CHAPTER 13 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
A REVELATION
The nightmare rushes in all at once. I’m sitting in the back seat of the car.
Or maybe I’m lying down. Dad is always driving and Mom is always sitting in the passenger seat.
A song I can’t make out the words to plays on the radio.
My father’s cries split the air. I’m suddenly in a prep room, staring up at the edge of a steel table.
My father stands very still at the head of it.
He’s wearing all black, like a shadow has fashioned itself into a robe and draped around him.
His bloody hands are busy. He’s writing in a book and he’s murmuring something to himself.
The words are unclear and there is a strange rhythmic quality to them.
I’ve never been in this part of the nightmare before.
I have some vague awareness that I am dreaming but I can’t wake up.
My father writes in the book with a pen and he glances up, looking at the prep table.
His expression is sadness and fear all in one.
He suddenly rushes toward me; I cry out as he lifts me up and holds me close to him.
I scream and thrash as my gaze darts wildly around the room.
I have a fleeting glimpse of the prep table . . . and the person on it.
It is my mother. My dad pushes my head down and I gasp, breathing in the smell . . . that smell . . . like smoke.
I try to open my eyes but everything hurts. My skull feels like it’s been cracked open.
I’m alone. At least that’s how it feels. I start to panic. Where’s my mom? And Noah—no. Noah is dead.
“She’s okay,” my mom says. “But I need your help over here.”
Confusion settles over me. I force my eyes open and find myself staring up at the ceiling of the prep room in my basement.
Pain rockets up my neck and straight into my temple.
I reach up to press my hand to it to try and stem the pain.
A balled-up black jacket is tucked under my head and I’m on the floor.
I glance toward the door but have to quickly shut my eyes to keep the room from spinning.
“Meka, lie still,” my mom says. “Try not to move. It’s okay, baby.”
“You sure she’s good?” a voice asks. “Should we take her to the hospital?”
I sit bolt upright, turning my head, trying to ignore the pain.
My mom is sitting on the prep table; a white sheet is draped around her leaving only her horribly injured left shoulder exposed. She is dragging a suture through the skin to repair the wound and Noah is standing beside her, holding an open jar of mortuary wax.
I scream.
The sound roars out of me like a freight train.
I scramble to my feet and leap toward the door only to find that it’s been barricaded—the other prep table and my mom’s rolling cabinet of supplies have been dragged in front of it.
I push the table but the wheel locks are on.
I kick around under it to disengage them with no luck.
“Meka,” my mom says firmly.
I don’t turn around. This is a dream. My nightmare has seeped into the real world somehow.
“Meka!” my mom snaps and I stop, my heart and head pounding. “This is not going to be an easy conversation,” she continues. “But we need to have it right now because something is very, very wrong.”
I turn slowly around, and it takes everything in me not to start screaming again. My mom’s shoulder is nearly detached from its socket but there is no blood. The smell of formaldehyde lingers in the air. It’s tempered by a light floral scent. My gaze flits to Noah.
Noah. My Noah.
He stands as still as a statue, staring at me.
“Somebody tell me what is going on right now because I think I’m losing my mind,” I say as I fight off a wave of dizziness.
“You’re not,” my mom says. “I’m here. So is Noah. You’re not losing it.”
My knees buckle and I start to head for the floor but Noah is there, grabbing hold of me and lifting me up. I want to put my arms around him but I scramble away from him instead.
The hurt on his face cuts through me.
“Meeks,” he says, his dark eyes sad and pleading. There is a large defect in his cheek. Bits of unpainted mortuary wax are laid over it.
“Are we dead?” I ask.
That has to be it. That guy in the bathroom killed us and now Noah is here to usher us into whatever comes next. The little girl at Mrs. Lang’s funeral was a psychic or something. She drew me inside a coffin and now look at me. Dead.
“ You’re not dead,” my mom says as she places another suture in her shoulder. “As for me and Noah . . . ?we’re somewhere in between.”
Noah glances at her and then back to me. “Meeks, you need to sit down.”
My name from his lips is the thing I missed most and now I have it back and all I want to do is run away.
Noah reaches out and gently nudges me toward the empty prep table near the door.
I sit down on it and grip my hands together tightly in front of me.
Noah stands close but not too close, almost like he can sense that I’m perilously close to freaking out.
“Tell me what this is,” I say. “Tell me right now before I start screaming again.”
My mom lowers her head. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“At the beginning,” I say. “Tell me everything.”
“The beginning,” she repeats. “That’s the worst part.”
I glance at Noah, still completely unsure of what I’m really looking at.
It can’t be him. Noah is gone and I have spent the past couple months trying to accept that terrible truth.
But as my gaze meets his there is the sense that yes, this is Noah.
My Noah. I want to reach out and grab his hand but I can’t. Not yet.
My mom readjusts herself on the prep table. “There was an accident when you were little. You were seven and we were driving home from the city. We wanted to leave in the afternoon but we got caught up and didn’t start driving until maybe ten at night.”
A creeping dread pulls itself over me. I almost don’t want to hear whatever she’s going to say next. I consider interrupting her, telling her to stop, but I don’t.
“A storm had come through and the roads were slick,” she continues. “The last hour into Ithaca is all winding roads. You know that. Some of them were washed out.”
She opens and closes her mouth several times like she’s trying to get the words out but can’t. I sit silently, unmoving, afraid to even breathe.
