Remember Me (23 page)

Who was more than the Shadow that had taken hold of her as she had come from the womb. Who loved her more than life itself and who would stay with her even when her life was over.

It was I who watched her as she stood on the dark balcony and stared out over the wide ocean in those last moments.

But even I did not see who lifted her up and pushed her forward. I saw only through her eyes and knew only what she knew. But I knew it better. I knew she would never have willingly given up her life, not without a fight or for anything less than a great purpose.

Shari Cooper—I knew her greatness.

CHAPTER

XV

THE SUN WAS touching the western horizon when I came to. It was going down. The day had passed me by, as fast as my life. I sat up and rubbed the top of my head. I was lying in the spot where I had died. My bloodstain was now gone for good. I had not lived through my first fall, but I had survived my second.

I was confused.

I remembered most of what the Shadow had shown me. I knew I had not committed suicide. There were, however, several crucial incidents that would not come into focus.

Worse, I could not review what I had seen from the perspective of the person who had watched the review. Yet I had been that person, only I wasn't who I thought I was. I was the somebody else, I realized, who always watched me.

The realization didn't help much. I decided to ignore the heavy stuff for the time being and just deal with the facts.

I was somebody else's child.

No wonder I had never gotten along with my mother.

But who did I belong to?

Peter was coming up the walkway toward me, wearing his usual baggy white shorts, red T-shirt, and sandals. I jumped to my feet.

"Peter! The most amazing thing just happened to me!"

"What?" he asked anxiously.

His tone surprised me. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"What's wrong? I followed you here to this complex and saw you jump off a balcony and fall three stories headfirst onto a concrete sidewalk and not wake up for twelve hours, and you ask me what's wrong?"

"But I'm a ghost. You've been telling me since we met that I can't hurt myself."

His face darkened. "I couldn't get to you. I tried to, but something kept pushing me back."

He lowered his voice.

"Did you see it?"

"Yeah. We had an intimate get-together."

"What?"

I glanced at the setting sun. "Never mind. It's getting late.

We've got to get out of here. We have to go see Mrs. Parish."

"Why?"

I could almost touch the answer, only I think I was reaching with the wrong hand. "I'm not sure," I said.

We rode on a variety of interesting vehicles to the Parishes': van tops, car hoods, the backs of skateboards, anything going our way. We made good time.

There was still light left in the sky when we reached the lower-middle-class neighborhood where Amanda and her mom lived. Peeking through the curtains, we could see Mrs. Parish sitting inside and sewing. Unfortunately, she had the place locked up tight.

There wasn't even a window cracked that I could slip through.

"What if we go down the chimney?" I asked Peter.

"Like Santa Claus?"

"Yeah." The idea appealed to me. Until I studied the roof. "Wait, she doesn't have a chimney."

"Why don't you close your eyes and imagine yourself inside?" Peter asked.

"That's not going to work."

"It won't with—" Peter began.

"With my attitude, yeah, yeah—heard you the first time.

All right, I'll give it a shot. What do I do?"

"Just do as I said, and don't be afraid."

"Afraid of what? That I'll get stuck in a stucco wall? That I'll rematerialize with a vase on top of my neck instead of a head? What's there to be afraid of?"

Peter sighed. "Don't even bother."

I pointed up the street. ' 'Look, Jo's mom's coming over to visit her sister. She'll let us in."

One might have thought the timing very lucky. That is, until Mrs. Foulton parked a few houses down the block from Mrs. Parish's place and proceeded to smoke half a carton of cigarettes. Well, maybe not quite that many. But it was dark when she finally emerged from her car and walked toward her sister's front door. She looked stressed. She hadn't even had a window rolled down the whole time she had been in the car.

"There's one huge person I'm glad I can't smell," I said to Peter as we followed Mrs.

Foulton up the steps.

"One what?" Peter asked.

"She—I'm not sure what. Let's get inside."

Mrs. Parish let her sister in, and the two of them sat at the kitchen table. Mrs.

Foulton lit another cigarette. Mrs. Parish poured them both coffee.

"This is an unexpected surprise," Mrs. Parish said.

"Cut the crap," Mrs. Foulton replied. "Where's Amanda?"

