Читать книгу Mathilda Savitch - Victor Lodato - Страница 13

Today I tried all the planets. Plus I tried about a hundred new Spanish words because it’s a language she studied in school. There’s still a Spanish dictionary in her room. And the planets probably popped into my mind because of the play. The Moons of Pluto. Tonight’s the big night, my big date with Ma and Da. Yesterday I had a terrific fit, with tears and everything, and Da called to get an extra ticket.

But as for the planets and the Spanish, nothing worked. Incorrect password, it said every time. After a while I started to feel like a criminal. Finally I moved on to the Bhagavad Gita for some inspiration. Do you know that book? I remember the day Helene bought it. We were coming out of Greenways Market with Ma, and a lady in colored sheets came up to us in the parking lot. I guess she was some sort of religious book dealer. Ma said no thank you but Helene wanted to take a look. Helene was pretty generous when it came to people in parking lots. Plus the book only cost five dollars and it had full-color illustrations. So I tried Krishna, Sanjaya, Arjuna, plus a bunch of other interesting names. Incorrect password, down the line.

Have you ever seen a picture of Krishna? He has blue skin and he was actually born that way, it’s not a dye-job. Sometimes he has two arms, sometimes four. He wears a gold crown with a peacock feather at the top. He’s fairly attractive, in a foreign sort of way. In the introduction to the Bhagavad Gita there’s a whole history of his life. When he was young he hung out with the cows and the milkmaids and he was quite the prankster. Once he stole a bunch of cheese and stuffed it in his cheeks, but when his mother pried open his mouth she didn’t see the cheese, she saw the whole universe. She nearly pooped her pants. That’s not a verbatim quote, the poop part. I just thought to modernize it for you a little bit, give it a little more pep. I bet I could be an excellent translator if I wanted. The job is basically pretending you’re a foreigner, but in your own language.

When Da saw me later with the book, he asked me what I was doing with it. I told him I was just looking at the pictures. Da’s not too keen on religious books. Plus it probably reminds him of you-know-who. The day she bought it she had it with her at the dinner table and she read all of us a passage. I was able to find the sentence because it’s one she underlined. When Arjuna saw many of his friends and relatives in the opposing army, he became overwhelmed, confused, and filled with compassion. The scraggly pencil line under the sentence is so pale it makes you want to cry. I’ve been carrying the little book around the house for hours, like it’s an expensive purse that goes perfectly with my outfit. Ma hasn’t noticed yet, or if she has she’s biting her lip.

I don’t know what I want exactly.

I guess in some ways I’d like to see her. A lot of people have seen the dead, it’s pretty well documented. One of the main ways they come back is in dreams. For some reason people used to see them a lot more in the old days. Supposedly poor people see them more than rich people. And old people more than young. Dogs supposedly see them all the time. I read a whole bunch of information on the Internet.

Sometimes when you see dead people they’ll want to give you something, but if it’s a piece of food you’re not supposed to eat it. Even if they try to give you money, don’t take it is the general rule. Because stuff from the land of the dead can be poison or it can bring you bad luck. You might suddenly be sucked into another world and you’d never be able to come back. If Helene wanted to give me an apple or a dollar bill, I would definitely take it. I wouldn’t hesitate.

But I’ve never seen Helene. She hasn’t come in a dream, not once, not in the right way, in one piece. She hasn’t ever stood under a tree in the backyard or under a streetlight at night. She hasn’t appeared in the house, floating down the hallway and tempting me to follow her. The only person who ever comes in a dream is the man who pushed her, but he doesn’t even have a face. Sometimes it’s just dreams of trains.

One of the things I wonder is: Do the dead want us to be dead too, or do they want us to be alive? Sometimes I wonder if Helene is jealous of me. Is she mad at me, does she wish we could swap places? And then I wonder does she even have a mind to think of me at all. Is there anything left of her out there? I’m glad I have the letters and the e-mails and the drawings. But the password is the most important thing, it’s like a locked door and behind it might be ghosts. Maybe it’s just old-fashioned ghosts that try to give you apples. Modern ghosts probably have new ways of doing things. They wouldn’t be against getting through to you electronically.

