“Where are the birds?” I ask the question into my sweatshirt. The words come out muffled. Unintelligible. I let the sleeve drop. “Where are the birds?” I say again.
“The birds?” Sam repeats, puzzled.
I nod slowly. “Yeah, the birds. It’s sunny out. There should be at least a dozen in the tree.” I look up, to the open window, where rays of light continue to stream in and dance across the crudely made plywood floor.
“I used to come up here when I was little and listen to the birds sing for hours. It got to where I could identify them just by the sound of their whistle. My mom called me her little bird whisperer.” A hesitant smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I needed a happy memory.
“You’re observant.” Sam doesn’t make it seem like a compliment.
“And in the woods,” I say, determined to get one more question answered. “There weren’t any birds there either. Or deer. Or squirrels. I didn’t even see a bug.”
Sam shoves a hand through his hair. Sighing loudly, he slumps back in the rocker and stretches his arms out to the side, pulling the skin taut across his bare chest.
I look away, refusing to acknowledge the sudden hitch in my breathing and what it might mean. My plate is quite full without adding something else, thank you very much. And crushing on my dead guide would definitely qualify as something else.
“Do you always ask this many questions?” he says.
“Always.”
“Fine. Animals don’t live in the After. They go… someplace else.” He makes a vague gesture towards the roof of the tree house. “I’m not sure where. A better place, I guess.”
“There are no animals at all?” For some reason that makes me sad, even though the only animal I ever owned was a cat that got run over. I always imagined, though, that I would get a dog when I got older. A big, fluffy, furry dog that would jump on the sofa and sleep at the foot of my bed. Now I can only add it to the growing list of things I will never have.
Against my better judgment I look up at Sam. He, too, looks sad and I wonder if he ever had a pet. It makes me realize that I don’t know anything about him other than what I read in an old newspaper article. He liked to ski. He was on his high school’s baseball team. He died at seventeen. It is a short resume for someone who should have gone on to do so much more.
“Tell me about your family,” I say abruptly.
Sam goes still. “My family?”
“I mean, we’re going to be here for a while, right? We might as well learn more about each other.”
“You can go down if you want,” he says.
That has me perking up a little. “I can? Is it safe? Is that thing – Unknown, Craven, whatever – still out there?”
“Do you remember the door we came through to get to here?”
Do I remember the door that sprang up in the middle of the field and brought me to the tree house I used to play in as a little kid? “Uh, yeah. I think so.”
“That’s called a Jump Door. It’s how we travel in the After. Well,” he amends after a pause, “it’s one way to travel. Jump Doors take you from place to place using your memories. Like I said before, time isn’t the same here. Before, when we were alive, it moved forward and back. The present and the past. Here it moves sideways as well, so you can return to places you’ve been without being in the same time you were when you were there in the first place.”
I can literally feel my eyes start to glaze over, the same way they do in every algebra class. Noting my bemused expression, Sam shakes his head and sighs, exactly like Mr. Treble used to do.
“Basically it means that yes, we’re safe, and no, Craven couldn’t have followed us here. Jump Doors only stay open for seven seconds. After that, nothing can go through.”
“So I can go down to my house?”
“You can go down to your house.”
That’s all I really needed to hear. I go to the window first and lean out of it, inhaling the sweet scent of maple leaves and freshly mowed grass. From this high up I can see the entire backyard. Toys are scattered in haphazard disarray across the slightly sloped lawn. My breath catches as I recognize the beat up red wagon leaning up against the porch steps and the large stuffed dog sitting inside of it.
I used to haul that dog with me everywhere. Up and down the driveway. To the neighbor’s house across the street. To school for show and tell. I even brought it – wagon and all – in to town for ice cream once. The wagon eventually broke and was thrown out, but I kept the dog all the way up until I came home one afternoon from school to find all of my mother’s things packed away in boxes.
