Chasing Shadows (11 page)

"I didn't know you
could
cry." Ashley
says.

Since there isn't much else I can do about it,
I decide to use the waterworks to my advantage. "If you're going to
be a mean cunt, please save it for when I'm on the clock. Someone
who knew me died, and this is not a good time."

Qasim's eyebrows crinkle. "Someone who knew
you? That's an odd way to put it."

"She does that." Ashley says, but her voice is
softer. Really? This is the type of
Lifetime Original
moment
it takes to get Ashley to cut me some slack? Qasim reaches for my
hand. I don't know what I think about that.

"Who did you text?” He asks softly.

Oh my God! Douche bag! I narrow my eyes at him.
"Okay Qasim, I lied."

Relief floods his face, odd.

"I am mad at you." I continue. "And other than
that, nothing else is different. I'm still the same girl, with the
same issues, I was Saturday. If you're feeling bad it's not because
you know me well enough to miss me." I shake my head. "You
should've hit it when you had the chance. The moment is passed.
Leave me alone." I withdraw my hand from his, but my eyes are slow
to relinquish his hair, his skin, and those eyes. Ah Fuck! Stop it
already!

Ashley nods her head. "That's the Meegan I
know." she says, and she stands up to leave.

"Whatever." I mumble to myself. I go back to
the article about the dead girl. It says her name was Madeline
Cross. It doesn't mention anything about her long, lost friend
Kelly, so no help there. She went to Loyola for law school before
being dropped from the program following an 'ethics scandal' this
spring. Hmm, that could be something. Sounds like code for 'sex
crime'. Her family lives in Evanston which is like saying north,
north side as far as I'm concerned. They're holding a memorial
Friday and the funeral Saturday morning. I check my phone. Yeah, I
thought so, I'm off Friday. Guess I know where I'm going. Briefly I
wonder if her killer will be there. The thought makes my blood run
cold. That's just a chance I'll have to take I suppose. I almost
have
to go and see if anyone there knows about her or me.
What if they recognize me?... I'll say I'm my cousin.
Ha.

I'm staring out the window thinking these
thoughts when a shade materializes in front of me. Nope,
correction, there's two of them. I've never seen more than one at a
time before. I feel a little tickle on my neck and it sooths me. I
smile at them. There's a red one and a gray one. I wonder how they
work. Does it take a lot of energy to materialize? To touch me? Can
the same one look different when it wants to? Are they ghosts?
Spirits? Fairies? I chuckle. "Better go to work." I whisper, and
the shades twinkle themselves into nothing.

Chapter Five

My knees are cold. I'm standing on my front
stoop waiting for Schuyler. I'm wearing a khaki skirt with a blue
button down blouse and my dress boots. The outfit's not for
Schuyler, well not entirely. It's Friday night and we're headed to
a memorial service in Evanston. Big partiers, that's us. I can
think of other things I'd rather be doing. I'm nervous. Oh yeah,
and my knees are cold.

I'm busy watching my breath fog, trying to
think of it as steam, when I see the mother ship round the corner
half a block down. Here comes my ride. I smile. I don't know if I
ever went to a prom, but it might have felt something like this. I
hop in place as Schuyler eases the boat onto the curb. I hear the
lock release. Oh hell, how do I climb into this beast with a skirt?
Carefully, that's how. I'm buckling my seat belt when I catch
Schuyler's eyes on my knees; they're nice knees.

"I didn't figure you for the skirt wearing
type." He says as he pulls back out onto the street.

I smile. "Any girl is the skirt wearing type in
the right circumstances. I thought my hair is a bit harsh so maybe
I should dress respectfully to balance it out."

Schuyler nods. "Should I change?" He asks, eyes
on the road.

I check out his gear. "Nah you're fine." He's
wearing dark jeans and a sweater, almost universally appropriate
for a guy. "Don't want to be late." He nods again. I notice his
knuckles are white from the death grip he has on the wheel.
Traffic's not that heavy. "You Okay?" I ask.

