I Woke Up Dead at the Mall (6 page)

I was stunned into silence. We both stayed there, all quiet on the floor, letting the story settle around us, connecting us.

“Fiona didn't die?” I asked.

“Apparently not,” he answered, looking around for her. “Nope.”

He cleared his throat and looked away. I started to figure out that telling your story was a big deal. Nick was struggling to recapture his breath, his voice, his cool. His mask of charm and funny side remarks was gone, and here was a sweet, sad boy who missed his life and didn't want to cry in front of me.

“You were brave. You were a good guy,” I said, but he shrugged, not ready to speak yet. He stretched sideways out on the floor and focused on a small school of blue and yellow fish overhead.

“You should try this view,” he said at last, his voice sort of tight and strained.

I did. I lay down on the floor next to him. It felt like a big deal.

“I wish I could still be there, be a good guy,” he said at last. There was a painfully long pause before he spoke again. “I wasn't ready.” He didn't finish that sentence. He couldn't. I wanted to reach out to him, but he cleared his throat, shaking off the emotion.

“That spa place,” I began. “Would that be your reward for saving Fiona?”

“But I was just trying to get us away. I didn't mean to die in her place. I didn't mean to die at all.” His breathing was slowly easing back to normal. “But I hope she's okay. I hope she has a long life.”

I'd never be able to explain why I was so drawn to Nick. And I'd never be able to deny it. Something about the glint in his eye or the ready smile made me nervous and totally relaxed all at the same time. I could say anything to Nick. And maybe saying it would make it better.

“What will you choose for your Thornton Wilder Day, Sarah?” he asked.

(When people said my name, it felt super-intimate.)

“I think I'd pick something really random from when my mom was alive.”

“Your mom is dead?” Nick sounded shocked. He propped
himself up on his elbow and looked down at me. “I can't even imagine that. Okay, that's it. Come on, tell it. Now. Tell me your story, Sarah.”

(Oh, he just had to add my name there at the end, didn't he?)

HERE'S WHY MY STORY ISN'T A STORY

My story is that something in me stopped, ended, shut down, and died the day we buried my mother. It wasn't just that I missed her. It's that I changed in some really fundamental way. And that was my choice. I think. At first I blamed Dad for letting her die (as if he had power over life and death). And then I blamed him for not fixing things between us. He threw himself into his work and let me drift away, like a girl alone on a raft. Mom and I had connected in a way that most people couldn't. And now that it was over, I wouldn't connect at all. That was the story I told myself. And I repeated that story
all the time
.

But when Karen joined our lives, she got him to stop working for five minutes and notice me. I started to tell myself a whole new story, and it was like the best gift ever. We laughed. We cooked. We went ice-skating and fell down a lot.

Or maybe it was the worst gift ever. Because now I knew what I had been missing all those wasted years. Now I saw that Dad had been sad and wonderful all that time. And that he loved me,
even if he had to struggle to find a way to say it. My life was worse than unfinished business. It was unstarted. And then I ate toxic mushrooms and died.

The end. Of me.

Yes, I know. That was the heavily edited/important-stuff-left-out version of my story. How was I supposed to tell Nick all about my mom and me and the Knowing stuff? I didn't understand it myself. So I said nothing about the Knowing, or about running away from it. Then again, if anyone could tell that I was hiding something, it would be Nick.

He was on his side, leaning close enough now to read the freckles on my cheeks. I turned and held his gaze, which was not as easy as it sounds. The scent of trees and rainstorms was intoxicating. He looked at my mouth, and then at my eyes, then back at my mouth. If you've ever seen a movie, you know what that means.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Absolutely not!” Bertha's voice shattered the moment and scared all the fish. We both jumped and sat up in a flash. I instinctively shifted my body away from Nick.

“What in blue blazes do you think you're doing?” she asked. “Have you gone completely insane?
You absolutely, positively will not start a romance in the afterlife
. I unconditionally forbid it. No.”

“We were just talking, I swear,” Nick answered for us both.

