The Everafter Page 13

  accident. She must've gotten hit by a car."

  I can't tell if he's trying to protect me or if he's actually

  this stupid. Either way, I'm not putting up with it.

  I turn my back to Cozy. I can't stand to see her as I confront

  the universe with this cruelty. "She's not in the road,

  Gabe. If she'd been hit by a car, she'd be in the road."

  "Maybe a neighbor—"

  "She's arranged, Gabe. Posed. Someone wanted us to see

  her this way." I discover that I'm whispering, trying to protect

  Cozy, for God's sake, as if I don't want her to hear the

  truth about what's happened to her. As if she doesn't already

  know. She was there.

  But still I whisper. "A neighbor wouldn't stick her on the

  porch for us to . . . to stumble over."

  "Maddy, I'm sorry. I know you loved her."

  "I've loved her for ten years. Why? Who hates us enough

  to kill our cat?"

  "I don't know what happened here, Madison. But I just

  can't believe that someone . . . someone . . . y'know—"

  "Killed her, Gabe. Someone killed her."

  Words cannot express the explosion of emotion erupting

  from me. It escapes in hysterical screams. I hear them.

  They're loud but not loud enough to release this surge of

  emotion. That's all I can do: release it. So I throw every bit

  of my being into screaming louder, screaming from somewhere

  deep inside me that I didn't even know existed.

  Gabriel's tires screech on the cement as he pulls back

  into the drive. From somewhere far away, I process that

  he's coming, running toward me, so I stop screaming and

  start crying as he reaches for me and wraps me in his arms.

  "It's okay, it's okay," he's saying as he presses my face to his

  shoulder and strokes my hair, but then he's swearing—gently,

  softly. An obscene lullaby takes shape as he alternates

  between reassuring me and expressing his shock in fourletter

  words.

  My horror converts to anger, and I push away from him,

  saying, "It's not okay. It's not. She's dead. Cozy's dead."

  And the worst is that "dead" doesn't even begin to

  describe what she is.

  Mutilated...

  Broken . . .

  Crushed...

  Blood around her head has matted her hair in clumps.

  Her legs, broken, are arranged in an unnatural shape. Her

  tail, that once-proud flae; proclaiming her cathood, is limp

  and bent. The saddest thing I notice is the dried blood that

  "No, Maddy, I don't think so. It's bizarre, you're right,

  finding her here like this, but it has to be that someone was

  stupid enough not to realize this isn't how you bring someone's

  cat back after it's been hit by a car. Some kid, maybe,

  who doesn't know any better. C'mon."

  What he's saying makes a whole lot more sense than

  what I'm thinking. I let him pull me back into his arms. I

  want to believe him.

  But I just can't.

  The air around me seems to mold itself into an ominous

  shape. It presses against me so hard that I can barely

  breathe. I've become prey to a new feeling I've never experienced

  before. Something out there is tracking me down.

  I can feel it. Something has caught the scent of my blood.

  And I don't know how to escape it, because I don't have any

  idea which direction the threat is coming from.

  Gabe kisses my forehead.

  "I never figured out what her third name was," I whisper,

  holding him even tighter.

  "What?"

  I can tell he thinks I'm losing it. Maybe I am. "Never

  mind," I say. I wish he understood what I meant, but I don't

  have the energy to explain Mom and T. S. Eliot's theory

  about cat names—or that I've caught Cozy over the years

  contemplating this secret she's managed to keep from me.

  Gabe whispers, "Go in the house. Call your mom and

  l?S

  dad. I'll pick up all those photos and come in to sit with

  you."

  I do what he tells me.

  Because I can't look at Cozy again.

  Because even though I don't care about my scrapbook

  right now, I know I will someday.

  But mostly I do because I'm afraid that whatever is

  stalking me will return, and I'm scared to stay out here

  any longer. I step through the front door, expecting my

  house's crisp scent of eucalyptus to offer some comfort. Dut

  it doesn't. I sense that the house is grieving the loss of Cozy,

  too.

  Is feels emptier than it ever has when I return this time, but at

  least I'm feeling some hope: Maybe Cozy never did actually

  know what happened to her in those final moments. After

  all, I don't know what happened in my hnal moments.

  And now I realize something important: .Maybe I

  shouldn't want to know so badly what happened to me. 1

  remember that trickle cf blood matted along Cozy's jaw,

  and then 1 recall the oppressive feeling of being stalked

  that hit me just before I went into the house. I'm afraid that

  whatever was stalking me . . . found me.

  What if...

  What if my predator caught Gabriel in its net, too?

  Vi

  It's an appalling thought.

  God, if you're out here somewhere amid all this clutter

  from my life, please tell me that whatever happened to

  Gabriel, it wasn't that.

  v,

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  e ring

  age 17

  ''You're paranoid," Gabe says.

