Alive (35 page)

“He is. Relax.” He grabs my arm and shakes me playfully.

“I’m trying.” I play with the drawstrings of the sweatshirt and put my nose to the sleeve. The scent of Henry mixed with fabric softener helps, if only a little.

A few minutes later the static breaks. An eerie melody takes its place. Then Quentin, per his usual routine, welcomes all the Earthlings and non-Earthlings to tune into the show.

“Call now.” Henry nudges me. “Before all the lines fill up.”

I hurry to punch in the numbers and, with effort, hold the cell phone up to my ear again. In the background, I can hear Quentin introducing the show’s topics and inviting callers to
contribute. The phone rings and rings. My foot jiggles. At least it’s not busy. “He’s not picking up,” I tell Henry, but as soon as I say it, there’s a crackle on the
other end of the line. I sit up straight.

“Caller number one.” Quentin’s nasally voice breaks through. “What’s the signal?” My eyes widen. I grab Henry’s shirt and point to the phone.
It’s him,
I mouth, then motion to Henry to turn down the car radio.

I clear my throat and, despite myself, grin. No good conspiracy theory show would operate without a proper password, especially with the number of prank calls Quentin receives. “The
lunatics,” I say, enunciating, “are running the asylum.”

I’ve tried a thousand times to draw a mental picture around Quentin’s voice. In my head, he exists in a corner of his mother’s basement. A scrawny man-boy wearing a tinfoil hat
and sporting thick glasses that magnify his eyeballs to resemble those of a goldfish. The reality is probably far more mundane. I’d hate to be disappointed. I switch the phone to speaker and
turn up the volume.

“Very well. Welcome to
Lunatic Outpost
. Are you a first-time caller?”

“I—I am,” I say, and realize I’ve been chewing a hangnail on my thumb.

“Question, comment, report of extraterrestrial life or out-of-body experience?”

I look to Henry. He shrugs. “The first two, I guess,” I say.

“I’m listening, caller.”

I hesitate. I can already tell that I’m going to sound like either an idiot or a loon. Probably both. “Um, right,” I hedge, trying to work up the nerve. “You know how
you’re always telling the audience that the world chooses to be blind? That people will concoct the most improbable, illogical scenarios just to make sure the world keeps operating within
this little box that works according to their rules, even when the simplest, most logical explanation is that the world itself doesn’t run on rules at all?” I bite the inside of my
cheek instead of my thumb. “Well, I think my friend and I have been guilty of that.”

“The universe is not a Rubik’s Cube,” says Quentin, more good-naturedly than I’d expected. “But some people need to fiddle with it longer than others.”
Quentin’s favorite quip.

For years, I’ve thought of Quentin as an absent friend. An invisible part of a trio made up of me, Henry, and our beloved host. While I always thought the subject matter of
Lunatic
Outpost
was eccentric, Quentin himself is brilliant. Possessed of a detailed mind. Sharp. Neurotic. Quick-witted. Under any other circumstances, I’d probably be melting into a puddle of
fan girl.

“I, well, I don’t know how to say it, I guess, but I—or we—think my
friend
is being haunted.” Just saying it out loud gives me the shivers. The sun stain has
been wiped clean and the atmosphere is now teetering toward nightfall. I pull the hood of Henry’s old sweatshirt up over my ears.

“What exactly makes you think your friend is being haunted?” He says this in the same tone as a doctor examining a patient.

“It’s been going on for a few months now only I—she—didn’t realize the person wasn’t a person until recently.” I tell Quentin about the transplant and
about the medical records and our theories about the boy doing the haunting, whose name I change to Lucifer. “I guess our question is, how do we get rid of it?”

I touch the scar line underneath my shirt.

“You should know,” Quentin pauses, “that once you go searching for answers you can’t unfind them.”

“We know,” I add quickly.

