Spiritdell Book 1 (15 page)

And how can I have some new thing to worry about?

I turn Mibs around so his butt's not in my face and get him calmed down while I check my cell phone for messages. There's one from last night: Julie saying she heard Austin was going in for surgery in the morning. That would be this morning. Austin's in surgery
right now
.

I shiver as I think about her lying on a cold, metal surgical table. She wouldn't like that, and I know, because the night she spent with me, she complimented my ultra-soft bed as she curled up next to me. She laughed as I took handfuls of her long, silky hair and fanned it out across both of us.

“I normally braid my hair before I go to sleep,” she said. This was late that night, about three in the morning, when the sky was pink with the promise of dawn. I told her I'd give up blankets forever, if I could have her hair to cover me. She said, running her finger down the center of my face, “For you, I'll never braid my hair again.”

“Do you promise?” I asked, and she said I might change my mind when I woke up tangled in her hair. I said I'd be the judge of that, and I grabbed her and held her closer.

“We should get some sleep,” I said, nuzzling her soft neck. She practically melted into me, then she kissed me, and I knew I wasn't getting to sleep any time soon.

As I think about the night we shared, I feel unbearable joy and pain together. In my mind, I force myself to step back from the two people on the soft bed, tangled up in hair, and close the door. After my memory is taken, that door will be permanently closed, and that will be better for me.

To think—I went two weeks trying to forget about her when I should have been trying to see her.

No, I can't think about the time lost. It's too awful. I mean, this isn't about me. So I lose a girl I happen to like—big whoop. I'll move on, and I may love again, because I'll still be alive.

Who it's awful for is her, her family, and the world that keeps turning without her. I know she's not the only person tragedy happens to, though that thought holds no comfort. It's awful that any girl her age, full of so much potential and light, could die.

Austin was so confident and sure of herself the night we met. She didn't have a care in the world—I guess because she knew none of what she did mattered.

But I can't think about her, or the next day before I meet with Heidi and Newt is going to stretch out like a multi-lifetime prison sentence.

I can hear Mibs throwing his body at the cupboard door, like an anvil on wobbly pegs. I get up, my body as swift as wet bags of sand. Has my body always hurt so much? Every part of me aches. I wonder if my body is angry at me for leaving it last night and running naked around the streets of town—assuming that actually happened. I couldn't have left my body, though, could I? Did I astrally project?

As Mibs weaves between my legs, I pull out his treats and get his insulin needle ready. I tap the needle to get the air bubble out.

Insulin.

I have a lot of insulin. A dark thought passes through me like a jolt. Painless. With an overdose, you go into a coma and then you die. I have five, six little vials of cat insulin. The human dosage is obviously different than a cat's, but the vet did warn us about accidental pricks. I could load them up one at a time and inject them in my leg. Not that I would, but if I had to, I could. If something went wrong.

That's not for you
, says a familiar voice in my head. What is that voice all about? Is the voice my conscience, or what?

Don't matter—the voice is right. Suicide is not the answer, because it doesn't solve anything.

I'm just overreacting emotionally, the way James and Julie say I do. Maybe it's because of my gift, like Heidi said.

I give Mibs his shot and then his treats. I am rewarded with drool-soaked kisses, which make me feel better. I am needed here in this world.

Tidying up the counter, I sniff the herbal tea, which triggers a surprising reaction. Suddenly, I'm vomiting up spit and bile into the kitchen sink. I don't know if I could feel worse—surely if I could actually leave my body at will, I'd do so now.

* * *

The rest of the day, I clean the house. I really go to town, too. I mean, I even scrub the toilet, with the sudsy stuff and the nasty old brush. The frozen pizza boxes should get recycled, but I don't want Gran to know I've been eating so poorly, so I throw them in the garbage, then my conscience has me pull them out and put them in the paper recycling box.

Gran always talks about how cleaning the house improves one's mood. She says the difference between a happy person and a sad person is a tidy home, and nobody can feel bad with recently-laundered bedding. Even something as simple as fresh sheets can give you something to look forward to, and happiness comes from looking forward, not back.

