I wake up in the middle of the night, my head groggy and my throat dry. It must be the Jolt mints, because no matter how hard I try, I can’t get back to sleep. I get up, turn on a light and chug a glass of water.
I was completely whacked with Mother in the car. I’ve got to get my crap together, at least try to act like a semi-sane human being. And, most of all, I’ve got to try harder to figure out what made the Girl tick. Down on my hands and knees, I pull the shoebox out from under the bed. I dig the flowered journal from the bottom, take a deep breath and open the cover. There is no date for the entry, only Dear Me in a messy scrawl.
Our new English teacher, Mr. Parent, gave us a weird homework assignment. Everyone complained about it, and so did I—but in the end it got me thinking.
We have to write our own eulogy. We can write things we want people to say about us after we are dead. It was harder than I thought. Deep down, I know what people would probably say: that I was a nice person, a girl who followed the rules and always tried her best. But is that all that I am? It depressed me a little to think that there’s nothing more memorable about me. Nothing interesting. Here’s the best I could come up with.
There’s a folded piece of paper taped onto the page. Finally, something I can sink my teeth into. I open the folded paper and pull my legs up to my chest. I imagine Jessica sitting at the desk, hair pulled up in a ponytail, scribbling away on a sheet of paper.
On Monday, February 11, Jessica Evelyn Grenier passed away unexpectedly. She was a happy girl, full of life, one who enjoyed nature and the simple things: a quiet walk in the bush, camping with her family, chatting with her friends, taking photographs, a good bowl of cotton-candy ice cream. She grew up on the farm and was a country girl at heart. She loved her dog, Ginger, and the bison she helped take care of on the farm. She left behind her loving parents, Deborah and Ray, and an adoring little brother, Stephen. Though her life was short and she hadn’t had time to achieve greatness of any kind, she was happy. And that’s what matters.
A chill goes through me. She couldn’t possibly have known that soon afterward she would have a brush with death, and that though she would survive, the girl she had been would cease to exist. Most of all, I’m hit with the unfairness of it all, how she lost that feeling of belonging she once had. Maybe she was boring, but at least she knew where she fit. I read the eulogy again, slowly, until a sound—a creaking floorboard maybe?—startles me, and I look toward the door.
I hold my breath and listen. Another creak, this one louder. Someone is out there. It’s probably Stephen or Mother or Father, making a night visit to the bathroom. Willing my feet onto the carpet, I pad softly toward the door. My hand moves toward the doorknob, and when I turn it I suck in my breath. The door is open only a crack, enough for me to peer into the dark hallway. There is no light on in the bathroom, no sign of anyone. The house is silent.
My hand shoots out, pushing the door shut. I toss the journal into the shoebox and shove it into my closet, up high behind a stack of magazines. I scurry back to the bed, bury myself under the covers and pull them over my head. I’m overtired, I know. But I can feel her presence, and it’s eerily real. Jessica is here in the house. She’s lost and restless, and she wants her life back.
“I won’t read the rest,” I say. “I promise.”
It’s probably the caffeine still in my system making me jumpy. But it feels like the Girl is haunting me.