Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) (3 page)

“Mom, Gus is the smartest person I’ve ever met. I’m learning so much from him. Why is his age such an issue for you?”

She frowns. “I just wish there were other kids your age working in Mortuary Sciences so you could make some new friends.”

I shrug. “Gus says that his interns don’t last there very long.”

“Oh, hearing
that
really puts my mind at ease.”

“I don’t understand why everybody else leaves. I think the human body is fascinating.”

She shudders. “Even when it’s cold and dead?”

“Yes. A live body can hide so many secrets, but a dead body never lies.” At least, that’s what Gus says.

Mom shakes her head as we cross another street. “But how can you take seeing all the blood and broken limbs and everything, day after day? It must be so awful!”

I smile as the tall, black, metal garden gates come into view. “That’s why you’re the artist, and I’m the clean up crew. You’re the sensitive type, and I’m hard as stone… or so I’ve been told.”

“That’s awful!” Her eyes widen. “Who said that?”

“My doctors. They all said I wasn’t their typical suicide patient.” I smirk. “I took that as a compliment.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about it.”

“What happened to ‘laughter is the best medicine?’ Besides, I only tried twice, and the last time was six years ago.”

“On your birthday,” Mom whispers.

“Don’t you mean on the anniversary of Dad’s death?” I tug on my sleeves, making sure the scars remain hidden.

Mom averts her eyes. “I want today to be special. Can’t we please focus on the future and forget about the past?”

“That would be a nice change, wouldn’t it?”

We reach the front garden gate and hand our park passes to the attendant who scans our microchips. As soon as I step inside, the scent of fragrant lilacs hides the smell of the street. The lovely lavender and white blossoms make me forget, at least for the moment, how ugly everything else can be.

Mom grins. “See, I knew this would be the best present of all.”

“You’re right. I love it here.” I can’t help but smile. Whoever discovered how to use genetics to make lilacs bloom all summer is my personal hero. It’s my favorite smell in the world.

“So, wouldn’t you rather work here than down in that dark—”

I freeze in place. “Can we
please
stop arguing about this?”

She sighs. “Okay. Let’s preorder lunch and then hike the paths.” She checks her watch. “We’ve got an hour and a half before I have to… Well, let’s just say I’ve got more than one big surprise today.”

“Really?” I ask. Mom is usually much more predictable than this.

We peruse the simple menu then each select one fruit, one vegetable, and one grain-based carbohydrate from the available choices. We leave the short, brown park buildings behind and follow the gravel paths into the lush gardens. The mulched flowerbeds overflow with plant life, the taller exotics and fruit trees filtering the sun for the underlying hostas and ferns. So much green and so little brown. Each one is labeled with its common name, scientific name, and how it helps support humanity. If a particular plant isn’t used as food or medicine, it’s described as an “air-purifier and oxygen producer.”

We stroll past the waterfall and across the bridge, so busy enjoying the lush displays that we don’t speak. It’s the best end to an argument we’ve had in some time. The warmth of the sun on my head and shoulders soothes away all my irritations. I spend most days in the chilled basement of the hospital. Getting to work involves a walking commute through streets shadowed by tall buildings. The windows of our small apartment face north, so there’s little direct sunlight in my life. I welcome the rays today with an upturned face and sleeves pushed up to the elbows. No one’s looking at me anyway. They’re here for the flowers.

Too soon, the hour and a half is over. With a secret smile, Mom points me in the right direction. After a few twists and turns, we approach the outdoor stage. The shiny, silver acoustic shell projects high above us. Orchestra musicians adjust music stands, position chairs, and tune instruments. Colored lights twinkle above them in rainbow arcs.

“Wait a minute… Mom, isn’t this your orchestra?” I pause. “I mean… the one you used to play for?”

She smiles. “This is the second big surprise. I’m playing again. This is my first concert. It’s Morning Music in the Park.”

I catch my breath. She hasn’t performed since Dad died. And she never practices anymore, at least not at home. “Are you sure this is a good…” My voice trails off.

“I’ve been working very hard, but I didn’t want to tell you until I was positive I’d recovered from my… troubles. I’m not first chair yet, but I’ll be there before the year ends. Trust me.”

“Oh, Mom. That’s so wonderful!” I hug her tight, almost light-headed with shock, and we stand still in time. Strangers pass by, but it’s as if no one else exists. I don’t know what to say. I’m so happy for her… and for me. Because this means maybe we can
live
again. If music has come back into her life, then maybe everything else long forgotten will come with it—happiness, laughter, and perhaps a bigger apartment? I’d love for the present to mean more than the past, but is that asking too much?

Finally, she breaks it off. “I’ve got to get ready.” She dashes away. Her face shines with excitement and happiness, just like it did in the old days. She’s missed her music as much as I have.

The musicians warm up. The violinists pluck strings and tighten their bows. The conductor raises her baton, and the cymbals crash. Like a child, I’m enraptured by the waves of notes surrounding me, dashing back and forth, up and down. Fast and slow, proud then mournful, every instrument at once then a single violin.

