The Bodies We Wear (17 page)

But the park is quiet. Aside from a swing swaying slightly in the breeze, nothing else moves.

“Explain it to me, then,” I finally say.

“It’s not that simple. Even I don’t quite understand everything.”

“Try me.”

“Let me start by saying that no one told me I needed to return to earth in order to get my wings or some other crap like that. I’m not an angel. I’m not a ghost. If heaven exists, I’ve yet to see it.”

“But—”

“Shhhh,” he says. “Let me talk. This is what you want, right?” When I don’t respond, he continues. “I’m not going to pretend I understand any of this. I wasn’t given a manual or explanation, but a few weeks ago I woke up. I was lying in an alley. It was raining and I was cold. I had no idea how I got there. All I know is that I’d been asleep or something for a very long time. My body was creaky; limited, it took a long time before I could make things work again.”

I remember the first night I met him and how he kept touching himself. His cheek. His hair. As if he didn’t quite understand what he was feeling. Like he was wearing someone else’s body.

“Where were you?” I ask. “Heaven?”

“No,” he says. “At least, I don’t think so. It’s all fuzzy. I remember a blur. A lot of darkness but not bad. Peaceful. Quiet.”

I look straight into his eyes but I can’t tell if he’s lying to me or not. And why am I even contemplating the afterlife when everything else he’s telling me is ridiculous beyond belief.

“Prove it,” I say. “Tell me something only Christian would know.”

“I kissed you once,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done it but you pushed me into it. You were very persistent. It was Christmas and you’d somehow managed to find some fake mistletoe. You put it on the edge of the sofa because you couldn’t reach the top of the door. You always were such a tiny thing.”

My throat has closed up. The tears are pouring down my cheeks now and I’m not even bothering to wipe them away.

I remember.

“You told me you wanted to play hide-and-seek,” he continues, and the image of me hiding behind the couch fills my mind. “And when I found you, you said I had to kiss you because of the mistletoe. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure if it was the real thing. It might just have been a bit of Christmas tree wrapped in tinsel.”

“It was part of Mrs. Tisdale’s wreath,” I say. “I stole it earlier that day. I stuck some cranberries to it with superglue.”

Chael laughs. “Either way,” he says. “You were sitting there, begging me, no, demanding I kiss you. So I gave you a small kiss.”

“And then you told me I better not tell anyone,” I said.

“I was thirteen,” Chael says. “You were eleven. I was embarrassed about what the guys at school might say.”

I laugh and it comes out more like a huge sob. “I never would have blabbed. I was madly in love with you.”

Chael stands up and walks a few feet away from the bench. He stares out at the duck pond, his hands tucked tightly in his jacket pockets. “Is that enough proof? Do you want me to tell you another one? How about the time you wanted to run away so you spent the afternoon hiding in the laundry room?”

“It’s enough,” I say. There’s no way anyone else could know the mistletoe story. I never told anyone and I’m pretty sure Christian took it to his grave. It happened a few days before he died.

Chael turns around and comes back to the bench. He doesn’t sit down. Instead, he stands at the edge, his hand resting on the wood behind me. “There was darkness. A lot of it. I was alone but never lonely. It was peaceful. Time passed. If I was aware of it, I didn’t know. It was almost like everything I knew ceased to exist. It was no longer important. There was so much silence, but that’s all I remember. And then one night I came back.”

“That sounds more like purgatory,” I say. “Not heaven or hell.”

“I don’t know,” Chael says. He opens his mouth but no words come out. He shrugs. “I wish I could tell you more. But I can’t remember.”

“So what happens next?” I ask. “Do you need to do some sort of good deed in order to pass on to the next life? Isn’t that what purgatory is? You’re waiting because you’re not ready to get into heaven or some nonsense. Is that why they sent you back?”

“I’m not sure,” he says. “But I think it’s to save you.”

“Me? Why me? I don’t need saving.”

“It was you who brought me back. Your pain is a sound, and that voice was strong enough that it echoed through all the plains of wherever I was. It was hard not to hear you. Impossible not to respond.”

