The Lovely Bones (5 page)

“It was female, I could sense that,” Ruth said. “It flew up out of the field. Its eyes were hollow. It had a thin white veil
over its body, as light as cheesecloth. I could see its face through it, the features coming up through it, the nose, the
eyes, the face, the hair.”

Her mother took the oatmeal off the stove and lowered the flame. “Ruth,” she said, “you’re letting your imagination get the
best of you.”

Ruth took the cue to shut up. She did not mention the dream that was not a dream again, even ten days later, when the story
of my death began to travel through the halls of the school, receiving add-on nuances as all good horror stories do. They
were hard-pressed, my peers, to make the horror any more horrible than it was. But the details were still missing—the what
and when and who became hollow bowls to fill with their conjectures. Devil Worship. Midnight. Ray Singh.

Try as I might, I could not point Ruth strongly enough to what no one had found: my silver charm bracelet. I thought it might
help her. It lay exposed, waiting for a hand to reach out, a hand that would recognize it and think,
Clue.
But it was no longer in the cornfield.

Ruth began writing poetry. If her mother or her more approachable teachers did not want to hear the darker reality she had
experienced, she would cloak this reality in poetry.

How I wished Ruth could have gone to my family and talked to them. In all likelihood, no one but my sister would have even
known her name. Ruth was the girl who got chosen next to last in gym. She was the girl who, when a volleyball sailed in her
direction, cowered where she stood while the ball hit the gymnasium floor beside her, and her teammates and the gym teacher
tried hard not to groan.

As my mother sat in the straight-backed chair in our hallway, watching my father run in and out on his various errands of
responsibility—he would now be hyperaware of the movements and the whereabouts of his young son, of his wife, and of his remaining
daughter—Ruth took our accidental meeting in the school parking lot and went underground.

She went through old yearbooks and found my class photos, as well as any activities photos like Chem Club, and cut them out
with her mother’s swan-shaped embroidery scissors. Even as her obsession grew I remained wary of her, until that last week
before Christmas when she saw something in the hallway of our school.

It was my friend Clarissa and Brian Nelson. I’d dubbed Brian “the scarecrow” because even though he had incredible shoulders
that all the girls mooned over, his face reminded me of a burlap sack stuffed with straw. He wore a floppy leather hippie hat
and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes in the student smoking lounge. According to my mother, Clarissa’s penchant for baby blue
eye shadow was an early warning sign, but I’d always liked her for just this reason. She did things I wasn’t allowed to do:
she lightened her long hair, she wore platform shoes, she smoked cigarettes after school.

Ruth came upon the two of them, but they didn’t see her. She had a pile of huge books she had borrowed from Mrs. Kaplan, the
social science teacher. They were all early feminist texts, and she held them with their spines resting against her stomach
so that no one could see what they were. Her father, a building contractor, had made her a gift of two super-strong elastic
book bands. Ruth had placed two of them around the volumes she planned to read over vacation.

Clarissa and Brian were giggling. His hand was inside her shirt. As he inched it up, her giggling increased, but she thwarted
his advances each time by twisting or moving an inch or two away. Ruth stood apart from this, as she did most things. She
would have passed it in her usual manner, head down / eyes averted, but everyone knew Clarissa had been my friend. So she
watched.

“Come on, honey,” Brian said, “just a little mound of love. Just one.”

I noticed Ruth’s lip curl in disgust. Mine was curling up in heaven.

“Brian, I can’t. Not here.”

“How ’bout out in the cornfield?” he whispered.

Clarissa giggled nervously but nuzzled the space between his neck and shoulder. For now, she would deny him.

After that, Clarissa’s locker was burgled.

Gone were her scrapbook, random photos stuck to the inside of her locker, and Brian’s stash of marijuana, which he had hidden
there without Clarissa’s knowledge.

Ruth, who had never been high, spent that night emptying out the tobacco from her mother’s long brown More 100s and stuffing
them with pot. She sat in the toolshed with a flashlight, looking at photos of me and smoking more grass than even the potheads
at school could suck down.

