I Never Stopped Page 6

  She crawled on the tall bed, lying on Francesca's usual side of the bed because she now slept on Sloane's. Her hand fell into the impression of Francesca's body, and the ball of grief bounced back in. Nausea she'd become accustomed to feeling most hours settled in her stomach first.

  The door to the bedroom flung open. Sloane barely noticed it, as if it were the ghost and not she. The sound of Francesca's laughter made Sloane turn to see a familiar sight. Francesca held a ring Sloane's grandmother had given her. Sloane watched as the smokey grey stone on a delicate tarnished band hovered over Francesca's ring finger. With a quick frown at herself in the mirror, she slid it onto her right ring finger. Francesca leaned forward and held onto the dresser.

  "It's okay; it's okay; it's okay," she said to herself in the mirror. She shook her head. "I love you, Sloane. You know that, don't you?"

  A tear slipped down her naked face and dropped to the floor. Standing up straight, she wiped it away and took in a shaky breath. Sloane knew that sound of bravery well; she'd heard it echoing off the walls of abandoned buildings many times as a teen.

  Francesca would have a different ring on her ring finger–an engagement ring–if only the truck driver had one more nap or one less beer.

  Sloane could remember staring at her body, and then the ring. Francesca had been within reaching distance of it but didn't know to look for it. The small shining symbol of everything Sloane had felt since the moment she'd seen Francesca in the grocery store checkout line had been right beside a piece of broken glass. It had taken years, but Sloane had finally found what to say, how to propose properly. Just imagining the practiced words had Sloane caught between grief and rage.

  As if made of sunlight, her pain began to radiate: legs heavy, arms weak, ribs cracking. The heat of the loss had her eyes burning, as every muscle collapsed in on itself. Both lungs would have become useless chunks of meat if she'd been alive.

  If ever there was a time to connect with the world, it was that moment.

  Sloane screamed into the abyss as she pushed through The Gray's blur and punched a pillow. A different kind of cry released from her as she created an indention–nothing near the size of her fist, but it was a start.

  A voice came from a whisper of a shape. "Are you all right?"

  "Of course I'm not okay," Sloane shouted before she realized someone had addressed her.

  A lightning fear struck her. She had no place to run, to hide.

  "Do not be afraid," a quiet voice called from a flickering shadow–the same one she'd been ignoring for months.

  Sloane backed up against the headboard and curled into a ball. Francesca strode out of the room, unaware of the horror going on around her. It happened so quickly, Sloane didn't have time to think and run out. When the door closed again, Sloane felt ill. She'd missed another window. Now no one could help her; she was utterly alone–except for the voice.

  "What… uh, who are you?"

  Had she gone crazy? Could that happen in The Gray? Had her voice always been deeper than Francesca's? Her throat itched. With her toned, tattooed arms and manly voice, Sloane had the desire to tug at the turquoise dress she wished she wasn't stuck in. Thank God she'd listened to Francesca and not shaved one side of her head. People would constantly have asked her about her sexuality. Whose business was it? Not that she was ashamed in the least–Sloane loved showing Francesca off–but she didn't feel the need to justify her life choices to strangers.

  "Does not matter who I am," the shadow replied. It was a feminine voice with a hint of an accent Sloane couldn't place. "It only matters that I can hear you."

  The Gray shimmered as the shadow began to form an almost translucent shape of a young girl. Sloane didn't trust the apparition.

  "How can you hear me?" Sloane asked.

  "I do not know. I have felt ripples of other's grief through the years. Many others." A sigh filled the air. "Their grief threatened to break through the barrier, but none have been able to. You, on the other hand…"

  "I don't understand. My grief broke a barrier? What barrier? Wouldn't everyone have grief? That's why we're stuck… Right?" She did have unfinished business.

  "I do not know. You pierced the wall months ago, but I was unable to make my way through to you." The voice sighed. "I still have not figured out why I cannot leave this side. As a small child, I heard many theories on The Veil in my village before she killed me. It could be any one of them."

  "Who killed you?" Sloane asked more demandingly than she'd intended.

