Elsewhere (8 page)

Time passes slowly and quickly. The individual hours, minutes, and seconds seem to drag on, yet nearly a month has passed. In this time, Liz has become an expert at refilling the slots for minimal interruption between five-minute segments. She has deep-set circles underneath her eyes from keeping her face pressed up against the binoculars.

Occasionally, Betty asks Liz if she's put any thought into an avocation.

"I'm still taking some time," Liz always answers.

Betty sighs. She doesn't want to press. "Thandiwe Washington called for you again. And Aldous Ghent."

"Thanks. I'll try to call them back later this week," Liz lies.

That night, Liz sees Betty kneeling by the side of the bed. Betty is praying to Liz's mother.

"Olivia," she whispers, "I don't want to burden you, as I suspect your life is probably difficult enough right now. I don't know how to help Elizabeth. Please send me a sign telling me what to do."

"Elizabeth, we are going out today," Betty announces the next morning.

"I've got plans," Liz protests.

"What plans?"

"OD," Liz mumbles.

"You can do that tomorrow. Today, we're going sightseeing."

"But, Betty "

"No buts. You've been here four whole weeks and you haven't seen a thing."

"I've seen things," Liz says.

"Yeah? Like what? And things back on Earth don't count."

"Why not?" Liz demands.

"They just don't." Betty is firm.

"I don't want to go sightseeing," Liz says.

"Tough luck," Betty replies. "I'm not giving you money for the OD today, so you don't have any choice."

Liz sighs.

"And if it isn't too much to ask, could you possibly wear something other than those dirty old pajamas?" Betty asks.

"Nope," Liz replies.

"I'll lend you something, or if you don't want that, we can buy you something on the "

Liz interrupts her. "Nope."

Outside, Betty rolls down the convertible top. "Do you want to drive?" she asks.

"No." Liz opens the passenger door and sits.

"Fine," Betty says as she fastens her seat belt. But a moment later she demands, "Well, why not?

You should want to drive."

Liz shrugs. "I just don't."

"I'm not mad about that first night, if that's what you think," Betty says.

"Listen, Betty, I don't want to drive because I don't want to drive. There's no secret meaning here.

Furthermore, if the whole point of this trip is sightseeing, I wouldn't exactly be able to sightsee while I was concentrating on my driving, now would I?"

"No, I suppose not," Betty concedes. "Aren't you going to wear your seat belt?"

"What's the point?" Liz asks.

"The same as on Earth: to keep you from crashing into the dashboard."

Liz rolls her eyes but does fasten her seat belt.

"I thought we'd go to the beach," Betty says. "How does that strike you?"

"Whatever," Liz says.

"Elsewhere has marvelous beaches, you know."

"Fantastic. Wake me when we get there." To avoid further conversation, Liz closes her left eye and pretends to sleep. With her right eye, she watches the sights of Elsewhere out her window.

Liz thinks how much it looks like Earth, and the resemblance makes her catch her breath. But there are differences, and those differences, as they tend to be, are in the details. Out her window, she spots a drive-in movie theater she has never seen one before except in vintage photographs. On the highway, a girl of about six or seven wears a business suit and drives an SUV. In the distance, she sees the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty, both rendered as topiaries. Along the side of the road, Liz sees a series of small wooden signs, spaced about ten meters apart. There is a single line of verse printed on each sign: YOU MAY BE DEAD,

BUT YOUR BEARD GROWS ON,

LADIES HATE STUBBLE,

EVEN IN THE BEYOND.

"What's Burma Shave?" Liz asks Betty.

"A kind of shaving cream. When I was alive, they used to have those wooden signs on all the highways in America," Betty answers. "Most of them were replaced by billboards by the time you were born, but they were quite popular for a time, as much as a sign can be popular." Betty laughs. "You'll find that Elsewhere is a place where many old fads go to die, too."

"Oh."

"I thought you were asleep," Betty says, looking over at Liz.

"I am," Liz replies. She recloses her left eye.

Liz notices that it's quieter here than on Earth. And she can see that, in its own way, Elsewhere is beautiful. Even though there's no design to it, the effect is lovely. And even though it's lovely, Liz still hates it.

