The Lonely Dead Read online

  I read between the lines. When you wake up, it might be in a strange bed. With no memory of how you got there or even who you are with.

  “During a blackout, only your short-term memory keeps working. And short-term memory is basically a two-minute loop.” She points at Aspen. “That’s why your friend could be funny and probably not even seem drunk, but she still might end up repeating the same jokes.”

  Judging by the murmurs around me, Borka’s words aren’t scaring anyone off.

  “And if you have a high tolerance for alcohol, if you skip meals, if you’re a woman—you have a much higher risk of blacking out.”

  “Just because you’re a woman?” Brianna objects. “That’s sexist!”

  “It’s not sexist, Brianna.” Borka presses her lips together and shakes her head. “It’s reality. Women don’t metabolize alcohol as well as men do. And we have different levels of the enzymes that help the body process alcohol. If girls try to keep up with the guys, match them drink for drink, they can really get themselves into trouble.”

  What Borka is saying is making me look back. How much of that night do I remember? I remember drinking, talking to Luke, drinking, watching karaoke, drinking, hiding in Tori’s closet, kissing Luke. Being discovered.

  I remember looking in the bathroom mirror at home. Finding that all my carefully applied makeup was now underneath my eyes, making me look like the world’s saddest raccoon. Throwing up in the bathroom sink, then washing away the evidence. Lying on my bed and feeling the world spin.

  But I don’t really remember much about going home. What if Tori followed me and caught up with me outside Gabriel Park? What if I snapped and killed her?

  If you black out, you might do things you wouldn’t normally do, like textbook Dwight getting in fights. What if I did something bad that night and don’t remember it? I drank those beers so fast, faster even than I would have water.

  But if I killed her, I didn’t mean to.

  Can you go to prison for something you don’t even remember doing?

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 8:08 P.M.

  SHOW A LITTLE BIT OF RESPECT

  The line to get into Tori’s viewing stretches down the hall, out the doors, and wraps around the parking lot, despite the rain. Visitation was supposed to last from six to eight, but the line still goes on forever behind me. Reporters aren’t being let in. They’ve been corralled in a roped-off section of the parking lot, where they’re trying to cajole people into being interviewed.

  When I joined the line, I slipped between two groups of elderly women. Even now that I’m indoors, I leave the hood of my black raincoat up. Word has continued to spread about how I threw myself at Luke at Tori’s party. I’ve taken to skipping lunch and hiding in a quiet corner of the library. Now as the line moves forward, I tug my black pants up yet again. When I was still taking my pills, they were too tight.

  There’s a bottleneck of black and navy at the auditorium door. Inside, the loudspeakers are broadcasting a song popular last summer, the lyrics about dying young. Back then, it was kind of sadly romantic. Now it’s just awful.

  We shuffle forward. I can’t see the stage yet, but I can see the space below it. It holds professional portraits of the Rasmussen family, blown up to life-size. Bored of waiting, a little girl in a black velvet dress is running in circles around the easels.

  As soon as I step inside, Tori starts waving her arms.

  “Adele! Adele!”

  Her casket sits in the center of the stage. White and gold, it’s like something for a Disney princess. The closed bottom half is smothered in white roses. The open top half showcases the dead Tori’s head propped up on a satin pillow.

  But the other Tori—the one who is, for want of a better word, “alive”—stands on the stage’s edge, as far from her dead self as the rope of mist will allow. Beckoning.

  But I can’t just cut in front of everyone else. The line snakes down the right side of the auditorium. Just before the stage there’s a small table with a box of tissues and a guest book. Charlie has just picked up the pen to sign his name. I duck my head, but luckily he doesn’t check out the line behind him.

  The line goes up the stairs and onto the stage, where there’s a break about a dozen feet short of the coffin, allowing each person to privately pay their respects. Right now, Aaron is leaning over Tori, his lips moving. On the far side of the stage, Mr. and Mrs. Rasmussen are exchanging a few words with Laquanda.

  I scan the room for Luke. In scattered seats, people sit talking in small groups or crying alone, but I don’t see him.

