Another Life Read online

  “No, seriously …” she began, but then stopped.

  A bright floodlight had come on in the church parking lot. Then a man’s voice: “Whoever is up on that roof, you are trespassing on private property. Do not move! I’m coming up.”

  Of course we all moved. We moved in every direction, scrambling to find a way off the roof that wasn’t the way we had come. My head felt weightless, like a balloon filled with helium. It felt as if there were hundreds of us up there, searching for an escape route. We kept bumping into different versions of ourselves. Finally, out of the confusion, I heard Joey shout, “Over here!”

  He was at the far corner of the roof, looking down. When we reached him, we saw the ladder leading down to the jutting wing of the first story. From there, it was only about ten feet to the ground. I followed Ian down the ladder, the others behind me, and soon we all were looking out over the edge of the first-story roof.

  Ian was the first to jump. Without hesitation, he launched himself off the roof and into the air. We heard a dull thud at his body hit the grass, and then his voice: “It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt. Jump!”

  I found myself jumping. For a moment, I was airborne, falling through the night. A second later, I was standing on the wet dew of the lawn next to Ian, waiting for the others. I felt a sharp pain in my right ankle, but when Ian asked whether I was okay, I said I was.

  Nola jumped next, then Bethany and Joey. For a second, we all stood there in the grass, slightly dazed. Then there was a shout; it sounded as if it were coming from heaven. I thought it was God. We looked up to the third-story roof. A figure stood where we had been five minutes before. “You kids, I see you. Stay where you are! You’re only going to make things worse for yourselves if you run.”

  Beside me, Bethany let out a small gasp. “Shit, that’s my dad!”

  “There’s no way he can tell who we are,” said Ian, and since I couldn’t tell who was up there—Bethany had recognized her father only by the sound of his voice—I guessed he was right.

  Ian took off across the green, and we followed. Instead of heading back toward the road, where his car was parked on the curb, he led us toward the woods behind the church. After the golf course was a wall of pine, and after that a small marsh. We would have to wade through the marsh to get to the other side of town. I wondered whether Ian knew this as I struggled to keep up with the rest of them. Sharp pain flared in my ankle every time my foot hit the ground. I tried to ignore it and keep running. Warm summer air whipped across my face, and I heard crickets singing in the night. Stars fell down on me.

  By the time I reached the pine grove, it was becoming harder and harder for me to run. The others were getting farther ahead. I called for them to wait but was so out of breath, I could manage only a weak gasp. The next second, my foot caught on something—a protruding rock or an exposed root—and I fell face-first onto the ground.

  The wind was knocked out of me, but the forest floor was soft. When I picked myself up, I couldn’t see the others. They hadn’t noticed me falling behind, or maybe they had but decided not to stop. I felt like crying. I considered turning around, going back to the church and finding Bethany’s dad, ratting us all out. I’d get in trouble, but they would be in a lot more, especially Bethany. But loyalty won out, and I continued through the woods alone. Limping along, I thought of all the things I would say to Bethany when I saw her again, all the wonderfully cutting things, trying to keep other feelings at bay—feelings I couldn’t let get the better of me. I was alone in the woods at night. Alone. Woods. Night. Three things that didn’t go together well.

  After what felt like forever, although it couldn’t have been more than five minutes, I came to the edge of the grove. The marsh spread out before me. Now the deep, jugging calls of bullfrogs mingled with the chirr of crickets. Mosquitoes were already buzzing around my head. “Fuck my life,” I muttered as I took my first step into the water.

  When I made it to the other side of the marsh ten minutes later, I must have looked like something out of a horror movie. Muddy water was splattered all the way up to my waist, and my right elbow was wet from when I caught myself falling. My hair had come out of its ponytail and was a frizzy, tangled mess. My face and arms were now peppered with bug bites that would stick out above the freckles, and my skin was damp with sweat.

