Among the Dead and Dreaming Read online

  AMONG THE DEAD AND DREAMING

  Also by Samuel Ligon

  Wonderland

  Drift and Swerve

  Safe in Heaven Dead

  AMONG THE DEAD AND DREAMING

  A NOVEL

  SAMUEL LIGON

  Leapfrog Press

  Fredonia, New York

  Among the Dead and Dreaming © 2016 by Samuel Ligon

  All rights reserved under International and

  Pan-American Copyright Conventions

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a data base or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without

  the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in 2016 in the United States by

  Leapfrog Press LLC

  PO Box 505

  Fredonia, NY 14063

  www.leapfrogpress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Distributed in the United States by

  Consortium Book Sales and Distribution

  St. Paul, Minnesota 55114

  www.cbsd.com

  Author photo by Heather Malcolm

  First Edition

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ligon, Samuel, author.

  Title: Among the dead and dreaming / Samuel Ligon.

  Description: First edition. | Fredonia, NY : Leapfrog Press, 2016. | St.

  Paul, Minnesota : Distributed in the United States by Consortium Book

  Sales and Distribution

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015041419 (print) | LCCN 2015044192 (ebook) | ISBN

  9781935248781 (softcover) | ISBN 9781935248798 (epub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Single mothers--Fiction. | Man-woman relationships--Fiction.

  | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION /

  Psychological. | FICTION / Romance / Gothic. | GSAFD: Romantic suspense

  fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3612.I35 A83 2016 (print) | LCC PS3612.I35 (ebook) |

  DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015041419

  For My Mother and Father

  Fish die belly upward and rise to the surface.

  It’s their way of falling.

  —André Gide

  What falls away is always. And is near.

  —Theodore Roethke, The Waking

  1

  Cynthia

  The rain was more like mist, soft against your skin the way the air is down by the ocean, so beautiful and calm, even from the back of Kyle’s motorcycle. I wanted to go faster and faster through it, my eyes closed tight and the water running off my face. It was just me and Kyle, or me and the ocean, me and the rain, or not me at all, just Kyle, the ocean, the rain, until we hit something and I was weightless, flying, the anticipation of landing lifting me into this bright, raw awareness. Nothing had been settled. Nothing ever would be settled. Nothing was supposed to be settled. And nothing was supposed to be accomplished, either, except the baby in my belly, the beautiful baby I wrapped myself around as we flew. Mark didn’t know about her—I’d only been certain a few weeks myself—but I sometimes thought she might save us. I didn’t know her name yet, not for sure. I just thought, baby, baby, baby, the one good thing I was going to do with myself, the one good thing I’d have. And then I did know her name for sure—Isabelle. My sweet baby Isabelle. Those moments we were in the air seemed like they might go on forever.

  Kyle

  The sky was pale green between purple clouds until the fog moved in and made everything gauzy. You could hardly tell the sand from the sky, and the ocean wasn’t visible at all, just a rumble out in the soup somewhere. We ate our dinner and wrapped ourselves in a blanket, and even though she had Mark and I had Nikki, I didn’t really have Nikki, not the way I wanted to have her, and Cynthia and Mark were unraveling again. So we’d come to the beach without them. We’d known each other for years, me and Cynthia. We’d known each other forever. When the fog turned to drizzle, we got back on the bike and headed home, Cynthia against me shouting, “Come on, faster!” One minute we’re grounded in this gauzy, white mist, the next minute we’re weightless, up, coming down, but I’m thinking okay, until I realize she’s gone, out in the fog somewhere. Except she’s not gone. I can hear her voice, “Come on, faster,” like she’s right up against me, even as I’m wrestling the bike through a skid, leaving skin all over the asphalt. I didn’t know anything for a long time after that, didn’t hear anything or want anything. I became aware of my heartbeat in my ears, muddy and monotonous, and then I was outside myself and frantic, listening as hard as I could—to paramedics shouting, to tires hissing and the sound of the ocean over the berm, to a train’s whistle across South Oyster Bay. But I couldn’t hear Cynthia anymore, anywhere.

  Nikki

  The light in the waiting room is the same dull light, and the people coming and going have always come and gone, and his father rubs my shoulders, and his mother’s face is carved by tears, and Cynthia’s parents hold each other while Mark smolders, all of us underwater for what feels like forever. I try so hard to believe he’s going to pull through, almost like praying, or willing the life back into him, when it’s probably only Cynthia who could do that, and she died at the scene. But he keeps not pulling through. And I’m sick with myself, knowing I should have loved him more or loved him better, or just let him go, since I never could have loved him more or better. At least he had Cynthia. At least I think he did, hope he did. Almost anyone would have been better than me, I want to tell him, as though admitting the poverty of my love will keep him alive to hear my confession. I need him now more than I’ve ever needed him, and now that I need him, I won’t get him, exactly what I deserve. The surgeon who finally tells us is the hairiest man I’ve ever seen. I know before he says a word that Kyle’s dead. Everyone knows. It’s in the way he carries himself, slumped toward us through the swinging doors, all the color drained from his face. I look for pieces of Kyle woven into the fur of his forearms. I watch his mouth move, Kyle’s mother collapsing, all these millions of hairs reaching out of his scrubs, and all I can feel—all I’ve felt for weeks, really—is Burke out there waiting, a shark in deep water swimming circles toward shore. And I think, Kyle. I sit back in my seat with my face in my hands, trying to hold on to him, the whisper of his breath and the heat coming off his skin, how we’d dance sometimes while dinner was cooking, when the light was just right and the wine was just right and the music was perfect, everything we had and might have had here now with me.

