Six Feet Over It (23 page)

“Okay. Now ask me back.”

“What?”

“Ask.
Ask
me.”

“Ask you what?”

“Just … all right. I’m hiring myself back.”

“What?”

“I’ll stay as long as I need to, not a day more. Got it?”

His mouth snaps shut.

“And I’m painting in there. White. Or blue. Or wallpapering. And I want new chairs, not leather and
not
black. And for God’s sake, we need new tissue boxes.”

He turns to Kai, who nods. Stern. My wingman. Winglady.

“And keep out of my Yorks.”

“But—”

“Hands
off.
I need them to do my job, which is sometimes very sad. Sometimes
I
am very sad. And that is normal, it is not dramatic, life can be sad, and also I am
selling graves,
I get to be sad sometimes. Understand?”

He doesn’t understand. But he nods. Meredith nods.

The most they can do.

It is enough.

I blow out all sixteen candles in a single breath.

“LIGHT THEM AGAIN,”
Kai says.

My hands are frozen, gloveless and stiff. She strikes a match and passes it carefully to me.

I relight the dozen white candles that are having a really hard time burning in this chill, slow night wind. In the dark. The way Dario told me.

On Emily’s headstone.

Kai and I have brought lilacs, candles, individually wrapped hunks of Bubble Yum bubble gum. She really loved Bubble Yum. We’ve brought her some Yorks. And my grave digger, happily grinning with his silver shovel. My Catrina, her hat dripping sparkling blossoms, nestled cozily beside tiny sparkling Emily herself, content on her pony.

In the tin flower cup, Kai arranges a bouquet of slender wires supporting tiny trembling butterflies: lacy orange-and-black-patterned wings fashioned from delicate, minuscule feathers attached to tiny little black papier-mâché bodies, the type of thing one would stick in a potted plant to be pretty.

Among the monarchs, one plain. Black wings.

Mourning cloak.

“Rivendell,” Kai whispers. “They have
everything.
”

I pull my coat close to my body. Poppy Hill spills down into the moonless black silence of Serenity Valley.

It is my birthday.
El Día de los Muertos.
It is Emily’s day, the Day of the Little Angels.

“Don’t be scared,” Kai says. “She’s okay. She’ll be so happy you’re here.”

I don’t say I’m having trouble believing her, even though I want to. Badly.

The wind moves right through our coats but we stay. With Emily. Still no moon and the clouds are thicker every moment.

The candles flicker. I light them again.

“Okay?” Kai says.

She takes my hand. Still here.

My heart pounds, hopeful for a sign, trying so hard to feel her here, even just a little. More wind. More chimes. Darkness and candlelight.

We concentrate on Emily’s stone, peaceful and bright, busy and still.

The Rivendell butterflies make shadows in the candlelight.

I breathe the cold air and let Dario in.

Tonight, and for all the Days of the Dead, the Door is open. If you listen very carefully, you can hear them whisper. Their wings tell you everything is okay. They’re not afraid. They’re with us. They’re not afraid.

Your birthday is a gift. It is your responsibility. You chose an early arrival; it is your way out and it is your responsibility.

She is your responsibility.

I chose my arrival.

I
am
a patron saint.

I have responsibilities long neglected.

There is a reason the coroner’s office sends brokenhearted people to me and not to Wade. They need me. They need
me.

I was born to this.

This is why we came from the sea. Why Emily was my friend when no one else would be. Why she is here and nowhere else. I was meant to watch over her.

The candles take hold. The flames reach up.

She is here. I can feel her beside me.

I don’t even have to try.

Hours later I learn that the most jarring sound in life is a telephone ringing in the heavy middle of the night.

I am half-asleep and the ringing breaks the drowsy quiet of the house, splits it into a million shards of panic. I lay in the dark trying to catch my breath as it rings. And rings. Kai breathes deeply, soundly beside me.

Ring.

Do they not hear that?

Ring.