  The girl faded into almost nothing with a soft heave; the beginning of a sob sounded far away.

  "I'm sorry! Please don't go; I don't want to be alone again. She's so close but untouchable. I can't–" Sloane broke away.

  "I know," the wisp said. "I watched Papa until he died of loneliness. I thought, surely I could go then, but I stayed on. I have wandered since." Instead of talking more, she calmed her breathing, which had grown erratic.

  Sloane wasn't prepared to deal with the thought of Francesca on her deathbed, old, broken, and frail.

  They stayed like that: Sloane sitting on the bed and the shadow girl standing in the corner, both crying for their own reasons, until Francesca swooped back into the room to use its bathroom. The door closing behind her shook them from their trances. Being trapped in the room no longer mattered. Sloane would have stayed to talk to the shadow either way. Francesca would be back later. They could sleep beside each other as they always did.

  When Francesca rushed back into the party again, the shadow girl asked, "That is her, is it not?"

  "Francesca, yeah."

  "What happened? What caused the ripple? Something had to."

  Shadow Girl was nosy, but Sloane didn't have anyone else.

  "Do you mean what happened right before you showed up? Francesca came into the room to get a ring but put it on the wrong finger. But I guess it wasn't wrong; I never had a chance to propose. But then she said she loved me, and it felt so… so…"

  "Like she loved another?"

  Sloane's arms and legs erupted with goosebumps as she stuttered. "No! What makes you think that? How could she? She doesn't know anyone out there. But it wasn't just that. For some reason, that made me remember something. It was as if I was there again: the night of the crash. I remembered that the ring I had planned to ask her to marry me with was only a few feet away from her. She didn't see it. If she had, she would have known. She'd be wearing it now, not enjoying a dinner party," Sloane lamented, knowing that may not be true. "I just wish I was out there, by her side. She's always been the more social of us. With so many people around, and Mama Nuccio pushing her, she'll move on."

  A soothing noise came from the dark shape.

  “I just want to touch her again,” Sloane said as she stared at the shadow.

  The silence needed filling.

  “So, what can you tell me about my heartbeat?"

  9

  Francesca

  She stopped by the kitchen for a shot of tequila. The nearby chef's knife stabbed her in the chest at the thought of Sloane. She still couldn't believe herself.

  Francesca had no reason not to wear Sloane's ring on her left ring finger, but it was too late to change it. Anyone, or everyone, could have seen the ring by now. The twinkle lights danced and pinged off of every jewel; Alma's necklace glittered, Mama's bracelet became a row of stars, Francesca could only imagine her earrings. So, the ring probably sparkled enough to be noticed too.

  She sighed and took another shot, then one more. Sloane would have disapproved, would have said she'd be sloppy soon if she didn't slow down; Sloane wouldn't have been wrong.

  Francesca walked slowly so as not to wobble; treating it as a game, she repeated a guests name in her head with each successful step. It would only showcase her drunken state if she forgot them. They'd only just introduced themselves as they stuffed their faces with Mama's fresh ciabatta bread.

  The smell of freshly picked olives had filled the house alongside Ma
ma Nuccio's famous sauce which had been simmering on the stove beside the pisella alla florentina since minutes after they'd come back from their wine tours. It had been mouth-watering before the third tequila shot. Her stomach rolled as she steadied herself on the counter's edge. Damn, she'd only made it a few feet.

  Sliding to the floor, she listened to the expectant boiling, bubbling water and took a deep breath. Francesca couldn't escape the food, though. A chicken marsala roasted in the oven, even closer now that she'd become a pile of goo on the floor. Her stomach demanded to be emptied. She obliged as soon as she made it to the nearest bathroom–Mama's.

  She purged herself of liquor, wine, and none of her guilt. A little pale and sweaty, she splashed water on her face and patted it dry. With the hopes she'd done enough to lessen her sick appearance, Francesca made her way out to the party again–still drunk and nauseous. A dimming pink-orange sky and twinkle lights should allow some leeway.

  Marta commented that she'd been right about the dress the moment Francesca stepped foot on the patio again; she assumed her efforts weren't in vain.

