“Holy shit!” shouted Phillip, his cheeks turning red from pure astonishment.
“A. Lone. It. Hap. End.”
“Who is that?” Ginger looked to Phillip, to me, and back to the tape recorder.
“I thought you listened to that tape a hundred times!” said Phillip.
“I did. I mean, I guess I didn’t have the volume turned up loud enough. We have got to listen to the whole tape again!” I shouted. “And we’ve got to get back to the cemetery. Right away!” I leapt to my feet. My enthusiasm forced Phillip to his feet as well. We gathered our backpacks as Ginger looked upon our sudden upheaval with a look of bewilderment.
“I’m so sorry,” Phillip apologized. “I’ll call you tonight about the movie, OK?”
“But I didn’t give you my number,” she replied calmly, in stark contrast to our rushed exit.
“Right,” he realized, embarrassed. He handed Ginger his notebook while he fished for a pen. But before he could find one, Ginger flipped to a blank page and used her own pen to jot her number. She then closed the notebook, smiling as she handed it back to him. I could tell Phillip was fighting the urge to flip through every page to find that number while he still stood before her. But after a moment, he grudgingly shoved his notebook back into his bag.
We then left beautiful Ginger sitting alone in the cafeteria with our half-eaten lunches. At least she had a nice view of the birds on the roof.
30
The Voice of Thomas Gouldman
It didn’t take long for Phillip to become weary standing over Thomas’s grave before he’d wander off and start exploring. But thankfully, I wasn’t left to investigate on my own. A few weeks before, I never would’ve believed I’d find myself kneeling over the grave of Thomas Gouldman—with Ginger Young. But there we were. At first, it was strange talking to Ginger about Thomas. I was so sure when we ate lunch together that first time that Thomas would’ve repelled her. I’d assumed sitting in a cemetery all afternoon having a one-way conversation with a headstone would’ve seemed dull and childish to someone like Ginger. Yet she was full of surprises. After being let in on where the voice on the tape had come from, she was immediately on board.
For her, it was a scientific experiment. Something to hypothesize about. Something to prove or disprove with the support of evidence. For me, the intrigue in Thomas was fueled by my visit from Everett. Making contact with Thomas made me feel closer, in a way, to Everett. Even though I could no longer communicate with him, at least I was doing something to keep one foot in his world. I was doing more than just remembering. I was reaching, trying to touch hands.
We relentlessly interviewed Thomas about his life and his experiences in death. We spent hours before his grave. And even more hours analyzing tapes. Yet frustratingly, he had yet to speak again. All we really knew about him was that “it happened in the car.” And sometimes, we couldn’t even confirm that. Despite marking the position on the tape where his voice was heard, we’d often only hear wind and static upon playback.
After several weeks of trying, even I had to admit that Thomas might no longer be the optimal subject. As we hiked back up the cemetery’s hill one evening, I reluctantly offered, “I bet he’s moved on. He’s probably changed forms. Transferred his energy into a plant. Or become a cricket or something.”
Ginger squinted and nodded politely while absorbing the concept. “That’s an interesting philosophy. How’d you come up with that?”
“I didn’t come up with it. It’s what happened to my brother, Everett, after he died.”
“Is this what your family believes? Were you raised to believe in this kind of reincarnation?”
“No. He told me that’s what happened to him.”
“He told you? You have his voice on tape too?”
“No. He came to me with borrowed energy. But only for a few minutes.” Ginger exchanged a brief glance with a befuddled Phillip. I knew what it meant. They didn’t believe me. They thought I was nuts. But it didn’t matter. And I didn’t care. It was the truth.
Ginger thought a moment. “So then, if energy converts into different forms after death, then it stands to reason he’d be somewhere nearby—in his new form, that is.”
“He could be close,” I affirmed. “But he could also be somewhere familiar to him. And if he did transfer forms, I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t be able to capture his voice on tape anymore.”
Ginger’s reaction to my revealing Everett’s experience was surprisingly refreshing. She didn’t patronize me. Rather, she seemed genuinely interested in exploring the possibilities.
