Postcards from a Dead Girl

by Kirk Farber

  I want to challenge her on all of it, but my throat is smoldering and I can’t speak. I notice the highway lines slipping by my car, one by one.

  “Sid, you may have been in the hospital during Zoe’s funeral, but she is deceased. She’s gone. And it’s a terrible, sad thing because it was an accident, but you are going to have to deal with this and move on because your life is not the only one affected by this.” She’s silent for a moment. I assume she’s taking a deep breath to continue, but then I hear crying, which builds to sobbing. Suddenly she shouts: “God damn it!” Then more big, heavy, ugly sobs.

  My throat constricts and my eyes get hot and weepy, and it’s too much already. I roll the window down and toss out the phone. It skips along behind the car, tiny flashes of spinning light before it goes dark in the rearview mirror.

  I feel like I’ve won and lost all at once, but I don’t know what I’ve gained or given up. I punch the roof again. I yell to make a sound, to feel it in my throat. I shout at the road, at my sister, at everything. I punch the roof again. My hand hurts, but it helps somehow.

  The chilly evening air pours in from the open window, howls through the cabin, cools my forehead, fills my lungs. The white highway divider lines continue to drift by the car; I can almost hear them as they slip past: dash, dash, dash. This deceitful rhythm synchronizes with the racing pulse in my hand as I approach the dark bend near the Highway 20 overpass, now only a quarter-mile away, according to the white reflective letters on the green highway sign.

  I roll past the merging exits, and the rhythm doesn’t stop abruptly or tragically, as it has before, because there are no other cars or trucks out tonight. No distracted drivers on their cell phones. No dog running across the highway. Not tonight. Instead, the rhythm gradually slows as I let up on the gas and pull over on the gravel shoulder.

  I kill the lights.

  It doesn’t seem so bad here at night. Without a blazing sun illuminating the details, it’s almost a peaceful place, like I’m not really here at the actual scene but just at any old highway along a grassy field in the middle of the night. It’s weird how the world cleans up places, not people.

  And now, with all signs of the crash gone, I can truly see it. That dog running across the highway. Every thought I had, every feeling. All the stupid things I was thinking. A dog ran into speeding traffic, in front of my car, and my first thought was that I hope we don’t hit the dog because I don’t want Zoe to wake up and be mad at me. She was napping so quiet next to me, if I could just get her home maybe we could have a few more minutes without arguing.

  But then I noticed this dog’s tongue drooping out of its mouth and I was thinking how the dog seemed out of its mind, like it was having a psychotic episode and that’s why the dog ran into traffic in the first place. That’s why it ran directly in front of our car. All of these things and my gamble was to keep on rolling because if I missed the dog, then we’d keep on rolling. The semitrailer truck on Zoe’s side didn’t gamble my way. One of the last things I recall seeing was Zoe’s seat belt snug against the door, not where it should have been, but left unfastened for comfort’s sake. I felt our car lurch to the side, and then there was spinning and screeching and stopping.

  I gained consciousness soon after, maybe one minute later, maybe five.

  I saw the hole in the windshield. And next to me, the seat was empty. As if she’d flown away.

  The whole world buzzed and my head and chest were killing me, but I stared through the windshield, straight into the sun, for as long as I could, until it hurt, because I thought if I looked away, I’d lose her forever.

  The dog sat outside my car. I pushed opened the door and he crept closer. He sat with me for a long time, licking my hand, until the paramedics arrived. Strange how this dog, so oblivious to having caused a major car accident, was so intuitive and knew I needed help. I remember telling him, “You have no clue,” as the wreckage smoked around us, horns blared, and sirens wailed in the distance. “Absolutely zero,” I told him. And we waited together for Zoe to come back down from the clouds.

  chapter 67

  I get out of my car and take a few wobbly steps. I try to fight this, but it’s too big, there’s too much to hide. There is no hole to crawl into here, no way to pretend this away. I’m on solid ground and it hurts like hell.

  I lie down on the gravel roadside and stare up at the deep black night to find solace, but everything in me is breaking away. Every twisted memory and sweetened tragedy, all the bullshit lies and lost love and heartaches and panic attacks and phone calls. They are ripping their way out of me, bursting out in violent, moaning sobs and snot and tears, and wracking coughs.

