Death of a Kleptomaniac (15 page)

Sadie sits on the messy floor with him. They both look exhausted and, oddly enough, a little panicked.

“I didn't understand your message,” Tate says. “You need things from Molly's room?”

“I didn't do a good job explaining it,” Sadie says.

“You said Molly was a thief,” Tate says. “You called her a maniac.”

Oh my god. Sadie is trying to ruin my life. Except I'm dead, so she's trying to ruin people's memories of me.

“You suck, Sadie Dobyns,” I say. “I withdraw all comfort from you.”

“You're jumping to conclusions,” a voice says. I turn and see Louise, standing next to Tate's combination clothes hamper and basketball hoop.

“Please, not now,” I tell Louise. “I can't miss any of what Sadie is saying. It's cripplingly devious in ways I can't quite wrap my head around.”

“Molly wasn't a maniac thief,” Sadie says. “She had a disorder. She was a kleptomaniac. She stole things.”

“From you?” Tate asks. He doesn't seem to be judging me. Neither does Sadie. They both seem genuinely concerned.

“Yeah. From me. From stores. From other friends,” Sadie explains.

“Was she ever caught?” Tate asks. “Arrested?”

Sadie shakes her head. “She was careful. Nobody knew. Not her parents. Not her friends. Nobody. Except me.”

Tate nods. “Weird.”

“Even dead, I don't want Tate to think that I'm weird,” I tell Louise.

“What does it matter? It's not like he was your soul mate,” Louise says.

This startles me a little. “Something could have happened between us. He's a very attractive and well-traveled person.”

“I see that you relived one of your life moments,” Louise says.

“Shh,” I say. “They're talking about me. I need to listen.”

“But you've still got—”

“Louise, I'm missing important stuff.”

“I think you should—”

“Go away! I know I have things to finish. But this is important too.”

“Your grandmo—”

“I know!” I say. “Please go!”

I can feel Louise exit, and I turn all my attention to Sadie and Tate.

“I don't want her parents to find what's in her room,” Sadie says. “We need to get it.”

“You mean, break into Molly's house?” Tate asks.

“Don't be overly dramatic. All we need to do is get me inside her room for ten minutes. I need a couple of people to help me.”

“I can't do this with Ruthann Culpepper.” Tate's expression registers total abhorrence.

“We won't do this with Ruthann Culpepper. I've asked Henry Shaw to help.”

Tate looks like he's reconsidering.

“What do you need me to do?” he asks.

Sadie smiles for the first time since I found her. “I'll go to her house and get into her room. Henry will wait outside her window. I'll gather everything and give it to him. I need you to come to the door after five minutes. And talk to her mom and keep her occupied so I can be alone in Molly's room.”

“I can't have a conversation with Molly's mom,” Tate says. “I can't face her right now.”

“But you didn't do anything wrong.”

“It doesn't feel that way. I took Molly on a date and now she's dead. I can't help you.”

“But I need your help.”

Tate stands up. He starts crying. “This is too much. Way too much.”

Sadie gets up to leave. She looks pissed and dejected and tired.

“I'm sorry,” Tate says as she walks to the door.

Sadie doesn't turn to look at him or say good-bye. She quietly makes her parting remarks as she slips out the door. “Obviously, you're not sorry enough.”

Poor Sadie. She feels completely defeated. I didn't mean to saddle her with this obligation. I wish I could help her. I wish there were something I could do.

Sadie is going to have to live with the knowledge that I was a thief. My parents will find out and be devastated. I wonder what my grandmother will think of the fact that I was a kleptomaniac. I only stole from her one time. I took a bracelet from her jewelry box when I was visiting her four years ago. She asked me about it on my next visit. But I just acted like I didn't know anything. I guess I look like an honest person because she believed me. Only Sadie saw through me. Maybe because we spent so much time together. Or maybe we had a real and true connection.

I'm standing in Tate's front yard beside a rhododendron. My grandmother accidentally killed a rhododendron when I was a kid. She didn't catch its root rot in time. The whole thing died. When she realized she couldn't save it, she swore at it.

“You dying shit!” she'd yelled.

I'd never heard her swear before. “Maybe it will grow back,” I'd told her.

“That's not how gardening works. After you murder a bush, it's dead forever.”

“Sorry,” I'd said.

“I don't think it's really anybody's fault. Root rot happens.”

I hadn't thought about that rhododendron until right now. I'm surprised I can remember our conversation. Ready or not, it happens. I can see my grandmother and myself. She's at the mortuary. And before I have time to rethink my decision, I step into the gray tunnel and fly to her. It's the shortest trip yet. One moment I'm in a grassy yard, the next I'm falling through a ceiling, landing on carpet. I am in the absolute last place I want to be. My grandma and Aunt Claire are standing over my body, talking.

There is an unmistakable pull for me to be as close to my body as possible. But I resist it. I don't want to stand next to my body. Please, let me avoid ending up like Louise. Overcome with sadness, trapped by a potent connection to my lifeless corpse.

“She looks like she's sleeping,” my grandmother says, sniffling.

A white sheet is draped over me, covering me all the way to the neck. I refuse to focus on my face. This is too real. Too sad.

“Nobody confronts this easily,” Louise says. I can feel her presence beside me. “But it's one of the last times you'll see yourself. So you might consider this a final opportunity.”

“I can't see it that way,” I say.

I glance around the funeral home and feel sickened by all the decorative details. There are flower arrangements placed on every flat surface, and I can't smell any of them. The light is thin and dying, as if they are trying to disguise what the dead truly look like. I hear the sound of water, look out the glass doors, and notice a young boy leaning over a drinking fountain. A stream flows easily into his pink mouth. I turn away from this. Every small thing I see now is making me desperately sad. Because I used to drink water. I used to have a pink mouth.

