only alarm, my only porthole from this eternal dreamlike state is a girl named Sela. She says she looks like me
.
She says I was murdered. She says they found my body on the banks of the Mississippi River, and that my back had a symbol carved on it. I was branded like a cow on a beef farm
.
Chloe Applegate. Me. Murdered
.
Shortly before my death, my best friend convinced me to leave for L.A. Her name was Lisa and she was the only person not intimidated by my parents’ money. I met her a year ago on a salty night in mid-spring. She came knocking on my then-boyfriend’s door, asking for coke. New Orleans was in short supply then the cops had made a massive bust in Hattiesburg the month before and it had weakened the trade around town. Lisa was prepared to pay my boyfriend double the usual for half the amount. My boyfriend
—
I can’t remember his name now
—
agreed and gave her our supply and we treated ourselves to a lobster dinner that night. Lisa kept coming back and we started talking while she waited on the couch for my boyfriend to cut her drugs for her. We became friends
.
The seasons changed and I went to rehab. My mother found a joint in my room. She’s always been nosy that way, but I guess I am grateful. I came out clean. I left the drugs behind but I kept my friends. What is the good of life anyway if you don’t have anyone in your corner? Lisa might have been messed up but at least she knew me. I needed someone to know me. I was lonely. All my life I had been lonely, but being clean and sober, looking at the world with fresh eyes, made me all the lonelier
.
I can’t always remember days from months, months from years, or any particular timeline, just November third. What I think
—
what my soul tells me, what my intuition describes
—
is that a short time before this date, Lisa asked me the L.A. question. She said things were better out there. We could be famous if we wanted. I never wanted to be famous. I just wanted to be understood. I agreed to go to L.A., mainly to make Lisa happy. New Orleans I would leave behind. The ghost city of the South, the Zombie of the Bayou. The Crescent City of Lost Souls. My home. I would flee
.
Then I met him. He changed my mind about things. Something about him made me want to stay. I wanted to be what he needed me to be. I wanted to transcend again
.
He who I cannot remember, and yet always stays, just at the edge of my mind, like an unplayed note
.
Sela. Wake me up. Sela, I am calling you. Sela, help me find him
.
For surely in my lost memory of him lies the key to my murder
.
CHAPTER
15
C hloe Applegate’s wake was at the Frances Hopkins Funeral Home off St. Peter’s Street. Her funeral was held right after at a nearby cemetery.
Sela chose not to express her condolences at either occasion. Instead of honoring the memory of a dead girl whom she had never known in life, Sela decided to try and forget Chloe altogether. She would rid herself of the cell phone.
The morning after her visit to the Applegate home, Sela threw the phone out of her car window on her way to work. During the lunch hours, a construction worker, who ordered a BLT with extra bacon and a chocolate milk shake, surprised her by reaching into his pocket and handing her Chloe’s cell phone. “I saw this fly out of your car,” he said. “I thought you might want it back.” Instead of arguing with the kind stranger over the his decision
(Why the hell would you return it when it’s obvious that I went out of my way to get rid of it in the first place, you moron?
she had thought), Sela graciously accepted the phone while at the same time noting that the next chance she had the phone would be history.
Her next chance turned out to be the Dumpster behind Frank’s. Sela wrapped the phone in an old newspaper and stuffed it in with the rest of garbage. She nearly skipped on her way through Frank’s entrance door, she was
that
happy.
Finally
, she thought,
finally it’s over
.
But it
.
She says I was murdered. She says they found my body on the banks of the Mississippi River, and that my back had a symbol carved on it. I was branded like a cow on a beef farm
.
Chloe Applegate. Me. Murdered
.
Shortly before my death, my best friend convinced me to leave for L.A. Her name was Lisa and she was the only person not intimidated by my parents’ money. I met her a year ago on a salty night in mid-spring. She came knocking on my then-boyfriend’s door, asking for coke. New Orleans was in short supply then the cops had made a massive bust in Hattiesburg the month before and it had weakened the trade around town. Lisa was prepared to pay my boyfriend double the usual for half the amount. My boyfriend
—
I can’t remember his name now
—
agreed and gave her our supply and we treated ourselves to a lobster dinner that night. Lisa kept coming back and we started talking while she waited on the couch for my boyfriend to cut her drugs for her. We became friends
.
The seasons changed and I went to rehab. My mother found a joint in my room. She’s always been nosy that way, but I guess I am grateful. I came out clean. I left the drugs behind but I kept my friends. What is the good of life anyway if you don’t have anyone in your corner? Lisa might have been messed up but at least she knew me. I needed someone to know me. I was lonely. All my life I had been lonely, but being clean and sober, looking at the world with fresh eyes, made me all the lonelier
.
I can’t always remember days from months, months from years, or any particular timeline, just November third. What I think
—
what my soul tells me, what my intuition describes
—
is that a short time before this date, Lisa asked me the L.A. question. She said things were better out there. We could be famous if we wanted. I never wanted to be famous. I just wanted to be understood. I agreed to go to L.A., mainly to make Lisa happy. New Orleans I would leave behind. The ghost city of the South, the Zombie of the Bayou. The Crescent City of Lost Souls. My home. I would flee
.
Then I met him. He changed my mind about things. Something about him made me want to stay. I wanted to be what he needed me to be. I wanted to transcend again
.
He who I cannot remember, and yet always stays, just at the edge of my mind, like an unplayed note
.
Sela. Wake me up. Sela, I am calling you. Sela, help me find him
.
For surely in my lost memory of him lies the key to my murder
.
CHAPTER
15
C hloe Applegate’s wake was at the Frances Hopkins Funeral Home off St. Peter’s Street. Her funeral was held right after at a nearby cemetery.
Sela chose not to express her condolences at either occasion. Instead of honoring the memory of a dead girl whom she had never known in life, Sela decided to try and forget Chloe altogether. She would rid herself of the cell phone.
The morning after her visit to the Applegate home, Sela threw the phone out of her car window on her way to work. During the lunch hours, a construction worker, who ordered a BLT with extra bacon and a chocolate milk shake, surprised her by reaching into his pocket and handing her Chloe’s cell phone. “I saw this fly out of your car,” he said. “I thought you might want it back.” Instead of arguing with the kind stranger over the his decision
(Why the hell would you return it when it’s obvious that I went out of my way to get rid of it in the first place, you moron?
she had thought), Sela graciously accepted the phone while at the same time noting that the next chance she had the phone would be history.
Her next chance turned out to be the Dumpster behind Frank’s. Sela wrapped the phone in an old newspaper and stuffed it in with the rest of garbage. She nearly skipped on her way through Frank’s entrance door, she was
that
happy.
Finally
, she thought,
finally it’s over
.
But it
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