I Woke Up Dead at the Mall (9 page)

Nick was laughing. “Nice choice!” he said.

“The Red Sox won the World Series. I was too young to appreciate it when it happened.”

“Out of all the days you could relive, you choose to go back and watch a baseball game?” I asked, absolutely incredulous.

“Not exactly. I'm going to go back and watch my parents watch the game. Which will be even more fun.”

“Good choice,” said a small voice. It was Lacey. “I've
decided on my day: I'll go back to my tenth birthday. My parents let me skip school. We went to Governors Island and rode bikes and had a picnic.”

“That sounds like a great day,” Harry said, hugging her once more. His bracelet was pale pink. Like a cherry blossom.

And for some reason, I was kind of nervous. Bertha complimented me on my blue dress. “Even though you can't be seen, isn't it nice to know that you're being appropriate?” she asked.

Yes. Yes it was. I smiled nicely, reminding myself that Bertha sacrificed herself for her sister. Be nice and don't focus on her boxy maroon pantsuit.

We entered the elevator in Bed Bath & Beyond. Before she pushed the button, Bertha arched her eyebrows. “This is the last time you'll see your family, my dear. The very last. Don't waste this time by trying to interfere. Some of them, the ones who loved you the most, may sense your presence there. See them and say goodbye. Just leave them in peace.”

“I will,” I lied. (What if I told her my plan and she stopped the elevator? I couldn't take that chance. See? This was why Nick, my dreams, my ability to be heard should all stay secret.)

When the elevator doors opened, we were on Bleecker Street. New York City. This was the Greenwich Village Funeral Home.

I forgot all about Bertha. I just took it all in.

“Sarah!” she called to me. “One more thing: you must come back when I say so. Do you understand? You may not stay one minute longer.”

I nodded. “Yes. Understood.” We were standing in front of the funeral home. Someone opened the heavy glass door, so I slipped inside and didn't look back.

I stood in the middle of the room for a long, long time. There were people arranging neat rows of folding chairs. There were people placing framed pictures of me around the room, on tables and easels. There were people arranging flowers, speaking in hushed tones.

No coffin. Yet.

Of course, Bertha had me here unfashionably early, before any guests arrived. Before my own corpse arrived. I followed the workers around and found this in the newspaper at the front desk:

TOXIC CATERER WON'T FACE CHARGES

The wedding caterer whose toxic mushrooms resulted in one fatality and four hospitalizations will not face charges. City officials found no evidence of wrongdoing or unsanitary conditions at Best Feast and have ruled that an overseas supplier is most likely to blame. The District Attorney's office issued the following statement: “We have no jurisdiction over foreign food suppliers. We urge all restaurants and caterers to inspect their imported foods with greater diligence.
Everyone recovered immediately following the meal, with the exception of the young girl who took a sleeping pill. Our condolences go out to her family.”

Sarah Evans, age sixteen, died as a result of ingesting the toxic mushrooms. Her autopsy indicated a large quantity of mushrooms and the presence of a potent sleeping pill. The city medical examiner has ruled her death an accident
.

“An accident? Are you
kidding me?
” I shouted to anyone, everyone in the room. But of course they didn't hear me. The police were done, out, finished. No investigation. No justice.

That would have been the main topic for me, but then Dad walked in by himself. Oh, he looked sad, serious, and so…alive. Seeing his face, seeing all the features align and be him, full-out, one hundred percent my dad was unbearable. I rushed to his side and then just stood there, like a broken promise. Here's a revelation of my utter and complete stupidity: Dad's grief was bigger than both of us. I wasn't supposed to die first.

“I love you,” I whispered. No reaction. That's okay. I was just getting warmed up. He was going to hear me. Soon.

He looked around the room, and it was clear that he had no idea what to do or where to go. He smoothed his black suit, his gray tie, his brown hair. He blinked his brown eyes hard and exhaled a ragged, shaky breath.

Karen was consulting with one of the hushed-voiced strangers who worked there. She hurried over to Dad, rubbing his back. She looked super-serious. Except for her white
princessy wedding gown, she had always worn bright pastels, with her rhubarb-red hair framing her face in soft curls. Today, she wore black, with her hair pulled back and her ever-present smile erased. She looked older. Good.

“Listen, bitch. You're not going to win this,” I hissed at her. She didn't hear me, but who cares? It felt so good to say it.

“Let me go see about the flowers,” she whispered to him, and she was off.

Dad walked slowly toward an old picture of me playing an electronic keyboard, headphones on, totally immersed in the music. I must have been twelve years old. He had snuck the camera around my bedroom door and taken the picture without my knowledge or consent. I was so mad when I first saw that picture.

