by Natalie Lund
The night of the party, several people stopped at the Kroger for mixers and snacks. They carried the bags across to Gully, climbed down the steps, and walked north, closer to Gilligan’s, a place famous for fried oysters the size of a child’s fist.
I imagine dropping a night sky over this stretch of beach. Imagine a ring of rocks with a fire inside. A keg in the shadows of the seawall. Blankets and beach towels. Teenagers in cutoff shorts, bikini tops. So much skin, dusted in sand. So much life ahead of us still.
“There. That’s where we were,” I say, pointing.
Janie moves to the anchor, which she heaves over the side, rocking us. She looks like she’s trying to swallow something back, but then leans over and vomits into the water.
“Just seasick,” she says as though we asked. She waves her hands at us, like we should continue what we’re doing.
Izzy has already returned her attention to the beach.
The plane was flying so low as it roared over the seawall. Were they trying to scare us? Were they out of control? Or were they saying goodbye?
My mom has been trying to keep me away from the news, but I found an article online that showed the guys in their junior-year photos. Shane was in a black button-down; I think it was the only shirt he owned that wasn’t a T-shirt, so he hated to wear it. He wasn’t smiling in the photo either. It didn’t capture the real Shane. But nothing about this situation feels real. The article said the plane went into a stall because they’d tried to climb at too sharp of an incline from the beach. The plane was still too low and they were too inexperienced to recover.
They were inexperienced, but they had some experience—lessons from this Bradley Simpson guy. I could ask him if they knew climbing that steeply would cause a stall and did it anyway.
With the motor off and the anchor down, it’s ungodly hot. My hair is dampening along my neck and frizzing. Izzy’s is too, but for once she doesn’t seem to care. She pulls a pair of binoculars out of her purse and stands, rocking us again. Janie makes a retching sound, but pinches her lips tight.
“What is she looking for?” she asks a moment later as though Izzy isn’t right here.
“For our boys,” Izzy answers.
“I didn’t think you knew,” Janie said.
“Knew what?” I ask.
“That Nate and I—you know.”
I shake my head. I didn’t know. Is she saying she and Nate were together?
Izzy, characteristically, ignores everything that isn’t relevant to her objective. “They’re not gone, Janie,” she says. “They’ve transmigrated.”
“Transmigrated?” Janie echoes. That’s a new word for me, too. Izzy must have been doing research.
“She thinks they’re dolphins,” I tell Janie.
Izzy shoots me a look. “I believe their souls have transferred to dolphins, yes. I know that Israel is still alive. It’s a twinsense thing.”
“But why would they want to be dolphins?” I ask, fanning myself with my hand. I can’t help the irritation creeping back into my voice. “What the fuck would be the point?”
“What the fuck would be the point of a joyride?” Izzy shoots back.
“There isn’t. That’s why people think—” I don’t let myself finish. There’s no use getting worked up again or trying to rationalize with her. “We should try somewhere else. They’re clearly not here.”
“How about near the ferry? I always see dolphins on that side,” Janie says.
She lifts the anchor and we loop back around the point of the island, passing the marina again. There’s a lot of boat traffic on this side, and Janie slows down to a snail’s pace.
The ferry is docked and people in orange vests direct the waiting cars. A cruise liner is waiting too, seagulls whirling above it as though they know how much food it holds. Farther out, there’s a wide, flat boat stacked with shipping containers being guided in by a tugboat.
In the wake of a small yacht, I see a fin and the quick rainbow of a dolphin’s spine. “There!” I point.
Izzy whips out the binoculars. “There’s only one,” she says.
But Janie spots more near the ferry dock. Again, the binoculars are lifted. There are five or six of them this time.
“It’s not them,” Izzy says.
“How do you know? Are there any identifying features other than that there’s three of them together?” I ask.
“I’ll feel it,” Izzy says.
For several minutes we drive, all of us looking out across the water. Nothing but waves.
