Elsewhere (17 page)

Liz recuperates for two weeks at a healing center. Although she feels better after a few days, she enjoys her period of convalescence. It is nice to be tended to by one's friends and loved ones (especially when one's recovery is assured).

One of her visitors is Aldous Ghent. "Well, my dear, it seems you are not on Earth," he declares.

Liz nods. "It seems that way."

"This situation creates much paperwork, you know." Aldous sighs and then smiles.

"I'm sorry." Liz returns his smile.

"I'm not." Aldous embraces Liz. He sniffles loudly.

"Aldous, you're crying!"

"My allergies again. I find they particularly act up during happy reunions." Aldous blows his nose.

"I finally read A Midsummer Nights Dream," Liz says.

"I thought one could only read Shakespeare for school."

"I've had some free time lately."

Aldous smiles. "And your opinion?"

"It reminded me of here," Liz replies.

"In what way?" Aldous prompts.

"You sound like a schoolteacher," Liz admonishes him.

"Well, thank you very much. I used to be one, you know. You were saying, Elizabeth?"

Liz thinks for a moment. "Well, there's this fairy world, and then there's the real world. And the way Shakespeare writes it, there's really no difference between the two. The fairies are just like real people with human problems and everything. And the human people and the fairies live side by side. They're together and they're apart. And the fairy world might be a dream, but the real world could be a dream also. I liked that." Liz shrugs. "I've never been much good at this English stuff. My best subjects used to be biology and algebra."

"Fine subjects, indeed."

"I'm reading Hamlet now," Liz says. "But I can already tell I don't like it as much as Midsummer."

"No?"

"Well, Hamlet's so obsessed with dying, like that's gonna solve anything." Liz shakes her head. "If he only knew what we know."

"If he only knew!" Aldous agrees.

One day, Curtis Jest visits.

"Lizzie," Curtis says in a more serious voice than Liz has ever heard him use, "I must ask you a question."

"Yes, what is it?"

"It's about Betty," Curtis whispers.

"What about her?" Liz asks.

"Has she any gentleman callers?" Curtis's whisper grows even sorter.

"No, I don't think so, and why are we whispering?" Liz asks.

"Is there a Grandpa Betty in the picture?" Curtis continues to whisper.

"No, Grandpa Jake is remarried and lives on a boat near Monterey, California."

Curtis takes a deep breath. "So you're saying I might have a chance?"

"Curtis, a chance at what?"

"A chance with Betty."

"A chance with Betty?" Liz repeats loudly.

"Liz, lower your voice. For God's sake, I am telling you this in confidence." Curtis's eyes dart around the room. "I find your grandmother a most delightful creature."

"Curtis, are you saying you like Betty?" Liz whispers.

"I am a bit smitten with her. Yes, yes, you could say that."

"Isn't Betty a bit old for you?" Liz asks. "She was fifty when she died, you know. And she's around thirty-three now."

"Yes, exactly! She has so much wisdom! And warmth! And, for now at least, I am twenty-nine years old myself. Do you think she will find me too immature?"

"No, Betty's not like that." Liz smiles. "Tell me one thing. Does she know yet?"

"No, not yet, but I was thinking I might write her a song."

"Curtis, I think that's a wonderful idea." Liz smiles again. "Oh, and if you run out of things to say, compliment her garden."

"Yes, yes, her garden! I shall, and I thank you very much for the tip, Lizzie."

When Liz is allowed to return to Betty's house, she passes the days lazily in Betty's garden and continues to recover. Liz reclines on the hammock while Betty tends to her garden.

Without meaning to, Betty makes frequent stops just to check that Liz is still in the hammock where she should be.

"I'm not going anywhere," Liz assures her.

Betty inhales sharply. "It's just I thought I had lost you forever."

"Oh, Betty, don't you know there's no such thing as forever?" Liz swings in her hammock, and Betty returns to her gardening. Five minutes later, they are interrupted all over again by Curtis Jest.