“Romances in the afterlife are practically a guarantee that you'll get stuck here. A guarantee!” Bertha's voice was strained and shrill. Very unattractive.

“We weren't starting a romance. Sarah and I are just friends,” Nick said in a reasonable, calm voice. He sounded a little bit amused at the very thought of starting a romance with me. Like that would be crazy. Who would do that? (Oh God, really?
I'm a complete idiot!
)

“Just go. Just get out of here.” Bertha shook her head as she spoke. “Nick, go get ready for your funeral.”

Add that to the long list of weird-ass sentences I never expected to hear.

The next morning there would be funerals for Nick, Harry, and Lacey. Alice and I helped ourselves to a breakfast of bacon and chocolate chip cookies. Please continue with the not-judging thing.

I was about to ask Alice where the food actually came from, when Nick showed up, wearing a dark suit with a bright white shirt and dark tie. He looked crisp and smart. I smiled at the sight of him. “Ta-da!” he proclaimed. “Yes, I look sharp, but you should have seen Harry. His funeral started early. He thinks they did that because he was always an early riser.”

Lacey arrived just after him, wearing a red satin gown with a neckline cut almost to her navel and a side slit that rose as if trying to meet it. Her left boob kept popping out, which was distracting. She had added on so much jewelry, she clinked and chimed whenever any part of her moved. This was also
distracting. And yes, this was how she chose to dress
for her own funeral
.

Nick grinned at me, and just in case I thought there was some special connection between us, he turned and gave the same grin, same twinkle-in-gold-flecked-eyes look, to Alice and to Lacey. There was no special secret message, no invitation to start an illicit afterlife romance. This was simply his face, and I needed to get over it. I had imagined the whole thing. Me = idiot.

He and Lacey both seemed pretty excited, as if they were on their way to a big party just for them. And okay, yes, they sort of were. But still, it was weird. Lacey was too excited to eat. Nick ate enough for both of them. He put together some kind of exotic fajita, and I suddenly wished that he could cook for us all.

“So. Nick. Tell me.” Lacey eyed him up and down. “Who killed you?”

At Lacey's command, Nick and I both told our Death Stories. But here's the thing. In this version, we cut them down drastically. Nick revealed next to nothing about his mother, her bad boyfriends, and how he was her protector. As he told the story, he avoided looking at me, and I noticed that his skin was slowly turning red. My conclusion: he wasn't all that comfortable lying.

My story took less than two minute to tell because, surprise, surprise, I revealed as little as I possibly could. Lacey looked incredibly impatient while I talked. And then I realized that she hadn't asked me for my story. I had just volunteered it. Oh well.

I looked at Alice, and maybe she knew that I was going to
ask how she died or what her funeral was like, because she clumsily hurried to ask a question of the whole group.

“Have you all chosen your Thornton Wilder Day?” Alice asked.

I'd been ninety percent decided. “Yes. Hey. What day did
you
choose?” I asked. Ha! I'd managed to ask her
something
about her mysterious life and death. So there.

“I chose the day that I was born,” she replied. “Before Ma and Da were too poor, before they had so many children and so many troubles. I thought it would be sublime.”

I could tell from her voice that it was less than sublime.

“The birth itself was hideous. It was painful and bloody. And my father was off at his local. I didn't see him there at all. My mother wept. But when it was done, she kissed me and held me close. I was hers. And she was mine.”

Alice bowed her head. “Choose wisely,” she said in her small, still voice.

“Hello, everyone!” Bertha called out gleefully. She was decked out in a bright blue suit with massive shoulder pads. Big ones. That's all I can say about that. Words fail. Oh, and she had someone with her. He was tall, tan, and chiseled-looking, with perfectly streaked blond highlights. A life-size Ken doll.

“We have a new young man who just died today!” Bertha announced. “His name is Declan!”

“Hey.” Declan nodded at us all and struck a pose. And then another pose.

Lacey let out a quiet “whoa.” Which we all heard.

