling with the feel of rough bark against
my hands. Sandra and I are daring each other to move as far
as we can toward the end of a branch. We are about to—
Fall.
And Sandra is about to break her arm.
I have to do something to stop this from happening. I
need to get Sandra's father.
I attempt that strange floating and running movement
to get to the house, but, just like the last time I tried it, I
discover I'm not allowed to travel far from the living me. I
try to stretch the thread of energy that connects the two of
running. She stumbles over to Sandra. She falls down next
to her and sobs. "What have you done to her? What have
you done to her?"
I try to take in enough air to speak and manage to squeak
out, "We fell from the tree. I didn't mean to hurt her."
Mrs. Simpson is breathing all funny. I've never heard
anyone breathe like that. What if she and Sandra both die?
It will be my fault.
Mr. Simpson comes running up. He tries to get to Sandra,
but Mrs. Simpson just keeps crying and breathing all
funny and won't let him touch either of them.
I want to help him pull Mrs. Simpson away. What if
Sandra's dying and Mrs. Simpson won't let us help her?
"You must calm down, Genevieve," Mr. Simpson keeps
telling her. "You'll have an asthma attack."
Will an asthma attack kill Mrs. Simpson?
He's shaking her and pulling her away from Sandra all
at once. There's finally a space big enough between Mrs.
Simpson and Sandra for him to get into. He kneels by Sandra,
leans over her, touches her neck, and listens to her
breathing. He makes a strange sound. I think he might be
choking on relief. "Sandra'll be fine, but you have to calm
down, Genevieve."
I'm relieved that Sandra is going to be all right. If Mr.
Simpson says she's okay, then she is. I like Mr. Simpson.
I just don't like Mrs. Simpson. And now that I know
us. I strain against it like a dog trying to lengthen its leash
enough to reach a taunting squirrel.
No luck. I'm only allowed any kind of freedom of movement
if I stay close enough to her to see and hear her. She
won't even let me get far enough away to help her best
friend.
Once again, the Universe's rules for this game suck.
Just as I realize this, the tree branch cracks under the
combined weight of two eight-year-olds. We crash through
branches, screaming as we fall. I land flat on my stomach.
Despite all the years that have passed since this moment,
despite even death, I can remember the feel of the air being
forced from my lungs as I struggle co breathe.
I can't help running back to try to help these two little
girls somehow, but I get too close to the living me. She
sucks me i n . . . .
age 8
My jaws have slammed together with a force that leaves
my head spinning. Blood is warming my mouth as it oozes
from a cut, but it takes me a moment to realize this because
I still can't breathe.
Sandra is deathly silent. Is she dead?
Now that I can breathe, I scream hysterically.
The back door opens, and Sandra's mother comes
Sandra is going to be okay, it's fine with me if Mrs. Simpson
dies of an asthma attack. W e l l . . . unless Sandra thinks it's
my fault her mom dies.
I want my mom. She can make things better. She doesn't
have asthma, and she doesn't yell the way Sandra's mom
does.
I want my mom now.
Where is my magic charm bracelet? I reach for it on my
wrist, but it's not there. Where is it? Did all this bad stuff
happen because I lost it?
I want to cry but don't dare.
"Genevieve," Mr. Simpson says, "you have to go to the
house and call 911."
"I thought you said she'd be okay," she protests.
/>
Mr. Simpson whips around on her in anger. 'Dammit,
just go call 911," he growls. I want to cheer.
"I can't b-b-breathe," Mrs. Simpson says, gasping.
Mr. Simpson closes his eyes. He looks just like Mom
when she's counting to ten as she's ordering me to go to my
room to "think about what you've done." When Mr. Simpson
opens his eyes, he touches Sandra's cheek lightly—like
my dad touches mine at bedtime. Then he stands up and
rubs Mrs. Simpson's arms to calm her. When he speaks, his
voice is gentle and firm. "She'll probably be fine, Genevieve,
but we can't risk moving her ourselves. Go call. Now."
Mrs. Simpson stumbles away. I crawl around, looking
13 19
for the bracelet. Now that she's gone, I let the tears stream
down my face, but I try to hide them from Mr. Simpson.
He turns to me and sees the tears. "Are you all right,
Maddyr" he asks me. "Do you hurt anywhere?"
Everywhere, I want to say, but mostly just in my hart
Instead, 1 say. "I'm okay," but not because 1 am. I'm terrified,
but I can't admit it because I can tell Mr. Simpson isn't
reallv thinking about me, and I don't want him to have to.
"So is Sandra, I think," he tells me reassuringly. "There's
a giant goose egg on the side of her head. I think she's just
been knocked unconscious. Happened to me once when I
was a kid. Looks like her arm might be broken, too, but
1 think she'll be okav." He starts feeling gently along her
other limbs. Then he calls into the house, as if he's surprised
to have thought about it, "Genevieve, call Maddy's
mom. She'll have to come pick her up. We can't leave her
here by herself while we're off at the hospital."
Mommy. She'll make everything okay again. I know she
will.
Mrs. Simpson has just started out the door. She gives me
a mean look, and the screen door slams shut as she moves
back into the house. I don't quite understand why she has
never liked me.
Mr. Simpson coos gently to his daughter, sparing me a
glance as I begin turning in circles. "What are you looking
for, Maddyr" he asks me.
I swallow my sobs and try to breathe deeply.
The paramedics carry Sandra off on a stretcher, and
Mom takes me by the hand. We walk in circles around the
tree Sandra and I were climbing u n t i l . . . finally . . . there it
is . . . broken but shining against the grass. Mom picks it up
and lovingly begins to drape it over my wrist. The second
its cool metal touches my skin—
•
I am gone. Ripped from myself. Thrown back into the
abyss . . . formless again, wandering around in a place that
just Is. I want my mom back. I want to see her again.
