The End, page 14
Caroline took my hand as I was leaving. She said that she didn’t know what had happened between Tilda and me but that it didn’t matter anymore, because what we’d had was special.
And then she said: “You’re coming to the funeral, aren’t you?”
And then she said: “Tilda would have wanted you to.”
I couldn’t say no.
I’ve only been able to think about one thing since I got home. Tilda could have been killed by a complete stranger, but if it was someone who knew her, they’ll probably be at the funeral.
I’ve been watching the news: almost a hundred dead and thousands left homeless after an earthquake in Istanbul; an understaffed nuclear power plant in Rajasthan has gone into meltdown; new skirmishes in Syria, where people have been living for a long time in something like an apocalypse.
The world keeps going until it doesn’t. There’s nothing I can do about that. I can’t even do anything about my own body. But I might be able to find the person responsible for Tilda’s death. I’d like to write to you and tell you that I accomplished something. That I actually did something good, something important with my life, before it’s over.
You might wonder if this really is important. Does it matter that a seventeen-year-old girl died a few weeks before the rest of humanity did?
It doesn’t matter to the world at all. But it matters in my world.
I wasn’t there for her when she lived. I want to be there for her now.
And I have to know who killed her.
SIMON
The Mona Lisa is being wrapped in silk by a woman clad in black wearing white gloves. The world’s most famous painting (though I’ve never understood why) is much smaller than I thought it would be. The woman informs us that it’s going to be sealed into a stainless steel case and then sterilized with radiation and argon gas so mold can’t grow inside the capsule. She shows us more works of art that they’re attempting to preserve at the Louvre, looking up affectionately at the armless statue of Venus de Milo. She was chipped out of the marble as if she’d been there all along and the artist had just helped her into the light of day. That statue had been in Greece over two thousand years ago. Now she’s going back into the rock, into a diamond mine in East Siberia. A narrator tells us about the terrible conditions in the mine when it was opened in the 1950s. During the winters, it got so cold that metal burst and oil froze.
“It’s unbelievable, the things we did to get hold of gold and diamonds,” Judette says. “Just because we’d assigned them some arbitrary value, despite the fact that you can’t use them for anything. And now they’re worthless.” She laughs and downs her glass. She’s already had a little too much to drink and is slurring her words slightly, but she’s right. It hadn’t occurred to me before that gold and jewels aren’t valuable by nature.
On the TV, lasers engrave the history of man. Factual texts, poetry, our greatest literary works. Music from Bach and Beethoven to the Beatles and Beyoncé. Two hundred and fifty movies are also being preserved. A reviewer proudly reveals that there are two Ingmar Bergman movies in the collection.
“Have you noticed how they’re only talking about Western art?” Judette says.
“Mm,” I say. “But they’re gathering things from all—”
“I know,” Judette interrupts. “But that’s not what they’re talking about.”
She gets to her feet and goes into the kitchen, humming tunelessly as she fills a pitcher with water.
An animated graphic shows us how the satellites that send coordinates into space work. Next is an interview with one of the project managers. He’s excited, as though we’re hiding everything underground like a Christmas present. Judette occasionally glances over at the screen, muttering to herself while watering the flowers.
My hip vibrates, and I dig around for my phone, which had fallen out of the pocket of my shorts. Finally, I sit up, lift one of the sofa cushions, and find it among breads crumbs, dog hair, dusty breath mints, and no fewer than three ballpoint pens.
It’s a message from Johannes. And it’s long.
I replace the cushion and tell Judette I’ll be right back, then go to my room and close the door behind me.
Sorry I haven’t been in touch until just now. Spent my first night in Stockholm sleeping in the station because I missed the last subway train. Second night in the commune. Weirdly enough, I feel at home. Hundreds of people live here. It’s like a small town.
Been thinking a lot about what happened this summer and how everything turned out. I’m glad I finally told you, even though you don’t feel the same way about me. It’s as if I can see everything a little more clearly from a distance. I should have trusted you sooner. You’re my best friend, but I realize now that it’s hard to get to know someone who’s hiding so much of themself. Apparently, a real Armageddon was all I needed to be honest, even with myself. I don’t know why I was so afraid; I knew all of you would be okay with it. (Except maybe Hampus, but would that really be such a loss?) Just didn’t want to hurt Amanda, or at least, that’s what I told myself. (Think I hurt her even more by waiting so long.) It was easier to put it off, I guess. Can’t do that anymore. I’d better hurry up if I want to find myself, or whatever. I’ve sent a message to everyone we know, so nothing’s secret anymore. I’m shutting down my social media, but keeping my number. You know you’re more than welcome to visit me if you can or want to, but I don’t think it’s going to happen, is it? It’s okay. Just know that you’re the only one I miss.
I’ve seen people write about you re: Tilda. Fuck them. You know you didn’t do it, and that’s all that matters now, right? You’re a good person, Simon. Tilda knew it, too, regardless of how she changed toward the end. Remember that.