“Do you have a Kiehl's here?” he asked Bertha. “I really need some skin care products.”

“In a moment,” Bertha answered, then turned to me and sang out, “Sarah, good news! We've got your autopsy results. You were indeed poisoned.
And
you were drugged with a potent sleeping pill, which ensured that the poison could finish you off before you could seek medical attention.”

Murdered. Definitely. Murdered, murdered me. I felt myself shrink a little, as if this confirmation that yes, I really was murdered, had diminished me somehow.

“It's okay, Sarah,” Nick assured me. “You're in good company, remember?”

True. But still. “Do the police know who killed me? Do you?” I asked.

“Sarah, I'm so sorry.” Bertha's voice sounded strained. “But if you don't already know who killed you, you never will. Stop asking about it, stop focusing on it. Move on.”

Declan looked at me, then looked at me harder, then did a sort of cough/laugh/choke thing to himself. I checked my teeth discreetly for chocolate chips.

“Alice, I wonder if you could help Declan settle in, explain what's what?” Bertha asked. Poor Alice looked as if she'd rather eat a mouthful of bees than be alone with this pretty boy. But she looked at the ground, rising silently and obeying Bertha's request.

“I can help,” I volunteered.

Declan laughed the worst, most fake-sounding laugh I'd ever heard. And I'd heard a few. Private school, remember?

“Wow. Hey. This always happens to me. Girls fight over me. Guys too,” he explained to Bertha. “I was an actor. Maybe you guys saw my commercial for eczema cream?”

Maybe I had. He had a kind of generic-handsome-guy familiarity to him. But nothing like what I felt with Nick. Which I would stop feeling immediately, please.

Bertha nodded at Declan with an extra dose of tolerance, then turned to me. “You should stay here, Sarah. I'll come for you next.”

The fact that we all watched Alice lead Declan out into the mall just added to her self-consciousness. I tried to look away, but Declan had a lot of swagger. A. Lot. Poor Alice.

“Lacey? Nick? Are you ready?” Bertha summoned our attention back to her. Lacey practically jumped out of her seat. Bertha led the two of them away.

I could still hear the click-clack of her shoes (really, were they shoes, or were they a cry for help?) and her babbling of instructions and advice. I heard Nick's voice cut in.

“I forgot something. I'll be right back!” he shouted.

Bertha made indignant noises and a crack about how “it's unseemly to be late for your own funeral!”

I stood up to see what Nick could have forgotten, but then he came dashing into the food court and right up to me. He quickly wrapped one arm around my waist, which felt incredibly intimate. With his other hand he touched my face, brushing my hair aside.

And then he kissed me. Just a little. He looked at me, as if asking for permission to do that again. Yes. I melted into this second kiss, breathing him in, feeling his arms tighten around me. I was weak and strong, giddy and completely sane, all at once and maybe for the first time ever.

Our bodies were aligned and electric, just like all the songs say they should be. For a dead girl, I felt pretty damn alive. I
draped my arms over and around his shoulders and leaned in to this kiss. So did he. Yes.

“Sarah,” he said, finally letting go, a faint smile in his eyes. And then he was off to his funeral.

Yes.

In the last scene of
Our Town
, Mr. Wilder has dead Emily revisit her life and proclaim that it's all too beautiful. But. She only said that because (a) she died of natural causes, and (b) she didn't stay for very long. Oh sure, it started out all kinds of pretty for me. But then I realized and accepted for absolute sure that I was murdered. And then I figured out who killed me. And then it got worse, if a situation like that actually can get worse.

Bertha was skeptical when I told her that I wanted to revisit my last birthday. “Why that one?” she asked, with supersize worry in her voice.

“If I went to a day when my mom was alive, I don't think I could handle it. What if I saw myself be mean to her?” I began. Bertha nodded. In spite of her approval, I went on.

“My last birthday was a good day but not a big deal. I didn't have a party or anything. As birthdays go, it was pretty low-key. I went to study at a coffee shop and met up with the Mathletes. Did some homework. Ordinary stuff.”

