“Thanks.”
Sitting down to wait, I swallow back the lump in my throat and open the message from DL. Miss you. I can sneak an hour or so on Thursday. 8pm, as usual.
This is so gross.
Thank God I already have plans. My fingers fly in typing the rejection. Eating dinner at a friend’s house. Sorry. I can’t physically make myself type that I miss him too; the closest I can come is a cryptic, Waiting is the worst. I hope wishful thinking will make him fill in the blanks.
Sure enough he comes back with, I know. You’re so beautiful, it makes me crazy.
I ignore that message and delete the whole chain, though I know that the messages can be retrieved from the cell phone company. Did Morgan worry about that at all? Maybe I’ve seen too many crime shows, but I imagine them dredging up this sludge after this body is discovered naked in a field, after Creepy Jack finishes his devolution into an obsessed psycho.
Thanks to these texts and the snack at the mall, I’m not even hungry when Mr. Frost trudges in. The poor guy has coffee stains on his shirt and looks like he had a rotten day. I play with my food long enough to try to pretend I’m trying. Is this normal for them, only half an hour of daily chitchat? It must be, or Mr. Frost would comment on how reclusive I’ve become since the accident.
Memories come without my volition. I don’t want to recall how warm and noisy it was at home. How the TV was always on and my dad drove my mom crazy surfing; she’d steal the remote and turn on music instead, and then they’d wrestle and sometimes end up kissing, until Jason or I groaned, “Gross,” even though we secretly thought it was cool our parents still liked each other after twenty years. It was a … safe, solid kind of feeling.
Now I’m awash in longing for moments I didn’t know enough to appreciate. I want to eat my mom’s cooking and listen to my dad ramble about the Renaissance. Instead, I retreat to a huge bedroom with every possible luxury, and I feel like a captive princess in a tower.
But I have to save myself.
I pull out Morgan’s hidden cache. I inspect the receipts a second time and I notice something. At the convenience store near school, she bought condoms. She’s on birth control, which isn’t protection enough for certain STDs and she wasn’t hooking up with Clay. Does that mean she’s done it with Creepy Jack? I’d certainly be worried about catching something from that pervert. Poor Morgan. That’s too much, even to catch her mother’s killer.
Part of me wishes that there’s nothing to her suspicions. But as I’m turning the ultrasound over in my hands, some faded white lettering catches the light. It’s partly scraped off from age, but judicious tilting lets me make it out. Lucy Ellis-Frost, dated ten years ago. Stunned, I drop it on the desk.
“Holy shit. Morgan’s mom was pregnant when she died?”
If the family was whispering of suicide and the authorities didn’t suspect foul play, there wouldn’t have been an autopsy. Admittedly, I’m basing most of what I know about that stuff on TV shows, which might be a mess, procedurally, but I’m pretty sure the principle holds in this scenario. Which means Mr. Frost probably didn’t know.
How did Morgan find out?
What I saw of her files online didn’t mention this, but I haven’t finished all her research on her mother’s death. At the moment I’m tired and overwhelmed. Being Morgan on a daily basis is exhausting. I’m just grateful she didn’t have a ton of clubs and activities, too. After basic hygiene, I fall into bed with a soft groan.
This can’t be my life forever.
It can’t.
But the alternative is dying.
I don’t remember falling asleep; there’s no demarcation between, no sense of being relaxed or drowsy, but I’m not in bed anymore. The tall grass is cool beneath my feet and damp with dew. Morgan’s mansion is nowhere to be seen, and there’s only this endless expanse of featureless ground, a field of stars overhead. I turn in a slow circle, puzzled, and then I spot Morgan coming toward me with the long, elegant stride that I still haven’t mastered. She moves like a model, and for the first time I realize that I’m Liv again.
I’m Liv.
I’m dreaming.
Or is this reality, and everything else, a dream?
As I twist that question like a German pretzel, Morgan smiles at me. There’s sorrow in her eyes and she’s not all here, ephemeral and incandescent, like a ghost, a fairy, or possibly a pop-culture vampire with phase-shift powers. She’s even got on a white flower-child dress, nothing she’d ever wear in life. I’m definitely asleep.