“Help me,” he whispered to no one. “Please, someone. Help me.”

Time for me to get to work. If strangers in the mall could hear me, my own dad just had to hear me too.

“Dad! It's Sarah! I'm here! And you're in danger. Just walk out of here and don't come back. Karen killed me, and she's going to kill you next!”

I hugged him, wrapping my arms tight around him, resting my head against his chest. But I don't think he felt it. He walked away and I shadowed him like, well, a ghost. People began streaming into the room. He shook hands with some, hugged others, and accepted everyone's comforting words.

“She's in a better place.” “She's at peace now.” Please. As if they knew. I spoke right over them.

“Listen to me, Dad. I don't know how she's going to do it,
but Karen is going to kill you. She tried to poison you. And she'll do it again. Get out! Get out!
Go!
”

There was an ongoing quiet murmur throughout the place but still no sign of a coffin.

I interrupted the quiet murmur every few seconds with
“Dad! Karen killed me! She's going to kill you next! Get out now!”
There were lots of flowers. One arrangement was from my school; lots of them had cards from various companies that Dad had helped over the years.
Sorry for your loss. Condolences at this sad time. You are in our prayers
.

“Dad! Please, please! Hear me! It's your daughter. I just want to save you! Get out of here now!”

What was it going to take for him to hear me?

My friends from school were there: a decent representation of the Mathletes. They clustered together, a bit uncomfortable in the midst of so many people they didn't know. Now, in this company, they were living the stereotype. I felt a deep, almost painful longing to be around their sweet, clumsy shyness. Their conversation was stilted and kind.

“She was nice. I mean, she was always nice to me.”

“That's nice.”

“I know, right? So nice.”

“Dad! Karen is a killer! Get out of here now!”

I shadowed him around the room, repeating myself over and over, louder and louder, angrier and angrier, until I became utterly and completely desperate. Why didn't he hear me?

My throat burned and ached in exhaustion. How long had I been screaming this at him?

And then I turned to see Karen standing off to one side, watching the day unfold with a half smile on her face and steel in her eyes. My knees buckled as I stood there looking into the eyes of my killer.

I ran into a dark room off to the right, escaping the murmur and the pointlessness of my funeral. I had to. This was a mostly empty room, but all the way in the back I saw it. A coffin. I approached it slowly. Was this me? Were they keeping me here so that I could make a big entrance? And wasn't that kind of weird?

I got close enough and no, no, that wasn't me in there. I cried out and backed away in a single jump. I shouldn't have been startled. I mean, it's a funeral home, so there should be dead bodies here and there. I stepped toward the coffin once more and gazed down at an elderly man with gaunt features. He was wearing heavy makeup that failed to make him look tan and healthy. I think his lips were stitched together.

(Pull yourself together! You can't waste this day freaking out over dead old guys or wallowing in anger at Karen or in self-pity for your short little life, or mooning over your poor, grieving father. That won't help him. Did you waste a ton of time blaming him for Mom's death?
Duh. Yeah
. You already know that,
and
you regret it. Did you waste lots of opportunities while you were alive?
Hell yes
. Now don't waste this one. It's not like you have a plan B or anything. Just make him hear you.
Save your father! Now!
)

I threw myself back into my stupid funeral. Dead or alive, it was up to me to save Dad. Just as I returned, Dad stood at the front of the room and cleared his throat. The quiet murmur faded to silence.

“Thank you all for gathering here today. But if I'm being truthful, I wish we weren't here,” he began. His voice choked just a bit as he said, “I love my Sarah. With all my heart. And if she were here, she'd say, ‘Dad, quit it, you're embarrassing me.' And I would give anything on this earth to hear her voice again, to embarrass her, to just pass the time with her.”

He stopped and pressed a hand over his mouth. My heart was split in two. I rushed to his side. I wanted to scream, let him know I was near, but I wasn't able to make a sound. Maybe he could feel that I was there. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I think that I should give the floor to someone else to talk about Sarah.”

He sat down in the front row. He dropped his head to Karen's shoulder. She hugged him and whispered in his ear. He bowed his head and held on to her.

My school friends went up as a group and talked about me being nice. It was nice.

My cousin told the story about the time we went on a shopping spree at Bergdorf's and I only bought socks.

Karen watched him, nodding, with that half smile on her face. It sent a chill down my ghostly spine.

But then Karen stood up and spoke. Her eyes were red, and her breathing was measured. She looked exactly like someone should look at a funeral. If this were an audition for the role of Sad Lady at a Funeral, she'd get the job. Everyone stopped murmuring.