Mrs. Connors, standing at the kitchen window doing dishes, caught a whiff of the scent coming from the toolshed.

“I think Ruth is making friends at school,” she said to her husband, who sat over his copy of the
Evening Bulletin
with a cup of coffee. At the end of his workday he was too tired even to speculate.

“Good,” he said.

“Maybe there’s hope for her yet.”

“Always,” he said.

When Ruth tottered in later that night, her eyes bleary from using the flashlight and from the eight More cigarettes she’d
smoked, her mother greeted her with a smile and told her there was blueberry pie in the kitchen. It took a few days and some
non-Susie-Salmon-focused research, but Ruth discovered why she had eaten the entire pie in one sitting.

The air in my heaven often smelled like skunk—just a hint of it. It was a smell that I had always loved on Earth. When I breathed
it in, I could feel the scent as well as smell it. It was the animal’s fear and power mixed together to form a pungent, lingering
musk. In Franny’s heaven it smelled like pure, grade-A tobacco. In Holly’s it smelled like kumquats.

I would sit whole days and nights in the gazebo and watch. See Clarissa spin away from me, toward the comfort of Brian. See
Ruth staring at her from behind a corner near the home ec room or outside the cafeteria near the nurse’s station. At the start,
the freedom I had to see the whole school was intoxicating. I would watch the assistant football coach leave anonymous chocolates
for the married science teacher, or the head of the cheerleading squad trying to capture the attention of the kid who had
been expelled so many times, from so many schools, even he had lost count. I watched the art teacher make love to his girlfriend
in the kiln room and the principal moon over the assistant football coach. I concluded that this assistant football coach
was a stud in the world of Kennet Junior High, even if his square jaw left me cold.

On the way back to the duplex each night I would pass under old-time street lamps that I had seen once in a play of
Our Town.
The globes of light hung down in an arc from an iron post. I had remembered them because when I saw the play with my family,
I thought of them as giant, heavy berries full of light. I made a game in heaven of positioning myself so that my shadow plucked
the berries as I made my way home.

After watching Ruth one night I met Franny in the midst of this. The square was deserted, and leaves began to swirl around
in an eddy up ahead. I stood and looked at her—at the laugh lines that were clustered near her eyes and mouth.

“Why are you shivering?” Franny asked.

And though the air was damp and chilly I could not say that that was why.

“I can’t help thinking of my mother,” I said.

Franny took my left hand in both of hers and smiled.

I wanted to kiss her lightly on the cheek or have her hold me, but instead I watched her walk off in front of me, saw her
blue dress trail away. I knew that she was not my mother; I could not play pretend.

I turned around and went back to the gazebo. I felt the moist air lace its way up along my legs and arms, lifting, ever so
slightly, the ends of my hair. I thought of spider webs in the morning, how they held small jewels of dew, how, with a light
movement of the wrist, I used to destroy them without thinking.

On the morning of my eleventh birthday I had woken up very early. No one else was up, or so I thought. I crept downstairs
and looked into the dining room, where I assumed my presents would be. But there was nothing there. Same table as yesterday.
But as I turned around I saw it lying on my mother’s desk in the living room. The fancy desk with an always-clean surface.
“The bill-paying desk” was what they called it. Swaddled in tissue paper but not yet wrapped was a camera—what I had asked
for with a tinge of whining in my voice, so sure they would not get it for me. I went over to it and stared down. It was an
Instamatic, and lying beside it were three cartridges of film and a box of four square flashbulbs. It was my first machine, my
starter kit to becoming what I wanted to be. A wildlife photographer.

I looked around. No one. I saw through the front blinds, which my mother always kept at a half-slant—“inviting but discreet”—that
Grace Tarking, who lived down the street and went to a private school, was walking with ankle weights strapped to her feet.
Hurriedly I loaded the camera and I began to stalk Grace Tarking as I would, I imagined, when I grew older, stalk wild elephants
and rhinos. Here I hid behind blinds and windows, there it would be high reeds. I was quiet, what I thought of as stealthy,
gathering the long hem of my flannel nightgown up in my free hand. I traced her movements past our living room, front hall,
into the den on the other side. As I watched her receding form I had a brainstorm—I would run into the backyard, where I could
see her with no barriers.

