After life, p.8
After Life, page 8
DonTreason: Come on, Lucky. Put your story out there. We’ve got legitimate amateur detectives on this site ready to pick apart or prove your story. Let’s hear it. You don’t think a man who confessed is guilty. His wife didn’t think he was guilty. Spill.
Luckyinlove77: “I am not bound to win, but I am bound to be true. I am not bound to succeed, but I am bound to live by the light that I have. I must stand with anybody that stands right, and stand with him while he is right, and part with him when he goes wrong.”
MamaBear1: Move along, move along. Nothing to see here.
DonTreason: She gets more insufferable by the day.
MamaBear1: Don’t feed the trolls, Don.
I went back to the main thread and scanned the names of the other conversations started by members: Murder Timeline, Crime Scene Photos, Where are they now? Adam Sullivan parole? I clicked on a link to one called Memorial Room.
Someone had made images with the boys’ pictures that said: RIP little angels with a bokeh edge. I didn’t know where this random user got the picture, but it startled me. It was the first time I had seen the faces of Cole and David, and they stared out from my computer with such realness that I resisted the urge to reach out and run my finger over their cheeks. They were so young: Cole had been six at the time of the murders, and David was eight. They hadn’t grown into their awkward grade school years yet, and everything about them seemed bright-eyed and innocent. I leaned close to the screen to study Cole, bringing my face within 6 inches of my laptop.
Seeing the picture made it real. This was someone’s real child, with a real smile, a real future. And he was gone.
But the image was most jarring to me because I expected him to look like Soren. They were connected, so why shouldn’t they look similar? Soren had moppish hair, a sandy brown color, and big brown eyes. He had Troy’s high forehead and small ears, and freckles. Cole had dark hair shaved close to his scalp, deep big blue eyes, large pouty lips, and a missing tooth. His face was rounder, his eyes not quite as twinkling and mischievous. Of course, one is always partial to family, and Soren was no exception, but I was shocked at how little I felt toward the picture of Cole.
With my face still close to my laptop, I began to hear an unsettling growl.
My heart quickened and I slapped the screen down and listened. Every ten or twenty seconds, I heard a deep and mechanical whirring—like a small engine trying to turn over or an appliance on its last legs. I knew the sound wasn’t human or animal, and it was identical every time. Silence, and then rrrrrrrrr. Silence. Rrrrrrrrrr. I slipped off my bed and flipped on my overhead light. Then I followed the noise into my hallway. I was already afraid, and I had no desire to investigate further—it wasn’t that I was afraid of the noise itself: I was petrified of the physical action of discovering what was making that sound. It would involve leaving the hallway, abandoning safety.
Then I saw the light.
Soren’s bedroom door was wide open, and I watched as a dim light turned on in his room. Accompanying the light was the rrrrrrrrr. The light went out. The sound stopped. I watched and waited. Light and sound. No light, no sound. I took the four steps forward to peer inside his unlit bedroom and I leaned in and whispered, “Soren. Are you awake?”
“Uh-huh,” came a quick reply. He turned the light on from his bed, and the mechanical rrrrrrr beckoned to me.
I stepped into the darkness, backlit by my own bedroom light, and let my eyes adjust. Soren was sitting up in bed holding a tiger flashlight. It was a kid one, where you pull back on the mouth and the animal emits the sound while a ray of light beams from its throat. It was clearly running out of batteries. With each pull, the rrrrrring sound grew more garbled and pitchy. The light had dimmed from bright white to amber. The tiger flashlight was suffering a slow demise.
“What are you doing?” I asked. I stepped further into the room.
“I’m just trying to make it light,” Soren answered.
It seemed like a reasonable answer.
“I think that light needs new batteries, Sor,” I whispered. “It’s dying.”
He didn’t stop. Dim light, rrrrrrrrr. He was pointing it at his dresser, but the light wasn’t reaching. Everything but a small circle on his bed remained blanketed in darkness.
