All Alone
Part Two: Perspectives
The Vigilante
I frowned as I held the small pair of binoculars to my eyes. I didn't understand the impulse that had me out here, in the cemetery, watching the funeral of a girl whom I had never gotten to know, who had never even spoken to me. I had tried to put it out of my mind, tried to go on. But late at night, when I closed my eyes, hers looked back at me, the light dying out of them as her fingers twitched in mine.
At the time, I had thought that she was acknowledging my words, accepting my apology. But what if she'd wanted to blame me for what happened to her? What if she died believing that I'd failed her?
I didn't like that, not at all. She had been a fighter; she had fought back, despite the odds, despite having no powers, and she had died as a direct result. I had
waited until she fought back; I had not acted until then. I
could have acted first, could have taken out the girl with the knife, could have saved her. But I had wanted to see if she was a fighter, if she was worth saving.
And she had been. But I hadn't been able to save her. By waiting, I may have had some small responsibility for the fact that she was now dead.
Had I killed her? I didn't know. I didn't even know how to find out. I couldn't go back and change matters. For that matter, I didn't even know what I was doing here, at the funeral. But ever since I saw the obituary notice in the paper, recognised the face, found out her name, I had known that I needed to be here, to observe, to do her the respect of turning up. Recognising the fact that Emma Barnes had lived and died, and that I had had something to do with the latter.
I focused the binoculars, frowning again; this time, it was because of something I had seen. Emma's father was easy to pick out; a big man with red hair. Her older sister, likewise; her hair was more auburn than actually red, but her face had some of Emma's bone structure. Her mother; brunette, pretty enough to have contributed to Emma's striking looks.
But there were others, not related to the family as far I could tell; no congruence of features. The girl, tall and skinny with a long, serious face, hugged Emma's mother, and then her father.
There was something there. These people, father and daughter, stood by the Barnes family as the hearse approached. And then they helped carry the coffin to the grave itself.
They're definitely close.
I thought about it, as the people began to disperse. Emma would have been about this girl's age. If they were friends, then maybe I could find out from her what Emma had really been like, if her fighting back was just a fluke, or if she really had been that strong.
As they went back toward the cars, I drifted from tree to tree, hoping to get close enough to get a good look at a licence plate. But then they retrieved something from one of the cars, and moved back into the cemetery; I had to duck behind a gravestone so they wouldn't see me.
Earlier, the skinny girl had looked my way, and I thought she'd made me. But she'd neither pointed me out nor done anything about me, so I shelved the idea and kept watching. However, I was a lot more careful as I ghosted after them toward wherever they were going.
They congregated around another gravestone; the girl and her father replaced some flowers in a vase, and Emma's father looked as though he were praying. I wished that I'd spent the time to learn how to lip-read; binoculars can only tell you so much.
When they were gone, I went and checked out the gravestone. The name on it was Annette Rose Hebert, and she had died the year before. The birth and death dates put her at just about the right age to have a teenage daughter, so now I had a name to go on with.
<><>
The Best Friend's Father
I pulled the car to a halt and set the parking brake. Turning to Taylor, I put my hand on hers. She looked at me, her eyes still red-rimmed. Emma's death, coming so soon after she had been talking on the phone to her on that fateful afternoon, had really hit her hard. Almost as hard as Anne-Rose's death had hit her, I imagined. Probably as hard as her mother's passing had hit
me.
"You okay?" I asked.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Not really," she admitted. "It just … it just didn't seem
real, you know? Like with Mom. Not until the burial."
I nodded.
Oh yes, I know that one. "It never does, not until you can't ignore it any more."
She stared at me, her eyes huge and tragic behind her glasses. "When does it stop, Dad? When does it stop hurting?"
Popping my seatbelt, I gathered her into a hug; she sniffled into my shoulder. "It just … fades," I replied inadequately. "Eventually, you find yourself just … living again." Not that I could talk; after Anne-Rose, I went totally to pieces. It was Emma and her family who took care of Taylor after I ceased to function as a person, until Alan had some stern words with me.
Emma and her family.
Oh god, who's going to help Taylor through this?
I felt utterly unsuited for the task. When it came to dealing with grief, I had not made a good showing. I had folded like cheap tissue paper.
"Emma was just … there." She sniffled again. "She was always
there."
I knew exactly how she felt. "Look, if you don't want to … I can tell Alan that you're not feeling well … "
I could tell the exact moment when she decided
hell with it, I feel like crap but I'll do it anyway. Her shoulders straightened, and she sat up in her seat and adjusted her glasses. "No. Emma would, for me."
That had the sound of a mantra.
If Emma can do this, then I can do this. I didn't begrudge her it; if it helped her get through the day, if it kept her memory of her best friend alive, then I had absolutely no problem with it. "Yeah, kiddo, she probably would."
That earned me a watery smile; we got out of the car and locked the doors. Even in Alan's area of town, you didn't tempt fate. There were enough cars here that we had to walk a little way. Taylor's hand crept into mine, and we walked side by side; I adjusted my pace to hers.
As we came up to the front gate, there were people standing on the porch whom I vaguely recognised. Taylor's steps slowed, and her grip on my hand tightened. We paused at the gate. "You okay?" I asked quietly.