My longing to touch her, to be with her, is even greater
than the ache I was left with after my first trip back to life.
..'
"Nothing," I say, even though it's not true.
Mrs. Simpson returns to Sandra's side, crying. And
when Sandra's eyes flutter open, Mrs. Simpson squeals
in delight. I feel the same way, but mv glee has to flutter
around inside where it can't be seen or heard. I don't dare
draw Mr. and Mrs, Simpson's attention away from Sandra.
She's alive. And groaning. In pain.
Time passes, and flashing lights speed up the road
toward the house. I recognize my mother's car right behind
them. She stays out of the paramedics' way, trailing behind
them to the backyard, looking for me. She sees me, runs
toward me, pulls me away from all the action, kneels down
in front of me and wraps me in her arms.
My mom. She smells like apples: sharp, sweet, and natural.
"Are you all right, sweet pea?" she asks.
Now that she's here, the tears turn to sobs. I don't have
to hold anything back. But the words I'm trying to say can't
be understood, so Mom just keeps reassuring me, "Sandra's
okay. She was just knocked unconscious."
Finally I am able to get out the words clearly, "I can't
find my chann bracelet."
She squeezes me tighter. "Shh," she whispers into my
ear. "As soon as they've all left with Sandra, we'll look for
it."
If she's going to help me look for it, I know we'll lind it.
She always makes everything all right.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOf—NOI FOR SALE
H
the purse
THE FEEL OK MY MOM'S ARMS around me has awakened a
hunger beyond any I've ever experienced.
I wade back through Is, looking for the bracelet. I want to
return to that scene in Sandra's backyard. I want to feel my
mother's arms around me again—even if it means watching
Sandra fall all over again. I refmd each of the objects I have
encountered before—all except for the bracelet. It's gone.
Strange.
The sweatshirt is still here.
The bracelet isn't.
Loss again. I want to scream, but . . . I don't have a
voice.
Is there any other object here that might lead me to rnv
mother? I return to them one at a time, looking for a clue
about which will take me where I want to go, but I can't
remember where I lost these various scraps of existence.
There are the keys, but I don't think they will take me to
her. The cell phone's in the next pocket of space. No, that's
not a gateway to my mother, either.
Then there's the purse. It hums and glows more intensely
than the other objects do when I get close to it.
Is it connected to my mother? I don't think so, but I
can't help feeling drawn in by the intensity of the object's
presence. I want the answers it seems to be offering. .Maybe
those answers will ultimately lead me back to my mother...
and everything else I want to reach. I muster every phantom
feeling11 can to remember carrying a purse. And once
again those powerful feelings rip through me. I am propelled
toward something . .. unpleasant.
I'm in an uncomfortable, stuffy environment, surrounded
by the scent of urine. I realize I am in a bathroom
stall at Overton High School. An alive and seventeen-yearold
me is entering through the bathroom door, getting
closer to me, and I am . . . sucked in.
oge W
When a girl has to pee, she reallv has to pee. I slam the
door of the stall behind me and dump my purse—unusually
heavy today with all the extra change in it—on top of the
roll of toilet paper.
It falls off. Gross. Who knows what this floor has had
on it? Taking a pee will just have to wait until I pick it up.
Why was I stupid enough to bring it with me?
I'm just putting it back when voices bounce off the tiles
of the bathroom wall. I recognize Tammy Havers's voice.
"Anyone in here?" she asks someone.
"I don't think so," comes the reply.
So I'm just unbuckling my belt when Tammy demands
payment from the mystery voice. I realize what's happening
on the other side of the stall door: Tammy is selling drugs.
Damn.
Peeing is going to have to wait. I don't dare make any
noise right now.
Apparently not making any noise is one of those "easier
said than done" things. Especially if you're stupid enough
to set your favorite purse on top of a roll of toilet paper for
a second time and you then back into it. And if said purse
has about three dollars in coins in it because you're stupid
enough to have lost your lunch debit card... well, it hits the
;s
floor with a pretty loud thud.
The kind of thud that alerts the drug dealer there's
someone else in the bathroom.
Tammy wouldn't kick in the stall door or anything,
would she?
And why exactly couldn't this have happened—if it had
to happen at all—after I'd already gone pee? I'm dying here.
Tammy pushes on the stall door and finds it latched.
"Come out of there," she demands.
"Uh, no, thanks," I say.
Fortunately, she doesn't try to force it open.
Unfortunately, she crawls under the partition on the left,
knocking my purse into the next stall.
If I'd had any brains, I'd have realized sooner that my
incredibly heavy-with-change purse would make a good
weapon. I'd have already picked it up and smacked her on
the head with it, hopefully knocking her unconscious. Now
it's too far away for me to reach.
I guess it doesn't matter anyway. The truth is I wouldn't
have actually hurt Tammy. I mean, she and I were friends
until eighth grade. And not only wouldn't I go whacking
her over the head, but I also can't believe she'd truly hurt
me, either.
Well, other than torturing me by sending me to another
bathroom to pee. Ohmygod, would I even make it at this
point?
And wasting time thinking about all this has now left
me completely at Tammy's mercy, because there she is.
Standing in the stall with me. Glaring at me.
She unlatches the door, grabs me by the hair, and yanks
me out of the stall. I want to scream in pain. It really hurts.
But I'm too afraid to do anything more than gasp. So much
for old friendship protecting me from Tammy's wrath.
"What are you doing in here, Stanto n?" She vanks on
my hair for emphasis.
If she yanks on it again, I swear she'll unleash a puddle
of pee right beneath us.
"I asked you a question," Tammy says. "What are you
doing in here?"
Duh. Going to the bathroom, perhaps? But I don't