  “Adele, come up here!” Tori demands. Even though she’s at least a hundred feet away, her voice is clear as a bell.

  I wish I were anyplace but here. A needle of pain slips into my temple. Can I answer her with only a thought? Just wait a sec, Tori. Her beckoning doesn’t falter. I try a mental shout. Tori! No change. It’s clear she can’t hear my thoughts.

  I bow my head and put my hands over my face as if overcome with emotion. “Can you hear me now?” I whisper lightly. With all the murmured conversations around me, I can’t even hear myself. But Tori does.

  “Yes! Finally. Come up here, Adele. It’s horrible not being able to talk to anyone.”

  “I can’t do that,” I whisper. “I have to wait my turn.”

  She makes a pouty snort. “Okay, whatever.”

  Behind her, Maddy D and Maddy P approach the coffin together, their arms around each other.

  No one is paying attention to me, so this time I only cover my mouth. “The police have been interviewing everyone who was at your house. Don’t you remember anything about what happened?”

  “I told you, the last thing I remember is being at the party.”

  “Look at that,” an old lady says behind me. I freeze.

  “What?” a second old lady says.

  “That girl’s in a halter top!”

  “Shh!” one of their equally elderly friends whispers.

  For a confused second, I think they’re talking about Tori, but then I see they mean Sofia. She’s dressed in black, but her shirt ties behind her neck, leaving her shoulders bare.

  The first old lady continues, “You better believe I am biting my tongue. That is a dead person and their grieving family up there. Show a little bit of respect! But no, it’s all jeans and polo shirts and halter tops.”

  She’s not wrong. Half of my classmates are in formal clothes—most of the guys look uncomfortable—and the other half wear outfits better suited for a trip to Home Depot.

  Onstage, Charlie, dressed in a suit that’s too big, is now standing over the coffin. His hands are clasped in front of him, and his head is down. I think he’s praying. Murphy is next in line. In dress pants two inches too short, he shifts from foot to foot. Is he nervous because he feels guilty? Because he knows something? Or because—and this seems more likely—it’s the first time he’s been near a dead body? After Charlie leaves, he walks up to the coffin.

  “I’m right here, Murphy,” Tori shouts in his ear. He doesn’t flinch, just stands there looking down, his face stoic and yet somehow scared.

  “See?” Tori turns back to me. “This is driving me up the wall. I hate being able to see people and have them not see or hear me. And watch this!” She grits her teeth like she’s about to pick up something heavy. Instead she rests her fist on Murphy’s back. With a grunt, she begins to push. Her fist slowly disappears without distorting Murphy’s flesh or, as far as I can tell, making any impression on him at all.

  He finally raises his head and turns toward Tori’s parents. As he does, her arm slips out of his side. She opens and closes her fingers stiffly.

  “How’d you do that?”

  “I have no idea. It’s not easy. But I can go through things if I try hard enough. People. Objects. I even went into a different room at the funeral home. It’d be cool except I can’t actually go very far because of this stupid tether.” She reaches behind her and tugs at it.

  So the s
tories get part of it right. Ghosts can move through walls. “How’d you figure it out?”

  “The first time must have been in that grave, but I don’t remember it. Now it’s just a way to pass the time.”

  Justin’s up next. He leans down.

  “He kissed me!” Tori’s voice is equal parts repulsed and pleased. “And he gave me one of those airline liquor bottles. A lot of people are leaving notes and stuff. I wish I could read what they say.”

  The liquor reminds me of Tori shouting, “Shots!” at the party. A piece of the puzzle suddenly falls into place. No wonder she doesn’t remember being killed. If anyone blacked out that night, it was Tori. Not me.

  Covering my mouth again, I whisper, “How much did you have to drink that night, Tori?”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “Are you saying it’s my fault I got killed?”

  “No. But it could explain why you can’t remember. When you black out, you can’t form memories.”