I still don’t know if my dad put Rodger in one of the boxes on purpose or if it was an accident. I was so angry he was getting rid of all Mom’s stuff I didn’t even realize Rodger was missing until a few weeks later and by then it was too late. Everything had been donated to the local Salvation Army. There was nothing left.
I make my way slowly down the rickety ladder. Sam stays behind to dig through the box of clothes for something to wear. I couldn’t help but steal one more peek at his bare chest before he covered it up and I was amazed to see the scratches and bruises that had covered his skin just a few minutes ago were almost fully healed. I would have asked him about it, but that would have meant admitting I was looking at his body again, which I definitely wasn’t. Not really. Well, kind of. No. Not at all.
I’m nearly at the bottom of the ladder when I remember the last rung is rotted out and I jump the last three feet to the ground. I land hard on my feet and fall forward to take the weight of the fall off my ankles. My hands sweep across the lawn. The grass is faintly damp against my fingertips, as if still drying from the morning dew, even though I would have sworn it was late in the afternoon.
Sam was right. Time is different here. There is no sense of it passing. No sense of one day ending and the next beginning.
I pick a few strands of grass and twist them absently through my fingers as I wander closer to the red wagon and Rodger. I half expect the stuffed dog with its goofy expression and mottled gray and black coat to vanish in a puff of smoke, but when I reach out and hug him tentatively to my chest he feels as real as the grass under my feet. Closing my eyes after taking a quick peek back at the tree house to make sure Sam isn’t watching me, I bury my face in Rodger’s soft, well-worn fur and inhale deeply.
He smells just like I remember. Lavender and fresh cotton, the same as my clothes. Mom must have just washed him, something she does on a regular basis given the beating he takes with my hauling him everywhere. I have a new collar for him upstairs in my bedroom. My friend Missy helped me pick it out.
She has a real dog. I don’t like him. He’s big and hairy and jumps on everything, even me when I go over to visit. And he barks really, really loud. It hurts my ears. Rodger doesn’t bark at all. He’s a good dog.
I should put on his collar now before I forget. Just thinking about the pretty blue and orange collar with pink rhinestones makes me smile. Missy said boy dogs don’t like pink rhinestones, but what does she know? Her dog has a boring old leather color. I bet when he sees Rodger’s new collar he’ll want one just like it.
Maybe after lunch I’ll even bring Rodger over to Mrs. K’s across the street. She has cats. Three of them, all black and white. Rodger likes the little one the best, the one Mrs. K calls ‘Miss Sophie’ just like she’s a real person. It’s pretty funny.
Hooking Rodger under one arm I trot up the porch steps and go around the grill that Dad has been fixing for the past few weeks. I heard him tell Mom he’s going to get to it this weekend and she said he better in her serious voice, which means she’s kind of mad about it. It’s the same voice she uses with me when I forget to clean my room.
“Winnie?”
I hear Sam’s voice as if from a great distance. My eyes snap open. A hard jolt runs through my body, leaving me gasping for air. Feeling sick to my stomach I hurl Rodger away from me. He lands on the second porch step and rolls to the ground, his o
versized button eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky.
I jump down after him, careful not to touch his gray fur as I slide past. Sam is waiting for me next to the tree house, standing motionless in the shadow of the enormous oak. Heart pounding, I run the last few feet and all but launch myself at him. He catches my arms and swings me around, hugging me close to his body for the briefest of moments before letting me go.
“What the hell was that?” I shudder.
“You were going into a memory.” Sam tugs at the collar of the new shirt he’s wearing. It is one of my dad’s castoffs, a button up blue dress shirt that is a few sizes too big for Sam’s wiry frame. I notice all of the buttons are off by one hole, as if he put it on in a hurry.
“Going into a memory?”
“In the After we call it Diving. A lot of people do it. Not everyone comes back up.”
I rub my forearms where goose bumps have appeared by the dozens. “I was a kid again. Eight or nine, I think. I remember that day. I was about to take Rodger inside to put on his new collar. My mom was going to make me a cucumber sandwich. I could feel it like it was happening, like it was real. Then I heard your voice.” Our eyes meet. Catch. Hold. A whole new set of goose bumps rise up on my skin, ones that have nothing to do with believing I was eight years old again. For once I am the first one to look away.
