I Woke Up Dead at the Mall Read online

  Sometimes he appeared in off-off-Broadway plays, but he got bored saying the same lines every night. He dreamed of getting enough money together to move to Los Angeles. That was where he belonged.

  “Tell me about Karen!” I interrupted, trying to bring his story to an end, please, soon.

  Karen was a little older, but she really took care of herself. She talked like she was rich, but she lived like she was poor. Which was weird. Anyway. She knew a lot about health foods. And Los Angeles. And movies. And food. And sex. They met at the gym. And Declan soon discovered that she was really, really, really flexible.

  (EWWW!)

  What? Anyway. She helped Declan get a cater-waiter job. She was getting married. Again. She’d been married like twice before already, both times to older guys.

  The second husband ran a health supplement business, so maybe that’s how she kept herself looking so good. But after he died, she found out that the business was almost out of money. So she went looking for a new husband. One with some money. Now that’s a positive attitude!

  Declan got a look at the new husband-to-be. He needed to moisturize, that’s for sure. Anyway. Karen arranged for Declan to have the easiest job of the whole catering staff. He had to wait on the dais table that was just for the bride and groom and the groom’s daughter. Done. Easy. And he was going to get paid as much as everyone else. Sweet!

  And he didn’t question it when she asked him to give a big portion of mushrooms to the groom and then little bits to everyone else. They were almond mushrooms? Almondine mushrooms? Whatever.

  Oops. He might have given a little too much to the daughter, but she seemed to enjoy them. A lot. She really wolfed them down. Even ate some of her dad’s mushrooms. Oh, and the pill that Karen dropped in the groom’s champagne? Declan was ready to bet that it was Viagra for the old dude’s wedding night. He laughed when he saw the daughter drink it. What would it do to a girl? He watched her dancing. He watched her leave. He spent the rest of the evening on the sidelines, quietly doing exercises that would firm his butt.

  That was a good night.

  “You killed me?” I asked, barely able to summon any voice at all.

  “No! No!” he insisted, the green goo on his face now dry and cracking. He looked like Yoda with cheekbones and highlights. “I could never play a villain. I’m just not the type. There’s no way I could kill you.”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking those were amanita mushrooms. Highly poisonous,” I explained with the milligram of patience I had left.

  “But I didn’t know! It’s not fair to blame me when I didn’t even know,” he whined, and something inside me crumbled a little. It was all too easy to believe that Declan knew nothing at all. About anything.

  “Didn’t she come from a wealthy family?” I asked. “That’s what she told us. They made a fortune in health supplements.”

  “The second husband was in health supplements. But she was kind of broke when I met her,” he said. “She always told different stories about her family. I just thought she was being creative.”

  “Declan. Karen killed me,” I said, and he gasped in response.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  I was sure. “She’s a liar and a murderer.”

  “Whoa. See, here’s the thing,” he explained. “When I heard that you died, I asked her what happened. I was all, ‘What happened?’ She was really pissed off when you died. And you know, she looked way older when she was angry.”

  “What did she do?” I asked.

  “She asked me a bunch of questions about the wedding, and about you and the food and the pill. But then she stopped talking about you. She promised me she’d come through with the connections in LA. And she fed me a nice lunch. And then I died.”

  He paused for a second, a small realization dawning in his vacant eyes. “Hey, wait a minute. I think she killed me too.”

  “She’s going to kill my dad,” I said.

  “Whoa,” Declan whispered. “Um. Am I in trouble? Am I going to hell?”

  He was asking Bertha, but I didn’t let her answer. “No,” I said. “She fooled us all. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

  Declan collapsed in the world’s biggest sigh of relief. And I felt a tiny bit sorry for him. Poor dim Declan.

  “Sarah.” Bertha spoke at last. “Now you know who killed you. Leave the rest to the police.”

  “But what about my dad?”

  “Let earthly justice prevail,” she insisted.

