Breathers (19 page)

“That's marvelous, Andy,” says Helen, signing my petition.

“Nice work,” says Carl, continuing his charming persona facade.

“You're full of secrets, aren't you?” says Rita, low enough so no one else can hear.

All of the members of the group sign my petition except Ian, who wants to keep his Breather cover intact, and Tom, of course, who isn't here. Ray doesn't think the petition will make a difference, but he signs it anyway.

Everyone shakes my hand or kisses my cheek, thanking me for writing the letter. I'm suddenly the big hero. The zombie of the hour. Regarded with respect and admiration. I'm intoxicated with pride and a sense of accomplishment. Instead of the warm-up band, I feel like the main act. Like the headliner playing to an expectant crowd. Like I have to top everything else I've done so far.

“Dude,” says Jerry. “What are you going to do next?”

Before I know what I'm doing, I write:

I'm going to visit my daughter.

“That's wonderful!” says Helen.

“When are you going?” asks Rita.

“Dude,” says Jerry. “I didn't know you had a daughter.”

If I could talk, I'd be stuttering.

I'm going tomorrow
, I lie.

“Well, congratulations,” says Helen. “That's a big step. You'll have to tell us all about it at the next meeting.”

If I could sweat, I'd be glistening.

Not wanting to answer any additional questions about my make-believe trip to see my daughter, I grab my backpack and excuse myself to go take a make-believe pee. When I return, I stand outside the entrance to the meeting room and watch the others.

Ray is talking to Ian, leaning in close, almost whispering in Ian's ear. Ian's head is nodding. Jerry is sitting down and leaning over while Beth pokes at his brain. Rita and Helen are laughing about something while Naomi and Leslie discuss
Carl as he stands by looking awkward and annoyed. The twins don't talk to anyone but share each other's company in silence.

I can't bring myself to go back inside.

Some zombies’ bodies are like walking science experiments, serving host to a plethora of bacteria, fungi, and maggots. These are the unlucky ones who didn't get embalmed and who suffer the indignities of putrefaction as they slowly dissolve—their muscles collapse, their skin slips, their internal organs turn to chicken soup.

In zombie circles, we refer to these pathetic souls as Melters.

I feel like such a Melter.

I don't know why I felt I had to make up a story about going to visit Annie. Blame it on hubris or getting caught up in the moment or a by-product of meeting the little girl in the park. Doesn't matter. I shouldn't have lied to everyone. I'm a total Melter.

Before anyone can see me standing in the doorway, I back away and head for the exit.

I know it's a bad idea to go out alone, especially at night, and that I'm probably just making things worse by leaving, but I don't want to go back inside and have to make up more lies about going to visit Annie. Especially to Rita.

At least it's not raining. And since most of the village shops close their doors by seven, I can navigate my way through the side streets without having to deal with any drive-by abuse or attempted dismemberings. Still, I know there are Breathers all around me because I can hear them waiting for a table outside of Tortilla Flats or getting into their cars after eating at the Golden Buddha or laughing and slurring their words as they stagger out the doors of Sir Froggy's Pub.

The sounds evoke a deep sense of longing. Of reverie. Of
resentment. I want to be the one making those sounds. I want to be the one enjoying a night out. I want to be the one laughing with my friends as I stumble out of a bar after having one too many cocktails. Instead, I have to shuffle along in the shadows, in silence, with only self-regret and discontent as my company.

I can't go to a bar and drown my liver in beer. I can't take a walk on the beach to reflect on my existence. And I don't want to go home and sit alone in the wine cellar and watch TV and listen to my parents argue about me.

There's really only one place for me to go.

he grounds of the Soquel Cemetery aren't exactly an aesthetic comfort, even in the generous wash of light from the nearly full moon. Instead of the soft, green, manicured lawn of Evergreen Cemetery, dandelions and other weeds grow in barren patches of earth. Overgrown grass gone to seed obscures headstones and markers, many of which date back more than one hundred years. Large portions of the grass that inhabit the center of the cemetery are dead or dying.

At least they know how to set the mood.

Near the middle of the cemetery stands the tallest tree in the yard, a cypress almost perfectly straight, with a brush of foliage on the top and a single limb jutting out to one side. The other limbs have all been cut back to the trunk, leaving the cypress looking quite a bit like Tom with his missing arm.

Just past the cypress, in front of a large, white headstone that simply says Davis Peck, the ground has been dug up. I wonder if this is in preparation for his arrival or due to an unexpected departure. Either way, it's an open grave, an entrance into death's womb, and it gives me the willies. Maybe it's because I know that one of those had been prepared for me. Maybe it's because I could have literally walked across
my own grave. Or maybe it's because I've seen one too many zombie movies. Whatever the reason, I give Davis Peck's plot a wide berth and distract myself by reading headstones.

