Blur (Blur Trilogy) (2 page)

CHAPTER
TWO

A dozen men and women stood clustered in three groups just outside the front doors and as Daniel passed them, he heard them talking:

“She looks good.”

“Yes, she does.”

“And the flowers are nice.”

“She would have been so glad to see
yo
u here.”

It struck him how strange it was for people to be sa
yi
ng things like that.

Emil
y
couldn’t possibl
y
look good, not after spending two da
ys
at the bottom of Lake Algonquin. And what difference did it make one wa
y
or the other what the flowers looked like? Didn’t these people understand that the girl l
yi
ng next to those flowers was absolutel
y
and forever dead? And wh
y
would Emil
y
have been glad to see a crowd of people she barel
y
knew? Wh
y,
when the
y’
d ignored her while she was alive?

So did
yo
u. You never talked to her. Not once.

A wash of guilt.

Daniel passed through the entr
yw
a
y
and into the church.

All around the sanctuar
y,
his friends and other kids he recognized from school were standing uneasil
y
beside their parents.

Some of the gu
ys
looked anxious; others, like Brad Talbot, looked bored. All of them looked out of place, thoug
h—t
he gu
ys
wearing their fathers’ ties, the girls dressed in dark, drab clothes that made them look much older than the
y
were.

The air smelled of pinewood and old books.

Someone was pla
yi
ng a piano.

High overhead, dust floated through the air and passed across the streaks of sunlight slanting through the tall, narrow windows. It gave ever
yt
hing an unearthl
y,
ethereal feel.

His friends, even the other gu
ys
from the football team, looked so fragile. So wounded. Some of the girls were cr
yi
ng, and so were some of the gu
y
s
—b
ut Daniel could tell the
y
were tr
yi
ng their best to hide it. A lot of the kids were looking at him, like the
y
did on the field when the
y
were waiting for him to call the next pla
y.

It made him uncomfortable.

Out there, he knew what to do, how to read the defense, how to respond. Here, he had no idea.

He avoided their gazes.

Daniel’s headache seemed to be getting worse. He rubbed his thumb hard against his temple, but it didn’t help.

Politel
y,
his father excused himself and made his wa
y
to the back corner of the church to talk to Mr. McKinne
y,
one of the teachers from Beldon High, leaving Daniel alone.

Ever
yt
hing around him was hushed. Even the piano music coming from the front of the church seemed to be hollower, fainter than it should have been.

He saw the casket positioned near the piano.

You ignored her.

No,
yo
u just didn’t know her. There’s a difference.

Tr
yi
ng to shake the thought, he glanced to the left, where it seemed like there weren’t so man
y
people. Near the last pew, Stac
y
Clern, a girl who’d just transferred to his school, stood beside a woman who Daniel assumed was her mother.

Stac
y
was prett
y,
but not beautiful. Dark brown hair. Gentle e
ye
s. And unlike the gidd
y,
airhead
y
girls he seemed to attract like flies, Stac
y
seemed like the kind of real, down-to-earth girl he’d actuall
y
be able to connect with.

In fact, he’d wanted to ask her out ever since he’d first seen her around school, but he’d never quite gotten up the nerve to do it. On a football field or a basketball court he was fin
e—n
o problem figuring out what to do there. But stick him next to a girl like Stac
y
and he would fumble around all da
y
for the right things to sa
y.

From where he stood he couldn’t tell if she’d been cr
yi
ng, but she looked reall
y
sad and he wanted to go and talk to her, tell her that things were going to be alright, but he couldn’t figure out exactl
y
what he might sa
y.
And he doubted he’d have the nerve to sa
y
an
yt
hing at all once he got there.

Finall
y,
he nodded to her and she offered him a small nod back.

A line had formed, leading to Emil
y’
s corpse.

Ever
yo
ne was moving in slow motion, like animated shadows, circling and hovering around each other in tight bunches. Ever
yt
hing people said was lowered to a whisper.

You should have talked to her.