Curtis is strangely attired in a white suit and dark round sunglasses.

"Hello, Lizzie," he says stiffly. "Hello, Betty," he says softly.

"Hello, Curtis," Liz mimics his tone.

Curtis winks at Liz. Liz rolls over in the hammock and pretends to go to sleep. Sadie curls up behind Liz. Since Liz's return, Sadie has stayed as close to Liz as possible.

"My, Betty," Curtis says, removing his sunglasses, "you do have a lovely garden!"

"Thank you, Mr. Jest," Betty replies.

"Would you mind if I stayed a while?" Curtis asks.

"Liz is asleep, and I was just going inside."

"Oh, do you have to?"

"I do."

"Maybe some other day, then," Curtis stammers. "Good day, Betty. My regards to Lizzie."

Betty nods. "Good day."

"Oh, Betty," Liz says as soon as Curtis is out of earshot, "you were very cruel to Curtis."

"You were the one who fell asleep as soon as he arrived."

"I think he came to see you," Liz admits.

"Me? Why on earth?"

"I think he had, um" Liz pauses "come to court."

"Court!" Betty laughs. "Why, that is the most perfectly absurd thing I've ever heard! Curtis Jest is a boy, and I'm old enough to be his "

"Girlfriend," Liz finishes. "You're only about four biological years apart actually."

"Darling, I'm through with romance, and I have been for some time."

"Saying you're through with romance is like saying you're done with living, Betty. Life is better with a little romance, you know."

"After everything, you can still say that?" Betty raises an eyebrow.

Liz smiles a little and chooses to ignore Betty's question. "Give Curtis a chance, Betty."

"I highly doubt I'll break his heart if I don't. I'm sure he'll have given up by tomorrow," Betty says skeptically.

A week later, Betty and Liz are awakened in the middle of the night by the sounds of an acoustic guitar.

"This one's for you, Betty," Curtis yells from the garden below.

He begins to sing for the first time in almost two years. It's a new song, one Liz has never heard before, one that will later come to be known as "The Betty Song."

By no means is it Curtis Jest's best performance, nor is it his finest moment as a songwriter. The lyrics are (it must be said) rather trite, mainly about the transformative powers of love. In truth, most love songs are exactly the same way.

Owen is devoted to Liz during her recuperation. He visits her every day.

"Liz," Owen asks, "when you were at the bottom of the ocean, what gave you the strength to come back up?"

"I thought I saw my watch floating on the surface, but it turned out to be your boat."

"What watch?" Owen asks after a moment.

"When I lived on Earth, I had this watch. It needed to be fixed actually."

Owen shakes his head. "A broken watch brought you back?"

Liz shrugs. "I know it might not seem so important."

"You can get a new watch on Elsewhere you know."

"Maybe." Liz shrugs again.

The next day, Owen gives Liz a gold watch. Her old one was silver, but Liz doesn't tell him that.

The new one is also not a pocket watch. It is a ladies' watch with a band made of tiny golden links. It is not the sort of thing Liz would normally choose for herself, but she doesn't tell him that either.

"Thank you," Liz replies as Owen clasps the bracelet around her narrow wrist.

"It matches your hair," Owen says, proud of the little gold watch.

"Thank you very much," Liz repeats.

That same afternoon, Jen visits Liz. (She had returned to Owen's after Emily left for keeper-ofbooks training.)

"Did you like the watch?" Jen asks. "I helped Owen pick it out."

"It's really nice," Liz says, scratching Jen between the ears.

"He wasn't sure whether to get silver or gold, but I told him gold. Gold's a great color, don't you think?" asks Jen.

"The best," Liz agrees. "Say, Jen, aren't dogs supposed to be color-blind?"

"No. Who ever said that?"

"It's something they say about dogs on Earth."

"Those Earth people are funny that way," Jen says, shaking her head. "How do they know if we're color-blind if they never even ask us? I mean, they can't even speak the language."