Phillip, on the other hand, remained silent. He indulged us, allowed us to continue to speculate on the whereabouts of Thomas. But he merely tolerated it, occasionally shaking his head skeptically. I couldn’t figure it out. Like Ginger, he too had a scientific mind. But I wondered if maybe he was only suited for grounded sciences, sciences that dealt with observable physical and chemical reactions. Maybe Phillip and paranormal research just weren’t a good fit. But the reason he played along was obvious. It was clear he was more interested in Ginger than in the mystery of Thomas Gouldman.
It became no more evident than later that evening, while listening to our tapes in Phillip’s bedroom, that the attraction was mutual. We took turns listening on a pair of headphones. They allowed us to better isolate sounds from the breeze and rushing river. It was my turn on the headphones. When I thought I might’ve heard a faint voice, I spun around to find Phillip’s hand on Ginger’s knee. Embarrassed, I turned back to the stereo, pretending I didn’t notice.
The meteor named Ginger had since dissolved. I had wrongly assumed someone like Ginger would see someone like me as inferior, insignificant, weak—especially when she was the embodiment of perfection: beautiful, confident, smart. But she was on my side. So when I saw out of the corner of my eye that she and Phillip were holding hands, it felt right. It was natural.
I was forced to overcome my bashfulness concerning their burgeoning affection for one another—as the voice in my ears could no longer be ignored. With much elation, I yanked the headphones from the stereo. The tape crackled throughout the room before a voice sharply stated: “Fi! Er!” Phillip and Ginger stood from the bed, astounded. “Ov. Er. Ed. Ge.”
“Where are you now, Thomas?” my voice on the tape asked. We listened in frozen silence. Afraid to move. Afraid if we broke our concentration, we wouldn’t hear him again.
“Da. Ark,” his voice finally hissed. “Be. Low. I. Was. Here. Ri. Ver. Now. Tr. Eee. Sss. Wi. Thhh. You. See. You. Tr. Eee. Sss.”
We listened several more minutes to the chirping birds and rushing river. Only when it was clear he would say no more, when his silence became unbearable, did I speak. “He hasn’t transitioned yet,” I whispered.
“Apparently not,” Ginger agreed. “At least not as of this afternoon. It’s unbelievable!” She allowed herself a moment of giddiness before grabbing a pad and scribbling excitedly. “Now what did we learn? You asked him where he was now. And if I’m making it out right, he said he had been somewhere in the dark. But that he was with us. Near the trees. Near the river. And we know from what he said before that he died in a car. But now he’s added ‘fire’ and ‘over the edge.’ So was it an explosion? Did his car catch on fire after being pushed over the edge of something? You know what?” she asked, pounding the tip of the pen to the paper. “That’s actually testable. He didn’t die that long ago. All we’d have to do is a bit of research to find out exactly how he died. If it matches some of the details of what these tapes are telling us, then—oh my God.” Her eyes widened. “It means we’d have proof of life after death.”
“That’ll be easy,” I offered. “I know right where they keep the old newspapers in the library. All we have to do is look for any articles about car crashes a day or so after the date of his death. We won’t even have to look on microfiche since it’s been less than a year.”
“Let’s not do that yet,” cautioned Ginger. “We have
to do this right. If we read all the details about his death now, it could bias our findings. Cloud our research. We might start interpreting the voice to match the article without even realizing it. No. We should double our recording sessions. First, we need more data. Then, we look for the article.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I enthusiastically agreed.
Poor Phillip didn’t know what hit him. He looked like a dog that had been stranded in the middle of nowhere. I only confused him more when I squeezed his shoulder and shook it in a failed attempt to transfer my exhilaration to him. I felt alive in so many ways, and I owed it all to Phillip. Without him, I wouldn’t have gone to college. I wouldn’t have met Ginger. Or had anyone to help me study the case of Thomas Gouldman. Unbeknownst to him, he had also saved me the humiliation of going to a psychiatrist. The doctor encouraged it after my so-called episode in the hospital. However, Mom and Dad decided not to force me to go after witnessing my success at college. And of course, most importantly, Phillip remained my appointed protector. My guardian against evil. He was the shield I hadn’t had since before Everett left for Texas.