“We came around a blind corner and a truck swerved into our lane—” She stops abruptly. Her eyes have that faraway look of remembering something painful. “Your father—he—he saved me.”
“Saved you?” I ask.
My mom swings her legs over the edge of the prep table.
The terrible injury on her shoulder isn’t completely stitched up yet and as the sheet slips, the scars on her chest are visible again.
“You have to understand something, and I don’t even know how to explain, but .
. . ?your father—he was born with a very unique ability, something passed down to him through the generations of his family.
When someone dies . . .” She trails off before beginning again.
“When someone dies, he can reanimate them. He can bring them back.”
“I don’t—I don’t get it.” I’m trying to put the pieces together, but nothing makes sense. “When you say Dad saved you, what does that mean?”
Mom clenches her jaw so hard I can hear her teeth click together. She looks completely defeated. “Please don’t be angry with him. He didn’t—he just—he couldn’t figure out how to go forward without me.”
I stare at her trembling frame, her wound.
“He brought me back from the dead,” she says. “He brought me back, but I am not the same as I was before.”
I turn to Noah and he lowers his gaze. “He brought me back, too.”
My head feels like it’s detached from my body, like I’m floating away.
“I wanted to tell you so many times,” my mom says. “Especially when you started having the dream.”
The dream. It wasn’t a dream at all. It was a memory.
“How could you let me think I was just dreaming?” I ask, suddenly hurt and angry. “I feel like I’ve been losing my mind and you—you let it happen?”
My mom gets off the table, clutching her arm. “How could I? I’m telling you now and it still seems like you can’t believe it. Was I supposed to tell you this when you were little? You couldn’t understand it then—”
“I can’t understand it now!” I say angrily. I look her over and it feels like my nightmare has come true. Losing her was my biggest fear and now it seems like I did lose her that rainy night all those years ago.
“Your father brought me back because he couldn’t see his life or yours without me,” she says. “I sometimes wonder if maybe it was a mistake.”
Now the tears come in a flood. “It’s a mistake to have you here with me?”
“Look at me,” my mom says. “Look at what I have to do to keep myself from rotting away right in front of you.”
Everything clicks into place—her elaborate skin care routine, her perfect makeup, her perfect hair, even her wardrobe. I knew it was never about the vanity of it, but I never expected this.
“But you have the perfect setup for maintaining yourself,” Noah says.
His voice startles me. It’s not that I forgot he was there, but it feels so much like the room is empty.
“Your job is making dead people look alive,” he continues. “And Mr. Redwood is an undertaker. You two are, like, the perfect couple to keep this whole thing up.”
My mom smiles and I have to remind myself that I’m talking to two people who should be dead. Still . . . ?her smile makes me feel more at ease.
“You’re right,” Mom says. “And Jonathan has helped me maintain myself all these years. I couldn’t have done it without him.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly feeling frantic again. “What are we talking about here? What is this? I don’t understand. Reanimation?” I’m dizzy again and I grip the edge of the prep table.
“If I’m being one hundred percent honest,” my mom says, “I don’t fully understand it either.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Call your father. He can explain it better.”
“I did,” I say. “I tried to call him right before I came up and found you in the bathroom. I texted him too.”
My mom goes to the tray stationed next to the prep table and retrieves her phone.
She makes a call, fumbling with it, as her arm still isn’t working properly, then just stares at the phone.
“Pick up,” she whispers. “Pick up, please.” When my dad’s outgoing voicemail message echoes out of the phone, she hangs up. “Something isn’t right.”
“You think it has something to do with the guy who attacked you?” Noah asks.
My mom nods. “It has to.”
“I recognized him,” I say.
My mom’s eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
“Him and another guy were sitting behind me and Noah at the movies right before—” I stop myself and turn to Noah. “That was the day before you died.”
“Meeks,” Noah says, his voice a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
My mom looks like she’s going to crumple in on herself, like something heavy just sat squarely on her shoulders. “They’ve been watching us. They always are but now more than ever.”
“Who is they ?” I ask.
My mom walks up to me and lifts her right arm as her left dangles at her side.
I cannot help but look into the gaping wound.
The bone of her clavicle and the rounded head of the humerus are visible.
The muscle is showing but it’s no longer pink beneath the skin, more of a gray color.
The wound is dry. No hint of blood or fluid of any kind. I swallow hard.
“I don’t know who they are,” my mom says quietly, like she’s telling me a terrible secret. “But ever since those people came to the door right before Noah died, your dad has been on edge. It’s like he’s been dreading something that he can’t even bring himself to talk about . . . even to me.”
“What do they want?” Noah asks.
“They want Jonathan,” my mom says. “We have to get ahold of him right now.” She steps toward the door and I get up and move in front of her.
“You can’t go anywhere like that,” I say, pointing to her shoulder. “Not if you’re trying to convince people you’re not . . . ? well, you know what I mean. Let me at least try to fix it.”
She hesitates for a moment and then positions herself back on the prep table. I turn to Noah.
“I might need your help,” I say.
He nods and I hold out my hand to him.
Death is my life.
I remind myself that I’ve never had a problem being around dead bodies before.
Why should this be any different? Even as I pose the question to myself I realize how unhinged it sounds.
I think of the drawing the little girl made in the playroom as her grandmother lay in a coffin in the front room of the house.
She can be dead and I can be alive. It’s okay.
Noah slips his hand into mine. His skin is cold as ice but I’m starting to feel like I don’t care.