Postcards from a Dead Girl Read Online Free Page B

cowboy rides off with the girl—a perfect moment, a just life, a popcorn reminder of how things should be. See: “sunsets, riding into the—” My problem is, I’m watching a sunset right now, in all its washed-out oranges and reds and purples. It’s like the sun is hiding behind a sky-sized blanket of pastel colors, burning bright enough to let me know it’s there, but not enough to be postcard material. And this sunset is in my story, but I’m not sure what to make of it. No music is playing, no girl or horse is hanging around. And while it’s pretty to look at, tonight it’s what I would describe as lethargic.

chapter 11
    There was a time after Mom died and before Natalie got married that I moved out of our childhood home to live with Zoe. The bedroom was described as cozy in the classifieds, which meant tiny. It was a room with a bed in it. Zoe and I liked it that way; we called it our nest.
    We found most of our nest décor at The Big Bazaar antique shop, a two-level extravaganza of furniture, knickknacks, and oddities. The main floor was stocked with vintage clothing, old musical instruments, and heirloom dressers. Glass cases displayed various collectible magazines, political buttons, playing cards. The basement had retro-hip curiosities: pachinko machines, jukeboxes, shag rugs, and couch-sized phonograph systems.
    During our first visit, Zoe was immediately drawn to an atrocious wood-framed painting that depicted a man rowing a gondola. She held her arms out game-show style to highlight its magnificence. “Perhaps this artifice we shall call ‘The Gondolier’ is in favor of your purchase?” she asked in an Italian accent.
    â€œThat’s terrible.”
    â€œIsn’t it? Most people in Venice use vaporetti anyway—waterbuses. Did you know the city actually stretches across more than one hundred small islands?”
    â€œHow do you know these things?” I asked, shaking my head.
    She put her arms down but continued to study the painting as I hovered over the glass cases.
    I remember thinking while we walked around downstairs: Here we are, shopping for our first home item together, and it just might be a rusty old tuba or a chair shaped like a hand. Fantastic.
    We ended up buying a set of heavy red curtains with gold fringe on the bottom. I was happy because they reminded me of a movie theater. Zoe was happy because they made her feel like we were living someplace more exotic than we actually were.
    In that cramped little bedroom, we filled the gaps between the mattress and the wall with pillows and layers of blankets. The massive curtains also served as a great way to block out the sun. All that padding made the place almost completely silent, like a well-lined tomb.
    I remember once she and I were lying in bed together, her small body spooned in behind mine. My eyes were closed and I could hear her whispering as she lightly ran her fingers up and down my spine. The motion made my skin tighten and chill. I opened my eyes. I wondered if she heard the soft pull of my eyelashes, it was so quiet in there. I stared at the wall before me, and she kept up the hushed tones, the tracing of my skin.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I whispered to the wall.
    She hummed a random melody, as if I’d never asked the question, and continued to draw odd shapes on my back and shoulders and arms. “I’m memorizing you,” she finally said. She grabbed my right hand and studied it intensely, brushing her palm againstit, gentle repetitions to match her little song. I felt so happy that she’d want to memorize me. I felt like God had given me a gift.
    But I knew what she was doing. This was another piece of Zoe’s cryptic puzzle that, when finally assembled, would reveal the reality that she and I would not always be together. It had never been explained why this was our destiny, but she said things like this to me on a regular basis, like she