“You heard my pain.” Not a question. In fact, the thought is just absurd. My words drip with sarcasm.

“Why does that seem strange to you?” Chael says. “No more unusual than some guy coming back from the dead.”

“Yeah, to protect me,” I say. “Save it. I keep telling you I don’t need your help. What is it going to take for you to believe me?”

“Don’t you?” Chael looks right at me. “You’re hell-bent on revenge. It’s the only thing you think about. You’re obsessed. There’s more to life, Faye. There is so much opportunity if only you’d open your eyes.”

“So that’s why you said you’re going to kill Rufus and the others?” I snap. “As an attempt to save me? How hypocritical is that.”

“I don’t need saving,” Chael says. “My fate has already been determined. I’ve lived it. I’m dead, remember? But you still have a chance.”

“How do you know that if you’re in purgatory or whatever?”

“I just do.”

“God, you sound just like Gazer,” I say. “Except he doesn’t believe in heaven. He doesn’t believe in anything. But he keeps saying that I can determine my future. I have free will. Every choice I make determines my next step. But everyone keeps forgetting. I don’t have a future.”

“Sure you do.”

“No, I don’t.” I yank down my shirt enough to show him the top of my scars again. “You’ve been away for a long time. Maybe you’ve forgotten but things haven’t changed. I’m a Heam addict. No one is ever going to give me a job. I’m never going to have a normal life. I couldn’t even make it through high school without getting kicked out. I’ve got nothing.”

He looks at my scars for a long time. Eventually I let go of my shirt and the skin disappears under the black turtleneck. Not all of my scars are visible. I want to tell him that but I seriously doubt he’ll understand. He’s already determined that everything about me can be fixed if I just give up my crusade.

“Scars don’t make a person,” he finally says.

“They do in this world. Especially when I’m a Heam abuser. No employer is going to hire me once they find out. You know the odds. It’s almost guaranteed that I will go back on Heam. The statistics are less than one percent. It’s a miracle I’m still alive. Almost no one makes it more than a year or two afterward. I never stop having to fight it either. I mean, right now I want to be high. It never goes away, the constant nagging, the desire. I live with that every single second. Some days I feel as if I could kill every single person around me, just to get a hit.”

“Your life is difficult,” he says. “But still—”

“But? You think there’s a ‘but’?” I’m shouting now and I can’t help it. It makes me angry when people try to make me see the positive aspects in life. It’s all a load of crap and no one can possibly understand. There is nothing affirmative in my future. Anyone who tries to tell me otherwise is full of it. Not a single one of these people knows what it’s like to live through this.

“There are always choices,” Chael says. “You just said it yourself. You never give in to the desire. But it’s more than that. If you’re going to even refuse to consider living, you’ll end up with nothing.”

“I’ve been to hell,” I say. “When Rufus shoved Heam down my throat, I died. I didn’t get to see the heaven that everyone talks about. I saw hell. I felt it. They ripped me apart. They shoved poles through my chest. You have no idea what that feels like.”

“You saw what your mind wanted you to see.”

“My brain wanted me to be torn apart?”

“It’s more complicated than that. What goes on inside us, even we’re not sure sometimes. But everything happens for a reason. You saw hell. It doesn’t mean you’re going to end up there. Just like the others who see heaven. That may not be their fate either. It’s all up to you.”

“You’re so full of shit,” I say.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Chael says. He kneels down on the ground, looking up at me with those big green eyes.

“What did you see?” I ask. “You took the drug. Where did Heam take you?”

Chael shrugs. “Nothing. Like I said all along. I saw nothing.”

There’s a long pause while I wonder whether I should believe him. He doesn’t really have a reason to lie.

Finally, Chael takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I can’t possibly know what you’ve been through. I haven’t lived your life. So let me demonstrate to you how things should be. Like how beautiful the world is. Remember the night I first met you again? I told you the sun would look good on you. Will you give me the chance to show you?”

“There’s nothing pretty here,” I say.

