Worlds Between

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  Carlos tilts his head and sighs deeply. For a split second I think he’s admiring her ass, then I realize his eyes are laser fixed on her designer handbag and I chuckle out loud. Everyone in line turns to stare at me. I can actually feel the blood rush into my face. Carlos turns, blocking me from view and I can breathe again. He fiddles with my scarf, twisting it and tucking it until it’s sitting perfectly against my small chest.

  “I really don’t want to do this.”

  Carlos tugs on my earlobe. “Don’t worry Zoe Bowie, I’m here.”

  I shake my head. “Let me rephrase. I’m not doing this. I don’t even like half of these people. Hell, I didn’t like Logan when he was alive, and I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I miss him now that he’s gone.” I swallow. Imagining myself sitting in one of those black folding chairs, listening to crying girl after crying girl get up there and whine about what a great person he was and how he changed their lives. I throw up a little just thinking about it. “If my mom asks where I went, tell her I had a nervous breakdown and had to go home.”

  He smiles deviously. “I’ll tell her that you, being the delicate flower you are, were overcome with grief and had to excuse yourself to the fainting couch,” He says in a thick southern accent.

  “Why thank you Miss Scarlett.”

  I can’t help but grin. I know it’s been his dream to play the lead in the local theater company’s production of Gone with the Wind since he was five. My remark earns me a kissy face and a wave as he turns to go inside.

  I’m all ready to make a break for it, when I get a glimpse of something out the corner of my eye. As I turn to get a better look, I see a boy walking away and into the coat closet at the other end of the hall. I don’t know why I follow him, but my feet are moving before I can fully rationalize it to myself. My boot heels clack on the stone tile floors and sounding like a heartbeat, slow and steady. I run my fingertips along the beige walls as I pass by what I hope is the casket showroom and not some sort of demented waiting room for whoever’s next in line for viewing, then a room full of comfy looking floral chairs, and finally an office. At the very end of the hall, the door to the coat room is ajar. As I reach out and push it open, an army of shivers march up my back.

  If this was a horror movie, this is the part where I would die.

  As soon as I step inside the door, the boy turns and my heart sinks into my feet. For a minute, I just stand there, staring at him like an idiot. All I can feel is icy cold air from the vent in the ceiling blowing down on me, chilling me to my core. Then the anger flows in, replacing the cold shock with a flush of heat. I reach behind me and slam the door shut.

  “What is your freaking damage, Logan?”

  He stares at me, his green eyes wide. “Excuse me?”

  My eyes narrow. I know what’s going on here. “I’m being punked, aren’t I? This is some stupid reality TV show or something right?”

  He just stands there looking confused.

  “Does your family know you’re alive? I mean, seriously, if this is some dumb publicity stunt for the reporters out front…” I’m so angry I don’t even know what to say. Logan has always been a bit of an attention whore, but this is a new low. My hands are balled onto fists at my hips. “Say something, Logan. Please. Find the magic words to make this whole mess not be the most horrible thing a human being has ever done in their entire life, ever.”

  “Zoe?” his voice is soft and he has a dumb half grin on his face that I remember from when we were kids. I have a desperate urge to remove it with my fist. “What are you talking about?”

  Oh, sure. Like I’m the crazy one. “You are a giant douche hammer, you know that? I mean, what is this? Some idiotic attempt to get extra credit in English class? Tom Sawyer 101? I mean, those people think you’re dead! We all thought…” I trail off again, the words jumbling in my brain before I can get them out. I’m so angry I’m bordering on incoherent. My pulse is racing and my whole face feels hot. I need to calm myself before I completely lose it. I take a deep breath, hold it for a second, and then release it slowly.

  He takes a step toward me, tilting his head curiously. “You can see me?”

  “Okay, that’s it. I’m not falling for this…whatever this is. I’m going to march in there and tell your mother right now.”

  He straightens, a cocky grin spreading across his face. That’s a look I’m more used to seeing on him recently. “You’re going to go tell my mommy on me? What, are we five again?”

  I grunt and flip him off, throwing the door open.

  “Wait!” I hear him call behind me but I keep going. Inside the main room his parents have taken seats next to Kaylee in the front row. Ignoring the minister speaking from the pulpit I stride up the center aisle, stomping angrily. I’m almost to the front when I realize something. The dark brown casket is open. My pace slows and I see Logan’s face, his eyes are closed like he’s sleeping inside the white satin lined box. I spin, looking behind me, but he’s gone. I spin back around and take the final steps to the coffin, clutching the sides for support.

  Up close, I’m not sure what I’m seeing. He looks kinda puffy and waxy. Maybe that’s how he’s doing it. Maybe it’s some kind of wax dummy. I reach out to touch his face when a sob from behind me snaps me out of it. Two pairs of arms grab me from either side, Carlos on my left and my mother on my right. They quickly usher me back down the aisle to a chorus of sobs and camera snaps. I’m shaking. Around me there is a thick white fog clouding the very edges of my vision.

  “Mom?” I ask.

