“The air smells so fresh and amazing!” I say.
“What are you doing?” Henry asks. “Are you done?”
I stare down at him. He’s reaching up to take something, but I am not holding anything. I reach Sadie’s hand—my hand—out the window and touch his fingers. It makes me feel electric and alive, and it’s so thrilling that I never want to let go of him.
“I think the neighbor saw me,” Henry says.
“Mr. Powell has terrible vision. My dad says he’s legally blind. Don’t worry. He probably thinks you’re just a dog,” I say with Sadie’s voice.
Henry looks perplexed and finally pulls his hand away. “Is this everything?” he asks. “This might sound weird, but I think Molly took Melka’s bike keys.”
This panics me a little. Even a small shift in his opinion of me could strain our connection and damage his clock. I need to say something to clear my name.
“Let’s not blame Molly for being a little flawed. We all take things,” I say.
Henry looks even more confused than before and arranges the items in his courier bag and begins to zip it shut.
“I feel like I didn’t even know Molly,” Henry says.
My heart sinks. How can he say that? He should not be questioning our connection.
“She was great!” I say. “Some people are more complex than others.”
“I think we should finish this up,” Henry says. “And I wasn’t trying to judge Molly. I really cared about her. She was…” He takes a short, meditative pause. “…great.”
It’s amazing to me that after the moment of my death I can still continue to experience so many terrible things. Henry and I should have had a chance. We should have had the opportunity to fall totally and completely in love. Who decided that one of us had to die?
“She’s probably still great,” I say. “She probably isn’t that far away.”
“Yeah,” Henry says. “Sometimes it feels like she’s still around.”
“Are things okay in there?” my mother calls.
My mother. My mother is on the other side of the door. I speed toward it. After I throw it open, I wrap my arms around her. I smell her. Lilacs. Baby powder. Cinnamon. Dryer sheets. My mother.
“I know it’s hard,” my mother says. “It seems impossible that she’s gone.”
I can’t let go of her. I won’t. I am sobbing. We’re both sobbing. “It’s not fair,” I say. “People should have a chance to say good-bye.”
My mother holds me tightly. “We still have the funeral.”
My funeral. As soon as my mother says these words, I become aware that I’ve made my decision. I can’t cross. I can’t leave her. Leave my family. Leave Sadie. Leave Henry. Leave my life. Never. I won’t do it.
“Okay,” my mother says, lightly pulling away from me. “How much longer do you need? Tate just showed up, and I think it would be nice if we gave him Molly’s invitation to the Sweetheart Ball. She would have wanted that.”
What? I don’t want that. I’ve changed my mind. Henry should be my date. Now that I have clarity and understand how Henry and I feel about each other, the idea of asking Tate seems completely wrong. Because I don’t love Tate. And I need to keep my connection to Henry as strong as possible. This Sweetheart Ball invitation must be corrected.
“I think Molly wanted to ask Henry,” I say.
Using her thumbs, my mother wipes away her tears. “No, she wanted to ask Tate. She wasn’t sure where things were going with Henry. We’d been their neighbors when they were kids and they hadn’t always gotten along.”
Where did that idea come from? We got along fantastically. Until his friend said I had cooties and he stopped playing with me. And then he moved. I shake my head, because I totally disagree. I know better now. “No. I think she saw more of a future with Henry.”
My mother laughs. “You remind me so much of Molly right now. It’s uncanny.”
If only I could tell her that I am Molly. I wish that I could. But it would be unfair to mess with her mind. She’s fragile. Plus, she’d never believe it and end up thinking Sadie was crazy. Nobody would believe this. Even I barely believe it, and I’m the one currently possessing my former best friend’s body.
“I’ll give you a few more minutes,” my mother says. “You shouldn’t stay in here by yourself for too long. People should grieve together.”
“Wait. Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“What?” my mother asks.
It feels too strange to call my father by his first name. I try again. “Where’s Molly’s dad?”
My mother swallows hard. “At the store. Sometimes work helps people mend.”