I clear my throat. Scuff my sneaker against the ground. Try desperately to think of something else to say. “What would have… uh… happened if I didn’t… you know… uh… wake up?” It’s the most accurate way to describe what happened to me. I wasn’t sleeping, not exactly, but I wasn’t totally awake either. I can see why it would be called Diving. When you’re under water it’s easy to lose track of your surroundings. The world above you becomes muffled. Nonexistent.
“The memory would have drawn you in further until it became your present instead of your past. If you’ve had a good life, if you wouldn’t mind doing it over again exactly the same way, it’s not…” Sam hesitates and looks away. “It’s not the worst thing,” he finishes quietly.
“Have you done it?”
“No.”
“Have you thought about it?”
This time it’s his sneaker that kicks at the grass. “Yeah,” he mutters, still unable to meet my gaze. “I have.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
We walk after that. I lead Sam down the street, pointing out our surroundings as we go. Occasionally I see someone I used to know, and it’s hard to resist the temptation to go over and see them, but with Sam’s help I do. They aren’t real. They are only vague imitations of themselves; something my memory has procured from the past just like Rodger and my little red wagon.
I ask Sam where all the dead people are. He shrugs and says they are probably around, just keeping themselves hidden. The dead are notoriously shy, he explains. Especially to newcomers.
As we draw closer to the middle of town the square patch of neatly trimmed lawn in front of each house becomes smaller and the houses grow closer. I pause in front of a white Victorian with peeling paint and crooked black shutters. “Crazy Mrs. Dobbs used to live here,” I remember with a faint smile. “After she died the house went to the bank and they tore it down to build a McDonalds.”
“That’s too bad,” Sam says, shading his eyes against the sun.
“Yeah,” I say slowly, giving the dilapidated old house one last, lingering look before we move on. “It was too bad.”
I don’t know exactly what year this memory is created from. My best guess is from seven or eight years ago, when my tree house was still in the tree and Mrs. Dobbs was still looking for gold in the trash. There is a sense of calm in the air; a peacefulness that no longer exists out of this memory. Now the town is fully industrialized with a fast food joint on every corner and a casino set to go in next year right down the road. None of that matters to me, of course. Now that I’m dead.
“Is that your high school?” Sam asks, pointing towards a three story brick building that is just visible above the tree tops.
I nod. “And two streets over is the elementary school. Hey, we’ve kind of come full circle, haven’t we?”
Sam stops and stares. “What do you mean?”
“Just that we started in my fifth grade classroom over there.” I jerk my shoulder to the left, where Jenson Elementary School is hidden behind a block of townhouses. “And now we’re back. Well, almost. That’s weird, right Sam? Sam? Sam!”
He is walking away from me and doesn’t turn around when I say his name. Annoyed, I catch up to him and grab his arm. “Hey, I was talking to–”
“Shut up,” he hisses. In a flash his hand is covering my mouth and he’s shoving me into a narrow alley between the ice cream shop and the hardware store. My back connects hard with the brick wall. Sam keeps his hand over my mouth. He leans his body into mine while he looks out at the street, twisting his head away so I can’t read his expression. Without hesitating I bite down on one of his fingers. Hard.
“Jeez,” he yelps, snatching his hand away. “Why did you do that?”
“Why did you drag me into an alley?” Dropping my hands to my hips, I lean into him. “That’s a full on creeper move right there.”
“Could you please lower your voice?”
“Could you please explain why we’re hiding?”
Keeping his eyes trained on the mouth of the alley Sam steps to the side, giving me room to breathe. I push away from the wall and follow his gaze, but all I see is the empty Railway Café across the street.
“What are we looking for?” I whisper over his shoulder.