People maybe need to lay off the sleeping pills.

Ring.

I roll over and look at the clock. Who would call at this hour?

I am out of bed and down the stairs in two seconds, dive for the phone—

Dial tone.

“Who was it?” Meredith’s totally wide-awake voice calls from upstairs. What the … They’re just lying there in bed hoping I’ll get up and get it? Jerks!

“No one!” I yell, trudge back up the stairs. “Missed it.”

Ring.

I nearly break my face on the receiver.

“Hello?” Nothing.
“Hello?”

Silence.

That
silence.

“Leigh?” Whispered.

“Yes,” I whisper fiercely back. “I’m here. It’s me, I’m here.”

“Leigh.”

“
Yes,
I’m here!”

“Happy birthday.”

“Where are you?”

Static.

“Dario.
Dario!
” I whisper.

“Leigh?”

“Yes.”

“Did you pass your test?”

I have to sit down.

I dress in the early dark. No longer rigid, my muscles unwind and accept the temperature. Dario is right. “It’s just weather,” he always says. “It isn’t out to get you.”

“Be careful,” Kai whispers from under the covers. “You have keys?”

I hold them tight inside my pocket. Keys to the Death Mobile, my birthday gift from Grandpa.

“Call when you get there—call on the way. Okay?”

“
You
better answer.”

“I will. Hurry and come back. But don’t worry, I’m a really good liar.”

That is not true. She sucks at lying; it’s one of her best qualities.

I make my silent way out of the house into the
yes, technically morning but still night
dark, the trees, the graves.

Map, keys, money, water. Map, keys, money, water, Yorks.

I roll in neutral, no headlights until I’m past the mausoleum.

The engine idles at the Manderleys. I pull them—frozen and heavy—slowly open, and turn, out of habit, to Emily.

There is light at her stone.

Not candles. Flashlight. At her grave.

I stand in the headlights, not moving, not breathing.

The flashlight goes out.

I inhale. Step forward.

“Hello!” I call.

Ravens fly up from the pines.

Nothing.

It is so dark.

“Hello?”

The light comes back on.

Moves toward me.

“Leigh?”

Not a woman.

Not Emily’s mom.

Tall. Black hair in the white flashlight beam.

“Leigh,” Balin says.

We breathe clouds at each other in the headlights.

“Elanor’s sick.”

My heart slows to a stop.

She’s dying, proximity to me …
“What kind of sick?”

“Not
sick
sick. A cold, it’s nothing. She’s home in bed.”

I exhale.

“That’s why I’m here,” he says. “Because she’s sick.”

“Okay.”

“Dario asked her. He said if he wasn’t back yet, would she make sure there were flowers yesterday, but she was
really
sick then. She was so mad she missed it, but at least today was better than nothing, she said. …” He pulls a folded paper from his pocket. “Row L, Space 23. Poppy Hill.”

Familiar as her name.

“So. Sorry it’s a day late. She made me come in the dark so you wouldn’t see me and then know it was really her and think she was being weird. I don’t know. She’s embarrassed. What are you
doing
?”

The headlights are blinding.

“I have to … I have an errand. I don’t know,” I stammer. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you for the flowers.”

He nods. “We overordered for a wedding, so there’s tons. You’ll like them.”

I nod.

“I need to leave,” I say. “Are you—Can I give you a ride?”

Silence as I drive him home, all the way until I turn the headlights off at the willow gate.

“So. Graveyard errand?”

“Field trip.”

“Oh, really?”

“Helping a friend.”

He nods. “You okay?”

I press my forehead to the wheel. “I think so.”

“Elanor’s … I mean, she’s a good person.”

“I know,” I say. “I know she is.”

“Don’t tell her I said that.”

“I won’t.”

I can’t seem to lift my head from the wheel.

Crying. Again.

I feel his hand on my back, a steady weight between my sharp shoulder blades. Makes it hard to cry quietly. This poor guy, he’ll never do another favor for Elanor after this.

