Remember Me (8 page)

I blacked out. I died.

CHAPTER

V

WHEN I CAME TO, I was home in bed, lying on top of the sheets in the dark. At first I didn't question what I was doing there. Many times throughout my life I would wake up in bed and not know what die hell was going on. I was a deep sleeper; in fact, it was normal for me to take several minutes after sleeping to figure out what planet I was on.

On die other hand, I did feel strange. I was mildly surprised when I sat up that I wasn't dizzy. For some reason I expected to be dizzy. Yet when I paused to ask myself why, I had no answer. I remembered being at the party, but I didn't remember the end of the party. Certainly, I had no recollection of falling to my death.

I climbed to my feet and walked to the open door and peeked out. As I have already mentioned, my bedroom was off a hall that overlooked a large portion of the downstairs.

Because most of the downstairs lights were off, it was natural that I wasn't able to see well. Except I couldn't see for what appeared to be the wrong reasons. It was less dark than it should have been; the walls and furniture were not glowing or anything, but they weren't exactly not glowing, either. They were brighter than they should have been with nothing shining on diem.

Then there was the stuff in the air. It was the stuff, I decided, that was blurring my vision.

It was everywhere, translucent, vaguely gaseous, and flowing, very slightly, around the entire room, up the curtains and over the bookcase. In fact, the vapors actually seemed to be flowing through the walls. I blinked my eyes, but it did not go away.

And yet I had to wonder if I was really seeing it at all. It was very fine, almost invisible.

I walked down the hall to Jimmy's room and stuck my head through his partially opened door. He was asleep, lying on his back, his sheets thrown off, his right arm resting behind his head. If I hadn't known that he had to get up early, I would have tried to wake him up. The feeling of dislocation refused to leave me, and I wanted to talk to him about it. But I left him alone. His computer was still on, of course.

I went downstairs. My parents were in the kitchen; I heard them talking before I actually saw them, and even before I went inside and joined them at the table, I thought they sounded different. My mother had one of those high-society voices that could be the embodiment of charm when she was in a good mood and nothing sort of bitchy when she wasn't.

My dad had a deep, authoritative voice that never changed no matter what his state of mind. It certainly never sounded muffled, as it did now. Their words seemed to be coming to me through a layer of invisible insulation. Yet I mustn't overemphasize the effect. I could understand what they were saying. They were talking about money.

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad," I said as I stepped into the kitchen and grabbed ahold of one of the chairs to pull out so I could sit down. But it was weird—it felt stuck to the floor. I couldn't get it to budge. I couldn't be bothered hassling with it, so I slumped down in a chair near the stove instead, a few feet away from the table, off to my parents' right. They didn't even look over at me, which I thought was rude of them.

"Did you hear what Mrs. Meyer had to say about that loan you and Bill got from Mr.

Hoyomoto's firm?" my mother asked my father, taking a bite of the chocolate cake Amanda and Mrs. Parish and I had talked about at length.

'No," my father replied, lighting up a cigar and leaning back in his chair. "But I imagine she said something about us helping the Japanese buy the world out from under us."

He looked tired, as did my mother, but they both looked good. They were dressed to the hilt, and they were a handsome couple. My father was of medium height, solid, with shoulders that could ram down a door. He radiated strength and masculinity. He didn't smile often, but he wasn't a cold man. He was just too busy to smile. There was too much building to be done. He had closely clipped rust-colored hair, a tan, and small, sharp blue eyes.

My mother bore him scant resemblance, except that she also was attractive.

She was tall and sleek, quick and loose.

Her wide, thick-lipped mouth and her immaculately conceived black hair were her prizes.

At present she had on a long black dress slit up the side to reveal one of her smooth white legs. It was odd she was eating cake that late. She usually took such good care of herself. In fact, taking care of herself took up so much of her time that she couldn't take quite as good care of us. But she loved my father, and she also loved her children. It was just a shame that she loved us all in a way she had learned from her therapist.