There’s another pause, and I think I hear him take a sip of water. “There’ve been reports,” he begins. “In Qingdao, China, there was a shark attack over a decade
ago. Very bloody, very violent, witnesses say. The victim died. The body was recovered, but without an arm. Since then, six children have drowned during family beach vacations on calm days. Loyal
listeners may remember that I was called to investigate.” This rings a small bell somewhere in a darker stretch of my memory, but I come up short. Henry and I both suck in our breath.
“Are you sure you want me to go on?”

“We’re sure.” This time it’s Henry. He’s leaning forward, chin resting on his bent knee.

“A few years later, there was a car bombing outside of Baghdad. Four people were killed, one of whom lost a leg, which was never recovered. Dozens of people report having been robbed of
precious articles by him in the months following, along the same stretch of road.” I wonder if Henry can hear my heart pounding. “A similar story surrounds the ‘donor’ of an
illegal transplant in Mumbai. The victim of a lobotomy in Shanghai. I’ve been called to complete substantial research on each of these, for lack of a better word, incidents. You’ll
notice none of these reports issue from the United States, which is undoubtedly the worst when it comes to its desire to fit the world into its box.”

“So what?” I ask, not sure I can bear another gory secondhand account. “They’re each missing something?”

“I’m sure there are many reasons why souls might not find rest. I’m sure you’ve heard the bit about unfinished business? Or particularly violent deaths?”

“From you,” I say.

“According to some cultures, a body is to be buried with all of its limbs and organs, too, or else the godly soul which it was housing can’t return to its natural state. You know
that spirits are strongest near the place that’s most important to them. That’s why some spirits haunt their old houses or the side of the highway where they were killed or the place of
their murder. You’ve already told me that the cemetery where his body has been laid to rest is close—too close, if you ask me—and this in itself is bad.”

“So, what, you think his grave is the most important place to him?” Henry interrupts. “He wouldn’t have even known where his grave would be before he died.”

“No, I don’t think it’s his grave, although that’s certainly adding to the mix. It’s his body. There’s an old tradition dating back to tribal witchcraft: to
destroy the curse, you must destroy the bones.”

I straighten. “The bones? We dig the bones up and destroy them and then, what, poof, no Le—I mean, Lucifer?” The idea is risky. In fact, it’s a crime, but already
I’m concocting ways to rob the grave of Levi Zin.

“We have many more accounts pre–Industrial Revolution,” Quentin continues, ignoring me. “When tribal witchcraft wasn’t relegated to whack jobs and quacks, we knew
that the success rate was high for this method of expulsion.
Bones
, of course, was used as a catchall term for
remains
, but still, the formula was simple. Modern technology has
changed that. The cobbling-together of one body from the parts of another has obfuscated, at least in some cases, the ability to destroy the bones in one fell swoop.” There’s the
nebulous feeling of a situation sliding from bad to worse. “You can imagine why the narrative accounts are few, then. The technology for transplanting one organ into a body is relatively new.
That and the fact that most organ donors are cremated, not buried. For obvious reasons, I think.”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” I say.

“A transplanted heart is kept beating even when separated from the body, until it’s placed inside its new host. I mentioned the illegal transplant in Mumbai. There was another in
Mexico. But there was one big difference between the two. In Mumbai, Hinduism dictates cremation. The donor’s body was burned to ash as soon as the transplant was complete. The result was a
powerful, malevolent spirit that wreaked havoc on the recipient’s family until one day, the patient was found hanging from the Mahalakshmi Temple. In Mexico, though, where most are Catholic,
cremation is considered sacrilege. The donor’s family insisted the body be buried. Of course, we’ve all heard of poltergeists moving furniture or leaving bruises on human skin and in
occasional instances even killing unsuspecting victims, so we know that it’s possible for the spirit world to affect the living one. Normal horror-movie stuff, based in reality, naturally.
The Mexican incident went one step further. Although the reports are very few and the set of circumstances so rare and unique, in this instance, especially given that the heart is the strongest and
most important of the organs, the spirit had the combined power of its one living organ along with the proximity of its bones and returned to haunt in corporeal form.” Quentin lets this sink
in. “He existed in the world physically.”

