I Woke Up Dead at the Mall (18 page)

“I need work! You gotta find me something,” she insisted.

“Mom works for a bunch of temp agencies,” Nick explained while we studied her. “She does secretarial stuff, babysitting, dog-walking, all sorts of things.”

“Yes, I'll hold!” she shouted into the phone, then sighed loudly, drumming her fingers against the table. The television took her attention as the host prepared to break for a commercial. She watched the commercials attentively, phone to her ear, waiting for the call or the show to resume.

Nick was roaming the apartment, but he returned as soon as his mother spoke again.

“Yes?” She sat up straight as she turned her attention back to her phone. “Where is it?” She brightened up. “Easy commute. Okay, what are the hours? What's the pay?”

She shook her head and folded herself down a bit.

“That's part-time. I'm going to need more.” She listened. “No, no, no! I'll take it. I mean hey, it's a start, right?” She listened. “Thanks. And keep trying to find me something? Maybe another part-time gig and I'll be in good shape.” She looked around the apartment. “Well. I'll be in
better
shape than I am right now.”

She hung up, shut off the TV, and went to the refrigerator. She stared at its contents for a long, hard minute.

Without a word, she grabbed her phone, her keys, and her purse and went outside.

Progress = Good

New Yorkers have excellent peripheral vision. We need it. We need to know, at all times, who's getting close enough to grab our stuff and run. We need to turn on the lights and check for anything scurrying across the floor. We need to be aware of the world around us. Always.

That didn't change after we were dead.

Nick and I were passing through scaffolding on a side street where it was extra-dark. Our own blue glow showed us the way, and it put a spotlight on a sudden movement up ahead to our left. Nick and I both halted all movement and sound.

“Hey! Let go!” a woman's voice cried out. “Help me!”

“Shut up, bitch!” a man's voice growled at her. It didn't take long for us to find them, enclosed in this wooden alleyway. She was putting up a hell of a fight for her purse. She scratched his face, which really pissed him off. So he punched her in the jaw, knocking her to the ground.

She looked like somebody's grandmother. She was whimpering in pain.

“Stop!” I shouted as loud as I could. The guy jumped and looked around for the source of the sound. When he didn't see me, he went back to work.

He kicked the woman in the stomach. She moaned, curling
her body into a tight ball. He took her purse, he took her jewelry. He looked ready to kick her in the head, when Nick put himself between the two of them.

The man froze for a few long seconds. He saw Nick, but he didn't understand. His face was a map of fear and confusion. (Good.)

“Police!” I shouted. And that was it. The guy took off at top speed, holding tight to everything he had stolen. I followed after him. “Police! Police! Police!” I shouted into the night.

We couldn't, we wouldn't leave until the ambulance worker wrapped her in blankets and bandages and took her to safety. She was crying as they wheeled her out of the scaffolding. And then the siren took over, crying on her behalf.

The quiet that followed was thunderous.

“We helped,” Nick said.

“Not enough,” I answered. I was stuck on the image of her curled up on the sidewalk.

The land of the living had turned unlovely just now, and I desperately wished to go back to the lush greens and blues of the park or the hushed warm earth tones of home.

Nick and I were relaxing, sort of, on a bench in Washington Square Park. The light rain had gained some power and it showered through us. As it passed through me, it offered a gentle silver feeling of endless cool. We sat in our cool silence together for a long while.

The ghosts of Washington Square slowed down. Some of them stopped and opened their arms to welcome the rain passing through them. Maybe the rain was flattered, because it grew even more intense.

The super-skinny ghost sat down next to me. “You blew it, didn't you? I knew you would. I knew it. I saw you and I thought, ‘Oh, she's here to do something important. And she's gonna blow it.' ” Her voice picked up speed, pitch, and mania. “I knew it. I called it. I was right.”

“As a matter of fact, I didn't blow it. I saved my dad's life. Nick's mom is getting better. So even if we get stuck here with…people like you…we did what we came here to do.” And I just had to add, “So there.”

She didn't acknowledge a word I'd said. Instead she jumped up from the bench. “I have to keep moving,” she said. She began to jog in place. “I have to go. I have to go,” she repeated as she jogged away. “So close to my goal weight.”

“Can you kill someone who's already dead?” I asked Nick.

Lightning woke up the park, punctuated by a satisfying clap of thunder. The ghosts around us made sounds like they were excited. But their movements slowed even more.

“This is so weird,” I said to Nick. “Do you mind if we stay here? For just a bit?”