Then, a splash. I glance behind the boat. There’s a dorsal fin trailing us and one—no, two more—to the left.
“Stop!” I shout.
Janie cuts the engine, and Izzy stands. She doesn’t need binoculars for how close they are now, sleek gray and shining. But as quickly as they appeared, they’re gone, and the three of us swivel, trying to find them again.
“There,” Janie says, and we whip around to the right side of the boat in time to see the flip of their tails before they’re back underwater.
We drift, letting other boats’ wakes lift and settle us. A seagull lands near Izzy, and takes off with an indignant shriek when she flaps her hand at it. Janie’s plum skirt is soaked through, there’s something dried in her hair that I’m choosing to believe isn’t vomit, and her face is green, but she’s bright-eyed and alert.
A fisherman is heading back to shore on a larger boat nearby, and I spot a dolphin in front of his bow. It keeps sinking beneath the surface and reappearing several yards ahead. There are two more, racing along the side.
“Go,” I say. “Fast.”
Janie looks confused. “Where?”
“Out to sea!”
Izzy grins at me and I smile back. “Go, go, go!” she shouts.
They’re with us in minutes, weaving in front of our boat, breaking the surface with their dorsal fins and the smooth curves of their backs. The longest one barrel-rolls. The second skips—quick dips in and out of the water. The third is the fastest, driving straight and true. They let us catch up to them, before pumping hard with their tails, propelling themselves downward and ahead. I can almost reach out to touch them.
“It’s them!” Izzy shouts over the roar of the motor. “They want us to follow!”
And I can’t help it; my heart is thudding.
REMEMBERED SOULS FORUM
GULF COAST
49er: Does anyone else remember more than just one past life? How come @OtherPlanes remembers so many and I can only remember one?
OtherPlanes: I think it’s because I’ve been restless a long, long time. That’s why I’m trying to live this life quiet and right. Just teaching people what I know so they can do better too.
Morris9786: Your last life was bad?
OtherPlanes: God yes. I was a power-hungry politician. Shot right in front of my 13-year-old son.
49er: What? You were shot?
OtherPlanes: Yeah. The funny story is how I got to be her.
Morris9786: What do you mean? It wasn’t just random?
OtherPlanes: Oh no. There’s a doorway.
49er: Doorway?
OtherPlanes: Think of it like a shortcut to another life. You see, before I was the politician, Millicent, I was a pilot. Flight 4945. Look it up.
Morris9786: Whoa. 75 people on board when it crashed?
OtherPlanes: That’s right. Both engines failed and then I saw the strangest thing: this black lemon-shaped tear in the sky. We fell right into it.
I have no memory of being inside that tear. My theory is that I was simply a soul at that point, without a body and its memory-making mechanisms. But I’m pretty sure that I must have chosen to be Millicent, because I’d seen her before on one of my flights. She was maybe four or five then, holding her father’s hand and wearing this lavender c
oat and a tiny pearl necklace. I remember thinking—as this former navy pilot—that it must be so nice to be a little girl like that with nothing but opportunity ahead.
And so, one minute, I was plummeting toward the doorway, my mind flashing to Millicent, and the next I became her.
Morris9786: You serious?
OtherPlanes: Dead.
49er: So, what, you just took over her body? You can kick another soul out?
OtherPlanes: I wouldn’t advise it unless absolutely necessary. It wasn’t easy to jump into a fully formed body. Not like being born into one. Even at that age, Millicent’s mind was already set on the track that eventually killed her. She wouldn’t accept the existence of a new soul—let alone be persuaded by one to do better.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SHANE
Twenty-four days before
SHANE PARKED HIS mom’s SUV in the guest parking lot of the university Meg and Aaron attended. Nate was in back, sitting sideways so he could extend his knee across the bench. They’d joked about Shane being a chauffeur.
“Close the window, Nigel, won’t you?” Nate had said, and Shane had balled up a receipt from the center console and chucked it at him.
