Death of a Kleptomaniac

by Kristen Tracy

  Before Henry finishes playing, Louise leans down and tells me, “Molly, I’ve got to leave now. I can’t be in the room when you cross.”

  “Wait. So I will be crossing?” I ask. “You made it sound like I wouldn’t be.”

  I want to focus on Henry’s song; I want to watch the looks on people’s faces as they read their notes. So much is happening.

  “Molly, soon you are going to be presented with a door.”

  Every word Louise says feels important. But I can’t stop myself from interrupting her. “Will I see my parents again? Will I get to fall in love with Henry and actually be able to be with him?”

  The music is over. I’ve missed almost all of it.

  “I can’t answer those questions,” Louise says. “You’ll need to cross and find your way. You’ll need to go through your door.”

  I nod. I sense that I’m teetering on the brink of finality. Everything is going to change in a matter of minutes.

  “Molly, because of your mistake, you won’t be alone. The uncrossed soul will be in the room with you. They tend to hide, disguised as mourners.”

  “Well, that’s stupid. I’ll know all the mourners.”

  “You won’t be able to recognize the uncrossed soul. When the door appears, the soul will try to beat you to the portal. If it gets there first, you won’t be crossing.”

  “Shut up. It’s like a race? That’s so arbitrary.”

  “You made it that way.”

  “Where in the room do the portals appear?”

  “It’s always different.”

  “At what point in the funeral will it arrive?”

  “It varies with each service.”

  “I thought you said it was toward the end.”

  “That’s when it didn’t matter. I wanted you to sit back and enjoy what people had to say. I didn’t want you to be stressed out about looking for the door.”

  “But now you want me to be stressed out?”

  “Molly, be alert. You’ve got to get there first.”

  Louise is fading away.

  “Don’t go. I feel so overwhelmed. So unsure.”

  Joy bursts into tears. She’s reading my note. What did I write? I thought it was nice. I move closer to her and look at it.

  Joy,

  You are a great friend. Forget our fight at the mall; it doesn’t matter. You know what matters: this quote by Mae West: “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.”

  Friends forever!

  Love, Molly

  “She was so funny,” Joy whispers.

  Sadie hugs her.

  And now my funeral is really under way. I hear my father say, “It’s time to close the casket.”

  I thought my casket would be left open for the service. But that’s not the case. I watch as the funeral worker lowers the lid. That’s it. My body will never see light again.

  My parents commence sobbing, and it’s likely the last time I’ll witness it. Another funeral worker stands to the side of my casket, with his hands clasped over his fly. I think it’s his default position.

  “I can’t imagine our lives without her,” my father says.

  My mother rubs his back. “Stop,” she says. “We can’t fall apart.”

  “I think she’d want me to be this sad,” my father says.

  My mother nods.

  But I can’t keep my attention focused solely on them. I need to find Hilda. Why did I even invite her to appear? At first, I try to blame Louise. If only she had told me what to do. But then I realize I’m all wrong. I should have been smart enough to know what to do. I should have thought about it. I should have considered the risks. This is my fault. I did a stupid thing. I’m the one who has to correct it.

  I bet Hilda can run pretty fast. I wonder whether, if we both arrive at the door at the same exact time, I’ll have to fight another soul. I don’t want to wrestle Hilda for my spot in the afterlife. How would two souls even do that? We’re both basically like air. Is Hilda going to be able to punch me? Will I be able to pull her hair? Can a soul put another soul in a sleeper hold?

  Maybe Hilda can morph her face and look like someone else. Or maybe she can morph her entire body. I’m suddenly drawn to investigate a conspicuous rubber-tree plant propped in the corner.

  Organ music begins.

  My attention is pulled to Ruthann. She’s reading the note I wrote her.

  I don’t know what you’ve lost in life, or who has hurt you, but it’s clear to me that you take your pain out on others. I wish you could see that acting the way you do is a choice. We all have choices. You know, you could choose to be a better person.…

  She doesn’t appear to finish reading the note and rips the paper into tiny pieces.

  “She never knew me that well,” she mumbles. “What kind of person writes a note like this and dies?”

  Some of the pieces tumble to the floor. It’s going to take a lot to change Ruthann Culpepper from the person she is to the person she could be. I hope she can handle what life throws her way.

  At this moment, I feel certain about who I was. As people read the notes, Molly Weller’s true self is revealed. Not just to them, but to me too. I understand myself. I wasn’t just a bad friend. Or a kleptomaniac. Or a high school junior hung up on becoming popular.

  The last years of my life were not a cakewalk. I wasn’t moving effortlessly from point A to point B. Mine was a stressful existence. But I was surviving. To live inside your imperfect skin and consistently find ways to deal with pain and disappointment is no easy task. But I wasn’t a failure. I see that now. Not only do I feel like I know who I was, I feel like I know where I’m going.