So I ran on tiptoe into the back of the house, only to find the door to the porch wide open.

When I saw my mother, I forgot all about Grace Tarking. I wish I could explain it better than this, but I had never seen her
sitting so still, so
not there
somehow. Outside the screened-in porch she was sitting on an aluminum fold-out chair that was facing the backyard. In her
hand she held a saucer and in the saucer was her customary cup of coffee. That morning there were no lipstick marks because
there was no lipstick until she put it on for… who? I had never thought to ask the question. My father? Us?

Holiday was sitting near the birdbath, panting happily, but he did not notice me. He was watching my mother. She had a stare
that stretched to infinity. She was, in that moment, not my mother but something separate from me. I looked at what I had never
seen as anything but Mom and saw the soft powdery skin of her face—powdery without makeup—soft without help. Her eyebrows
and eyes were a set-piece together. “Ocean Eyes,” my father called her when he wanted one of her chocolate-covered cherries,
which she kept hidden in the liquor cabinet as her private treat. And now I understood the name. I had thought it was because
they were blue, but now I saw it was because they were bottomless in a way that I found frightening. I had an instinct then,
not a developed thought, and it was that, before Holiday saw and smelled me, before the dewy mist hovering over the grass
evaporated and the mother inside her woke as it did every morning, I should take a photograph with my new camera.

When the roll came back from the Kodak plant in a special heavy envelope, I could see the difference immediately. There was
only one picture in which my mother was Abigail. It was that first one, the one taken of her unawares, the one captured before
the click startled her into the mother of the birthday girl, owner of the happy dog, wife to the loving man, and mother again
to another girl and a cherished boy. Homemaker. Gardener. Sunny neighbor. My mother’s eyes were oceans, and inside them there
was loss. I thought I had my whole life to understand them, but that was the only day I had. Once upon Earth I saw her as
Abigail, and then I let it slip effortlessly back—my fascination held in check by wanting her to be that mother and envelop
me as that mother.

I was in the gazebo thinking of the photo, thinking of my mother, when Lindsey got up in the middle of the night and crept
across the hall. I watched her as I would a burglar circling a house in a movie. I knew when she turned the knob to my room
it would give. I knew she would get in, but what would she do in there? Already my private territory had become a no man’s
land in the middle of our house. My mother had not touched it. My bed was still unmade from the hurried morning of my death.
My flowered hippo lay among the sheets and pillows, and so did an outfit I’d discarded before I chose the yellow bell-bottoms.

Lindsey walked across the soft rug and touched the navy skirt and red and blue crocheted vest that were two separate, heatedly
despised balls. She had an orange and green vest made from the same pattern. She took the vest and spread it out flat on the
bed, smoothing it. It was ugly and precious all at once. I could see that. She petted it.

Lindsey traced the outline of the gold tray I kept on my dresser, filled with pins from elections and school. My favorite was
a pink pin that said “Hippy-Dippy Says Love,” which I’d found in the school parking lot but had had to promise my mother I
wouldn’t wear. I kept a lot of pins on that tray and pinned to a giant felt banner from Indiana University, where my father
had gone to school. I thought she would steal them—take one or two to wear—but she didn’t. She didn’t even pick them up. She
just swept her fingertips over everything on the tray. Then she saw it, a tiny white corner sticking out from underneath. She
pulled.

It was the picture.

A deep breath rushed out of her, and she sat down on the floor, her mouth still open and her hand still holding the picture.
The tethers were rushing and whipping around her, like a canvas tent come loose from its stakes. She too, like me until the
morning of that photograph, had never seen the mother-stranger. She had seen the photos right after. My mother looking tired
but smiling. My mother and Holiday standing in front of the dogwood tree as the sun shot through her robe and gown. But I
had wanted to be the only one in the house that knew my mother was also someone else—someone mysterious and unknown to us.