My Death, 2

This starts where the last one left off, so you might need to refresh your memory before reading this.


The rest of the ride to school passed with Stacie’s relentless teasing. Robin directed all her witty comebacks out the window.
In the school parking lot, Robin and Stacie met up with Brent. The stocky guy usually spent Friday nights out with his wrestling team, but spent in between class periods and lunch hour with the girls.
Brent was a chick-magnet by definition: football-sized biceps, clean-shaven dimpled chin and dark eyes, and his widow’s peak ending in a boyish curl. Most girls freaked if Brent so much as smiled at them in the halls. This was regular ammunition for Robin’s and Stacie’s good-natured jibes.
This morning, on their way into Chemistry, Stacie hung playfully on Brent’s arm.
“What?” she asked dramatically, “No adorable girlfriend to steal you away from us this morning?”
Brent pretended to ignore her, but a nonchalant smiled escaped. “Don’t let your boyfriend see,” is the only reaction she got out of him.
During these antics, Robin usually stayed a safe distance away, egging either one on, depending on which one had the upper hand. “No, Brent,” Robin joked, “Don’t let any girls see. No need to break heart before lunch.”
Brent’s olive skin flushed a deep purple. “I’m not the one with the boyfriend,” he repeated.
“We should hope not!” Stacey gloated. He was defeated. Like a cornered snake, Brent jabbed Stacey in the ribs. She was fatally ticklish and doubled up on the spot. Unluckily, she became a road block for the student traffic behind her.
She shouted when the boy stumbled over her. He was one of those tall, gangly boys who gain their height in high school but have to wait until college to fill in the rest.
Robin didn’t see his face. Brent apologized to him, but none of them knew his name. In fact, after Robin planted Stacey back on her feet, the three continued to Biology and Robin forgot all about it.

Stepping through Mr. Barrus’ door and meeting his stern look, they quickly dropped their jokes to whispers. Stacie let go of Brent’s arm and flung her backpack onto her desk with a bang. Robin and Brent took seats on either side of her.
“Today,” Mr. Barrus announced, “is lab work. Pick partners, all of you. Or do I have to assign them?”
Suddenly, as if a blender switched on, the class conglomerated, each partnering singling out their best friends before they were claimed by someone else. Without a thought, the trio grouped and made for the lab space in the back of the classroom, strapping bug-eye goggles to their faces.
“No,” declared Mr. Barrus, suddenly appearing behind them. “No three-some. One of you go find another partner.”
Wordless, Brent shrugged and sauntered off. Robin and Stacie glanced at each other before suctioning on the goggles and selecting their frog.
Brent, who wandered around the room for several minutes, was unable to find a free partner, until Mr. Barrus finally joined him with a kid who planned to complete the lab alone. Robin recognized the guy but didn’t know his name. It was fine; Brent could get along with anyone. Robin concentrated on taking the frog apart and piecing together her new plan.
“Before you begin,” Mr. Barrus droned, “know the rules: There will be no mutilations, no puppeteers, and what is your question Miss Jarrett?”
“Um, are we sure they’re dead?” Stacey inquired. Robin knew exactly what she was thinking. The worst kind of blood is warm.
“Yes.”
“How can we be sure?”
“Well, if Miss Jarrett would like to take a pulse…”
“I was told they were sedated,” Robin added. “What if they wake up?”
“They were sedated, Miss Daw, to death. Now if you two are past your fears of zombie frogs…” he allowed the class to giggle for a few minutes before relaying the rest of the instructions.
Stacie, however, couldn’t stand the sight of blood, no matter the temperature. While she alternated between pretend fainting and making throw-up noises, Robin carefully sliced down the frog. Stacey named herself scribe and allowed Robin to dictate the notes to her.
She largely ignored Mr. Barrus’ cautious directions. Going mostly by feel, Robin carefully dissected the frog and her next plan.