I am instantly pissed to hear that my father has abandoned my mother. This won’t do. This won’t do at all. My mother walks down the hallway toward the kitchen, and I reenter my room. This first thing I do is hurry to the window so I can look at Henry again. But he’s already gone back to the car. I can hear Tate’s voice in the other room. This operation is supposed to be ending. But I’m not ready. I race to find Sadie’s ring. And the playing cards. And a few other random things I stole. I stuff them into Sadie’s backpack. Except for the ring. I slide that onto her finger. No. That’s stupid. What if my mother notices it? Then Sadie will have to explain that it’s hers. And how will she explain why it’s in my room? I slide it off and put it into her backpack, along with everything else. Then I get out my stationery. It’s not too late to write a few good-bye letters.
“Sadie?” my mother calls. “Tate is here.”
I do not have time to talk with Tate. I need to write my final thoughts down for everybody I love, so I scribble furiously. I write a note to my father. My mother. Aunt Claire. My grandma. Tate. Henry. Ruthann. Joy and Sadie. I want to offer them each a final message. One last thing from me they can keep. I struggle to use my best handwriting. I shove them all into the backpack. Then I write in big letters, Your ring is in the backpack. And I wanted to ask Henry to the Sweetheart Ball.
“Done,” I say.
I can hear my mother walking down the hall.
“Sadie?” she says.
I want to go back into the hallway and hug her again. To touch her and smell her and talk to her. I miss her so much. But I don’t have time.
Wait. I have a problem. I don’t know how to unpossess Sadie.
Hilda should be here still, right? “Hilda,” I say. “I’m finished.” She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t. Because she’s a soul and I’m a person now. Which means I can’t see her. I focus really hard to see if she’s sending me a sign. But my room looks like my room, and I don’t notice anything. I really should have thought of this complication before I possessed Sadie. I glance around and mentally say good-bye to everything, hoping that will do that trick. But it doesn’t. Hilda should have foreseen this issue. Why do souls intending to help me give me such minimal information? I don’t know how to jump out of Sadie. I attempt to undive out of her. Nothing happens. Maybe I need to command my spirit and Sadie’s body to separate using my voice.
“I am finished possessing you,” I say.
Nothing happens.
My mother knocks on my door.
“Thank you for letting me inhabit your body. It is now time to exit,” I say.
Again, nothing.
“I really don’t think it’s good to isolate in Molly’s room,” my mother says.
“You’re definitely right,” I say. “I’m coming.”
But I’m stuck. Inside Sadie. Inside my own sadness. My soul must be cursed. Or maybe all souls are cursed. I turn this idea over a few times in my head as I consider how complicated it is to actually possess your friend. Then an idea strikes me. Maybe I need to return Sadie to the position I found her in when I possessed her. I fall to the floor and reach under my bed. Then I will myself to peel out of her. “Separate. Separate. Separate,” I chant. And it works. I speed away from Sadie’s body with such force that I’m dazed. My mother opens the door and Sadie is on the floor.
/> “Are you okay?” my mother asks. “Are you praying?”
Sadie looks beyond confused. This is so hard to watch. She crawls out from under my bed and sits on my floor.
“Whoa,” she says.
“I know,” my mother says. “Grief hits me in waves too.”
“Yeah,” Sadie says. She reaches down and touches her thighs. “I feel weird.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” my mother says. “Why don’t you get your things and join us in the living room. And don’t forget your shoes.”
Sadie wobbles to her feet and takes hold of my desk chair to support herself. She looks like she doesn’t know where she is, but my mother doesn’t seem to notice. She’s attributing everything to some sort of grief tsunami. After my mother leaves, Sadie wanders to the window and looks for Henry. But he’s gone. Then she walks to my desk and sees what I wrote.
“How come I didn’t notice this before? You wanted to ask Henry to the Sweetheart Ball?” Sadie says. “No. He has a girlfriend. You made the same mistake at the Thirsty Truck. You mean Tate.” She leaves the note on my dresser next to a blush brush.
