Beyond the Grave (6 page)

Bliss was right: our school had a great salad bar. It covered one side of the huge cafeteria and boasted three kinds of lettuce, ten dressings and every kind of topping you could possibly want, including strips of smoked turkey and chunks of imitation crabmeat. I piled hard-boiled eggs, croutons and red onions on top of a heap of romaine, drenched it with a generous ladleful of ranch dressing, then sat across from Bliss at the table she'd chosen for us.

It was the second week of September, and I was finally comfortable with my new routine. I attended two morning classes, came home for lunch and to walk Dante, then met up with Noah after school. When Dad was away at the care facility, I helped Shane with the DVD project, offering my opinion on scenes and searching our computer files for the original footage we'd taken a year earlier. We were more than halfway done.

I'd even worked out a simple schedule with Avery. I texted her after English class, she texted after her Communications class, and we took turns calling every other night around nine. It wasn't so bad. I knew all about her roommate's love
of German techno music and how the dorm always smelled like onions and how Jared had decided to become vegan.

“I love him, but every time I have a hamburger, he gives me a look,” she complained. “He can eat what he wants, so why can't I eat what I want without feeling guilty?”

Despite their differences in diet, they were still going strong, and I was happy for them.

And Avery knew all about Trisha's wedding plans and my classes and my walks with Dante, which I actually enjoyed, even if I was constantly on the lookout for the burgundy car. Nothing had changed so much that it couldn't be put back the way it was, and for that I was grateful.

I was also grateful that my late-night project was finally having some success. Encouraged by the two clear sentences I had recorded, I knew I had found positive energy. The helpful, non-evil kind that might bring me a step closer to making Mom better.

Every night I spent an hour reaching out, and so far, I had captured five distinct EVPs, all of them assuring me,
I will keep trying.
The voice sounded female to me, and while most of the recordings were faint and garbled, it was enough for now to know that something was listening to me—and trying to respond.

Happy that I was being helpful, I was able to concentrate more on my classes. My good mood carried me through the week, when I ran into Bliss outside the cafeteria and convinced her to have lunch with me. She hesitated at first, but finally gave in. I was determined to make her comfortable, to erase any of the suspicions she'd had about me in high school.

“This is fantastic,” I said as I stuffed a forkful of ranch-soaked goodness into my mouth.

Bliss smiled and took a dainty bite of her own salad, which consisted of lettuce and a few sliced cucumbers.

I pointed my fork in her direction. “No dressing? How can you eat plain lettuce like that?”

“I like it this way,” she said. “Trust me. When you spend your entire elementary-school years being called Big Juicy you learn to enjoy things plain.”

I almost choked on a slice of hard-boiled egg. “They called you Big Juicy?”

Bliss shook her head. “It's stupid, I know. I was a chunky kid, and one day in the fourth grade I made the unforgivable mistake of ordering a double cheeseburger at lunch, which wasn't even on the menu. The nickname stuck.”

“That's terrible.”

“Yeah, I was traumatized. But my grandfather was also heavy, and when I told him what had happened, we went on a diet together. We both lost weight. It was nice, actually.”

“Sounds like he was very supportive of you.”

Bliss stared at her salad for a moment. “He was.”

I didn't know if that was my cue to say something encouraging, like, “I'm sure he still is.” I wasn't good at sentiments like that, mainly because I didn't believe that the dead lingered behind in order to watch over their loved ones. The silence between Bliss and I stretched for longer than was comfortable as I struggled to come up with something to say.

“Well,” I began, “I'm sure he would be very proud….”

My awkward attempt at optimism was cut off by a loud crash.

I froze. My vision began to swirl, and my chest tightened. Bliss was looking past me, at the source of the noise.

“Someone dropped a bunch of lunch trays,” she said. “They're cleaning it up.”

I heard her voice, but it sounded as if she was far away. I was dizzy and having trouble breathing.

“You okay?” Bliss sounded concerned.