“Are you … What can I do?” he asks, but I’m too weepy to respond. And then low, “Oh, thank God.”

I lift my head.

In the gray shadows Elanor is a tiny snowman swimming in what looks like five pairs of flannel pajamas.

She swings the willow gate wide and goes to the passenger window.

“What did you
do
?” she growls through the glass at poor Balin.

He turns to me. “Okay?”

I nod.

“All right.” He climbs out of the truck. “Not my fault!” he whisper-shouts back at her, latches the gate behind him.

She stands shivering. Her hair is down, bed-messy, and falls all the way down her back. Her nose is pink. She’s got a giant wad of tissues.

“Sorry.” She chatters. “He is so—Wait, did you
drive
here?”

She is overtaken by sneezing.

“Elanor.”

“What?”

“Bless you.”

“Thanks.”

She folds her arms tight around herself. An owl flies low, wings wide.

“I’m so sorry,” I say at last. A sweeping tornado of relief, which then instantly feels selfish but I cannot help myself. “I’m sorry,” I spill. “I’m stupid, I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m sorry …”

“No,” she says.

“I don’t … I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” she says. “It’s okay!”

“No,” I moan, “it’s not …”

“Leigh!”

More stillness. She’s just standing there shivering, and at once I want something so badly I am nearly afraid to ask.

Nearly.

“Are you working today?”

She shakes her head.

“Oh,” I say. “Okay. So are you doing anything for the next”—I unfold the map in my lap, redo some mental math—“twelve, fourteen hours?”

She eyes the map. Swipes her nose with the tissue.

“I’ll go get dressed.”

MERGING ONTO THE HIGHWAY
at five-thirty in the morning when there are practically no other cars on the road is so much easier than it is during the middle of the day. I drive exactly the speed limit, staying carefully glued to the rearview for signs of Highway Patrol. CHiPs. The Feds. The Fuzz. I ignore the driver’s ed films and Gramma’s hysterics,
Don’t go so fast, look out, here comes a stop sign, look out for that guy in the next lane, he’s probably high on meth, don’t touch the radio, concentrate, concentrate!
I reach for the tenth time into my backpack to feel my license. Bottle of water. Meredith’s seashell toiletry bag stuffed
I just robbed a bank
–style with icing-on-the-cake grave money. I am okay.

Elanor reads the maps. Black skirt. Blue sweater. Blue-and-white-and-black-striped tights. The boots. Hair wound back into the braids. She is not messing around.

We
are okay.

The highway is a straight, undulating black ribbon through hilly fields of cattle, churches, new housing developments. There are no stars, only low black clouds, heavy, exceedingly cold. The wind through the open window whips my hair around my face. In my urgency to get out of the house, I have forgotten to put it up or even bring a tie to do it later. Elanor is right on with the braids.

Twenty minutes in, I remember to breathe. Unclench every muscle in my hands, tell the
look out!
voices to clam it. And now I feel the frozen air so I roll the window up, relax my jaw. I am a fine driver. This is okay, driving by myself—by myself with Elanor.

A car passes pointedly on the right. Good for them. I hope they get pulled over. I for one am going to obey the speed limit and traffic laws and have a lovely drive. I move to the slow lane.

Signs tell us our exit is a quarter mile ahead.

“You sure?” I ask.

Her hands are on the dash, determined. Excited. “Dario’s waiting.”

I brake slightly into the curve of the off-ramp, accelerate out of it, and we are south on Interstate 5 to Los Angeles: 184 miles to go.

“Technically, he said Placentia,” I tell her, tossing her a highlighter. “Not Los Angeles proper. Is that nearer or farther?”

She pulls the cap off with her teeth and highlights the route in purple. “Um …” She studies the lower section of California’s highway system. “It’s like … half an hour farther. I think.”

“Okay. No big whup.” I rip open one of my Dario York bags.