Eleanor DeMont died in 1920 at the age of sixteen. Her headstone sits at the base of a leaning oak tree. Another marker has a marble cat curled up beneath the solitary name Lilith. There's a grave for Santa Claus (Albert Moyer 1917–1987) and a single headstone for a mother and her two children who all died on July 4, 1989.

Some of the headstones are unusual, some of the plots personally landscaped with lilies, Japanese maples, cactus, or flagstone paths. These are the exception. Most of the plots are neglected, the markers and headstones discolored and weather worn—some covered with moss or splattered with dried bird shit.

One of the newest markers belongs to my wife.

I still don't understand why I came back and Rachel didn't. No one does, not for sure. Not the scientists, not the government, not the
Weekly World News.
There are unproven genetic theories about why some of the dead reanimate but no one has any definitive answers, unless you believe the stock urban legends about voodoo spells and zombie viruses found on Web sites and in horror movies. What a load of crap.

I sit down at Rachel's grave and break out the jar of venison Ray gave to me at the meeting. I don't have a fork so I use my fingers, getting the juices and oils all over my hands. The meat is just as delicious as the first time I had some, but there's a sensual quality about it that's becoming addictive.

It's a bit awkward, sitting here enjoying this meal above my dead wife, conflicted with thoughts of my past and my present. If I could talk to Rachel, I'd tell her all of the obvious things—how much I miss our life together, how sorry I am for
falling asleep behind the wheel, how I think I'm falling in love with another zombie.

Talk about your awkward moments.

Sometimes I try to talk to Rachel in my head and that helps, but it would be so much more cathartic if I could actually give voice to my thoughts. I know she couldn't hear me, or at least I don't think she could, but when I'm sitting at her grave in the Soquel Cemetery at night, my silence feels like an unexploded bomb.

The obvious lamentations and regrets would only take so long to unload, as I've spoken them so many times in my head that they feel like the rehearsed lines of a jaded actor. Once they had passion and substance. Now they're just words that have lost their meaning, like a mantra repeated simply because it's part of your routine, not because it makes you feel better or because it's honest. Still you continue to say the words because they're familiar and comfortable and they allow you to avoid the real issues that are at the root of your discontent.

Ask any Breather what he or she wishes for, no matter how outlandish the wish, even if it's unreasonable or improbable, it's likely not inconceivable. Riches, fame, reconstructive plastic surgery to look like Marilyn Monroe. There's even in vitro fertilization technology that would allow men to carry a fetus to term in the intestine.

Bizarre, yes. Unimaginable, no.

For the undead, who are bizarre and unimaginable to begin with, the one and only wish most of us desire is to get our lives back, which is impossible. Unreasonable. Inconceivable. Yet it's still there, floating around in our heads like a balloon that's just out of reach—a single, four-letter word that taunts us and haunts us and reminds us of just how much we've lost.

Hope.

It's human nature to want to believe that good things will happen, that no matter how many roadblocks or setbacks or disappointments we have to endure, eventually everything will work out. But since technically zombies are no longer human, where does that leave us? What is our nature? What are we supposed to hope for? To what goals should we aspire?

Personal development?

Spiritual growth?

Slower decomposition?

We don't have any civil rights, nor any constitutional rights for that matter, so why should we expect good things to happen? How can we find the impetus to set any goals when the ultimate goal, the one thing we all want, is unreachable?

I stare at the marker for Rachel's grave and trace her name with my fingers, then lie down and put my ear to the ground, listening to see if I can hear her calling to me through six feet of earth, but all I hear is the sound of an approaching vehicle.

Headlights flash along Old San Jose Road and a car drives past. I can't see any figures inside but I imagine a man behind the wheel, his wife in the passenger seat beside him, and their daughter riding in the back. That could be my family. That would be my family. If only I hadn't fallen asleep and ruined everything.

You didn't ruin everything
, my mother's voice says in my head.
You just made a mistake and now you have to learn to make the best of it.

When my mother said that to me a couple months ago, I'd wished that I had the appetite of a Hollywood zombie so I could eat her brains and make her shut up. She didn't have any clue as to what I had to deal with or what I'd lost. But now I realize she was only trying to make me feel better. And
in spite of her cheery outlook regarding her son's perpetual state of decay, she was right. I need to make the best of what I have.

I stagger to my feet and think about some of the lessons Helen has tried to teach us over the past few months, about the sayings she likes to write on the chalkboard

WHY ARE WE HERE?

FIND YOUR PURPOSE.

NEVER GIVE UP.

and I realize that the protests I've made and the petition I wrote are not nearly enough. I need to push the boundaries of my existence. I need to challenge the institution that has relegated me to the status of nonhuman. After all, what do I have to lose by standing up for myself? If being a rotting corpse with no rights and no future isn't the worst thing that can happen to me, it can't be that much further to rock- bottom.

Everyone can get used to a certain level of abuse, but there comes a point when you have to take a stand. Like Ray says, if you don't have as much as you need, then take it. Or else find a way to make it yours.

Sooner or later, you've got to help yourself.