I couldn't answer her.
Not here,
I thought.
Oh please, not here and not now.
I felt that I should be able to control this. I knew why it was happening, so why couldn't I stop it? That logical part of my brain was overridden by something else, though, something with a stronger pull. Because that was how it truly felt: as if I was being pulled down into something dark, something awful, and I needed to get out. I needed to escape from this room, which had no oxygen, and away from these people. I had to go somewhere, anywhere else. “Charlotte?”

By now I was hyperventilating. “Don't,” I gasped. “Don't let them see me.” The dizziness claimed me and my head hit the table. Wet salad stuck to my cheek and I didn't care. I wasn't sure what I'd said to Bliss or what it meant, but I knew I had to get out of that room. In a flash, Bliss was at my side, propping me up.

“Charlotte? You need to talk to me or I'm going to have to call an ambulance.”

“No.” I struggled to sit up, but I was still having trouble breathing. “Please, get me out of here.”

I heard a male voice close by. “She okay?”

“Yeah.” Bliss was struggling to lift me from my seat. “It's just her period. Those cramps can be brutal.”

“Whoa.” The guy scurried away.

“Listen to me,” Bliss said into my ear. “I'm going to get you outside, but I need you to breathe, okay? Listen to me. Breathe in, breathe out.”

I focused on her voice. I made myself breathe when she directed me to do so, and within minutes, I was feeling less dizzy. Also, I realized with confusion, I was outside.

“What happened?” I held a vague memory of the cafeteria, but my mind was blurry. I had no idea how much time had passed, but Bliss and I were both sitting in the grass outside.
My back was pressed against a tree. Bliss was across from me, dabbing a damp paper towel to my forehead.

“I think you had a panic attack.” She squeezed excess water from the paper towel before pressing it against the back of my neck. “First one?”

“No,” I admitted. “Not even close. How did you know what was happening?”

“My mom used to have them all the time. It took me a minute to catch on with you, though. Do you know what caused it?”

“The sound of the trays crashing.”

I told Bliss about my previous panic attacks and how they always occurred after a loud, sudden noise. The first one had happened when I was alone. I had spent a long day at the hospital with my mom and was exhausted, so when I got home I had curled up on the couch to watch a little TV. I was slowly flipping through the channels, hoping to find a decent rerun, when an action movie filled the screen. Men in business suits chased a girl through a warehouse. She stumbled, the men surrounded her, and she looked up as a board came smashing down on her body.

The scene cut to a commercial, leaving the girl's fate uncertain, but I was already sliding into panic mode. I immediately felt dizzy and nauseous. I bent over, trying to breathe but also trying to keep myself from throwing up all over the sofa.

I wasn't sure what was happening to me. My first thought was that I was sick, like food-poisoning sick, but when my vision began to blur, I knew it was something else. Later, when I typed in my symptoms on the computer, I figured out that I had experienced tunnel vision, a painfully common aspect of panic attacks.

The sharper the sound, the more quickly I felt dragged back
to that shattering moment when I'd witnessed my mother's attack.

“So that's how it is,” I said. “For the rest of my life, I'll be reduced to a shaking mess anytime someone drops something.”

“That's not true. You can fix this, Charlotte.”

“I don't know how.”

“Well, I do.” She placed the paper towel on the grass. “I helped my mom through it. And now I'm going to help you.”

“What happened to your mom?” I asked. “I mean, what caused her to start having them?”

Bliss picked at the paper towel. “She had just loaded groceries into her car and was about to back out of the parking lot when a man tried to carjack her. The doors were locked so he couldn't get in, but she was terrified. She couldn't drive for months, and anytime she tried, she'd melt down.” Bliss gave me a wry smile. “That's why I learned to drive when I was thirteen.”

I almost laughed. “I can't picture you breaking the rules and driving around town at thirteen.”

“Yeah, well, I did. Someone had to take her to work every day.”

“How did she overcome it?”

“It took time. Time and help.”

I shook my head. “I'm not going to see a psychiatrist.”

“And I'm not going to make you. But you need to confront the root of the problem, Charlotte. Look it in the eyes.”

