Death of a Kleptomaniac (21 page)

I am sobbing so hard I begin to convulse.

“You're fine. You're fine,” Grandma says as she holds me.

I am not fine.

“You should take her to the doctor,” the policeman says. “She's got a lot of cuts.”

“No!” I scream. I want to go home. I don't want the experience to last any longer. I screw my eyes closed and gasp for breath.

“Here you go,” a woman says. She presses something soft into my hands. I open my eyes. It's a toy. It's a stuffed bear. “I bought it for my own granddaughter just now. But you can take it.”

And somehow holding this soft new thing that was intended for somebody else lets my anxiety flow out of me. I'm not trapped anymore. I'm out. I'm not going to melt to death. Glass isn't going to cut me to ribbons. My breathing slows. I hold the bear.

“That's a good girl,” my grandma says. Then she turns to the woman who gave me the toy. “I need to call my daughter.”

The woman hands my grandmother her phone. I keep holding the bear. When we get home, my mother decides not to take me to the doctor. She calls a friend who's a nurse and they pick the glass out of my skin with tweezers and apply alcohol to sterilize my cuts. All I will need is a few Band-Aids. But my stuffed bear will be taken from me. The toy, spotted with blood, and given to me by a stranger, will vanish that night. My mother will toss it in the trash while I sleep and offer me a different toy the next day. But it won't be enough. That sense of panic and loss will dwell within me for the rest of my life.

“You're okay,” my grandma repeats as she sets me down on the sidewalk. The heat of the day is fading. My scrapes are losing their zing of pain. My last memory is ending. I don't quite feel that I've confronted anything. The moment traumatized me. I never got over it. The feelings I had inside that car are incredibly familiar. They are the same anxieties that ricochet through me before I steal. That's why I do it. I started stealing things in an effort to calm my escalating anxiety.

If I'd lived, maybe even just a year longer, I bet I would have told somebody about my problem. Maybe Henry. I imagine a therapist would have helped me develop other strategies. And maybe just telling people would have cured some of it too. While alive, I was so hard on myself for taking things.
Too hard
. Even here I've been pretty scared about what it means to be a thief and to be dead. But it's not like the people who love me would suddenly stop if they found out. Sadie didn't. Henry didn't. That's not what will damage my connections. And it's not going to determine what happens to me here, either. I'm not going to be shipped off to some terrible place and punished forever. Anxiety issues don't determine what happens to a soul. The fact that I was a kleptomaniac doesn't have anything to do with my fate now.

I don't return to Louise or the transition room. Yes, I've had a big breakthrough, and I look forward to telling her about it eventually. But there's also that matter of recently possessing Sadie. Taking over a body just sounds bad. Telling Louise about that incident feels like it would be a huge mistake. So I decide to do something else.

I arrive at my body's side. Before, when I stood next to it, I felt like I was dying all over again. Having to confront my pale, stiff corpse was too much. But I don't feel that way now. I am just here, and I watch as my grandma and Aunt Claire apply the last of my makeup. It's a relief to see that they're doing it right. I was afraid they'd make me look fake, like a doll. But I almost look like me. Almost.

“Less is more,” Aunt Claire says, dotting my cheek with a light blush.

“I don't know how we'll go on,” Grandma says.

They stand in silence, looking down at me. That's when I realize that I'm wearing my burial clothes. It's my green dress. I knew they'd make me look too formal. I only wore that outfit once, to a luncheon with my mother at a fancy hotel. Jeans would have made more sense. And a nice casual top. That was who I was. Why did I ever buy this green dress? It's the color of a pine tree. I stare at my dressed-up body and feel as though I'm about to enter a grief trance. I could stand here and feel sad for the rest of my existence. And I suspect I'd feel that way no matter what I was wearing.

“When you die in high school, wherever you go afterward, I bet you feel completely robbed. Like your whole life got stolen.” My grandma tries to restrain her emotion when she speaks, and it makes her voice shake. “It's different when old people die. We lived. But Molly…There was so much ahead of her.”

“I found something in her room,” Aunt Claire says guiltily. “Remember when we grabbed the garment bag and I forgot the blush brush and I had to double back for it?”

My grandma dabs at her nose with a tissue. “Yes? What did you find?”

“A note.”

