I Woke Up Dead at the Mall (8 page)

Alice and I were alone in Crate & Barrel as night fell. There was no sign of Lacey. I should have worried about her, but I was too busy worrying about my dad. In a way, I liked worrying about him. It saved me from looking back on my life and all the times I ignored him, was rude to him, or just didn't care if he was around. I cared now. A lot.

“I need to save him,” I said. Again. “I need to stop Karen. Can I go back and haunt her and scare her to death?”

“No! Absolutely not!” Alice said with way too much force. She was a little self-conscious about it, and continued in a smaller voice. “The dead used to be allowed to haunt, but it went wrong too often. Too bad you're not an angel,” she said sort of absently. “I met a girl who became an angel. She died when she was hit by a trolley car. She pushed a total stranger out of the way and died saving him.”

“Wow. So there are angels,” I said.

“Of course,” she said, as if I were a simpleton. “When the
story of her death came to light, Bertha sent her out of the mall.”

“Where do angels go?” I asked.

“Well. She went to the spa,” Alice replied. “And now she can help the living and the dead.” The spa. That was where Nick might have/could have gone.

“Wait,” I said, trying to form these words. “Does that mean that Bertha is an angel?”

Alice nodded and giggled at the blank confusion on my face.

“How did she die?” I asked.

“She was in a terrible fire at the factory where she worked,” Alice explained. “There were lots of girls crowding out the door. Bertha made sure that her little sister got out first. She gave up her chance and perished in the fire.”

(I played that tale in my head like a movie, but it was too awful to watch. I shook it away. Note to self: try to be nicer to Bertha.)

“If she's an angel, could she help save my dad?” I brightened up. “I died in his place. Does that make me angel material?”

Alice shook her head, saying, “Sarah, maybe he's better off dead. He's lost his only child, and he's married to someone who doesn't love him.” And then, in an impossibly small voice, she added, “There are worse things than death.”

“My funeral is tomorrow, and I need to do
something
while I'm there.” As I spoke I latched on to my little secret: sometimes the living can hear me—at least here at the mall they can. Perhaps I could speak to him at my funeral. My plan was hatching.

“It's quite a thing,” Alice said. “To see them bury you, say goodbye to you forever. And to see the one who killed you still breathing, eating, drinking, shitting, lying.”

I held my breath and then ventured a question. “Your murderer really went to your funeral?”

“Yes. They always do, if they can,” she said. I could hear the venom in her voice as she said his name. “Joe O'Hara. He was a filthy man, a liar and a murderer.”

“Would you tell me your Death Story?” I ventured. Alice took a moment to collect herself, smoothing down her dress and her hair. When she was fully composed, she began.

ALICE'S DEATH AND TRAGIC FUNERAL

Alice was the eldest of five squirming, squabbling girls. When she was nearly finished with third grade, her mother informed her that she'd be staying home now, helping with the wee ones. And Alice did.

Her father sold bathtub whiskey (not gin) to make ends meet during Prohibition. It took the finish off the tub, but it put food on the table. Mother told stories of life back in Ireland. Life there sounded harder but prettier.

And then came the crash of 1929. Suddenly, no one had money for anything, and the Great Depression settled over them like an endless night. When Prohibition ended, things got even tougher. Meals got smaller.

“A loaf of bread is only a nickel,” her mother would say with a sigh. “But who has a nickel?”

The little ones were getting older and could look after themselves. Alice wasn't needed around the house quite as much.

“We've got a plan for you, my lovely,” her father announced after breakfast one day. Alice's heart fluttered in her chest. School? Could they be returning her to school? Books. Pictures. Friends. Boys. They swirled in her imagination like leaves in the wind.

“You've got a job,” he said proudly. “You're to be a wage earner. The biscuit factory downtown needs girls with small fingers to help with the machinery. The foreman is old Joe O'Hara from our parish. We shook hands on it last night. Done and dusted.”

Alice hesitated, thinking of the difference between what she was supposed to say and what she wanted to say. She made the wrong choice.

“I don't like Joe O'Hara. I don't want to be in a factory. Please don't make me.”