  I pictured Karen in an orange jumpsuit. (Not pretty.)

  chapter fifteen

  people suck. really. and maybe that’s the best they can do.

  Alice and I were alone in Crate & Barrel as night fell. There was no sign of Lacey. I should have worried about her, but I was too busy worrying about my dad. In a way, I liked worrying about him. It saved me from looking back on my life and all the times I ignored him, was rude to him, or just didn’t care if he was around. I cared now. A lot.

  “I need to save him,” I said. Again. “I need to stop Karen. Can I go back and haunt her and scare her to death?”

  “No! Absolutely not!” Alice said with way too much force. She was a little self-conscious about it, and continued in a smaller voice. “The dead used to be allowed to haunt, but it went wrong too often. Too bad you’re not an angel,” she said sort of absently. “I met a girl who became an angel. She died when she was hit by a trolley car. She pushed a total stranger out of the way and died saving him.”

  “Wow. So there are angels,” I said.

  “Of course,” she said, as if I were a simpleton. “When the story of her death came to light, Bertha sent her out of the mall.”

  “Where do angels go?” I asked.

  “Well. She went to the spa,” Alice replied. “And now she can help the living and the dead.” The spa. That was where Nick might have/could have gone.

  “Wait,” I said, trying to form these words. “Does that mean that Bertha is an angel?”

  Alice nodded and giggled at the blank confusion on my face.

  “How did she die?” I asked.

  “She was in a terrible fire at the factory where she worked,” Alice explained. “There were lots of girls crowding out the door. Bertha made sure that her little sister got out first. She gave up her chance and perished in the fire.”

  (I played that tale in my head like a movie, but it was too awful to watch. I shook it away. Note to self: try to be nicer to Bertha.)

  “If she’s an angel, could she help save my dad?” I brightened up. “I died in his place. Does that make me angel material?”

  Alice shook her head, saying, “Sarah, maybe he’s better off dead. He’s lost his only child, and he’s married to someone who doesn’t love him.” And then, in an impossibly small voice, she added, “There are worse things than death.”

  “My funeral is tomorrow, and I need to do something while I’m there.” As I spoke I latched on to my little secret: sometimes the living can hear me—at least here at the mall they can. Perhaps I could speak to him at my funeral. My plan was hatching.

  “It’s quite a thing,” Alice said. “To see them bury you, say goodbye to you forever. And to see the one who killed you still breathing, eating, drinking, shitting, lying.”

  I held my breath and then ventured a question. “Your murderer really went to your funeral?”

  “Yes. They always do, if they can,” she said. I could hear the venom in her voice as she said his name. “Joe O’Hara. He was a filthy man, a liar and a murderer.”

  “Would you tell me your Death Story?” I ventured. Alice took a moment to collect herself, smoothing down her dress and her hair. When she was fully composed, she began.

  ALICE’S DEATH AND TRAGIC FUNERAL

  Alice was the eldest of five squirming, squabbling girls. When she was nearly finished with third grade, her mother informed her that she’d be staying home now, helping with the wee ones. And Alice did.

  Her father sold bathtub whiskey (n
ot gin) to make ends meet during Prohibition. It took the finish off the tub, but it put food on the table. Mother told stories of life back in Ireland. Life there sounded harder but prettier.

  And then came the crash of 1929. Suddenly, no one had money for anything, and the Great Depression settled over them like an endless night. When Prohibition ended, things got even tougher. Meals got smaller.

  “A loaf of bread is only a nickel,” her mother would say with a sigh. “But who has a nickel?”

  The little ones were getting older and could look after themselves. Alice wasn’t needed around the house quite as much.

  “We’ve got a plan for you, my lovely,” her father announced after breakfast one day. Alice’s heart fluttered in her chest. School? Could they be returning her to school? Books. Pictures. Friends. Boys. They swirled in her imagination like leaves in the wind.

