Death of a Kleptomaniac (17 page)

“Peeps!” Hilda cries. “Peeps!”

The bushes near the fence line rustle. A huge gray tomcat emerges and struts toward us.

“You just called that cat,” I say. This means Hilda has a voice.

“I can teach you to have a voice again. You can't have conversations, but you can make sounds. You can make your presence known.” She places both hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye, but I can't feel her. “Molly, if you want to cross over and have a job and be separated from all the people who love you and wait for them to die and hope you somehow are still able to stay connected, go ahead and take that chance. But I know the risks involved, especially for a soul with so few connections left. When I come across souls poised to cross, but who know nothing of the risks, I arrive to show them other ways to exist.”

The tomcat, Peeps, rubs his body against Hilda's legs. She bends over and scratches his belly. Static electricity ripples across his fur.

“I'm not sure,” I say. “I feel like I should at least mention this to my intake counselor.”

Hilda throws her arms over her head.

“That's a horrid idea. Your counselor is biased. It's her job to help you cross. Without a doubt, she'll discourage you from becoming an uncrossed soul.”

Hilda drops to her knees and pets the cat with both hands. Watching this, I can't help thinking of my own cat, Hopkins. I miss being able to touch things. I want to feel again.

“If you come tomorrow, I can teach you how to touch something small,” Hilda said.

“Like a cat?”

“Sure, I can teach you how to touch a cat. Or a person.”

My mind leaps to Henry, which surprises me a little. “That means a person could feel me, and I could feel them,” I say.

“Yes, but you'll barely be able to feel the person, and same for them. You'd just be starting.”

“Tomorrow it will be hard for me to make it here. I have to relive my last two life moments,” I explain.

Hilda sighs. “That's too bad. Fresh souls learn the fastest.”

“One day of freshness can't make that much difference.”

“Oh, but it does. Think of how quickly bread grows stale.”

Well, I can't
not
relive my moments. And I need to visit Tate. And my parents again. Maybe I can come by afterward. “I have things to do, and I can't abandon my family and friends during their grief,” I insist.

“Molly, if you don't cross, you'll be able to be around your family and friends for the rest of their lives.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way.” But at the same time, I really want to relive those moments. To feel alive again is so thrilling. So worth it. I feel a tug. I can tell it's my parents. And I want to see them again. I miss them.

“I have two life moments left,” I tell her.

Hilda looks excited. “Have you learned the trick of extending your moment?”

“Pick a really long one?” I ask. “Like where I'm standing in line or something?”

“No. It's actually simple. All you do is anchor your vision.”

“I don't know how to do that.”

“You look at something in the room where you want to stay and you don't look away. Focus on the object and you don't have to leave.”

“I have to go,” I say. “I'll think about everything you've told me. Thank you.” I see the tunnel forming next to me. I need to step into it.

“Molly, remember, you must decide before your funeral if you don't want to cross. You can't stay for the lowering of the casket into the ground. You must leave before then.”

“I'll think about it,” I repeat.

“If you don't cross, then I can help you. I promise.”

And hearing those last words, I am flung into the tunnel. Gray all around me. Zooming to what I think is my house. When I break into the sky I realize that death has exhausted me. I didn't know a soul could get this tired. I go to my bedroom, find my bed, and curl up on it. It's dark outside. It felt like I was only with Hilda for a few minutes. But hours and hours have gone by. I don't know how that happened. But I guess it doesn't matter. I focus on where I am now. I can still hear all the familiar sounds in the house. The dishwasher running. Our old refrigerator humming with effort. Hopkins purring.

“I miss you, Hopkins,” I say.

I don't have any idea if I'll see him again after my funeral. Nobody has explained how animal souls work. Hilda's dog isn't around in soul form. It doesn't seem right that I'm expected just to leave everybody behind. Hopkins leaps up on the bed expectantly. I want to believe he can sense that I'm here. He walks toward me and flops down, exposing his belly as if he wants me to pet it. But I can't do that. I don't know how.

After I leave everyone, I wonder if I'll be able to stay in touch with how they're doing. I know I won't be
with
them
. But maybe my mind will be so powerful and my soul so curious that frequent updates about their well-being will just arrive. If I can't, if crossing over means that I leave everybody I love, then is it even worth it? What's the point of existing if you are denied access to every single person you care about? And it's here, teetering on the verge of leaving everybody I love, that I realize I can't do it. No. No. No.

The people I love are here. I am here. What's the point of leaving them? Without love, what do I have? I'm exhausted. I need something to lift me. A life moment. And I don't want anything hard or challenging. Give me something happy. Let's stick with this theme. Deliver me to a moment of love.

