Norahooked up with Brooke. I watched them holding each other at night. They lookedhappy. It was good that Nora found a better person than me.
Someoneon Fox News suggested that Paul Butler had killed me to prevent me fromsexually assaulting a young girl in the ladies’ room, therefore my murder wasjustified.
Theclip was re-Tweeted and liked thousands of times.
Iattended Paul Butler’s trial. I hovered in the back. They tried to play on that“bathroom” and “trans panic” defense, but it didn’t fly. He never showed anyemotion, even during his sentencing. He was found guilty, and he’s in prisonfor a while. He reads his Bible a lot. Every time I go to check to see if he’sfeeling sorry for what he did to me, there’s just less and less of him. Our funis over.
14
Themonth after I was stabbed to death, Jennifer died of a blood clot that traveledto her lungs. She’d rubbed her sprained ankle after falling off a horse andafter she began to fade, her roommates rushed her to the hospital the nextmorning.
Shedied on the way there.
Ifelt the shockwave and raced to her side. I saw her hovering near a far ceilingcorner in the brightly-lit morgue. I asked her if she was okay and if we couldbe friends again. She turned to me slowly, then her face scrunched up as if shewas trying to see something past a glare. She shrugged and went away. I lookeddown at her body. She looked peaceful.
Unlikemine, her wake was packed with real people. She was cremated according to herwishes, and she was eulogized under her correct name and pronouns. Her parentswere nice to everyone who went up to them. I wanted to say something about howhappy she’d made me when she’d first asked me out. I had never thought anyonewould like me, and she ended up showing me a world of animals, music, andkindness. She had helped me feel better. The memory of my time with her stoodin such stark contrast with how I’d felt before, and how I feel now.
Towardthe end, when people were lining up to pass by Jennifer’s remains, her whiteroses, and her photograph, I saw her hovering high up at the back of thechapel. She wore a billowing, white, knee-length dress. Her shoulders lookedpretty, and her hair floated like a bed of happy eels. I floundered toward herbut my progress was slow, like when you try to run waist-deep in the ocean.
Icalled to her and she looked up at the rafters, as if she sort of heard me butcouldn’t pinpoint the direction of my voice. I saw her smile at something elseup there, and then she glided forth, eclipsed a sunbeam, then vanishedcompletely.
Inever saw Jennifer again.
15
TheChristmas after I was stabbed to death, something odd happened.
AsI stumbled through the bright, unchanging haze—sobbing and bleeding as usual—Iencountered another presence. It was small, and at first I thought I bumpedinto a mannequin or something. But no, there was someone else there. Alarmed, Ishot upright. I couldn’t believe I had made physical contact.
Butshe was there, crouched in a fetal position, covering her ears with her hands.She wore a pretty white dress like the one Jennifer’s spirit had on during herwake. Her hair was a little shorter than mine had been when I was murdered. Shelooked up at me, and then stood about the same height as me. Her eyes lookedfamiliar, but I couldn’t quite place her. I said hi. I told her my name andasked hers.
“Hi?”she said. “I—don’t think I have a name.”
Inodded, sure.
Ididn’t press her to try to remember it.
She’sconfused and traumatized—maybe even a fresh death, I thought. Just try to draw herout. You fucking need her, whoever she is.
Ifelt a little embarrassed in her presence too, there was no way for her to notnotice my horrific appearance. Blood pumped from each of my stab wounds. But Iremembered and applied what I’d tried to practice in life—when I was in thepresence of another person, I always tried to at least seem affable.That was usually impossible when I was alone, because I couldn’t stand myself.And now that I found another person in that void, I felt I should try and help hernot feel alone.
Shesquinted into the mists about us, and finding nothing to lock onto from her oldlife, she looked up at me.
“Howdo we get out of here?” she asked me.
“There’snowhere else to go.”
“Howcan that be?”
“I’vebeen back in the world—it’s worse, because there’s nothing left to see,” Isaid. “That gets old after a while.”
“Youcan go back?”
“Onlyas an apparition. I can’t touch or feel anything there, and it’s too painful tosee my friends going on with their lives, having new experiences, as if no onemisses me. It wore me down. So, I just stay here now.”
Shelooked around again, insecure and anxious.
Iwanted to help her.
“Youcan sense and feel me?” I asked her.
Shebrushed my arm and nodded. Again, I felt contact.
Iasked her to describe what she saw. She said she saw me in a white dress,billowing hair, serene bearing. No stab wounds.
Wecould only see our own shattered bodies in death. To others, we looked fine.
“Idon’t want to stay here,” she winced. “I want to go back.”
Ihad no answer to that. I didn’t want her to leave me behind. So, I tried totell her my story and what had happened to me. The high-profile cruelty of mydeath seemed to appall her.
Ihoped my candor would bring out her own story, but she didn’t reciprocate.
Stillhopeful, I went to my most vulnerable place, and told her about the mouse I sawdying on that summer day.
“Wait,”she said, coming closer to me, as if to verify the honesty in my face. “Wheredid you live?”
Itold her about my neighborhood, and when I mentioned Debbie and Brooke, and hereyes widened. She told me they were her housemates too, and that was the housewhere she’d died.
Welooked at each other up and down, and as