“Let me prove you wrong.” He stands up. “It’s cold. I should take you home. Come with me?”

“Fine,” I say.

We ride the train home in silence. The coach is empty except for a homeless lady and her shopping cart full of treasures. She looks over at us several times, winking at me, giving me the thumbs-up as she checks out Chael.

I laugh and shake my head, making a crazy motion with my finger while pointing at him. The whole experience leaves me feeling melancholy, so I spend the rest of the trip staring out the window into darkness.

At one point, Chael tries to reach out and take my hand but I refuse him. I’m still too stunned to think about this properly. The whole evening has exhausted me. I don’t even have the strength to ask him any more questions. All I want now is to crawl into my bed and turn out the lights. I won’t look at any photos tonight. I have the feeling it will only make the tears come again and I’m so tired of crying.

I let Chael walk me back to the church.

“Meet me tomorrow,” he says. “At noon. I want to take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“It’s a secret,” he says. “But you’ll like it. I guarantee.”

“Okay,” I say. “Meet me at the station.”

“Goodnight.” He picks up my hand and squeezes it but I’m too tired and wary to respond.

“Christian?”

“No, don’t call me that anymore. I’m not Christian,” he says. “But I was him. A long time ago. Christian is dead. There’s no bringing him back. My name is now Chael. But I have Christian’s thoughts and”—he pauses and looks right at me—“I have all his memories.”

“Okay,” I say.

“What did you want to ask me?”

I shake my head. It’s not important. He turns away and I watch him disappear into the darkness of the night. I dig my key out of my pocket and head inside.

I’m numb. I don’t know how to change that.

Sleep. No dreams. I really don’t want to dream tonight. I can’t bear what ghosts might come visit me.

Morning.

I’ve been up since five. My hair is soaked. Bits of wet strands have escaped my ponytail and are hanging annoyingly in front of my eyes. Gazer stands in front of me with punch pads protecting his hands. Mine are wrapped in tape to prevent my knuckles from popping and to support my wrists.

Fifty punches with the right. Fifty with the left. Uppercut. Jabs. Hooks. Sweat pours down my chest, soaking my shirt, and the cotton sticks to my scars. Every now and then Gazer throws something back at me so I can block it. I duck down and pull to the side like I was born to do this. I keep my hands raised perfectly to protect my face.

We continue on for a long time. I love this kind of workout. I don’t have to do anything except move my body. I can shut down my brain. Who has time to think when the endorphins completely take over? Move to the right. Block the left hook. Jab. All my movements join together into a single performance. I’m dancing. My own demented version of ballet. And this stinking church basement is my stage. All my enemies surround me in the audience, waiting, terrified for the moment when I’ll call them up to tango with me.

Gazer brings his knee up and that’s my sign to put my all into it. Right. Left. Left. Side kick. Step back and cover my face to avoid his jabs. Block. Kick.

Finally, he puts down the pads and signals for me to stop. I’m panting heavily and I didn’t even notice until now. I go over and grab the water bottle and take several long swallows. I wipe my face down with a towel. So much sweat.

I feel so alive.

“Impressive,” Gazer says as he goes over to wipe down the pads and put them away. “You actually knocked me back a few steps today. I almost couldn’t keep up.”

I swallow more water. The pounding in my chest begins to slow as my body takes a break. “Not bad, huh? Now, that’s a workout.”

“Indeed.” Gazer comes over and picks up his mug of coffee. It’s probably gone cold by now but he never seems to mind. “Bit more like that and we could even put you in the ring. You could probably go pro.”

“Not a chance,” I say as I start to unwrap the tape from my wrists. “No drug users allowed, remember?”

Gazer shakes his head. “That’s always your answer to everything, isn’t it?”

I don’t want to get into this. Instead, I decide to change the subject. Anything to steer away from the “What do you want to do when you grow up” talk that never ceases.

“Why don’t you believe in heaven?” I take another drink of water and shrug, as if this conversation means nothing to me except as small talk.