It must have been the note I wrote when I was inside Sadie.

“It was about a boy,” Aunt Claire says.

Grandma sniffles. “That sounds right. I think Molly might have been falling in love.”

“With Henry?” Aunt Claire asks.

My whole soul feels alive with electricity. I'm not the only one who knows. And Henry's not the only one who knows. Other people now know that we were falling in love. Why does this make me feel relieved instead of doomed?

“What does the note say?” my grandma asks.

“She says she wants to ask him to the Sweetheart Ball,” Aunt Claire says.

My grandmother starts sobbing. “She's missing prom. She's missing high school. She's missing her whole life.”

“Shh,” Aunt Claire says. “I know. I almost didn't say anything. But I wonder whether or not we should tell him.”

My grandma nods. “Of course we should. Right?”

Aunt Claire smiles. “Her mother said Molly had planned on asking her date out with a pint of ice cream.”

“Should we give it to him?” my grandma asks.

“Nice idea,” I say. “But it's too late. Mom already gave it to Tate.”

But then I remember that I bought two pints. Why not invite both guys? So Henry will get not only the note from Sadie, he'll also get the ice-cream invitation. Maybe it will help him understand that we had something real. Something that was going somewhere. Because my note tells him that.

They walk toward the exit, and both of them look back at me. “So we just bum-rush the boy at the funeral with a pint of ice cream and tell him that Molly wanted to ask him to the prom?” my grandma says.

“When you say it that way, it sounds like a bad idea,” Aunt Claire says.

“Well, I don't want my grief to cloud my judgment,” my grandma says.

I've grown attached to the idea of Henry's getting the ice cream. It's the better option. “You should give it to him,” I say.

“I think we're both having a hard time accepting that Molly's life is really over,” Aunt Claire says.

My grandmother tears up again and nods. “Things happened the way they happened, and now we all have to live with them.”

“Let's not invite him,” Aunt Claire says.

This isn't right. It's like the world is conspiring against me and Henry. Like I was never meant to stay connected with him. I know what I need to do. Even though I've only done it one time and I'm still uncomfortable with the overall concept of it, I need to possess Aunt Claire and make her invite Henry to the dance for me. After you possess one person, I imagine that each subsequent possession only gets easier and easier. I mean, it really shouldn't be a problem. When I have my next meeting with Hilda, I'll need to ask her some questions about the logistics of possession. Clearly, there should be some sort of time limit. Like, I can't just stay and inhabit another person's body for an entire week, or even a day.

I move toward Aunt Claire and get ready to pounce on her. Then I reconsider. Maybe I should wait until she gets closer to Henry. That makes more sense. It would be too weird for my grandma if I possessed Aunt Claire and made them both drive to Henry's right now. I can't do that. Though I'm not sure how to predict when Aunt Claire will get closer to Henry. I should probably wait until my funeral. I hear a door slam. Aunt Claire has left. My chance to possess her is basically over.

I'm ready to leave when I realize that Ruthann is walking into the room that holds my body. This really shouldn't be allowed. Don't funeral homes have attendants to keep people from walking right in off the street? She approaches my casket cautiously, as if I might jump out from my cushioned box.

“Hi, Molly,” she says, lamely waving at my casket. “You're probably wondering why I'm here.” She's standing near my head, staring at my dead face.

“I came to say I'm sorry.” She bites her lip and keeps looking at me like she thinks I'm going to respond. “You probably think it's crazy that I'm apologizing to you. But I'm not actually apologizing for anything I've done, because that wouldn't really make sense. This is a preemptive apology for something I'm going to do.”

She sniffles a little and turns her back to me. Never in my life did I ever expect anybody to deliver a preemptive apology to me. Especially Ruthann Culpepper.

“I've developed feelings for somebody you care about. Real. Serious. Romantic feelings. And while a part of me thinks the honorable thing to do would be to shelve them and deny my heart what it wants, so I don't violate our awesome friendship, there is another part of me that thinks the right choice would be to act on these feelings.”

Oh my god. If she tells me that she's going to pursue a romantic relationship with Henry, I'm going to have to figure out a way to possess somebody who has the means and equipment to lock Ruthann Culpepper in a box. Forever.