  I climbed up the steep embankment that met the road, flopped down on the shoulder, and took off my shoes to check my feet for leeches. Relieved to find that my feet were clean, I looked around and tried to get some idea of where I was. I’d never had a good sense of direction, and although Grover Falls was a small town, I could see no markers to help me find my way. On one side of the street, the marsh stretched out as far as I could see. On the other, a few unfamiliar houses were visible in the darkness. It must have been close to two or three in the morning, although I couldn’t be sure, since my phone was now dead. I wobbled to my feet and winced. My ankle still hurt. I knew that walking on it wasn’t helping, but I had no choice. I turned left and started out, barefoot, holding my shoes by their strings in my hand, feeling the hard pavement against my soles. The night had cooled down, and I was wet and a little cold.

  I saw the headlights approaching slowly. Panic gripped me. What if a serial killer was in that car, or a rapist? Or someone who didn’t normally rape but would if they saw a young girl alone on the road at night? I had the insane urge to scramble down the embankment, back into the marsh.

  The car lights came closer; I had to squint. Then the high beams shut off, and the car slowed to a halt next to where I stood on the shoulder. The driver poked his head out the window and looked at me with wide eyes. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked.

  I knew right away who he was. I had never seen him in person, but I’d seen photos online and in old high school yearbooks. The world knew the faces of John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix, and Kurt Cobain. And Grover Falls knew his. I knew who it was, I just couldn’t believe it. Now his face was looking at me as if I were the weirdest thing it had ever seen. “Kid,” he said, “are you all right? Can you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” I breathed, “I’m okay.”

  Paul Frazier had just asked me if I was okay. Paul Frazier. He looked around the road, as if searching for clues to explain my being here, looking like this. “Were you in an accident or something?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m just walking.” I realized how dumb that sounded as soon as I said it—just limping down the side of the road at three in the morning, soaking wet, barefoot—and I felt my face grow red. “I’m heading back now,” I added stupidly, “back home.”

  Some realization dawned in his eyes. “You’re April Swanson’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  Greater than my surprise at this unlikely meeting was that he, Paul Frazier, knew who I, Laura Swanson, was. Or at least, who my mother was. “Yeah,” I exclaimed, “I am!”

  Paul shook his head, but now he was smiling. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night? Why aren’t you wearing any shoes?”

  “I … sort of got lost.”

  Paul nodded, as if this answer didn’t surprise him. “Where do you live?”

  “Grant Street.”

  “You’re heading in the wrong direction. Get in. I’ll take you home.”

  He didn’t ask any questions once I got into the car. In fact, he didn’t say anything. I should have come up with some explanation for myself, but I was nervous and still a little high. I sat rigid in my seat, hands on my knees, staring straight ahead. I was painfully aware of how awful I smelled and that I was getting muddy water all over the seat of his old Toyota. Maybe it wasn’t such a good thing that he knew who I was. After tonight, he wasn’t going to forget.

  Still, I couldn’t help but sneak sideways glances at him as he drove, his face illuminated every now and then by a passing streetlight. He was beautiful. Photos didn’t do him justice. His dark hair hung down, partly
obscuring his eyes—sea blue, and under them I could see dark circles. There was a sadness to him that only made him more magnetic, and I resisted another urge: to grab him by the hand and tell him that I loved him and that everything was going to be okay. I dug my nails into my knees until it hurt.

  I wished that drive could have gone on forever, but it was only a few minutes before we reached my house. He pulled up into the drive. I saw the light in my mother’s room flip on.

  Paul saw it, too. “Sorry, should have killed the headlights for you,” he said.

  I felt goose bumps rise on my arms and the back of my neck; we were complicit. I shook my head. “It’s okay. I don’t think I could have snuck past her anyway—she’s a very light sleeper.”

  He gave me a smile. My heart raced. “Good luck, kid,” he said.

  “Thanks for the ride, Paul,” I said. He looked surprised when I said his name, but before he had time to say anything, I leaned forward and kissed him, quickly but forcefully, on the lips. Then I opened the door, leaped out of the car, and half-ran, half-limped up the driveway to the door of my house, without looking back.

