Love Over Matter (7 page)

It’s probably misleading to describe
Rosita—or Rosie, as my family calls her—as a cleaning lady, since
she’s only four years older than I am and is a sophomore at
Middlebury College. The cleaning gig is her way of taking some of
the tuition heat off her parents who, as new immigrants to the
United States, founded Dust Bunnies (hence the giant pink rabbits
painted all over Rosie’s car).

“
Pretty good,” I say
automatically, sparing her the gory details.

“
Mind carrying this for
me?” she asks, a twinkle in her shiny, dark eyes and a Swiffer in
her outstretched hand.

“
Sure.” Rosie is a
sweetheart, the sort of girl my parents probably want me to become:
hardworking, genuine, always ready with a kind word and a welcoming
smile. And smart.
Ludicrously
smart.

“
Oh, I forgot,” she tells
me once we’ve traipsed into the house and deposited her gear in the
mudroom. “I’ve got something for you.” She extends a finger,
indicating I should wait. “I’ll be right back.”

She U-turns for the Bunny Mobile and I
meander into the kitchen, where I start fixing a snack plate of
peanut butter and marshmallow cracker-sandwiches.

The screen door bangs shut upon
Rosie’s return, her bouncy steps rattling the mini-blinds in the
kitchen windows. “This thing was pretty grungy,” she declares from
behind me, “so I took it home and put it through the
wash.”

A string of marshmallow stretches from
the jar to the butter knife. I rescue it with my tongue, then lick
the blade clean. “Oh, yeah?” I say, not yet realizing what she’s
referring to.

“
I would’ve done it with
the linens,” she tells me in an apologetic tone, “but I didn’t see
it until they were already in the dryer.”

Rosie’s always performing extra tasks,
going above and beyond what anyone would expect a cleaning lady to
do. “Okay. Thanks,” I say.

She presses George’s hoodie
into my peripheral vision.
No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no,
I
silently screech.
Not
that.
Please, God.

“
It was awful smelly,” she
continues, “so I had to go all Dear Heloise on it. FYI, baking soda
is your friend. Cleans anything.”

I have never had a panic attack, not
even when I got the call from George’s mother about the accident.
But there’s a first time for everything, I guess, because right
now, at the sight of that freshly laundered hoodie (seriously, the
thing is so clean it has morphed from its normal greenish gray to a
vibrant teal), rushing waves of prickly heat roll through me,
accompanied by the sensation that I will soon regurgitate my
stomach (not just its contents, but my actual stomach) and then
promptly die.

The knife drops out of my hand, swan
dives off the counter and skids across the floor. I can’t bend down
to retrieve it or I’ll faint.

Rosie chuckles. “I’ll get that.” She
passes me the hoodie, which feels wrong in my hands. “Are you all
right?” she asks, the knife now resting safely in the
sink.

It’s too late; she’s already wrecked
my life. “I think I’m catching something,” I lie. “Or my allergies
are acting up.” I try conjuring an upbeat smile, but my mouth
refuses to play along.

She starts rearranging items on the
counter, clearing surface area for a wipe down. “Want me to run to
the store? Get you some meds?”

“
Nah. I’m fine,” I say. “If
my mother asks, I went to bed.”

Now it’s Rosie’s turn to
practice facial contortion, her expression bordering on a
concerned/perplexed scowl. “Okay,” she agrees, reluctance in her
voice. “I’ll let her know.
You
get better.”

“
Sure thing.”

chapter 6

My room is in its usual state of
controlled chaos (I swear, I can find anything at a moment’s notice
without instigating an archeological dig) when I scuff
in.

Morose. Glum. Dejected. All apt
descriptions of my state of mind over what I’ll refer to as the
“hoodie situation.” Lest anyone think I’m overreacting to Rosie’s
not-so-helpful gesture, I’d like to point out that this garment
once possessed not only George’s sweet, earthy scent but also his
life history (he wore the thing every day for three years) and his
DNA.

But not anymore.

I sling my backpack onto my bed. From
his perch by the windows, Clive barks, “BWAAH! BWAAH!”