About an hour later, Betty wakes Liz, who has fallen asleep for real. "We're here," Betty says.

Liz opens her eyes and looks out the window. "Yup, looks like a beach," she says. "Just like the one right by the house."

"The point is the journey," Betty says. "Don't you want to get out of the car?"

"Not really, no," Liz replies.

"Let's at least go in the gift shop and stretch our legs a bit," Betty pleads. "Maybe you'd like to get a souvenir?"

Liz looks doubtfully at the hut with the thatched roof near the water's edge. Given its location and construction, the shop looks like it could blow away at any moment. An incongruously sturdy metal sign hangs over the porch:

Knickknacks, Bric-a-brac, Bibelots,

Trinkets, Gewgaws, Novelties, Whimsies, Whatnots, and other Sundries for the Discriminating Buyer "So, what do you say?" Betty smiles at Liz.

"And who would I be buying a souvenir for exactly?" Liz asks.

"For yourself."

"You buy souvenirs to take back to other people," Liz snorts. "I don't know anyone else and I'm not going back."

"Not always, not yet," Betty replies. "Come on, I'll buy you whatever you want."

"I don't want anything," Liz says as she follows Betty into the tacky gift shop. No one is inside. A soup can sits by the cash register with a note: "Out to lunch. Leave payment in can. Cut yourself a good deal, just between us."

To satisfy Betty, Liz selects a book of six Elsewhere postcards and a plastic snow globe. The snow globe has a miniature SS Nile submerged in sickly blue water, wish you were here is written in red across the base of the dome.

"Do you want an Elsewhere beach towel?" Betty asks as Liz sets her two items on the counter.

"No, thank you," Liz replies.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Liz says tightly.

"Maybe a T-shirt, then?"

"No," Liz yells. "I don't want a goddamn T-shirt! Or a beach towel! Or anything else! All I want is to go home!"

"All right, doll," Betty says with a sigh. "I'll meet you outside. I just have to add everything up."

Liz storms out of the store, carrying her new snow globe. She waits for Betty in the car.

Liz shakes the snow globe. The tiny SS Nile thrashes wildly in its plastic dome. Liz shakes the snow globe even harder. Slimy, stale blue water leaks onto Liz's hand. There's a small gap where the two seams of the dome were fused together. Liz opens the car door and throws the snow globe onto the pavement. Instead of shattering or cracking, it bounces across the parking lot like a rubber ball, stopping at the feet of a small girl in a pink polka-dotted bikini.

"You dropped this," the girl calls out to Liz.

"Yes," Liz agrees.

"Don't you want it?" The girl picks up the snow globe from the ground.

Liz shakes her head.

"Can I have it?" the girl asks.

"Knock yourself out," Liz replies.

"The sky don't fall here, not much," the girl says. She flips the globe over so that all the snow collects in the dome. She places her pinky over the leak.

"What do you mean?" Liz asks.

"Like this." The girl flips the snow globe over.

"You mean snow," Liz says. "You mean it doesn't snow here."

"Not much, not much, not much," she sings. The girl walks over to Liz. "You're big."

Liz shrugs.

"How many are you?" the girl asks.

"Fifteen."

"I'm four," the girl answers.

Liz looks at the child. "Are you a real little girl or a fake little girl?"

The girl opens her eyes as wide as they'll go. "What do you mean?"

"Are you really four, or are you just pretend four?" Liz asks.

"What do you mean?" The girl raises her voice.

"Were you always four or did you used to be big?"

"I don't know. I'm four. Four!" the girl cries. "You're mean." The girl drops the snow globe at Liz's feet and runs away.

Liz picks it up and gives it another shake. She drains it of all the remaining blue liquid until the only thing left is a cluster of fake snow crystals.

Betty emerges from the gift shop, carrying a small paper bag.

"I bought this for you," Betty says to Liz. She tosses Liz the paper bag. Inside is a T-shirt with the slogan my grandmother went to elsewhere and all she got me was this stinky t-shirt.

For the first time that day, Liz smiles. "It does stink," Liz agrees. She puts the T-shirt on over her pajamas.

"I thought you'd like it," Betty says. "I said to myself, there aren't going to be too many opportunities where that T-shirt actually makes sense as a gift." Betty laughs.

