“Amanda, I…Oh.”
I don’t know what else to say. My brain just shuts down.
She is wearing the sheet, wound around her like a toga. It
trails behind her bare feet, sort of like a painting about Greek goddesses I’ve
seen in art books. She’s leaning over another body stored in the cooler unit on
a cart. Her back is to me, and I can only see her pale skin and her
burgundy-black hair shuddering.
“Amanda.”
She turns at the sound of my voice, seeming only to hear me for
the first time. Her face is covered in dark blood. In her hand, she’s holding a
big chunk of purple flesh. Her eyes are half-closed. The autopsy incision on
the elderly body below her has been ripped open, and I’m pretty sure that what
she’s holding is a lung.
“So hungry…” she murmurs.
I retreat until my back presses against the cold door. A
whimper escapes my lips, and I drop the laundry basket with a sharp crack of plastic on the tile floor. This
has to be a dream. A screwed-up anxiety dream that I’ll wake up from any moment
now…
Amanda’s black eyes snap open. She stares at the chunk of
flesh in her hand. “I…Agh…What’s
going on?”
Lothar waddles over to her and begins to beg. Bile rises in
my throat. “That’s Mrs. Canner,” I manage to answer. “She’s seventy-two and
died of surgery complications for varicose veins. Deep vein thrombosis, I
think. I don’t remember.” I’m babbling, trying to keep the bile down.
Amanda drops the lung with a wet splat. Lothar scrambles to it and begins scarfing it down. Her hands
are trembling. She presses them to her temples. “I don’t understand. I don’t
understand.”
I nudge the laundry basket closer to her with my foot. “I
brought you some clothes. And, um. Food. You should get dressed.”
I think I should be afraid. I think I really ought to be.
But Amanda seems genuinely confused. She reaches for the clothes I’ve brought
her. To be polite, I know that I should really look away. But I can’t move. I
am not turning my back on her. My heart pounds, and I struggle to take deep, uneven
breaths.
Amanda unwinds the sheet and slips into my clothes. Though I
avert my eyes, I see that her shoulder and side are still torn open. But my
mother hasn’t begun the autopsy yet, so there is no Y-incision across her chest
and abdomen.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” I manage to ask. I
congratulate myself for having a rational thought. Woot.
Her voice is halting, and her brow wrinkles as she struggles
to button my jeans. “I remember…something was chasing me. Jesus, it hurt…” Her
hand comes up to her neck, and she seems to remember, fingering the edges of
the wound. “Am I in a hospital?” she asks again.
I suck in a breath. “No. You’re at my house.” It’s not a
lie. Not really.
She scans the room, as if registering the sight of the
cadavers. “You’re the girl whose parents run the funeral home. The Ghoul Girl.”
“It’s gonna be okay,” I tell her.
“Why am I here?” Her breath makes ghosts in the cold air.
“The Sheriff found you, alongside the road.” That’s true
also, even if not the whole truth. “I think we should get you upstairs, so you
can talk to my parents…”
She shakes her head, and her dark hair slaps across her
face. “No. I…Oh my god. I’m here because…somebody thought I was dead?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
Her hands press to the wound on her side. “But I’m not
dead!”
“I…uh…I think we need to get you to the hospital.” I
tentatively reach toward her, to grasp her arm and guide her upstairs, toward
the light of the much more civilized parlor and rational discussion. This is so
far over my head, and I need my parents to handle it.
She shakes her head. “No. No. No.”
I hold her elbow gently, trying to keep her calm until I can
get her upstairs to my parents. Her skin radiates cold through the sweatshirt,
and I can see that the edges of her neck wound are dry, not seeping so much as
a hint of blood. “Come with me.” I open the door and gently lead her into the
lab, as if I’m herding a frightened cat. She gazes at the stainless-steel
equipment. “I was here. I remember being here.”
“Come upstairs,” I urge, struggling to keep my composure. I
use all the empathy that I’ve learned, dealing with grieving family members,
trying to understand the shock and lead her away from the Body Shop.
She squints up at the buzzing light. “You were here, weren’t
you? You and that woman. Looking at me.”
“My mother,” I say. I’m thinking crap crap crap. I’ve heard of cases of people whose vitals have
dropped far beyond detection, who have awoken in hospital morgues. This has
never happened to us. Not ever. Oh shit. The other body. Maybe it the same
thing…
“The woman with that knife…” Her fingers go to her sternum,
where my mother’s scalpel had rested. All of a sudden, Amanda becomes rooted in
place, as immovable as a mountain.
“No one’s going to hurt you,” I promise. “Let me make you
some coffee.”
She shakes her head, and I feel her trembling. Her eyes
slide to the back door.
She slips from my grip. Before I can stop her, she rushes to
the back door. She slams it open with a sound like a gunshot and plunges into
the darkness.