“Her eyes are closed,” I whispered. I said the words without thinking. It was a shock to me—the trigger may have been an abrupt sound, but the real problem was my mom.

And my fear about losing her.

Bliss took my hand. “First, let me tell you that these epi
sodes are harmless. They won't kill you. So the next time it happens, tell yourself that it's only panic, and it's not fatal.”

“Sure.” I appreciated Bliss's desire to help me, but even if she had experience with the same kind of problem, it wasn't the same. She hadn't seen what I had seen.

“Charlotte.” Bliss touched my arm. “Charlotte, you can make this better. But in order to do that, I think you have to go see your mom.”

Everyone was telling me the same thing: go see Mom. Did they really think one visit would help me? I looked past Bliss, at the people rushing to class. If they glanced over, they would simply see two girls sitting on the grass, talking. It was so nice not to be noticed, I thought.

Then I saw someone across the green expanse of lawn. He was looking directly at me. It was the guy from my English class, the one I had chatted with briefly. I frowned, and he turned and walked away, his backpack slung over one shoulder. “Still here?”

I blinked. “Yes. I'm still here.” I tried to smile. “Thanks for getting me out of the cafeteria, Bliss. I appreciate it.”

“Did you hear me before? About visiting your mom?”

“Yeah.”

“So?”

I had to make a decision. No more stalling, no more excuses. I squeezed Bliss's hand.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll go. I promise.”

 

I
HAD ANOTHER
promise to keep first. With Dad away at the care facility for the night, Shane and I would have hours of uninterrupted time to work on the DVD. After changing into a pair of comfy plaid pajama pants, I settled into one of our workstations, prepared to tackle our project.

My family never used a living room as space for a nice sofa and coffee table. Instead, the room was reserved for our many computers, filing cabinets and boxes of data. It was essentially a massive home office.

Three computers were already on when I sat down next to Shane, ready to work. “The good news is that the A-roll is done,” Shane said. “But we need to throw down the B-roll.”

Slipping into the familiar tech language was as comfortable to me as my pajama pants. When we worked on a DVD, the audio had to be completed first. Then the raw video clips were trimmed and placed within a timeline. It was an intricate puzzle, one I loved piecing together.

“We're using footage taken at the penitentiary last year, but we need to splice it with some of the shots we got with Pate.” Shane held up two memory cards. “Your choice—old stuff or new?”

I reached for the new card. Watching scenes featuring Mom was not something I was sure I could handle. The clips came up on my monitor, and I realized the amount of work we had to do. One afternoon at Pate's had resulted in a thousand different clips, each one needing to be sorted through and pruned down to about ten minutes of video.

“What's our deadline again?”

Shane had more than three times the video I had. “Less than a month. It's doable, but we need to get going.”

“Got it.” I opened a clip of Noah first. The reenactment scene would come toward the end, and I wanted to see how much we had. I smiled when his face appeared on the screen. The project wouldn't be so bad if I could spend most of the time watching my boyfriend. In fact, I wished he was with us now. He knew how to edit better than most people. I suggested it to Shane.

“I asked him, but he's busy tonight. Some school project.”

He was probably taping a football game for AV class. His teacher had put Noah in charge of training all the new students, which basically meant taking them to different sporting events and making sure they didn't break the cameras.

We continued to work for a while. Shane turned on some music, but I begged him to turn it off as soon as I heard the heavy guitar intro. “Can't you play something from the last decade?”

“This is classic rock. It's classic for a reason.”

“It's dead-guy rock.”

“Blasphemy!” Shane put a hand over his heart. “I have impeccable taste in music. It's why Trish put me in charge of the wedding playlist.”

“Please don't make her regret it.”

“That's the same thing she said! Trust me, it's going to rock.”

Over the next hour, we made some real progress. Shane had put together an outline, which made it easier to choose clips and discard the ones I knew we wouldn't use. I fell into a nice rhythm as I marked in-points and out-points, then dragged the video into our timeline. I liked getting lost in the work. Thoughts of school and concerns over Noah were replaced with a focus on lighting and where we could splice in effects.