It wasn’t hard to convince Nate to come with him on this last-minute trip to visit their siblings before the semester was over. I have to see what college life is like, Shane had told Nate. He wanted to see what he’d be missing. And I think you need to see too. Now that—
He hadn’t needed to finish the sentence.
Convincing his mom had been even easier. She was downright eager that Shane was showing an interest in college—not that he could get into Meg and Aaron’s. He was pretty sure his mom knew he’d skipped school that week, but they weren’t doing anything in class except studying for finals he’d cheat on anyway. Unlike most of his friends’ parents, Shane’s gave him a lot of latitude: drinking was fine as long as no one drove, sex was fine if condoms were used, mediocre grades were fine as long as college was still on the table, and skipping was fine, apparently, if hearts were broken; his parents were almost as crushed as he was that Cass was out of his life.
Aaron greeted them in the dorm lobby to swipe them in. “Hey, dummies,” he said like they were kids again. “How’s the knee?” He gestured at Nate’s crutches.
“Hurts,” Nate said. “How are finals?”
“Hurts,” Aaron responded. “I’ve got one left tomorrow.”
He took them to his room on the fourth floor. There were two boxes beside the bed, each packed with loose clutter—a desk lamp, plates, a bleach-stained towel. Otherwise, there was no evidence that Aaron was moving out that weekend. The open closet was overflowing with clothes and there were five posters hanging—a line of models in bathing suits, all with their lips parted. Aaron’s roommate’s side was tidier, nearly empty except for a few textbooks piled on his desk.
“Nice decor,” Shane said, gesturing at the posters.
“You like? It’s my gallery.”
“Of wanks?” Nate asked.
Aaron rolled his eyes.
Each side of the room had a slim mattress that could slide into a sideboard and double as a couch. Aaron’s was a tangled mess of sheets. Shane sat down gingerly on top, trying not to wonder when Nate’s brother had last washed them.
Nate frowned at the other side of the room. “There’s got to be, like, only three feet between you and your roommate when you sleep.”
Aaron nodded. “Yeah, freshmen get the shaft here, but at least it’s not a room with six of us. Some of the dorms feel like you’re in barracks.”
“What’s the school part of college like?” Shane asked.
“This year I was just doing all the general curriculum stuff, so the classes were boring and easy. The tests were kinda hard, though.” The response didn’t inspire confidence in Shane.
“How about the parties?” he asked.
“Every day is a party,” Aaron said. “Taco Tuesday, Wine Wednesday, Thirsty Thursday.”
“Oh, perfect,” Shane said. “I’m thirsty.”
“I thought you were here for a school-sanctioned college visit,” Aaron said with a wink. “That’s what Mom said.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like our parents have to know.”
“We want the real college experience,” Nate said, though it sounded to Shane like he was forcing enthusiasm for his sake.
Meg poked her head through the doorway then. “Anybody home?”
“Hey, Moo,” Shane said. Meg was with a tiny mouse of a girl in a short black dress and high heels that caused her to wobble as she walked in. Compared to her friend, Meg was casual in jeans, a gray T-shirt, and red flats. It was something Cass would have worn in her effortless way, but Shane knew his sister’s “casual” was much more calculated—that everything was chosen to appear as though she hadn’t thought about it at all.
“How are you doing, Sandy?” she said. She pushed her bottom lip out in a sympathetic pout.
“I’m okay,” he said.
“This is Monica. Monica, this is Nate and my brother, Shane. He just broke up with his girlfriend.”
Monica’s makeup was a shade too light, which made it seem like her head belonged to a different body. Her hair was curled into identical tubes that hung down her back. She collapsed onto Aaron’s roommate’s bed and emitted a sound that was half whimper, half relief, before crossing her legs and looking, very deliberately, at Shane. “Hi,” she said.
Surprised, Shane glanced at Meg, who smirked back. Was he being set up?
