I lightly punch him in the arm. “Don’t worry about it. That’s what family is for, right?” My hand falls awkwardly to my side and I shrug. “It’s fine.” After all, no one’s family is as dysfunctional as mine.
He nods. “Okay, then.” And after another nod for good measure, he seems to have returned to his normal Will self. “Shall we?” We both turn toward the door. Sweaty bodies are being herded up the stairs to a second story.
Will and I fall in line. Trudging in silence, we pass a gallery of family portraits. I realize I have no idea whose home this is. Once upstairs, I crane my neck and see that the upstairs seems to have two bedrooms and a bathroom accented with frilly yellow-trimmed curtains. I doubt the adults of the house envisioned their home being used as a place to die.
A cold, emptied-out feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. I don’t even know how the death will take place. Is there a standard, and if so, what is it?
I try to imagine how I’d choose to go. Overdose maybe. Then I shake off the thoughts as too terrible to process.
We’re led away from the bedrooms to a large room that must be used as a game room or some other shared space for the family. Even though it’s nighttime, the windows are blacked out with cardboard. Will and I shuffle to the side and, once settled, I scoot closer to the warmth of his arm.
In the center of the room, a petite blond girl with stringy hair sits on a couch. It’s not the one Will predicted. This girl’s eyes are unfocused. She stares off into the center of the crowd, looking at no one in particular. It’s almost like having her ghost already in the room.
My heart bangs in my chest. A boy separates from the crowd and leans down to kiss the girl. She responds only by lifting her chin and kissing him hard on the mouth, letting out a slight moan as she does it. When their lips part, he hands her a bottle of vodka. She takes it by the handle and downs a big gulp.
The boy, whose eyes are black and hard, the features of his face sharp like a skeleton’s, turns toward us. He presses the fingertips of both hands together. A smirk cuts through one cheek. “On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, I commit my girlfriend, Matilda Thorne, to death”—he reaches back and touches Matilda’s shoulder—“so that she can return to this life anew.” Murmurs rise like the wind whispering through branches.
The floorboards creak. A lanky boy with greasy hair hanging down to his ears and rope tied around his wrist for bracelets steps to greet Matilda’s boyfriend. He holds a book with its spine cracked open and presses the tip of a long fingernail to the page. He reads, “In front of these witnesses, do you go willingly into the darkness?” I hold my breath and wonder who will take her body to the resurrection site tomorrow. Will the boy’s face give away his guilt? Will the accident they stage be convincing enough to save Matilda?
She stills. Her chin is pointed down and, with milky eyes, she stares up at the boy. “I do.” There are small gasps from around the room. Her boyfriend’s fingers twitch at his sides like spider legs.
The boy with the book turns to him. “Do you commit to rebuild her from blood and bone and to fill her with the lifeblood so that she can be resurrected from the dead?”
Shadows hatchet his face into mean lines. “I do.”
The boy closes his book, nods once, and fades into the onlookers like a spirit.
I can’t speak. I can’t look away. The eventualities stretch out in front of me. This boy could be hit by a bus tomorrow and then where would Matilda be? He could be caught, in which case he’ll lose his resurrection choice altogether. Poor, lost, bird-boned Matilda would be dead forever. Gone. Snuffed out. And she wouldn’t even get to say good-bye.
My thoughts instantly flip to Matt. Then off to the side, someone hands the boyfriend of the soon-to-be-late Matilda Thorne a plastic bag. I’m holding my breath. The back of my hand rubs against Will’s. Our fingers move, then I loop my thumb around his and suddenly we’re holding hands. Opposing emotions swirl inside of me, but the one that has most of my attention is a swelling happiness at the feel of our skin touching.
I glance up at him. He tightens his lips into a straight-lined smile and moves closer. He rubs the side of my hand with his thumb. Matilda sways and I know she must have more than that last drink of vodka swimming through her system. The boy places the bag over her head.
I squeeze my eyes shut. This will be my brother someday, I think. We will have to do this to my brother and we’ll stage an accident and it will be up to me to bring him back. Anger surges in my veins at the thought. That I should have to keep that terrible secret for someone who hates me for no reason—it turns my head feverish. And when I open my eyes again, the weight of it feels all wrong. Matilda is puffing into plastic now. Puffing and puffing and then suddenly her eyes go wide. I startle as her hands shoot to the bag digging into her neck and try to tear at the material. Her legs kick straight out and then she smacks her feet hard against the floor. Her back arches. I see the ridges in her throat like the spine of a reptile. Her boyfriend tightens his grip, twists the plastic tight in his fist, holds it fast against the base of her skull. She writhes. Her face swells. Arms and legs move less, less, less. Breaths get slower and slower. The boy’s eyes are shining with interest. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
Without thinking, I push my nose into the rough fabric of Will’s shirt. He doesn’t let go of my hand, but instead rests his chin on my hair. I don’t know if his eyes are open or closed and I know I won’t ever ask. I wait until the bell chimes three more times. That’s when I know that, until tomorrow, Matilda is gone.
It’s only one day. But it’s still one whole day.
The mood is somber as we file back down the stairs. White lights dance in my vision. My palm stays pressed firmly to Will’s and a surging pride and warmth mixes with the leftover horror from upstairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, we find Penny waiting for us. Her complexion has turned translucent and she appears shaken. “I couldn’t find you—” And then she notices Will’s and my hands curled together. “Oh,” she says, blinking. Her cheeks light up a fluorescent pink. “Oh,” she repeats. Her hand brushes across her forehead like she’s checking for fever. “Um, yeah.” She tucks a quivering lip behind her front teeth and tries on a smile. “Great, then. Here…you are.” And, at once, it feels as if Matilda Thorne isn’t the only thing to have died up there.
Matt and I are home before sunrise, so early that our parents don’t even know we’ve been gone. I lie on my bed, head fuzzy from lack of sleep. I’ve been reading a couple of pages from Penny’s notebook every day. It’s the closest thing I have to talking to her and sometimes, when I’m especially tired or worn out from crying or can’t shut off my brain, I can convince myself that she’s written certain passages specifically for me. Like:
Better than a thousand hollow words
is one word that brings peace.
Better than a thousand hollow verses
is one verse that brings peace.
—Gautama Buddha