Forever, Frost (Dear Death)

by Amele, Quinn

  “You do not know the meaning of eons, Estella.”

  “Well, I can imagine.”

  “It is not a time you can even imagine,” he counters.

  “Fine! It took a very long time to pick all of it up!”

  His coal eyes narrow, cut as sharp as onyx. “You know not of long times, either.”

  I throw my hands into the air exasperatedly. “Fine! It took, like, an hour! What's your problem?”

  He returns to his paperwork. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I am fine, Estella Rome.”

  You keep saying that. “Whatever. If you say it’s nothing, it's nothing.” I’m beginning to get sick of Nate’s lame answers. He gets to know everything about my life, but not vise versa. I don't even know how many other Nates there are in the world, or if they're even called Nate.

  I don't even know if Nate is his real name!

  I wave my hand to the mass of paperwork left to fill out. “I'll finish the rest later." Gathering up my favorite pens and highlighters, I retreat up the stairs to my bedroom.

  “Where do you think you are going?” he shouts up after me.

  “Home! I have dinner with my parents tonight, remember? Get what's-her-face—Rose—to do the rest!”

  Rose is his other assistant. I've only met her a handful of times. She doesn't really hang around these parts, and to be honest, I'm not quite sure what she does.

  “Rose cannot do these!”

  “Well, then teach her! I bet she’ll enjoy that!” I shove my way into my cold room, pick up my only pair of nice jeans (that I only wore twice this week), and scrounge around for a clean shirt to wear. “You know she likes you, right?” I add as an afterthought.

  “She likes everyone with the opposite reproductive organ.”

  “Or maybe she knows that you like it when she bends over?” I call down.

  I hear Nate scoff, and make his way up the stairs. “Her breasts are not quite what I look at.”

  “Oh, because she has such a lovely face,” I mutter sarcastically, wiggling my jeans up, and pull a black blouse over my head. I take one look in front of the long mirror hanging on my wall, and decide that I look presentable enough to go out to dinner with my family.

  When I get my purse to leave, Nate's leaning against my doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He looks me over with a peculiar expression.

  I look down the front of my blouse. “What? Do I got a stain or something?”

  He doesn't answer.

  “You know, Nate...” I pat his shoulder. He seems to snap out of whatever trance he was in. “You're acting weird.”

  “Imagine that,” he murmurs under his breath sourly, then shoulders off my hand. “Where are you going for dinner?”

  “Why?”

  “I have a right to know.”

  I roll my eyes. “The strip joint at Saint and Barley's.”

  He purses his lips with a no-bullshit look.

  I cave. “Moe's down on Main. If you need me, give me a ring, okay? Though, I'm sure Rose can handle a few measly death certificates. I already did all the influenza ones. The rest should be a breeze. There's a few murders in there, but you can talk her through them.”

  He raises a daunting black eyebrow.

  “Don't give me that. You'll enjoy it. Think of it as a date.” I pause awkwardly. Death on a date. Maybe date is the wrong word, because they won't leave the house. Maybe the right word is night-in. Slumber party?

  Eeek.

  Neither of us moves. I'm kinda waiting for him to step aside, or open the door wider, or go ahead of me down the stairs like he usually does, but he just stands there awkwardly, too, as if he's waiting for me to make the first move.

  I brush past him down the stairs. “I'll be back by 11:00, and if I'm not call the cops.”

  Which he'd never do, but still. You never know. He could start caring.

  Nate follows me down, fingering the bloody stitch at his throat. He always messes with that one for some reason. He can't feel pain, or anything else for that matter—but he fingers it when something bothers him.

  Or when he has something on his mind that he doesn't feel like saying.

  “Oh! Rose said she'll be home at four. Said she wanted to go to the grocery store for some food.” I roll my eyes and snag my purse hanging on a dilapidated hat rack. “She's probably buying all this fat-free crap.”

  He snorts. “Someone should take up her habit.”

  “Some people are happy the way the are.”

  “Are you really happy?”

  I pause. What does that even mean? Am I really happy? "Of course. A guy'll like me for who I am."

  "You are a little dead to be thinking about love."