The solo violinist should be my mother. But Mom sits three seats down, watching the soloist nod his head as his bow sweeps out the poignant melody.

I flash back to a warm summer evening eight years ago—the concert I attended a week before Dad died. He looked so handsome in a suit he’d made for himself with leftovers from work. It wasn’t considered a proper use of materials, but he said the risk was worth the pride in our eyes when he burst out of my parents’ bedroom, singing old show tunes, his red hair slicked back like a gangster in a movie. Later at the concert, he stood by my side in this same park, watching my mother in first chair.

I rub my hands on my jeans, remembering the soft, red fabric of the dress he’d made special for me out of somebody else’s scraps. He told me he’d have to return the dress along with his suit the next day, so I should really enjoy it for that one special night. How I loved the feel of it, the swish against my legs, the surprised looks in other people’s eyes that I was dressed like royalty when everyone around me was plain.

As the hour grew late, I leaned against Dad’s side.

He put his arm around my shoulders and winked. “Don’t fall asleep yet, hon, the next song is Mom’s favorite. It’s her big solo.”

As stars sparkled overhead, Mom stood straight and proud, the overhead lights shining on her straight black hair, her face a study of concentration. With the graceful movements of her hand on the bow, she could make the listener feel the warmth of the sun on their face, make their heart soar in happiness, or make that same heart break like all hope was gone.

How I longed for Mom to play for me after Dad’s death, but she refused, saying she didn’t have it in her anymore. That she had nothing left to give to anyone once he was gone.

But now, she’s playing again.

As the sweet melody ends, I glance next to me, half-expecting Dad to be there. The sharp pain in my chest reminds me he’s still gone. In the applause that follows, I walk away from the mid-day crowd, away from the present, away from Mom in fourth chair.

If only I could have one more day of living in our old apartment, the one filled with sunlight, music, and beautiful plants—a mini version of this park. A home filled with happiness, love, and laughter.

Dad took all that when he left.

And, sometimes, I blame him for everything that happened afterward.

he next morning when I pull on my teal medical scrubs, I know they’re on for keeps. Vacation Day is over. But I don’t mind. Gus needs me. There’s a lot of work to do, and I’ve got so much to learn. I fasten my smooth black hair in a twist then hurry into the kitchen for breakfast.

Mom’s nowhere to be found. I scan the counter and find a lone Japanese teacup perched upside down on its saucer: Mom already left for the day, and when she returns she won’t bring any guests. It will be only her. Alone. Like every other day since Dad died.

I pick up the teacup and place it next to the others on the shelf. My family has never left notes for each other. Anything set out of place always means something. Together, we invented our own elaborate set of symbols. Dad made it a game to make things interesting and save on paper. He also taught me to notice where cameras were in public places and how to remain just out of view.

I hate that we’re always being watched.

At the old apartment, I’d hurry home after school and scour the front hallway for clues. Mom’s shoe on the floor meant chocolate for dessert. Dad’s shoe meant there was spaghetti for dinner—a real treat. There used to be more glass trinkets and shiny stones. Each one had its own special meaning. But now, only three teacups remain. We lost so many things in the move. I don’t even know how it happened. We had to pack in such a rush, I was taking meds, and I felt so tired all the time.

But I’m awake now.

One glance at the clock tells me to stop dilly-dallying. Soon, I’m out the door, speed walking to the hospital. Two miles later, the Medical Facilities Northwest towers above me, all twenty-five floors casting long shadows over the shorter buildings surrounding it.

I slide my I.D. card through the scanner. The side door opens, and I slip inside. My feet hammer down the stairs into the basement. The temperature drops with each step. With a low hiss, the heavy glass doors swish open. A guitar riff shakes my eardrums as I enter Mortuary & Autopsy Services which takes up most of the bottom underground floor.

Gus glances up from an autopsy and yells over the beating drums. “You made it!”

I cup my hands around my mouth to be heard over the music. “Yes, sir. As my least favorite Psych Doc used to say, ‘Silvia, you’ve survived another birthday.’”

Gus peers over his glasses. “You have such a charming way with words.” Despite the option of free government dentistry, his two front teeth remain crooked, giving a rakish look to his grin. “No wonder you drive your lovely mother nuts.”

I laugh, turn down the volume, and pull on gloves. “You wouldn’t think she was so lovely if you knew she wanted me to get a different job.”

“And what makes you think I’d miss you?” His blue eyes twinkle. “And turn Led Zeppelin back up. The dead don’t mind. This kind of work requires a heavy dose of rock ‘n’ roll.”

“If you insist.” Drumbeats shake the metal gurneys. “Maybe you need hearing aids. Your music obsession is probably damaging my youthful eardrums.”

“You’re not twisting any of those little devices into my ears.” He shakes his finger at me. “I can hear just fine. And I don’t need anyone listening to my thoughts.”