She buries her face in her arm, sneezes a million times.

“Bless you.”

“Ugh. Thank you. Sorry. My parents refuse to medicate when we’re sick; they just brew gallons of tea with weird crap floating in it and make us take echinacea, which is a complete lie.”

“What is?”

“Echinacea! Hippie herbal bullshit, excuse my French, but it does nothing! I’m dying here, coughing my brains out, and dried daisies are going to cure me? Please. I snuck to town yesterday and got some DayQuil.” She shakes a box of LiquiCaps. “It’ll kick in soon.” She wipes her hands with a bunch of wet wipes and unwraps a steady stream of Yorks for me so my hands can stay at DMV- and Dario-approved nine and three.

She unwraps a few for herself. “What’s the deal with the truck? Your grandpa really just
gave
it to you?”

“I think so. The keys, anyway, which sort of imply the whole truck is what he meant; otherwise the warrant will be for grand theft auto
and
kidnapping.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m at your house, and you’re at mine; if Balin and Kai can keep their stories straight, no one will ever know we’re gone.” She chews thoughtfully. “I’m counting on Kai.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Balin may do all right.”

The sun is nearly up now, somewhere behind the clouds. No rain yet, Saturday and the traffic is light. Two hours in, which leaves—

“Four hours and change. Cake!” she says.

Her confidence makes me want to hug her. Which I will not do while driving, as it is unsafe and also I am seat-belted in.

“Is driving weird?”

I nod. “But not in an ‘I don’t know what I’m doing’ way. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, I’m not. You’re a total natural.”

“I know
all
the rules. Items one is legally allowed to toss out the window of a moving car? Water. Feathers. End of story.”

“Fantastic.”

Traffic picks up just enough to be interesting: semis loaded with cattle, families in RVs. It does not slow us down.

“Are they okay?” she asks. “Is she?”

“He didn’t say.”

“I miss him.”

“Me too.”

We pass a semi, merge back into the slow lane.

She nods. “He must really be missing you.”

I shrug.

“Leigh. Of course he is.”

She’s got this thing where she says what you wish so badly to hear and think you never will, and how could she ever know you wish it? But she does.

“Elanor.”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

She lets her head rest against the Last Supper, folded over the back of the bench seat, then turns her face to me.

“You’re welcome.”

We stop for gas near Pea Soup Andersen’s, a hilarious truck-stop restaurant all about pea soup that has giant plywood cutouts of two chefs, one holding a pea, the other wielding some sort of sledgehammer to split it with, and holes you can put your face in, right there in the parking lot.

Elanor has a camera. We put our faces in the holes, and a nice waitress on a smoke break takes our picture.

I put the gas nozzle in the truck and push away the cash Elanor thrusts at me.

“Please,” she begs, “let me help.”

“You
are,
” I insist. “I need to get rid of this.” I reach in the open truck window and root around my backpack to show her the manila Pre-Need paperwork envelope stuffed with all the surplus Cake Icing Money that wouldn’t fit in the toiletry bag. “I don’t want any of it. Just … please, help me get rid of it and then I can …” I don’t know what.

“Start over?”

I nod.

She squeegees bugs off the windows.

“You could donate it.”

“I will. I
am.
I am donating to the cause of Get Dario’s Wife the Hell Out of Mexico and into the Romantic Love Grotto of a Graveyard, Quick.”

“He’s ridiculous,” she says. “He can’t bring her there to
live,
can he?”

I shrug.

“Do
you
like it?”

“It’s … I wish it was near the ocean.”

The tank is full. I hang up the nozzle. Elanor replaces the gas cap.

“But,” I say, “I mean, it’s not the way it was. At the start. I am warming to my patron sainthood.”

Oh good lord. Out loud, in the daylight … more ridiculous than hobbits.

“I’m sorry—your
what
?”

“Dario says,” I sigh.

“Okay.”

“I am a patron saint.”

“Of what?”