  Marta spent the next two minutes telling the table what Francesca had purchased at her shop, then gushed about what Mama came back to buy while Francesca was looking in a cute toy shop. When Alma caught Francesca's eye, she rolled hers and winked. Francesca held her breath when she came to the end of the shopping trip, but Marta didn't tell them what she'd spent.

  Thank God.

  Mama insisted on avoiding the clearance and sale racks.

  The bakery owner, Lia, came bearing so many Zeppoles Francesca had a hard time not eating a few before dinner; they wouldn't have been missed. That was, of course, before the tequila. Francesca looked longingly at the three white boxes for only a moment before her stomach knotted again. The time for dough and sugar had passed.

  Lia brought her boyfriend, Alonzo. He wasn't talkative, but they did squeeze out that he worked at the fish market. In what capacity, who knew.

  Alonzo brought a sweet, single guy who lived a few streets down–as if Mama wasn't feeding enough people already. He rarely contributed to the conversation–the man whose name Francesca forgot the moment he said it–but he never stopped smiling.

  What felt like, but definitely wasn't, the entire Loreti family sat at the table. The matriarch, Alma; her son, Tony; daughter, Cecelia; nephew, Roberto; and another nephew whose name Francesca missed during a particularly loud chew were a boisterous bunch. They laughed and told stories about their crazy Italian mothers, while those crazy Italian mothers corrected them. Francesca couldn't entirely keep up. She should have listened to Sloane's voice in her head. Sloppy, she verged on being sloppy. No one seemed to notice, or at least they didn't comment.

  Marta, Lia, and Alonzo were talking shop, while the Loreti nephews and Cecelia listened on. The nephews told the table about their dreams of one day opening a restaurant like Tony. Mama Loreti said they better get their act together if they were going to do much but beg in the street. "Or I'm cutting you off at 17; I'll get your Mama to do the same!" To which they complained, "But Tony and Cecelia weren't cut off until they were good and ready."

  Tony flirted through the pasta Francesca couldn't eat, so she told him about her Barbie's marrying each other. The story had the entire party listening in and roaring with the 'punchline': "I was progressive for my age!"

  She'd sobered up enough to carry on a conversation. It had taken an hour, but she contributed. Mama beamed with pride; so her drunken state had not gone unnoticed. Damn.

  When the laughter died down, and people went back to their conversations, Tony looked at Francesca.

  He scratched at his still too-long mustache and rubbed his beard. "Have you met my sister, Cecelia?"

  "Why yes Tony, everyone met everyone at the beginning of the party." Francesca laughed.

  "You two should talk."

  Francesca stared at him, and his eyes twinkled. "Um, alright. But you and I are talking now. Unless you're bored with me."

  "No, no! Anything but! I think you're the star of the party!"

  Francesca almost fell out of her seat. Drunk and sick, but the life of the party. Sloane did say that was usually her style.

  "Cecelia," Tony said across the table. "This is Francesca."

  Large round curls turned away from the conversation Cecelia was having with one of her cousins and bobbed in their direction. Pouty lips turned up into a coy smile.

  "Yes, Tone? I wasn't doing anything, what can I help you with?" Such a sibling response.

  Francesca chuckled, and Cecelia's soft brown eyes lit up. God help her, Francesca's heart fluttered. She'd already met this woman, but it was different with the lights and the drink, the smirk and the snark.

  Instantly horrified by herself, Francesca needed to leave, needed to be anywhere but there.

  "I'm so sorry," Francesca said loud enough for all of the guests to hear. "I think the wine has caught up with me. Or maybe I'm just overwhelmed by all of the good conversation."

  That earned her a chuckle from the entire group sans Cecelia, whose eyes shifted down immediately.

  "I'm getting a bit of a headache, and think I should go retire… with a few Zeppoles, of course," Francesca added.

  A hearty group laugh filled Mama's backyard, followed by different versions of, "It was so lovely to meet you," "I hope you feel better," and "Let's have lunch soon."

  "It was wonderful to meet you all too. Until our next meeting." Francesca smiled and waved before she grabbed an entire box of Zeppoles and winked at the table.