<><>
The Best Friend
He'd asked me that before. "No," I answered honestly. "I don't know if I can do this."
Concern was evident in his eyes. "We'll just say hello, make our excuses and leave. We don't have to stay if you don't feel like it."
Emma would.
The thought straightened my spine; I took a deep breath. "Let's go in."
I felt rather than saw his brief, surprised glance, but then I reached out and opened the front gate. We went up the path and climbed the steps; the front door was open. Dad nodded to the people on the porch; they nodded back, murmured solicitations. I doubted they even knew who I was; friends of Mr Barnes, no doubt, showing up to prove they cared. Which they didn't, not really, but that was how it was done. Everyone pretended, everyone
knew they were pretending, and they pretended they didn't know.
We entered the house, and all of a sudden, I was
reminded. All around me, it seemed, there were greatly enlarged photographs of Emma. Riding her first bicycle, blowing out the candles on a birthday cake, nervously astride a horse for the first time. Looking around, I saw her life in pictures; for quite a few of them, I had been there, and I remembered the occasion. Sometimes, I was even
in the photo. One or two of the others, I had taken myself. That put a catch in my throat;
they've used my photos to remember Emma by.
The largest photo, taken at her middle school graduation party, showed her vibrantly alive, ready to take on the world. It sat on its own little table, flanked by vases holding extravagant bunches of flowers. I knew, as Dad did, that it had originally been a double photo, with me in the frame as well; in fact, the hand on her shoulder was mine. I wasn't upset at the Barneses for cropping it to show Emma alone; after all, I was not the one being memorialised. Besides, it was a really great photo of her. If only I could focus on it without my eyes beginning to swim in tears.
"Hi." It was Mr Barnes. He handed Dad and me plastic cups. "Thanks for coming over."
It was almost as though he was talking about a Saturday afternoon get together in the back yard … I looked at his face, saw his eyes. No, he wasn't thinking like that at all. I knew the pain in his eyes; I had seen it in mine, in the mirror, all too often.
First Mom, and now Emma. I had seen it in Dad, too, after Mom died. Mr Barnes was only barely holding it together.
"Thanks." I took the cup, sipped at it. Fruit cordial. Emma would have made a smartass comment about it not tasting like any natural fruit in existence.
All of a sudden, it tasted sour in my mouth. There was bile in the back of my throat. I placed the cup unsteadily on the table. "Can I … can I be excused?"
"Of course," Mr Barnes told me. I didn't look at him or Dad, but I felt their concerned gazes on me as I climbed the stairs, as hastily as I dared.
When I got to the bathroom, I didn't throw up, but from the feel of it, it was a near thing. After a while, I got up from where I was kneeling before the toilet and splashed water on my face. A couple of handfuls of water eased the queasy feeling in my throat, and I put my glasses back on. Looking in the mirror, I decided that if I ever wanted to make the pale Goth scene, I was in there with a chance. My face looked almost gaunt, and my cheekbones had never been more prominent.
Not that I wanted prominent cheekbones. I just wanted my best friend back.
Wandering from the bathroom, I found myself pushing open Emma's bedroom door. On the threshold, I hesitated just for a moment, then I steeled myself and stepped inside.
They hadn't touched a thing, as far as I could tell. Her bed was even partially unmade, from the last time she had slept in it. The room had that very slightly musty smell, as of a place that has been undisturbed for a few days. I paused; they
had taken some things. A couple of the stuffed animals that normally had pride of place on the shelf above her bed, a picture of me that normally rested on her dresser, her prized Alexandria action figure, the one that I had always coveted, all gone.
She must have been buried with them, I figured. I wished that I had gotten back earlier, in time to attend the church service, time to get a gift for her myself, to put in her coffin. I found myself tearing up all over again, and I sat down on the bed. Here, in this room, she was far more present than when her coffin was being lowered into the cold ground. I half-expected her to open the door and walk in with a comment about how she could improve my wardrobe
so much if I'd just let her try.
Kicking off my sandals, I rolled on to the bed, pulled the covers over me. I had slept in this bed almost as much as in the bed in the spare room. In this bed, Emma and I had watched movies and read books and eaten snacks (and been chewed out for leaving crumbs in the bed) and clung to each other as thunderstorms rattled the windowpanes outside.
I was here now, and she wasn't. I had never felt so lonely in all my life.
Softly, I began to cry all over again, my tears soaking into the pillow.
<><>
The Vigilante
I don't normally worry about doing the detective thing, but I'm not stupid, and I can use a computer. The library had them, so I got online and set about looking up Annette Hebert. It wasn't even difficult; almost immediately, I had a hit on a newspaper article, dated August of two thousand and eight. A woman by the name of Annette Rose Hebert had been out driving when she had gone off the road and crashed; single car accident. It was thought that she had been texting on her phone at the time. She was survived by her husband Daniel and her daughter Taylor.
I looked at the photo given; a tall, slender woman, with long curly hair. Thinking back to the skinny girl at the graveside, I could easily see her in this woman. That settled it; I knew who these people were. I could find them. If Taylor had been Emma's friend, then I wanted to talk to her.