Schuyler sighs. "Yeah, I guess so."

I feel my forehead crinkle with concern. "If
you don't want to go to this..."

He interrupts me. "It's cool." He says. "We
have to go. You saw her die."

Now I'm nervous again. "We're not going to tell
any of them." I say.

"What if they recognize you?"

I nod. "I thought about that too. If they think
I'm Kelly, then I'll just tell them I'm her cousin and use my real
name. That way there's only one lie to keep track of."

Schuyler looks at me sideways. "Okay." He says
but he still seems edgy.

So I say: "You seem edgy. Wanna talk about
it?"

"Uh..." Schuyler taps out a rhythm on the
steering wheel. "Nah, I just need music." He says reaching one
incredibly long arm over to adjust the center console which I don't
think is necessary. I'm pretty sure the Escalade has stereo
controls mounted on its huge, tricked-out steering wheel. This car
makes me want to learn to drive. Now my thought is obliterated by
the
Red Hot Chili Peppers
who come on half way
through a song. And I burst out singing along. Who doesn't know all
the lyrics to "Suck my Kiss"? Schuyler laughs and I feel good to
have caused it. We drive on listening to almost all of
Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic
and singing along with the parts
we know. I feel I should say that, for me, this is all relatively
new music. I like the sweet nostalgic looks people get on their
faces when I tell them what I'm listening to. It makes me feel like
I've tricked them. Since I was discovered naked on the beach, I've
given myself a crash course in pop culture. Thank God for the
internet. I just learned about the Chili Peppers six months ago.
I'd had no idea that the band on the radio singing
Hey-oh
and
Danni California
was the
same one I'd discovered under some subset of nineties rock that
played Give it Away Now and that song about fucking a female cop.
It makes me laugh. I think the aging process is ridiculous. I look
forward to it. Maybe I'll cuss less. Needless to say, by the time
we reach Evanston, we're both way too jolly for a memorial. Good
thing we have to drive around for a while to find the place. After
we’ve located the funeral parlor, and found our parking spot,
Schuyler cuts the engine, kills the stereo, and turns to face me.
That tense look is back, so I brace myself.

"Meegan." He says.

"Schuyler." I say.

Now he looks at the cup holder. "I don't want
to be your boyfriend."

I feel my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline.
"Okay." I say like,
no big deal
.

"It's not that I don't like you." He
says.

"Okay."

"It's just that I don't want to have a kid that
has schizophrenia. Not there's anything bad about schizophrenics,
but it's a hard thing sometimes, and anyway there's evidence it's
hereditary... Well not evidence, but sometime's there's a
correlation. I think the likelihood increases and if both parents
have, like, issues then...” He trails off looking lost.

I laugh. This causes Schuyler to look me in the
eye. "Geeze Schuyler, I appreciate that you've thought this through
but, kids? Yikes." I shake my head. "Don't worry. We don't have to
be boyfriend and girlfriend. You still want to hang out though,
right?"

He nods vigorously. "Yeah, just
no..."

I cut him off. "No kids, gotcha." I
smile.

He shakes his head. "No sex or anything close,
because, obviously..."

Now I'm squinting at him. "So you never have
sex with someone you don't want to have kids with?"

He swallows. "I'm Catholic."

I don't get it. "I don't get it." I
say.

"We don't believe in birth control."

Whoa, I think, weird. "Ahh." I say. "And you
never plan to have kids."

Schuyler nods.

"Sounds to me like you're believing yourself
right into a corner there, honey." I hold up my hands, palms out.
"Not that I'm pressuring you. I'm just really glad you're here
right now."

He nods again, wide eyed. "Yeah me
too."

"Cool."

"Cool."

"So." I ask. "If I was normal, you'd want
to?"

Schuyler's eyebrows rise. "Oh definitely,
sure." Now he catches himself. "Uh... I mean..."

I roll my eyes. "Its cool, no worries." I shake
my head. "I'm glad you'd want me to have your babies if I didn't
see shit." I say and pop open the door. I get out leaving my bag in
the car.