I struggled with a way to thank Phillip. But it wasn’t as if I could’ve talked to him about any of these things. He was oblivious, unaware of the power he possessed. Besides, how could I have even begun to thank someone for basically keeping me alive? And then it came to me, through of all things, a dream. I hadn’t dreamt in so long, at least that I could remember. I began getting used to sleeping deeply, uninterrupted by dreams—and nightmares. So it was startling when one invaded my peace. And when I woke, it didn’t take much interpretation. Although shocking, its meaning was clear: Phillip and I would meet certain death. But I had a plan. What better way to thank Phillip—than saving his life?
31
Evergreen Hill
“Why is it that the sun always seems so bright in the fall?” Phillip asked, squinting, as I jumped in his car.
“Because less leaves are blocking it,” I reasoned.
“Ha. Maybe. Hey, I forgot my sunglasses. Got any extra?” I didn’t. But I bolted to Mom’s car and grabbed a pair off her dash. Until Phillip hastily threw them on, I hadn’t given a thought to them being giant women’s sunglasses. The lenses overtook his face. Plus, they were crooked. One rim jutted well over his eyebrow, while the other jammed into his cheek. “Thanks a ton,” he said sarcastically, followed by a goofy grin, capitalizing on how ridiculous he looked.
“Let’s go,” I said with a snicker. “You keep coming later and later.”
“That may be. But I keep driving faster and faster!” With that, he tore out of the driveway and sped down the road with forced urgency.
“Where the hell are you taking us?” I yelped as we bypassed the entrance to the expressway.
“Look at that ramp. It’s a parking lot. I’ll get you to class a lot faster if we take Evergreen.”
That’s when I knew, for sure, that it was coming. We barreled up Evergreen’s mammoth hill. It was a peculiar landscape. To the right was a plummeting canyon filled with a thick forest of deciduous trees. The colorful treetops appeared to float just above the height of the road. In the distance, up the steep incline, was a pine forest. The way the far-off pines jutted into the horizon, they looked almost like miniatures from a movie set.
The ride that morning, I had been on it before. It was the same as in my dream: the bright morning sun in my eyes, the colorful splashes of leaves racing by. Yet more than simply giving me a sense of déjà vu, it was as if the dream had penetrated reality, had formed a bubble around us from which we couldn’t escape. We moved forward in snapshots, like a video camera recording only one second out of ten-second intervals. Under this influence, we jolted skyward at an unnatural pace. Oncoming cars blinked past us. Houses were superimposed over trees.
I had been determined to thwart the conclusion of the dream but instead found myself helplessly paralyzed inside of it. It tethered my limbs and kept my mouth sealed shut. As we zoomed toward oblivion, all we could do was perform what had already been prescribed for us. No, we weren’t going to make it to class. No, we weren’t going to survive. What was destined for Phillip and me was final.
Monroe Avenue was at the peak of Evergreen’s hill. From there, it was a straight shot downtown. As Phillip turned into the intersection, I watched the bright leaves copy themselves as a reflection on the window. Gold. Red. Copper. Orange. The real and projected leaves danced as they met, overlapped, and came apart again. I was easily seduced by the kaleidoscope of swirling hues as the dark blue Buick appeared out of nowhere. It took the squeal of tires and Phillip shouting, “Holy shit!” to remind me that I was in fact awake.
I shot forward and was abruptly halted as the seat belt locked. The strap gripped my chest and rib cage, and my breath was forced from my lungs. I knew the face of the teenage girl in the other car. I had seen it before. Her wide eyes. Her clenched teeth. She gripped the steering wheel for dear life and jerked it sharply to her right, futilely attempting to stop the damaging chain of events that had already been set in motion. Her blonde hair was swept forward and froze for a millisecond before her car was sent into a violent spin, blocking our path.
Phillip’s silly sunglasses were tossed from his head as he whipped us back into the other lane. He managed to save us from a head-on collision. Yet the front of her spinning car smacked the rear of his, sending us fishtailing across Evergreen. We veered off the pavement and into the gravel before bursting through the guardrail. Phillip desperately pumped the brakes. But it was no use. The tires had left solid ground.
