Being Dead Read Online Free

there to move. Nothing did.
    "It would have to be a fish," Mom said.
    Dad gave her a wary look.
    "To live in the water."
    "How would a fish get in?" Dad asked.
    How could anything get in? We all looked at the plug in the water bed—just big enough to accommodate the end of a hose.
    "I was only trying to be helpful," Mom said. Obviously she was joking, trying to lighten the mood. But talk of fish reminded me of what I'd seen in the pond that afternoon. Except that hadn't been a fish—it was a hand. Standing there in my bedroom, knowing that there was something in my water-bed mattress, I admitted to myself what I had been denying all afternoon: That hadn't been any kind of exotic or mutant or tumored fish or frog I'd seen in the pond—it had been a hand, a living hand, in a spot that wasn't big enough or deep enough to accommodate the person that hand had to be attached to.
    And if my parents were looking at me weirdly now, how would they look if I told them
that?
    "I'm not getting back in that bed," I told them.
    "Brenda...," Dad said reasonably.
    "I'm sleeping on the couch." I picked up my pillow.
    Dad sighed. "We'll drain the bed. Not now"—he glanced at my alarm clock, which showed 1:30—"but we'll do it in the morning."
    I knew he wouldn't find anything in the morning.
    It wasn't bad enough my parents had to move to Green Acres. They had to buy a house that was haunted.

    Whatever had been in my water bed didn't migrate to the couch.
    That does not mean I slept well. The house creaked. Cars went by all night long—not a lot of them, but
all night long.
And the boxes stacked in the living room suddenly struck me as a good place for something scary to hide behind. Then, early, early, early in the morning—just as in countless Disney films—I heard a rooster crow. But guess what? They don't do it just once. And you know what else? People always talk about good, fresh country air, but I kept getting whiffs of something that was neither good nor fresh but definitely country.
    Of course, the bedrooms have window air-conditioning units; besides, my parents' room faces the backyard and Danny goes to sleep with his radio on, so none of them were bothered by the road noise. Apparently they slept through the barnyard racket and were oblivious to the fact that the whole house could use a breath mint. They woke up with way too much energy and good cheer.
    When I come in after people are asleep, everyone expects me to close the door gently and tiptoe my silent way to bed. You'd think
they'd
have the same consideration for me when they get up while
I'm
asleep.
    I moaned loudly to show that they were disturbing me, but they were making too much racket in the kitchen to hear. When I got up to complain, Mom said, "The day's only going to get hotter. The morning is the best time to work."
    "Central air would be nice," I pointed out.
    "So would a condo in Palm Beach," Mom said.
    Which I guess meant
Lots of luck.
    Dad asked me, "What do you think; do you still want me to drain the water bed?"
    "I don't care." I knew he wouldn't find anything.
    Dad looked relieved, but Mom asked, "If we don't drain it, will you sleep in your room tonight?"
    "No," I admitted. "But I won't even if you
do
drain it."
    "You can't sleep on the couch for the rest of your life," Dad said.
    "Just until college."
    "Drain it," Mom told Dad. She was probably figuring if I got hot enough in the living room I'd return to my room for the air conditioner.
    We spent the morning unpacking and settling in. Dad was in charge of hooking up the TV, VCR, and stereo. Danny put our books in the bookshelves. Mom and I worked in the kitchen—me washing, her drying all the dishes that we'd had to wrap in newspaper to protect during the move. But after a while I ended up doing both washing
and
drying, because she was having trouble settling what should go where in the kitchen cupboards ("That's the glasses cabinet; no, wait, that's where we'll keep the mugs; no, wait..."), and as