Right?
“Sorry I left you with my mess,” she says.
“Why did you?” I realize that I desperately want to hear from her two lips that she doesn’t blame me for this—that it’s not my fault.
Even if she lied to me by omission and banged my boyfriend for her first time, not some Venetian guy, I still don’t want to think of her hurting and alone, despising me.
“I was tired.” Her voice holds a musical tremor, like wind chimes attached to a door. “That night I was so tired. And then it hurt, it hurt so much, and I couldn’t hang on … but you were there. Dying, but you couldn’t let go. And I … could.”
In the darkness there’s a ghostly fluttering of hands, a spark between them, not quite a memory but it feels … familiar. Is this what happened? I said yes to life and Morgan said no, and this happened? The way she’s explaining, it sounds like we’re equally responsible.
“Is it better where you are?”
She gives me an enigmatic smile without answering directly. “You can’t imagine what the last year and a half has been like … the things I’ve done. Wondering if I ruined my life, my future, for nothing. If I’m crazy.” Morgan stares at me. “Am I crazy, Liv?”
I don’t know. Am I?
Sounding wistful, she goes on, “Maybe there’s nothing weird about my mother’s death. Maybe she had coffee with Jack and then ran off the road avoiding a squirrel. Maybe there’s no mystery, just a stupid, twisted girl digging for truth where nothing is buried.”
I have no answers yet, but I can’t stand to see my friend hurting. Extending a hand, I can’t touch her. My fingers pass through in a shimmer of light. “Sorry.”
“Don’t do that,” she says, smirking.
That’s the Morgan I knew. Somehow I muster a tremulous smile. “You were never stupid. Do you have any idea how hard this is? How much I miss you?”
There’s so much to ask her, so many questions: her mother and Mr. Frost, Clay and Nathan, Oscar Sanchez, and the perv she called DL, whom I’ve renamed Creepy Jack.
But she holds up a hand. “Time’s up, I’m not your spirit guide. My life is yours now. Live better than I did.”
I wake up reaching for her. My fists are knotted in her bedcovers, so tight that it takes me a full minute by the tick of the clock to make them unclench. My fingers hurt and the room is cold again. Drawing my knees up, I wrap my arms around them and rock slowly. Intellectually I know this was just a dream, not Morgan, just my scientific mind attempting to provide a rational explanation for this inexplicable situation. In my heart, though, it feels real, as if I truly spoke to her, said good-bye, and got her blessing.
“It’s not real,” I whisper. “I’m the crazy one.”
Even though the clock reads 4:14 a.m., I hop out of bed and open my laptop. A search about soul transference turns up a bunch of New Age junk about “walking in,” what happens when one soul is ready to move on and another isn’t. Apparently they come to an agreement and swap. The new resident is supposed to get the host’s original memories but usually feels as if past events happened to someone else. This often leads to people randomly ending marriages, quitting jobs, and starting over, much to the chagrin and confusion of their loved ones. Sometimes if the switch is traumatic, the new soul takes over knowing only what they did as the other party. I stare for a few seconds in silence, wondering. When the article devolves into aliens, beings of light, and chakras, I sigh and close the page.
 
; Maybe I should tell Mr. Frost and get treatment. I’m Morgan, who thinks I’m Liv. There are probably meds for this.
With a whimper, I put my face on the desk. There’s no more sleep for me tonight.
At 5:35 I get in the shower, much earlier than I need to for an eight o’clock appointment, the earliest the clinic had available. I skip breakfast and leave before either Mrs. Rhodes or Mr. Frost is up. To keep them from freaking I leave a note about visiting Liv’s grave.
Not a lie.
I need to see where they buried me.
25
Full daylight is a little over an hour away, so the sky is sewn with golden needles, pink fingers pulling at the threads. I stop at the convenience store and buy one of those pitiful, plastic-wrapped roses that sit in a dirty water bucket all day. This is a memorial gift I’d be ashamed to offer anyone else. The poor rose is blush pink, browning at the edges inside the cellophane; it crinkles as I carry it back to the car. Already the air is balmy, warm enough to make me think it’ll be sweaty-hot later. I don’t mind, but Morgan would.