"Good point," Liz says.

"Back on Earth, I once saw this television report that said dogs had no emotions. Can you believe that?" Jen cocks her head. "Say, Liz, I wanted to thank you for letting me stay with you all that time."

"It was no trouble."

"And I'm sorry for that time" Jen lowers her voice "I peed in your bed."

"It's forgotten," Liz reassures Jen.

"Oh good! I couldn't bear it if you were mad at me."

Liz shakes her head. "I wasn't mad at you."

"Owen's much better now," the dog says. "He's learning to speak Canine and everything."

"You aren't mad at him, even a little?" Liz asks.

"Maybe a tiny bit at first, but not anymore. I know he's a good person. And he said he was sorry.

And I love him. And when you love a person, you have to forgive him sometimes. And that's what I think."

Liz nods. "That's a good philosophy," Liz says.

"Would you mind rubbing my belly?" Jen asks, flipping happily onto her back.

Later that night, Liz stares at the gold watch. Ah well, Liz thinks to herself. The watch isn't exactly like the old one, or anything like it, for that matter. But the intention is good. Liz shakes her wrist, causing the links to make a pleasing bell-like tinkle. She puts her wrist to her ear and enjoys the tick of the second hand. Five ticks later, Liz resolves to forgive the watch for its imperfections.

She kisses its face with tenderness. Really, what a marvelous gift, she thinks.

Before long, Liz forgives Owen, too. Yes, he is flawed, but he is also an excellent driving teacher.

If you are going to forgive a person, Liz decides, it is best to do it sooner rather than later. Later, Liz knows from experience, could be sooner than you thought.

************************************

There will be other lives.

There will be other lives for nervous boys with sweaty palms, for bittersweet rumblings in the backseats of cars, for caps and gowns in royal blue and crimson, for mothers clasping pretty pearl necklaces around daughters' unlined necks, for your full name read aloud in an auditorium, for brand-new suitcases transporting you to strange new people in strange new lands.

And there will be other lives for unpaid debts, for one-night stands, for Prague and for Paris, for painful shoes with pointy toes, for indecisions and revisions.

And there will be other lives for fathers walking daughters down aisles.

And there will be other lives for sweet babies with skin like milk.

And there will be other lives for a man you don't recognize, for a face in a mirror that is no longer yours, for the funerals of intimates, for shrinking, for teeth that fall out, for hair on your chin, for forgetting everything. Everything.

Oh, there are so many lives. How we wish we could live them concurrently instead of one by one by one. We could select the best pieces of each, stringing them together like a strand of pearls.

But that's not how it works. A human's life is a beautiful mess.

In the year Liz will turn thirteen again, she whispers in Betty's ear, "Happiness is a choice."

"So, what's your choice?" Betty asks.

Liz closes her eyes, and in a split second she chooses.

Five years pass.

When one is happy, time passes quickly. Liz feels as if one evening she went to bed fourteen and the next morning she woke up nine.

Someone from Earth's been trying to Contact you," Owen announces one evening after work.

Now the head of the Bureau of Supernatural Crime and Contact, he is usually one of the first people on Elsewhere to know about these matters.

"What?" Liz barely looks up from her book. Recently, she has taken to rereading her favorite books from when she first learned to read on Earth.

"What are you reading?" Owen asks.

"Charlotte's Web" Liz says. "It's really sad. One of the main characters just died."

"You ought to read the book from end to beginning," Owen jokes. "That way, no one dies, and it's always a happy ending."

"That's about the dumbest thing I've ever heard." Liz rolls her eyes and returns to her reading.

"Aren't you at all interested in who's trying to Contact you?" Owen asks. From his coat pocket, he removes a green recorked wine bottle with a sticky palimpsest where the label had once been.

