Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Seventeen

Once my yellow cocoon releases its grip on me, I return to Mom's condo. The lights are out and the clock reads half past seven. Mom is nowhere to be found. We usually spend Sunday evenings together once she snowbirds her way down here for the winter. At this time, we should be cleaning up after a dinner of overcooked chicken or roast and gabbing about our plans for the week. But normal no longer exists for either of us.

I float toward the Christmas tree, wishing the lights were on and I could become lost in their many changes of colors. The tree is laden with the gazillion ornaments she's collected over the years: some bought, some inherited from my grandmother, some missing their match from her two divorces, and many handmade by my sister and me. I spot the Styrofoam snowman I made for her in pre-school and smile. Last week, as I pulled it from the storage bin, she offered it to me, said I should have it on my tree. But I had declined. I'd made it for her, plus I wasn't going to bother with a Christmas tree this year.

I notice an angel sitting atop the tree. His arms are wide, like he is waiting to embrace whomever is willing to accept him. I distinctly recall Mom allowing me to choose the topper and me nearly falling as I placed the gold star on the tree last week. Mom had been putting the box of tinsel away when she heard the stepstool wobble. She had steadied the stool and stopped my fall. Maybe had I broken my leg, I might still be alive.

A smile tugs my lips upward as I take inventory of the handmade ornaments and the memories that come with them. I lose myself in the smells of snickerdoodles baking in the oven while we painted silver balls or molded salt dough into angels, trees, or candy canes.

The clock strikes eight before I know it and Mom still hasn't arrived. It's possible that Mom is out shopping for a dress, but she doesn't like to drive at night, says the lights interfere with her vision. Instinctively, I search the table for a note. I shake my head. There's no need for her to inform anyone here of her whereabouts. I'm the only other person in Florida with a key to her place.

Shaking my head at my stupidity, I walk over to her desk, where she keeps a planner containing appointments with friends, doctors, and the casinos. The planner is not in its usual spot. Nothing is going my way.

I notice a piece of paper on the floor. Of course, it is upside down. I shimmy under it and try to decipher the letters right against my eye. It is a page of her travel itinerary. Her flight is scheduled to leave tomorrow morning.

Perhaps she had to purchase some last-minute items. It never fails that I have to buy three-ounce bottles of shampoo, shower gel, and deodorant the night before I travel. Mom is fine. She'll surely be back in just a few minutes.

I pace the apartment, wishing that I could sample the peanut butter cookies stowed in a plastic bag on the counter. I hover over them and climb into the bag, but no ghostly power will allow me to partake.

A folded newspaper beside the cookies catches my eye. Tibauld Industries Under Investigation. Just above the fold is a picture of four famous designers, along with a headline that says construction for their Tampa design school will begin on Tuesday.

"We will all be in attendance at tomorrow's groundbreaking ceremony," said Mr. Jacobs."

The quote jumps out at me, surely a misprint. I scan through the article and find more mentions of tomorrow and Tuesday, and then I read the date of the newspaper.

December Twenty-first.

That can't be right.

I launch myself through furniture, walls, and a toilet to search my mom's closet. Nice dresses and down coat are missing, along with her suitcase.

I do the math. I died on Friday, the eighteenth. I followed everyone and their slutty neighbor on Saturday before watching the sunrise on Sunday morning. The sun had only touched my ghostly skin for a few minutes when I felt the pull of yellow veil.

Crap! How long was I in my cocoon?

Without the ability to check my cell phone or to click the remote control to the television guide, I don't have many choices.

Lanie! She has an atomic clock in her apartment. I will myself to her place, panicked by having lost at least two days. The fear of Lanie being arrested or murdered becomes ice in my veins.

What happened while I was sleeping?

I close my eyes and will again, this time with all my might. When I open them, I am inside Lanie's bedroom.

According to the clock, it is Monday night and just a couple hours shy of three whole days dead, nearly two of them spent in my cocoon. I need to find out from Jose and Oliver if it is normal to lose a couple of days. It wasn't like I was basking in the sun.

I venture into the main area using my human path out the bedroom door and past the bathroom. The soft glow of the light below the microwave illuminates the kitchen. I look toward the living room window. Boring, beige curtains hang stagnantly in place of the pink flamingos that I fell through. The window has been repaired. It is as though I never died—or never lived.

I let out a shriek that could rival a banshee's. It seems to be endless, but eventually my shriek simmers to a whimper.

I don't want my friend to forget me.

The handle to the apartment door jostles, the sound of it interrupting my mental meltdown.

"Lanie, are you okay?" a man's voice asks. The knob stops moving.

I float to the door to see who is calling upon my friend. As I leap through the door, John the body-odor guy is walking away, his fingers combing through his dark, greasy hair. I'm surprised the yellow police tape is gone. Then again, the police have probably finished that part of their investigation. Sigh.

"Coulda swore I heard something." John steps inside his apartment. "Okay, now that you're here, John. Do you wanna go out on a date and have wild monkey sex afterward?" he says in a falsetto that mimics Lanie's voice.

"I'd love to go out, but not until you ditch the asshole." He leans against the door. "I had no idea you knew of my existence."

And here, I always thought he was talking to imaginary friends. If I'd known he had the hots for Lanie, I might have helped him. He's got to be better than Adam, even with the bad hygiene.

"If you groomed more than once a year and wore something besides t-shirts and sweats, she might actually know who you are," I say, peering inside his surprisingly tidy apartment. My hand accidentally goes through his chest.

He jolts as I jump backward into the hallway.

But all is mostly well. I smile as Lanie rounds the corner. She walks hand in hand with Adam. I may not like the jerk, but at least she is alive and not in jail.

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Thanks again for sticking with the story! I hope you're enjoying it. I'd love to hear your feedback. Yes, yes, yes, you are going to get two updates this week (and hopefully every week until I reach the end of the story). 

I am so glad to have a chapter with John in it. He is quite possibly my favorite character in the story. What do you think of him?