“
Right back atcha,” I
retort, immediately sorry for subjecting a blameless bird to my
irrationality.

The hoodie is ruined, but I slip in on
anyway, hoping against hope that a trace—a suggestion of a hint of
an echo—of George remains.

But it isn’t so. What once felt like a
warm hug from beyond the grave now caresses my skin with the
coolness of cotton and fabric softener.

I shove a mound of discarded clothing
(Rosie’s not allowed to clean my room, making the whole “hoodie
situation” that much more upsetting) away from the built-in cubby
in the corner and tug my hiding spot open.

Sprawled on my stomach, I plumb the
depths of the cubby until, edged between a box of moth balls and a
long-forgotten package of Christmas tree lights, I find George’s
birth certificate, which I’ve guarded since that sunny day in June.
I pry the document from its lair and pop the cabinet closed with my
knee.

From nowhere, Clive blurts, “Poke a
stick!” or “Smoke a snitch!”

I curl up on the rug below
his cage, spread the birth certificate across my knees and give it
a fresh once-over. “Good boy,” I say in hopes of quieting my
bird-friend, who’s stuck on the same few syllables:
smoke a stick; poke a snitch.
Thanks to my dad’s BBC habit, Clive’s voice once had the
sound, however faint, of a born-and-bred Londoner. But the
distinction has faded.

Here it is,
I think, studying the birth certificate.
George’s life reduced to a few splotches of ink
and a slice of dead tree:
Anatoly Dawson.
No middle name. Born January 21, 1995 at 11:55 p.m. at the Sloane
Hospital for Women in New York City. Son of Ruth Elizabeth Dawson
of 77-21 1/2 66th Drive, Queens, NY. Father unknown.

I wiggle my foot under my bed and
nudge Haley’s black box within reach. Then I stretch for my
nightstand, which I yank open with a groan (from the furniture, not
me). My hand dips inside the drawer, hooks the crystal pendant I
scored on eBay from a genuine Native American shaman.

If you’d just talk to
me,
I tell George silently, attempting to
muzzle the frustration rising in my thoughts,
I wouldn’t have to do all of this.

Reluctantly, I unpack the
box: skateboard wheel, voodoo doll, igloo photo, quartz-veined
rock, map, cell phone, and obituary. Side by side on the floor, I
line up the birth certificate and the obit.
From cradle to grave,
I think.
Dust to dust.

I unevenly tower the items, capping
the stack with the infamous cell phone and reserving the crystal
pendant for its starring role. “Nice,” I say once the mound stops
teetering.

“
BWAAH! BWAAH! BWAAH!”
squeals Clive.

I struggle to my feet and unlatch his
cage, letting him hippity hop onto my arm. “You’re a fan of my
work, huh?” I say, setting him beside the mountain of memory
rubble. He struts around and issues his bird-peck seal of
approval.

I realize I’ve forgotten
some crucial elements of my plan, so I slip over to the windows and
draw the shades, then unplug my alarm clock in favor of the white
noise machine that hogs the better part of my narrow dresser. (Note
to self: appliances purchased at yard sales are
much
bigger than modern versions of
the same exact thing.)

With a crank of its gouged plastic
dial, I tune the sound-therapy system (technically, white noise is
only one of its settings) to “rainfall” and let it rip, bathing the
room in the soft tink of water on sand. When I plop back down on
the rug, I get a jab in the rear from the one thing that may signal
George’s return: the knotted Funyuns bag, which, for the time
being, lives in my back pocket. “Good one,” I say with a skyward
glance and a chuckle. I wait for a reply, but if there is one, it’s
lost in the rain.

Here goes nothin’,
I think.

I settle at the edge of the rug,
dangle the pendant by its silk cord and close my eyes. From the
gentle prick of claws on my thigh, I know Clive has joined
me.

With effort, I still my body and then
my mind. The crystal stops swaying, and I pull a chant from my
belly. “Omm . . . omm . . .
omm . . .” The rain takes over and I open my senses,
erasing the boundary (or so I hope) between the possible and
impossible, betwixt life and death. “Omm . . . omm
. . . omm . . .”