"She didn't say it in those words," my mother replied, her voice cracking slightly as if it were being electrically interfered with. "But you'd think you were selling secrets to the Russians from the tone she took. Really, she's nothing but a pain in the ass."

"Her husband's not a bad fellow, though," my father said, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. It was a strange cloud. It had that stuff in it, that mysterious haze that could have been a super-refined blend of smoke and gas and water all rolled into one.

"Oh, Ted," my mother said, putting down her cake fork and waving her hand.

"He's adorable, absolutely wonderful.

I can't imagine how he's stayed with that shrew so long."

"I almost threw out that cake," I said.

"He's a good man," my father said.

"He's too good for her," my mother said. "But you know, I heard from Wendy that Colleen Meyer's got six wells down in Texas."

"Ted told me only three of them are pumping," my father said.

"Three pumping wells can make up for a lot of character flaws," my mother said.

"Hello," I said. "It's me. I'm here, waiting patiently to have my presence acknowledged."

They continued to ignore me. I couldn't understand it.

Then the phone rang. My mother stood up and walked over and picked it up, carrying her cake with her. But just before she answered it, she said something really weird.

"That's probably Shari," she said.

"Huh?" I said.

My mother lifted the handset to her ear. She was smiling.

She was tired, but her life was in order. She had a big house, a rich, hard-working husband, great clothes, far-out jewelry, one wonderful son, and one OK daughter.

"Hello," she said. "Yes, this is she. Who is this, please?"

My mother listened for several seconds, and as she did so, her hand holding the cake plate began to shake. But her smile didn't vanish immediately. It underwent a metamorphosis instead, slowly tightening at the edges, bit by bit, until soon it could not be confused for a smile at all. She dropped the plate holding the cake. It shattered on the tiles. Her mouth twisted into a horrible grimace. My father and I both jumped up.

"What is it?" my father asked.

"It's Shari," she whispered, slowly putting down the phone and sagging back against the counter. My father grabbed her at the waist, steadying her.

"What's happened?" he demanded, anxious now.

"Yeah, what's going on?" I asked, coming over to them.

"Shari," my mother whispered, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

'What?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

Still holding on to my mother, my father snapped up the phone. "This is Mr.

Cooper," he said. "Who is this?"

His face paled as he listened. "Will she be all right?" he asked after a minute.

"What do you mean?" He paused, listened some more, biting his lower lip all the while, something I had never seen him do before in my life. "You don't know?" he asked finally. "Why don't you know? I see, I see. Yes, I know where that is. Yes, we'll be there shortly."

My father didn't thank whoever had called. He just hung up the phone and hugged my mother, who was close to collapsing in his arms.

"Hey," I said, beginning to get emotional. "Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

They ignored me. Yet that was not it. They didn't hear me.

Something terrible must have happened, I thought, that they could get into such a state that they blocked me out altogether. I reached out for my father's arm.

"Dad, please," I said. "I need to know, too."

I might as well have not been in the room. My father helped my mother over to the table, sat her in the chair, and took her hands in his. "We don't know yet, Christine," he said.

My mother kept shaking her head, her eyes closed. "It's no good," she whispered. "It was too far. Oh, God. Shari."

"I have to go get Jim," he said, letting go of her.

"Yeah, go get Jimmy," I said, nodding vigorously. But my mother suddenly opened her eyes and grabbed my father's arm.

"No, we can't tell him," she said. "Leave him alone."

My father shook his head. "I have to get him." He leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head as she squeezed her eyes shut again. "The three of us should be together."

"Aren't there four of us?" I asked. Obviously, something dreadful had happened, but there was a note of bitterness in my question. Jimmy had always been their favorite. I had never been jealous of him, but I had never felt that parents should have favorites, especially my own.

My father left. My mother cradled her head in her arms on the table. She wasn't crying, but she was having a hard time breathing. I sat beside her and put my hand on top of her head, my resentment of a moment ago disappearing.

"It'll be all right, Mom," I said.

