Elsewhere (19 page)

Owen is six, and Liz is four.

When the weather is fine, they spend afternoons in Betty's garden. He wears a paper crown, she a pink tutu.

On the last of a fortnight of fine days, Liz places an old copy of Tuck Everlasting in Owen's lap.

"What's that for?" Owen asks.

"Story?" Liz smiles sweetly, revealing brand-new baby teeth.

"I don't want to read your stupid girl book," Owen says. "Read it yourself."

Liz decides to take Owen's advice. She picks up the book and holds it in front of her. And then, the strangest thing happens. She finds she cannot read. Maybe it's my eyes, she thinks. She squints at the text, but it makes no difference.

"Owen," says Liz, "there's something wrong with this book."

"Let me see it," Owen says. He opens the book, inspects it, and returns it to her. "There's nothing wrong with it, Liz," he declares.

Liz holds the book as close to her eyes as she can and then at arm's length. Although she does not know why, she laughs. She hands it to Owen. "You do it," she commands.

"Oh, all right," Owen says. "Honesdy, Liz, you're such a bore." He removes the bookmark and begins to read from Tuck Everlasting with a distinct lack of feeling: " ' "Pa thinks it's something left over from well, from some other plan for the way the world should be," said Jesse. "Some plan that didn't work out too good. And so everything was changed. Except that the spring was passed over, somehow or other. Maybe he's right. I don't know. But you see " ' "

Liz interrupts him. "Owen."

Owen tosses the book aside, frustrated. "What is it now? You shouldn't ask a person to read just to interrupt."

"Owen," Liz continues, "do you remember that game?"

"What game?"

"We were big," says Liz, "I was soooo big, bigger every day, and our faces were like this all the time." Liz frowns and furrows her brow in an exaggerated fashion. "And there was a house and a school. And a car and a job and a dog! And I was old! I was more old than you! And everything was rush-rush quick, and hard, so hard." Liz laughs again, a chortling little bird call of a laugh.

After a moment, Owen answers, "I remember."

"I wonder," says Liz, "I wonder what was so . . . hard?"

"It was just a dumb game, Liz."

"It was a dumb game," Liz agrees. "Let's not play it anymore."

Owen nods. "We won't."

"I think I was ... I think I was ... I was dead." Liz begins to cry.

Owen can't stand to see Liz cry. He takes Liz in his arms. She is so small now. When had that happened? he wonders. "Don't be scared, Liz," he says, "it was just a game, remember."

"Oh, right," she says, "I forgot."

"May I continue your story now?" Owen asks, picking up the book.

Liz nods, and Owen begins to read again.

" ' "But you see, Winnie Foster, when I told you before I'm a hundred and four years old, I was telling the truth. But I'm really only seventeen. And, so far as I know, I'll stay seventeen till the end of the world." ' " Owen sets down the book. "That's the end of the chapter. Should I read the next one?"

"Please," says Liz, sticking her thumb happily into her mouth.

Owen sighs and continues to read. " 'Winnie did not believe in fairy tales. She had never longed for a magic wand, did not expect to marry a prince, and was scornful most of the time of her grandmother's elves. So now she sat, mouth open, wide-eyed, not knowing what to make of this extraordinary story. It couldn't not a bit of it be true . . .' "

Liz closes her eyes, and it isn't very long before she falls into a sweet, untroubled sleep.

On a mild January morning just before dawn, Betty delivers Liz to the launch nurse.

"You look familiar," Dolly says, gently taking the baby from Betty. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Betty shakes her head.

"The baby, she looks familiar, too." The nurse holds Liz up to get a better view. "She looked just like you, I bet."

"Yes," Betty says, "yes."

Dolly tickles Liz under the chin. "Pretty baby," she coos. The nurse lays Liz on the table and begins swaddling her.

"Please." Betty places her hand on the nurse's. "Not too tight."

"Don't worry," Dolly says pleasantly. "I've done this before."

Many more people attend Liz's second Release than had her first.

In addition to Betty, there is Aldous Ghent who looks much the same as when Liz first met him.

He has more hair now.

And Shelly carries Thandi in a bassinet. Thandi will be making her own journey very soon. She, of course, has less hair now.

And Curds wears a dark suit, although the custom is to wear white at births.