“Don't stay too long,” Louise says. “You don't want to use up all your time here.”

“Don't worry,” I say.

“This kills me,” my grandmother says. “It absolutely kills me.”

I put my arms around her and hug her from behind. “I'm okay. I'm still here.”

“She looks lovely,” Aunt Claire says. “I didn't realize her hair had gotten so long.”

I finally look at myself. Somebody has pulled my hair forward over my shoulders and smoothed it out. Normally, on a good day, my hair had a natural wave to it. But today it's basically straight. I'm not wearing any makeup. I look so dead. I thought I might look like I was sleeping, but my skin is a waxy color. And my hands rest stiffly at my side. I turn my back and move so I stand between my grandmother and my body.

“I'm okay,” I repeat, even though it's a lie. “I love you.”

“We should be the ones to dress her,” my grandmother says. “A lot of my friends have died as of late, and morticians are lousy at makeup application. We should do it. We know what Molly looks like. We should be the ones to fix her up.”

“I agree,” Aunt Claire says. “We can pick up her own makeup from the house.”

“We can use this picture as a guide,” my grandmother says, opening up her wallet. I look at the photo. It's two years old. I totally look like a child. Why doesn't my grandmother have a more current photo?

“We should go check on them,” Aunt Claire says.

I know she means my parents. And I think that I should go too.

“I need to visit the restroom first,” my grandma says.

I probably shouldn't follow her there. I wait outside. On the opposite side of the foyer, behind a set of French doors, a funeral is taking place. I look inside. The man who died is old. His family fills the chairs. A woman wearing a long black dress plays a sad song on the organ. I mean, it sounds like actual weeping, and not just a person, but maybe an elephant. Standing beside the casket is the man's twin. He seems happy. He waves energetically to all the grieving people. Weird. I'm glad I don't have a socially inappropriate twin.

My grandmother is still in the bathroom. Should I check on her? No. That's stupid. I keep watching the funeral. In two days I'm going to have a funeral. Everybody I love will be sitting in a room just like this one, singing, talking about me. And then I'll move to the next phase. What does that even mean? Halfway through the song, I watch the man's twin as he actually sits down on the closed bottom half of the casket. He must be mentally unstable. Nobody even reprimands him. The twin looks at me and smiles. Then he waves. Wait. He can see me? Okay, I'm an idiot. I realize I'm watching the dead man's soul.

After a few moments, his wife comes and signals with her arm for him to climb off the casket. He jumps down. The two of them link arms and stand next to the organist. There's only one casket, so this funeral isn't for both of them. She must have passed first. They must've just been reunited.

This isn't what my funeral is going to look like. I won't be happy. And Louise hasn't mentioned that anyone will be greeting me. Just like everybody else, I'm going to be sitting there totally depressed, bracing myself for the next phase.

Thunderous music drifts out of the organ. What a terrible choice of musical instrument. A saxophone would be better.

“You haven't been told everything,” a voice says.

The voice doesn't sound like Louise's. I turn to look behind me. Nobody is there.

“I'm not Louise.”

There's nobody with me in the hallway. I mean, I can't see anybody, but it does feel as if somebody else is here. Maybe it's some other soul at the mortuary. Maybe it's a helpful soul. Because the voice is right. I should know more things.

“Tell me what I haven't been told,” I say.

There is a lot of silence. Then I hear a toilet flush.

“I can't help you unless you invite me to appear.”

This could be a trick. But why would somebody try to trick me? It isn't like vampires plague the postlife. That's not what's going on.

“I only ask once to be invited.”

I don't say anything. I'm not sure if I should invite this person. It feels like it's a woman. My mind goes to a piece of advice that my mother once gave me. She said if I ever became lost that I should look for a woman to help me. She said I shouldn't ask a man. So if a woman is trying to help me now, I should extend an invitation. Right?

“I promise I won't hurt you. I can help you,” the voice says. “I'm harmless.”

Wouldn't Louise have mentioned if there were souls to avoid? Whatever or whomever the voice belongs to is moving away from me. I can feel that. The growing distance panics me. I want to know more. And I definitely feel like I need help. I haven't been told enough. And I'm not happy with where things are headed.

“I invite you,” I say.

Then I feel my soul being violently pulled out the door, down the green-carpeted steps, and into the parking lot.

Things feel wrong. I've made a mistake. “I take it back,” I yell. “I uninvite you.”

“No take-backs.”

My soul doesn't stop at the parking lot. It's yanked down the street to a bridge. People are walking down the sidewalk enjoying the sunny day. Nobody can tell I'm being soul-jacked. A pigeon pecks at bread crumbs like it's a totally normal afternoon.

“Slow down!” I scream.

I wish I could see who I'm dealing with. Everything is happening so fast.

Suddenly, I'm sucked under the bridge, and I'm overwhelmed with a feeling of dread. Water flows past me. Can souls drown? Wait, I'm on top of the water. It's taking me somewhere. I try to calm down. We're approaching a park. Then I'm yanked into the grass. And dragged over a hill. I know where I am. I'm at the zoo. My soul doesn't stop. I zoom past the pens of goats and rabbits.

“I want to stop! Let go of me right now!” I say.

“No. I'm taking you to the snow cone stand,” the voice says.

“That's a dumb place to take me. I can't eat a snow cone,” I say. “And I really don't have time to hang out. My funeral is almost here.”

“I know. That's why I found you. We're nearly out of time.”