  I let it all go, knowing I need to say it, try to say it, and it seems ridiculous, because I know she can’t hear me, but just fucking say it, Sid—I’m sorry. The words like pieces of glass in my throat.

  Zoe would tell me not to worry, if she were here, she would say stop acting like an idiot and get back on your feet, and while you’re at it, forgive yourself already. They call it an accident for a reason, and that’s what this was—an accident. And she’s right. And she’s not here. It’s just me. And after a while I’m just breathing. And I realize it’s quiet again.

  I am quiet again.

  So I slowly stand up, walk over to my car, and get back in. I feel like I should call someone, but I’m not sure who anymore. I realize I’ve thrown my phone out the window, which is funny because I always promised Natalie I would do that someday. I don’t turn my headlights back on because I like it that way, the night stretching on endlessly. I remember this is actually due to the lunar cycle, like Melanie talked about before I decided to run away like a coward.

  A point of light catches my eye and floats silently across the sky—a satellite minding its path. I watch it for several seconds as it passes the Big Dipper and fades over the horizon. I journey home by the dark of the new moon.

  chapter 68

  As I pull in my driveway, I am exhausted. Opening the car door and walking up to the house feel like superhuman tasks. I’m not much of a drinker, but all I really want is some alcohol. I search the house, but there’s no beer, no liquor, no wine.

  Wait.

  I trudge down the basement stairs. Under the dark green army blanket, there it is, the 1967 bottle of Bordeaux. “Sorry Mom,” I announce and hold it up to the light. “Just going to make more room in there for you.”

  I rummage through the cupboards for a wine glass. If I’m going to drink forty-year-old wine, I might as well do it right. I find an old corkscrew hidden in the back of the silverware drawer. I peel back the foil and get to work on the cork; a steady pull releases the stopper, and with it the heady aroma of the decades-old wine. I pour it into the glass, watch the purple liquid with a cautious eye. No lilacs sprout forth, no clouds of flowers, no resentful spirits.

  “You’re free,” I say to Mom, if she’s even around, if she’s even listening. “My turn,” I say, and drink. It’s fruity and bitter. I’m sure it’s got hints of nut and vanilla and maybe even persimmon, but hell if I know. That’s not really the point now. I swallow down the rest of the glass and pour another. I drink that too, and keep pouring.

  I wonder if I was anywhere near Bordeaux when I visited Paris. I wonder if Zoe wanted to go there too, and if she knows how guilty I feel for having traveled so far. Me, stay-at-home Sid. I also wonder if Melanie will ever forgive me, and how many more glasses this bottle of wine will fill.

  chapter 69

  The smell of earth is all around me. Slowly, I begin to realize it’s because I am in my backyard, or, more accurately, under it. I frown into the noon sun. My face muscles aren’t working right; they’re sluggish, like I’m covered in an alien film. I attempt to open my mouth, but my skin is taut. Caked-on dirt crumbles away.

  I fight my way to a sitting position, get nose-to-nose with the lawn’s edge. I try to remember what happened that would put me here. My headache and dry mouth tell me wine was involved. I re
member things, but they’re foggy—vague notions of people and ghosts, of memories. I climb back up to the surface and head inside, where my answering machine blinks with the number four. Four more than I’m used to. Somehow these unheard messages worry me more than the mystery of last night’s activities.

  I push the play button. A robot woman’s voice says: “Message one.”

  “Sid. Pick up. It’s your sister. Pick up the phone.”

  Beep. “Message two.”

  “Sid! Answer the phone. I know you’re there. Hello?”

  Beep. “Message three.”

  “Sid, I’m going to keep calling you and leaving messages until you pick up the damn phone.”

  Beep. Robot woman says: “Message four.”