She sat up suddenly and stared right at me, her mouth hanging open slightly, and I was mildly relieved that I had at last made some impression on her. But when she kept staring at me and didn't speak, my relief quickly changed to something quite different. A splinter of fear began to form deep inside me—a faint fear, true, but a cold one.

Something was not right, I told myself. Not right by a million miles. I prayed Jimmy would come quick and make it all right.

My brother appeared a minute later. He was suffering,

however, from the same problem as my parents. He was so shook up that he had totally blotted me out of his awareness.

He was not as pale as my father, nor was he trembling as my mother was. His symptoms were more subtle, worse in a way. His eyes—those warm, friendly blue eyes—were vacant. Even as he crossed the kitchen and hugged my mother, they remained blank.

"Jimmy!" I cried. But he didn't hear me. I thought he couldn't even see me.

They were all going to a hospital of some kind. I had gotten that much from my father's remarks. They were hardly dressed for it. My father had on a wrinkled black tux, my mother a tired evening gown. Jimmy had pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a white sweatshirt, but he had forgotten his shoes and socks. As I followed him out to the car, I said something about it being chilly. I could have been talking to myself.

So far the night had abounded with extraordinary events.

Yet nothing had prepared me for what happened when I reached the front door.

In keeping with recent developments, Jimmy ignored the fact that I was behind him and opened and closed the door without giving me a chance to get outside.

Naturally, I tried to open the door myself.

But I couldn't.

The doorknob wouldn't turn. I twisted it as hard as I could, clockwise and counterclockwise, but still it wouldn't budge. It seemed to be not only stuck but somehow different.

As I shifted my hold to try again, the difference hit me like a bucket of ice water.

The doorknob and my hand were not connecting. I was touching it, I knew, but it was as if an extremely fine barrier was preventing me from having any effect on it. Oh, was I confused.

To touch something and not to have it respond to your touch. I stepped back and waited for my father to open the door for me.

There seemed nothing else to do. He came by a few seconds later, leading my mother by the shoulder, and I managed to slip outside in front of them.

Jimmy was already in his car. He sat hunched over the steering wheel, with the engine running, staring straight ahead. He didn't have a red Ferrari like me. He had a white Ford station wagon, and he was paying for it with the money he earned working for the telephone company.

My father helped my mother into the front seat of the Ford, fastening her seat belt for her. She was holding a handkerchief to her face now, and I believe she was weeping quietly. I hopped in the backseat when my father opened the rear door on the passenger side. I wasn't about to wrestle with another door.

It was amazing, I thought as I settled in the seat behind Jimmy, that I had not bumped my father as I squeezed past him.

But I wasn't in the mood to be amazed. I was suffering from the worst kind of fear—fear of unknown origin. No one in the car was speaking, and I chose to remain silent. I sat by the window and stared up at the sky, at the stars. Never before had I found them so numerous, so bright and varied in color. But it was the red ones that drew my attention. There was something about them that filled me with dread. I kept expecting them to suddenly swell and drown out the others.

They were dark red, like dripping candles seen through blood-smeared glass.

I recognized the hospital—Newport Memorial. It was located on a low hill only a couple of blocks from the beach, a fifteen-story cube. I had taken Jo to the emergency ward there the summer before when she had slipped on the rocks on the Newport jetty and cut her knee open.

The nurses and doctor had been nice. As Jimmy parked near the emergency entrance, I wondered who we could possibly be going to see.

My grandfather—my mother's father—had a bad heart. My father's brother had also been having serious stomach ulcers.

Climbing out of the car with the others, I prayed it wasn't family.

We went inside, and I was surprised when my nose didn't react to the hospital's medicinal smell; ordinarily, the odor of alcohol and drugs made me cringe. But I smelled nothing, although I continued to see things I knew I shouldn't be seeing. The stuff in the air had not gone away, and now, walking with my family toward the front desk, I noticed threads of shadow weaving through the film, growing and fading in front of me, almost as though the shadows were alive and seeking me. I didn't want them to touch me; I was afraid they'd hurt me.