The Space Between (36 page)

“What are you doing?” he says, like he might start laughing.

His wrist is smooth. There are no marks on his arms, not anywhere.

“What have they done to you?” I ask. Trace the pattern with my fingertip, like I could put it back on his skin. Close my eyes, imagine him sick, filthy, sobbing. When I look at him again, I see how healthy he looks. There is nothing broken in him now. “What have they done?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your wrists, they used to be . . . ”

He laughs, sudden and bright. “See, I
do
know you. You look familiar, I just—I can’t place it.” Then his face clouds. “What about my wrists?”

“Nothing,” I tell him, trying not to cry, afraid that if I burn heaven down, he will never love me. “They used to be—they used to be—”

“Hey,” he says, reaching out. “It’s okay. Why won’t you just tell me what’s wrong?”

Beside him, the ghost of me is standing with her chin lowered. They have always been so much braver, but now her eyes are filling with tears. They’ll overflow and then I’ll burn down the garden and it won’t even be me doing it.

Truman reaches for me again, and this time he pulls me against his chest, cradling my head on his shoulder. It’s like a physical hurt, being so close to him, like burning myself again and again.

I wrench myself from his arms. “Don’t—you don’t have to touch me.”

He steps back, looking worried, and I want to grab him by the shoulders, smash my mouth against his, but I’m so, so afraid of how much it will hurt.

“Were you happy, on Earth?” I say.

He looks serious for the first time, and uncertain. “No,” he says. “No, I wasn’t happy.”

“Why not?”

“A lot of things. I don’t really remember all of them now. I was lonely. My mom—she died when I was sixteen. But even before that, I guess I wasn’t very happy.”

It makes my eyes sting to hear him talk easily about things he could barely say out loud when he was alive.

He says, “I don’t remember a lot of it. I keep thinking I do, but then it gets mixed up.” He stares at me so hard he must be looking past me. “There was this girl I knew. I think she saved my life.”

“Yes, you were going to die. But she woke you back up.”

“How do you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter. She woke you up and you wished very hard that she hadn’t. You wanted to stay asleep because it hurt too much.”

“Hurt?” He’s squinting down at me. “What are you talking about?”

I want to cover my own mouth so he can keep living in this white dream, but it scares me. “I love you,” I say, and the ghost girl says it too.

He’s looking at her, not at me, and his expression has turned cold. “You what?”

“Love you,” I say again, watching her mouth move.

He steps back, even as she smiles up at him.

“Something’s wrong.” He’s shaking his head. “Something’s really wrong.”

“What is it?” I ask, and now she’s quiet.

“Her,” he says, moving closer to me. “This isn’t right. She wouldn’t say something like that.”

“How do you know?”

“I know her, I know what she’s like. She just would never say that.”

“Are you sure?” I say, hating that he would ever doubt it.

I have nothing to give Truman but the worst parts of himself. I can only give him back the fact that once, he cried upon realizing he wasn’t dead. How can I ask him to choose that again?

“This is all wrong,” he says. He’s breathing too fast, a sharp, panicked sound. “How do I wake up? Please, you need to tell me how to wake up.”

“Don’t you want your perfect life?”

“I want
my
life.”

“Then kiss me,” I say, like someone is squeezing me by the throat. I know the fairy tales. “If you kiss me, you’ll wake up.”

He looks down into my face and his eyes are so blue. His mouth is open a little as he bends his head, and my cheeks feel hot and too shiny, like my tears have scalded everything. When he puts his hands on my shoulders, it burns, but in a way that barely even feels like anything once his mouth is on mine. I feel his tongue, warm and familiar, a flicker between my lips, then gone, and now I see the tree, stark and gouged and twisted, but alive.

He backs away, looking hurt, frightened. And now is not the time to be wondering if I’ve done the right thing. In front of me, he’s gasping, taking long, hoarse breaths. My ghost is mute but trembling, reaching for my hand. We stand side by side as he begins to change.

At first, it isn’t much. With his fingers pressed to his collarbone, he closes his eyes and now his face is thinner, gaunter. His sweater is turning dingy. Seconds ago, it seems, I sat on the floor while that same sweater burst into flames on my body. Now, it’s unraveling at an alarming rate, new then old then nothing. I watch, holding the girl’s hand so tightly, squeezing as Truman’s hair turns lank and tangled. Why am I doing this? He could have been happy forever. How am I doing this?

When I open my mouth, the girl cries out beside me, a shrill, timid little cry, but I don’t make a sound. I cover my mouth and his scars bloom pale and shining on his arms. I wrap my arms around her and we hide our faces in each other’s hair.

“Daphne.” His voice is husky, like the morning after I found him.