Part of me knew that this was a dangerous question. But most of me felt slow and thick, sort of the way I'd felt the night I died. Could someone have drugged me?

“Let's enjoy this,” Nick said, leaning back on the bench, arms outstretched, turning his face to the rain. I rested my head against his shoulder.

“We have all the time in the world,” he called out over the heavy sheet of rain that enchanted us both. “They'll be okay. We'll make sure.”

He took my hand in his, and that's when I saw it. Both of our bracelets were a heavy brick red. I thought about saying something, but the rain was gentle and mesmerizing.

Tomorrow morning, set your alarm and get up before dawn. Then get yourself outside, or to a window or to a rooftop, and face east. But be careful. It's so unreasonably beautiful, it might kill you.

“This was here every day when I was alive?” Nick asked
as he shook his head. We leaned forward and studied it, like we were witnessing magic. “I had how many thousands of chances to see this—and I missed most of them?”

We had been in the park all night, and we both stayed awake for most of it. The gorgeous sensation of rain was something we didn't want to miss. Not one drop. It was too amazing.

I felt it, and I let my mind drift. When I tried to suggest that we go home, the rain hypnotized me into silence. It washed everything clean. My forehead was unknotted and my breathing was even. Now the damp ground glittered in the sun, and the city eased into life (and into death, for some of us). The noise increased—in the world, and in my thoughts:

“It wasn't my fault.”

“Yes it was.”

“It wasn't my fault.”

Ah yes. The sounds of the living and dead were starting to fill any blank spaces. The strawberry-blond singing girl was show-tuning her way through a thicket of ghosts (I was so glad she couldn't see us), while that heartfelt troubadour with the guitar and the hat overpowered her with a tragic ballad. A garbage truck honked and challenged them both but didn't stop either of them for a beat.

Yes, it was true that the city could be brutally ugly, I knew that before I died and got reminded of it when I saw a man kick an elderly woman in the stomach. So why was I so entranced with it? Why couldn't I let go of its beauty?

“Sarah,” Nick said softly. “Is it so bad—being here among the living—with me?”

(Another dangerous question.)

I couldn't lie, not even a little, but I couldn't answer right
away. Sunlight was passing through me, and I felt as if I might be a ghostly rainbow of refracted light. I looked in Nick's eyes and saw something I'd never noticed before. The gold flecks in his irises were old (arresting) news. What I saw was that Nick was right for me.

It flashed inside me as a two-word heartbeat: Nick. Right. Nick. Right.

Here is the story that I think I was telling myself: being with Nick couldn't possibly be wrong. It didn't matter where we were. If we were together, we were exactly where we were supposed to be.

I smiled at Nick, reached over, and kissed him. He touched my face and smiled sweetly.

“I'm happy,” I said at last. It made no sense. And it may have been the first time I'd ever spoken those words in that order. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

I grinned and said, “Oh. You know.”

(Oh. He knew.)

It was happening. The kind of hypnotizing sense of belonging here, even though we knew we could never belong here. We were dead. Let's leave this stuff for the living. Come on. Seriously. It was time to move. But we didn't. We couldn't. Maybe the rain had washed away our strength, along with our fear or any trace of worry. (That would be a miracle.) Maybe the sunrise had ushered in peace or calm or acceptance. Being here was changing us.

We both rose and I took three steps forward. Nick still had my hand in his, and he tugged me toward him. He didn't have to try very hard, did he? I sort of twirled back to him, into his arms and into a kiss. Even here, kissing Nick made my heart dance. It was chemical, it was physical, and it was ethereal. Maybe it was even magical.

Maybe this was happily ever after, as in “forever and ever.”

We broke from the kiss when we heard the voices of the dead all around us. They saw us, of course, and felt the need to comment. Nick and I just smiled and listened.

“Hey! Get a room!”

“Oh, isn't it romantic?”

“Come on, you guys!”

Nick flinched at that last one, and so did I. It was a woman's voice. No, it was a girl's voice. And we both recognized it. Lacey was shouting at us.

“Come
on
, you guys!” she repeated, louder and with less patience. I needed to turn around to see her, but the expression on Nick's face slowed me for just a second. He seemed disappointed to see her.

Lacey was excited and very, very, extremely proud of herself. She stood in the elevator, in the middle of the park. She peered around and then announced, “I'm here to rescue you! I can't believe I
did it
!” she crowed. “Okay, it was Alice's plan, but I'm the one who actually
did it
!”