We sailed above the canyon, through the tops of the oaks and maples I had been admiring only moments before. The car filled with the smell of exhaust and burned rubber. I gripped the dash as the branches reached for us like giant, crippled fingers. They scraped along the sides of the car, making the metal shriek as we glided through the treetops. Giant oak leaves slapped against the windows, pressing so tight I could see the veins that pumped the blood beneath their suffocating orange and red skins.
The entire ride, I had been struggling to break free from the toxic trance. And finally, by focusing intently on those majestic leaves, I had found what I needed. They weren’t false images. They weren’t superimpositions. They were organic. They forced me, in that instant, to become sober. And in my sobriety, I simply could not accept what was to happen. With only seconds to act, instead of panic, I felt incredibly calm. I knew exactly what I had to do.
I pulled the lever that engaged the parking brake. Pressed on the hazard lights. And punched the following buttons on the radio: 2-6-3-4-1. Only these were not the parking brake, the hazard lights, or the radio. Not at all. They were the controls in a brand-new spaceship. Instead of old farm machinery repurposed into a flying machine, Phillip’s car was the latest model. And the sequence, the lever I pulled, and the buttons I pushed caused the craft to halt in midair.
We hovered silently among the treetops as Phillip clung to the steering wheel in a mix of terror and disbelief. Keeping his back completely straight, he slowly leaned forward, petrified, and peered over the hood to the crater below. He then cautiously turned to me, looking as if he was trying to speak a hundred words at once but was unable to utter one syllable. The leaves wrapped us in a cocoon. They gave me a feeling of comfort and safety. With this sense of protection, I confidently unbuckled my seat belt. “What’re you doing!” cried Phillip, breaking the silence. “Do not move!”
“It’s OK,” I assured him and patted his shoulder. “Remember when Everett told you me and him would fly a spaceship in the middle of the night? Well, this isn’t your car anymore. Now it’s—a craft.” I swiveled on my knees so I could peer through the rear window. I couldn’t see between the thick leaves well enough to know if anyone had stopped on the road. But I figured it wouldn’t be long before gawkers would be peering over the edge, hoping for a macabre glimpse of a crumpled car that surely had become a death trap to its unlucky passengers.
I plunke
d back into my seat. Phillip remained stiff. His upper lip was perspiring. “We’re safe. I promise.” Unlike Phillip, I felt quite cozy in our private hideout among the trees.
I gave him a sympathetic smile as I casually rolled down my window. The bouquet of leaves pressing against the glass popped into the car like giant flowers blooming instantaneously. Phillip allowed only his eyes to follow my movements as I reached my arm outside. I let my fingers feel their way down the stem of the largest red leaf. When I found the thick base, I plucked it from the branch. The branch snapped back, reverberating like a piece of struck metal. I brought the leaf inside. As I twirled it by its stem, marveling at its size and brilliance, the craft began to rock—and slip through the branches.
Admittedly, I had been a bit overconfident regarding the improvised craft’s hovering ability. Thinking quickly, I grabbed the lever and began lowering it gently. Limbs bowed and snapped as we crashed through the canopy. Leaves rushed by in a collage of swirling colors. Apparently concerned about my lack of a seat belt, Phillip threw his arm across my chest. But because the car was not a car at all, it thrust against the force of gravity, easing the intensity of our drop. Even so, when we hit the earth, the impact was violent enough to blow the windows out of their casings. I threw my hands to my face as the glass imploded.
“Are you OK!” shouted Phillip. Fragments of glass had shot into our skin. Blood trickled down Phillip’s face and my arms.
“I’m all right.”
He kicked open his door and lumbered outside. My door wouldn’t budge. “We could’ve been killed!” he shouted angrily as he tugged on my handle. When the crumpled metal finally gave way, I too staggered out. The car had smashed onto a pile of rocks. The tires had been blown apart. “We could’ve been killed!” he repeated in my face.
Phillip was absolutely right. If the car had propelled off the ridge as I had foreseen, we would’ve smashed straight into one of the thick trunks and been knocked unconscious even before crashing to the ground. A hot piece of metal would’ve severed the fuel line. We’d have been snuffed out from smoke inhalation before finally being eviscerated by the flames. There would’ve been no escape. I knew it. I saw it.
Where the Cats Will Not Follow Page 19