"She's out for the evening."

"Where is she?"

Mrs. Parish set down her coffee cup, her face worn and tired but her eyes steady. "It sounds like you already know."

"As a matter of fact, I do. Amanda called me from the Coopers' house. She's spending the night. And I've heard Jimmy's parents have gone out of town.

What do you think of that?"

"Amanda knows what's right and wrong."

"Christ, you are stupid." Mrs. Foulton leaned forward.

"You may have raised her Catholic, but she doesn't have a drop of your bleeding religious fervor in her veins."

"Don't talk that way."

"I'll talk as I please. What penance do your priests prescribe for incest?"

"No!" I cried, understanding at last.

"What are they talking about?" Peter demanded.

I shook my head miserably. "This can't be."

Mrs. Parish also shook her head, not as shocked as me, perhaps, but every bit as sad.

"You know she doesn't have any idea."

"I wonder," Mrs. Foulton said.

Mrs. Parish showed anger. "You have no right to come into my house and say such things."

Mrs. Foulton ground out the cigarette she had just lit.

"Don't I? You had no right to ruin my marriage!"

Mrs. Parish started to speak, thought better of it, and took a sip of her coffee instead. "I've paid for what I did wrong," she said finally, softly, glancing out the window. "We've both paid."

Mrs. Foulton sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, trying to control her anger and her grief. A tear slipped by, however, and was halfway down her cheek before she wiped it away.

Reopening her eyes, she stared down at her trembling hands as if the tear had tainted them. I noticed then the nicotine stains on her fingertips, and I remembered them, from so long ago.

"Who was worse?" she asked.

"You or me?"

"You," Mrs. Parish said without hesitation. "I made a mistake in love. You made one out of hate." Mrs. Parish studied her sister. "Do you still hate me?"

"No."

Mrs. Parish raised a surprised eyebrow. "When did you stop?"

"Last week."

Mrs. Parish reached across the table and squeezed her sister's hand. "You do miss her, don't you?"

Mrs. Foulton nodded. "So does Jo. She woke up last night crying about Shari. I wanted to tell her who her best friend had been." She shrugged and reached for her lighter. "But it only would have made her feel worse."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

It was Mrs. Foulton's turn to study her sister. "When did you stop hating me?"

Mrs. Parish sighed. "A long time ago. But also a long time after you told me what you had done."

Mrs. Fbulton struck her lighter. "Do Catholics really believe that people can go to hell?"

"Some do."

"Do you?" Mrs. Foulton asked.

"No," she answered simply.

"No matter what they've done?"

Mrs. Parish nodded. "No matter what."

Mrs. Foulton closed the cap on the flame and set the lighter on the table. "I never hear from him," she said.

"David?"

"Yeah. Do you?"

"No," Mrs. Parish said.

"Do you ever hear from Mark?"

"Never."

David had been Mr. Foulton. Mark had been Mr. Parish.

"Tell me what they're talking about," Peter said again.

"Amanda and me," I said. I had to sit down on the couch in the living room.

Peter came and sat by my side. He took my hand.

"What does it mean, Shari?"

I wanted to cry. I had cried over lesser things in my life, and in my death. The calmness of my voice as I answered his question sounded forced. Yet I did feel a peculiar sense of satisfaction mixed with my sorrow, a sense of having finally arrived. They were discussing something a part of me had always known.

"Jo once told me the reason Mrs. Foulton didn't like Mrs. Parish was because Mrs. Parish had had an affair with Mr. Foulton," I said. "At the time, I thought Jo was kidding me.

But she must have been serious. Mrs. Parish and Mr. Foulton must have wrecked both their marriages."

"What does that have to do with you?" Peter asked.

"Mrs. Parish is my mother."

-What?"

"Mr. Foulton is my father. Jo is my half-sister." I had to put a hand to my head.

"Amanda is Jimmy's sister."

"That's insane," Peter said.

"No, it's logical," I said. "Mr. Foulton had an affair with Mrs. Parish, and she got pregnant with me. But Mrs. Foulton found out about it. Maybe they told her, I don't know. Mrs.

Foulton was working as a nurse at the hospital where I was born. Imagine how she must have felt when she looked at her sister's child and knew it was her husband's child."

