5

I’M AT THE RIVER AGAIN. It’s frozen over solid now. I could easily walk across it to Aimée’s backyard without it splintering, but I don’t. Instead I take the bridge, pausing at the entrance where the split-poplar planks meet snow-sprinkled yellow grass.

Hazy rays of late-afternoon sunlight blanch the tawny surface of the boards as they creak in the wind. As I cross the bridge, I’m assaulted by a fractured montage of memories: Ethan turning to walk away from me, me staggering on the heels of my Mary Janes in the dark, a bottle pressed to my lips, lips pressed to my lips …

I gasp and throw my hand over my mouth. I don’t remember why or when any of those moments happened. Suddenly, I’m halfway across the Coutiers’ acreage, the bridge quiet behind me, and I see Aimée in one of the third-floor windows, staring out past the river to Dover Park. I haven’t seen her in that window seat since she found out she didn’t get into the high school summer program at Brown University last year. It’s her life-has-ended-I’ll-never-get-over-this spot.

My pace quickens as I go inside through the garage and up the back staircase to the bonus room that we call the playroom. I pass through the door and rush to the window seat at the far end.

Aimée’s eyes flick toward me, giving me the smallest glimmer of hope that she can see me, but then they lower to the Berber carpet that’s littered with wads of tissue. She’s shaking her head and wiping mascara streaks off her cheeks. It’s so her that she’s wearing fresh makeup the day after her best friend died. Her long brown hair is tied up in an intricate bun too. She looks absolutely flawless except for the black tears.

“Meems.” I say my nickname for her.

She shakes her head harder and chokes on a sob.

“Oh, Meemer.” She cowers against the wall when I sit next to her, and for a second, I wonder if she can at least hear me. “Please stop crying. It’s not what you think. I’m here.” My hand hovers slightly above her shoulder. I’ll shatter into a million irreparable pieces if I have to watch my hand pass through her, and then there’s the debilitating pain.

A strangled cry bursts out of her chapped lips. “I shouldn’t have let you leave,” she murmurs. “I knew things were messed up. I knew…” The words are muffled by tears.

“Knew what?” I ask, leaning forward.

She doesn’t say anything else for a long time, simply cries more. I look around the room filled with board games and stuffed animals from our younger years and see a box of tissues next to the king-size air mattress we used for sleepovers. I consider bringing her the tissues, but I’m not sure I can pick up things and figure now’s not the time to test my tactile limits.

She mumbles something unintelligible, and I ask, “What?”

“I think I need therapy,” she says, as if answering me. Her go-to response for explaining what’s bothering her lifts my mouth into a wistful smile. “Talking to myself is clearly not helping me deal.” She makes a dramatic gesture toward the heavens. “It’s Sunday. Maybe I should go to confession.”

“You’re Jewish, Meems.”

There’s a knock on the door. “Aimée?” Her sister, Bridgette, peeks her head into the room. She’s only two years younger than Aimée, but right now she seems unusually small. “Mom says it’s time to come down for dinner.”

“It’s only four o’clock,” Aimée replies.

Bridgette changes the topic. “Do you want to come down and watch a movie with me? It’s that old one with that actor you like. John Krasinski or whoever.”

“His last name is Cusack. John Krasinski is from The Office. Besides, I’m not the one who likes old movies, Cassidy is.” Aimée’s voice trails off.

“That’s right,” Bridgette says quietly. “So do you want to come to my room and watch it?”

Tears flood Aimée’s green eyes. “I don’t want to watch a movie right now, Bridge.” Her voice shakes with the effort to sound like she’s not falling apart.

“Come on, it could help—”

“Not now,” Aimée says firmly, cutting Bridgette off. Bridgette leaves.

I ask, “What happened at the party, Meems?”

There’s another knock on the door. “Tell Mom I’m not hungry, Bridgette,” Aimée shouts.

The door opens a crack. “Aims? It’s—”

“Mads.” Aimée exhales a relieved breath and gives Madison a long hug, then holds her at arm’s length.

Madison keeps her eyes on her shoes. “I wanted to come over sooner, but my dad said I needed time to grieve alone or some psychobabble BS.”

“How are you?”

When Madison finally looks up, tears spill over her stormy blue eyes. “This is totally my fault,” she confesses.

Aimée lets go of Madison’s arms and waits.

Madison’s layered hair swooshes across her shoulders as she shakes her head. It’s dyed the same auburn color as mine, but her strawberry-blond roots are starting to show. “The party was my idea. If I hadn’t made such a big deal and—”

“No, Mads, I planned the party with you. I hosted it.” Aimée sinks back down onto the window seat. “It’s my fault too. I knew something was off with her, and I thought a party would cheer her up, but I had this feeling … I knew.”

“Knew what?” I ask again, starting to get frustrated with being ignored.

Madison presses her lips into a tight line. She turns to look out the window. “There’s no way we could’ve known she’d jump into the river.”

“Jump?” I snap my head to look at Madison. “I didn’t jump.”

Aimée’s thin eyebrows scrunch up. “You think she jumped?”

“I didn’t!” I insist.

“She was alone and the police said they found a bottle of booze floating next to her. I mean, what else could’ve happened?”

Aimée looks sideways at Madison with a crazy-intense expression. “An accidental fall is more logical in that scenario than suicide, and the fact that the police are even considering that her death was intentional makes me seriously question their ability to solve any case. Besides, how do we know for sure she was alone?”

“They found a note. I guess it was pretty obvious she meant to—” Madison stops. “You look pale, Aims. How much sleep did you get last night?”

Aimée continues as if she didn’t hear Madison’s question. “Is that what everyone thinks?”

“I didn’t write any note!” I yell, but then I remember seeing the piece of paper crumpled in my body’s lifeless hand when I came to on the riverbank. Could that have been my suicide note?

“It’s what my dad heard from his buddy who does psych analysis or something for the police department.”

“Well, it’s not true,” Aimée replies, staring hard at Madison.

“We weren’t there, Aims. There’s no way of knowing.”

“I know,” Aimée says brusquely.

I give her a grateful look for sticking up for me.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Madison drops her head. “You’re probably right. Everything was a huge accident.”

*   *   *

I’M STANDING ON THE ROCKS where I found Other Me. The frustration of not being able to remember what happened Saturday night is even stronger now that I know the accepted cause of my death. I couldn’t have jumped. No way would I give up on all my hard work at school and ballet and on everyone I love—on myself—like that. But if everyone starts to think I did, they’re going to make up reasons for why, stories that could damage more than the integrity of my memory. Someone has to know the truth. Someone alive must know what happened to me.

I stare at the spot between the trees in Dover Park where the silhouette stood. I can hear the muffled voice and see the tall shadow looming over the rocky bank of the river, but I still can’t make out a face.

I rub my temples, watching the sun set on this bizarre day, trying to remember. I was supposed to be celebrating my seventeenth birthday yesterday, not dying. How did my night take such a horrible turn?

A lone leaf drifts down from a skeletal tree, landing on top of my shoe. Suddenly the weight of snow presses on my arms and legs as if I’m sinking in quick-snow even though there isn’t a single flake floating in the sky. This cold burden is for me alone.

I stare at my leggings. My eyes widen as the gray turns a mottled black, spreading like spilled ink from my ankles up to my knees.

Not again! I fight against the pull, terrified that if I fall into the past again I’ll never make it back. The puddle I’m standing in rises until my entire body is icy and my eyes can’t focus through the wavy film covering them. Trying to clear the film, I blink and then I’m gone.