I'm looking forward to being free of my power and free of my memories. I wish Newt had been willing to reschedule his bridge club so we could get this over with today instead of tomorrow.

I get out the vacuum and go over every room, including Gran's, even though nobody's been in here for weeks. Her nightstand is covered in framed photos of me and her. I pick one up, see Gran's radiant, loving face, and I miss her so much my jaw aches. Poor Gran, who lost her only child, my mother. How did she get over the loss? And then her husband, my grandfather—the one who's now bowling in heaven. Gran keeps going, keeps loving. Even if it means loving ... Rudy.

Did my phone just ring? I turn off the vacuum to check, but I must have imagined the ringing.

I feel as though I'm expecting a call—waiting for someone to contact me with the results of Austin's surgery, even though nobody in her family even knows I exist. I guess her pretend-husband saw me, but it was more in the way a tiger sees some lesser creature—like a little wrinkly mole—and changes his path so he doesn't get his feet dirty stepping on the creature.

He should still call me. I deserve a call, at least to let me know if she's alive or dead.

I pull out my phone and dial Julie's number. Austin's cousin is her friend, so maybe she's heard.

Breathlessly, Julie asks, “You don't know?”

We haven't spoken since she dropped me off at the house, so I fill her in on what happened yesterday afternoon—how Austin had seemed happy to see me, but then her mood changed and she sent me away. “Now I'm just hanging here, in the dark, not knowing,” I say.

“Oh, I see what she did there,” Julie says. “She chased you away, so you couldn't be hurt. For your own good. Like in the movies, when the family releases the wild animal back into the forest, and they have to yell at the animal, so it can be free.”

“You think she was releasing me to the wild? Why would someone do that? That doesn't make any sense. Why chase away someone who cares about you?” I'm still in Gran's room, and I sit down on her floral bedspread, which smells of her perfume.

Over the phone, Julie makes the sound of a bubble popping. “That's life.”

I wail something wordless and wounded-animal-sounding into the phone.

“Let me make a few calls,” Julie says. “Maybe the surgery went great. Maybe you guys can talk this all out. I'll call you right back.”

I put the vacuum cleaner away and pace, wobbling between sad and angry. Angry feels better. I'm angry Austin pushed me away instead of leveling with me. I'm angry that I care so much about a girl I barely know.

I'm staring at the phone, willing it to ring, when Julie's face pops up on the screen. It's a photo I took of her pulling her lower eyelids down and her nose up in a goofy face. She's wearing a miniature red top hat, at her last tap dance recital. My hands are paralyzed.
I can't answer it
, I think, but hands shaking, I do.

Julie starts talking, quickly. Her tone is enigmatic. I am listening for words like
unfortunately
or
sorry
or
miraculously
, but instead, she says
coma
.

“Can you repeat that last bit?” I ask.

“Austin's out of surgery, and stable, but she's in a coma.”

Julie has some more details about the surgery, but her words blur. Austin's alive, which is good, but she's in a coma. I can't go to her side, because I'm not immediate family. Julie says she gave my name and number to someone else in the family, an aunt who is in charge of the phone tree.

I've never heard of a phone tree before, but apparently people do them in these situations. One person has a list of, say, five people she's responsible for calling, and then each of them phones five people, and so on, and so on. You'd think it would be replaced nowadays with texts and emails, but then again, some news probably shouldn't be texted.

I imagine the message I might have sent after what happened to my parents, if I'd been old enough to text:
Hey Gran. Can I come live with u? Dad killed Mom and himself. Long story. CU L8R

With no other ideas about what to do next, I get back to cleaning the house. As I'm putting the tin of herbal tea back in the cupboard, I realize my face is tingling. I check in the mirror at the back of Gran's china cabinet. In amongst her tea pots and porcelain figures of fancy ladies in big dresses, floats a blemish-free face. I could have sworn I had at least two angry zits yesterday, but now, they're gone. They're gone like snow in June.

Sure, the tea may have made me black out and barf my guts out, but a cure for acne is worth a little pain. Besides, it's not like I have anything better to do today.