  "I am notl" This whole home-alone-with-Gabe thing

  isn't going the way I thought it would. Here I am, with my

  boyfriend, in my own bedroom where we could be comfortably

  horizontal on the bed together, no parents barging in

  (they're with Kristen, helping her paint the baby's room),

  and what are we doing? Fighting.

  "You are, too," Gabe says. "This is just silly."

  Okay, being told I'm silly and paranoid? This takes me

  to an all-new level of anger. It isn't helping any that I'm still

  1JB

  shaking from the car accident—even if it was three hours

  ago. I was so upset right after it happened that my parents

  weren't going to leave me alone to go do the painting at

  Kristen's. I convinced them to go, thinking time alone with

  Gabe would help me more than hanging out with my parents

  would, but now he's not even concerned about the way

  his ex-girlfriend almost killed me.

  More than t h a t . . . he's defending her.

  "You weren't there, Gabe. I'm not being silly and paranoid.

  I'm telling you, she hit me on purpose. We were both

  stopped at a stop sign. I had the right of way. She looked

  directly at me and then drove that Mercedes straight into the

  driver's side of my car. She wanted to hurt me."

  "That doesn't even make sense. Why would she mess up

  her parents' car?"

  "Uh, hello? Because she wants to hurt me? Because she

  still wants you back?"

  "Jesus, Maddy. You and I have been together for a year

  and a half now. It's not like she would think I'm going to go

  running back to her a
nytime soon. And hitting you with a

  car wouldn't do anything to get her back with me anyway,

  unless she killed you or something. She's not a murderer.

  You're the one who's jeal—"

  He's just admitted that he'd go back to her if I were

  dead, and he thinks he's going to go on happily accusing me

  of being silly? "See?! You just admitted you'd get back with

  m

  her if I were dead!"

  "I did not'. How crazy can you ge:, Moody? You know

  that's not at all what I meant! Your jealousy is driving me

  insane. You've never been able to let go of thinking that I

  still have a thing for her. No matter what I do, I can't get

  you to let go of that."

  "Well, gee, Gabe, it might help if you'd stop defending

  her. Maybe then I'd believe that you cared about me more

  than you do her."

  "I do! But I'm not going to believe that Dana hit you

  on purpose with her parents' Mercedes. Sometimes she's

  awful. I admit it. But she's not that crazy. And she isn't trying

  to kill you."

  Okay, I start crying. I can't explain to him how . . . insecure

  I've felt since we found Cozy deed on the front porch

  a few weeks ago. That strange sense of being hunted hasn't

  gone away. It's just intensified. And today, as Dana was pulling

  that car straight into me, it was like my predator finally

  Lituijhi me. Tune seemed lu slow, lo lauuli al ilie way I'd

  been captured.

  "This isn't just me being paranoid or jealous, Gabe. I

  mean it. She wants me dead. I think she even killed Cozy."

  The strangest look crosses his face. It's terrifying to me

  because I can tell he thinks I've gone off the deep end on

  this one. I feel more alone than I've ever been in my life.

  And all those feelings roil inside me with anger. How dare

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  biitp.?.d;.9illns.Pyfeiis!)Sfj.

  o s i n j myself or disney world

  oge 6

  Hot, . . h o t . . . hot. The sun beats down on us. I love the

  Magic Kingdom, but I'm tired of the heat and just plain

  exhausted. The sun glares off of everything. And my face

  feels gritty with sweat. My hair is soaked. Mom and Dad

  have even decided that we all need popcorn to replace some

  of the salt we've lost from sweating.

  1 like that idea.

  I take a piece of popcorn and drop it, watching it fall. It

  seems to float slowly in the heavy air. When it finally hits

  the ground, I kick it with my foot. This place is so glittering

  IBi

  he not believe me? I thought he loved me.

  I grab a small ring off my vanity (I'd use something bigger

  if it were in reach) and whip it at him where he's standing

  in the doorway.

  The I-don't-know-this-girl look that crosses his face is

  too much I'm humiliated. He's right—I am psycho right

  now. I owe him an apology, and yet, even though I know

  this, and even though humiliation has just been added to

  the emotional stew I've been cooking, I feel like I hate Gabe

  right now.

  And I hate him even more when he turns on his heel

  and simply walks away from me. His feet pound quicklv

  down the stairs, and then I hear the front door slamming.

  Still crying, I wander over to the doorway and get down

  on my hands and knees to start searching for the missing

  ring. It isn't valuable or anything. It's just a ring that my

  grandma gave me for my twelfth birthday. But it seems

  incredibly important that I find it right now. I've lost so

  much else—iny cat, my boyfi lend, my samly. I LUII'L beai lu

  lose this r:ng, too. It feels as if finding it might help me find

  all the other things I've lost.

  Something metal brushes against—

  IB1

  and clean, I'm happy to see the lonely popcorn piece on the

  ground.

  "But 1 want to go back on the Big Thunder Mountain

  Railroad ride," Kristen moans.