“I think you probably saw the chemistry already between me and Tate. And I think if everybody involved could just be honest with each other, the real reason he fired me probably had more to do with all our sexual tension than with any other excuse he gave.”

She really is crazy. For the first time since my accident, I'm sort of glad I'm dead so I don't actually have to respond to her during this awkward confession. “There is no way you and Tate had sexual chemistry,” I say. “Zero possibility.”

Ruthann reaches out and places a hand on my casket. I don't like watching her invade my body's space. She needs to stand back. “So I'm hoping you will give me your blessing. And I'm just going to stand here for a second until I feel like you've delivered that.”

And so she just stands there. Next to my body. At the funeral home. Waiting for some sort of sign that is never going to appear. This is nuts. So I tell her. Except I don't use those exact words.

“You don't need my permission to explore something with Tate. I mean, he's going to reject you, because he's repulsed by you. But you don't need my blessing. Tate and I didn't really have anything. Things wouldn't have gone much further than the first date, had I lived.”

“Thanks,” Ruthann says. “I totally think I just felt you give me your permission.”

“This is classic,” I say. “You hear me as well in death as you did in life.”

Ruthann exhales dramatically and keeps talking. “And also, I wanted to let you know that I'm not pursuing any charges against your cat. My mom and I think it wouldn't be the right thing to do under these circumstances.”

This is great news, but it's odd that Ruthann is standing over my dead body to deliver it.

“So, I think we're done here,” Ruthann says. “Bye, Molly.” She pulls her hand away from my casket and waves. Then she walks out. I could follow her to see where she's going, but I don't really want to do that. It's over. I need to let Ruthann leave. I need to let her go off and live her ridiculous life.

After she goes, I stand by my body. Partly because there is this comfortable hold that it has on my soul. Partly because it's one of the last times I'm going to see it. Louise told me that my friends and family would heal and go on, and it looks like that's already starting to happen. I'm not even buried and people are planning the shape they want their lives to take without me.

Everything feels wrong now. It's the morning of my funeral, and I know I promised Hilda that I'd meet her so she could teach me how to remain uncrossed, but I'm beginning to have serious doubts about that plan.

“I'm miserable,” I say as I approach the snow cone stand. But that's probably typical. I bet most people feel this way on the day of their funeral, especially when they're young, like me, and have lost everything.
Everything.
I'm not sure being uncrossed is going to make my situation better. The more I think about it, the more I start to see the obvious flaws. So I'll just stay here and watch everybody I love grow older and older. Until they eventually die. Then what happens? I just keep staying here? If I refuse to cross now, does that mean that I never cross?

I'm inside the hut now, and it's just as Hilda and I left it. Straws and napkins scattered on the floor. Sticky flavorings drip down the sides of the bottles. I try to shake off a feeling of depression. Because this isn't where I'd stay. I'd hang out in my bedroom. The hallways at school. Until my friends graduated. It would be weird to keep hanging out in high school when I didn't know anybody. I'd get to see the seasons change. See my family buy groceries and eat dinner. Attend the twins' birthday parties.

But I wouldn't feel any of it. It would be like going to an aquarium. Lots of interesting things would be happening, but I'd always be stuck on the other side of the glass. What's the longest I've ever stared at an aquarium, anyway?

“I'm here, Hilda.” I'm still trying to avoid thinking or saying things in the form of a question. I don't want Louise to know what I'm considering. “Hilda,” I yell. It's rude for her to be late. I'm running on a pretty tight timeline. If I do it, I'll be crossing over in just a few hours.

As crazy as it seems, I'm starting to feel like I should just cross. It's part of death. The hardest part is not knowing what's going to happen to me.

I see Hilda, and I voice my concerns right away. “I just don't want to be the sort of ghost who never goes anywhere, who never advances into anything else.”

“Being a ghost is a form of advancement,” Hilda offers.

“Right,” I say. “But I don't want to be stuck in this place where everybody else is living and feeling and getting on with their lives and I remain in my bedroom, unchanged.”

“That's death, Molly,” Hilda says.

“No,” I say. “That's something else. Something stagnant. I'd feel creepy tailing everybody I loved. What? I'm going to watch Henry fall in love with somebody else? That would be terrible.”

“Maybe you could interfere and prevent him from falling in love with somebody else.”

That sounds appealing. For two seconds.

