The In-Between

by Stewart, Barbara

  “Wait,” I said. “I know you.”

  “Know who?” my mother said.

  “The girl. We were going somewhere together.”

  My mother hadn’t seen her. It was nothing. My eyes playing tricks. My messed-up brain.

  “Let’s think about you right now.” My mother squeezed my hand. “Focus on getting you well.”

  nineteen

  The clock over the sink read 1:08. The drapes on the window were drawn shut. There’s a button I can push when I need help. Every once in awhile a nurse will bustle in and check my chart and help me to the bathroom or get me a drink of water or give me another pain pill if it’s time. But I haven’t used the button. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I planted my feet heavily on the cold tile floor. Reaching back, I held my gown closed in a fist as I crossed the room to open the drapes. The blackness beyond made the window a mirror. There’s a big purple bruise on my forehead. My lips are dry and cracked. I’ve got some cuts and scratches and more bruises, but otherwise I look pretty much the same as I did before the accident. My face is too round. My hair is too short. I pulled the gown tighter and stood up straight. Same bulge in the middle where my waist should be. Maybe it was the painkillers talking, but I thought, I’m okay with a little fat. My hair will grow in before school. I let go of the gown, smiling at myself and running my tongue over my teeth. I was about to search for a toothbrush when something in the reflection of the fluorescent-lit room caught my eye. The shadow again. In the corner, behind the door, where the lights don’t reach. A grainy black void hunched and waiting. I froze, my eyes and ears straining.

  A voice, but not really. More like a radio stuck between stations. Slowly, one channel teased from the static, rising, shivering until I heard clearly:

  Hey there, it’s me.

  My heart slammed against my ribs. I spun around. Standing in the doorway was the night orderly, the one with the superhero scrubs, pushing a stainless steel cart.

  “What do you want?” I said. “What did you say?”

  His eyes narrowed with concern for the girl with the bruised brain. “I’m here if you need me.”

  twenty

  This is how we started the ride to our new home: my father behind the wheel of our crappy little hatchback, my mother on the passenger side, me squished in back with Lucy in her carrier and a pillow and a blanket and a big bag of snacks.

  This is how we ended it: my mother driving a shiny new rental, me riding shotgun, my father in an urn in a box in the trunk.

  My mother pulled into the driveway and turned off the headlights and sighed, the release deflating her, as if she’d been holding her breath since Pennsylvania. I guess I had, too. Every lane change, every merge, every tug of the brakes flooded my system with adrenaline. We sat there awhile, silently watching the moon over the woods behind the house. The idea of climbing out of the car and opening the front door was too much. I wanted to stay where I was, not thinking, not moving, listening to the rhythmic tick of the engine cooling, the chirping of crickets, the slow, steady whisper of my mother drawing air into her lungs.

  “You ready?” she asked quietly. She reached across the darkness and squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. My mother grabbed her purse and I grabbed my bag. The suitcases we left for later. My father, too. The sensor light came on and we followed the gravel path to the porch. My mother unlocked the door and flipped the switch. I’d seen the house before, once back in June when the real estate agent had given us a tour. But walking into the house tonight was like walking into a dream. I don’t know how to explain it. It was the same feeling I would’ve had if we’d turned around in Pennsylvania and gone back to our old house in Jackson. It was the feeling of coming home—but not to a new house. I already lived here. Everything looked eerily familiar, like something I’d seen in an old photo: the towers of boxes and tubs, the furniture scattered around the living room, my mother’s favorite lamp in pieces. The lamp. A shock of guilt as I remembered it breaking. My mother shook her head at the mess.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  My mother shrugged. “Insurance’ll pay for it.” She picked up the bigger pieces and shuffled off to the kitchen, turning on lights as she went. The house was what my parents had called a “fixer-upper.” When we’d seen it in June, it had been empty. I remembered it feeling small and echoey. It had smelled like it had been shut up for a long time, like mice and basement and stale crackers. It didn’t smell like that anymore. Maybe it was all our stuff, but the house smelled like our family now, like my father’s aftershave and Lucy’s cat breath and my shampoo.