  "That never stops Rose."

  I leave before he can respond, and catch the next bus to the richer, nicer side of Connection where the desperate housewives live, and where Pedro the Mexican cuts everyone's front lawn for the price of a small child (figuratively, of course).

  Home.

  God, it feels so long since I've been home, but it's only been a few weeks. If living with Nate for three months has taught me anything, its that there's no place like where people actually love you.

  Chapter Four

  No Place Else

  “Oh, look at my big girl!” Mom coos as soon as I step foot inside the fresh yellow two-story house on 218 Cherrywood Lane. She's like a bulldozer, rampaging down the hallway towards me at an unbreakable speed.

  I tense for impact.

  “I haven't seen you in forever!” She throws her arms around me and squeezes me like a boa. My back cracks, and I see spots. Good old Mom. At least I never feel unloved. “Oh, Charlie! Charlie! Stella's here!”

  “Mom—” I begin to whine, but she doesn't even listen.

  She grabs me by the forearm and drags me down the hallway into the kitchen. Dad's sitting at the island counter surfing through his third Sudoku book this month. He barely even acknowledges me when Mom slams me down on the stool beside him.

  “Charlie!” Dad doesn't even look up. Ah, amazing family. “Charlie!”

  Dad snaps his head up and looks around with wide raccoon eyes. I frown. Work must be pushing him. He works as a criminal lawyer for some sort of firm—I really don't know anymore. He got the job after I started working for Nate.

  Speaking of Nate, I wonder if he'll even try to help Rose out with the paperwork. I hope he doesn't try to split himself and do it by himself. Last time he tried, he got so confused about what he did and didn't do I had to re-write all of the certificates by myself.

  I pluck a grape from the fruit bowl and pop it into my mouth. “So when're we going?”

  Mom gathers her purse and checks her makeup in the refrigerator's metallic reflection. “When your brother gets home. He has soccer today.”

  “Oh, of course.” Gage plays soccer? Since when?

  “And your mother invited Vic, too,” Dad rumbles and returns to his Sudoku.

  I blanch. “Vic? Why'd you invite Vic?”

  Mom flips back a puff of gray-brown hair. “Well, he is your best friend, and you are hardly ever home from college..."

  “But isn't Vic working?”

  “He took tonight off. Besides, he misses you. The Moonstruck isn't the same without you, apparently." She busies herself applying rose-red lipstick in the refrigerator's hazy metallic reflection. "You need to have some fun, being so busy at college all the time! How are your classes? Are your professors being nice?"

  "Of course," I say, and it scares me how easy lying is becoming. Like there's another me who might actually be at college taking these classes. "There's this one professor who keeps handing out these terrible assignments and—"

  "So it sounds like you need a little fun," she interrupts.

  No, what I need is a break. A break from Nate.

  I almost ask to move in with them again—just for a week of course, what would be fall break—but something stops me.

  Dad whoops tri
umphantly when he finishes the expert Sudoku puzzle.

  Around six-thirty, Gage comes tramping in, smelling of boy-sweat and grass. He tosses his shoes beside the door on the way in, and doesn't even say hey to his only sister before he goes up to take a shower. Don't I feel loved. Here I am, the one who is sacrificing her life (afterlife really), to keep his heart ticking, and not even a “Hiyya sis, how's your crummy life?”

  Nope.

  Not that it really surprises me.

  To be fair, Gage and I haven't been on good terms since I went off to "college." I think he knows something's up, but he isn't sure what, and because I won't tell him he seemed to stop caring.

  Mom whispers conspiratorially, “Hon, did you know Gage's got a little miss someone?”

  I give a start. “He what?”

  “Yes ma'am!” She gives me a sly wink and prods, “You better get busy!”

  I roll the grape between my teeth and crush it. “No thanks, I'm fine.”

  “But hon—”

  “I'm fine, Mom. I'm cool."

  Dad agrees with me one hundred and ten percent. Leave it to Dad to think that his Little Miss Sunshine should never grow up and date. Especially not after...well, not after Jack.