Inside the bottle is a rolled-up ecru envelope. (The envelope is really more pleated than rolled, because of the thickness of the paper.) "It washed up on the wharf today," Owen says, handing the bottle to Liz. "The boys over in Earth Artifacts had to uncork it to see who it was for, but the contents of the envelope haven't been touched. When we get an MIB, we try as much as possible to preserve the person's privacy."

"What's an MIB?" Liz asks, setting her book aside to examine the bottle.

"Message in a bottle," Owen answers. "It's one of the few ways to get mail from Earth'to Elsewhere. No one knows exactly why it works, but it does."

"I've never gotten one before," Liz says.

"They're not as common as they used to be."

"Why's that?" Liz asks.

"People on Earth don't write letters so much anymore. Messages in bottles probably don't occur to them. And it's not always a sure thing."

Liz uncorks the bottle. She removes the thick envelope, which is remarkably well preserved considering its watery voyage. On the front is an address in elegant calligraphy done with a rich, black-green ink:

"Very thorough," Owen says, "but they never write Elsewhere."

"No one on Earth calls it that," Liz reminds him. She turns the envelope over. The return address is in the same calligraphy:

"That's Zooey's address," Liz says as she lifts the flap. Inside, she finds a three-paneled ecru wedding invitation and a long handwritten note. Liz slips the note into her pocket.

" 'You are invited to the wedding of Zooey Anne Brandon and Paul Scott Spencer,' " Liz reads aloud. "My best friend's getting married?"

"You mean your best friend before you met me, right?" Owen teases her.

Liz ignores him. "The wedding's the first weekend in June. That's in less than two weeks." Liz tosses the invitation aside. "She certainly took her time inviting me," Liz huffs.

"You should probably forgive her. It's pretty hard to send things here, you know? She probably sent this months ago." Owen picks up the invitation. "Good-quality paper stock."

"Isn't she too young to get married?" Liz asks. "She's my age." Liz corrects herself, "I mean, she was my age. Actually, she was a month older than me, so I guess that makes her almost twentytwo."

Owen takes out a pen and begins filling out the response card. "Will madam be bringing a guest?"

"No," Liz replies.

"What about me?" asks Owen, his eyes wide with mock offense.

"Sorry to disappoint, O," Liz says, taking the response card from him, "but I think we'd have a little trouble making travel arrangements." She carefully slips the response card and the invitation back into the envelope.

"We could watch from the OD," Owen suggests.

"I don't want to watch," Liz says.

"Then we could dive," Owen says. "From the Well, you could congratulate her and everything."

"I can't believe you're even suggesting that." Liz shakes her head. "In your line of work."

"Oh come on, Liz! Where's your sense of adventure? One last hurrah before we're too young for any more hurrahs! What do you say?"

Liz thinks for a moment before she answers. "When I died, Zooey didn't go to my funeral, so I see no need to attend her wedding."

That night in bed, Liz reads Zooey's note. She notices that Zooey's handwriting is the same as when they were both fifteen and used to pass notes in school.

Dear Liz,

It's pretty crazy for me to write you after all this time, but as you can see, I'm getting married! :) I've missed you a lot. I wonder where you are, and what you've been doing. And in case you've wondered about me, I'm in my first year of law school, here in Chicago where I live now.

So if you have the time and the inclination, and if you happen to be in Boston (we wanted Chicago, but Mom won), you should drop by the wedding. The boy's name is Paul, and he smells good, and he has nice forearms.

I know you probably won't ever get this letter (sort of feels like writing to Santa which is really bizarre considering I'm Jewish), but it was worth a shot. I already tried a psychic medium and Rabbi Singer of Congregation B'nai B'rith, where my parents still attend services back in Brookline. Incidentally, Mom and Dad say "hi." It was Paul s idea to put the invite in the bottle. I think he got it from a movie, though.

Love,

Your Best Friend on Earth (I hope),

Zooey

P.S. Fm sorry I didn't go to your funeral.

"I want to give a toast," Liz announces to Owen the next morning.

"By all means," Owen says, sitting down with his cup of coffee. "I'm all ears."