“You mean who are we looking for.” Sam spins around, his gray eyes staring into mine. If looks could kill, I would pretty much be toast. Lucky for me I’m already dead.
“How could I have been such an idiot?” he mutters under his breath.
I figure the question is pretty much rhetorical, so I don’t offer an answer.
“Why didn’t you tell me your house was so close to the elementary school?”
I don’t understand what the big deal is. “Why does it matter?” I counter, refusing to be intimidated by his harsh glare and the rigid set of his jaw. I can be scary too. Just ask the varsity cheerleading squad.
Sam’s eyebrows whip together. “It’s just like you said. We’re right back where we started.”
It takes me a few seconds before it clicks in. Sam waits for me to put two and two together, his body fairly vibrating with tension. “The field we were running through before…” I manage to say as dread pools in my belly. “That was Alice Hawker’s old wheat field. And it’s right… it’s right…” Unable to say the words out loud, I just point. Over the café, past the elementary school, less than one mile away is the field where Sam and I ran for our lives. The same field we left Craven in. I have managed to bring us right back where we started. My knees wobble. “Sorry,” I say weakly.
“Sorry? You’re sorry?” Sam explodes. It is the first time I have seen him truly angry and it isn’t a pleasant sight to behold. Arms gesturing wildly, he begins to shout, so furious he is oblivious to amount of noise he is making. “You could have picked a million places to go! A million! But instead you take us to your tree house and then walk us BACK HERE? Are you INSANE? Did I not explain what an Unknown can do? How dangerous they are to us?”
“Shut up!” Without thinking I reach out and cup the palm of my hand over Sam’s mouth. Above the curve of my pinky his nostrils flare. Our eyes clash, blue against gray. “Are you done screaming like a little girl?” I ask.
His jaw clenches so tight I can feel his teeth grinding together. I wait a moment longer before I snatch my hand away and rub it against the brick wall. Mortar crumbles beneath my fingers and creates a fine dusting of white gray powder on the cracked asphalt below. I tug at the ends of my dreadlocks. Release. Breathe in. Breathe out. Look Sam square in the eye. “This is totally your fault, you know.”
“Me?” Sam gapes. “You’re the one who took us all of a mile
away!”
“And you’re the one who should have explained things a little more clearly. Better yet, you should have been the one to get us out of there. I’ve been dead what, half a day? You’ve been dead for seven years! You know what, I want a new guide.” The instant the words are out of my mouth I regret them, but it’s too late to take them back now. I know enough about myself to realize my sudden, irrational anger at Sam is born of my own guilt. I messed up and instead of facing the consequences of my actions I’m lashing out. A grim smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. My guidance counselor would be so proud.
Sam stares at me. He tries to look disdainful, but underneath the thin layer of annoyance I can see the hurt, and my guilt intensifies tenfold. “You don’t just get to choose a new guide, Winnifred,” he says finally. “It doesn’t work like that.”
I should apologize. I should keep silent. I should do a lot of things; unfortunately, my mouth and my mind don’t always agree. “Says who? You?” I step forward. Sam steps back. “Yeah, cause you’ve done such a bang up job of keeping us out of trouble so far. First I almost get killed by some monster and then you nearly let me get sucked into la la land.” I release my breath on a hiss of disgust and thrust my face up to the clear sky, visible as a sliver of blue between the two buildings. “Hello? Hellooo! I WOULD LIKE A NEW GUIDE, PLEASE! THIS ONE REALLY SUCKS!”
“Would you just be quiet?” Sam pushes me into the wall again, this time with double the force. My breath pours out of me in a wheezy gasp and I strain forward, trying to escape, but Sam has his hands firmly planted on my shoulders and I can’t move more than half an inch in any direction. Geek boy is stronger than he looks.
“Are you done?” he says.
“I will spit in your face,” I say deadpan. I wouldn’t really – I’m not that gross – but Sam must believe me because he abruptly drops his hands and a takes a huge step back.
The Mysterious Death and Life of Winnie Coleman Page 11