  More laughter followed her to the kitchen, where she poured herself a big glass of water. Usually, the group would have said goodbye for twenty minutes, maybe even an hour, but Francesca must have looked stricken; she felt it. She left so abruptly she wondered what Mama would say in the morning. Hopefully, nothing–a pipe dream.

  Ragged tears broke open her ribs before she made it to her room. She held her Zeppole box like a baby as she slammed the door shut and curled up on Sloane's side of the bed.

  Francesca recalled a moment like that one with giggles instead of sobs. Sloane had bought her a box of treats from one of her favorite bakeries–she had four. Sloane had slid into bed as she'd told a story about the horrible customers in line that had them all but suffocating with laughter. They'd fed each other the sweets, getting chocolate shavings and pastry cream everywhere. When they'd gotten to the powdered sugared doughnuts, Sloane had played piano on Francesca's coated fingers. White had dusted their pillows, which had made biting into them all the more satisfying.

  Francesca tasted her salty tears as she stuffed the fried dough into her face, sickening herself in more ways than one as she did so. She regretted it as soon as the overly sweet taste hit her tongue. Powdered sugar thickened to a paste that stuck to the roof of her mouth. Guilt clung to the rest of her.

  "Mm surry," she mumbled into her dampening pillow.

  Sunlight poured in like a laser show, flickering in her vision violently. The base of her skull felt tight and swollen.

  The night came back in pieces: Sloane's ring, sparkling conversation, tequila, Cecelia's smile. Pasta and booze churned in Francesca's stomach. She barely made it to the bathroom in time. Mama came to hold her hair before she made it to her second heave.

  "Easy does it," Mama cooed. "Let it all out; then we can get you something to ease the cramps."

  Francesca worshipped the porcelain god for so long, only acid remained. It just proved that her insides were rotten. Fitting, as she'd betrayed Sloane.

  Mama left Francesca half-sobbing to grab her "something". It turned out Mama meant the hair of the dog. She poured a large glass of red wine in a plastic cup and handed it to a still queasy Francesca.

  "No Mama, no." She hadn't stopped begging for death yet, and her stomach was still making inhuman noises. "I can barely look at it."

  "You'll get used to it–even with the shots you took." Mama winked. "You think Mama would lead you astray? Just drink up. Al
ma wants to have breakfast, so you need to look better than you do."

  "Gee, thanks, Mama," she said in English. "I can't eat right now. Maybe lunch, okay? I just want to go back to sleep. Is there a dark room in this house? I can't take any more sun."

  Mama laughed. As she shook her head, loose curls tussled in front of her face. "The wine cellar."

  "So helpful today," Francesca called over her shoulder.

  After she brushed her teeth three times, Francesca took the wine and a Zeppole from the counter with her back to the bed.

  "I knew you'd choose my way! Drink up, and be ready in an hour," Mama chuckled as she shut the door behind her quietly.

  Francesca used all of her willpower not to snark again, but yelling might have split her in half. Fine, she'd just crawl under the mass of sheets and pillows. The fluff had suited her grief, so they should be good enough for a migraine.

  10

  Sloane

  Francesca deserved to be curled up, moaning from pain. Though Sloane hated herself for allowing such a thought to creep in, she tried to let herself off the hook. At that moment, she didn't know Francesca at all.

  Sloane didn't hide her tears in The Gray, not even from the shadow girl. Still, now they could hear each other. The girl's form hunched on the chair that doubled as a second side table by the bed. Half of her whirred as if she were swinging her legs, and she hummed an eerie lullaby silently to herself.

  "It will be all right. Soon enough Francesca will see you once again," the girl promised.

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is–" She took a long pause. "Molly. I am no one, just another lost soul. I roam untethered."

  "How?"

  Molly's form shimmered in what Sloane assumed was a shrug.

  "I'm Sloane," she said as if Molly had asked. "How long have you been dead?" Instantly, Sloane slapped her hand over her mouth, breathless. That was crass, too blunt, and the barrier between Sloane and the living made words her heavy as though she'd just run a marathon.