Somehow it seemed both unnatural and natural to feel guilt
y
for not having talked to Emil
y.
But he felt like he needed to do this thing now, to see her one last time. Ma
yb
e to redeem himself in some wa
y
for not knowing her better. Ma
yb
e pa
yi
ng his last respect
s—w
hatever that actuall
y
mean
t—w
ould help to quiet the murk
y
shame he felt crawling through him.

Daniel got in line.

CHAPTER
THREE

8 MINUTES

There were sixteen people in front of Daniel B
ye
rs, and he was standing right behind the gu
y
who took their team photos. One of the other girls from his class, Nicole Marten, handed him a church bulletin. The makeup all around her e
ye
s was smeared.

“Thanks,” he said.

“It’s so sad, isn’t it?” Daniel had known Nicole for six
ye
ars, in a friendship that had been prett
y
close but had never moved into an
yt
hing be
yo
nd the just-being-friends stage. “I mean, how could this
happen
?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “I don’t know.”

She brushed awa
y
a stra
y
tear, and then, without warning, she leaned against Daniel’s shoulder and gave him a small hug. It made him feel a little conspicuous but he didn’t pull awa
y.
He put his arm around her for a moment, then she backed up, rubbed at her e
ye
s again, gave him a faint smile, and left to deliver more bulletins.

He noticed Stac
y
staring in his direction.

Not the best timing in the world, watching another girl hug him
.
Especiall
y
a girl as popular as Nicole.

He hid b
y
looking at the bulletin Nicole had given him.

Printed on the front was Emil
y’
s name and date of birth.

And date of death.

She’d lived fourteen
ye
ars, four months, and twent
y
da
ys
.

Immediatel
y,
and without even realizing it, Daniel calculated that he had alread
y
lived 845 da
ys
longer than she ever would.

He didn’t open the bulletin. He didn’t want to see all fourteen
ye
ars, four months, and twent
y
da
ys
of her life summarized in one tid
y
little paragraph. It didn’t seem fair.

The line edged forward as the first few people finished looking at Emil
y’
s corpse and then made their wa
y
to a semicircle of mourners, presumabl
y
Emil
y’
s famil
y,
standing near the piano.

845 da
ys
.

The idea that death is the end, the end of ever
y
dream and memor
y
that a person will ever have, ever
y
hope and smile and tear . . . it was unsettling.

Teenagers weren’t supposed to have to think about things like that.

845 da
ys
.

The casket was adorned with flowers. Onl
y
the left half was propped open.

The line of people shuffled slowl
y
toward it.

Someone had placed fifteen framed photos of Emil
y
on a table nearb
y.

A couple of them were pictures of her at birthda
y
parties when she was a kid; one showed her at the beach walking b
y
herself. In another, she was inside a cabin with an older man who might’ve been her grandpa. In the biggest phot
o—a
studio pictur
e—s
he was kneeling beside a golden retriever. In the most recent photos she had on a silver necklace with a heart-shaped locket.

In all the pictures Emil
y
was smiling, but it struck Daniel that he had never seen her smile at school.

Two people finished their viewing and stepped aside. As Daniel moved forward, a man who was walking past patted him on the shoulder. The man’s face was drawn and sad. Daniel didn’t recognize him.

“Were
yo
u a friend of Emil
y’
s?” the man asked.

Actuall
y,
no. I barel
y
knew her.

“Um. Sort of.”

The man nodded and patted his shoulder again and told him, “Thanks for coming. It reall
y
means a lot to us.” Then he left to go stand b
y
the piano, and Daniel realized he was probabl
y
a relative of Emil
y’
s, ma
yb
e even her dad, and he felt worse that he hadn’t known her better, as if somehow it would have meant more to this man if he’d been Emil
y’
s good friend.

Daniel wanted to go and tell him, “Reall
y,
yo
u know what? She was one of the nicest girls I’ve ever met.”

But instead, he stepped forward with the line.

It was moving faster now. Just eight people ahead of him.

He wished his headache would go awa
y.

As he took another step, it struck him that if Emil
y
had gone to another high school or lived in a town fift
y
or a hundred miles awa
y,
he might not have even heard about her death, and he would be at football practice right no
w—t
he one that had been canceled in light of the funera
l—a
nd that would be that. Anon
ym
ous people die in distant places ever
y
minute of the da
y,
but death doesn’t seem to mean an
yt
hing to us until it somehow touches our life.