And, of course, Owen is there, too. He is accompanied by Emily Reilly (formerly Welles), who now acts as his occasional babysitter. She tries to interest Owen in the proceedings, but he prefers to play with his toy boat in a puddle. "Don't run off, O," Emily tells him before joining the others to watch the Release.

Owen doesn't watch when they place Liz in the River, next to all the other babies who would be born that day. Nor does he watch when the launch nurse pushes Liz away from the shore into the current that leads back to Earth. To the untrained observer, it seems as if Liz's departure has no effect on Owen whatsoever.

Curtis Jest watches Owen before deciding to go over to him.

"Owen," Curtis asks, "do you remember who that was?"

Owen looks up from playing with the boat. He appears to find Curtis's question very difficult.

"Lizzie?"

"Yes," says Curtis, "that was Lizzie. She was my friend. She was your . . . your friend, too."

Owen continues playing with the boat. He begins singing Liz's name in the unaffected way children will sometimes sing a name. "Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie," he sings. Owen stops singing abruptly and looks up at Curtis. A horrified expression crosses Owen's face. "Is she . . . gone?"

"Yes," says Curtis.

Owen nods. "Gonegonegonegonegone." Owen begins to cry in an undignified manner, although he isn't entirely sure why he is crying. Curtis takes Owen's hand, leading Owen away from the puddle.

"You know," says Curtis, "you may see her again someday."

"Cool," says Owen, and with that, he stops crying.

From across the parking lot, Betty claps her hands. "Cigars and champagne back at the house!"

At Curtis and Betty's house, a pink and white "It's a girl!" banner hangs on the door. Curtis passes out cigars with pink ribbons tied around them. A "Happy Birthday, Liz" sheet cake is served in addition to champagne and punch.

Aldous Ghent eats a forkful of cake and begins to cry. "Birthday cake always depresses me," he says to no one in particular.

Everyone stops talking when Betty clinks a spoon against a champagne flute. "If you wouldn't mind indulging me, I'd like to say a few words about Liz," she says. "Liz was my granddaughter, of course. But if she hadn't come to Elsewhere, I never would have known her at all. I died before she was born.

"Liz was my granddaughter, but also a good friend. She was just a girl when she got here, but she grew into a fine woman. She liked to laugh and she loved spending time with her dogs and her friends. I never would have met my husband if Liz hadn't come into my life." Betty takes Curtis by the hand.

"On Elsewhere, we fool ourselves into thinking we know what will be just because we know the amount of time we have left. We know this, but we never really know what will be.

"We never know what will happen," Betty says, "but I believe good things happen every day. I believe good things happen even when bad things happen. And I believe on a happy day like today, we can still feel a little sad. And that's life, isn't it?" Betty raises her glass. "To Liz!"

It was a pleasant enough life, Liz thinks. Though she could not remember the specific events, she senses something wonderful happened once. And she feels good about the prospects for the next.

Looking at the babies to her rear and fore, left and right, she notices that most of them keep their eyes closed. Why do they keep their eyes closed? she wonders. Don't they know there's so much to see?

As Liz travels down the River, farther and farther away from her home, farther and farther away from Elsewhere, she has many thoughts. Indeed, there is much time for rumination when one is a baby at the start of a long journey.

There is no difference in quality between a life lived forward and a life lived backward, she thinks.

She had come to love this backward life. It was, after all, the only life she had.

Furthermore, she isn't sad to be a baby. As the wisest here know, it isn't a sad thing getting older.

On Earth, the attempt to stay young, in the face of maturity, is futile. And it isn't a sad thing growing younger, either. There was a time Liz was afraid that she would forget things, but by the time she truly began to forget, she forgot to be afraid to forget. Life is kind, the baby thinks.

The waves cradle the babies and rock them to sleep. And before long, this one succumbs, too.

She sleeps; she sleeps.

And when she sleeps, she dreams.

And when she dreams, she dreams of a girl who was lost at sea but one day found the shore.

The baby, a girl, is born at 6:24 a.m.

She weighs six pounds, ten ounces.

The mother takes the baby in her arms and asks her, "Who are you, my little one?"

And in response, this baby, who is Liz and not Liz at the same time, laughs.