  I kick the piece of popcorn along as we walk. This is

  one of my favorite things to do. Walk . . . kick . . . walk . . .

  kick...

  "We will," Mom reassures her. "But your father wants

  to take you on the Jungle Cruise first."

  "You said we could go through the Pirates of the Caribbean

  ride again," I whine. I feel betrayed. I give my popcorn

  piece an extra-hard kick. It skitters off and I lose sight of it.

  This. Is. It.

  The end of the world. It's too hot. I don't want to see

  anything else except the Pirates of the Caribbean ride,

  where it's dark and cool. I'm tired. My eyes hurt. My feet

  hurt. My head aches.

  And now I've lost a piece of popcorn.

  A piece that was very important to me.

  I can't help it. I begin to cry.

  My family hasn't even noticed that they've left me

  behind. They keep right on walking. Fine .. . if they don't

  care about me, then I don't care about them, either. I'll run

  awav and live in the Swiss Family Treehouse that we saw

  earlier today. All by myself. Forever.

  Only . . . that's not sounding quite so great now that I

  193

  can't even see my family anymore,

  I panic.

  I start crying even harder.

  Suddenly, Mom and Dad are standing in front of me.

  "Madison, stay with us!" my mother starts to chastise me, but

  then she notices how hard I'm crying, so she wipes my face

  with a Kleenex instead. "C'mon, sweetie," she says. She reaches

  for my hand and pulls. I yank my hand away from hers.

  "What is i t , honey?" Daddy asks.

  "My popcorn," I wail.

  "It's right there in your hand," Daddy tries to reassure

  me, gesturing to the bucket I'm still holding.

  "No," I explain through my sobs. "I was kicking a piece

  and I lost it."

  A strange silence descends between them, even as all the

  noise of the Magic Kingdom surrounds us.

  Then Mom says something really strange to Dad, I

  hear something that sounds like "object attachment." Even

  though I don't understand those words, I know Mom's tone

  of voice. It's the one she uses when what she really means is

  "Maddy's difficult. I can't wait until she's older"—even if

  those aren't the words she's saying.

  "C'mon, sweetheart," Daddy says. "I'll give you a piggyback

  ride."

  I climb on Daddy's back, and we move on toward

  Cinderella's Castle.

  IS*

  But let's face it, I'm not talking about "you" right now.

  I'm talking about me.

  The same me who—even in death—is incredibly

  attached to these things because they take me back to who

  I was. Somehow, though, it doesn't seem quite as fulfilling

  as it once did to have a relationship with a piece of popcorn

  that I'm kicking along on the pavement...

  Kicking... I suddenly realize I haven't tried that yet with

  the pinecone. I've imagined myself doing every other possible

  thing that can be done with it. But I never envisioned

  myself kicking it as I walked along. Could that be . . . ?


  I swim myself through the currents of space until I find

  the pinecone, and . ..

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  is

  MOM AND DAD'S COMMENT about "object attachment" suddenly

  makes perfect sense. I've always had some kind of

  connection to the things I've owned. Losing them left me

  feeling bereft because they were linked to everyone and

  everything in my life that was important. And unlike the

  people I loved, I could control them—at least I could when

  I wasn't losing them.

  Objects are safe, too. I mean, they don't change much. A

  pen stays a pen and a set of keys always unlocks something.

  You can go back to the object, hold it, remember who you

  were when you loved it. That's something you can count

  on.

  I:i

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  HaggfialllMfafelJslM

  the pinecone

  age 17

  "What am I going to do, Maddv?"

  I kick the pinecone along as we walk down the trails

  of the park. I know I need to get out of my head, where

  the image of Gabe's and my light last week is on automatic

  replay 24-7. We still haven't talked to each other, and I can't

  stop wondering if this is the end of our relationship. Our

  gazes have met across the hallway several times, and I keep

  wanting to go up and tell him how sorry I am that I threw

  that ring at him.

  But I just can't. I guess it's the humiliation. And the

  IB' IB.1

  fear . .. that he won't accept my apology. And—let's face it,

  I'm still angry at him, too, about Dana.

  I keep expecting to see him walking down the hall with

  her or something.

  Only—thank God—he doesn't.

  He just looks at me like he wants to talk to me, too, but

  can't.

  It's hard to stop thinking about all that and pay attention

  to Sandra. But I have to do it somehow. She needs me

  right now.

  Some friend I am . . . only half concentrating on what

  she's saying.

  And the thing is . .. the decision she makes about this

  whole mess is going to have an impact on me. What if I lose

  my best friend, too? I can't bear that. It almost makes me

  want to give her what I know is the wrong advice. Because if

  she does what's right, I will lose her.

  Sure, if she moves to Oregon with her dad, she'll still

  email me and call. Even come to visit sometimes. But it won't

  be the same. Gradually the emotional distance between us

  will match the distance between .Michigan and Oregon.