The drive home seemed longer than usual. Robin lived on the outskirts of town, where the roads became windy and less busy. “You really need to get your own car,” Stacie commented on the way. Robin turned her attention to the passenger window, only to be met by the little white house from this morning. She quickly averted her attention to the road ahead.
Her windows dark, but Robin wasn’t worried; she often beat Tom home. Thanking Stacie for the ride, Robin practically leapt through the back door, the only one they kept unlocked. Robin left her backpack on the couch and dashed upstairs to her room. She had left her laptop on her desk, humming, the screen dark. Robin slid into the swivel chair and rubbed her finger over the mouse pad to revive her computer. The screen brightened to reveal a Google search with many tabs. Their headings were as varied as their subjects: how to perform a Séance; Necromancy online bookstore; Thanatos in Greek Mythology. Robin erased the subject for the latter and re-entered the search: Reanimation.
The search revealed loads of websites, most useless site for horror junkies like Ghost Hunter’s Chatroom or do-it-yourself computer animation programs. The few that held any promise were all hypothetical, the sources ranging from online sorcerers to hopeful medical professionals. Robin edited her search several times; practicing reanimation; bring back the dead; Reanimate the dead. Ultimately, the search was fruitless. Sighing, Robin put down the window and closed the laptop. She sat bemused for a few minutes, swiveling her chair, twiddling her hair and staring at nothing. In a second, she shook herself awake from a daydream. Robin vacated her room to take up her usual residence in the kitchen. The laptop sat alone in the dark, humming.
Robin swung the refrigerator door open in search of left-over’s or something microwaveable. Nothing. The freezer dinners were freezer burnt and the cupboards equally fruitless so she settled on her culinary specialty, scrambled eggs smothered in ketchup, and settled herself in front of the TV to do homework.
A few moments later, the back door’s rusted hinges announced an arrival and Tom walked in, stomping concrete off his shoes. He looked up and saw Robin with her scrambled eggs. “Homework?” he asked, glancing at the flashing TV.
“Yeah,” Robin replied, scooping red eggs into her mouth. “Biology.”
Tom nodded. In a predetermined rut, he strode into the living room, shut off the TV, and walked past Robin’s armchair into the kitchen. She dug into the cushions until she found the remote and switched it back on. Behind her, she heard Tom exclaim at the age of the freezer dinners. Robin already shut her text book and switched off the set before Tom poked his head around the corner. “Is there anything else to eat?”
“Do you like eggs?”
“No ketchup, please.”

They sat opposite each other at a table for six. Tom always insisted they eat around a table ‘like a normal family.’ That phrase annoyed Robin, but she never said anything. It was like Tom thought they were some freak mutation trying to imitate the real thing. She sat there bored, her eggs already eaten, and endured Tom failing to start a decent father-daughter conversation. He asked aimlessly about school, friends, boys, until all the general topics were exhausted and Robin could safely excuse herself from the table. She dumped her soiled plate into the sink and escaped to her room.
Shutting the door behind her, Robin dove into the swivel chair and wheeled it back to the desk. The laptop was humming louder than usual; Robin knew she shouldn’t leave it on all day if she didn’t want it to overheat. She checked her email inbox—empty as usual—and tried a few more web searches all without success. It wasn’t surprising, because Robin didn’t even know what she was looking for.

That night Robin was brushing her teeth in the bathroom across the hall. Tom poked his head in for a quick goodnight before sauntering off to his bedroom at the end of the hallway. He always went to bed early, except on Sundays. Crossing the hall, wanting only to flop into bed and not move until six-thirty, Robin shut her door behind her. Before she could flop, however, She noticed something tacked to her door. It was that horse calendar Tom had given her last Christmas. Robin hated horses. She was terrified of them ever since one bucked her off one summer. She’d left the calendar up because throwing it away made her feel guilty about Tom. It wasn’t his fault if he didn’t know his daughter at all. He wasn’t much of a family man.
She stared at it from where she sat on the bed. A mustang herd stampeded towards her, ears back and eyes rolling. How did a photographer take a shot like that? A dark line formed on her forehead. Robin climbed off the bed, marched over, and pulled out the tack. The calendar fell and lay on her bedroom floor like a wounded goose. She still lacked the courage to throw it away, and it was getting late, besides. Robin decided to forget it was there and climbed back into bed.
As much as she wanted to lose herself completely in blissful, dreamless sleep, one stabbing though kept getting in the way: the spirit boy.
He had been so casual about the whole business. Thanatos warned Robin that recalled spirits were usually violent, eager to share the truth about their life and death with the living, but this kid acted as if death was no big deal. Everything about him suggested the difference between the living and dead was as slight as who remembered to put deodorant on that morning and who forgot—the way he regarded Robin, he must have thought that she was the latter. It was those eyes that wouldn’t let her sleep. Those brown eyes had been totally indifferent, but completely aware. He wasn’t a vague sort of person; he noticed everything. Robin could tell by the way he looked in her eyes and seemed to be viewing her entire thought process. He’s aware of everything, Robin thought as she lay motionless on top of the covers. Death must be very boring.