I'm not sure how I ended up in Henry's room, but I'm here, sitting on his shag rug, stirring my hands through it. It doesn't feel like I'm dead. My senses have returned, and I can feel everything perfectly. Backlit, Henry holds his saxophone with both hands and leans his head forward a little, cheeks inflated. How come I've never noticed the sexual nature of the saxophone before? Wait. I wanted a life moment that dealt with love. And I'm in Henry's bedroom? Wasn't that lust?

Henry pulls the horn from his mouth and sets the instrument in a stand beside his bed. Love. Lust. I think I feel both. I think
he
feels both.

“It's soulful,” I say, staring up at him with that new and exciting and painful realization that this is more than just a high school make-out session. It is the beginning of something important.

“Thanks,” Henry says.

He looks sad as he sits down next to me on the carpet. I think he already loves me. Is that why he broke up with Melka? Because he knew I was coming over to his house that night and he wanted to make out with me? I grab my wrist with my hand. I can feel my pulse. I can feel the rhythm of blood pumping through me. Life. It's coursing through me and it's wonderful. But I can't just sit and feel my own pulse all night. I look up at Henry.

“You're so quiet,” I say. I wish he would tell me what he's thinking.

“I'm thinking about Melka,” he says.

“Oh, God.” This is our last time together. I don't want to hear about Melka. I wish I had been bolder. I wish I had told him how I was feeling.

“So you've heard,” he says.

I drop my wrist and shake my head. I stare into his face, into his eyes. They are so sad. He takes his glasses off so I can look directly into his eyes. No glass barrier. I had all these empty seconds where we were just looking at each other, totally connected. I could have asked him anything. I could have told him anything. Instead, I just sat there, losing myself somewhere between Henry's black pupils and hazel irises. It's amazing that you can know someone for years and years and suddenly they can look so different, so
sexy
. I can't believe that I didn't know this was the real thing.

He finally speaks. “I broke up with Melka.”

I swallow. And continue to stare.

“Oh,” I say. Sounding so sorry, even though I'm not.

“It wasn't going anywhere,” he says.

I will be dead in a matter of days. Why would I start to fall in love with somebody days before I die? This won't be going anywhere either. “It has to be going somewhere,” I say.

His face moves closer to my face, and when I sense his breath approaching my mouth, I close my eyes. At the beginning of summer I made a promise that I would not waste my junior year. Everything I did had to matter. Because high school is important. This was supposed to be the year I made my mark.

Henry laughs. I open my eyes.

“You're laughing at me?” I ask. Why can't we just kiss? Why do I have to relive the awkward parts?

“It's your face,” he says.

I still can't believe that he laughed at my face.

“You look cute when you close your eyes,” he says.

I swat his leg pretty hard. This is so uncomfortable to relive; I am a terrible flirt.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks.

No, I think. My whole life will be stopping in four days. Let's go. Let's go.

“Do
you
want to stop?” I ask.

He stands up, and my whole body is flooded with disappointment.

“What kind of music do you like?” He walks to his desk, opens his laptop, and clicks through files.

“I'm new to jazz,” I say.

He turns around and wags his finger at me like he's disappointed. “You're missing out. You want to hear Lee Konitz?”

I nod. Henry's right. I'll be missing out on everything.

“Maybe you want to hear Jackie McLean?”

I nod again. “Both of them,” I say. This will be the last time that my body and soul will ever hear jazz music.

While his back is to me, I lift a low-hanging sheet so I can peek under his bed. I see a flash drive. A sock. Then I see Melka's keys. Why am I doing this? I reach under the bed and snag them. I settle the sheet back in place. As I slide the keys into my front pocket I'm surprised by how excited I feel. I always knew I had a problem. I always knew I couldn't stop. But reliving it this way makes me feel like my problem was bigger than I realized.

“You like this?” he asks.

I nod again, and he sits down next to me. His thin body feels strong as he pulls me toward his lap. He runs his hands through my hair over and over again, and we just keep staring at each other. This is young love, I think. This is where it happened. This isn't just where Henry Shaw fell in love with me; this is where I fell in love with him too.

We lean toward each other until his lips touch my lips. After three gentle presses I feel his tongue. He pulls away from my mouth, and my eyes pop open. We're just looking at each other. Watching each other breathe. We start again. This time we aren't as gentle. We kiss desperately. Like it's a life-sustaining activity. I am going to miss him so much. Especially if I cross. His hands reach around my waist.
Fast. Fast. Fast.
They want to tug at my shirt. I can feel that they want to do that. But he doesn't let his hands go anywhere under my clothes. His fingers crawl along my back. We kiss. We kiss. His mouth is on my neck. We begin falling backward into a horizontal position. When I notice the base of a brass floor lamp next to my head, I realize that this moment is ending.