That didn't win Bertha over. I kept going.

“That night, I went out to dinner with Dad and Karen. We ate at a place way out in Brooklyn that Karen had raved about, and the food was amazing. And that was when I first noticed that things really were better between my dad and me. And that was thanks to Karen. It was a good day. I felt…hopeful.”

Bertha looked super-skeptical. “Your funeral will take place tomorrow. Perhaps you should stay here at the mall and choose your day later?” she proposed.

“This is the day I want,” I insisted. “After all, I died from food poisoning, so it just makes sense that I'd like to revisit a really spectacular meal.”

That did it. Bertha undid her worry face. Now if we could just do something about those shoes.

We walked at a brisk, click-clack pace along our floor of the dead to the Bed Bath & Beyond elevator. I felt a jumble of excitement in my fingers and toes. I dodged around the mall walkers and realized that Bertha was studying my face pretty closely. Could she see Nick's kiss lingering there? Did I look too happy? Did she have some way of knowing that I had dreams? I tried extra-hard to look neutral and normal. (A throwback to when I was alive.)

“Um, a question for you,” I said to Bertha, to change the subject before it could even start. “What does it mean when one of the mall walkers becomes a big cloud of dust or ash or something?”

Bertha stopped walking. “Who told you about that?” she asked with an icy tone of accusation in her voice.

“Nobody told me. I saw it happen,” I answered, slowing down and gesturing for her to catch up with me. She did. Finally.

“It happened right in front of you?” she asked. “You
saw
it?”

“Yes, that's why I'm asking.” I was losing patience. “What does it mean?”

“It's bad. It's very, very bad,” she said as we resumed walking. “It means that the individual in question has given up. They're gone and they'll never be back.”

“What? That's not fair!” I protested. “Why?”

“Sarah, you still don't get it. It's all about free will. If this person decided it was hopeless, then, well, it became hopeless, well and truly.” Bertha's voice was sort of singsong.

We entered the elevator in Bed Bath & Beyond. I tried to push the button, but my finger went right through it. I tried again and Bertha sort of laughed at me. Which I didn't enjoy.

“You can't make contact with the material world,” she said as she pushed the button. “But I can.”

The elevator bumped into motion, and I muttered one more “Not fair.” As the elevator bumped to a stop, Bertha took my hands in hers.

“I hope that you see it all. Keep your eyes open,” she told me.

“I will. I promise.”

I shut my eyes right away. Tight.

(Okay, keep your eyes open. Don't cry. Don't cry. It's all
too beautiful, but don't cry. Open your eyes. Look. Listen. Be here now.)

Home. I was home. Where I wanted to be.

There's no way Dorothy could have gone to Oz and then come back to Kansas and played that scene. Oz must have been just a dream, because she couldn't simply wake up and hug Auntie Em and smile for her close-up. She would have shaken and fallen and cried out and called out, unable to find the English language. She would have rooted herself in the middle of her own particular world and owned it. Like I did. Funny noises escaped from my lips. I didn't take a step, but I did reach out for things, point at things and stare hard at everything within my sight.

Home.

I watched myself, Living Sarah, in bed, half asleep/half awake. I remembered that feeling. I remembered wishing that I could have more sleep. I watched myself try to push the morning away. The morning won.

My eyes blinked open. I groaned and fell back against my pillow. Watching myself there, I could feel the memory of cotton against my skin. I had that sense of sunlight piercing its way into my brain, beckoning me to life. Right about now I'd be thinking about the day ahead. What was on my mind that day? Was I worried about something? What was so important? Living Sarah groaned and rolled over in bed.

(I laughed at my sleepy self. Get up. Go. See the world in all its hideous glory.)

Say it with me now: There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's Dad. My dad.

He was making breakfast for me, quietly singing (off-key) to himself. It was the Beatles song “Birthday,” and his version was almost unrecognizable. Clearly I didn't get any musical ability from him. Oh. And he was dancing. Awkwardly. And I would have given anything and everything just to tell him how much I loved him and his lack of musical talent.