Then a thought occurred to her. She sprang off her bed and dove underneath, rifling until she snagged a six-inch-thick tome. The faded cover read Thanatos. She flipped aimlessly through the yellowing pages. It was as dull a read as a computer manual and much harder to understand. The language looked like Shakespeare, with F’s replacing S’s and thou replacing you. Most of the book she hadn’t even glanced at; until now, she had mainly focused on “VI: Conversing with Death.” But tonight, sitting cross-legged on her bed, she studied page after page. She discovered chapters on anything you could possibly want to do to (or with) a spirit that has moved on. She searched until she found something more tailored to her situation.
Nearly an hour passed before Robin found what she was looking for. She stashed the library book in its usual spot under the bed and wormed into her sheets, still in her jeans and t-shirt.


Robin ran to catch up with Gordon.
“Does Mom know?” she asked, panting as she tried to keep up with his long gait. The ranch wasn’t a far walk: a few blocks outside the subdivision.
“It won’t kill her.” A smile split Gordon’s tan face.
Gordon worked for a rancher during the summer to earn the money for football. Gordon didn’t really have “smarts” so football was his ticket to college. The owner of the ranch, “Butch” Cutler, was an old cowboy who cussed through his smile and smelled of chili. Robin loved to visit him.
The horses weren’t used for recreation since they had to be fresh for herding, but Butch, who had three daughters, wasn’t opposed to young girls helping with a round up. Robin had never ridden a horse before, but Gordon assured her it was easy.
“Just let them know who’s boss,” he told her as Robin followed after his broad back.
Somehow, the journey seemed half as long, because Gordon was already opening the stable doors. It was dark inside and Robin could smell the horses long before she saw them. The one nearest her, a dapple gray, blew Robin’s hair with its musty breath.
“Can I ride this one?”
“What one?” Gordon turned around from saddling up a chocolate-colored Bay. He paused.
“You sure you want to ride her? She’s…” Gordon said, but Robin gave him a certain nod and he immediately consented. “Ride close behind me,” he instructed, “Grey will follow Rose.”
Robin was still too short to mount, so Gordon gave her a leg up. Grey was really fat; Robin felt like she was doing the splits. She gave Grey an experimental kick on the sides. Grey tossed her head, but stayed put while Gordon disappeared back into the barn. Robin waited several minutes before he reemerged, leading Grey’s double. As soon as Gordon mounted and urged the horse into motion, Robin’s horse started a little and trotted to keep up.
“They’re twins,” Gordon called over his shoulder to Robin, who was clinging to the horse’s bridle and mane, suddenly very aware of the height of horses. “Grey can be a real pain, but she’ll follow her sister anywhere.”
The ride was smooth for the first part. Just shy of setting, the golden sun sprinkled through the tree cover inside the pasture. Robin relaxed a little. She forgot the dangerous animal below her. Birds sang and Gordon talked. Grey, head down to follow her sister’s tail, walked at a leisurely pace. They had all the time in the world.
Gordon and Robin chatted the whole time. Gordon glanced behind him to respond to Robin’s half-shouted questions. Mostly, they talked about school. Gordon told Robin about girls and school work and which teachers to avoid with she became a freshmen. Robin gave Gordon girl advice and asked questions about the boys who wouldn’t leave her alone. Then they reached the stream.
It was wide, but fairly shallow. Gordon snapped a twig off a nearby tree and threw it into the current and proved it slow enough. Clicking his tongue, he encouraged Rose into the stream. Halfway through, the water came up to her knees. Behind him, Robin was having trouble.
Grey stopped an inch from the water. She looked to her sister, who was crossing without trepidation. She looked back at the water. Suddenly, Grey grunted to encourage her sister to return, but Rose sloshed steadily forward. Grey tossed her mane and her ears went flat. Climbing onto the opposite bank, Gordon turned around just in time to see Grey buck.
Robin held on tight. She felt like she was clinging to a tiny boat in the middle of a storm, like she was in several car crashes in succession. Suddenly, she wasn’t on the horse anymore. The impact with the ground knocked the wind out of her. Between gasps and coughs, she heard Gordon sloshing his mare back out of the river. Rose calmed her sister while Gordon leaped off. Immediately, he checked Robin for broken bones—by tickling her, of course.
Gordon lifted Robin out of the dirt by her armpits. He told her she was fine, but Robin knew she’d feel the bruises in the morning. Gordon hoisted her onto Rose and mounted up behind her. Grey, suddenly the model of serenity, dolefully clopped after Rose. Gordon, describing the hilarity of his sister’s fall to Robin, re-forged the river.


At the beep of the alarm clock, Robin flung off the covers of the bed and landed flat on her stomach. Digging under the bed revealed Thanatos. Robin sat up and opened the book to where her place marker was: “XI: Visiting the Dead.”