Gabrielle Zevin: Elsewhere

Liz steps away from the binoculars. "How did you die, Curtis?"

"Apparent drug overdose, I suppose."

"Apparent?" Liz asks.

"No doubt, that's what they said on the news: 'Curtis Jest, lead singer of the band Machine, died of an apparent drug overdose early Sunday morning at his residence in Los Angeles. He was thirty years old.' It's a great tragedy, you see." Curtis laughs. "And you, Lizzie? Do you know now?"

"Bicycle accident."

"Ah, that explains the traffic-safety-themed funeral."

"I guess. My mom was always trying to get me to wear a helmet," says Liz.

"Mums always know best."

Liz smiles. A moment later, she is surprised to find tears falling from her eyes. She quickly brushes them away with her hand, but they are soon replaced with fresh stock.

"Here," says Curtis, holding out his pajama sleeve for Liz to wipe her eyes on.

Liz accepts the sleeve. She notices that Curtis's scarred arm is healing. "Thank you," she says.

"Your arm looks better, by the way."

Curtis pulls down his pajama sleeve. "My youngest sister is your age," Curtis says. "Looks a bit like you, too."

"We're dead, you know? We're all dead. And we're never going to see any of them ever again,"

Liz cries.

"Who knows, Lizzie? Perhaps we will."

"Easy for you to say. You chose this." As soon as the words escape her mouth, Liz regrets them.

Curtis waits a moment before he responds. "I was a drug addict. I didn't want to die."

"I'm sorry."

Curtis nods without really looking at Liz.

"I'm really sorry," she says. "It was a stupid thing for me to say. I only thought it, because a lot of your songs are kind of, well, dark. But I still shouldn't assume things."

"Apology accepted. It's a good thing to know how to apologize properly. Very few people know how to do it." Curtis smiles, and Liz returns his smile. "And the truth is, some days I did want to die, maybe a little. But not most days."

Liz thinks about asking him if he still wants drugs now that he's dead, but she decides the question isn't appropriate. "People will be really sad you're gone," Liz says.

"Will they?"

"Well," she says, "I'm sad you're gone."

"But I'm where you are. So to you, I'm not gone, am I?"

"No, I guess not." Liz laughs. It feels strange to laugh. How can anything be funny now?

"Do you think we'll be on this boat forever? I mean, is this all there is?" Liz asks.

"I suspect not, Lizzie."

"But how do you know?"

"Perhaps my mind's playing tricks on me," says Curtis, "but I think I can see the shore, love."

Liz stands to see over the binoculars. In the distance, she can see what appears to be land. The sight momentarily comforts her. If you have to be dead, it is better to be somewhere, anywhere, than nowhere at all.

We're here!" Thandi is looking out the upper porthole when Liz enters the cabin. She jumps down from the top bunk and throws her solid arms around Liz, spinning her about the cabin until both girls are out of breath.

Liz sits down and gasps for air. "How can you be so happy when we're . . . ?" Her voice trails off.

"Dead?" Thandi smiles a little. "So you finally figured it out."

"I just got back from my funeral, but I think I sort of knew before."

Thandi nods solemnly. "It takes as long as it takes," she says. "My funeral was awful, thanks for asking. They had me made up like a clown. I can't even talk about what they did to my hair."

Thandi lifts up her braids. In the mirror, she examines the hole in the back of her head. "It's definitely getting smaller," she decides before lowering her braids.

"Aren't you at all sad?" Liz asks.

"No point in being sad that I can see. I can't change anything. And I'm tired of being in this little room, Liz, no offense."

An announcement comes over the ship's PA system: "This is your captain speaking. I hope you've enjoyed your passage. On behalf of the crew of the SS Nile, welcome to Elsewhere. The local temperature is 67 degrees with partly sunny skies and a westerly breeze. The local time is 3:48 p.m. All passagers must now disembark. This is the last and only stop."

"Don't you wonder what it's like out there?" Liz asks.

"The captain just said. It's warm with a breeze."

"No, not the weather. I meant, everything else."

"Not really. It is what it is, and all the wondering in the world isn't gonna change it." Thandi holds out her hand to help Liz off the bed. "You coming?"

Liz shakes her head. "The ship's probably super crowded. I think I'll wait here a bit, just until the halls clear out."

Thandi sits next to Liz on the bed. "I'm in no particular rush."

"No, you go on ahead," says Liz. "I want to be by myself."

Thandi looks into Liz's eyes. "Don't you stay in here forever."

"I won't. I promise."

Thandi nods. She is almost out the door when Liz calls out to her, "Why do you think they put us together anyway?"

"Beats me." Thandi shrugs. "We were probably the only two sixteen-year-old girls who died of acute head traumas that day."

"I'm fifteen," Liz reminds her.

"Guess that was the best they could do." Thandi pulls Liz into a hug. "It was certainly nice meeting you, Liz. Maybe I'll see you again someday."

Liz wants to say something to acknowledge the profound experience that she and Thandi have just shared, but she can't find the right words. "Yeah, see you," Liz replies.

As Thandi closes the door, Liz has the impulse to call out and ask her to stay. Thandi is now her only friend, except for Curtis Jest. (And Liz isn't even sure if she can count Curtis Jest a friend.) With Thandi gone, Liz feels more alone and wretched than she has ever felt before.

Liz lies down on the bottom bunk. All around her, she can hear the sounds of people leaving their cabins and walking through the ship's halls. Liz decides to wait until she can't hear any more people and only then will she venture from her cabin. In between doors opening and closing, she listens to snippets of conversation.

A man says, "It's a little embarrassing to only have these nightgowns to wear ..."

And a woman, "I hope there's a decent hotel. . ."

And another woman, "Do you think I'll see Hubie there? Oh, how I have missed him!"

Liz wonders who "Hubie" is. She guesses he is probably dead like all the people on the Nile, dead like she is. Maybe being dead isn't so bad if you are really old, she thinks, because, as far as she can tell, most dead people are really old. So the chance of meeting new people your own age is quite good. And all the other dead people you knew from before you died might even be in the new place, Elsewhere, or whatever it was called. And maybe if you got old enough, you'd know more dead people than live ones, so dying would be a good thing, or at least wouldn't be so bad. As Liz sees it, for the aged, death isn't much different than retiring to Florida.

But Liz is fifteen (almost sixteen), and she doesn't personally know any dead people. Except for herself and the people on the trip, of course. To Liz, the prospect of being dead seems terribly lonely.

On the drive over to the Elsewhere pier, Betty Bloom, a woman prone to talking to herself, remarks, "I wish I had met Elizabeth even once. Then I could say, 'Remember that time we met?'

As it is, I have to say, 'I'm your grandmother. We never met, on account of my untimely death from breast cancer.' And frankly, cancer is no way to begin a conversation. In fact, I think it might be better not to mention cancer at all. Suffice it to say, I died. At the very least, we both have that in common." Betty sighs. A car honks at her. Instead of speeding up, Betty smiles, waves, and allows the car to pass. "Yes, I am perfectly content to be driving at the speed I'm driving. If you wish to go faster, by all means go," she adds.