  “I assure you, I can hold my liquor,” Tori says as her elderly neighbor Mr. Conner, the one who wanted to give me a ride, leans over her coffin. “Yuck.” She makes a face as the ends of his bolo tie dangle an inch from the dead Tori’s face. “He’s so gross. Every time I sunbathe in the backyard, he’s out pretending to water his plants. Wearing sunglasses, like I won’t be able to tell he’s staring. Sometimes I like to mess with him. You know, untie my top so I won’t have a tan line and watch what happens to his face. Even behind sunglasses you can tell his eyes are bugging out.”

  “He wanted to give me a ride that night,” I whisper into my cupped hand. In light of what Tori just told me, his offer seems far creepier than it did a week ago. “And he didn’t want to take no for an answer.”

  Straightening up, Mr. Conner adjusts his bolo tie before he starts toward the Rasmussens. The tie is black, made of leather or cord. My mind flashes back to the red furrow around Tori’s throat.

  What if he took that tie off his own neck and slipped it over hers?

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 8:33 P.M.

  YOU HAVE TO TELL THEM

  Mr. Conner is shaking hands with Tori’s parents. Am I looking at a killer? From here, he seems more pathetic than anything else.

  But maybe those are the ones you have to watch out for.

  Soon I’m climbing the stairs and then it’s my turn to walk to the casket. I keep my eyes on my feet so the Rasmussens don’t catch me staring at the live version of their daughter.

  Inside the coffin lies what appears to be a wax sculpture of Tori. Plastic and unreal. Her eyes are shut. Her mouth is neither smiling nor frowning, but her lips sag back in a way that makes it obvious she’s not simply asleep.

  She’s dressed in a white blouse with a high, lacy neck. Underneath is a faint shadow. I look closer. Through the lace, I see a tan bandage wrapped around her neck, covering the line where she was strangled. A bandage on a dead body. What’s the point? They can’t fix her now.

  But maybe it felt like they had to try.

  Her hands, looking oddly translucent, lie one on top of the other in a pious position the real Tori would never take. Tucked around her body are a half-dozen handwritten notes, as well as cards in sealed envelopes, a tiny Moonstruck Chocolates box, and that airline bottle of liquor Justin left.

  “So how do I look?” Tori asks from next to me. Her voice trembles a little.

  Someone has carefully done her makeup. I wonder how hard it is to put mascara on a corpse. Her hair still bears the marks of the curling iron.

  I lean closer like I’m whispering something into the dead Tori’s ear rather than talking to the girl standing next to me.

  I lie. “You look good.” Then I inhale and gag. They must have done something to the body to preserve it. It smells awful, a sort of plastic, fishy smell.

  “Be honest, Adele.” Tori makes a sound like a laugh. “The lady at the funeral home did a terrible job. It was like I was this life-size doll and she was playing with it. I just had to sit there and watch. I tried to tell her I would never wear that color eyeshadow, but she didn’t even blink. Finally, I turned my back and went as far away as I could.”

  “So can you ignore what happens to your body?” I whisper.

  “Not totally. I mean, I can’t feel anything that happens to it, but I’m still tied to it. Literally.” The rope of mist slithers underneath the dead girl’s head. Tori shivers. “I couldn’t leave when they did the autopsy either.”

  “Oh my God.” I press two fingers against my temple to counteract the pain.

  “If there had been a wall close enough, I would have pushed through it and stood on the other side. But there wasn’t. So I had to watch them cut me open and then crack my ribs apart.” She swallows. “And worse.”

  Even though it feels useless, I say, “I’m sorry.”

  “I just tried to go to sleep.”

  “You still sleep?”

  “That’s not exactly it, but close. Most of the time, I just close my eyes and it’s like I’m nothing and nowhere. But being around you wakes me up somehow.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the old lady next in line glaring at me. “I can’t stay here any longer, Tori. People are waiting.”

  “Okay, but stick around after you talk to my parents.” Murmurs fill the auditorium behind us. Tori gasps. “Luke’s here!”

  Luke is joining the Rasmussens. I’ve never seen him in a suit before. The dark blue contrasts with his pale, shadowed face. Around his neck is a gray bow tie. Until now I imagined bow ties being for old men, but on him it’s elegant. “And you haven’t seen Luke since—”

  “Not since the party.” She swears, her voice breaking. “Oh God, I just want to talk to him so bad. I already tried with my dad in the funeral home. He couldn’t hear me at all. But maybe Luke could if I was close enough.”