  If only they knew how desperately my heart argued with my mind. Not that it matters. I'm dead. Who'd love a dead girl?

  But Mom won't let up. "After Jack, hon, you need to move on. It'll be healthy for you. In fact, I know this great boy at the butcher's shop..."

  The worst part is, they don't remember accusing me of Jack's disappearance. They don't remember anything that happened that night. It's as if the entire episode was wiped from their memories. Because, if they had remembered, they would never have mentioned Jack again.

  They would've simply let it rest.

  I sigh, putting my head in my hands, and listen as the old shower squeals hot water through the pipes. Nate's house doesn't have hot water. Nate's house doesn't have an amazing heater. Nate's house doesn't have a pantry stock-full of delectable junk food that could give me a heart attack.

  Nate's house has work. And work. And more work. Nate's house has depression and stacks of papers as tall as skyscrapers.

  Nate's house, quite ironically, is dead.

  Gage graces us with his presents at twenty after seven—a full fifty minutes after wandering through the front door—in a ragtag long-sleeved shirt with the saying T.G. for M.E. stamped across it in annoying red letters. He stuffs a black beanie over his shock of red hair—it's really the only thing Gage and I have in common anymore—and lazily makes his way into the kitchen.

  By now, Mom's reapplying her makeup in the refrigerator's reflection, and I'm out of patience. I told Nate I'd be home by eleven, and if Gage makes me miss out on my one night of freedom, I'm going to kick his ass no matter how punk he wants to be. Speaking of punk, it's kind of funny how my little brother changed over the course of three months from being a clean-cut polo-wearing prep to a slightly-less gothic version of... well, me. All I need now is for him to go all black-eyeliner.

  No, never mind.

  Nate's already too much to handle.

  "Hi Gage," I greet with my normal vigor, trying not to seem too happy to see him—gothic emo self and all.

  "'Sup," he mutters in reply and scoops a piece of hair out of his eyes. Does he know what a barber shop is anymore? Scissors, even? It's a wonder how he has a girlfriend. "Finally decided to come home, huh?"

  "Judge's orders," I joke. "So, you're playing soccer now?"

  He shrugs. Do all guys think that shrugging is a sufficient answer?

  "Sounds pretty neat. You any good?"

  Again, he shrugs.

  He's worse than Nate is.

  An awkward silence eats at the kitchen as Gage goes around me to sit at the counter opposite of Dad—as far from me as possible.

  Mom clasps her hands together. "Now we're just waiting for Vic!"

  As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

  "I'll get it!" I jump off the stool to the front door, more than happy to get away from the silence. I hear enough of that at home. I don't realize how happy I am to see Vic until I wrench open the door and he gives me an all-teeth smile. "Vic!"

  "Hello, love."

  Vic is one of those men who you've always wanted to kiss but never quite had the gumption. He has a boyish charm about himself that makes him look ageless and twenty-five at the same time, although he's no older than I am. His dirty blond hair is windswept back to show a charming face with big green eyes and a straight nose. He must've decided to dress up tonight, because I haven't seen him in a button-up shirt since high school graduation, but the dark green makes his eyes pop all the more. There is a bouquet of wildflowers in his right hand.

  My heart melts.

  Before he has a chance to hand me the bouquet, I pounce him with a hug. He laughs. God, how many weeks has it been since I've heard anyone laugh?

  "Calm down, love! No need to rush things," he says into my hair. He smells like summer evenings, smooth and spicy.

  "Thanks for coming."

  "I will always come, love." He hands me the bouquet.

  I smell one of the purple flowers and hum with content. There's just something invigorating about wildflowers in the dead of winter, and Vic knows how much I love wildflowers.

  He kisses my cheek. "How's college?"

  My heart wilts a little, and I refuse to look up from my bouquet as I answer. I wish I could tell him the truth. He's the only one I can't seem to lie to. "Fine. It's all fine." Now I'm sounding like Nate. Then I kick myself for thinking about Nate. Tonight is supposed to be Nate-free. "Gosh, I'm starving. You starving?"

  Vic leans sideways to look over my shoulder. "Your family set on Moe's?"

  "Sadly."