Driving to the cemetery takes about ten minutes. I must be buried near my grandparents, so I cut through the ornate wrought-iron gates. The caretaker has already unlocked them, chain swinging free as I slip by. I see him in the distance getting his tools out of the shed. He waves to me and I lift my hand in turn, picking a careful path so I don’t walk on anyone’s grave. As I crest the hill to where most of the Burnhams in Monroe County are buried, my feet stop.
Because someone’s already here.
From the shoulders to the shape of his back, I can tell it’s Nathan, the last person I wanted to see, mostly because I planned to avoid him until I could make sense of that betrayal. Just thinking about his hands on Morgan’s body—this body—fumbling, awkward, while they learned everything together? I nearly get sick. Hopefully I’ll be okay by Thursday, well enough to fake it. But despite the discomfort, there’s also a warmth in my chest that feels like sunshine. No matter how complicated it is now, what we had was real; he misses me.
Even if it’s done.
It has to be done.
Stepping closer, I can smell the booze. The cemetery is four miles from his house; did he stagger here in the dark? I can’t decide if I’m touched or angry. A little of both, I guess.
He’s sprawled against the headstone, one arm curved around it, head tilted to where my name is carved. Below it, my family has chosen an Emily Dickinson quote as my epitaph. It starts, “Hope” is the thing with feathers … There’s one more line beneath that simply reads, We’ll meet again.
Just barely, I swallow hysterical laughter. Sooner than you think. Thursday, in fact.
Nathan bangs his forehead against the stone, whispering, “Where are you? Nobody…” His voice hitches and breaks, then he cries quietly for a few seconds. “… told me that surviving is the shittiest thing.”
Tell him. You have to tell him. You can stop this.
But that’s a Pandora’s Box. Once it’s open, I can’t close it. If Nathan believes me, he’ll want to tell my parents. I can already imagine it spiraling, and then Mr. Frost will step in. He won’t tamely accept me seceding from the family, especially since Morgan is all he has, apart from money. As long as I’m underage, it’ll get complicated. Ugly. The road always leads back to a psychiatric unit, no matter what angle I take. Last but not least, I think of Clay and the life Morgan gave me—at least according to the crazy dream—which is mine but also … not mine. The pain in my chest is excruciating. My fingers clench on the rose stem, rustling the plastic.
Nathan raises his face with a bleary look. “Why is it you? Why are you the one who always finds me?”
“I wasn’t looking. I came for her.” But the question rattles me to my bones.
The idea of a soul mate is ridiculous. We’re not magnets pulled together because we can’t resist a predetermined charge. Yet here we are again, despite my best intentions.
What the hell, universe?
With a soft sigh, I sit down next to him and unwrap my spindly flower. From what I can see, Nathan only brought a bottle, now empty. But this visit can’t be what I originally intended, some solitary vigil where I ponder my existence and make peace with the strange imploding star that is now my life.
He plucks the rose from my fingers and twirls it. “Sad. You can afford a decent bouquet.”
“Hey, it was an impulse buy. At least I brought something besides self-pity.” That sounds more like Morgan than me, as if I’m … fading.
“Harsh,” he mumbles.
Taking in his wrecked expression, I soften. There’s no way I can drop tough love on Nathan when he’s grieving so hard for me. I settle my shoulder against his and lean back on my own grave marker. The ground is still damp, probably wrecking the back of my shorts. Morgan would’ve remembered to bring a change of clothes or a blanket, probably, but I can’t keep up the pretense forever. Over time, people will notice small inconsistencies and it’s better they get used to the new me, I guess.
“How often are you here?”
He shrugs. “First time this week.”
“It’s Tuesday. Are you doing homework at all? I can’t believe your so-called friends are letting you melt down this way.”
“You think Braden Wilkes ever stopped anybody from drinking?” His sneer is more than a little mean.
“Find better friends, people who care if you ruin your life.”
“You sound exactly like my brother … which makes sense since you’re banging him.” Without looking at me, he adds, “I hate you, Morgan. I hate you for being here when she isn’t.”
