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He stops the dramatic dance of his dad-bod, and we lock eyes, the two of us unblinking.
“You’re a ghost, silly rabbit. You’re not actually on fire. Now hustle and put the shit back in the shower.”
Attie explodes with laughter, and so do I.
“Shit,” he says as the flames grow further away from him and the containment of the tub.
We instantly recognize that we didn’t think this through. Panic sets in as I consider the fire alarm sounding off at any second. I scream and point to the showerhead. Attie turns the shower on, and in Atticus fashion, has the head facing the wrong way.
The water sprays directly at us and soaks the grubby tile. I duck beneath the water and reach for the shower head. Directing the spray at the liquefying tub, within minutes, the fire is out.
The sheet has disintegrated along with the chunks of skin, hair, and organs that seem to have turned to ash and washed down the drain, but there really is no telling. My bones remain charred and as solid as ever, nearly adhered to the bottom of the shower.
I cry.
I weep for the woman I was, for the life I never got to experience, the people I never got to meet, and the things I never got to do. I cry for the way my spirit left the world and for the way my body is, too. This isn’t what I wanted for myself.
Attie’s arms envelop me and he shoves my face into his chest. I get a big whiff of his scent, which ceases my hyperventilating, and I pull away. He takes that as an opportunity to go back to the main room for a garbage bag.
“Hurry, before what’s left of my body starts to bind to the tub!” I shout out.
When he returns, he immediately sifts through the mess and places my bones in the white garbage bag with yellow drawstrings. I watch as the bag sags to the floor with the weight of me and wonder what he intends on doing with it now.
“Where do you want to rest, Lyr?”
The audacity of this man, as if we have time or the calmness to even do so.
“What do you mean? We don’t have time to rest, Atticus. We need to do something with…. her—I mean, me!”
I’m beyond stressed. Cash and Jake will be back shortly; I just know it.
“No, I mean, where do you want to be put to rest? Not here. Not in the tub, or the toilet, or the walls, or underneath the floorboards. I mean, if you could choose, where do you want your body to be for the rest of time?”
“Water,” I blurt out.
“I’ve always wanted to be cremated and blown by loving lips into a body of water.”
My eyes prick up with tears, and I’m willing to compromise. This is the closest thing to what I want.
“There’s a century-old wishing well across the way from the main office. If we can get you outside and keep the bag as close to the ground as possible, we might make it without anyone seeing.”
Might.
Keyword.
“You won’t get blown into the water, but at least we can toss your bones into the well. Maybe make a wish?”
A wish?
The adrenaline surges through me as I consider what this means for me. Maybe I can go home after all.
CHAPTER 19
LYRIC
I’m the short one, so of course I’m doing my best Edna Mosely walk across the parking lot as I hold the bottom of the trash bag as low to the ground as possible. We can’t have my remains floating in midair for passersby, now can we?
Attie towers over me as he keeps an eye out for any movement outside the building. My legs burn, but fortunately for me, I exercised in my short lifetime and my autism made it so I had to work on my balance. My flexibility, endurance, and muscular strength are a few things I pride myself on because of it. I didn’t build these sweet-ass calves by sitting on my couch all day.
