either swept downhill by the slide or jutting at sharp angles from the ground like compound bone fractures piercing skin. Jaundiced partial skeletons litter the soil. Relief swells in me as I hope that weâre only seeing the remnants of those who died a hundred years ago. Tara Boden is a drama whore; of course sheâdseize the opportunity for attention. I squirm out of Danielâs grasp. On unsteady legs I inch forward, toes of my sneakers narrowly missing ancient bones as I work my way into the shallow crater the slide left. Daniel doesnât follow. I drag my arm over my top lip, wiping off water and snot from the run.
I go from hobbling to crouching when I reach the bottom. I squint at the sludge in front of me, the votivesâ pallor hardly enough to see by. Gnarled tree roots. Crumbled graves. A fractured Virgin Mary statue that rests headless on its side. The clouds drift away, and the moonâs light penetrates the gloom around me. A flash of yellow cloth sticking up from the mud. A nest of brown lichen or matted hair. A rubber-soled sneaker. Fuchsia-painted fingernails. Bits and pieces of a body visible in the weak light. She rests diagonally on the lid of a coffin at the bottom of the crater. Before the storm she might have been righted, hands folded and crossed on her chest, sleeping deeply on the top of an ancient grave with the look of a princess waiting to be awakened by a kiss. I suck in my breath, afraid to exhale.
I must look like Iâve lost my mind as I sink down to my hands and knees. The slimy soil squishes and bubbles under me. I crawl carefully, so the earth doesnât swallow me up. I choke back vomit as my hand brushes what I know is a human skull. Bones. Decomposed flesh. Eyeballs. Brain matter. Maggots. All the gross things that are likely in this soil seep into my hands and knees. But I have to get to that body. I have to make sure that it is a body and that Iâm not seeing things. That I havenât lost every last ounce of sanity I had.
Out of the voices behind me I hear Zoey arguing. Demandingthat the cops be called. Barking orders in a way only Zoey can get away with. A few more feet to go. I still hold my breath. I try to let it out very gently and to draw it back in without the dead noticing. I donât want to breathe them in either.
I can see her now. Hair, hands, torso. For a second Iâm grateful the body isnât dismembered, but that fades once I note the size of the features. Small and doll-like. A little girl . Ivory skin taut over her bones; hair is matted on her forehead. Itâs impossible, but my tongue presses to the roof of my mouth to say Jeanieâs name. Of course itâs not her. I havenât taken anatomy yet, but who doesnât know enough about decomposing corpses from watching CSI reruns to know that someone buried eleven years ago wouldnât be in this condition? But still. She looks young. She looks six.
I reach for herâI donât know why, since the last thing I want is to actually touch her. My hand splayed wide, fingers stretching against the joints. Three inches. Two. In the instant before I make contact, the sludge shifts and bubbles under me and Iâm knocked forward against the coffin lid. The jolt rocks her head to the side, but the red hair and the flap of skin that is her scalp stay put. âNakedâ is the word my brain vomits. Her head is hairless. Skinned. Scalped . The membrane that she should be wearing as a crown is disconnected, limp in the mud, only placed near so it might look as though sheâs in one piece.
âZoey.â I must say her name a hundred times in the minute it takes her to crawl, drunk and in her bikini, through the demolished graves. She reaches me, hands fumble to pull me away.
It takes twenty minutes for the police to arrive. During that time Iâm a nonverbal animal completely consumed with watching and listening to those around me. Zoey torpedoes Tara Boden
I go from hobbling to crouching when I reach the bottom. I squint at the sludge in front of me, the votivesâ pallor hardly enough to see by. Gnarled tree roots. Crumbled graves. A fractured Virgin Mary statue that rests headless on its side. The clouds drift away, and the moonâs light penetrates the gloom around me. A flash of yellow cloth sticking up from the mud. A nest of brown lichen or matted hair. A rubber-soled sneaker. Fuchsia-painted fingernails. Bits and pieces of a body visible in the weak light. She rests diagonally on the lid of a coffin at the bottom of the crater. Before the storm she might have been righted, hands folded and crossed on her chest, sleeping deeply on the top of an ancient grave with the look of a princess waiting to be awakened by a kiss. I suck in my breath, afraid to exhale.
I must look like Iâve lost my mind as I sink down to my hands and knees. The slimy soil squishes and bubbles under me. I crawl carefully, so the earth doesnât swallow me up. I choke back vomit as my hand brushes what I know is a human skull. Bones. Decomposed flesh. Eyeballs. Brain matter. Maggots. All the gross things that are likely in this soil seep into my hands and knees. But I have to get to that body. I have to make sure that it is a body and that Iâm not seeing things. That I havenât lost every last ounce of sanity I had.
Out of the voices behind me I hear Zoey arguing. Demandingthat the cops be called. Barking orders in a way only Zoey can get away with. A few more feet to go. I still hold my breath. I try to let it out very gently and to draw it back in without the dead noticing. I donât want to breathe them in either.
I can see her now. Hair, hands, torso. For a second Iâm grateful the body isnât dismembered, but that fades once I note the size of the features. Small and doll-like. A little girl . Ivory skin taut over her bones; hair is matted on her forehead. Itâs impossible, but my tongue presses to the roof of my mouth to say Jeanieâs name. Of course itâs not her. I havenât taken anatomy yet, but who doesnât know enough about decomposing corpses from watching CSI reruns to know that someone buried eleven years ago wouldnât be in this condition? But still. She looks young. She looks six.
I reach for herâI donât know why, since the last thing I want is to actually touch her. My hand splayed wide, fingers stretching against the joints. Three inches. Two. In the instant before I make contact, the sludge shifts and bubbles under me and Iâm knocked forward against the coffin lid. The jolt rocks her head to the side, but the red hair and the flap of skin that is her scalp stay put. âNakedâ is the word my brain vomits. Her head is hairless. Skinned. Scalped . The membrane that she should be wearing as a crown is disconnected, limp in the mud, only placed near so it might look as though sheâs in one piece.
âZoey.â I must say her name a hundred times in the minute it takes her to crawl, drunk and in her bikini, through the demolished graves. She reaches me, hands fumble to pull me away.
It takes twenty minutes for the police to arrive. During that time Iâm a nonverbal animal completely consumed with watching and listening to those around me. Zoey torpedoes Tara Boden
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