Nick and I stayed still. I waited for him to move toward the elevator. Maybe he was waiting for me to move. Lacey was too caught up in her tale of triumph to notice.

“So, Alice has Bertha all distracted, making her have a big heart-to-heart,” she continued. “And yes, you're welcome,
I'm so strong, I actually got the elevator to work for me. And here we are! And yes. I. Am. Fabulous.”

A small swarm of the dead had gathered around to watch and listen. They seemed in awe of her story, and Lacey seemed delighted to be the object of their awe. She was standing still and strutting at the same time. Only Lacey could do that.

“Wow, Lacey,” Nick said. “You got the elevator to work for you? That's incredible!”

“I know, right?” She glowed. “Now, come on, already. Get in.” She looked around the park at the gathering dead. “You guys!” she squealed in notes and tones I had never heard from her before. “Look! Look who it is! Best celebrity sighting ever!”

It was Oprah. But only our little audience of the dead noticed her. The living walked right past her. This was the Boy, of course.

“Not so fast,” Oprah said.

“Oh wow! Oh wow!” Lacey gushed. “Are you talking to me? Can you see me? Oh, of course you can! You're Oprah! You can do anything. I love you! I really love you!”

Nick and I wore matching smiles as Lacey fell all over herself in tribute and admiration.

“Thank you,” Oprah said graciously. “Now. Have you actually asked these two people what they want to do? I have a funny feeling they'd rather stay here. And I'm all about free will, you know.”

That was insane. Of course we wanted to get back to the mall.
Didn't we?

“Can we have a minute to think about it?” Nick asked. I felt a chill and thought I was about to be sick.

“No. We can't have a minute to think about this,” I insisted. “Let's go.”

“Why do you want to stay, Nick?” Oprah asked. Our audience of the dead was growing larger. Nick looked at the crowd, and his speech slowed down a bit.

“If we stay here, we can, you know, finish our unfinished business,” he said.

“Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm…,” Oprah hummed as she nodded and took that in.

Lacey crooked her finger in our direction, saying, “Come here.” We obeyed but stayed just outside the threshold of the elevator.

Lacey reached out and slapped Nick, kind of hard. “Wake up! You're dead. Come back to the mall so you can
move the hell on!
”

“I don't think we need to resort to physical violence,” Oprah chided her, but she was laughing as she shook her head.

“I'll go!” a male voice called out from the crowd. It was the pervy ghost who sat underneath young girls on park benches. He lunged for the elevator, but Lacey scared him off.

“Get back, sicko!” she shouted.

“What about me? And her?” shouted one of the
Gatsby
ghosts.

“Do they still have the food court?” asked the super-skinny ghost. “Take me! I wanna go and look at all the food. I promise not to eat any! I just wanna look!”

The dead yelled among themselves. “Not her! Take me!” Mr. Screamer stood in the center of it all and, guess what, screamed. Nick turned me toward him and held my shoulders to bring me into focus.

“We can be together. Here. We can look out for our families. Here. We can see the sun and feel the rain. We can live wherever we want, with nobody telling us what to do. Forever.
Here
.”

“But look at them.” I pointed to the dead crazies around us. “What if we become like them? They're so messed up!”

“Hey! I heard that!” a dead guy called out to me, but I ignored him.

“Stay with me,” Nick said. Those were all the words he used. But inside those three words, I heard an eternity of love and caring, of rain and sun (I wondered what snow would feel like as it passed through us!), of being together and alive in our own way. Here on Earth.

“Oooh, girl. He's a romantic!” Oprah cooed. (Could she hear what was underneath all his words too?) She turned her attention to the dead who were bickering for a chance to ride that elevator.

“Enough!” she commanded them, and they obeyed with shocking speed.

“I can't hold this elevator much longer, you guys,” Lacey said plaintively. “Don't you want to move on?”

Nick framed my face in his hands and said it. He said it. He said it.

“I love you.”

I took his hands in mine, and smiled. “I love you.” The words felt perfect as they unfolded between us.

That's what made this next part so painful.

“Nick. Please. I have to move on. And so do you. Please,” I said quietly, so quietly and slowly, because a well of emotion
was stopping half of my voice. Nick was shaking his head. Tears sliced their way down my cheeks.

“We can move on together,” I whispered. “We can. Please, Nick. Come with me.”

“No. We belong here. We're already together,” he whispered back. “This is perfect. Let's not change it.”

Oprah spoke to her audience. “Our lives, and even our afterlives, are made from the stories we tell each other. We are the stories we tell ourselves.”