Her father rose slowly, not betraying the swell of anger in his chest. He liked to do that for dramatic effect. He stood over his daughter, stroked her hair, and then raised the back of his hand, unleashing its full power against her cheek. Alice was on the floor, her face alive with pain.

“You won't talk back to me, Miss High and Mighty. You need to earn your keep.”

He walked out, dignified and righteous. Her mother rushed to Alice's side and said, “Why do you make him do such things? You should know better.”

Alice left home by herself the next morning, taking the trolley from Hell's Kitchen to downtown, then walking along the cobbled streets. She didn't like to travel alone in the city. It always made her feel like prey that had been separated from the herd.

Joe O'Hara took her hand into his greasy mitt and said, “I'll show you around.”

Alice only heard half of what he said over the deafening machinery all around her. His bushy mustache and odorous cigar blocked his words even further. The space was vast but dark, hot, with an acrid smell that burned her nose.

“This way.” He opened a door tall enough to allow a giraffe to pass through and gestured for Alice to climb the well-worn stairs. Stepping into his cramped office, Alice squinted to see an oak desk that was too big for the small room, a few chairs, and not enough light. It smelled like a diaper that needed changing.

“And now, my dear,” he said as he moved in close. Too close. Alice's survival instincts were fully awake. She tried to duck around him, but he planted himself against the only door, the only way out. She pushed against his barrel chest, crying out like a small cub.

“No fuss, no fuss,” he instructed. His breath was foul and inescapable.

She kicked him in the shin, but she was aiming higher. And he knew it.

In a fury, he threw her to the ground, and her head slammed against the corner of his desk. She tried to hold on to consciousness, but it didn't want to stay in this terrible place. It slipped through her fingertips and toes. It left, it lifted, it flew. She didn't die right away. But she did die as he pawed at her underthings.

Her funeral was a small, shabby affair. Joe O'Hara told her parents that Alice had clumsily slipped down the stairs and clocked her head, even though he had warned her to be careful. He even tried to save her. It was her own fault. Everyone believed him and blamed Alice for visiting such grief upon her poor parents. He gave her father five dollars for his troubles. In his eulogy, the priest tut-tutted at Alice's inability to hold on to the gift of life.

Afterward, Joe O'Hara lingered a moment in the church vestibule, so Ghost Alice leaned close to him and screamed,
“Murderer!”
over and over, louder and louder. He went pale, looking all around. He didn't see her. But he heard her.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

“Never!”
Alice screamed. And Joe O'Hara ran away.

According to Alice, the dead don't dream. But I was dreaming up a storm. So my dreams must have been that awful Knowing, that terrible, special gift, surging into my head and my heart. That night I had my least favorite dream so far.

At first I was in the mall, surrounded by the living. They were so noisy, I stood still, covering my ears, squeezing my eyes closed tight. Sensory overload. When I opened them, the mall was empty and pretty dark. But, of course, the mall walkers were there. They still kind of scared me, even though we had some important stuff in common: they all seemed to be somewhere near my age, and, hey, they had all been murdered too. But their silence and their slowness creeped me out.

I uncovered my ears and found sound all around me instead of the usual thick silence. Each mall walker was talking, but to no one in particular. As they passed me, I overheard them. I didn't want to. Believe me. The Goth Girl was saying:

“I tried to tell him I was sorry, but his hands were tight
around my throat. No air. No words. I was scared. It hurt so bad. But then I faded away. I tried to tell him I was sorry, but his hands were tight around my throat. No air. No words. I was scared. It hurt so…”

The next person to pass was a boy, maybe fourteen years old:

“And if I stayed down, they'd get bored and stop kicking. My head felt big and cloudy. My stomach was on fire. They kept kicking. My head played white fireworks in the clouds. I thought about how to outsmart them. Play dead. And if I stayed down, they'd get bored and stop kicking. My head felt big and cloudy….”

The next person was a boy who was tall and skinny as a broomstick:

“They lied. They said I'd be safe here. I want to get out. I'm so hungry. My tongue feels huge in my mouth. When's the last time they gave me food? I want food. They lied. They said I'd be safe here. I want to get out. I'm so hungry.”