  In the kitchen, my mother was going through a stack of mail. There was a basket of fruit on the counter. “The real estate agent,” she said, showing me the card. She’d stocked our fridge, too, with milk, eggs, and orange juice. I ate an apple. I was tired and hungry and my head was killing me. I wanted to go to bed and wake up and find that all of this was just a bad dream. I wanted to open my eyes and see Lucy at the foot of my bed. I wanted to go downstairs in the morning and find my parents making breakfast in our new kitchen.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” my mother said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  The air on the second floor was heavy with fumes. “I hired a painter,” she said, opening the door to the room I’d picked during the walk-through. It was just like Mom to think ahead—planning, doing—while the world was crumbling at her feet.

  “I hope you like it. They’re your colors. Nacho Cheese and Chips, right?” She shaded her eyes and grimaced. “It’s awfully bright.”

  I scanned the room. It was exactly as I’d remembered. Correction: not remembered. It wasn’t a memory. It couldn’t be. It was exactly as I’d imagined. My bed was against the far wall, my desk and dresser at opposite ends, a bunch of boxes marked ELLIE neatly stacked beside the closet. My books, my dollhouse, my Pegasus collection, everything was exactly where I’d … I don’t know.

  It’s overwhelming—not the color—the feeling. The deep knowing. I felt the room spinning, slipping. I felt light-headed. I stumbled and said, “I don’t feel good.”

  “Sit,” my mother said. “I’ll let some air in here.”

  “The window won’t open,” I said.

  My mother looked confused but tried anyway. I was right. It was painted shut. My mother looked around for something and then looked up and frowned. Above the desk an ugly bloom, the color of dead flowers. A water stain through the fresh paint. She climbed on the chair and stretched her arm above her head and felt for dampness.

  “When did that happen?” she said.

  “I told Daddy—”

  My mother missed it. She went on: “That needs to be fixed.” She hopped down and dusted her hands. “I’m not going to worry about it tonight. I’ve got to find the sheets.”

  “I’m going to get changed,” I said.

  She brushed back my hair and examined the bruise on my forehead. “Are you okay?”

  I wasn’t, but I needed to be alone. I bobbed my head and smiled. She wouldn’t leave if she thought I was sick.

  “Shout if you need me,” she said, her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be downstairs.”

  I sat on the bare mattress and wondered how I knew what I knew: the busted lamp. The water stain above my desk. The stuck window. I hadn’t checked yet, but I knew one of the fluorescent tubes in the bathroom flickers and hums. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t possible. Exhaustion, I thought. Grief. My bruised brain.

  I tugged on sweatpants and took the long way to the kitchen—through the living room, past the dining room, down the dark hall that leads to a windowless back room. I turned on the light. My father was in his study. My mother had brought him in from the car. He always needed more space than the rest of us, a place where he could be alone when his heavy-hearted moods struck. I wondered what we’d do with the room now. I wondered what we’d do with my father. My mother had him cremated in Pennsylvania. Now we have to find somewhere to bury his ashes. We could just leave the
urn on the big oak desk—it’s not like it’s bothering anybody—but knowing my mother, she already has a plot picked out.

  I turned off the light and backtracked to the kitchen. My mother was at the table, staring blankly into a cup of tea. My mom has always looked younger than other moms. She’s in shape and dresses nice and always wears makeup, even when she’s sick, even when she cleans house. But right then, under the bright kitchen light, she looked older, with deep lines etched into her forehead and finer lines radiating from her eyes. Normally my mother’s the most expressive person you’ll ever meet. She’s always smiling or frowning or screwing up her face in a way that makes me angry or makes me laugh, depending on my mood. It was weird seeing her face silent.

  “We’re gonna be okay,” I said.

  My mother looked up, smiling tightly, and blew on her tea. “I know.” She nodded confidently, but her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her.