“Death.”

“
Dario
told you this?”

I nod.

“Why?”

“I was born on the Day of the Dead. Same as the real one, the real saint. November first?”

“Yeah, we get people ordering gladiolas. Really?”

“Apparently.”

“Oh, wait,
yesterday
—Dario was so insistent—God, now I feel even worse. I can’t believe I missed it. I’m so sorry!”

“I’m glad you did.”

She nods. “Happy late birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“What a perfect day to be born.”

“You think?”

“Poetic.”

We climb back up into the truck.

“You know,” I say, “if you want, we could—would you want to maybe come over sometime? When we get back? To Sierrawood?”

She smiles.

“Because you could see, then. How it is.”

“I’ll bring yarn,” she says. “I’ll show you how to knit.”

I haven’t ruined it.

I may never stop crying.

We near Pea Soup’s entrance and go in for quick scrambled eggs and toast because out of the blue, I am
really
hungry. Not York hungry, actual food hungry. We also get a side order of oatmeal and hot chocolate to go. Because I’ve got icing-on-the-cake cash to burn. Because we can. Because we are on a mission, yes, but also—we are on a road trip.

“Buttonwillow,” Elanor reports.

Two and half hours and I’m starving again, but turns out, I-5? Not a culinary tour de force.

“Anything good?”

She checks the touristy AAA map against the Rand McNally.

“Nothing. Taco Bell. KFC?”

“No.”

But Dario is waiting, so Denny’s it is. Pancakes, hash browns—apparently I’m carb-loading for a marathon. Elanor is giddy about the lack of bean sprouts in all this roadside junk and orders Moons Over My Hammy minus the ham. We take strawberry milk shakes to go, and we’re back on the road.

“How much longer?”

She follows her highlighter path.

“Looks like … two hours? Little more?”

“That’s it?

“You’re an excellent driver!”

The most boring scenery in America, endless black highway, great big trucks, flat, empty brown fields—and it’s going by
so
fast.

“Will your parents be super mad?”

“I’m telling you,” she says, “they’ll never find out. I have nothing but faith in Kai. Will yours?”

“They won’t notice I’m gone.”

“No. Really?”

“Not in a bad way. They’ll just figure I’ll show up eventually. I always do.”

She takes the lid off her shake, goes after it with a spoon. “I wish mine were like that.”

“I wish mine were like
yours.
”

“No, you don’t. They pull dumb crap all the time. Echinacea. Babying Balin. They’re so impressed with how clever they are. Like, my middle name is Danger.”

“That’s nice, though—you’re brave. It’s a term of endearment.”

“No,” she says, “it’s my
actual
middle name.”

“No.”

“Yes. They named an infant Elanor
Danger.
My dad thought it would give me ‘extra strength of character in the patriarchal society of America’ or some jazz, and I’m like, can we not be clever with
everything,
people?”

“Remind me to show you the walkway in our yard.”

She nods. “The minute I’m eighteen, I’m going straight to the Social Security office, so start thinking of nice regular names I can use.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s pretty badass.”

I get an eye roll. “You still okay?” she asks.

I reevaluate my mirrors and stretch my hands. Drink my shake. “Think so.”

We put the windows down a little, letting some air and road noise in.

“Elanor.”

“Yeah.”

“I really am so sorry.”

“Oh, come on, it’s okay!”

“I was awful to you—”

“Leigh.”

“No, I was. I didn’t know … how to be.”

“Leigh.”

She pulls a pile of napkins from her backpack. Offers me some.

“What do you think happens when you die?” I ask. Way to bring it down.

Her spoon hovers over her foam shake cup.

“Well,” she says, “I kind of don’t. My dad says it’s all everlasting souls forever in the ether, metaphysical plinkity-plink, but then what about really awful people? Where is Hitler, right? Because I don’t want to be floating in the same soup with that guy.
Or
the dude that made up Dungeons and Dragons.”