  “Okay, you know what? No I’m not. This is my message, so pay attention. I’m sorry for what I said last night. I just thought maybe I could shock you out of whatever you’re going through. But it was totally callous. I would be a terrible psychiatrist. I don’t know what you’re going through. I’m such a bitch, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m pregnant, okay? It’s the hormones. It’s no excuse, but if you want to know true suffering, get yourself pregnant.” She laughs a little, then drops her voice a notch. “Okay, that was a joke. I’m also a bad comedian. I’m a terrible matchmaker too. Forget about Melanie.”

  “No, that’s not—” I say to the answering machine, but she keeps going.

  “Do what you gotta do. I’ll think of something to tell her. Just call me back, okay? Please?”

  After a long pause, I hear sniffles in the background.

  “Please,” she says finally, “I’m so sorry. Call me back.”

  Beep.

  The robot lady says: “You have no more new messages.”

  My head starts to pound, and I’m sure there’s a tumor at the root of it, but I’m guessing it’s nothing any trip in the giant humming machine will cure. Instead, I go to my bedroom and pull out the box of postcards. I carry them to the garage, grab the shovel, walk to the edge of the hole I just climbed out of, and drop them in.

  With each throb of my temples, I throw a spadeful of dirt from the mound. I watch the box disappear beneath tosses of earth. I listen to the sounds of digging. Shk—thump—shk. One by one. For what seems like hours, I watch the hole fill in, hoping Gerald won’t see me across the yards and offer his help. Eventually the hole becomes level with the yard, and I’m back on even ground.

  I drop the shovel and walk back in the house, to the bathroom. I strip, step into the shower, and turn the water on full blast. Mud spirals down the drain in tiny rivers of black, but I don’t feel any cleaner. I lather up with my bar of spicy green soap, but I do not feel invigorated like the commercials have assured me I would. I dry off, get dressed, and lie down to take a nap. When I wake, out of habit, I go to the mailbox.

  I walk slowly across the lawn in my bare feet and can feel every blade of grass, the ants crawling over my toes. A breeze blows across my face, tosses my hair, cools my neck; I inhale the sweet smell of honeysuckle and pine from the neighbors’ yards. All my senses come together, so clear, like this whole past year has come to this moment, to the mailbox, today, because something inside needs to be seen. Something for me.

  Mary Jo stands in her yard, her armpit resting firmly on her mailbox. She is not her jovial self. She frowns at the bright sun, and does not brush her hair away when the wind blows it in her eyes. She shakes her head at me, as if she knows what I’m up to, and doesn’t like it.

  When I open my mailbox, it appears empty, but the sun is casting a strong shadow, so it’s hard to tell. I glare at Mary Jo accusingly. Her squinty eyes widen, then narrow again. We study each other for a moment, eyes locked across the asphalt rift of the suburban street. I turn to the mailbox. It seems darker and deeper than its bread-loaf dimensions, like a whole life could be hidden away in there, lost and forgotten. I’m tempted to reach inside but I clap it shut and walk away.

  chapter 70

  There is a Zen-like state achieved through having a clean work space. Unburdened by clutter, my chi flows freely throughout my Wanderlust cubicle. The walls are bare but for the Costa Rica postcard, which I’ve tacked up directly in front of me. I feel an even deeper sense of tranquility because I know what I’m going to do today. As a result of my decision, I feel bad for Steve and the world of travel-package salespeople, but they will keep going. The Randomizer will keep dialing.

  I haven’t called Natalie back, but I will soon. She’s probably waiting for my apology-acceptance call, but I don’t know what to say yet. I wonder if she called Melanie and told her to forget about that crazy brother of hers. Maybe Melanie has already forgotten me. I hope not. I don’t have the energy to think about it all, and I’ve got calls to make.

  Steve walks toward my cubicle and nods a greeting. His eyes sweep over my work space. He grimaces, and a little dimple forms in his left cheek: the dent of disappointment. He prefers a lot of color on employees’ walls. He likes to see photos and posters and calendars and sales charts—clear evidence of seller motivation, that his salespeople believe in the product. He continues his walk down the hall, smiling at the other staff and their vibrant walls.

  But I remain pleased with the symmetry and simplicity of my single postcard against the space of the cubicle. All edges are equidistant from the sides of the wall, as if the wall itself were created to frame this very postcard.