  PAUL

  As on every other morning for the past few weeks, first he heard the kitchen door downstairs open and close, then her soft footsteps as she came up the stairs, then the water running in the bathroom as she took her shower. Every morning, she tried her hardest not to wake him, and every morning, he was already awake.

  Four years ago, the idea of Sharon Frazier waking up before dawn would have sounded ridiculous to Paul. Now, back home for more than a month already, he still hadn’t grown used to the sounds of his mother up and about before 6 a.m., back from her morning jog. It still felt wrong.

  When Paul Frazier returned home to Grover Falls after four years of school in New York City—four years of nights spent barhopping in Williamsburg and the East Village; four years of waking up on floors in strangers’ apartments, with a head that felt like one of those giant cartoon anvils; four years of chasing Jameson with Red Bull backstage a minute before his band was to go on (it gave him wings); four years of friending on Facebook the saddest-looking girl in class and proceeding to have her take notes for him for the rest of the semester; four years of letting caffeine, alcohol, cocaine, and nicotine compete for his affections before the inevitable collapse—he found that his mother had been born again, again.

  Sharon had been born again once before, when Paul was twelve. That was after Ron—the fourth one since Paul’s father—left her. Instead of opting for another man clad in wifebeater and cutoffs, with tattoos stamped across his burly arms and neck, Sharon Frazier had opted for Jesus.

  It was an early-September afternoon. Paul had come home from school to find a woman he’d never seen before, sitting with his mother at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. He’d been startled. His mother didn’t usually entertain female guests. With her perfect hair and autumn-colored outfit, the woman looked as though she had stepped out of a fabric-softener commercial. Paul couldn’t think of any reason why a woman like this would be here.

  Sharon’s cheeks were flushed as she introduced her son to Linda. She told him she had some great news: she had decided to give her heart to Jesus.

  “Does this mean we have to go to church now?” he asked.

  His mom looked annoyed, but Linda laughed. “Our church is a little different,” she said. “I think you’ll like it.”

  Paul hadn’t. All the adults seemed overly happy (Paul didn’t trust overly happy adults), and none of his friends were there. He hadn’t wanted to leave his mom for children’s church, so she let him sit with her during the sermon. It had been over an hour, Paul sitting hot and bored, his neck itching from the button-up shirt his mom had forced him to wear.

  What followed was Paul’s one brief yet thorough encounter with religion. He was dragged to church every Sunday, and then again for prayer meeting on Wednesday nights. His mother started reading the Bible, listening to Christian radio, saying a prayer before dinner every night. But even more surprising to Paul were the things she stopped doing. There were no men around the house anymore. Sharon quit drinking and cut back on the cigarettes. It went on like this for months, long enough that Paul began to grow used to his new, though not completely attractive, life. Then something happened. Paul wasn’t quite sure what. Jesus let his mother down just as all the men before him had. He didn’t cheat on her or hit her or call her a bitch in front of her friends, but he did something. He must have. Because as quickly as Sharon had picked Jesus up, she dropped him.

  Paul had been relieved. Although he hadn’t liked any of the other boyfriends—even the nice ones had been annoying, always inviting him to take rides on their snowmobiles or trying to teach him how to load a shotgun—Jesus had been worse. The obsessive way he dominated Sharon’s life, keeping tabs on how she dressed and what words she used; the vague but pointed references she made about Paul letting the guy into his own heart—an idea he didn’t understand but found thoroughly creepy. And as with all her breakups, after Jesus’ departure Sharon found solace in spending time with her son, the only man in her life who ever stayed. When she had parted ways with yet another useless bastard, Sharon would stay up late with Paul, watching horror movies they’d picked out together at the video store, she bingeing on wine and he on ice cream and junk food. After Jesus left their lives, a glorious week followed that included Rosemary’s Baby, The Exorcist, and Paul eating so many Oreos he got sick.