"Not now, silly," Liz replies. "I meant at Zooey's wedding. Your idea to go to the Well might not be as bad as I first thought."

"So you're saying you want to dive?" Owen's eyes light up.

"Yes, and I need you to help me with the toast. The last time I tried to communicate from the Well was a bit of a disaster," Liz says.

"That was the night you met me, I believe."

"Like I said, it was a bit of a disaster," Liz jokes.

"That isn't funny." Owen shakes his head.

Liz continues, "All the faucets in the house turned on, and "

"Beginner's mistake," Owen interrupts.

"And nobody could understand what I was saying," Liz finishes.

"And you were arrested," Owen adds.

"That, too," Liz concedes. "So how do I make it so the people at the wedding will understand me and not run from the room screaming?"

"Well, for one, you have to remember not to scream. Once you have their attention, whispering is much more effective. Screaming ghosts scare people, you know," Owen says.

"Good tip."

"And you have to pick a running water source and focus on it. And good breath control is a must,"

Owen says. "I'll come with you, of course, but only if you want me to."

"Won't you get sacked if they know you're helping me make Contact?"

Owen shrugs. "I'm head of the whole department now, and people tend to look the other way."

Liz smiles. "Then I guess it's settled." She raises her glass of orange juice. "To our dive!" she proclaims.

"To our dive!" Owen repeats, raising his cup of coffee. "I love an adventure, don't you?"

The evening of Zooey's wedding reception, Owen and Liz meet at the beach at eight o'clock. The reception starts at eight-thirty, and the dive itself should take forty minutes by Owen's calculations.

"Once we get there, you only have a little over half an hour," Owen warns her. "I've told the boys from work to pick us up at nine-thirty."

"Do you think that's long enough?" Liz worries.

"It isn't good to spend too much time down there. It is still illegal, you know."

Liz nods.

"I don't mean to be rude, but your wet suit's a bit loose in the bottom, Liz," Owen says.

"Is it?" She tugs at the stretchy fabric around her butt. "The wet suit's getting old. I haven't used it in almost six years."

"You look like you're wearing a diaper."

"Yeah, well, I guess I'm shrinking, too. I am nine, you know," Liz says.

"That's little."

"Well, I'm actually nine-six, and I would have been twentyone, so that's not the same as being plain nine," Liz says. "Besides, Owen, you're eleven. That's not much older than nine."

"I'm eleven?" Owen asks. "I certainly don't feel eleven."

"Well, you certainly act eleven a lot of the time," Liz teases.

"And if I'd lived, I would have been forty-one," Owen adds.

"Wow, that's really old!" Liz shakes her head. "Imagine! If you were forty-one, and I was twentyone, and we still lived on Earth, we probably never would have met."

The dive passes without incident. Having made it many times before, Owen is an excellent guide.

When they get to the Well, they can find only one running water source with a view into the reception a large outdoor fountain across a courtyard. From this location, they can mostly see through the tall glass windows that line the walls of the ballroom where Zooey's reception is being held.

"We aren't very close," Liz complains. "If I had only wanted to watch, we could have just gone to the OD."

"Don't worry. We'll find a better place for you to make your toast from," Owen assures her.

Across the courtyard and through the windows, Liz sees a wedding party much like every other one she has ever seen: abundant yellow roses, bridesmaids' dresses in pink, a bored-looking wedding singer, Zooey in an off-white A-line dress, the groom in a gray tuxedo with tails. Liz sees Zooey's mother and father among the crowd. And behind them, she sees her own mother and father.

"Look, Owen, it's my mom and dad. Dad looks older, and Mom changed her hair," Liz says. "Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad!" Liz waves. "Oh, and there's my brother! Hi, Alvy!"

"Which one's Zooey?" Owen asks.

"Duh," Liz replies, "she's the one in the white dress."

"Oh, right!"

Liz rolls her eyes. "You're definitely getting stupider as you get younger, O." Liz looks at Zooey.