  I make a few calls, waiting for the right one. I reel out my pitch and people hang up on me. Some folks say it sounds great but they can’t afford a vacation right now. Another call, another hang-up. This happens several times, as it always does, brief digital rejections to my fiber-optic ego. Then I sell a Caribbean honeymoon package to a guy my age who thinks it will be a wonderful surprise for his fiancée. It’s a nice victory for both of us, a good note to end on, but it’s not the call I’m looking for. I’ll know it when it feels right.

  I watch The Randomizer do its thing one more time, and after four rings a young kid answers. The computer screen says I’ve called Tom Winfred.

  “Hello, is this Tom Winfred?” I ask the boy.

  “No,” he says.

  Video game guns explode in the background.

  “Is he going to be home soon?”

  The boy pauses. “No,” he says, more serious.

  “Well when would be a good time to reach him?”

  The video game guns quit firing.

  “He’s not here,” the boy says.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” I ask.

  “He’s not coming back.”

  “Oh,” I muster. A few seconds drag by.

  Steve’s voice whispers in my head. The omniscient supervisor has arrived. “Ask for his mother. Get the kid off the phone.”

  “I’m really sorry, buddy,” I say. “We won’t bother you again, okay?”

  “Ask for his mother, Sid. Don’t talk to the kids.”

  The boy makes a muffled sound. “My dad left six months ago. My mom says to take us off the list.”

  “You’ve got a good mom there. You’ll be all right. Sorry for ruining your video game. Did you win?”

  “No. You can’t win this game. It’s not like that.”

  “Well keep practicing. You’ll get there.”

  Steve pipes in with his baseball announcer voice, which means he’s quickly encroaching. “What are you doing-oing? Don’t talk to the kids-ids. Next call-all.”

  “Hey kid, you’ve got a lot to look forward to,” I say, and wish him good luck. The call is over, and The Randomizer starts dialing another one.

  Steve stands directly behind me. I can smell his disapproval.

  “Sid, seriously. What was that?”

  “We’ll get him next time,” I say, and give him the thumbs-up.

  He’s a little confused with my positive outlook, but nods and keeps walking. He rounds the corner, out of sight.

  I pull my earpiece out and place it on Bug-Out Bob. On a yellow sticky n
ote I write, “Steve: Good luck with the beaucoup bucks. Thanks for the opportunity. Best, Sid.”

  I roll my chair under the desk and tack my note on the wall below the Costa Rica Paradise postcard. I take one last look at the lush fauna and tropical toucans, wave good-bye to the happy couple running on the beach, and make my way to the nearest exit.

  Outside, the air is fresh and clean. I take a deep breath and it is invigorating. I feel like I could run a million miles of seashore today, or travel somewhere new and undiscovered. I feel lighter than usual, like I could fly.

  chapter 71

  That night I dream of beaches. Tropical landscapes with coconuts and hammocks. Swaying trees and ukulele music. Cold, icy drinks with crimson umbrellas. Highball glasses sweating on teak furniture. Fire pits and sugar sand. Warm ocean breezes. The lush rhythm of the surf as the waves unfurl and melt into the shore. Like breathing. Like paradise.

  I awaken with a startle and sit bolt upright in bed. In the waking world, I feel sick. The sudden movement upward has left me dizzy and disoriented in the darkness of my own bedroom.

  “Beach,” I say out loud. My eyes adjust and I look over at the soft, red-digit glow of my digital clock. It’s 4:30 a.m. A cruel hour to be awake. “I need to go to the beach,” I tell myself, and force my body to its feet.

  chapter 72

  The airline business should call red-eye flights dark-purple. My eyes actually feel bruised from being up and open so early. And when I pull my car into the Jasmine Beach parking lot, the blues and violets of the night sky shine their way through as well. The sun will be up soon, which means I don’t have much time.

  The beach is incredibly quiet, as if the sand has absorbed all the sound. The gulls haven’t begun calling yet, and traffic is eerily absent. Only the hush of waves. The wide strip before me is lumpy and dark, not quite discernible from the black water in the near distance. I stumble over little dunes, search the shoreline for familiar figures. My hands are shaky. This is not paradise, this is not like breathing.