The sounds of songs I've only heard once, instruments I can't quite identify, float out of the speakers on Henry's shelf. Then I hear his front door slam shut. Melka. The wall holding his band plaques shakes, and we fly apart. I lift myself until I'm on my knees, swooning from the last make-out session of my life.

“I'm supposed to be in your kitchen!” I whisper, panicked and a little dazed.

“You look so guilty,” Henry says. “It's okay.”

“Kitchen!” I whisper again, standing up, urgently making my way through the hall, down the stairs. No. No. No. I want things to end now. But they don't. They play out the way they are supposed to play out.

“Melka!” I say. Her blond hair is swept into a messy ponytail. She is the last person I want to see right now. The last.

“Molly Weller?” Melka says. The way she utters my name makes it sound like a criminal act.

I don't say anything else. How could things end so badly? How can I fall in love on a Wednesday night and die on a Saturday afternoon?

“Dis? Dis? Is how you treat me?” Melka asks. She squints, and tears gather in the corners of her eyes. “You git wit Molly Weller?”

When Melka speaks my name the second time, she sounds disgusted.

“We were studying,” I lie. “I've got to go.”

“Melka, why are you here?” Henry asks. He looks beyond uncomfortable. “We broke up.”

Why couldn't I have stayed and asked what was going on? I could have spent the last three days of my life being in love with Henry, instead of trying to get over him.

“Yesterday,” Melka says. Her tears have intensified and turned into sobbing.

I know I said I was leaving, but I continue to stand there. Once I leave Henry, it's over. This is the second-to-last time we'll talk. I want to stay as long as possible.

“I left keys to my bike lock,” Melka says. “Maybe in your room.”

Henry nods. “Okay. You can go look. I haven't seen any keys. I'll go with you.”

“Bye!” I say, racing to leave. You can't undo anything. If I could have, I would have thrown my arms around him and told him how I really felt. I would have done something, said something, made something happen that was meaningful. I can feel the sensations that are pulsing through me begin to fade. My pulse. My breath. My taste. My heat.

The moment is ending for me. No. I don't want to leave. Wait. This doesn't have to end right now. I
can
stay longer.

I remember Hilda's advice. “Focus on an object, and you don't have to leave.”

I need an object. Melka's ponytail. I lock my eyes on it, and as it travels back to Henry's room, so do I. Gone are all the physical sensations that accompanied my life moment. But that doesn't matter. I'm still in the scene, learning about what happened after I left.

“I don't know where your keys are,” Henry says.

“I left them here!” Melka says, panicked and insistent.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Calm down.”

“How can I calm down? You look at Molly Weller like you love her!” Melka says.

Henry doesn't correct her. He doesn't say anything. Oh my god. Henry Shaw loves me.

“You and I broke up,” Henry says.

“But you said we're still friends,” Melka says. “Good friends.”

I stand in the corner and watch Melka's ponytail. I wish I could focus on Henry's face, but that would mean that I leave the moment.

“We are still good friends,” Henry says.

“We were supposed to go to Salt Lake City. You were going to drive me to visit my cousin.”

That's so weird. Henry should refuse. You're supposed to get distance after a breakup. I've never even had one and I know this basic rule. And how is it possible that Melka has a cousin in Salt Lake City?

“I'll drive you down to see her,” Henry says. But he certainly looks like he doesn't want to drive her down.

“She's the only relative I have in the United States. I want to see her before I go,” Melka says.

“I'll take you,” Henry says.

Then Melka crumples to the floor.

“Please, don't,” Henry says.

“I hate it here,” Melka says. “I don't have any friends. I only had you. And now I don't have dat. Who will I eat lunch with? I miss my family. My friends. Dis experience is terrible! I am all alone.”

Henry sits down beside her. “I'll eat lunch with you. You're not all alone.”

And then he hugs her, and for a fraction of a second I look at him, breaking my focus on her ponytail, and then I'm falling out of the picture. They stay in the bedroom and I go somewhere else. This is all so confusing. Henry should have just told me that Melka was an emotional wreck. He should have explained things to me over the garbage can in the cafeteria. Or called me.

And then I remember that he
did
try to explain things to me over the garbage can in the cafeteria. And he
did
call me. The day I died. And I didn't take his call. I should have. But I didn't know what was at stake. I thought I'd have more time. Love, in my head, was supposed to happen differently. Never for a moment did I think I would die.