“Can you fix it?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” I answered. I moved toward the bed and reached down for the flashlight, but Soren yanked it away. He grunted and spun in his sheets.
“No. I need to make it lighter, so I can see!”
“It’s time for bed,” I pushed. “That thing is keeping me awake.”
“But I need to see!” he said again, getting louder. I sat down on the bed and put out my palm. He ignored me and slipped down off his bed and to the floor, his back against the frame. Then he stuck his arm straight out and tried to blast the dresser with light again. “I need to see him.”
The pronoun didn’t go unnoticed. In an instant, I hopped off Soren’s bed and stormed over to the wall and flipped on the overheard light. My hands were shaking and I had stopped breathing; my chest tightened, and I watched as Soren put his hands over his eyes in protest of the brightness. I allowed myself to look around; while the darkness had felt so unsafe, everything seemed ordinary in the light.
He looked at me and then glanced back to the dresser. He stood up and walked over, then shook his head.
“You made him go away,” he said. “He only comes in the dark, but he wants a light so he can see me. You made him go away and that’s not fair, Mara. Maybe he won’t come back. Maybe you scared him.”
I stared at Soren. Unable to speak or move or do anything but watch as my brother crawled under the covers. He tugged up his own blankets and watched me as I hovered in the doorway, my hand still on the switch.
It was an eternity before I mustered up the courage to utter that one important question: “Who?” Then I closed my eyes. “Who did I make go away?” And I braced for the response.
Without hesitation, Soren answered with a yawn, “David. He’s scared of the dark and he needs a light. Sometimes Brick comes with him, but tonight he was alone.”
“Your…brothers? Wait…they…talk to you…”
I opened my eyes.
Soren nodded. “Yes. They miss me. David is happy he found me. He’s stuck in the in-between.”
My hand dropped and I stepped backward into the hallway. His room felt cold, instantly cold, and foreign.
“Turn my light off,” Soren said, but I couldn’t. There was no part of me that could subject that room to darkness again. Even the thought of Soren sleeping alone, in the dark, with unknown entities visiting in the night—his attempts to illuminate them with a dying tiger flashlight—was too much for my fragile state of mind. I walked over and picked up my brother and brought him into my room. I closed the door and placed him on my bed, and tucked my comforter around his body.
It was clear: Soren was not afraid.
I was afraid. And he didn’t need me, but I needed him.
“Soren,” I said as he watched me. “How often do they come?”
With his eyelids getting heavy, Soren mumbled, “They live here now. They’re waiting for me.”
He turned to his side and closed his eyes; his toes found mine under the covers. I turned the overheard light off, but kept my lamp burning brightly. In minutes, he was fast asleep, his small body rising and falling with each deep inhale and exhale. With a hand on his back, I scanned the room in a repetitive pattern. Behind my closed door was a hall. On the other side of the hall was a door. On the other side of that door was a room with a light still on—which I hoped would keep us free from unearthly intruders for the next few hours.
I scanned my room in a circuit: nothing by the closet, nothing by my chair or my dresser. All the shadows were real shadows. Nothing moved. Nothing shifted. If there were ghosts, if the brothers were there, they hid themselves from me.
Sleep eluded me completely. By the time my body felt willing to succumb to slumber, the sky was morphing from night into the hazy purples of a morning sunrise.
9
It’s all connected. This world and the next. We are only passing through, trying to do the best we can with what limited time we have. If only we could see the lives we led before, perhaps then we could avoid making the same mistakes, or we could celebrate in endless, infinite joy. Who was I before this moment? Am I the same? Different? We want to know who we were and we wish to remember where we’ve been—it’s the closest we can get, while slowly dying on this earth, to immortality.
10
Me: Soren saw a ghost. He’s seeing ghosts.
Carlie: ???
Me: Last night. Ghost. David. In his room.
Carlie: You saw it?
Me: No. Soren.
