beside a small child with a pink beret. The girl is pointing at a pair of ducks
beak to beak in a staring contest.
Her delighted laugh trickles across the
pond, rippling the water as it pulls more ducks her way. I see an old crazy quilt spread
out behind her. A blue Igloo cooler.
What I don’t see is Carl.
Tessie, 1995
He’s jabbering.
Blah, blah. Jabber, jabber.
Apparently, it isn’t that unusual to
experience something paranormal after an
event.
Other people talk to the dead, too. No big
deal. He doesn’t say it out loud, but I’m a
cliché.
“The paranormal experience can happen
during the event,” he is saying. “Or afterward.”
The event. Like
it is a royal wedding or the UT–OU football game.
“The victims who
survive sometimes believe that a person who died in the event is still speaking to
them.” If he says
event
one more time, I am going to scream. The only
thing holding me back is Oscar. He is sleeping, and I don’t want to freak him
out.
“A patient of mine watched her best
friend die in a tubing accident. It was especially traumatic because she never saw her
surface the water. They didn’t find her body. She was convinced her friend was
controlling things in her life from heaven. Ordinary things. Like whether it would rain
on her. People in circumstances similar to yours suddenly see ghosts in broad daylight.
Predict the future. They believe in omens, so much so that some of them can’t
leave their houses.”
Circumstances similar
to mine?
Is he saying that with a straight face? Surely, he is smirking. And,
surely, it isn’t a good idea right now to hold my head underwater with tangled
fishing lines and human-eating tree stumps and silky, streaming strands of another
girl’s hair. Lydia’s dad always warns us about what lies beneath the murky
surface of the lake. Makes us wear scratchy nylon lifejackets in 103-degree heat no
matter how much we sweat and whine.
“That’s crazy,” I say.
“The rain thing. I’m not crazy. It happened. I mean I know
it
happened.
She spoke to me.”
I wait for him to say it.
I believe you
think it happened, Tessie
. Emphasis on
believe.
Emphasis on
think.
He doesn’t say it. “Did you
think she was alive or dead when she spoke to you?”
“Alive. Dead. I don’t
know.” I hesitate, deciding how far to go. “I remember her eyes as really
blue, but the paper said they were brown. But then, in my dreams they sometimes change
colors.”
“Do you dream often?”
“A little.”
Not
going
there.
“Tell me exactly what Meredith said to
you.”
“Merry. Her mother calls her
Merry.”
“OK, Merry, then. What’s the
first thing Merry said to you in the grave?”
“She said she was hungry.” My
mouth suddenly tastes like stale peanuts. I run my tongue over my teeth, trying not to
gag.
“Did you give her something to
eat?”
“That isn’t important. I
don’t remember.
”
Oh my God, it’s like I brushed my
teeth with peanut butter.
I feel like throwing up. I picture the space around
me. If I throw up sideways, I spray the leather couch. Head down, it hits Oscar.
Straight across, no holds barred, the doctor gets it.
“Merry was upset that her mother would
be worried about her. So she told me her mother’s name. Dawna. With an
a
and a
w.
I remember, like, being frantic about getting to Merry’s mother.
I wanted more than anything to climb out of there so I could tell hermom that she was safe. But I couldn’t move. My head, legs, arms. It was like a
truck was crushing my chest.”
I didn’t know whether Merry was alive, and I was dead.
“The thing is, I know how to spell her
mother’s name.” I’m insistent. “
D-a-w-n-a,
not
D-o-n-n-a.
So it must have happened. Otherwise, how would I
know?”
“I have to ask you this, Tessie. You
mentioned the paper. Has someone been reading you the newspaper reports?”
I don’t answer. It
beak to beak in a staring contest.
Her delighted laugh trickles across the
pond, rippling the water as it pulls more ducks her way. I see an old crazy quilt spread
out behind her. A blue Igloo cooler.
What I don’t see is Carl.
Tessie, 1995
He’s jabbering.
Blah, blah. Jabber, jabber.
Apparently, it isn’t that unusual to
experience something paranormal after an
event.
Other people talk to the dead, too. No big
deal. He doesn’t say it out loud, but I’m a
cliché.
“The paranormal experience can happen
during the event,” he is saying. “Or afterward.”
The event. Like
it is a royal wedding or the UT–OU football game.
“The victims who
survive sometimes believe that a person who died in the event is still speaking to
them.” If he says
event
one more time, I am going to scream. The only
thing holding me back is Oscar. He is sleeping, and I don’t want to freak him
out.
“A patient of mine watched her best
friend die in a tubing accident. It was especially traumatic because she never saw her
surface the water. They didn’t find her body. She was convinced her friend was
controlling things in her life from heaven. Ordinary things. Like whether it would rain
on her. People in circumstances similar to yours suddenly see ghosts in broad daylight.
Predict the future. They believe in omens, so much so that some of them can’t
leave their houses.”
Circumstances similar
to mine?
Is he saying that with a straight face? Surely, he is smirking. And,
surely, it isn’t a good idea right now to hold my head underwater with tangled
fishing lines and human-eating tree stumps and silky, streaming strands of another
girl’s hair. Lydia’s dad always warns us about what lies beneath the murky
surface of the lake. Makes us wear scratchy nylon lifejackets in 103-degree heat no
matter how much we sweat and whine.
“That’s crazy,” I say.
“The rain thing. I’m not crazy. It happened. I mean I know
it
happened.
She spoke to me.”
I wait for him to say it.
I believe you
think it happened, Tessie
. Emphasis on
believe.
Emphasis on
think.
He doesn’t say it. “Did you
think she was alive or dead when she spoke to you?”
“Alive. Dead. I don’t
know.” I hesitate, deciding how far to go. “I remember her eyes as really
blue, but the paper said they were brown. But then, in my dreams they sometimes change
colors.”
“Do you dream often?”
“A little.”
Not
going
there.
“Tell me exactly what Meredith said to
you.”
“Merry. Her mother calls her
Merry.”
“OK, Merry, then. What’s the
first thing Merry said to you in the grave?”
“She said she was hungry.” My
mouth suddenly tastes like stale peanuts. I run my tongue over my teeth, trying not to
gag.
“Did you give her something to
eat?”
“That isn’t important. I
don’t remember.
”
Oh my God, it’s like I brushed my
teeth with peanut butter.
I feel like throwing up. I picture the space around
me. If I throw up sideways, I spray the leather couch. Head down, it hits Oscar.
Straight across, no holds barred, the doctor gets it.
“Merry was upset that her mother would
be worried about her. So she told me her mother’s name. Dawna. With an
a
and a
w.
I remember, like, being frantic about getting to Merry’s mother.
I wanted more than anything to climb out of there so I could tell hermom that she was safe. But I couldn’t move. My head, legs, arms. It was like a
truck was crushing my chest.”
I didn’t know whether Merry was alive, and I was dead.
“The thing is, I know how to spell her
mother’s name.” I’m insistent. “
D-a-w-n-a,
not
D-o-n-n-a.
So it must have happened. Otherwise, how would I
know?”
“I have to ask you this, Tessie. You
mentioned the paper. Has someone been reading you the newspaper reports?”
I don’t answer. It
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