dangling string ticking against the glass. The grief-stricken sound of my father’s voice, the attentive manner of my mother, the entire night plays over in my head. And then there was Isaac. My existence disturbed him, upset him so much he left; he couldn’t bear the sight of me. How could you bring that thing in here?
Crushing loneliness spreads over me. I curl up on my side, hands tucked under my cheek. I hate this feeling. Closers rarely talk about their emotions; I guess we repress most of them. And we definitely don’t discuss the way people react to us. Imagine the confusion for the clients. Their reactions can switch from love to agony to hatred in a matter of moments. We’re everything they want and everything they hate to be reminded of. We’re a paradox.
And then there’s the backlash. People are afraid of us—I saw it in Isaac’s eyes tonight. I’m unrelatable and untouchable. I’m an abomination to them. A thing.
Right now, my soul feels paper thin. I’d give anything to talk to my dad, or Deacon, or Aaron. Hell, even Myra. But I’m alone in this. I close my eyes and search out a memory that will bring me comfort, make me feel loved.
I think of Anna Granger, my best friend all through junior high. We did everything together: shared classes and secrets. We even got our periods at the same time. I smile, thinking of the ridiculous picture of us at our ninth-grade semiformal, our dates in oversized suits and Anna and me with terribly cut bangs. We bailed before the end of the night and had our parents bring us to IHOP for pancakes. Anna and I were close enough to be sisters, and I miss her. I miss the thought of her.
Because I’ve never met Anna Granger. She belonged to someone else’s life.
CHAPTER NINE
I BLINK MYSELF AWAKE. THE blinds are open, letting in huge patches of unfiltered sunlight that fall across my bed. I turn to the clock on the side table, not surprised to find out it’s barely seven a.m. I open and close my jaw a few times, the muscles sore from smiling the night before. I can hear the kitchen sink running, the low murmur of a television. Seems my parents are early risers too.
I’m not quite ready to see them yet this morning, so I stand, moaning with my sleepy muscles. The wig is on my desk next to my computer, and I pick it up and brush my fingers through it again. Marie did a great job, but it still doesn’t feel right.
I drop the wig back onto the table and sit at the computer. The wallpaper startles me, the adoring picture with Isaac—so different from the way he treated me last night. I click open my e-mail and scan the messages. They’re mostly spam or people who don’t know I’ve died yet. They’re not part of this closure, so I don’t respond. They’ll find out sooner or later, I guess.
My computer dings, and my body tenses as I search for the blinking icon. Anxiety twists inside me the second I pull up the small screen and see Isaac’s image. He’s reaching out. There’s a short message: I DIDN’T SLEEP LAST NIGHT, he writes. Then a moment later: IT FEELS LIKE I’LL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.
My brain notes difficulty sleeping , but my heart swells because he’s asking for help. I study his thumbnail image, the vibrant ideal of the boy I met last night. I swallow nervously, and then type back.
IT WON’T ALWAYS FEEL LIKE THIS , I tell him, immediately biting my nail after I hit send. He’s typing. Then stops. Starts typing again.
I MISS HER.
I lower my arm, welling up with sadness as I imagine him sitting at his computer, frayed from lack of sleep and overwhelmed by his loss. I KNOW, I respond. I’M SORRY. The cursor blinks, neither of us writing. My training is trying to eclipse my sympathy.
I CAN HELP, I write. IF YOU LET ME.
HOW?
TALKING. WE’LL JUST TALK, ISAAC. I CAN HELP YOU FIND A WAY TO DEAL WITH THIS. HELP YOU GET OVER IT. I’m starting to sound clinical, and I immediately regret mentioning him “getting over” the love of his life. I
Crushing loneliness spreads over me. I curl up on my side, hands tucked under my cheek. I hate this feeling. Closers rarely talk about their emotions; I guess we repress most of them. And we definitely don’t discuss the way people react to us. Imagine the confusion for the clients. Their reactions can switch from love to agony to hatred in a matter of moments. We’re everything they want and everything they hate to be reminded of. We’re a paradox.
And then there’s the backlash. People are afraid of us—I saw it in Isaac’s eyes tonight. I’m unrelatable and untouchable. I’m an abomination to them. A thing.
Right now, my soul feels paper thin. I’d give anything to talk to my dad, or Deacon, or Aaron. Hell, even Myra. But I’m alone in this. I close my eyes and search out a memory that will bring me comfort, make me feel loved.
I think of Anna Granger, my best friend all through junior high. We did everything together: shared classes and secrets. We even got our periods at the same time. I smile, thinking of the ridiculous picture of us at our ninth-grade semiformal, our dates in oversized suits and Anna and me with terribly cut bangs. We bailed before the end of the night and had our parents bring us to IHOP for pancakes. Anna and I were close enough to be sisters, and I miss her. I miss the thought of her.
Because I’ve never met Anna Granger. She belonged to someone else’s life.
CHAPTER NINE
I BLINK MYSELF AWAKE. THE blinds are open, letting in huge patches of unfiltered sunlight that fall across my bed. I turn to the clock on the side table, not surprised to find out it’s barely seven a.m. I open and close my jaw a few times, the muscles sore from smiling the night before. I can hear the kitchen sink running, the low murmur of a television. Seems my parents are early risers too.
I’m not quite ready to see them yet this morning, so I stand, moaning with my sleepy muscles. The wig is on my desk next to my computer, and I pick it up and brush my fingers through it again. Marie did a great job, but it still doesn’t feel right.
I drop the wig back onto the table and sit at the computer. The wallpaper startles me, the adoring picture with Isaac—so different from the way he treated me last night. I click open my e-mail and scan the messages. They’re mostly spam or people who don’t know I’ve died yet. They’re not part of this closure, so I don’t respond. They’ll find out sooner or later, I guess.
My computer dings, and my body tenses as I search for the blinking icon. Anxiety twists inside me the second I pull up the small screen and see Isaac’s image. He’s reaching out. There’s a short message: I DIDN’T SLEEP LAST NIGHT, he writes. Then a moment later: IT FEELS LIKE I’LL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.
My brain notes difficulty sleeping , but my heart swells because he’s asking for help. I study his thumbnail image, the vibrant ideal of the boy I met last night. I swallow nervously, and then type back.
IT WON’T ALWAYS FEEL LIKE THIS , I tell him, immediately biting my nail after I hit send. He’s typing. Then stops. Starts typing again.
I MISS HER.
I lower my arm, welling up with sadness as I imagine him sitting at his computer, frayed from lack of sleep and overwhelmed by his loss. I KNOW, I respond. I’M SORRY. The cursor blinks, neither of us writing. My training is trying to eclipse my sympathy.
I CAN HELP, I write. IF YOU LET ME.
HOW?
TALKING. WE’LL JUST TALK, ISAAC. I CAN HELP YOU FIND A WAY TO DEAL WITH THIS. HELP YOU GET OVER IT. I’m starting to sound clinical, and I immediately regret mentioning him “getting over” the love of his life. I
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