  Wait. I’m wrong. I have no idea where I’m going. If I go through the door, where will I arrive when I cross? I’m scanning the faces of all the people. Hilda could easily be passing herself off as a parent of one of my classmates. I don’t know what everybody’s freaking parent looks like.

  Where will I go? Seriously, where will I go?

  I catch Aunt Claire reading her note. She’s in the front row.

  You are wonderful and I love you. Because of you and your stories I always wanted to visit every county in Ireland. And take out the maximum level of insurance on my rental car. Who knew it would be the driver’s fault if a tour bus sideswiped you on a mountain pass near Kenmare and ripped off your side mirror and back bumper?

  My aunt weeps over the fact that I’ll never eat fish and chips at a café in Kinsale, or kiss the Blarney Stone in County Cork.

  My grandma is preoccupied by her own note.

  Thanks for teaching me how to make apple dumplings. I never thought that that recipe would help me land a catch half as good as Grandpa.

  She dabs at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. She looks around like she’s wondering whether or not my grandpa is here. I don’t think he is. I’ve never met him. He died before I was born, but I get the sense that he moved on and is now in the middle of doing something important.

  Ruthann looks very alone. She’s sitting next to Mr. Dunkley, my fifth grade teacher, and his gray-haired wife, but that only makes her appear more isolated. Sort of like a loser. But I guess I shouldn’t judge people. Especially at my funeral.

  I take one last look at her. My torn note has fallen around her seat like snow. I have done all I can for her.

  Vice Principal Oswald stands behind the white podium. Two large crystal vases of lilies flank both sides of her.

  “I first met Molly Weller when she was in the third grade. I’d been invited to visit her elementary school as a judge for a science fair. I remember Molly because I remember her project. She created an ant race.”

  A few people in the crowd laugh. I barely remember this.

  “She wanted to combine the ingenuity of the ant farm with the pizzazz of the rat maze. The outcome was the ant maze.”

  More light laughter.

  “After hearing on the Discovery Channel that an ant colony had the greatest collection of int
elligence on the planet—‘Greater than that of man or the blue whale,’ she pointed out—Molly wanted to see how quickly a gathering of ants could navigate a maze.”

  A lot more laughter.

  “The prize she offered the successful ant was a piece of popcorn.”

  I’m not sure I like this speech. She’s making me sound like an extremely dopey third grader.

  “She kept the ants in a sandwich bag. Not all of them survived the trip to school. To Molly’s amazement, upon being placed in the box, the ants refused to follow the maze walls. Instead, they climbed them. A good many escaped to the project on the neighboring table, a collection of various liquids that the student was claiming could melt cotton candy quicker than human saliva could.”

  The crowd is really laughing now. Even my parents are smiling a little.

  “Within a minute, there wasn’t a single ant left on the top of Molly’s desk. I told her not to feel bad about her project, to which she replied, ‘Oh, I don’t. I think the results affirm my theory. Ants are the only animal smart enough to escape the maze.’”

  People continue to laugh. The only person I can see who isn’t laughing is that stupid mortuary worker standing beside my casket. But I guess that makes sense. To work with dead bodies, you must have a totally different sense of humor from the rest of humanity.

  “In closing, I want to say that I remember Molly Weller as a unique thinker. I was saddened to hear about her tragic death. The young should never die. But Molly and her sense of humor are not lost; they are not gone. I believe she can be with us always, as long as we keep her in our thoughts. In that way, she will live on. Molly herself has escaped the maze.”

  The laughter has given way to sobs. I look at my parents. I look at Henry. It’s so clear now. I’d been worried about my fate, but what you love is your fate. I wish I could have known that before I invited Hilda to appear. Why am I such a slow learner? Wherever she is in the room, she’s doing an excellent job of blending in. Mrs. Oswald walks to her chair. I watch as my aunt Claire gets up to give a speech. She grabs on to the podium with both hands. Then her nerves get the better of her, and out of nowhere she starts to giggle. Her face turns red.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, as she turns her head to one side.

  I think people assume that she’s breaking down, not cracking up. I move toward her. Maybe my soul can bring her back to her senses. If I stand next to her, at least I’ll be able to read her speech. It may be the only way I’ll get to know what it says.

  As I move out of the corner, I notice that the slant of light on the floor next to Aunt Claire is growing. It’s the door. Oh my god. I rush toward it. I stand right in front of it. This is going to be so easy. My portal is right here. My grandmother stands up and tries to hand Aunt Claire a glass of water.