Four people.

Finall
y,
he caught a glimpse of Emil
y
Jackson’s face.

CHAPTER
FOUR

1 MINUTE

Actuall
y,
he could see onl
y
the top half of her fac
e—h
er e
ye
s, her forehead, a blond fringe of hair. Somehow the
y’
d made it look like she hadn’t reall
y
been underwater all that time, but still her face didn’t look natural.

Her e
ye
s were closed. The acne on her forehead had been covered up with the makeup the
y
use on the dead. He’d never reall
y
thought about it before, but someone at the funeral home’s job was to put makeup on corpses for a living.

That’s how the gu
y
paid the bills.

Daniel forced himself not to think about that.

Onl
y
three people stood between him and the bod
y.

He felt his heart beating faster now, nervous with a quivering, expectant kind of fear.

Then he saw the rest of her face.

Some people sa
y
that dead people look like the
y’
re sleeping, but Emil
y
didn’t. She looked dead and that was all.

Two people.

Then one.

And then Daniel was standing in front of the casket, staring down at the pale dead face of Emil
y
Jackson.

THE BLUR

Her lips were closed just like her e
ye
s. Hands folded neatl
y
across her chest.

She looked smaller, more frail than he remembered her.

For a brief, macabre moment, he had the desire to touch her hand, to somehow comfort this girl who would never go to a homecoming dance, never sta
y
out too late on prom night, never graduate, go to college, get married, raise a famil
y.

What does the skin of a dead person feel like?

The idea evaporated in a swirl of fear and repulsion.

You ignored her.

She looked both familiar and like a stranger.

L
yi
ng still, so still.

And then Emil
y
Jackson opened her e
ye
s.

CHAPTER
FIVE

Daniel gasped and stumbled backward, bumping into the person behind him. He turned to see an elderl
y
woman looking at him concernedl
y.
“I’m sorr
y,
” he muttered. “Did
yo
u see that?” His voice sounded like dust.

“What?”

“Her.”

He pointed at Emil
y.
He couldn’t bring himself to sa
y
an
y
more.

The woman leaned to the side and tipped her gaze toward the casket, but acted like nothing was out of the ordinar
y
and looked at him with mild suspicion.

Slowl
y,
his heart hammering, Daniel peered into the casket again.

A deep chill.

Emil
y
was still l
yi
ng there but had tilted her head and was staring at him, her e
ye
s ghostl
y
white, drained of color. She opened her mouth slightl
y
and a trickle of stale water oozed out.

She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening!

He pinched his arm, hard, but the image of Emil
y
staring at him did not go awa
y.

Then her lips moved and he heard his name in a voice wet and soft: “Daniel.”

This isn’t real!

Right before his e
ye
s, weeds from the soft-bottomed lake appeared in her hair. Her clothes became soaked. The color of her skin changed from imitation-Caucasian-white to the bluish gra
y
shade of death that it must have been when the two fishermen found her. Then she spoke to him again, her voice moist and gurgl
y,
more water seeping from her mouth with ever
y
word: “Trevor was in the car.”

Pain buzzed through his head.

The moment overtook him. He was too petrified to move.

“Trevor shouldn’t have been in the car,” she said. Then, with one swift and abrupt motion, she sat up. “Find m
y
glasses.” She slung her arm toward him and clenched her dead fingers around his forearm. “Please, Daniel.” A gush of filth
y
water spilled from her drooping mouth.

He
ya
nked his arm awa
y
and stumbled backward again, his head throbbing, pounding, the world growing dizz
y,
dizz
y
black. Emil
y
slumped back into her casket, and then ever
yt
hing was turning in a slow, wide circle, and he realized he was on the floor of the church and people were leaning over him, asking what was wrong, if he was oka
y.

The darkness curling through his mind turned into a sharp blade of light that sliced through ever
yt
hing.

“She’s alive,” he said as loudl
y
as he could, but it didn’t sound loud to him at all. “Emil
y’
s still alive.”

And that was the last thing Daniel remembered before he blacked out.