I have to wipe my eyes while reading. I try to picture Johannes sending me this message, but I can’t place him anywhere. I have no idea what his new surroundings look like.
Johannes knew where he was going. He had a goal, and he’s reached it now.
I’m happy for his sake. But I also feel lonelier than ever.
I’m trying to think how to answer him when my phone vibrates in my hand. It’s a new message. Significantly shorter.
WE KNOW YOU DID IT.
I get out of bed, heart pounding, and call the unknown number. I can hear the rings coming through one after the other, but no one picks up. I write, asking who they are. Pace the room. The phone remains silent. I Google the number, but there are no hits.
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0020
Another thing happened at Caroline’s just as we were talking about the funeral. I hadn’t planned on mentioning it here. We heard a loud bang on the ceiling above us. Something falling flat onto the floor, maybe a book.
I’d been so tense that the bang felt like a gunshot. And I saw Caroline twitch, despite trying to pretend it didn’t bother her.
Above the living room are the upstairs hallway and Tilda’s room.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but that can be hard to remember now that it’s nearly midnight.
From my window, I can see that the lights on the upper floor of Caroline’s house are on.
Is Tilda still in that house? Was she trying to tell us something?
P.S.: I want to reiterate that I don’t actually believe in ghosts. But what if they are real? What happens after September 16? Now I can’t stop thinking about eight billion souls trapped on a dead planet with no one left to haunt.
2 WEEKS, 6 DAYS LEFT
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0021
First things first: I’m slightly embarrassed by my previous post. The night does strange things to us. Forget what I wrote.
I’ve barely slept since I last wrote. I looked at old pictures of Tilda, ones she’d uploaded or been tagged in. I traveled back in time through August, July, June. From May backward, she spent all her time with Simon. The further back I go, the more in love they seem. Winter came with Valentine’s Day dinners, New Year’s parties, Christmas with the parents, sledding with Amanda and her boyfriend. The whole gang dressed up as characters from Harry Potter for Halloween. I paused at a photo from September. They had just gotten together. Tilda is looking straight into the camera and holding the phone. Simon’s in profile, his skin dark against her pale face, their lips pressed gently together. His eyes are closed. I’ve seen the picture before. Tilda showed it to me during one of her final visits to the hospital.
They seemed so happy together. But online we only share success stories.
I read every RIP message, checked the profile of every person who’d written one, scanned the posts for rumors. I even trawled the anonymous comments in one of the internet’s more fetid swamps. There wasn’t a lot, but the stuff that was there was vile. Someone claims Simon is Muslim and writes that he should be sent “back to his own country.” Someone who knows he’s grown up with two moms writes that it’s turned him into a misogynist.
Unsurprisingly, the idiots are the most confident ones. But the fact that disgusting false rumors are floating around doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her.
If I’m going to find out who did it, I have to start with him. I wrote him a message saying I wanted to see him and talk about Tilda. It’s naïve to think that searching his face will reveal the truth; I don’t even know him. But I have to try.
Do you have any tactics for figuring out if someone’s lying? Maybe you can read minds. Or use one of your tentacles to root around in someone’s brain. Sadly, I have no such skills.
Simon replied almost immediately. He suggested we meet on the dock by the lake again.
I’m going to record the conversation. Just in case.
SIMON
Iran a lap around the lake, and now I’m sweating in the college sweatshirt I put on. Mosquitoes buzz hungrily around me when I sit at the dock. Twilight is coming. As I look across the lake, the automatic lights along the trail switch on. They look like hovering orbs between the trees, their glow forming a yellow band around the water. But there are no other joggers out tonight. I’m alone by the lake. Apart from the water lapping against the dock, it’s perfectly quiet, perfectly still.
I’ve searched social media for information about what Tilda did that night, but I can’t find anything useful.
The funeral is tomorrow, and I won’t be there.
She’s dead. Gone forever. They say we live on through the memories of those who have known us, but in less than three weeks, there won’t be anybody left to remember her. Death is more final than ever. No one will remember me, either. Or my moms, or Emma.
I empty my water bottle. I’ve received two more anonymous messages from different numbers. I left my phone at home. I didn’t want to see more. But Lucinda is late, and now she won’t be able to contact me if she’s been held up.
She wrote that she needs to talk about Tilda. I need to talk about her, too. Remember her with someone. I can’t bear being alone with my thoughts anymore.
I turn around. Someone is walking down the slope toward the beach. In the darkness, I can only make out a shadowy figure.
Fear grips me.
What if someone’s followed me here to avenge Tilda?
I suggested that Lucinda and I meet here because I wanted us to be able to talk without being interrupted. Now, I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m alone in a place without witnesses and without my phone.
The shadowy figure steps into the circle of light from one of the lamps by the beach, and I see that it’s Lucinda.
“I’d forgotten night comes so quickly” is the first thing she says when she steps onto the dock.
Does she sound nervous? I don’t know her well enough to tell.
Has she heard the rumors about me? If she had, she wouldn’t have agreed to meet me here, right?