“Like Lucifer.” I will myself not to flinch.

“Like Lucifer,” Quentin echoes.

I’d been so mesmerized by Quentin that I’m surprised when a gust of air comes through and blows off my hood. A shiver races the length of my spine, pooling in the hollow at the base
of my neck. “But if we destroy the body, we should still be able to destroy him,” I say. I close my eyes and listen. His words come double, through the phone and softly repeating
through the stereo speakers.

“Yes and no,” he says. “You have to destroy all of the remains. To destroy Lucifer, you must destroy the heart.”

My hand goes limp. The phone slips from it and lands in the dirt. I can hear barely hear Quentin’s voice in the background. “Caller one? Caller one? Lunatics, looks like we lost her.
Time to open back up the phone lines.”

I fold over. My chest falls against my thighs. My hands cover my ears and I rock back and forth. Pretty soon, I’m on all fours taking in panicked gasps, sucking in my belly until I’m
light-headed from the lack of oxygen and worried I’ll pass out.

Henry lunges for the phone and presses the off button. “It’s not true, Stel.” He shakes his head furiously, standing in front of the low beams of the car’s headlights.
“It’s just not true. That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” He goes around to the driver’s side and flips the station.

I push my fists into my forehead, my heart going haywire in my chest. It knows, I think.

Henry paces from one end of the car to the other. “He’s the lunatic. Jesus.”

“He asked if we wanted to know.”

Henry quits pacing and climbs back onto the hood of the car. We sit, staring out over the invisible water, our shoulders and hips touching. City lights have begun to sparkle, making the bottom
of the sky look like it’s hemmed in glitter.

Henry laces his fingers between mine and squeezes. “We’ll figure this out, Stel.”

He pulls me to rest in the crook of his arm. Staring straight up, I feel as if I have blinders to the rest of the world. I can see nothing but stars. “It’s a little bit better than
the stickers in my room, I guess.” His mouth is close to my ear.

My pulse slows. I feel the weight of my entire being. I feel the warmth of Henry. I feel the spray of the ocean when it carries on the wind. I feel it all and I don’t want it to stop. But
the universe isn’t a Rubik’s Cube for me to solve and maybe it’s possible that I’m the one square that doesn’t fit. “Did you know,” I say, “that the
name Stella actually means ‘star’?”

Millions of shimmering pinpricks poke through the blanket of midnight blue above.

I hear the crackle of Henry’s smile more than I see it. The deep hum of his voice reverberates through his chest. “Why do you think I’m seventeen and still have stickers in my
room?”

“I thought it was because you were a dork.”

His chest shakes with silent laughter. “That, too.” Then, he turns into me, only slightly, but enough to make me feel cocooned and protected from the breeze. “There are a
million, trillion stars,” he murmurs. “But there’s only one Stella. You have to promise me that we’ll figure this out. You have to promise.”

“Okay. I promise.” Because I will try. For Henry. But I’m both very sore and very tired, and the fight in me is slipping.

The lingering taste of pepperoni sticks to the roof of my mouth. Nobody could fight the forces of evil on an empty stomach, Henry insisted, but I strongly suspect that he was
just trying to cheer me up. Unfortunately, I’ve made the recent discovery that no amount of deep-dish pizza is capable of staving off one’s sense of impending doom. Judging by the
continuous sidelong glances, I think he’s worried I might spontaneously combust.

I push my plate away. Henry takes a final bite of crust, then stands to throw away our trash. “I told you we needed brain food,” he says, sliding into the booth across from me.

I stare glassy-eyed and miserable at nothing in particular. Imagine going to the dentist’s office and being numb everywhere except for the spot where the dentist is drilling. This is my
current state: anesthetized save for the spot of blinding pain. “No, you didn’t.” This is the most I’ve said since sitting down for dinner. The effort feels useless and too
much. I think I need another nap.