I also think Helene could be playing with me. The last year she was alive she ignored me all the time, so it could be the same game she’s up to now. But after a person is dead they should be different. After a person is dead they should be full of love and compassion. They shouldn’t be so cold.

Like for instance, Helene never let me wear her clothes. She had some pretty nice things. Tomorrow, I’ve decided, I’m going to wear one of her dresses. It’s part of my plan. The dress probably won’t fit perfectly but it doesn’t matter. I could almost be Helene if I wanted to. It might take a bit of work but so what. It’s an interesting idea. What would Ma think of that, if Helene suddenly showed up in the living room?

Tomorrow is the big day. One year exactly.

It’s funny, in a few years I’ll actually be older than Helene. Unless the dead grow old too. I don’t know how that works exactly. I remember a long time ago Ma used to have an ATM card with a secret code. Sometimes she let Helene and me punch in the numbers when we were at the grocery store or the bank. Ma made us promise not to ever tell anyone the magic numbers. And she told us a clever way to remember them. When Helene is twenty-six, she said, I’ll be forty-six.

2646

I wonder if Ma still has the card. If she does, she needs to change the code.

1646, for example. Ma could really put whatever age she wanted on her side and she’d never have to worry about doing the math for Helene. Even if the dead grow old in outer space, on Earth they stop where they stopped. Period, end of story. On Earth she’ll always be sixteen.

Dear Helene,

Sunday would be good for me, after 4. I have something for you, you’ll laugh when you see it. Working on a new song, I could use your help, it’s a fucking mess ahhhhhh. Let me know about Sunday.

Love, Louis

Helene had some ingenious hiding places for her letters and e-mails. I only found the ones from Louis a few months ago. Most of them were folded up and shoved inside a secret zipper compartment in the belly of a stuffed bear. I think I’m the only person who’s ever seen them. Not even the police noticed them when they came to the house and rudely went through H’s room like she was the criminal.

I keep the letters in the basement now, which is basically no-man’s land since Helene died. Ma and Da never go down there. It’s where Helene used to practice her singing when she didn’t want to be disturbed. Sometimes, if she was singing loud and you were in the kitchen, you could hear her voice come right up through the floor.

And I guess she sang with Louis. Which sort of breaks your heart if you think about it too much. Which I don’t!

I’ve been trying to call Anna for about an hour but there’s no answer. I wanted her opinion on what to wear to the play tonight. In the end I just called Kevin Ryder because I had to call someone. My heart was racing for some reason. Reading the love letters always puts me in a funny mood.

Kevin and I didn’t have much to say to each other. I asked him if he still had his hair.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“The blue,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s permanent,” and I asked him if his mother fainted.

“Practically,” he said.

We both laughed a little, which was nice.

“I’ve been thinking of changing my hair too,” I say.

“Maybe a different color,” I tell him.

I ask him can he recommend a good hair colorer.

“You can do it yourself,” he informs me.

I ask if maybe he can show me sometime, and he says, “sure.”

“It’s chemicals,” he says.

“I’m not afraid of chemicals,” I say.

“Don’t go blue,” he says.

“No,” I say, “I wouldn’t.”

“That’s your color,” I tell him.

Sometimes I know just what to say to people.

“Blue wouldn’t look good on me anyway,” I say.

“You could go black,” he says.

Black. Just the word gives me a heart attack.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I say.

And then that’s pretty much the end of the conversation.

“I have to go,” I say.

I don’t tell him I’m going to the theater with my parents. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. Like I’m some kind of baby afraid to be alone in the house.

I want him to think of me as the girl with black hair, even though that’s not exactly the color I was thinking of. Red is more like it. But if I did red, I’d probably get struck by lightning. The watchers might not be too pleased. Or, who knows, maybe they’d be ecstatic. One thing I can tell you is they would definitely notice it, that’s for sure. Look at her, little miss redhead, we better keep our eye on that one. I can practically hear them already.