"But how can you know all this?" Peter asked.

"Because I was there! Trust me, the Shadow showed it all to me. When I was only a day old, Mrs. Foulton exchanged the identification tag on my ankle with Amanda's. Don't you see?

Amanda's birthday is the day before mine. No! It's the day after mine. Mrs. Foulton switched us in our incubators."

Peter shook his head. "That's not logical. No one could swap babies like that and get away with it. You don't look anything like Amanda."

"I don't now. I did then. I had dark hair as a baby. We would both have the same blue eyes. We were both only a few hours old! You've been to a hospital.

It's hard to tell one baby from another. Besides, for all we know, the only time our mothers saw us before the switch was made was while they were under the influence of pain medication."

"But Amanda is your brother's girlfriend."

"That's why they're talking about incest! That's why they're so worried!" I stopped my raving. I let go of Peter's hand. I didn't want to let go of the most important person in my life, but I had to say it. "He's not my brother."

"Hold on a sec," Peter said. "What exactly did you see when you were with your Shadow?"

My lower lip quivered. "We don't need what I saw. Think how much Amanda and Jimmy look alike. They both have the same beautiful black hair. They have similar eyes." I stopped, struck with a cold realization. "They're both color-blind!"

"I never knew Jimmy was color-blind."

"I didn't either," I said. "But he could never tell what color my eyes were.

Amanda couldn't tell either. And when I was in their dreams, everything was black and white. It makes sense. Color-blindness is hereditary."

"Color-blindness is rare among females," Peter said.

"It doesn't matter. Some girls are color-blind. And there's one other thing.

When I was running from the

Shadow the first time, I called out to my mother for help."

"So?"

"I assumed I was teleported to my mother's bedroom. It was pitch-black in the room when I materialized beside her. I couldn't see clearly. But I could tell there was no one else in the room, which doesn't make sense. Where was my dad?"

"He might not have come to bed yet," Peter said.

"That's possible. But when I finally did wake up, three days later, I wasn't at home. I was here. In fact, I was lying on Mrs. Parish's bed. Peter, she's got to be my mother. I've always loved her as one."

Peter appeared doubtful and confused.

The front doorbell rang.

Mrs. Parish went to answer it. Peter stood and peered out the window. "It's Garrett," he said. "I wonder what he wants."

"Hello," he said when Mrs. Parish opened the front door.

He held his badge out. "I don't believe we've met, but Amanda must have told you about me. I'm in charge of the investigation into Shari Cooper's death." He offered his hand. "The name's Garrett. May I come in for a few minutes?"

Mrs. Parish shook his hand and glanced uncertainly over her shoulder. "I do have company at the moment."

Garrett poked his head in the door. He had on the same clothes he'd worn when we'd met.

"Ah, Mrs. Foulton," he said, slipping his badge back into his coat pocket. "Your sister. I wanted to have a talk with her, too. I would appreciate it greatly if I could speak with you both. I promise to be brief."

"Fine," Mrs. Parish said, coming to a decision, opening the door farther. "Jan, this is the police officer who spoke to our kids the night of the accident."

Mrs. Foulton gave him a cordial welcome, and the three of them sat at the table together with fresh cups of coffee. I expected Garrett to launch into a barrage of questions concerning Jo and Amanda. But once he learned Amanda was not present, he appeared happy enough to relax in his seat, talk about the weather, and enjoy the coffee. He drank three cups of the latter at a truly remarkable speed. One might have thought he was trying to sober up, but he didn't seem the least bit drunk.

"What's going on?" I asked. "He's not doing anything."

"He's here for a purpose," Peter said, watching him.

A minute later Garrett made an unusual comment. "You know, Mrs. Parish, I'm no stranger to this neighborhood. I used to live around the block on Willow."

"Really? Which house?"

"The one at the end of the block with the fence. I think I had the same floor plan as you do." He stood suddenly. "Do you have two bedrooms and one and a half bathrooms?"

Mrs. Parish got up. "We have two full bathrooms here."

"Do any of the bedrooms have a huge closet?" Garrett asked. "I had one of those at my place. Loved the design of that house."