  “You’ve got a job,” he said proudly. “You’re to be a wage earner. The biscuit factory downtown needs girls with small fingers to help with the machinery. The foreman is old Joe O’Hara from our parish. We shook hands on it last night. Done and dusted.”

  Alice hesitated, thinking of the difference between what she was supposed to say and what she wanted to say. She made the wrong choice.

  “I don’t like Joe O’Hara. I don’t want to be in a factory. Please don’t make me.”

  Her father rose slowly, not betraying the swell of anger in his chest. He liked to do that for dramatic effect. He stood over his daughter, stroked her hair, and then raised the back of his hand, unleashing its full power against her cheek. Alice was on the floor, her face alive with pain.

  “You won’t talk back to me, Miss High and Mighty. You need to earn your keep.”

  He walked out, dignified and righteous. Her mother rushed to Alice’s side and said, “Why do you make him do such things? You should know better.”

  Alice left home by herself the next morning, taking the trolley from Hell’s Kitchen to downtown, then walking along the cobbled streets. She didn’t like to travel alone in the city. It always made her feel like prey that had been separated from the herd.

  Joe O’Hara took her hand into his greasy mitt and said, “I’ll show you around.”

  Alice only heard half of what he said over the deafening machinery all around her. His bushy mustache and odorous cigar blocked his words even further. The space was vast but dark, hot, with an acrid smell that burned her nose.

  “This way.” He opened a door tall enough to allow a giraffe to pass through and gestured for Alice to climb the well-worn stairs. Stepping into his cramped office, Alice squinted to see an oak desk that was too big for the small room, a few chairs, and not enough light. It smelled like a diaper that needed changing.

  “And now, my dear,” he said as he moved in close. Too close. Alice’s survival instincts were fully awake. She tried to duck around him, but he planted himself against the only door, the only way out. She pushed against his barrel chest, crying out like a small cub.

  “No fuss, no fuss,” he instructed. His breath was foul and inescapable.

  She kicked him in the shin, but she was aiming higher. And he knew it.

  In a fury, he threw her to the ground, and her head slammed against the corner of his desk. She tried to hold on to consciousness, but it didn’t want to stay in this terrible place. It slipped through her fingertips and toes. It left, it lifted, it flew. She didn’t die right away. But she did die as he pawed at her underthings.

  Her funeral was a small, shabby affair. Joe O’Hara told her parents that Alice had clumsily slipped down the stairs and clocked her head, even though he had warned her to be careful. He even tried to save her. It was her own fault. Everyone believed him and blamed Alice for visiting such grief upon her poor parents. He gave her father five dollars for his troubles. In his eulogy, the priest tut-tutted at Alice’s inability to hold on to the gift of life.

  Afterward, Joe O’Hara lingered a moment in the church vestibule, so Ghost Alice leaned close to him and screamed, “Murderer!” over and over, louder and louder. He went pale, looking all around. He didn’t see her. But he heard her.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

  “Never!” Alice screamed. And Joe O’Hara ran away.

  chapter sixteen

  hello, cruel world

  According to Alice, the dead don’t dream. But I was dreaming up a storm. So my dreams must have been that awful Knowing, that terrible, special gift, surging into my head and my heart. That night I had my least favorite dream so far.

  At first I was in the mall, surrounded by the living. They were so noisy, I stood still, covering my ears, squeezing my eyes closed tight. Sensory overload. When I opened them, the mall was empty and pretty dark. But, of course, the mall walkers were there. They still kind of scared me, even though we had some important stuff in common: they all seemed to be somewhere near my age, and, hey, they had all been murdered too. But their silence and their slowness creeped me out.