Zooey is twentyone, a woman. How odd, Liz thinks, that I'm nine and she's twentyone.

"We really should start looking for a place for you to toast from," Owen says. "We've only got about twentyfive minutes left."

First, they try the bathroom sink.

"CONGRATULATIONS, ZOOEY! THIS IS ELIZABETH MARIE HALL!" Liz yells. But the bathroom is too far away, and no one hears her.

"Maybe I'll wait until she comes in here?" Liz says to Owen. "At least then I'd get to talk to her."

"Not enough time. And brides always complain that they never get to eat or go to the bathroom.

Let's try the kitchen," Owen suggests.

The kitchen, while slightly closer to the reception area, is incredibly noisy with staff and plates and timers and other kitchen sounds.

"I LOVE YOU, ZOOEY! CONGRATULATIONS TO YOU AND PAUL," Liz yells again, this time from the kitchen sink.

A busboy screams and drops a tray filled with dirty salad plates.

"SORRY," Liz apologizes. "This is getting ridiculous," Liz says to Owen. "All I've succeeded in doing is scaring a waiter. We have to find somewhere closer."

In a burst of desperation, Liz suggests the samovar, but Owen, who knows more about these things, rejects the idea on the grounds that the water source has to be connected to actual plumbing. Despite Owen's warnings against it, Liz tries the coffee pot, but it doesn't work anyway.

(She's glad it doesn't work she would have felt entirely stupid giving a toast from a coffee pot.) "Oh, let's just go back to the fountain," Liz says dejectedly. "Maybe if we both yell together, she'll hear us."

"CONGRATULATIONS! CONGRATULATIONS! CONGRATULATIONS!" Owen and Liz scream from the fountain.

They continue yelling for five more minutes, but no one hears them over the noise from the fountain and through the walls. "Well," Liz says with a sigh, "at least I got to see Zooey in her wedding dress. We could have just done that from the ODs, I suppose."

"But it wouldn't have been as much fun," Owen points out.

"Should we swim back?" Liz asks.

"No, we might as well just wait," Owen says. "The boat'll be here in about ten minutes anyway."

While they wait, Liz watches Zooey's reception inside the ballroom. From their position at the fountain, she can see her own mother and father dancing.

"Your mom looks like you," Owen observes.

"Mom's hair is darker. She actually looks more like Alvy than . . ." Liz's voice trails off. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Alvy leave the reception hall through the side door. He's walking toward the fountain.

"Liz?" Owen asks.

"I think my brother's coming this way," Liz says.

Alvy walks right up to the fountain and looks into the water. Liz holds her breath.

"Lizzie," Alvy whispers to the fountain.

"Remember," Owen says, "don't yell."

"It's me," Liz whispers.

"I thought I heard you," Alvy says. "First I thought it was coming from the bathroom. And then the kitchen. And then out here."

Liz's eyes well up a little bit. Good old Alvy. "Alvy, it's so good to talk to you."

"I'll go get Zooey! You're here to congratulate her, right? I'll go get Mom and Dad, too," Alvy says.

"They'll definitely want to talk to you."

Owen shakes his head. "The guys are going to be here in five minutes."

"There isn't time, Alvy," Liz says. "Just give Zooey and Mom and Dad my love. In a way that won't freak them out, of course."

"I'll just run in real quick and get them."

"No!" Liz says. "I might not be here when you get back. Let's just talk a little bit, you and me. I have to go soon."

"Okay," Alvy agrees.

"How's eighth grade?" she asks.

"I'm in ninth actually. I skipped."

"Alvy, that's awesome! You were always so smart. How's ninth grade, then?"

"It's cool," Alvy says. "I'm in debate this year, which is definitely better than band, which I was in last year. God, Lizzie, you don't actually want to know about this stuff, do you?"

"I do. I totally do."

Alvy shakes his head. "I think about you, you know?"

"I think about you, too."