“That came out of the blue,” Gazer says.

“Just thinking about it,” I say. “Don’t you ever wonder if your wife and daughter are up there looking down on you? I mean, it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“Lovely, yes,” Gazer says. “But just a thought.” He puts down his coffee mug beside some stray dumbbells. “There’s no validity to it. I guess it’s the scientist in me.”

“You were never a scientist. You were a cop.”

“Semantics, girl.”

I give him a grin.

“I guess I look at the world and how it came into existence,” Gazer says. “We’re a small planet stuck in a galaxy. There are billions of other galaxies out there. I guess I have trouble believing that one creator could invent all of this. I look at mankind and think it makes more sense that we evolved from the ooze than were created out of God’s image and then Adam’s ribs. The Bible was not written by God, it was written by man. It’s a lovely piece of work but I think it’s fiction.”

“There has to be more than that,” I say. “I know you came from a Catholic family. You were raised that way. You told me.”

“There is,” Gazer says, and he gives me a look that suggests he doesn’t want to go any further. But he sits down on one of the chairs and rubs his fingers through his hair, which is pulled back into a ponytail. There are a lot more white strands than brown. Gazer may still be only in his late thirties but some days he looks much older. Especially when he frowns like he’s doing now.

“I lost my faith when my wife died,” he says. “I stood by her hospital bed and I watched the life fade and there was nothing I could do to help her. They’d put her on Valium to help with the pain. She should have just slept her life away. But when her time came, she opened her eyes and looked right at me. Except I don’t think she saw me.”

“What did she see?”

“I don’t know. There was pain there. And fear. Lots of fear. I saw the terror and she opened her mouth to tell me something but she couldn’t speak. All she could do was grit her teeth. Then she was gone.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I think that’s when I lost God,” Gazer says. “I don’t understand how anyone can look at something like that and still believe in such things.”

“So you believe there is nothing after we die,” I say. “Don’t you find that depressing?”

“Not really. Just like going to sleep and not dreaming.” He stands and picks up his empty coffee cup. “I’m going to go get a refill and you should get in the shower. You don’t want to be late for school.”

I wait till he disappears up the stairs. His words echo in my mind.

Just like going to sleep.

Only you never wake up.

No, I can’t believe that. Because if I did, that would mean I’m just going insane and Chael is nothing but a figment of my memory. And I’m pretty darn sure I’m not that crazy.

Yet.

“What if they could come back?” I ask Gazer after I’ve showered and changed into a uniform I’m no longer supposed to wear.

“What do you mean?”

I reach forward and grab an apple off the table, trying to remain as nonchalant as possible. “I mean, what if you woke up one day and found someone at your doorstep who’d died. Just as if nothing happened. Back from the great beyond or whatever it might be.”

“That’s not possible.”

“But what if it were?”

Gazer puts down his newspaper and gives me a sad smile. “I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Why?”

“Because I think I’d be ashamed if she could see the way I turned out. She’s been gone all these years and I’m still waiting for her. But that’s something that’s never going to happen so I don’t know why you’re wasting your thoughts on such things. What-ifs aren’t real. You’ll drive yourself crazy reliving moments the way you wish they could have been. What if I had been there for her? I wasn’t. There’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“But what if they could come back? Don’t you ever think about it?”

“No.” Gazer purses his lips and I can tell he’s getting annoyed at me. “It’s no different from how I already live. I should have moved on but I can’t. Every morning I wake up, looking at the empty pillow where she should be resting. Sometimes I even believe I can hear her voice. But what I do isn’t healthy. She would have hated to see me like this. This is why I can’t stress enough that you need to forget about revenge. Life is too short, Faye. Don’t waste it on nothing. Don’t be like me.”

“That would be easier to believe if I had something to waste,” I say, grabbing my books and heading out the door before he can give me another lecture.