  Mark

  Her father’s voice on the phone was like an infection, my throat catching and closing as I sat trying to calm down, not wanting to calm down, holding onto the loss of her. I didn’t know she died with Kyle, so for a few minutes my grief was all there was—until I got to the hospital and found out they crashed together, bringing on this panic of love and loss and tiny, black-hearted hatred. I couldn’t stand to think of her gone from me, gone with him. I couldn’t stand to think of the world without her. But in the dead air of the waiting room, her presence was everywhere, and then her absence, and then her presence again, so that her presence and absence felt like the same thing. I could smell something that smelled like her, or I could hear—something—a whisper or hum, her voice—somewhere. My breath was too shallow, stuck in my chest, and I heard her whisper, “Breathe,” but when I took a deep breath and held it, not breathing, she didn’t say anything. Nobody did. Everyone was crying and pacing and disappearing and reappearing. No one
could comfort anyone else. After Kyle was pronounced dead, Nikki put her face in her hands for a long time. I touched her shoulder and she looked at me with her eyes shot and her face broken, and then she covered up again. I drove to Cynthia’s place under a weak blue sky, the sun still rising behind me. I couldn’t think of any other place to be.

  Isabelle

  Oh.

  2

  Nikki

  At seventeen, I ran from home with a boy named George who left me broke on the street in Providence. I never found another love like we had those weeks before he disappeared, though I looked for it everywhere I went. That was my real problem, all that searching and hunger. I didn’t know you can only fall in love and run from your mother once in your life. George was the best mistake I ever made.

  I stayed in Providence for months after he left, then moved to Austin, where I met my worst mistake—Cash. Maybe I was too hungry, remembering my time with George, or maybe we got together too fast, before I could really know him, but whatever the reason, pretty soon it was just me and Cash and nothing else in the world that mattered. We were happy, too, until I started looking for work. He had plenty of money, he told me, would buy me whatever I wanted. What I wanted, I told him, was my own money. I got a job at a barbecue place and the interrogations started. I wasn’t interested in anyone else, but he’d accuse me of cheating or plotting to cheat. Why else would I talk to someone or look at someone or go to a coffee shop or have ever been born?

  I’d been independent too long to put up with that kind of shit. But I did put up with it—until he called me mouthy.

  “What did you say?” I said, and he said, “I’m tired of the mouth on you,” and I said, “So leave,” and he said, “I don’t want to leave,” and we got into it worse than ever before, fighting all night.

  He said it again a week later—“What’d I say about mouthy?”—and that’s when I knew it was over for good. But he promised to change, and even though I knew better, I forgave him. We lived in a big house on Duval Street, with a lot of other people, him in the basement, and me on the second floor. After I took him back, he started spying on me. “You don’t know what love is,” he told me, before and after I broke it off for good. “You don’t know what love is,” he told me as he stalked me and haunted me for months.

  He’d break into my room, follow me around, and the more cold and pissed off I became, the more threatening he became, unhinged and dangerous, until I finally had to move out of that house. But I didn’t run far enough—only across town, where I thought I was hidden. There was a moment of rest then, maybe a month. I was so young and stupid, so hungry for love, even after all that. Maybe because of all that. I fell for this guy, Daryl, and Cash tracked me down and hurt me more than I’d ever been hurt before. I ran to Oregon, where I waited for Alina to be born, praying she was Daryl’s baby, but the minute I saw her face, blood streaked and furious, I knew she’d come from Cash. She had attached earlobes like his and my eyelids, and she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, even if she did come from Cash.

  I never meant to kill him. Or I meant to and couldn’t follow through and then he died anyway, before I ran from Austin with Alina just a speck in my belly. So Kyle wasn’t my first boyfriend to die—just the one I could have made a life with, maybe, if things had been different. What happened with Cash was self defense and another reason to get on another bus and keep moving, always moving from the minute I left my mother in Manchester, always hoping to lose myself completely.

  I didn’t know Cash had a brother until Burke called a few weeks ago. For a second when I heard his voice, I thought Cash was back from the dead. I couldn’t make sense of the moment, because I didn’t know Burke existed. The sound of his voice on the phone stripped me to something I didn’t want to recognize in myself, like I was eighteen again, sprung to run, ready to pop. But I wasn’t eighteen. I was thirty-one. And the only thing that mattered was making sure Burke never found out about Alina.

