Free Between by Jessica Warman Page A

I can do that will help at all. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. The only thing that’s been on my mind since the moment we walked into the room.
    “Do you know how my mother died?”
    He shakes his head. “Beats me. Champagne and caviar overdose?”
    “She was anorexic, Alex. She starved herself. She used to take cold medicine to control her appetite. She’d take handfuls of pills at a time.” I remember it so clearly now: my mother standing at the sink, her mouth stuffed with pills. Is there no mercy for a dead girl in the afterlife? Out of all the memories from my childhood, the ones surrounding my mother and her illness are what I’d love to forget. But they’re there, rooted, holding on tight.
    And then she died.
    “She had a stroke when she was thirty-three,” I tell him. “She collapsed in the shower.” I pause.
    “What?” Alex asks. “You look like you’re about to say—”
    “I’m not about to say anything. That’s what happened to her. Now you know.”
    If Alex feels sorry for me, he isn’t showing it. “And then what? Your dad married Josie’s mom?”
    I nod. “Yeah, he married Nicole.”
    She’s safe, honey. Next time you come over, I’ll show you.
    “Want to hear something weird?” I ask.
    “Sure.”
    “A couple of weeks after my mom’s funeral, I went over to Josie’s house for a sleepover. Do you know what Nicole did?”
    “What?”
    “She brought out a Ouija board. I was nine, Alex, and she brought out this Ouija board to try and contact my mother for me.”
    We both look at Nicole. Alex was right when he said that she’s gorgeous; Nicole is the walking definition of a blond bombshell. She’s also flaky and superstitious. She believes in the afterlife, in UFOs, and in all things mystical. After she moved into our house, she had a feng shui expert come over to rearrange all the furniture. Nicole doesn’t work—instead, she takes frequent yoga and tai chi classes, spends a lot of time volunteering, and keeps herself otherwise occupied by continually redecorating the house. My dad doesn’t seem to mind.
    Josie is just like her mom. She goes to the Spiritualist Church with Nicole all the time. They both believe in ghosts. For a second, I consider approaching them, trying to touch them, to see if they can sense me. As quickly as the idea materializes, though, I dismiss it. Like my father, I’m much more pragmatic. I might be a real ghost now, but I’m still not convinced that anyone could be able to sense me. The possibility seems ridiculous.
    “Did it work?” Alex asks. “The Ouija board?”
    I close my eyes, trying not to cry again. “Yes. She asked how my mother was, and it spelled ‘safe.’ Just like Nicole promised me she was.”
    “That seems so inappropriate,” he says. “A grown adult shouldn’t be playing with a Ouija board with kids. Especially nine-year-olds.”
    It’s funny—it never occurred to me before now just how inappropriate it really was. And her words to my father, at my mom’s funeral—who says something like that?
    Before we can talk about it further, Alex and I are interrupted by the sound of canned organ music coming through the speakers in the corners of the room.
    “Show’s starting,” Alex says.
    My friends grip each other’s hands. Richie puts his arm around Josie. The two of them are crying so hard that they’re shaking.
    I turn in my seat to look at Joe Wright, who’s still standing in the back. His arms are crossed, his gaze steady on my casket. As far as I know, there’s absolutely no evidence to suggest that my death was anything but accidental. So why is he here, watching everybody so closely? He might as well be jotting down notes.
    Local cops, I think. He probably has nothing better to do.
    As my gaze moves past him, taking in all of my friends and family, it occurs to me that my death is not a peaceful one. Here I am. Still on Earth, with Alex, watching and waiting—but for what? Why are we still