Carlie: Huh.
Me: That’s all I get?
Carlie: Ghosts can’t hurt you.
Me: That doesn’t mean they aren’t scary.
Carlie: See you in English. Let me know if you see them. Soren could be internalizing his story, you know? Don’t know much about ghosts.
Me: What do you know a lot about?
Carlie: Ectoplasm.
Me: Really?
Carlie: No.
11
I lingered with unbridled anxiousness outside her door. No sleep and a giant coffee made me jittery and unwell as I scanned my eyes down the hall and waited for her imminent arrival. When I saw her enter the school, I sidestepped to the left, and stood tall. With her keys around her neck, she reached the door, plopped her bag down, and bent low to unlock her classroom.
“Mara, is it? Carlie’s friend?” Paria asked. And I nodded. “Good morning,” she said, but then she realized I was waiting outside the door for her. “Can I help you with something?”
Everything shifted. She didn’t seem particularly happy to entertain my arrival. Her smile was tight and terse, but she made a big show of opening her door wide and hitching it to the magnetic strip so it stayed propped open. Then she stood close to the hallway, still holding all her bags, as she waited for me to announce my intentions. My hair was wild and undone, unwashed, left to its own devices. I had arrived without Carlie and was clutching my advanced chemistry textbook, with its goofy picture of a kid wearing safety goggles and smiling as he poured pink liquid into a beaker. Everybody made fun of it.
“I just have a question,” I said.
Paria shed her coat and unloaded her book bag. She motioned for me to flip on her overheard lights and I did. The room blazed hot and white.
“Okay?” she prompted, clearly bracing for something sinister.
“When does Asian Lunch Club meet again?” I asked.
“Oh,” she sighed. She looked at me and smiled. Relief passed over her face and I saw her put her hand over her chest for a quick second, then she sat down and turned on a small lamp. “Well, many of the kids from the club eat in here every day.”
I let that news settle. Every day.
“But,” she continued, “the potluck is a once-a-month thing, so if it’s good food you’re after, you’ll have to wait.” She winked and flipped a lock of her dark hair behind her shoulder.
“Not food,” I added quickly. “It’s the company. I…”
“It’s a wonderful club. I’m happy you’ll consider joining. It’s more than just lunch. There is the Asian cultural festival, and we have a field trip to Portland in June to see the Japanese Gardens.” She searched her desk and found a bright yellow piece of paper and walked it over to me. It was the Asian Lunch Club’s advertisement. I took it and held it in my right hand.
“Oh, um, that sounds great. But—”
“You don’t have to be Asian to join…”
I forced an amused half-laugh. “No. I was just hoping to—”
“You want to ask them more about their beliefs?” She said this with a matter-of-fact flare that tipped her hand; she knew my intentions before I stepped foot inside her classroom. She had offered up club membership as an out and I didn’t bite. Foolish.
I ran my teeth over my upper lip and made an ambiguous head movement that could have meant anything. Paria smiled at me. She walked back to her desk and reached out to arrange a bouquet of brightly colored markers. She sat back down in her chair. She had softened, relaxed, but she still regarded me with vague disinterest. I realized now I had bombarded her, and I wasn’t even her student.
“It’s nice to have a place where you can feel understood. Accepted. If that’s what you’re seeking. When our own belief systems are incongruous to those we spend time with, that dissonance can be overwhelming. Like-minded souls are beautiful. I’m glad you felt encouraged by the members of our club. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“Well, Carlie and I can stop by today,” I said and I turned to go. Attending lunch in Paria’s room would need a security blanket, not to mention a lengthy list of excuses to dish out to my friends.
“That’d be lovely, see you then. Au revoir.” She looked down at her desk and tried to look busy with some papers.
I turned back to her. And took a deep breath.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I blurted.
Looking up from the papers, Paria stared right at me. Her dark eyes narrowed and she cast me a distinctly mischievous smirk. I shivered.