I roamed the house and witnessed things that Living Sarah missed. (In an instant, I felt like she was someone else. Not me.) She was upstairs taking a marathon shower. I drifted back upstairs and through the bathroom, enjoying the feel of steam passing through me and the flowery, fruity, soapy scents of absurdly lovely bath products.

My bed was rumpled, my room chaotic. There was a stack of half songs on my desk. (I only ever wrote half songs. That is, I wrote my own words to someone else's melody, usually—okay, always—the Beatles.)

I sat. I breathed. I kept my eyes open. I drifted back downstairs to Dad.

He was sitting at the table, writing a note inside a birthday card for me. I peered over his shoulder:

“My Dear Sarah,” he wrote. And then he stared at the card. It took him the better part of a half hour to write this little note. He struggled over each word, forming the letters with great care.

“It's such an honor to be your dad. It's remarkable to see how quickly you have become this beautiful young woman, possessed of amazing talents, grace, and infinite possibility. The world is at your feet. Thank you for allowing me a front-row
seat to the marvelous story of your life. I can't wait to see what's in store for you.”

His face was bright with joy and hope. I forced myself to push aside the fact that his daughter had just a handful of months left on this earth. Don't. Think. About. Death. Not now.

When Living Sarah (finally) came downstairs for breakfast, she breezed through the card in less than ten seconds, hugged him, and said, “Awww. Thanks, Dad.” She sounded sincere. I might have tried to slap her if she had been rude. And she looked sincerely rushed. She inhaled some toast and bypassed everything else.

“So, what do you think?” Dad asked as he sipped his coffee. “Presents now, or presents later?”

Living Sarah covered her mouth demurely as she spoke with her mouth full. “Has to be later. I have to go to Think Coffee.”

Oh yes. Think Coffee, the politically correct NYU coffeehouse hangout with free Wi-Fi and overpriced vegan baked goods. I spent a lot of time (and money) there when I was alive.

“Ah, delayed gratification,” Dad said. “A sure sign of maturity.”

Living Sarah smiled as she packed her laptop, notebooks, and school stuff into a backpack. “Welcome to my mature life,” she said. “I have to finish my American history paper. Civil War.”

“Spoiler alert: the North wins,” Dad said. And Living Sarah half-laughed.

“Also, I promised I'd meet with the Mathletes. Impressed?” she asked, snagging a swallow of orange juice.

Dad sighed. “Yes. Always.” And he lifted his coffee cup in a salute to his daughter. “Remember your eighth birthday, when we had that bowling party and your whole third-grade class came? That was so much fun.”

Living Sarah froze. “Dad. Please tell me you didn't invite my high school class to the kiddie lanes at Bowlmor. Please.” (I laughed at her. It was so easy to remember that flare of pure fear at the humiliation I was imagining.)

“No, no. I was just remembering. Birthdays do that to me,” he explained. His face was smiling but wretchedly sad at the same time.

Living Sarah noticed. She reached over and hugged him (thank you!) and said, “It was fun. You did a great job. And it was the first one without Mom.”

Dad choked up just a little. Living Sarah noticed (good girl!) and said, “Do you ever feel like she's here? Like she's watching over us?”

Dad nodded. “Oh yes. A lot. I feel like she's nearby right now.”

Living Sarah said, “Me too.”

“Oh, you guys,” I said softly. “You're killing me.”

I was expecting to see my fellow Mathletes as a group of socially awkward yet endearing peers. They weren't at the forefront of school popularity, so they must have been nerds, right? What was I thinking?

Living Sarah was relaxed and funny in their presence, and they were the same as they discussed an upcoming Mathletes
competition. After they concluded their math business, they hung out in the noisy café, paid too much for cupcakes, and left Sarah to her studies. So far, this was pretty much the tame, nice-nice day that Bertha wanted me to choose.