Now all I had to do was figure out what I wanted to say.
<><>
The Sister
I paused at the top of the stairs; I had been about to go to the bathroom and freshen up, but then I heard muffled sobbing, and saw that Emma's door was open. Dad hadn't been able to go in there after … well, after. Mom had had to venture in herself, to get those things that Emma had loved the most, and she had shut the door firmly afterward. I didn't know why she hadn't locked it; maybe it was so we didn't lock Emma's memory away from us or something.
There was no real mystery about who it was; I went to the door and pushed it all the way open. Taylor was lying in Emma's bed, covers pulled over herself, curled up into a sobbing ball. I kind of understood; as sisters, Emma and I had always been reasonably close, but nothing like the friendship she had with Taylor.
I had never gotten to know Taylor really well myself; she was a few years younger than me, and she was first and foremost Emma's friend, but we'd chatted on more than one occasion, and she had always struck me as a bright and cheerful spirit. Of course, when talking with Taylor, one had to work hard to get a word in edgewise, but she was so enthusiastic and bubbly that it wasn't hard to forgive her that. And her chatter was never brainless or air-headed; she was
smart.
Thinking back, Taylor had been good for Emma; she didn't idolise her, didn't worship the ground she walked on. She gave Emma the truth straight up, always. She kept Emma's feet on the ground, where others would have told her whatever she wanted to hear. Of course, Emma was also good for Taylor; being a bit of a loner and a bookworm, Taylor could quite easily have squirrelled herself away in a quiet corner far more often than she did, were it not for my sister and her ability to get Taylor outside and having fun.
I was already feeling the hole in my life where Emma used to be; I could only begin to guess how hard it was on Taylor, this coming so soon after she lost her mother.
Entering the room was like parting an invisible spider-web, or breaking the surface of a pool of still water. Everything on the other side looked subtly different. This room was Emma's, and her personality was stamped upon every inch of it.
Walking over to the bed, I sat down and put my hand on where the covers mounded up over Taylor's shoulder. All I could really see of her was the spill of her hair on the pillow, where the covers had been pulled over her head. Slowly, I pulled the covers back; she kept crying, and I rubbed her shoulder gently. Human contact; we all need it, whether we know it or not.
When she had run down for the moment, she turned her head and looked up at me. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"What for?" I asked gently. "This was your space as much as Emma's. I know she wouldn't begrudge you this."
"Yeah, but I should have asked permission."
I shrugged. "Permission given. I dunno that I ever saw you as a little sister exactly – one was bad enough – but I know Mom and Dad considered you almost that close."
She pushed the covers back farther and sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Thanks," she murmured. "I always thought you were kind of cool. I never had a big sister. I hope we weren't too annoying to you."
I had to smile, though this was a day where smiles were rare. "You were both kind of bratty, but it was a cute kind of bratty, so I never had much of a problem with it." I put an arm around her and hugged her to me; she leaned in, and we sat for a few moments, content to ignore the outside world, drawing comfort from the contact.
Then a thought struck me, and I let her go. "Come on, I've got something for you."
Pulling her feet from under the covers, she looked at me curiously. "What?"
I grinned, feeling good that I was able to do so. "You'll see."
<><>
The Best Friend
Slipping my feet back into my sandals, I followed Anne to her room; when I hesitated on the threshold, she gestured me inside. "That first night," she explained, "I went into her room. I knew Mom and Dad would want to put stuff in her coffin, the stuff that she loved. But there was something that I knew she would have wanted you to have. So I took it from her room first."
I blinked; this was the first time that I had been invited into Anne's room; the first time that I had been there, outside of pranks played by Emma and myself upon her.
Bratty, indeed.
"What is it?" I asked, still a little muzzy from my crying.
"This." Opening her wardrobe, she reached up to the top shelf and took down something, and handed it to me. It was the Alexandria action figure, the one that I had assumed had been buried with Emma.
I stared at it. "I can't take this." I tried to hand it back.
She shook her head. "No. I know how much she loved it, and how much you wanted it. How over the moon you were when she let you borrow it for a week, and how you brought it back without a scratch. How you played tricks on her with everything else she owned, but never that. As her big sister, and yours by proxy, I'm making an executive decision. Take it. It's yours now. Take good care of it."
I stared at the plastic figurine nestling in my hands. "I will. I promise." Abruptly, I hugged her fiercely. "Thank you. Thanks for being here. Thanks for talking to me."
She held me close; despite the fact that I was a few years younger than her, I was almost her height. "That's okay, brat. Thanks for being Emma's best friend. Thanks for always being there for her."
We stood there, holding each other, for a long time. In my hand was clutched the Alexandria figure; it wasn't valuable, or even particularly rare, but between Emma and I, it had fought a hundred imaginary superhero battles. Even now I could see Emma, her face alight, swooping the plastic hero into battles she inevitably won, though they be hard-fought against nigh-impossible odds.
It was a part of everything that Emma had meant to me, the basis of a thousand happy memories. It was worth more than gold to me.
I even knew where I was going to put it when I got home.
Right next to Mom's flute.
End of Part Two
Part Three