  Alina

  My mom talks about the mistakes she made when she was young and wild, but she never tells me what I want to hear. My father, she says, died in a car accident before I was born. Other than that, she won’t talk about him at all. Ever. I’ve never seen a picture or met a grandparent. “What about diseases and stuff?” I used to ask. “What about genes?” I knew that would get to her because of her own mother’s death from cancer. And her aunt’s.

  “What about genes?” she said.

  “I should know who he is,” I said, “where I came from.”

  “You came from me,” she said.

  “You don’t know his name?”

  “Jim,” she said.

  But sometimes he had other names.

  That was when we were living in Seattle, before I learned to stop asking. They skipped me a grade, from second to third, because I was bored and getting in trouble and she wouldn’t let them put me on drugs. She was with Hal then, off and on, a guy she met at the restaurant. I didn’t care about Hal. I didn’t care about any of them until Kyle.

  Nikki

  “Make sure Kyle calls and writes,” Alina told me yesterday morning, before I left her at her new school in Michigan. “He will,” I said, so grateful she was gone. Now, I’ll have to bring her home and get her away again safe, but with a broken heart this time.

  Months ago, I was furious with Kyle for encouraging her to attend Interlochen. He knew I couldn’t afford boarding school, that I didn’t want her in a place filled with rich kids, that I didn’t want to lose her so young. But he kept talking about the place. He’d gone to art school himself and it changed him, he said, made him a better person. He wanted to pay her way, whatever wasn’t covered by scholarships. We’d only been seeing each other a few months.

  “She doesn’t have to know where the money comes from,” he said one night when we were watching the water from a bench on the boardwalk. “It’ll be like another scholarship,” he said.

  Alina was at a friend’s house. We hadn’t talked about it in weeks.

  “And if it doesn’t work out, she can come home.”

  He looked so open and vulnerable, so hungry to help.

  “I appreciate the offer,” I said. “I really do,” and he said, “So let me do this,” and I wondered if I could—for Alina’s sake, but also because I thought falling into his debt might be good for me, too, an act of faith, a kind of surrender. I didn’t want to hold myself so tight forever. I surprised us both when I took him up on his offer a few days later, grateful for his help, until Burke called, and then I was just grateful for a place to hide Alina, pulling back from faith and surrender as fast as I could.

  Kyle loved me, I know that much, whether I deserved it or not. But he was in love with Cynthia, too, and had been for years. She was rich like him and careless about money, careless about everything, the way rich people always are. The nudes he painted of me had her eyes, the reason I couldn’t love him right, because he was in love with her, the lie I told myself, the lie I keep telling.

  3

  Burke

  I did fifteen years for Cash, most of them after he was killed down in Austin, and when I got out all I wanted to do was get in the Goat and go. But of course nobody’d taken care of her—the one thing I asked Cash to do—hoses rotted, radiator rusted, tires shot to hell, even though he told me he used the fuel stabilizer and put her up on blocks. But no. It was the same beer cans and doughnut sacks and empty packs of cigarettes from 1986 scattered all over her cracked and rotting upholstery, one of the vent windows wide open. You’d think I’d have been filled with rage to see such a mess, but I was past all that, something I learned from Carl down at Huntsville—the guiding hand of fate deciding everything for a reason, so you might as well just surrender to it and become its instrument, since that’s all you’re ever going to be anyway.

  After Cash died, that GTO was the one thing I had on the outside besi
des our mother, starlight black with a bobcat kit I installed myself. It was a ’67 convertible I picked up over in Corsicana when I had more money than I knew what to do with, a year out of high school and thinking the ride would never end. Another trick Carl taught me about doing easy time was finding a place in your mind nobody knew about, a place you escaped to and lived a secret life you couldn’t live inside. I made the Goat that place in my mind all them years at Huntsville—driving around with beer on ice in back, Suzy Mullins or Kate Blisdale in the bucket seat beside me wearing a yellow tube top or baby tee, a sweet powdery smell mixing with the gas and weed and beer smells inside the Goat, and Zeppelin or Skynyrd on the tape deck pushing us out to eternity.

  When I got out of our mother’s truck, finally home from Huntsville, the Goat’s cover was shredded—hail storms, she told me—the finish flat and dull and pocked. Nothing like what I imagined all them years away. You’d think after that long inside a man would have all kinds of pent up energy ready to explode, but doing time mostly just wears you out, like years gone drunk or dreaming. Our mother was worn out too, my time away and Cash dead and gone, so that I could hardly stand to sit with her nights in front of the television, a nervous energy starting to run under the weight of all them wasted years. Even with my parole officer hounding me to get a job, start over and find a girl, I knew I had to align myself first and figure out what the guiding hand had in store for me.