I wonder if I should get up so we can hug, but I don’t think Lucinda is the type. Sure enough, she sits down so far away from me that at least a couple of people could fit between us.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” she says, adjusting her hat.
“I was happy you got in touch. We’re the ones who were the closest to Tilda.”
“I hardly knew her toward the end.”
“But you knew her for way longer than me.”
There’s so much I want to know about Tilda—so much I want to ask Lucinda—but I don’t really know where to start.
“It’s weird that we’ve barely met,” I say.
I regret it immediately, because it isn’t weird at all. We both know why it turned out that way. I feel stiff and awkward, like I always did before high school, back when I could barely talk to people. Instead, I would kind of float above my body, analyzing everything. And now I’m doing it again.
“I dreamed about her last night,” I continue. “She was in my room and was just like . . . What are you doing? Did you really think I was the one they found? You’re so stupid. I told you I was just taking a break.”
Lucinda nods.
“I dream about her all the time. When I can sleep.”
A mosquito lands on my neck, and I slap a hand over it. Lucinda jerks back. Tries to smile. But now I know she’s scared.
She’s scared of me.
“There are people out there who say I killed her,” I say. “Have you heard?”
She doesn’t respond. And that’s really the only response I need.
“Do you think so, too?” I press.
“I don’t know what to think.”
The disappointment is so overwhelming that blood rushes to my head.
“I didn’t do it. But whatever I say can’t help my case, can it? It’s just what a killer would say.”
Lucinda looks away. Her angular face is full of shadows.
Suddenly, I recall one of the first times Caroline and Klas let me stay the night. Tilda’s room was dark. We had spread a blanket across the floor. She lay on my arm, her voice so low I had to strain to hear her. I’m so fucking scared she’s going to die, but we can’t talk about it. We can’t talk about anything anymore. I can’t tell her about the bad things, because my problems are nothing compared to hers, and I can’t tell her about the good things, because it . . . it feels like I’m reminding her of everything she’ll never have. It was the first time Tilda cried in front of me. You can talk to me instead, I’d said. She lightly stroked my forearm with her fingers. I know. But she’s my best friend. And you’re one of those really good things I wish I could tell her about.
“I’m sorry,” Lucinda says, and gets up. “I shouldn’t have—”
Her phone falls out of her pocket, and I automatically reach out to catch it before it drops into the water.
A microphone icon fills the screen. Large numbers count out the seconds.
She’s been recording us.
I don’t even want to look at her when I give her phone back.
“Are you happy?” I say. “Or should I add something more?”
Lucinda doesn’t reply.
“If you think I killed Tilda, it’s pretty stupid of you to meet me here alone.”
“My dad is coming to pick me up soon,” she says quickly.
Her voice trembles; her mouth sounds dry. I’m sure she’s lying, and I think about the Moomin book in Emma’s room.
Imagine how lonely it must be if everyone is afraid of you.
“You’d better hurry up, then,” I say, still not looking at her.
Her hurried steps make the wood vibrate and the water splash against the underside of the dock. Then, abruptly, she stops.
“How was Tilda actually doing?”
I turn around. Lucinda has shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. She’s looking at me from the other end of the dock.
“How was she doing?” I ask.
“Yes.”
You’re all such fucking hypocrites
“Maybe you should have showed her you cared while she was still alive,” I say.
Watching Lucinda stiffen is satisfying. She deserves it. She may be “the cancer girl,” but she’s not a saint.
“You don’t know what it was like,” she says softly. “I was sick. I couldn’t do it.”
“It wasn’t easy for Tilda, either. Her best friend was dying of cancer and didn’t even want to see her.”
We stare at each other. A car drives past, far away, on the highway.
“Why did you think she was going to my place that night?” Lucinda asks. “What did she say?”
“Fuck it. I was wrong. She was probably going to get more of that shit she was taking.”
Lucinda looks down at her shoes. “Didn’t anyone try to get her to stop?” she asks.
“Of course I tried!” A lump is growing in my throat. I won’t cry. I refuse to give her that satisfaction. “She didn’t want my help,” I manage to squeeze out. “I tried, but I should have done more. I should have said something to Klas and Caroline. I was just afraid she wouldn’t forgive me if I did. I thought that if we got back together, I could help her stop. She’d become herself again. I would heal her with my love, and then we’d live happily ever after until the end of time.”
Lucinda stands frozen while all the things I haven’t even wanted to admit to myself come pouring out. It’s like the words are clawing their way out of my body.
“I wanted to be her fucking knight in shining armor,” I say, “but I was just being selfish.” I get to my feet. Walk toward Lucinda. I wait for her to shrink back, but she stands firm. As I get closer, I can see that she’s crying.
“You can believe whatever you want. It doesn’t matter,” I say when we’re facing each other. “I let her down, and so did you, and everyone else.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she whispers. “That I don’t think about it all the time?”
I shake my head. Run across the stretch of beach. Speed up on the grassy rise. Follow the beat of my blood rushing through my body.