The thought made him reevaluate the girl. He could forget she wasn’t Cass if he dragged his fingers through the curls of her hair to loosen them. If he undid the buckles on her shoes. If he lifted her so she wasn’t so much shorter than him. If he drank enough alcohol.
Meg passed a flask around the room, and Shane recognized the sweet burnt-caramel flavor of cheap whiskey. Monica took out a flask of her own and passed it too—a rose-gold one with the initials MM set in rhinestones. It contained a cherry vodka that smelled strangely medicinal. When Shane put the flask to his lips, he made eye contact with her, hoping he was sending her the same signal she’d sent him. The vodka dribbled out of the corner of his mouth and onto the collar of his shirt.
“Did your drinker break?” Nate asked with mock sincerity.
“Very funny,” he said, but Monica did seem to think it was funny, and let out a squawk. It was a good-natured, silly laugh, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh that you chased feverishly. The kind that you broke into houses and cooked imaginary dinners for.
* * *
• • •
From the curb, Shane could feel the party’s bass in his teeth. They were outside a stucco townhouse, three stories tall and narrowly pressed between two identical houses. Crossing the threshold was like walking into a wall made of hot, sour air. In the center of a dark living room, a crowd was shout-singing the chorus to a song Shane didn’t recognize. The furniture had been dragged to the periphery of the room, and every surface was covered with Solo cups. Monica grabbed Meg’s hand and danced her away. Aaron waved Shane and Nate toward the brightly lit kitchen. The room was cooler, though similarly packed with people leaning against the counters. A guy in a polo stood at the stove, frying hash browns in way too much oil. The counter next to the sink was lined with liquor and soda bottles. A cooler for ice and a keg blocked the fridge. Aaron threw cash into an empty pickle jar and took a Solo cup. Shane and Nate followed suit.
Cheers erupted from the yard behind the house.
“What’s going on down there?” Shane asked.
“Cockfighting,” Aaron said.
“He’s joking,” Nate said.
Aaron grinned. “It’s either beer pong or flip cup.” He tipped a handle of Jack Daniel’s over his Solo cup and added a splash of Coke. He waved to someone and disappear
ed across the room, leaving Shane and Nate in front of the booze.
Nate poured a beer from the keg and promptly dipped his shirtsleeve in it. He’d borrowed one of Aaron’s button-downs, but he had to keep shoving the too-long sleeves up past his elbows. If they were around their own friends, Shane would put down his cup and roll Nate’s sleeves up like he was his dad, cuffing them so they’d stay. Maybe he would straighten his collar, too. Nate would think it was funny.
Shane poured himself a shot of tequila and downed it, sucking his teeth as it burned his throat. He then mixed ginger ale with whiskey—one of his sister’s favorite drinks—and waved Nate toward the living room. Monica was in the center with a few other girls in heels, most of whom were holding a drink to the ceiling as though they were offering it to some god. They were dancing—or really, they were rocking their hips back and forth without moving their feet—probably too afraid they’d fall.
Shane sidled up behind Monica, lightly touched her waist with one hand, and raised his cup in the air with the other. Her head swiveled quickly, but she smiled when she recognized him. She backed up so she was pressed against his groin. His body didn’t respond like it normally would have; it was probably waiting for Cass to walk through the door.
Nate had hobbled after Shane to the group of dancing girls, but he bobbed at the edge of the circle. He’d always been shy around girls and had only ever kissed two—both at Shane’s suggestion.
Monica turned to face Shane and tilted her head back. Her eyes were closed and her lips were parted like the women in the posters. She wanted him to kiss her, he realized.
Do it, he told himself. You have to see. He bent his neck and stooped to meet her face. She came alive then, her tongue hooking into his mouth, her pelvis grinding against his leg. He had to remind himself to move his own lips and tongue, to behave like a person who knew how to kiss, but inside, he felt like he was barely strapped onto a roller coaster and plummeting downhill. Every decision lately had been made without him.