  I’m sorry I’ve hurt her. Not that the accident was my fault. But her suffering started long before that RV went crashing through the guardrail, because of me. I wanted her to know that her hope wasn’t wasted. It’s what saved me, kept me tethered to this world. She’s the reason I’m still here. “You held my hand the whole time I was in the hospital,” I said. It wasn’t a question but a statement. Another one of those things I just knew.

  My mother put down the teacup. “I never left your side,” she said.

  “We’re gonna be okay,” I said again. “Better than okay.”

  “It’s good to hear you say that.”

  My mother went to bed about an hour ago. By the way, have I said how much I love my new journal? The old one was lost in the accident. It’s probably in a ditch somewhere. Mom got this one in the hospital gift shop. I’m used to writing in those marble compositions, but this is a real book, with a silver Pegasus on the cover and a ribbon to mark your page.

  I’m jonesing for a bag of cheese-filled pretzels. New Ellie’s eating a banana instead. I like fruit, but it doesn’t fill me. I meant what I said in the kitchen. Mom and I can make this work. It’s still our New Beginning. Things will be different without Dad, but maybe, in some way … I almost can’t even write it … it’s better that Mom was the one who survived. I don’t think my father could’ve handled losing her. It’ll be hard, but we’ll make it—my mom and me. The doctor called me a fighter. I get that from her.

  I do have to say it’s weird having him downstairs. His ashes, that is. Part of me wants to go down and sit with him. But I know it’s not my father, just his body reduced to dust. Plus, there’s this other part of me that feels like we’ve said good-bye. We were together after the accident, before I came to in the hospital bed. The doctor said I had one foot in the grave. I know he didn’t mean literally, but what if I did? It would explain this memory that can’t be a memory of me and my father. I know I sound crazy. It’s not like we were romping through fields of wildflowers. No wings or white flowing gowns. No trumpets. No pearl-encrusted gates. We were here. We lived in this house, my father and I. It’s like our souls, or whatever, came here to rest after the accident, until I got called back to this world and he went to wherever it is you go when you die. Heaven, I guess. We’re not really religious, our family. The last time I saw my father, I was in this bed, in this room. He was wearing a suit and tie. His breath smelled like ashes. I remember he kissed me good-bye. I remember he told me he loved me. I remember someone else, too. The shadow girl from the hospital. Memories swoop in, peck at my brain, and then scatter. There’s this sadness hanging over everything. I feel it now, but it’s not my father. It’s her. She wants to tell me something, but this fog in my head is thick and blinding. It’s like following a voice through a flaming forest.

  twenty-one

  This shadow is my friend. No. The connection runs deeper than friendship. She’s here in my room. We’re separated by something clear and smooth and bright. A mirror. A lake. She’s rising toward the surface. Closer. Reaching. Reaching for me. I study my palm as if it holds the answer. Something pricks my heart when I think of her. Our souls converge at the edge of sleep, but I am wide awake. When I’m awake, my body resists, my brain questions it. But not for long. I took one of the pills the doctor prescribed for my mother to help her get some rest.

  twenty-two

  My mother says we’re going through an Adjustment Period. We need routine. It’s like boot camp around here. Up at seven. Showers and beds made by eight. Yogurt and fruit for breakfast. Salad for lunch. Tons and tons of water. I know it’s good for me, but I’m in the bathroom every five minutes.

  When we’re not peeing, cleaning up the yard, or unpacking the house, we go to the bigger small town for groceries and stuff. Sometimes we drive the extra twenty miles to the city. There’s a sad little mall and a home improvement store and a warehouse club and a shiny strip of fast-food places where we never get to eat. We’re there to gather things from The List. Up and down the aisles we go, checking things off: bales of paper products, monster jugs of fat-free dressing, things to fix our house. It needs a lot of work, but right now it’s totally livable. My mother could make a cardboard box homey.

  We’re on a tight schedule because school starts in two weeks—for me and for Mom. Four nights a week she’ll be taking classes for her real estate license. She wants to get it done in six months, before the life insurance money runs out. Next week we’ll bury my father. Tomorrow we’ll go look at cars. Today we painted my mother’s room. I went up on the ladder with a brush and cut in along the top where the wall meets the ceiling, but I kept dripping paint.

