RUTH
I pull to the curb in front of Rachel’s house and check the clock on the dash. I can’t believe it’s already close to ten. I haven’t spent that long in Target in ages. But I was in such a good mood, I allowed myself to roam the aisles and peruse all the bargains, unbothered by the mothers shopping for Easter presents for their brood. I think I could have run into Charlie’s wife and I would have been fine, wished her a happy Easter. Of course, I can say that now, since it didn’t happen. But I like to think I would have been fine.
I look up to the house and see Shadow at the front window, his paws against the glass, which I know is a no-no. Damn dog. I suppose, by canine standards, Shadow is a good dog. He’s gentle with the kids and fairly obedient, and very good-natured. I’m just not a dog person. I shudder at the thought of picking up after a dog his size. And forget about the expense of a dog. I’ll bet Shadow costs as much to care for as one of Rachel’s kids. Try telling my sister that. She loves dogs. Always has.
I climb out of my car and walk around to the passenger side. I grab my Target bags. They are numerous. Along with the hair dye, I bought Rachel and the kids some little love presents, and I can’t leave the ingredients for the pies in the car, as they are perishable.
Halfway up the path, I lose my balance and drop two of the bags. My meds are in effect, but my joints still protest as I kneel down to retrieve my bounty.
I stand up and see Shadow, still barking furiously. He sees me and thumps his tail, then redirects his focus to something behind me. I glance back and see the Persian cat from across the street sitting on the sidewalk, swinging its tail back and forth violently, like a scythe.
“It’s just a cat, Shadow,” I call to him, although he probably can’t hear me over the ruckus he’s making.
I trudge to the porch, the bags growing heavier with each step. Perhaps I went a little overboard at Target, but the children’s clothes in the clearance section were hard to pass up. And the model T. rex that makes noise for 50 percent off? I know Jonah’s into bugs, but I think he’ll like it. Then there’s the Our Generation doll for Eden. I’m pretty sure she still plays with dolls. At least I hope so.
I climb the porch steps and bypass the doorbell, loop my right hand through the handles of two of the bags, then grasp the doorknob. I turn the knob and push the door open. It swings wide, and I step into the house. I reach out with my foot to close the door, but it doesn’t close all the way.
Jonah comes bouncing down the stairs holding something in his hands, the stuffed monkey on his hip.
“Hi, Aunt Ruth!” he says breathlessly, then rushes past me to the front porch. I hear him shriek, “Gigi, no!”
Just then, Shadow bounds from the living room, and I think he’s coming to greet me, but instead, he shoots through the open door.
“Damn it!” I shout as I hurry to the kitchen. “Rachel, Sam! Shadow got out!”
My sister and brother-in-law are nowhere to be seen. It’s my fault for leaving the door open, so although I know it’s going to cost me in the pain department, I don’t wait for them to come to my rescue. I set the bags down on the counter and retrace my steps to the front door, cursing Shadow under my breath. I remember his leash, curse again, then rush to the hall closet to retrieve it.
SEVENTY-THREE
SHADOW
I hear Little Male say, “Gigi, no!” And I know I’m not supposed to be outside, but I won’t stop, can’t stop even if I wanted to stop, but I don’t want to stop.
Because I’m finally going to get the cat.
SEVENTY-FOUR
The earsplitting shriek of brakes echoes through the morning air, followed by a grotesque thump.
Barking, screaming, moaning, crying. The wail of a teenager, newly behind the wheel, his life forever altered by one error in judgment.
Sirens howl in the distance, swiftly moving closer until their sound is cacophonous.
Neighbors gape from front porches, front windows, sidewalks, driveways, hands over mouths, faces drawn, tearstained.
Swirling red lights atop shiny red trucks. Uniformed men work futilely, jaws tightly clenched. Blood slowly seeps across asphalt.
A cat watches, ambivalent, from a lawn.
A katydid hides in a tree, awaiting nightfall.
A stuffed monkey, unscathed save for a tiny spot of oil on its cheek, lies discarded on the far sidewalk.
PART SIX: THE VERY BAD DAY REVISITED
SEVENTY-FIVE
JONAH
I don’t know how many days have gone by since the very bad day. Time is different for me than it was. Maybe I’m like Shadow. Not long before I died, I remember Dad telling me that dogs have no sense of time. I didn’t know what that meant when he told me, but I do now.
I’m still here, in my house, and my family is still broken. There isn’t as much crying as before. Mom still does, Dad and Eden, too, and even Aunt Ruth. But less. There’s not a lot of talking. There’s no laughter at all. Shadow only seems happy when I’m with him, which I can’t do very much anymore. The rest of the time, he mopes.
I feel different from when I was alive. Not just that I’m dead—duh, that is different. But I feel like I understand things more than I did. Grown-up things.
This one time at church, the Sunday school teacher said that when we die and go to heaven, we all are the same age as Jesus was when he died, which was like thirty years old. So maybe I’m thirty now.
What I understand, too, that I didn’t before, is that everyone in my family thinks it’s their fault that I died. I also understand that if I don’t, somehow, let them know what really happened, they’ll always blame themselves, and they will never get unbroken.
I know they’re seeing someone to help them. A doctor. I can tell from their energy, whenever they get back from seeing her, that she’s helping. Not much, but a little. I tried to go to her, the doctor, tried to sneak into her dreams, but she’s too far away from this house. Kind of like the hospital was when I tried to go to Mom that time she was there. I don’t know if I made it to the doctor. I don’t think I did.
I’m fading from this place. I sense that, too. I don’t want to leave my family how they are now. But I’m starting to feel a pull to elsewhere. Maybe heaven. I’m not exactly sure yet, but it feels good and warm and nice, and I know I should let myself go there soon.
But I can’t go until I fix my family. I know that’s why I’m still here.