  At eighteen, Paul’s biggest hesitation about leaving for school in New York hadn’t been the cost of tuition (which was high) or the cost of living in the city (even higher), but the nagging sense that leaving his mother in this lonely house in this forsaken town meant he was deserting her. During his first few weeks in the city, Paul had called her often to ask how she was doing. “You don’t have to worry about me, Paul,” she had told him, her voice a mix of irritation and affection. “Concentrate on yourself. You’re in New York City, go make bad decisions.”

  So Paul had. And when he returned with a useless liberal arts degree, a mountain of debt, and no career prospects to speak of, he was a little shocked at the change his mother had undergone in his absence. Sharon Frazier had really gotten her life together. There were no cigarettes hidden in the drawers below the sink, no bottles of wine in the cabinets above the fridge. There were no men, either. She was working two jobs: waiting tables at the diner and working the floor at the hardware store. She went for a jog every morning and was eating a healthy, balanced diet. Sharon had found Jesus again, and this time Jesus had been good to her.

  It was that ugly time of morning, just before the sun rises but after the birds have started singing. Paul had been up most of the night, lying in bed thinking dark thoughts, and then driving around the empty sleeping town, thinking darker ones. But he wasn’t tired. Yes, he would probably stay in bed until late in the day, with the window shades pulled down and the lights off, but not because he felt like sleeping—he just didn’t feel like doing anything else.

  Someone let out a soft murmur beside him on the bed, and for a moment, Paul allowed himself to believe that he was back in his apartment in Brooklyn, and the girl asleep beside him was Sasha, and Sasha was still his girlfriend. It would be late summer, and when she woke up, stretching her long white arms and blinking her big brown eyes, their day would begin with her smoking a cigarette out on the fire escape, clad in nothing but one of his old T-shirts, while he put a record on the turntable, lay on the bed, and watched her. But as he examined the girl’s profile in the gathering dawn light that seeped in through the window shades, he had to come to terms with the fact that this girl, a blond, thin wisp of a thing, was not Sasha, was not his girlfriend. This was just some girl he’d met at the all-night Sunoco and brought back here and fucked.

  Paul had been about to come home after another late-night drive. He had just dropped the Swanson girl off at her house, which had left him ag
itated. The girl had kissed him, on the lips, before he could do anything about it. Paul wasn’t sure how old she was, but she hadn’t looked more than sixteen. And the fact that some teenage girl covered in swamp water could in two seconds awaken things inside Paul that had been sleeping for months was a little alarming. At the time, he had thought going home and jerking off to porn was his best option—his only option, actually—and he’d planned on doing just that after filling up his empty gas tank and buying a candy bar at the gas station.

  A girl was sitting on the steps outside the Sunoco, smoking a cigarette. There was something in a brown paper bag beside her, but Paul hadn’t needed this evidence to know she’d been drinking. She gave him a wide, inviting smile when he passed her to go pay for the gas; it stayed with him inside the store. At the register, he had to put back the Snickers when he found he had only enough cash to pay for his ten dollars in gas. When he came out of the store, she was still there, and he hadn’t been able to resist asking to bum a smoke.

  She offered him her pack and lighter. “Thanks,” Paul said, taking a cigarette and lighting up.

  “Anything for the great Paul Frazier,” she said.

  It had been the second time in as many hours that someone he didn’t know called him by name. Being back in this town was disorienting.

  She saw the look of surprise on his face. “You probably don’t remember me,” she said. “I was a few years behind you in school. Nicki Chambers.” She stood up and he handed her back the cigarettes.

  “I think I remember seeing you around,” Paul lied.

  Nicki nodded. “I went to all your shows. You guys were the shit. I still listen to that EP.”

  He took a deep drag of his cigarette. “You were a few years behind me? So that would make you …?”

  She looked at him evenly. “Twenty. I’m twenty years old,” she said. There it was: perfectly legal.