  “Shit,” I said, gazing down at the violet splotches on the hardwood floor.

  My mother raised an eyebrow, put the roller in the tray, and wiped up my mess with a rag.

  “Why don’t you let me do that,” she said.

  Climbing down, my bones creaked, my muscles burned. My heart fluttered in my chest like a caged bird. I haven’t been sleeping and my nerves feel raw. It’s the house. It’s my father. It’s the girl. I can’t stop thinking about her. I feel as if she’s just out of reach. I wasn’t planning on telling my mother anything—she has enough to worry about—but she took the brush from me and wiped paint off my nose and asked if I was okay.

  “What do you call remembering things that never happened?” I said.

  She wanted details, but the harder I tried, the less I remembered. Plus, with the radio playing some sappy duet and the summer sun shining through the window, the entire thing sounded crazy. The guy across the road was working on his truck. Someone somewhere was grilling hot dogs. There was no place in the normal for it.

  I touched my forehead. The bruise has faded to a sickly yellow. I watched my mother paint around the light switch and told her about being in this house with my father, how we lived here without her because in … I don’t know what to call it, this alternate reality … she was the one who was dead. It doesn’t make sense, but how else did I know about the broken lamp? The water stain? The stuck window in my room? The flickering light above the bathroom sink?

  My mother has an explanation for everything. She’d known about the lamp, too. She’d talked with the movers and the painters and the real estate agent—talked to everyone on her cell phone in the chair beside my bed in the hospital. She thinks I’m remembering bits of conversation that took root while I was unconscious. “Think about how a sound can worm its way into a dream,” she said. The bathroom light? The water stain? Maybe the accident dislodged memories I’d recorded during the walk-through. It’s how hypnosis works. You see it on TV all the time. People in hypnotic states recalling a license plate number or a tattoo, a key piece of evidence used to crack a case.

  “You’ve been through a lot,” my mother said. “We moved and we lost your father. On a stress scale, that’s off the charts. Add the accident and your brain injury. It’s normal that you should feel strange right now. I feel strange right now.”

  “You’re right,” I said. But she’s not. This is different. I don’
t know how to explain. “Parallel universe” isn’t right. This isn’t science fiction. I’ve been thinking about it. It keeps me up at night. It’s almost as if when you die you go to a rest stop, to refuel or whatever. A layover on the journey between this life and the next. Some kind of cosmic womb, maybe. I know it sounds stupid, but it’s like a gestation period. Babies aren’t just conceived and then delivered. They have to grow and develop before they’re born. Maybe you go through the same process all over again when you die.

  And then there’s the shadow girl. I don’t know how she fits into all this. She was there, too, in that in-between place. Sad and lonely, just like me. I didn’t even bother bringing her up. My mother doesn’t have to know everything. I’ll keep her inside, a secret wish.

  * * *

  When did my mother go to bed? Why did she leave me on the couch? I woke with some stupid infomercial blaring about some stupid product nobody wants. I pressed mute and listened to the house. The insect-like hum of electricity, the pop of floorboards settling, the whine of the fridge turning on. I’d taken a pill at eight, and my body was fused to the cushions. I dragged myself to the kitchen for a piece of fruit, looked in on my father, and went up to my room to wait.

  There it is now, the sound I’ve been praying for. The crackle and hiss of a distant fire. My skin tingles. It’s the girl from the In-Between. A voice, hushed and urgent. It rises, lapping at my ears, my nose, my eyes. I’m burning. Her shadow dances across the wall, reaches out to gather me in her arms. My brain tells me I should be scared of this girl, this … ghost. I fear a lot of things in this world, but not her. I feel nothing but love in her presence. Who is she? Why me? What is her name? Why can’t I remember her name? Her shadow darts out the door. She wants me to follow, but I don’t know how. The MP3 player on my nightstand lights up. A song is playing through the earbuds. I hold my breath and listen. It’s burned into my brain, carved into my heart, that song—The Last Song.