  That’s when I realize that I may be doomed. Climbing the two shallow stairs that lead to the speaking platform, my grandmother trips and slams right into the mortuary worker. But somehow, she doesn’t make contact. She falls through him and lands on top of my casket. My casket is on wheels and rolls a little bit. My grandmother spills the water all over the flowers. That’s not so bad. It will keep them alive longer.

  “No,” I tell Hilda. She looks at me and winks. Then hovers next to my grandma.

  For some reason, she continues to pretend not to be Hilda. Clearly, the worker isn’t a flesh-and-blood person; he’s a soul.

  “This is my door,” I say.

  Hilda doesn’t respond. She keeps standing beside my casket, in the guise of mortuary worker. I stay where I am. It’s exactly like waiting for an elevator to arrive. The door is almost fully outlined now. I’m waiting to see the knob. Aunt Claire has helped my grandma back to her seat and gathered her thoughts.

  “When I think of Molly, I’m struck by the fact that she had her whole life ahead of her,” Aunt Claire says to the mourners.

  Where is the doorknob?

  “I think you’re standing on the wrong side,” the mortuary worker (aka Hilda) says.

  “Nice try, Hilda.”

  Like I’m going to fall for that.

  “Who’s Hilda? I’m your grandpa Jean. I’m going to help you cross.”

  A gray-haired woman runs through Aunt Claire. It’s Mr. Dunkley’s wife. What is she doing? Now she’s standing on the other side of the door.

  “Hurry, Molly,” my grandpa yells.

  I race around the door. Does Mr. Dunkley even have a wife? It’s Hilda, and she has her arm outstretched and is almost touching the knob.

  “This is my destiny,” I yell. “It’s meant for me.”

  “Not if I get there first,” Hilda says. “I’m sick of being uncrossed.”

  She tries to shove me, but her arms pass through me. I’m one hundred percent soul. But when I push Hilda’s shoulder, she tumbles. I’ve made contact with the small amount of her that she’s retrained to be a body. She falls on the floor, her legs akimbo beneath my casket.

  “Grandpa, hold her.”

  “I’ve never been to a funeral where I’ve had to do this,” he says.

  He grabs her by the foot.

  “Let go!” Hilda cries.

  “Molly Weller knew who she was and where she was going,” Aunt Claire says. “I’m sure of that.”

  I reach out and touch the door. My grandfather, whom I’ve never met until this awkward moment, takes my hand. But I can’t cross yet. Not without looking at everyone I love one final time. The last person I glimpse is Henry. Sad, geeky, talented Henry. I will miss that future. So much.

  “You lead,” my grandpa says. “That’s how it’s done.”

  Behind us, Hilda is wailing about how unfair things are, about how she deserves to finally cross.

  “It’s my turn!” she hollers. “My turn!”

  I pull open the door and walk toward a bright light. I assume my grandpa is behind me. But as I walk toward this clean nothingness, I feel myself growing heavy. It’s similar to the sensation of being alive.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  But nobody is with me anymore. Not my parents, the twins, my friends, Henry. Oh, Henry. I’m walking alone. My mind is spinning with possibilities. What if this is just a dream? What if I’ve been in a coma? Or what if I’m headed to Heaven?

  All three things feel equally possible.

  The only thing I’m certain of is that I’m walking toward my destiny. That’s what I know for sure. Where am I going? How will I know when I get there? In a strange way, this moment is a lot like life. It’s what I was doing every day before my accident.

  I keep stepping forward, a little uncertain, moving toward something unknown. I’m almost excited. The white world around me starts turning faster and faster, and I’m thrilled. There’s light. And more light. How will I know when I’ve arrived? A pin pricks me. I close my eyes. I open them. I am here. But where? I don’t know. But I am here. I am. I feel lucky. I feel happy. I feel like I’m alive.

  I could not have finished this book without the support of several friends. Thank you, Stacey Kade, Cory Grimminck, Regina Marler, Joen Madonna, Ulla Frederiksen, Kristin Scheel, and Brian Evenson. You improve everything. I also need to thank Emily Schultz, who supported this book from the very beginning. I owe you. There were also several people who provided timely inspiration. Thanks to Tobias Wolff for giving me a great jazz CD. And thanks to Patrick Wolff for thoroughly answering my many saxophone questions.

  And thank you to all the hardworking and wonderful people at Disney-Hyperion. Thank you, Catherine Onder, my super-smart editor, for making this book the best version of itself. And thank you, Jennifer Corcoran and Hallie Patterson, for your support and kindness and problem-solving abilities. And thanks to Christian Trimmer, Dina Sherman, Nellie Kurtzman, and Stephanie Lurie for all the support behind the scenes. And lastly, I want to thank Hayley Wagreich, for catching everything I missed. I am incredibly happy this book found such a wonderful home.

  isten Tracy, Death of a Kleptomaniac