  She’s soothing me, patting my hair and rubbing my back. Outside they lead me to the car amidst more cameras clicking. I can barely walk. My knees are like Jell-O and I feel like I’m breathing through a straw. I gasp and the fog gets worse. I feel Carlos slip me into the passenger seat of mom’s old Camry then he thrusts a bottle of cold, sweaty water in my hand.

  “Are you okay Zoe?” My mother asks, kneeling in front of me.

  She has her nurse face on and I know if I say the wrong thing, I’m going to end up spending the night in the hospital.

  “I think she’s in shock,” Carlos says, patting my hand gently. I pull it away.

  “Not helping, Carlos.” I look over at my mother who is clearly on the edge of panic. “I’m fine. Just, overwhelmed. Can we just go home?” She nods, patting my knee before moving to the other side of the car. Carlos gently turns me in my seat, trying to help me buckle. Behind him, on the steps to the funeral home, Logan is standing in the sunlight. Only, the reporters are all ignoring him.

  I grab Carlos by the lapel and jerk my head towards the stairs.

  “Do you see that?”

  He turns and looks over his shoulder. “What?”

  “Do you see anyone on the steps?”

  He frowns, “No. Why?”

  I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “Never mind. I think my breakfast grape juice fermented. I’m gonna go home and lay down for a bit.”

  He shuts the door and I lean out the window to give him a peck on the cheek.

  “Take care, sweetie. Call me later when you are feeling better.”

  I tug my hair out of the bun and let it fall around my shoulders. A familiar ache is growing inside my skull and I know if I leave it in, it’ll only make it worse. “I will.”

  He steps back onto the curb and we speed off. I don’t open my eyes all the way home, I just let the cool wind blow knots into my hair and try not to think of the thousands of pictures of me freaking out coffin-side that are hitting the web as we speak, or of Logan’s face in that coffin.

  I fail on both counts.

  ***

  By the time I open my eyes, the sun is shining full strength through my bedroom window. Somehow I’ve made it out of my clothes and into my soft blue pajama pants and grey tank top. I groan, rolling over and glancing at the alarm clock. The flashing red 4:13 makes me jerk up, tossing off the warm green comforter and leaping to my feet. I open my door, but the house is complete
ly silent. A piece of paper is taped to my door.

  Zoe-

  Working a double shift. Call me if you aren’t feeling better soon. Don’t forget to pick up what you need for school!

  Love,

  Mom

  I rip the paper off the door and wad it into a ball, tossing it over my shoulder as I step into the hallway. The first day of school is in less than a week, but I almost can’t bring myself to think of it. It’s not that I hate school, per-se, but it’s tedious and boring. Not even my advanced classes really challenge me, and let’s face it, I’m probably going to spend the bulk of the year in the library anyway—which I’d rather do without a bunch of other people annoying me. I’m supposed to be there tomorrow since I volunteered to help set up for back to school night, but I’m actually debating blowing it off.

  Then a pang of guilt sets in and I think better of it.

  Mrs. Jackson had been kind enough to let me spend most of my summer there, helping out at times, or just devouring the new books. As I’m rummaging through nearly barren cabinets my cell rings on the counter. Putting on the Ritz, Carlos’s ring tone, echoes through the house. I snatch it up.

  “Hey Carlos. What’s up?”

  “Not much. How are you feeling? I called earlier but your mom answered. She said you were still sleeping.”

  I stifle a yawn. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I don’t know what happened. Panic attack or something?”

  Yesterday’s events seem so surreal, I can’t make sense of any of it. I suppose grief does weird things to the body.

  “As long as you are feeling better now.” His voice is hesitant, like he’s waiting to gauge my reaction.

  I cringe and drop the bag of Cheetos I’m holding as I remember my scene at the viewing.

  “Oh shit. How bad is it?”

  There is a short pause at the other end of the line. “Not terrible. Though you started quite a trend. About 30 girls threw themselves on the coffin and wept like idiots after you left.”

  I sigh as relief settles into my chest, releasing the tension. “Well, I suppose that’s good at least. Better to be considered an attention whore than a lunatic, right? Any viral videos yet?”

  “A few of the other girls posted pics, but none of you.”

  I frown and switch the phone to my other ear.

  “I can hear you frowning, Zoe.”

  Now I grin. He knows me so well.

  “Would you really rather be a crazy, attention grabbing, wannabe?”

  I pull open the bag and stuff a cheesy poof in my mouth, crunching on it as I answer.

  “Better than being invisible. I could strip naked and ride a horse down the hall in Lady Godiva style and no one would even notice.”

  I can hear him laughing. “Oh, honey, you don’t have the figure for nudity.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks for that.”

  “Well, if you’re quite done with the pity party, I could use some help picking out my back to school wardrobe. I’m driving to the city to hit Bloomies. Wanna join?”

  “When are you going to get over your crush on the hot guy at the Bloomingdales counter?”

  He huffs, “When he quits looking so good in a pair of slacks. Come on, don’t crap out on me. If I go alone he will think I’m stalking him.”

  “You are stalking him,” I say around another Cheeto.

