Back

No Rest for the Undead

    "Did we do it right?" Cal asks. We're standing over Amelia's grave, and the scent of fresh earth is almost overpowering.

    "I don't know, Cal. This is my first time trying to bring someone back from the dead." The annoyance in my voice hangs between us. The first time he'd asked, I didn't mind. But after hearing the same question for a week straight? Yeah, I might have been a little ticked.

    Callum bends down to examine the small symbol we'd drawn in black marker. "But it looks exactly like the one on your headstone and my marker." He stands and rubs his temples. "I don't get it."

    "Maybe it's because we didn't actually carve it in?" Etching the symbol was out of the question. Only a handful of floral arrangements decorated her plot; without anything to hide it, a random carving would definitely have been conspicuous. "I really don't know. I don't know how any of this works."
   
    Cal sighs in defeat. I can't decide if it's because he isn't used to failure, or because his fuck buddy is still very much dead. Probably the latter. Too bad that little voice couldn't stay in the grave.

    I swallow my feelings and close the distance between us. "Look, I don't know what to do, Cal." I try to make my voice as gentle as possible, considering the fact that I've made myself upset. "I think maybe we should just face it and say she isn't coming back."

    "But if she doesn't," he says, and rasies his gaze to meet mine. I suck in a lungful of air and hold it, waiting for his next words. "If she doesn't, we wont know what she knows."

    I exhale. "Yeah, I know. I've thought of that, too. Whatever it was, someone clearly didn't want either of us finding out." I pause. Could Amelia's murder have something to do with mine? Callum's? Was Amelia followed, or was the ski mask guy at Cal's for us, and Amelia just got caught in the literal crossfire? I drop my head into my hands and sigh. So many questions, and I don't even know where to begin to look for the answers.

    Cal plays with the ends of my hair. "You good?"

    "I don't know. I don't know anything." My eyes sting.

    "Eden, honey. It's okay. We will find out what happened to her. We've got all the time in the world."

    "Do we though?" I rub the place on my arm where the bullet grazed me. "I don't even know what we are, Cal. It's pretty clear we can get hurt. Which I'd assume means we can die again. And that's another thing that bothers me. I don't know what happened to begin with. I can remember everything about my life except for the days leading up to..." I raise my head to the black sky, as if the answer could be found there.

    "You mean your su-"

     "Don't say it," I spit. My eyes burn into his. "Why is it so hard for you to believe that I wouldn't just off myself?"

    Cal cuts his eyes away from me. "You really don't remember?"

    "No. I don't." I feel my eyes narrow. Cal still won't look at me. "But I'm guessing you do?" His silence is the only answer I need. "Tell me."

    He finally looks at me. "I can't. It's...I can't relive that week again."

    "Cal, please." My voice is no more than a whisper in the still night air. I'll beg if I have to. "I need to know."

    He sighs and takes my right hand in his left. "Okay. But not here."

**********

    The walk to Callum's house feels like an eternity. He doesn't let go of my hand until we are on the porch. I look around at how different this is as he fumbles for the spare key. In a another life, we might have been just coming home from a night out. How many times had we done just that? Both a little tipsy, laughing, hand in hand on the steps. Me swaying under the porch light while Cal opens the door and Ellie rushes out to meet us with her tail wagging. Those days feel like ages ago. In this life, there is no light, no laughter, no golden retreiver waiting for us. There is only police tape and darkness and air heavy with anticipation and unanswered questions. Cal finds the key, and the unexpected click of it turning the deadbolt makes me jump. He swings the door open, and motions for me to step in before him. Always the gentleman. I shudder at my thought. He's only here because you're the only undead girl he knows, I tell myself. But that doesn't stop a chill from going up my spine when I brush his arm as I pass him.

    The house hasn't changed much in a week. It still smells of bourbon and vanilla, but there's also a sweet detergent scent. Someone must have shampooed the carpets, probably his mama. I'm sure they were filthy, what with the investigators tracking in and out of the house. I try not to look at the sofa where my best friend lived her last moments. I don't want to see her blood that soaked into the cushions. I can feel Cal behind me, and I know he's taking the scene in, too.

    "Someone must have hired a cleanup crew," he echoes my thoughts in a voice barely above a whisper. I turn to look at him, but he isnt looking at the carpets. I follow his gaze to the white couch. It's now bloodstain-free, without a cushion out of place, but I already know that I will not be sitting on it. Not now, and not ever. As if he's reading my mind, Cal says, "Let's go to the kitchen."

    The barstools aren't the most comfortable in the world, but they'll do. I sink into one and watch Cal. He starts to turn a light on, out of habit I guess, but thinks better of it. He crosses the kitchen in a few broad steps and stands on the opposite side of the kitchen island to face me. Small wrinkles appear on his forehead when he furrows his brow, and for the first time, I think that he looks old. "So," I say after a few moments.

    "I'm trying to figure out where to start," he says. I watch him pick at his cuticle, a surefire sign that he is nervous.

    "Start with the Tuesday before I died. Because I think I can remember everything before then." It's not exactly the truth, but that week is the only thing I need to know. The missing pieces.

    "Eden, I don't think this will answer any of the questions you have."

    "Don't use your lawyer bullshit on me, Cal. It might not answer my questions, but I have a right to know anyway."

    He lets out a defeated sigh. "Okay. Tuesday." More cuticle picking. "You got up. Went to work. Called me from work and told me you had a surprise for me." He pauses. "I don't know exactly what happened between then and when I got home, but you were mad. At me." I close my eyes and will just a glimmer of a memory to come back to me. It only frustrates me more when one doesn't.

    "You wouldn't speak to me," he continues. I keep my eyes closed. "Not one word. I tried to get you to tell me what was wrong, but you wouldn't. I decided I didn't wanna fight, so I went out. You were gone when I got back. I think you stayed at Amelia's."

    "Wednesday. Pretty uneventful. You still weren't very talkative, but at least you were speaking. We worked, and you had supper made when I got home. We ate, I cleaned the kitchen, and we went to sleep." I open my eyes. Something about what he just said seems off, but I can't put my finger on what it is. "Thursday." He sighs before asking, "Eden, are you absolutely sure you wanna hear this?"

    I nod. "I have to know, Cal. I've spent the better part of two months trying to piece everything together, and I'm still no closer than when I first woke up."

    "Okay. Okay. Thursday was great. The best day of my life. It was the day you told me you were pregnant."