I looked up and around and their despair swirled around me. I could feel their misery prickling my skin.

I woke up.

Funeral Day. I didn't have much of a plan, but this was it: sometimes, the living could hear me, or at least they could get a sense of what I was saying. (I think.) So I would tell Dad to get out of there, to call the police, to go see a doctor, to stay at a hotel under another name until Karen was behind bars.

I had to use what talents I had. Oh. And keep the plan a secret from Bertha. Obviously.

I sat up in bed and saw that Lacey was still missing. As much as I wanted to focus on me and my funeral and my murder and my dad and me, me, me, I fell into a big vat of worry for Lacey.

“I'm not sure that Lacey came back at all,” Alice said.

“Do you think she got stuck back there? With the living?” I asked. I pictured Lacey, drenched in diamonds and red silk, haunting Manhattan, one boob forever popping out.

“I wouldn't wish that on anyone,” Alice whispered, her voice sounding as pale as her face. “We're safe here at the mall, even if we get stuck mall-walking. At least I got to wake up and try again. But if you get stuck back there, you're really stuck. And you go quite mad.”

“She's here somewhere,” I insisted. “She must be.”

“Meanwhile, Bertha will never let you wear casual clothes to your funeral. You must change, and quickly,” Alice instructed.

Fine. We dashed over to Anthropologie, where I slipped into a respectable dark blue wrap dress that seemed funeral-friendly. I still wasn't sure why Bertha wanted us to dress up for an event where we were invisible, but okay. As Alice and I walked out into the mall, I noticed something sparkly up ahead.

It was a silver-gray trash can. There was a diamond bracelet dangling from the opening. I peered inside and saw the bloodred dress that Lacey had been wearing the day before. It was littered with the rest of the diamonds.

“What does this mean?” Alice asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “But it can't be good.”

Lacey wasn't at the food court. Neither was Declan. But Nick was there. Locking eyes with him felt almost dangerous. My skin temperature skyrocketed. I sat down next to him, and he grinned as he took hold of my hand under the table. This was the most delicious secret. Tiny shooting stars exploded in the air around us, but only we could see them.

Wasn't it nice to have something so sweet and joyous to help me rein in the torrential energy coursing through me? I could wait, hold on to Nick, and then unleash it at my funeral.

“Did you have nice funerals?” Alice asked Nick and Harry. I'm pretty sure neither of them saw my hand, Nick's hand, or the Technicolor fireworks.

Harry stood and stretched. “I think it's safe to say that my funeral was the party of the year!” He was glowing like someone in love. Seriously. “They sent me off in style. Music, stories, crazy pictures, and videos. It was magnificent.”

“But you're so young,” I said. “Come on, everybody cries when it's a funeral for a kid.”

“Sometimes,” Harry said. “But there was a lot of laughter too. My parents would cry, but then someone would tell a story about me, and then they'd laugh. I laughed too.”

He gazed off into the distance, maybe replaying the scene in his mind. “I tried to hug them. I tried to tell them I was okay. It sort of felt like they got the message.”

“You were a good son,” Alice said.

“Eventually,” Harry said, with a sort of Mona Lisa smile.

“What about you?” Harry turned to Nick. “Was a good time had by all?”

Nick grinned. “According to the New York
Daily News
, I was, hmm, how did they put it? ‘Calm and courageous.' And they ran a pretty cool picture of me.” Nick pretended to be dodging a crowd of fans. “No autographs, please. I'm just an ordinary dead guy.”

Harry elbowed Nick. “Oh yeah? My funeral was so big, they had to hold it in the school auditorium.”

“Well, hey, if you give the people what they want
—they all show up
,” Nick replied.

Harry laughed hard. “Low! Very low, dude!”

I hesitated, but I just had to ask, “Harry, did anybody…see you?”

He shook his head. “No. I'm pretty sure that would have been kind of awful. Things are different here at the mall, don't you think?”