  A mischievous spark lights in his eyes. I grin. We're on the same brainwave.

  Quickly, I grab my coat from the coat rack and quietly shut the front door behind me. He takes my hand that's not holding wildflowers and we're off, across the lawn and down the sidewalk to his old '87 Mustang convertible.

  To freedom—if only for a few hours.

  I really should spend this time with my family. I know I should. But I'd really rather spend the time with Vic.

  My parents will forgive me. Hell, they probably won't even care. Mom hates going out to dinner and Dad would rather sit home and exercise his brain on Sudoku and Nintendo DS Brain Academy.

  And Gage? Gage would rather me not be there, that much I can tell.

  Besides, sometimes life is worth enjoying without your family.

  Vic opens the passenger door for me on his sweep around the convertible. I hop in, put the bouquet on the dashboard, and finish putting on my jacket. I shiver and dig for my mittens in the pockets. When the weatherman said it was going to freeze tonight, he wasn't kidding. I'd hate to be at Nate's right now without a working heater.

  A part of me feels sorry for Rose, cooped up in that dark, aged house without a heater, but then I remember how she sneers at my food in the fridge, and I suddenly forget to feel sorry at all.

  Besides, why should I feel sorry for anyone on my three-hour holiday? She totally wouldn't feel sorry for me.

  "Buckle up, love." Vic advises, reaching over me, and buckles me in. I blush as he grins. "I couldn't resist. Did I just graze your boob?"

  "I think you may have."

  "Excellent. So, where would you want to go tonight?"

  "Milkshake Mike's?"

  "Mmmh, cold ice cream on a frigid night. Are you sure you aren't dead?" he laughs at his own joke.

  I stiffen. "Maybe coffee..."

  Ten minutes later, Vic eases into a parking spot beside Cool Beans Coffee, and reaches over me to open my door. "Up and at 'em, love. Let's grab some..." he trails off, staring off into the distance.

  "What?" I turn to see what's gotten his attention.

  It's a woman—a beautiful young woman with jet-black hair and dark blonde undertones framing her exotically vampire-white face
. She might be European, or Russian.

  More than likely Russian. The nose is a dead giveaway.

  She's fashioning a burgundy striped vest, a black turtleneck, and holey jeans, but damn does she pull it off better than I ever could. She turns her head towards us, as if she can sense us staring, and winks.

  Vic retracts back into his seat. "I think I just fell in love."

  "I think I did, too," I reply.

  Then she smiles as if she—what? Hears us?—and flips back her hair. We watch her cross the street as a truck passes, but when it does, she doesn't appear on the other side. Like she vanished completely.

  Vic blinks. "Did we really see that?"

  Hesitantly, I reply, "I think so?"

  We get out of the car, and he holds the door open for me into Cool Beans. "Did we see a ghost?"

  I try not to laugh. Ghosts? I haven't seen a single ghost in my three months of work. As far as I know, they don't exist. They're figments of the imagination. I think the closest things to a ghost are the other pieces of Nate scattered around. Absently, I wonder what he would be like whole.

  Probably a hell of a lot worse than he is now, I think cryptically, trying not to imagine my Nate times a billion.

  "I think she just popped into the boutique across the street and we didn't see it," I finally say, patting his shoulder in a there-there way.

  He nods. "You're right, love. Besides, we both wouldn't see a ghost..."

  "True."

  The barista looks up from her book as we come up, and I order a vanilla latte, Vic a mocha soy latte. He looks familiar, but I brush it off, thinking he'd been a customer at The Moonstruck a few times. Everyone begins to look familiar when you work at the only music venue in town.

  Worked, I correct myself.

  We get our drinks and take the empty table by the window. We've always gotten window seats. It's easier to watch people from the window, and I like to think that passerbyers window-shop me.

  "So how's college?" Vic asks. "Liking your professors this semester?"

  I shrug, concentrating on the whipped cream and cinnamon bobbing above my latte. I try to pick out an animal, but all I can see is a skull and crossbones. "It's going great," I say with a lump forming in my throat. "I love my professors. There's this one screenwriting profes—"