"Hey!" Schuyler hurries around to my side. "Are
you mad at me?"

I pause to think about it. "No." and its true.
"I was afraid you were gay anyway, so I'll just pretend that you
are."

"What?" his voice squeaks. "I'm not
gay."

"Bi?" I shake my head. "No, of course not. It's
just that, I like you, and usually when I like someone there's
something wrong, you know. Not that gay is wrong," I backpedal,
just in case. "It’s just a big fat reason why it'll never work
out."

"Huh, so mental illness isn't a big fat reason
for you?" He smiles.

I smile too, and we start walking slowly
towards the funeral parlor. I lower my voice. "So... are you a
virgin? I mean since you don't do it if you're not prepared to
procreate."

Schuyler sighs. "I started having episodes when
I was pretty young." He says. "No, I'm not a virgin but I've never
done it when I was fully medicated."

"Really."

He runs his hands through his hair, and I
notice how blond it looks next to the dark blue sweater. “The
church... I mean, when you're raised Catholic..." He doesn't seem
to know how to finish.

I take his hand. "Don't worry, Schuyler." I
whisper. We're getting close to the mourners now and I don't want
to be over heard. I look around. I'm becoming increasingly agitated
the closer I get to all these people who knew Madeline and maybe
know me. I wonder who's who. Should I walk up and talk to people?
Never my strong suit. Will they come up and talk to me? Also not my
forte.

"I spent the entire year I was seventeen
believing I was Jesus." Schuyler says.

"Whoa!" I gasp. I release his hand and wrap my
arm around his waist. Poor dude. What a let down. My problems are
silly. "Hey I'm gonna ask my shades to show me who... never mind
okay? Just ignore me for a second." I pull us to a stop about
twenty yards from the entrance. Most of the other people are
already inside. I clear my throat. "If you're listening, and I know
you are, please help me to know who to talk to." I say in a normal
tone. A lady in black gives me a look.

"She's praying." Schuyler says.

"We're Catholic." I nod. The woman smiles
politely and precedes us up the walk into the funeral
home.

Inside we are herded into a cream colored room
to our left. The place is full, but it’s not as packed as I'd
expect, considering the youth and relative beauty of the departed.
There's a podium at the front, next to a big glamour shot of
Madeline Cross. Schuyler and I take seats in the middle of the back
row. I feel appropriately dressed and almost no one looks at me.
There are a number of other women in my age range present. One of
them is a red headed girl with glasses who takes the seat next to
mine.

She looks at me solemnly. "I'm Amy." She says.
"I grew up with Mads."

I nod. "I'm Meegan. I only met her recently but
she made a big impression."

At this Amy stiffens. What did I say? She turns
her attention forward. We still have a few minutes before its set
to begin. I'm busy scanning the room for shadows, when the tension
seems to get the better of the girl and she decides to play
hostess. "Up front." She points. "That's Mr. and Mrs. Cross, Tom
and Sally, and the blond next to Sally is Mads' little sister Gwen.
They were only two years apart. I heard Gwen was applying to
transfer to Loyola with Mads before the scandal broke out. Now I
don't know what she'll do." Amy says the word scandal like I should
know something about it. Must be the ethics thing mentioned in the
paper.

“Mmm.” I say noncommittally, trying for solemn
and sympathetic. “What was Mads like as a girl?” I ask this more to
keep Amy talking than anything else.

Amy purses her lips. “Smart, fun, kind of a
rebel.” On the word rebel she chokes up and hides behind a tissue.
I fold my hands in my lap. I don’t know how to do consoling. Maybe
if I did, Ashley would still be talking to me. Suddenly I miss
Ashley very much. Flash: what if this were Ashley’s memorial? Would
I be the red head in back crying at a stranger? Probably. I never
met her family. I spend a few minutes worrying about what to say to
this Amy person, and now the funeral director steps up to the
podium. The service can begin, thank God.