I pull the canister of tea back out of the cupboard and a leaflet falls out. There are some symbols I can't read, and then in English:
Skin-so-clear Tea. For Spirit Walk, take with mint.
Do not blend with alcohol.

Spirit Walk. Is that some sort of gourmet tea blend experience, or does it mean what I think it does? I had two cups of the tea last night with Peppermint Schnapps, so I did take it with mint, but also with alcohol. Was the alcohol the reason I don't remember much? There's no store name on the paper, and I can't remember the name of the herbalist, if there even was an English name.

Bank card—I paid by bank card.

I race to my room, scaring poor Mibs into having a puffy tail. Poor guy only just ventured out after hiding from the big, scary vacuum cleaner.

I turn on my computer, pull up my bank statement, and there it is—the most recent purchase. Right in front of me, the name, albeit written in squiggles and dashes and little boxes. I'm going to have to go down to Chinatown and walk around until I find the store, to find out more about this Spirit Walk thing.

Or do I?

The idea is floating in my head, formless—more of a feeling than a plan. I dare not put the words together, for fear of my plan blowing apart under the weight of its own ridiculousness, but I have to. If I could astral project—Spirit Walk—again, for real, I could visit Austin in her coma state. Assuming souls are real, of course. And she's still alive. And she actually wants to see me, and was only pushing me away for my own good the last time I saw her.

For Spirit Walk, take with mint.

I'm going to blend the tea with mint and drink it! I feel as sure of this as I've ever felt about anything. I'm not even going to do a web search about astral projection, that's how sure I am. My hand reaches across to click off my monitor, and I'm on my feet, on a tea-making mission. A thought nags at the back of my head: why do I feel
so
sure about what I'm doing?

Also, why are there so many crows sitting on the branches outside my window?

They circle around the house and follow me to the kitchen, but I don't care. They can watch me with their beady little eyes all they want. I'm on a mission.

I dig through Gran's drawer of teas. She keeps every flavor so she can be a good hostess. People ask her what kind she has, and her eyes twinkle as she invites them to name their favorite tea, because she's psychic and she bought it special, just for them. Gran's not really psychic, as far as I know, and this is her little joke, but now that I think about it, she could be hiding behind the truth too. Oh, Gran. I do love you so much. You've been good to me. Why do I feel like I'll never see you again? You're coming back from your cruise tomorrow.

I check the calendar on the fridge to make sure. Yes, Gran's returning tomorrow. This calendar has scenes from Italy for each month. The image of a Hello Kitty calendar pops into my head. Where have I seen that? At the Chinese herbalist? At Heidi's cottage?

My mind goes blank.

What was I just thinking about?

The crows outside the window squawk at me. Tea. I'm making tea.

I pull out boxes of tea labeled peppermint, spearmint, and mint. Are they all the same? Mibs jumps on the counter, very interested in the tea. He swipes one of the mint tea bags and runs off. “One for Mibs, one for Zan,” I say as I drop a bag into a mug.

I move swiftly through the kitchen, preparing the Spirit Walk tea. I am guided by forces outside myself. More crows appear in the tree outside the window, staring in at me. I sip my hot tea and give them the finger.

Drowsy, so drowsy.

I make my way to my grandfather's old recliner and settle in.

My body feels happy. I've never felt so comfortable before.

* * *

Why do I have such an idiotic look on my face? Look at me there, with my hand tucked into my waistband like some out-of-shape sitcom dad.

Wait. If I'm there, how can I be here? I'm floating. Why is my head in the attic now? Hey, my comic books! Gran said she sold them at a garage sale, but here they are. Hello, Spiderman. Don't worry, comic books, I know where you are now.

Roof.

Chimney.

Sky.

I'm naked, but I'm not cold. Why am I in the sky? Right, astral projection. Or Spirit Walking. I wish I had some clothes.

Something shimmers, and now I'm wearing boxer shorts. I try to will myself into something more presentable, but nothing's coming to mind. I guess boxers are better than nothing.

A big, black crow flies through me, and then another. This is like a violation of my person, even without a body, so I steer myself out of the path of the others. Where are they going in such a hurry?