After Ever by Jillian Eaton Page B

a vengeance. It nags at me, a blur of images and muffled sound. I nibble on my pinky finger, worrying a tiny sliver of broken nail between my teeth. Something to do with Brian, I think. Brian and water. Did he go swimming? Is he at the pool? Oh God, did I forget him at the pool?
    “Win!”
    “What?” I ask, startled by the intensity in Sam’s voice.
    His gray eyes wide and slightly wary, he says, “I have something to tell you and it’s going to be really –”
    “Shocking,” I interrupt. “Yeah, you said that already.”
    He smiles, but it is a sad smile, so sad it strikes a painful chord in my chest. The same chord that tightens every time I see a commercial for the Humane Society with all the poor animals or watch The Incredible Journey . The original, not the remake. I don’t like the one where the animals talk.
    “Winnifred, the thing is…” He hesitates. Looks at the fat man. Clears his throat.
    I wait impatiently, strumming my fingers on the edge of couch. Miniature dust clouds float up every time my fingers strike the scratchy felt surface. “The thing is…” I prompt.
    Sam looks down at his hands. He looks at the poster above my head. He looks at the dust coming up from the sofa. When he finally looks at me his expression is apologetic and slightly pained, as if he is about to tell me something he knows I will not want to hear. “The thing is… Well, you’re dead Winnifred. I’m really sorry.”

 
     
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
    You’re dead Winnifred. I’m really sorry.
    You’re dead, Winnifred. I’m really sorry.
    You’re dead. Winnifred, I’m really sorry.
    No matter how I play the six words back in my head I can’t change their meaning. I sit frozen on the dusty sofa, my eyes pinned to Sam’s face, seeing but not seeing. What kind of whacked out dream is this, I wonder? Because it has to be a dream. It can’t possibly real. Dead? I’m not dead. Of course I’m not. I would know if I was dead. This is just a dream. Just a sick, twisted, really weird dream.
    Then why does it feel so real? And why does it feel like I’ve just remembered what I had forgotten?
    I stretch out my arms. I wiggle my fingers. I look down at my clothes. Black sweatshirt. Dark blue jeans worn through at the knees. Both familiar pieces of clothing. I slide my feet across the linoleum floor. Tug on the ends of my hair. Wiggle my lip ring. I am me. I feel. I hear. I smell. I see.
    You’re dead Winnifred. I’m really sorry.   
    I touch my forehead. My skin is cold and clammy. My fingers drift lower, to the curve of my jaw. I press in, feeling for a pulse. I almost expect to find nothing, but it is there. A steady push push push against my fingertips. I sag in relief and press my palm flat against my chest, only to sit bolt upright a few seconds later.
    “Sam! Sam, I can’t feel my heartbeat. Why can’t I feel my heartbeat?”
    He watches me steadily, his gray eyes unblinking. In them I see a world of wisdom, wisdom a normal seventeen year old boy should not possess. “You need a stethoscope,” he says.
    “Oh.”
    “We can’t stay here much longer. Someone else will need the lobby soon.”
    Someone else. “You mean… another dead person?” I whisper. The words sound funny coming out of my mouth. I want to laugh and just manage to hold it inside. The absurdity of everything is just too much. My future therapist will have a field day with this dream. When I wake up I will have to write everything down before I forget. Until then, why not go along with it? I start to stand up. My legs tremble and shake and I have to sit down. Hard. My tailbone strikes the edge of the sofa. It should hurt – nothing hurts worse than falling on your tailbone – but I feel nothing.
    They say to wake up from a dream, to really wake up, you have to pinch yourself. I roll back the sleeve of my sweatshirt and pinch the tender skin on the under part of my forearm. I pinch and pinch and pinch. I pinch until the skin turns an