That stings, but I don’t show it. “Why don’t you spout some shit about how you can’t believe the earth still turns and the sun still rises? Then I’ll sing some crappy folk song and we can both die of ‘feelings.’”
The chuckle bursts out of him, strangled, but out. Nathan’s expression becomes comically horrified. Like, I can practically see him thinking, I’m laughing on Liv’s grave.
I rest my hand on his arm for a second and say, “Trust me, she wouldn’t mind. Now get your ass up. If you think you’re ditching school for no good reason, you’re crazy.”
He sighs, letting me help him up. “I suppose you’re driving me yourself? They’ll probably suspend me for showing up half-toasted.”
I nudge him ahead of me so I can keep an eye on his balance. No letting Nathan fall and crack his head open on a tombstone. Some things are too morbid for life. I’m quiet until we get close to the looming gates.
“Not exactly,” I say.
He half turns, looking irritated. “What, then?”
“I’m giving you a reason.”
“Huh?”
“Wow, Honor Roll, booze really makes you stupid. Let me try again in smaller words. You’re coming to the doctor with me, so you won’t get in trouble. I’ll even buy you some cruddy gas station coffee.”
“Is this for Clay, too?” he asks through his teeth. Without waiting for my response Nathan kicks a spray of gravel toward the VW, like it’s responsible for his problems.
“No. It’s for me. And Liv.”
Some of the tension seeps out, leaving him limber. He must feel so alone right now, regardless of how many dude-bros he has. We were inseparable this summer. The urge to pull him into my arms is overwhelming, but things are too raw and agonizing between us for me to trust that I can stop at comfort. Last time was a mistake, and repeating that error would be cruel. Nathan’s like a Jenga tower; one wrong move will topple him.
“I can live with that.” He hops into the car and puts the seat back.
Which is when I realize Clay didn’t yesterday, even though he’s taller. That says something about both of them. Nathan doesn’t hesitate to make his mark, even when he’s hurting, whereas Clay hides his strength and sweetness like a turtle, intent on making a slow, quiet passage through the world. Life has made opposites of them, one brother stoic, the other assertive, and I can see all too clearly th
at they’re both lovable.
I keep my promise, stopping again at the convenience store for stale pastries and fresh coffee. Nathan devours the sticky bun and licks the plastic while I drive to the clinic. I’m just as happy not talking. A sad song pops on the radio and my heart drops. Before, it was nothing special, a couple fighting. Who is this again? I remember asking that.
You’re still here, but I can’t touch you. Just a wall, just a wall between us, might as well be a thousand miles.
My eyes cut to Nathan and he’s pale, so pale, sweaty. He reaches for me, blind with it. His fingers tangle with mine. And I’m shaking so hard that I have to pull over.
This. This is the song. That played while I was dying.
26
Nathan snaps the radio off with enough force that I wouldn’t be surprised if the knob fell off. For another moment, we hold hands until the trembling subsides. I’ve seen the phrase “trigger warning” before, but I never understood what it was like to be triggered; it feels like someone’s wired an emotional bomb inside me that could go off at any time.
Once I calm down some, I untangle my hand from his and merge into the sparse morning traffic.
“This sucks.”
Since I can’t disagree, I just pull into the clinic parking lot. The lobby doors have been unlocked but it’s still twenty minutes before the actual office staff arrives, so I’ll chill in the car for a bit. In close proximity it’s really obvious that Nathan has been boozing it up. I decide to swing by his house after this and make him shower. That’s older sister territory, something I never would’ve done as Liv.
If I was Liv, he wouldn’t be drinking.
Nathan closes his eyes, tipping his head against the seat. His lashes are dark and thick, fanning against his cheeks. The stubble on his cheeks and jaw is only a day or two old, though the circles are just getting deeper. A few seconds later he’s asleep. I watch in silence, which is a little creepy, so I deliberately turn my face away until another car pulls into the lot. A trim black woman in a blue suit unlocks the front doors, and I recognize Jeanette King, who works for Dr. Jackson. After giving it two more minutes, I follow her in.