Of course it’s raining again and by the time I get to the train station, I’m soaking wet. I should have brought an umbrella. I go into the bathroom and change into the clothing I shoved in my backpack. Then I toss everything in a day locker so I don’t have to cart it around. When I go back outside, Chael is waiting for me under the awning. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and a pair of nice-looking jeans today and I briefly wonder where he gets his clothing from. He’s also wearing a fedora that pushes his hair flat against his forehead. When he came back from the dead, did they give him an allowance? A gift certificate for the Gap?

He smiles at me and for a second I’m eleven again and there are no monsters under my skin.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Then let’s grab a cup of coffee for the road,” I say. “I had one hell of a workout this morning. I’d hate to get there and sleep through everything.”

“There’s a place along the way,” he says. He holds out his arm for me, as if he’s leading me off to the Queen’s Ball or something. I take it and he guides me down into the dark train tunnels.

It’s about half an hour to reach our destination. We don’t talk much, mostly because every time I try quizzing him on where we’re going, he refuses to say a word. It is fun, though, and I find myself relaxing. Chael is in a good mood and it’s a nice change from the seriousness of the night before. Sometimes I find myself on the verge of teasing, but I pull back just in time. I’m worried that he might take it as flirting. Can you hit on a dead guy? I think that’s a boundary I really don’t want to cross.

Finally, we reach a stop I’m not familiar with and Chael stands and tells me this is it. I’ve never been here before. I always thought it was just a middle-class suburb. The kind of area I have no business being in.

We ride the escalator up to the top and step outside. I was right. There’s nothing but housing here.

“You’re taking me to someone’s house?” I say with a smirk.

“We have to catch a bus,” he says mysteriously.

So we do. The bus is packed but we still manage to find a seat at the back. We ride for a while through a residential area with the occasional strip mall and nothing else. It’s a nice neighborhood. There are no all-night liquor stores or strip clubs. No Heam dealers or gutter rats on the corners. I look out the window but the glass is fogged and I can barely see anything because of all the rain. After fifteen minutes or so, the housing thins out and suddenly we’re in the country. Well, okay, not the country, but there are a lot of trees.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“The university.”

Of course. I should have known this. Not that I’ve ever been here before but I knew it existed.

We get off at the next stop. The campus stretches out around us. Old mismatched buildings made of stone line the street, hidden behind century-old trees. It’s quite pretty, even with all the rain. Such a refreshing change from the city. I can’t even remember the last time I saw so many trees. All around us are students who struggle under the weight of book-filled backpacks. They are rushing in all directions and most of them look like the worst thing in their lives is whether or not they’re late for class.

They all look so healthy. So wholesome.

Such a different world.

Suddenly I feel very small in my old jacket and jeans with the tear in the knee. I wonder if they can tell I’m not one of them. How can they not? I’m shabby and uncultured. I don’t accessorize well. My hair isn’t full of expensive products that make it shine. I could go on and on all day. This is the type of place where Paige will end up after high school. Girls like her will fit in without even trying. Girls like me will be the sore thumbs. A group of students rush by in a flurry of umbrellas and book bags. Chael presses closer against me to let them pass. But if they notice my differences, they don’t say anything. They talk loudly to each other, giggling and sipping on water bottles and from coffee cups. Mostly they ignore us as we walk along, Chael protectively sticking close to my side as if he can read my thoughts.

We continue to walk along the road and I watch everyone, trying to ignore the jealousy that burns in my chest. They’re so carefree. Well, most of them. Some look a tad stressed, probably on their way to take an exam or maybe they’re simply late for class. I step off the sidewalk to let a student riding a skateboard zip past me. Her hair is tucked underneath a baseball cap and she keeps her face down to protect herself from the rain. Her cheeks are rosy and her top is low-cut, showing off wet skin. What I wouldn’t give to be able to wear something so deliciously brazen without having people stare at me in fear and disgust.

I glance over at Chael and he’s watching me intently, almost as if he’s reading my mind. My cheeks burn and I look away, concentrating on the buildings. It’s one thing to be jealous of these kids with their bright futures; it’s another to have to admit it openly. I don’t want Chael feeling sorry for me. Not right now.

“We’re here,” he says after a while.