On the backs of my eyelids, I try to
conjure the road leading from George to me, known in psychic
circles as the Bridge of Souls. Truth be told, this is where my
efforts usually flounder. If I could just convince that rainbow to
appear, I know George would be strolling across it in no time, an
easy smile in his eyes, a golden glow rolling off him in shimmery
waves. “Omm . . . omm . . .
omm . . .” I continue, the yellow streaks in my
vision encouraging me. If only they’d arrange in a layered pattern
and invite their colorful friends along, I’d be in business. “Omm
. . . omm . . . omm . . .” I
offer once again, disappointed by the tightness of my voice. The
key to accessing the mystic realm (or so I’ve read) is achieving a
state of altered consciousness, a relaxed mind-space bordering on
numbness.

But my voice is not numb and my arm is
sore from holding the crystal in a fixed position for so long,
further proof that I am undeniably rooted to the physical world,
the detachment of the spiritual realm eluding me.

I lower my arm and let out a sigh. The
frustrating part of communing with the dead is the
unpredictability; there’s no surefire method of contacting a
specific ghost on a given day—which, although it’s little comfort,
at least explains my repeated failures.

And also makes it time for plan
B.

“
This message is for George
Alfred Brooks, formerly of Lancelot Way in the Willow Crest
neighborhood of Milbridge, Vermont, from Cassandra Belle McCoy,” I
say, just loudly enough to overcome the pitter-patter of the rain.
“If you can hear me, George, I want to tell you that you are the
meanest person I ever knew. I hated you every minute of every day,
and I couldn’t be happier that you died. I never think of you,
because you meant nothing to me and never will. If you kissed me, I
would vomit. Please know that my life is better without you, and I
wish you were never born. I swear to God, if you tried to contact
me, I wouldn’t answer, so don’t bother wasting your
time.”

I listen for a response, in
hopes that my reverse talking has done the trick (occult sources
suggest speaking to the dead backwards, by saying the opposite of
what you mean). But like every other desperate measure I’ve
invoked, the backwards speak has no identifiable effect. “It
figures,” I mutter, my patience wearing thin. “Stupid crystal.
Stupid
fake, rip-off
crystal.”

Clive dances a figure eight
around my leg, flutters his wings in a consoling fashion. I fight
back a rush of tears, consider reciting The Lord’s Prayer, another
known means of summoning the dead. Instead, I settle for a sappy,
direct plea. “Fine,” I say. “You win; I surrender.” I draw a full
breath and let it seep out. “I never had the guts to say this
before, because, well, I just didn’t. But if you’re listening now,
if there’s even the tiniest chance you can hear me, then you should
know that you were the best friend I ever had; I woke up every day
excited for what life would bring with you by my side and in my
heart. And now that you’re gone—and I’m alone—the world has lost
its light, its pulse, its magic. Do you hear me, George? I miss
you. I love you. I hate it here without you, so . . . so
you’ve gotta . . . Can’t you just give me
something
?”

Clive does a clumsy leap off my knee
and I open my eyes, the crystal feeling like betrayal personified
in my clenched fist. “Goddamn useless garbage,” I mutter, hurling
the pendant across the room.

I abandon George’s possessions (should
I just torch the stuff now and be done with it?) and retreat to
bed, where I gather my blankets into a pile and slink under them,
my heart as bruised as the day George died, my eyes stinging with
helplessness.

There’s nothing left for me to do, so
I just stare at the popcorn ceiling, the corner of which is
starting to slough off, and let the tears silently
stream.

* * *

Ian’s voice is tense when he gets me
on my cell. “Cass?”

It’s Friday night, and instead of
attending the spring fling dance, I’ve opted to loaf around the
house in my pajamas with a giant bag of Funyuns and a 500-piece
puzzle featuring a basketful of fuzzy kittens. “Oh, hey,” I say,
hoping he’s not about to guilt me out of the house with a pity
invite to the movies or for pizza.