  “Well, yeah, but I don’t want him to know that I’m stalking him.”

  I shake my head and take my bag of powered cheese awesomeness back to my room. “Sorry. You’ll just have to go with your plastic.”

  “Fine. I will let my credit card be my guide. But you owe me one.”

  “Put it on my tab,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face as I end the call.

  Brimstone, my lean black kitty, leaps onto my desk and demands affection the way only cats can.

  “Well, Brim. We both knew this day was coming. Today is the day I stay in my pajamas and do nothing but glut myself on Cheetos and read books.” I say it as if it’s the first time that it’s ever happened rather than being a semi-regular occurrence.

  She rubs her head against me, unimpressed by my slothful declaration. I grab my dog-eared copy of The Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe and settle in. It’s a bit darker than what I’ve been reading lately, but it’s by far one of my favorites. As I curl into my comfy old reading chair, Brim leaps up and curls into a ball on my lap. Soon I’m lost in the pages. I don’t look up again until a clap of thunder shakes the house. Carefully moving Brim onto my bed I pull back my sheer curtains. The sky is dark and droplets of rain cover the glass.

  I glance at the clock. It’s almost seven now and my stomach growls, taking advantage of the break in my reading to remind me that one can’t live on Cheetos alone. Setting my book beside the still sleeping cat I head back to the kitchen. The kitchen light flickers but manages to stay on. I grab the long black flashlight from the junk drawer, just in case. A flash of light bursts through the windows over the kitchen sink followed quickly by a roll of thunder so loud that the tiny hairs on the back of my neck jump to attention. I shiver and pour myself a glass of milk and toss a few slices of leftover pineapple pizza onto a plate. As I turn back to my room, the lights flicker again. When the flickering stops I’m no longer alone in the kitchen. I don’t scream. I think I’m too startled for that. I can’t even draw in a breath. I’m frozen, unable to think beyond the face staring back at me. The glass and plate slip through my fingers, crashing to the floor and shattering at my bare feet. Logan stands in front of me with his hands held out .

  “Don’t move,” he says urgently.

  Then I scream.

  The scream rips its way up my body and explodes like a volcano out my mouth. I take a step back and feel bits of glass cut into the bottom of my foot. Lifting my weight off the foot I tumble backwards, landing in a pile of glass and porcelain.

  “Stop moving,” Logan commands. “You’re going to cut yourself to shreds.”

  I take a deep breath and scream again, only this time my voice is strained so the sound comes out ragged and strangled.

  “Will you please stop screaming? Seriously Zoe.”

  My eyes are wide. My heart is pounding against my ribcage so hard I think I might actually throw up. I take another breath, but this time I hold it in until I can’t anymore and it expels in a hot rush.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He folds his arms, looking smug. “What am I doing here, as in here in your kitchen, or do you mean here in more general terms? As in why am I not—“

  “Rotting in the ground somewhere?”

  He wrinkles his nose. “I was going to say dead, but thanks for the vivid.”

  Slowly my senses start coming back into focus. The pain in my foot is intense, but not enough to distract from the sliver of glass stuck in my forearm.

  “I’m bleeding,” I say, watching the crimson leaking down my arm and off of my elbow as I inspect it.

  “That happens when you fall into a pile of broken glass.”

  I glare at him, “Shut up, Logan.”

  I grab the sliver of glass with two fingers and pull it out quickly. The blood flows more freely, pooling beside me. I toss the toothpick sized sliver aside. Using my other arm like a mop to clear a space, I slide myself back out of the glass and press my back against the wall. Bringing my foot up for inspection, I see the cut. It’s shallow and there is nothing in the wound. My hands shake as I pull myself to my feet, using the handle of the fridge door for support. I skirt around the glass, stepping carefully as I maneuver around Logan without looking up at him, and make my way, limping, to the bathroom.

  Scooping the first aid kit from under the sink I flip the lid down and sit on the toilet. I can feel Logan staring at me as I clean the cut on the bottom of my foot and stick a bandage over it. My arm is still bleeding, but it’s not too bad anymore so I wipe off the excess blood with a wad of toilet paper.

  “That probably needs stitches,” he says. I can see that he
’s leaned up against the counter, his feet crossed at the ankles. But I don’t dare look up. Looking him in the eyes is like feeding the delusion.

  Ignoring him, I slap a band-aid over the cut. When that’s done I just sit there for a minute with my eyes fixated on the spring behind the door. I’m trying to decide what to do, what to say. I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten.

  “Still here,” he says when I open them. I sigh.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you here?” I ask, finally looking up. “And what exactly are you?”

  “Well, I’m here because for some weird reason you can see me when no one else can.”

  I sit back, still clutching the plastic first aid box to my chest.

  “Why can I see you?”

  He cocks his head, “How am I supposed to know?” He rubs his hand down his face in frustration, then glares at me. “Do you see dead people often?”

  I make a face. “No. you’re the first.”

  He throws his hands up. “Great. Just freaking great. The one person who can see me, and she has no clue what’s going on.” His eyes fall back to mine, “I was really hoping you’d have some answers.”