“I see,” she said dryly. “So, here is the truth. You’ve come to me as a source of the information about the paranormal.” Not a question, a statement, and it wasn’t untrue.
She had been so much kinder in the larger group. Yesterday, she had been warm and inviting—like a favorite aunt. This morning, she held me at arm’s length and looked as though she wanted to shove me back out into the hallway. She hated me. It was ridiculous to assume, but I could feel it. She hated me standing there, she hated my question, and she wasn’t even trying to hide it.
“I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this. And Carlie…”
It was fast. A twitch, a subtle shifting of her eyebrows, a look of confusion. Then it was gone, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on what I saw. Surprise? Worry?
“…she brought me here because she said you would help.”
“Help how?”
“She didn’t say.”
“I wish she would have informed me how I was supposed to help.”
“She said you were understanding…you listened…”
We remained quiet.
I added, as a last-ditch effort, “I’ll take any help, really.”
After a long second, Paria opened her bottom desk drawer and began to rummage around. A necklace fell out from underneath her loose blouse; it was large and silver and it dangled as she moved. When she stood up, she put the jewelry back into hiding, and walked over to me. She extended her hand and in her palm was a small collection of chocolates.
“No, thank you,” I replied and I looked at the silver wrapping and shook my head. “Not the kind of help I’m looking for.”
Paria shrugged and opened up one of the candies and popped it into her own mouth. “I wish I could sit down and speak to you about your life…certainly, you are having a very trying time. But I cannot be the ally you need.”
“I need someone to listen who doesn’t think I’m a freak,” I said. In that moment, I had an experience where I saw myself as Paria must have seen me, and I realized how desperate and strange I appeared. The escalation of my questioning and fear may not have made sense to everyone else, but I was the one living it. Carlie brought me to Paria before to find comfort and solidarity, and surely her compassion was not a one-time extension.
She flinched when I said freak: visibly reacted to that vulnerable admission. This time she didn’t smile or nod or try to push candy toward me. “You are not a freak,” she said with severe seriousness. And for a second, I thought that she might cry. She placed a hand over her heart and said it again. “Not a freak. And I hope I’ll see you at lunch.” Then without a formal goodbye, she turned her back to me and walked back to her desk and said, “And if you don’t mind, could you shut the door as you leave?”
I stood there for a second trying to ascertain what had happened between me and this teacher to cause me to feel both valued and cast aside. Slipping out into the hall, shutting the door behind me until I heard it click, I knew I’d go back at lunchtime. I’d drag Carlie there and sit on the rug, with the lamplight, and I’d eat my rubbery school food and hope that someone, anyone would take the leap with me and uncover what was happening to my little brother. I needed their belief in me like I needed air.
It was English class, and Carlie and I sat together, huddled over a worksheet about rhetorical devices in argumentative writing. She helped me, and I filled in the blanks. Our teacher understood this strange dynamic: Carlie carrying me through the class, rushing through our work faster than anyone else, so that we could talk or goof off while everyone else floundered. Jared was in our English class, too, and sometimes he would slide over to us and join our little group. Within the confines of that class, he was bearable.
“Party in the rentals next Friday. Attend,” he said, leaving no room for disagreement.
Carlie nodded. “I’ll be there. Mara?”
“Sure,” I replied. A party in the rentals was always a wild ride, even if I wasn’t much of a partier.
It’s true what they say about small towns. The partying that happened with Ivy Falls kids had to beat any major school in any large city across our state. Part boredom, part expectation, there were places to go every weekend if you wanted escape and an endless cocktail of booze and drugs. Some anonymous person with a penchant for gossip set up a website called Oregon’s Scandalous Confessions and published information, sans identifying names, about the high schools. We were always on there with strange stories stemming from drug-fueled parties. My own choice to refrain from dabbling in the world of narcotics didn’t prevent me from knowing which classmates had a direct line to dealers or which ones stored drugs in their lockers.