“Sarah will live on,” she said in a voice that was clear and noble and
so fake
; how did I never see through her before? “Her kindness, her sweet, gentle presence—those things will be with us forever.” She looked back at a large golden urn on the table behind her. I hadn't noticed it before.

“I won't say goodbye, sweet Sarah,” Karen said to the urn. “You'll always be with us.”

Oh. That was me in there. I'd been cremated. That had to have been Karen's idea. Dad would have had me buried next to Mom. Wow. Look, I knew I didn't need my body anymore, but that doesn't mean I wanted it burned. First I was autopsied, then cremated. It was more reason to hate Karen. As if I needed more.

That was the end of the speeches. Everyone went back to murmuring.

Now I see why people might not want to witness their own funerals. I mean, this was what my life added up to: I was nice. I liked socks. But had I ever really lived?

My funeral was over. My body was ashes. Karen was sorting out the bill for my funeral, and Dad was slumped in a chair.

Being near him was like standing in an August breeze. He was warm and alive. And I was dead. I sat down next to him and sang to him, very softly. It was the half song that I wrote for Mom, the one I slipped into her coffin, where I wrote my own words to the Beatles song “Across the Universe.” As I sang, I gently shifted the words just a smidge to make it for him, and about me being the one who died.

PLEASE KNOW

Everyone keeps telling me that I am gone, but love lives on

I left before we finished having fun together, but please know

I have learned so much from you, so be at peace
.

I'll see you soon
.

Be happy, please. I love you so
.

Thank you for being my dad

Oh

You were a fantastic dad

You were a fantastic dad

You were a fantastic dad

You were a fantastic dad

He lifted his head. “Sarah?” he whispered in my direction.

“Yes! I'm here. I'm right beside you, Dad!” I held my breath and let him take it in.

“Oh God, I'm losing my mind!” He buried his face in his hands and began to cry.

“Dad, you're not crazy. You're hearing me. You need to get out of here. Karen is—”

Karen was stooped down in front of him, her lips pinched into some weird expression that I guess was supposed to be consoling.

“We should go home now, dear,” she said gently.

I spoke louder and faster.
“Karen is a killer. Get out. Right now. Just go!”

Dad jerked backward, holding his hands over his ears, over his head. I'd never witnessed so much pain. It took my breath away. Even Karen stopped speaking.

I heard Bertha's voice behind me. “Sarah! It's time to go.”

“Just one more minute,” I said without looking at her. “Dad! Get away from her. She killed me and she's going to kill you too!”

Dad finally lowered his hands, looked at Karen, and sighed.

“Oh, Karen,” Dad said. “Today was too much for me. Much too much. I'm hearing things. In my head. It's like Sarah's voice, but it's an ongoing echo of pain, of anguish. Listen to me, I sound like a nut job. I'm really losing it.”

“Sarah! What's going on?” Bertha commanded me. “Is he hearing you?
Is he?
”

“Karen killed me and she'll kill you too!” I shouted to Dad, ignoring Bertha completely. I heard her click-clack over to me, but I kept my focus on Dad.

“Sarah! Don't interfere with the living! It will end badly!” Bertha was pleading with me.

“Dad! Karen wants to kill you!” I yelled.

“What was that herbal tea stuff you were trying to get me to drink last night?” Dad asked.

“It's just what you need. It'll help you relax and make you sleepy.” There was a tiny glint of pleasure in Karen's eyes.

Oh no. No, please no.

“I'll try anything,” Dad said, shaking his head. He rose and began to follow her outside.

“Dad! No! Don't do it! It's poison!”
I screamed with every cell, every atom of my being.

But Dad only shook his head and shuddered. “Is it strong?” he asked her.

“Oh yes,” she said, helping him to his feet. “Very.”

“Good,” Dad mumbled.

Back at the mall I was completely mute. Why? Because Bertha said exactly one thing in the elevator. And it was the single absolute worst thing she could have said:

“You know, Sarah, your father might have figured out his wife's role in your death if you just hadn't pushed him so hard. You upset him.” I stumbled a bit as she added, “So if she is off poisoning him right now, alas, he is in her clutches for good. I did try to warn you.”

This was the long-winded Bertha version of “I told you so.”

I sprinted at top speed to Crate & Barrel, threw myself onto my bed, buried my face in my pillow, and screamed. Soon the screams transformed into endless weeping. Lacey and Alice were nearby.

“We should get Nick,” Alice suggested. “He'll know what to do.”

“No.” Lacey overruled her. “Nobody should see her like this. Including us. Leave her alone for now.”

I cried into the pillow, unable to form words in my own mind.

Somehow the deep, deep sleep of the dead overtook me. As I felt myself drift away, I made a wish:
Please. No dreams tonight. Please
.