Haunting Zoe by Sherry Ficklin

 
     

     
    As I stand there, looking down at my body, I
can’t help but wonder where my clothes went. I suppose the dude
hosing me off took them, but I can’t be sure. I blink as he flicks
on a large, round light overhead. It’s cold in here, or maybe it’s
just that standing in a morgue, watching some random stranger poke
and prod your lifeless corpse, is enough to give even a dead guy
the chills.
    I should leave. But there’s a twisted need to
watch over myself, make sure nobody mishandles my body. Stupid, I
suppose, but undeniable.
    He finishes the hose bath just as his
assistant, an older woman with gray hair and rectangular glasses,
walks in, completely oblivious to my nudity, and hangs a suit on
the coatrack. “His father just dropped this off,” she says curtly,
leaving the room without a second glance.
    As she rounds the table, her arm brushes
through me. I don’t feel it at all, and she doesn’t seem to either.
I glance down, not at my body, but at myself as I stand there. My
dark denim jeans are loose around my waist, supported by a thick,
brown leather belt. My grey t-shirt is clean—considering—and my
brown boots are tied tightly. Basically, I look the same as I did
two days ago… when I woke up and found myself hovering over my
corpse as police fished it out of the river.
    The shock and panic has faded into a dull
ache, a numbness I can’t quite explain. Nothing feels real anymore.
I close my eyes, thinking of my best friend Bruno. In a heartbeat,
I feel the air around me change, warming. The smell of cherry pie
wafts through the air, and I know I’m gone. When I open my eyes,
I’m in his kitchen—a place I’m very familiar with. How many days
had we sat at this granite counter and talked about sports,
homework, and girls? How many nights did he have massive pizzas
delivered while we studied for tests and worked on projects? Now he
sits in his chair, shoving a single cherry around his crumb-filled
plate with his fork while holding his head up with a balled fist.
He’s not smiling, but he’s not crying either. Unlike the scene at
my house where my mother wails constantly, and my father barely
leaves my bedroom. The grief can be overwhelming. Somehow, watching
them suffer makes this whole thing worse.
    Taking a seat beside him, I slide into the
chair without having to move it. I wish he could hear me. I need
someone to talk to—someone who can help me figure out what’s going
on.
    I never thought much about death when I was
alive, I suppose I just took for granted that I would have plenty
of time for that later. There was never a doubt in my mind that
when you died, you went to heaven or whatever came next. But this
isn’t next, and it certainly isn’t heaven.
    There’s a white card beside his plate.
Leaning over, I see the words, which are embossed in gold.
    Shenendoah Funeral Home
    Sunday, September 7 th . 2pm.
    Please join us in saying farewell to Logan
Cooper.
    Wake from 2-3pm. Graveside service at 4pm.
    September 7 th ?
    I stand up, walking right through the counter
to the stainless steel refrigerator, where a paper calendar is held
up with magnets. That’s tomorrow.
    How long have I been dead? Days maybe, though
I have to admit the passage of time is a little harder to keep
track of now that I don’t sleep anymore. Even so, the last thing I
remember was…being at a summer pool party with my friends. That had
to be weeks ago.
    I turn back to Bruno, who reluctantly eats
his last bite of food, and then stands up.
    “What happened to me?” I ask out loud,
knowing he can’t hear me.
    His eyes snap up. For a frantic moment, I
think he’s looking right at me. Then I realize he’s looking through
me, at the calendar. He sets his plate in the sink and walks
through me. Taking the marker out of the little holder on the side
of the calendar, he leans forward, crossing off the date.
    Correction. My funeral is today.
    I close my eyes again, opening them in
Kaylee’s bright pink bedroom.