Linda Singleton: Dead Girl in Love

Every month I “lunch” with two talented writers

who inspire and help with my writing:

Danna Smith

and

Linda Whalen

Thanks for your friendship and support!

I pounded on the silk-lined lid over my head, pushing and breathing hard, trying not to panic. But, geez! Who wouldn’t panic in my situation? I’d fallen asleep in my own house, own bedroom, own body. Then in the flash of a promise, I found myself lying flat on my back in some kind of box, entombed in blinding darkness. Not only was I stuck in my best friend’s body, but it seemed I was in her coffin, too.

Did that mean … that Alyce was dead?

Or was I?

“Ouch!” I cried as I pinched myself. Still very much alive.

But what was I doing inside a coffin? My thoughts reeled with confusion as I tried to get a grip on this new reality. Taking over someone else’s life was hardcore confusing. It always took a while to adjust to a different body — like breaking in new shoes, only worse because I wasn’t walking on soles, I was switching souls. And while I now looked like my best friend Alyce, I had no idea what I was doing here —except for a shivering sense of fear.

Keep calm, I told myself. Alyce (unlike me) was levelheaded and avoided risky behavior. She researched her teachers before each semester to learn lesson plans; if a guy asked her out, she prequalified him by checking blogs (which was why she never dated); and she wouldn’t drive anywhere without Googling directions. My practical, sensible, slightly neurotic friend never left anything to chance and would never have climbed inside a coffin without a good reason.

The two most logical “good reasons” were:

1. Someone locked her in this coffin.

2. She was hiding from someone.

Both choices involved a dangerous “Someone” that I had no interest in meeting. Panic rose to crisis level. Move arms, legs, body. Get out! Now!

Reaching up, I pressed my hands firmly against the silky lid and, fueled with a surge of adrenaline, pushed up with all my energy.

To my utter and total shock — the lid lifted!

When light streamed onto my face, I wanted to shout with joy. But that would just be stupid. I mean, who knew who might be listening?

Grabbing the edge of the coffin, I jumped onto a polished hardwood floor — then stared, open-mouthed. I was surrounded by rows and rows and rows of gleaming copper, wood, and stainless-steel coffins. Obviously this was a mortuary showroom, where luxurious death beds came with two-for-one bargains, warranties, and price tags. But why was Alyce in this place? It would make sense if this was an old cemetery, since Alyce often snapped pictures of creepy gravestones. But this modern mortuary was too cheerful, with its murals of angels, clouds, and daisies floating across sunny yellow walls.

Most of the coffins (or is the formal term “casket”?) were hinged open for display. A printed tag attached to a shiny silver coffin read:

Custom “Praying Hands”

Blue-stitched embroidery, squared corners, adjustable bed and mattress, fully insured product warranty.

All for a discounted cost of $3,999.99.

Wow! I’d heard that the cost of living was expensive, but the cost of dying was even worse. Why did a corpse need an adjustable bed anyway?

The plain wooden coffin I’d been hiding in was the drabbest in the room, without plush cushioning or embroidery stitching. I was about to check its price tag when I heard footsteps and murmured voices.

Coming toward this room!

Closer, closer …

Reluctant to climb back into the coffin, I jerked my head from side to side, searching for a better hiding place. No closets, tables, or drapes. The murmurs increased. At least one man and one woman were heading this way. When the door knob jiggled, I slapped my hand over my mouth to stifle my shriek.

Quick! Hide now! Sprinting over to the largest coffin in the room, I scrambled behind it and squeezed into the narrow space between wall and coffin.

“This way, please,” a woman said as the door creaked open.

Huddling flat against the wall, I watched two sets of shoes enter the room: men’s black loafers shuffled after a pair of girly, blue-heeled pumps.

“We’re very proud of our showroom,” the woman said in a professional tone. “We have the largest selection of caskets in the state.”

“I–I don’t think I can do this,” an elderly man’s voice quavered. “She was all I had … it’s just too soon.”

“That’s understandable,” the saleswoman replied automatically, as if reciting from a script. “Is there someone else in your family who could make these arrangements?”

“No. Only me,” he added with a sniffle.

His sorrow reminded me of how I’d felt a year ago, when I found out Grammy Greta had died. Whenever Mom used to give me grief over stupid stuff, Grammy had always been there to support me. Losing her was like having all the lights turned off in the world. But I’d discovered recently, when Grammy and I were reunited on the other side, that “dead” didn’t mean she was gone. Grammy even had an important job overseeing the Temp Life program — which was how I had now ended up in my best friend’s body.

“Final arrangements are never easy,” the saleswoman was telling the man. “They’re a necessary part of the healing process. Still, we can wait if you’d rather do this later.”

Yes! I thought desperately. Wait till later! Turn around and leave now so I can get out of here.

But the man wasn’t leaving. He murmured something indiscernible, then I watched his black loafers follow the clicking heels farther into the room — toward my hiding spot. I scrunched into the smallest ball possible, which was seriously uncomfortable because Alyce’s legs were long and bony with knobby knees. I held my breath, afraid that even the slightest sound would boom like a fired cannonball.

The woman’s heels tapped closer.

Two caskets away from me!

I struggled for invisibility, afraid to move or breathe. Only I couldn’t hold my breath forever, and when I finally let it out, I was sure I was going to be caught.

But the saleswoman only heard her own voice as she launched into a sales pitch. “Green Briar caskets are velvet lined and trimmed in lace with matching pillows. The lids are foam-filled with decorative buttons. And our caskets are rot-and insect-resistant,” she boasted. “They’re guaranteed to last a lifetime.”

Whose lifetime? I wondered, smiling at the irony. It wasn’t like a corpse could jump out of the grave to complain about bugs and mildew.

But my smile died fast when the saleswoman suddenly gasped.

“Dear God!” she exclaimed. “What is that doing there?”

Electric fear shot through me. I braced myself for discovery, but instead of the footsteps coming closer, they click-clicked away.

“Who left this here?” the saleswoman exclaimed angrily.

“Is that a dead animal?” the man asked.

“Of course not. It’s only a tacky kid’s backpack and it definitely doesn’t belong in our sales room.” She seemed to recover and added, “I’ll get rid of it.”

Curious, I shifted toward a crack between caskets, pushing Alyce’s dark hair out of my eyes to get a better view. A large-boned woman with upswept burgundy hair and a gaudy abundance of necklaces and bracelets was looking down at the floor. Her jewelry jangled as she swooped down to pick up a leather backpack with a ratty rope dangling from its bottom.

Not a rope, I realized with horror, but a curly, furry tail.

This wasn’t a random backpack — it was Monkey Bag!