I took that in. If Harry couldn't be seen at his funeral, could I be heard at mine? I brushed the worry aside. My funeral was a mission. And I must not fail. The echo and importance of those thoughts made me drop Nick's hand.

Declan escorted a girl into the food court. He looked as blank and pretty as ever, but she was unrecognizable.

“Look who I found!” he said, and then left her with us and made a frozen yogurt run.

I didn't recognize her at first. Lacey was dressed in soft flannel pajamas with pictures of puppies all over them. She wore no jewelry or makeup. I hadn't realized just how much makeup she usually wore. Now, bare-faced, sad and true, she looked like a heartsick twelve-year-old with oversize boobs.

Her funeral must have been some kind of disaster.

“Don't ask her about her funeral,” Declan warned as he returned. “It sounds like it sucked. But hey, Nick and Harry. How were your funerals?”

I shook my head, bugging my eyes out, trying to send the signal to Declan. Their glorious tales would just be lemon juice on the walking paper cut that was Lacey. But Declan was not a genius at picking up signals.

“Nah. Funerals are for the living,” Nick said, because Nick got it. “And guess what? Fiona? The girl I was with when I was shot?
She brought a date to my funeral!
” He was a little too obvious in his attempt to come up with something to complain about. But that only added to the sweetness of the moment.

Harry quickly followed Nick's lead. “The big framed photo of me that they put on an easel next to my coffin? Bald. Total hairless wonder. What were they thinking?”

But there was no darkness, no anger or sadness in his voice. He was incandescent. And anyway, Lacey obviously had a serious thing for bald Harry. The photo probably sounded yummy to her.

Lacey was nearly expressionless. “That sucks, I guess,” she said quietly. Her voice lacked its usual sharp edge, and her eyes showed zero confidence. What had happened to Lacey?

But at least she spoke. We were all quiet for a bit. I think
we were all searching for a way to get her to say more. Nick found it.

“Lacey, you look so pretty without all the jewelry and makeup,” he said at last. “You don't need any of that stuff.”

“Yeah,” said Lacey. “What's the point of having diamonds if there's no one to be jealous of you? Without that, they don't mean shit.”

She stared at the floor as she spoke, her face turning blotchy. “And what's the point of a funeral if hardly anybody shows up? What's the point of friends who aren't really friends? Why do they go on Facebook and make jokes about you being dead? And why do your parents have to know about that? Why do your shitty friends tell the cops that you
fell
from the roof, and then protect Jorge? What was the point of any of that?”

Her tears were falling straight to the floor. Nick gestured to Harry, who took the cue and hugged Lacey tight.

Nick spoke softly. “Let them go, Lacey. Just let them go.”

She dropped her head to Harry's chest and let out a loud sob. He stroked her hair until she pulled away, almost violently. Her face was a study in pain and anger.

“Never!” she shrieked at Nick, and at all of us. “Why should I? They all suck!”

“Yeah,” Nick said softly. “They do. But maybe sucking is the best they can do.”

Harry hugged her again. “Now. Tell me what day you're going to revisit for your Thornton Wilder Day.”

“I don't know yet.” She sniffled against his shoulder. “I'm still thinking about it.”

“Well, hurry up, woman!” He half-laughed as he spoke. “After Bertha takes Sarah here to her funeral, we'll be off to our old lives for a day.”

Declan perked up. “I'd choose the day I did a photo shoot in Mexico. That was a great day. Hey, did you know that Mexican words and Spanish words sound a lot alike? I wonder how they tell them apart.”

I bowed my head and laughed. Declan didn't seem to notice.

“I'm choosing a snow day from two years ago,” Nick volunteered. “We had this massive, amazing snowstorm, and I kind of regressed to a kid and went sledding in the park with a bunch of friends. We laughed all day.” He found my lost hand and squeezed it a bit as he spoke.

Lacey looked up at Harry, wiping her tears away. “What are you going to choose for your Thornton Wilder Day?”

“I'm not gonna change anything, right?” he asked.

“That's what Bertha says,” Lacey confirmed.

“Oh, then it's easy. October 27, 2004. No-brainer,” Harry said.

“What happened on that date?” I asked.