  I uncovered my ears and found sound all around me instead of the usual thick silence. Each mall walker was talking, but to no one in particular. As they passed me, I overheard them. I didn’t want to. Believe me. The Goth Girl was saying:

  “I tried to tell him I was sorry, but his hands were tight around my throat. No air. No words. I was scared. It hurt so bad. But then I faded away. I tried to tell him I was sorry, but his hands were tight around my throat. No air. No words. I was scared. It hurt so…”

  The next person to pass was a boy, maybe fourteen years old:

  “And if I stayed down, they’d get bored and stop kicking. My head felt big and cloudy. My stomach was on fire. They kept kicking. My head played white fireworks in the clouds. I thought about how to outsmart them. Play dead. And if I stayed down, they’d get bored and stop kicking. My head felt big and cloudy….”

  The next person was a boy who was tall and skinny as a broomstick:

  “They lied. They said I’d be safe here. I want to get out. I’m so hungry. My tongue feels huge in my mouth. When’s the last time they gave me food? I want food. They lied. They said I’d be safe here. I want to get out. I’m so hungry.”

  I looked up and around and their despair swirled around me. I could feel their misery prickling my skin.

  I woke up.

  Funeral Day. I didn’t have much of a plan, but this was it: sometimes, the living could hear me, or at least they could get a sense of what I was saying. (I think.) So I would tell Dad to get out of there, to call the police, to go see a doctor, to stay at a hotel under another name until Karen was behind bars.

  I had to use what talents I had. Oh. And keep the plan a secret from Bertha. Obviously.

  I sat up in bed and saw that Lacey was still missing. As much as I wanted to focus on me and my funeral and my murder and my dad and me, me, me, I fell into a big vat of worry for Lacey.

  “I’m not sure that Lacey came back at all,” Alice said.

  “Do you think she got stuck back there? With the living?” I asked. I pictured Lacey, drenched in diamonds and red silk, haunting Manhattan, one boob forever popping out.

  “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” Alice whispered, her voice sounding as pale as her face. “We’re safe here at the mall, even if we get stuck mall-walking. At least I got to wake up and try again. But if you get stuck back there, you’re really stuck. And you go quite mad.”

  “She’s here somewhere,” I insisted. “She must be.”

  “Meanwhile, Bertha will never let you wear casual clothes to your funeral. You must change, and quickly,” Alice instructed.

  Fine. We dashed over to Anthropologie, where I slipped into a respectable dark blue wrap dress that seemed funeral-friendly. I still wasn’t sure why Bertha wanted us to dress up for an event where we were invisible, but okay. As Alice and I walked out into the mall, I noticed something sparkly up ahead.

  It was a silver-gray trash can. There was a diamond bracelet dangling from the opening.
I peered inside and saw the bloodred dress that Lacey had been wearing the day before. It was littered with the rest of the diamonds.

  “What does this mean?” Alice asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But it can’t be good.”

  Lacey wasn’t at the food court. Neither was Declan. But Nick was there. Locking eyes with him felt almost dangerous. My skin temperature skyrocketed. I sat down next to him, and he grinned as he took hold of my hand under the table. This was the most delicious secret. Tiny shooting stars exploded in the air around us, but only we could see them.

  Wasn’t it nice to have something so sweet and joyous to help me rein in the torrential energy coursing through me? I could wait, hold on to Nick, and then unleash it at my funeral.

  “Did you have nice funerals?” Alice asked Nick and Harry. I’m pretty sure neither of them saw my hand, Nick’s hand, or the Technicolor fireworks.

  Harry stood and stretched. “I think it’s safe to say that my funeral was the party of the year!” He was glowing like someone in love. Seriously. “They sent me off in style. Music, stories, crazy pictures, and videos. It was magnificent.”

  “But you’re so young,” I said. “Come on, everybody cries when it’s a funeral for a kid.”

  “Sometimes,” Harry said. “But there was a lot of laughter too. My parents would cry, but then someone would tell a story about me, and then they’d laugh. I laughed too.”

  He gazed off into the distance, maybe replaying the scene in his mind. “I tried to hug them. I tried to tell them I was okay. It sort of felt like they got the message.”

  “You were a good son,” Alice said.

  “Eventually,” Harry said, with a sort of Mona Lisa smile.