  “Maybe,” I say noncommittally.

  “If I can’t, you have to tell him I’m still alive.”

  “That’s the kind of thing that got me diagnosed as schizophrenic.” It feels too cruel to point out that being alive to only one person is not the same as actually being alive.

  I straighten up and walk toward the three of them. Luke’s eyes are glassy. Mrs. Rasmussen’s face is drawn to the point of gauntness. Only Mr. Rasmussen seems unchanged, still dapper in a tailored charcoal suit, his face expressionless.

  I don’t know what to say. I settle for “I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen hugs me. It’s like being hugged by a broken bundle of sticks. She pulls back. “Hello, Adele. I haven’t seen you”—she pauses—“for a long time.”

  From behind me, Tori says, “You have to tell them I love them.”

  I come as close as I can. “I know how much Tori loved you guys.”

  Instead of looking comforted, their faces, even Mr. Rasmussen’s, register pain.

  “How does she look?” Luke asks me. His voice is high and strained. “I haven’t been able to…” Gesturing toward the coffin, he drops his head.

  “She looks … good. Peaceful.” I glance over my shoulder. Tori’s arms reach out toward us, toward Luke, but she’s at the limit of her tether.

  He blinks, and a tear rolls down his face.

  I look from him to the coffin. “I can go up there with you, if you want.”

  “Can you stand between me and”—he gestures out at the people in the auditorium, all of them watching us now—“and them? I just want to say goodbye.”

  A murmur sweeps the auditorium as we go back together to the coffin. Even with my hood up, people now recognize me. My back to them, I stand between them and Luke and the coffin with its dead Tori.

  The living Tori becomes frantic. She strokes Luke’s arms, his face. She hugs him. I close my eyes, not just because of that, but because of the naked pain on both their faces.

  “Luke, it’s me. Tori! I’m right here, baby. Luke. Oh, Luke!” She’s starting to cry. “Can’t you tell I’m here?”

  Luke’s whisper is so
soft I can barely hear it. “Oh God, Tori, I wish, I wish everything could be different. I wish…” His words trail off, and I hear the tears come.

  When I open my eyes, he is hugging the dead Tori. The idea of her cold, rubbery flesh, that smell of plastic and rotting fish, makes me feel even sicker. And maybe it freaks him out, too, because he quickly lets go, straightens up, and thrusts his fists in his pockets.

  The other Tori stands next to him, her eyes closed, her mouth open, her chest heaving, with only me to witness her tearless grief.

  With only me to know she exists at all.

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 9:18 P.M.

  YOU HAVE ONE THING

  Together Luke and I walk back to Tori’s parents. Tori goes as far as she can. Behind us, a new person takes our place. I leave Luke with the Rasmussens and walk down the steps. Ahead of me, I see a tall, thin figure in a too-big suit leaving the auditorium. Charlie.

  “Please don’t go, Adele,” Tori says in a voice choked with tears.

  Despite the headache that is now like a drill chewing through my temple, I do as she asks. Besides, the longer I stay here, the less chance that I’ll have to interact with Charlie. I find a spot in the back of the auditorium, surrounded by empty seats, where hopefully my muttering won’t be overheard. Tori has moved back to the head of the casket, but she’s looking right at me.

  “So if you can talk to the dead, what do they say happens next?”

  Propping my elbow on the armrest, I hide my mouth with my hand. “You and that girl in the Trail Museum, you’re the only dead people I’ve talked to. And it sounded like she mostly just slept, or whatever you call it.”

  What I tell Tori is true, as far as it goes. It’s also true that before I started taking my medication, there were a few times my grandpa drove me past cemeteries. At the one closest to my house, I would always see an old man wearing a hospital gown emerge from a single grave near the fence. But once at a different cemetery in an old part of town, I glimpsed dozens of people pulling themselves out of their graves. Some of them had been so damaged at the moment of death that I slammed my eyes shut rather than see their gaping wounds and missing limbs.