“No,” I say. “That's terrible in a different way.”

“Molly, stop doubting yourself,” Hilda says. “Today I'm going to take you to a park and teach you how to possess a stranger. It's going to be harder than possessing Sadie. But I'm certain you can do it.”

“Possess a stranger?” I'm horrified. That's not who I am. I don't want to be the kind of person who races around on the day of my funeral jumping into strange people's bodies.

“You really have a gift for it,” Hilda says. “Not everybody can inhabit a body as effortlessly as you did and make it function properly.”

I can't handle hearing any more compliments about my innate skills for possessing people. The more I reflect on it, the more I'm ashamed that I did it in the first place.

“Hilda,” I say, “I want to learn this stuff. But at the same time, I don't want to learn this stuff. It feels unnatural. I really don't think I can go along with it.”

“Let's go down to the river,” Hilda says. “I'll let you choose the person.”

When she puts it to me that way, it's clear that I absolutely cannot do this.

My funeral is in a matter of hours. I should be comforting people. I shouldn't be violating the laws of souldom.

“Just follow me,” Hilda says.

And I'm not sure why I do. I guess I want her to understand why I'm backing out. Plus, I hate disappointing people.

“At this point, it just doesn't feel like the path I should take,” I say as we approach the bridge.

Hilda refuses to stop.

“Really,” I say, “I don't see this second possession happening.”

She keeps moving. And I keep moving. Because I want her at least to acknowledge that I've completely backed out.

“Just give it one try,” she says.

I slow my pace. Hilda needs to accept my decision. Because I'm not going to make the same mistakes in death that I made in life. While alive, I was way too much of a follower. Now that I'm dead, I'm planning to be a little more proactive.

“Hilda, you don't seem to be listening. I'm not going to do it,” I say. “It feels wrong.”

Hilda's anger travels through the air and lands on me; it's the closest thing to heat that I've encountered since I died. It's time to get out of this. For real.

“I appreciate everything you've done,” I say, “but I need to go.”

She ignores me and picks up a small mallard. Then she turns to me and her face is wild with rage.

“You led me to believe you would do this,” she says. “You're a liar.”

“I don't think I lied. I thought I could do this, but now I don't think I can anymore.”

“Look at what you're doing. Look at how you're treating me.”

Her grip on the duck is so tight that the bird lets out a quack.

“Why are you holding that duck like that?” I ask.

“To show you what you're missing,” she says. “I can touch anything. Move any object. And if I feel like it, I can possess any body I want. You could have this too.”

“Right,” I say, taking a few steps back.

Her reaction seems severe. I just met her and she's acting like a jilted lover. Like she'd pinned her whole future on teaching me how to possess somebody.

“Calm down,” I tell her. But based on her glare, I guess that our conversation is having the opposite effect. I don't know why she's acting this way. All I can think is that she must be lonely. She must have figured we were going to become friends and spend hours and hours of soul time together. I'd become her apprentice and we'd navigate the uncrossed place together. Sure, she's probably disappointed, but it's not like I made a promise to her.

“I'm going to cross,” I explain. “You shouldn't take it personally.”

I look around beneath the bridge as the river slips quietly by.

“Your family will go on without you,” she says.

“They'll move on either way,” I reply. “I'm dead. I matter in a different way to them.”

Just as with Sadie, I can feel Hilda aiming her anger at me. I take a step back, and then another. She slowly sets down the duck and it flies toward the water.

“I should probably be going,” I say.

“You're making a mistake,” she says.

I shrug. “I've made a lot of those. And this doesn't feel like one of them. It feels like the right thing to do.”

She shakes her head. “Why did you even come here?”

“I guess I wanted to tell you face to face,” I say, truly trying to let her down easy.

She smiles. “You have doubts. That's why you're here.”

And I do have doubts. But I'm not going to admit that to Hilda.

“No,” I say. “I've made my decision.”

“Well, you'll have a lot of years to live with it.”

Hilda walks under the bridge, but before she gets too far, she turns and says, “You're going to be miserable.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But maybe not.”

She glares at me. Then she smiles a very creepy smile and says something that's confusing and unsettling.

“You'll only cross if I let you.”

Then she's gone, and I want to believe it's for good. But her threat makes it very clear that she's not done with me yet.