I expect us both to turn, but when I let go of the girl, she collapses at my feet, clattering in pieces where she lands. It’s just me now, me and Truman Flynn, and surely this is the worst, most selfish thing I’ve ever done.

But when he looks into my face, his eyes are so pale they’re almost like no color at all and he’s already reaching, not looking anywhere but my face. And this time, the kiss is hard and hungry and laughing all at once. His hands slide over my shoulders and my waist, drifting to the back of my neck. He holds my face between his hands and presses his forehead to mine. I’m the real thing and he’s smiling. He’s smiling.

Truman Flynn woke up.

Life after death was beautiful and extraordinary. Sometimes, the world was so vibrant and true that it became overwhelming, and he had to close his eyes and wait for the vertigo to pass. In the mornings, the sun rose, low and red on the horizon. The sprawl of towns and cities was so huge, so filled with buses and taxis and people.

He saw himself in the people that he helped—every child of every demon—and it didn’t disgust him. What he saw only supported the fact that the work was good and necessary.

He didn’t have Obie’s memory for novels and sermons, so he read aloud, carrying paperbacks and collections of poetry everywhere he went. He sat beside hospital beds in recovery rooms. Sometimes he put flowers on graves.

Daphne was earnest, full of energy. She liked the kids best, and would sit on the floor with them, brandishing dolls and puppets, wearing nurses’ whites or colored scrubs, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked older now, more substantial, more definite. She still smiled, though—that clear, open smile. And sometimes, she would spring at him, throwing her arms around his neck, and he would catch her.

And if he did get tired of the work from time to time, tired of the hopelessness, it was only because he’d been too close to it for too long, and then he left the shelters and the clinics and the sickrooms and went out into the world to see it.

On an afternoon in May, the two of them stood in the tropical fish exhibit at the aquarium, in front of the shark tank. On either side, the corridors stretched on, dim but clean. The building smelled damp and briny.

Daphne was fidgeting with her hair, looking thoughtful. “Obie used to tell me about the sea, how it was large and full of salt and angelfish.”

Truman thought—for the first time in a long time—of his nights in the hospital, and the memory was clear, but not painful. Obie, standing over him, speaking kindly about stars and galaxies and all sorts of miracles.

“He was good at that. Describing things, I mean.” He reached for her hand, warm, inarguable. On the other side of the glass, sharks were circling.

She stood with her nose against the glass as a sand tiger shark approached, its mouth bristling with teeth. It bumped its snout against the tank and she pressed her palm to the glass in return.

He squeezed her hand. “Do you want to go get something to eat?”

“Yes.” She smiled at him. “Pie.”

Outside the aquarium, the sun was bright and Truman squinted. As they started down the steps, Daphne stopped abruptly and leaned against him, throwing her arms around his waist and pressing her face into his shirt. Her weight against his chest was sudden and fierce, catching him off guard. In the street, cars rushed past like water and she let him go.

He touched her cheek. “Why did you do that?”

“Because this is us—right now—you and me. Because I can.”

My undying gratitude belongs to:

My agent Sarah Davies, who is a rockstar in the most elegant sense.

The editorial team at Razorbill—you guys are incredible (not to mention patient). Particular thanks go to Lexa Hillyer, who got me started; Jocelyn Davies, who saw me through to the end; and Ben Schrank, who made sure we did, in fact, have a middle.

Alex, Alex, and Allison at Rights People, who help my books find homes across the world.

The miracle workers at Penguin. Especially Gillian Levinson, whose magical abilities include—but are not limited to—encouraging notes, surprise packages, and answering all-my-questions-ever; Anna Jarzab, who tames the Internet and is extraordinary on all fronts; and Casey McIntyre, who provides me with wonderful places to be and then makes sure that I get there (even when it seemed like there would never be a taxi, you didn’t give up).

My critique partners, Maggie and Tess.
The Space Between
would not exist without them. Seriously, you guys. No,
seriously
. It’s been three incomparable years, and we are just getting started.

My family, for being vast and far-flung and interesting, but mostly for being amazing. They bear no resemblance to the people in this book, I promise.

My classmates and professors at Colorado State University, who taught me how to start and also how to finish things, but mostly how to revise. I owe a particular debt to Professor Milofsky and my fellow novel writers, Mia, Stacy, Dave, Tom, and Zach. They were kind enough to see merit in even my most frivolous ideas and have a very high tolerance for the bizarre.

Syl. After all these years, she still reads everything and is still up for anything.

And finally, my husband, David, who ordered Chinese food night after night, never said a word about the disreputable state of my hair, and reminded me that hard work makes anything possible. This book, most of all.