of the Living Dead
. She was out in fewer than twenty minutes. So like me was my Angie now that what would have kept another nine-and-a-half-year-old up all night expecting zombies to rip off the shutters sent my sister to sleep after half an hour. I carried her in to my queen-sized bed, so if she woke up she would feel special—and sure that zombies could not get her there, if she were to feel afraid at all. Even though I wouldn’t be there with her until just before she got up, I knew that Angie stillloved to wake up in my bed, sick with ultra-stuffed pillows and the most lavish sheets my mom could find, about twelve hundred-count sheets. Angela said that the scent of the lavender I used to spray my sheets and pillows felt like a hug to her.
I was about to leave the room when on a whim, I decided to lie down next to her. Even unconscious, Angela did her own sleep ritual, burrowing into the quilts and twisting one around her like the cotton candy twists around the paper cone.
Then, in the dark—no room is darker than mine; it’s like the inside of your favorite pillow—Angela suddenly woke. She said, “Allie?”
“Hmmm.”
“If Juliet was a zombie, would she kill me?”
“There are no zombies,” I said. “And if Juliet were here, she would climb in bed with you and tickle you. She would be so happy to be with you again. She loved you, Angela.”
“Could there be a good zombie?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are there zombie angels?”
I hugged Angela.
Zombie angels
. Juliet would have dug the image. It would have appealed to the twisted side of her nature.
“Go to sleep now, my little zombie girl,” I said.
I was about to get up and clean the kitchen (as well as the living room, the loft, and possibly the garage for extra points) when I heard the door open.
Rather, it
banged
open, smacking the plaster so hard that there’d be a dent.
My first thought was that it was Garrett Tabor, that he had somehow defeated our multiple locks and our security system, too.
It was, however, my mother, and she did not look in the least tipsy. She looked about twice her size, like one of those fish that can puff itself out. Gina was behind her.
“Hi, Gina,” I said. “Hey, Mom. Glad you’re here. Angie’s asleep. I have to do some reading so …”
“You sit down right there,” Jackie said. “Do. Not. Move.”
Gina retreated. I couldn’t believe it. She was going to leave me there to the wrath of Jacqueline Mack Kim. I made an imploring gesture. Gina pretended that she thought I was only waving, and she waved back.
Chicken
.
Gina gently closed the door, her lips forming a kiss.
Traitor.
“I have been tolerant. I have been supportive. I have been all the things that mothers should be. Have I done that? Have I?”
“You have, Jack-Jack,” I said, feebly.
“Don’t even try horsing around with me. Don’t even try. It’s not enough that I have spent nearly eighteen years worried about my very loved child. Is it? It’s not enough that your best friend, who was also like my child, just died. You have to go sink yourself in lake water the temperature of cold beer. And why? Why now? Why not in summer? Why in December?” She paused, and slammed her palm flat against the granite countertop. “Here’s a better question. Why at all?”
“Free diving is actually easier in the …” I remembered Jackie’s favorite phrase. “It’s biology. The mammalian diving reflex …”
“I don’t care! This is unacceptable, Alexis. For what, Alexis? For what?”
“Because I know what he did.”
“Who?”
“Garrettt Tabor. I know … Mom, sit down.”
She did.
My phone, between us on the counter top, began to ping. I snatched it up, hiding the screen from my mother. Texts were arriving. They were photos. The first one was of my mother and Gina, exchanging a hug. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes earlier. The second was … it was Angela. Dressed in her snowmobile suit, using a
. She was out in fewer than twenty minutes. So like me was my Angie now that what would have kept another nine-and-a-half-year-old up all night expecting zombies to rip off the shutters sent my sister to sleep after half an hour. I carried her in to my queen-sized bed, so if she woke up she would feel special—and sure that zombies could not get her there, if she were to feel afraid at all. Even though I wouldn’t be there with her until just before she got up, I knew that Angie stillloved to wake up in my bed, sick with ultra-stuffed pillows and the most lavish sheets my mom could find, about twelve hundred-count sheets. Angela said that the scent of the lavender I used to spray my sheets and pillows felt like a hug to her.
I was about to leave the room when on a whim, I decided to lie down next to her. Even unconscious, Angela did her own sleep ritual, burrowing into the quilts and twisting one around her like the cotton candy twists around the paper cone.
Then, in the dark—no room is darker than mine; it’s like the inside of your favorite pillow—Angela suddenly woke. She said, “Allie?”
“Hmmm.”
“If Juliet was a zombie, would she kill me?”
“There are no zombies,” I said. “And if Juliet were here, she would climb in bed with you and tickle you. She would be so happy to be with you again. She loved you, Angela.”
“Could there be a good zombie?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are there zombie angels?”
I hugged Angela.
Zombie angels
. Juliet would have dug the image. It would have appealed to the twisted side of her nature.
“Go to sleep now, my little zombie girl,” I said.
I was about to get up and clean the kitchen (as well as the living room, the loft, and possibly the garage for extra points) when I heard the door open.
Rather, it
banged
open, smacking the plaster so hard that there’d be a dent.
My first thought was that it was Garrett Tabor, that he had somehow defeated our multiple locks and our security system, too.
It was, however, my mother, and she did not look in the least tipsy. She looked about twice her size, like one of those fish that can puff itself out. Gina was behind her.
“Hi, Gina,” I said. “Hey, Mom. Glad you’re here. Angie’s asleep. I have to do some reading so …”
“You sit down right there,” Jackie said. “Do. Not. Move.”
Gina retreated. I couldn’t believe it. She was going to leave me there to the wrath of Jacqueline Mack Kim. I made an imploring gesture. Gina pretended that she thought I was only waving, and she waved back.
Chicken
.
Gina gently closed the door, her lips forming a kiss.
Traitor.
“I have been tolerant. I have been supportive. I have been all the things that mothers should be. Have I done that? Have I?”
“You have, Jack-Jack,” I said, feebly.
“Don’t even try horsing around with me. Don’t even try. It’s not enough that I have spent nearly eighteen years worried about my very loved child. Is it? It’s not enough that your best friend, who was also like my child, just died. You have to go sink yourself in lake water the temperature of cold beer. And why? Why now? Why not in summer? Why in December?” She paused, and slammed her palm flat against the granite countertop. “Here’s a better question. Why at all?”
“Free diving is actually easier in the …” I remembered Jackie’s favorite phrase. “It’s biology. The mammalian diving reflex …”
“I don’t care! This is unacceptable, Alexis. For what, Alexis? For what?”
“Because I know what he did.”
“Who?”
“Garrettt Tabor. I know … Mom, sit down.”
She did.
My phone, between us on the counter top, began to ping. I snatched it up, hiding the screen from my mother. Texts were arriving. They were photos. The first one was of my mother and Gina, exchanging a hug. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes earlier. The second was … it was Angela. Dressed in her snowmobile suit, using a
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