For the first time, Liz really looks at Betty. She has dark brown hair and light laugh lines around the eyes. Betty is pretty, Liz thinks. Betty looks like Mom. Betty looks like me. Betty has a sense of humor . . . Suddenly Liz realizes that her grandmother may have better things to do than worry about a surly teenager. She wants to apologize for today and for everything else. She wants to say she knows that none of this situation is Betty's fault. "Betty," she says softly.

"Yes, doll, what is it?"

"I. . . I'm . . ." Liz begins. "My snow globe has a leak."

That night, Liz writes out all six of the Elsewhere postcards. She writes one to her parents, one to Zooey, one to Edward, one to Lucy, one to Alvy. The last one she writes is to her biology teacher, who had skipped her funeral.

Dear Dr. Fujiyama,

By now, you have probably heard that I'm dead. This means I won't be attending this year's regional science fair, which is a great disappointment to me as I'm sure it also is for you. At the time I died, I felt I was starting to make real progress with those earthworms.

I really enjoyed your class and continue to follow along from the place where I'm now living I now find myself. Dissecting the pig looked pretty interesting, and I thought I might try it. Unfortunately, there aren't any dead pigs here for me to dissect.

It isn't bad here. The weather is nice most of the time. I live with my grandmother Betty now who is old, but looks young. (Long story.)

I was disappointed not to see you at the funeral as you were my favorite teacher even including middle and elementary school. Not to give you a hard time or anything, Dr. F :) Yours,

Elizabeth Marie Hall, 5th Period Biology

Liz puts postage on all six postcards. She places them in the mail, knowing full well that they will never arrive at their intended destination. Lacking a return address, at least the postcards won't come back to her either. Liz thinks it might be nice to write a postcard to someone who would actually have a chance of receiving it.

************************************

Back at the ODs, Liz is starting to be frustrated with viewing her life in five-minute chunks. As soon as she gets involved in watching one story, the binoculars click closed. She feels like she is always missing something. For example, the prom is coming up. Zooey recently decided she would go with John after all. And, as long as Zooey is going, Liz would really prefer to see the whole thing, uninterrupted. Maybe if she had forty-eight eternims instead of twentyfour, she could keep up better? She decides to ask Betty for more eternims.

"Betty, I could use a couple more eternims each day."

"How many did you have in mind?" Betty asks.

"I was thinking, maybe forty-eight a day."

"That's starting to be a lot, doll."

"I'll pay you back eventually," Liz promises.

"It's not the eternims. I just worry about you spending so much time at the Observation Decks."

"You're not my mother, you know."

"I know, Liz, but I still worry."

"God, I hate this!" Liz storms out of the room and throws herself on her bed. As she lies there, she decides to skip the ODs for three days in order to save up the eternims for the prom. This is a great sacrifice. Lacking friends or any other diversions, she spends the time in her room at Betty's house, worrying that she is falling behind with everyone back home. The three days seem endless, but she saves enough money to see the whole prom.

Liz also convinces Esther to let her stay after closing. Esther doesn't exactly agree, but she makes a point of showing Liz where the light switches are.

On prom night Liz watches Zooey eat strawberries dipped in chocolate, make photo key chains, and slow-dance to a schmaltzy ballad. Not long after, she sees Zooey lose her virginity in a fancy room at the same hotel where the dance was held. Out of respect for Zooey, Liz only watches for thirty seconds and covers her right eye with her hand. Liz pays special attention to Zooey's prom dress. The dress, the one Liz was meant to have helped her choose, is balled up in a corner of the room.

Liz leaves before her time runs out, two whole hours before the OD is even set to close. She doesn't want to face Betty at home, but she has nowhere else to go. Liz decides to sit in the park near Betty's house.

After a while, a white, fluffy bichon frise sits next to Liz on the bench. "Hello," the dog seems to say.

By way of greeting, Liz pats the dog on the head. It is the way it was with Lucy somehow, and Liz is even more homesick than she was before.

The dog cocks its head. "You seem a little blue."

"Maybe a little."

"What's bothering you?" the dog asks.

Liz thinks about the dog's question before she answers. "I'm lonely. Also, I hate it here."