Then she reads the part about her ring. She stares at the note. “When did you write this?” She looks closer. “It looks like my handwriting.” I watch goose pimples rise on her skin. “I feel so creeped out right now.”
Sadie lets the note flutter to the floor. She looks like she’s afraid of it. I guess that makes sense. It would be weird to read your own handwriting on a note you never wrote.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Sadie grabs her backpack and runs out of my room. In the living room, my mother stands in front of Tate, holding the pint of ice cream for him to take. “Molly really wanted to ask you to the Sweetheart Ball,” she says. “She was going to take this ice cream.”
“I, uh, don’t know what to say,” Tate stammers.
Of course he doesn’t know what to say. It’s completely weird for a dead girl’s mother to invite a guy to a dance on her daughter’s behalf using a dairy product. Don’t do it. Leave things as they are. Watching my mother push the pint toward Tate makes me feel incredibly anxious. Could inviting the wrong guy to a girls’-choice dance injure my lasting connection to the right guy? It seems like it could.
“You don’t have to say anything,” my mother says. “Just take it.”
I watch Tate reach out and accept the ice cream. I can tell by the way he holds it that he’s not sure whether he wants it. We weren’t in love. The invitation must feel like a burden.
Right now, in my driveway, the boy I really love sits in a car holding a bag of items I stole. And my funeral is tomorrow. I should feel like everything is over, but I don’t. Because what just happened in my bedroom has changed everything. If I stay, if I don’t cross, if I maintain a connection to my life, with Hilda’s help I may be able to find a different way to live.
Being dead is a lot of work. Especially when you’re in the middle of a fight with your soul’s intake counselor. Deep down, I know it was rude and inappropriate to command Louise to leave, but I don’t think it was a mistake. Possessing Sadie accomplished many things, and I needed Louise gone in order to do that.
I arrive at the clock room to find the door shut. I’m standing in the hallway that I walked down with all the photographs of my life. The pictures are all gone. They should save the trip down memory lane for right before your funeral. Making you take it immediately after you die is a bad idea, because you’re in so much shock that you miss a lot. Your life flashes by so rapidly that it’s hard to engage with all your memories. It feels like it’s over before it begins.
“Louise?” I call. “Louise?”
“I’m in my office,” she answers from inside the room.
I look at the door. It would be impolite to just travel through it. “Can I come in?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says.
The tone of her voice is completely flat. She hates me. I commanded her to leave and now she wants nothing to do with me. Fine. That’s fine. I don’t need her guidance anymore. I’ve got Hilda. And a few ideas of my own about how things should work. I try to travel through the door, but I can’t move beyond the hallway. I try again. And again. It’s as if I’m hitting a wall. Is this some sort of trick? If Louise doesn’t want me to visit, why doesn’t she just say that?
“I’m stuck,” I say. “I can’t get inside.”
“If you want to get inside, you can get inside,” she says in an I-don’t-care-about-your-fate-anymore voice.
I push again. I try to make my foot enter the door, but it won’t. I attempt another time, with my shoulder. I get so frustrated that I slam my head forward. But there’s this gentle pressure, like a magnet opposing another magnet, keeping me from entering.
“The door is broken,” I say.
“The door is not broken,” Louise says.
I stretch my arms out in front of me to force my way in. Oh my god. Being stuck in the hallway is the least of my problems. I’m starting to glow. Why am I starting to glow?
“Something is happening to me,” I say, with a fair amount of urgency and dread. “I think it’s bad. I’m glowing.”
Then I’m not alone anymore. I’m standing next to Louise. She’s joined me in the hallway. “It’s quite normal for your soul to become illuminated as your funeral approaches. As you cross, a powerful light will fire through you and deliver you to your next phase.”
“I’m going to turn into a light?” I ask. This is one more reason not to cross.
“Molly, has anybody ever told you that you worry about all the wrong things?” Louise says.
I don’t want to have any additional fights with Louise. So I only mildly defend myself.
“I’m concerned that I’m stuck in a hallway and also becoming translucent. Those feel like legitimate issues to worry about.”
Louise looks so bored with me. “You still have one more moment to relive.”
“Yeah,” I say. My mind lands on the Henry kiss. Shouldn’t I just relive that one again? I loved kissing Henry.
“Reliving the same moment twice is a bad idea,” Louise says. “The whole reasoning behind the life moments is that you will gain new perspectives that you can take with you.”
“So nobody cares anymore whether or not I’m having a good time? I die and all my happiness gets snuffed out?” I look down at my legs. Whoa. They are whiter than my arms. “I’m turning into some sort of awful glitter being.”
“You’ve officially worn me down, Molly. Go relive whatever you want to relive. Did you eat a really good piece of pizza once? Track that down. You went to SeaWorld when you were younger, right? Go there again. Maybe you can re-watch the whale act.”
“There’s no need to be condescending,” I say. “I’m a dead teenager. I’m not asking for all your sympathy. But maybe just a bit more.”
“Fine, you’re a dead teenager. And you are always going to be a dead teenager. Forever. But guess what? I’m a dead mother. I’m a dead daughter. I’m a dead dancer. I’m a dead sister. I’m a dead woman, Molly Weller. And I have plenty of sympathy for you. The question is, do you have any for me? Are you able to get outside of yourself long enough to care about the fate of anybody but yourself?”
I stare at her. She’s trying to make me feel terrible, and it’s working. I know she used to be alive too. But she’s had so much more time to get used to it. She’s adjusted to being dead. I’m still wrapping my mind around it.
“I know you’re a good person, Molly, but you don’t challenge yourself enough. You’re very stuck.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.”
“You are literally stuck in this hallway. No soul I’ve ever worked with has gotten stuck in the hallway.”
I look around, first at my glowing body and then at the narrow walls of the space where I’m standing. Louise is right: I do feel stuck. I don’t want to move forward. I don’t want to accept my fate. Every impulse inside of me is to go back to my life. To return to
the people who love me. But I don’t get that option.
“I’m ready to relive my last life moment,” I say.
“SeaWorld? Or pizza?” Louise says with a yawn.
I shake my head. “Something that matters.”
I’m surprised when I hear myself say these words. Because I don’t exactly know what I’ll relive.
Louise looks directly at me and nods. Her face looks incredibly serious. “Everything you learn, you get to take with you, Molly.”
I hope she’s right. I let my mind begin to play possible scenes I could relive, but I’m still not sure. I find myself wanting to stall for more time. “You really didn’t relive any life moments?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. It was a mistake. I should have.”
“You just stayed next to your body?”
“I couldn’t leave it,” she explains.
That’s not the experience I had when I saw my body at all. Maybe this is because Louise was more connected to hers. She was a dancer, so her body was her instrument. And she’d had her body longer than I had mine. I ask a question I’ve wanted to ask for a while. “How old were you when you died?”
“Thirty-four.”
I imagine a child losing a mother. A sister losing a sister. A mother losing her daughter. “That’s wrong.”
She shrugs. “I’ve accepted it.”
Now comes the other question I’ve been holding on to since the moment I learned Louise had once been alive. “How did you die?”
“You don’t have time for this,” Louise says.
“I do. Please tell me.” Suddenly, how life was extinguished from my spirit guide matters a lot to me.
“I died in a fire,” she’s says. “At a hotel. I was on my final tour with my dance company.”
I cover my mouth. This is horrific.
“A lot of us died that night,” she says. “But tragedies happen every day.”
“And they shouldn’t!” I say. Shouldn’t somebody be doing something about this? How can a bunch of dancers get killed in a hotel fire? That’s rotten. Absolutely rotten. That shouldn’t happen. Not only do I want to reject my death outright and be alive again, I want this for Louise too. I want her to be a not-dead mother, a not-dead dancer, a not-dead daughter, a not-dead sister. I’m not saying we should be immortal, but I wish we were given a little more time.
Death of a Kleptomaniac Page 17
