The World Without Us Read online

  The

  World

  Without

  Us

  Robin

  Stevenson

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2015 Robin Stevenson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known

  or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Stevenson, Robin, 1968–, author

  The world without us / Robin Stevenson.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0680-1 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0681-8 (pdf).—

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0682-5 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PS8637.T487W67 2015jC813'.6 C2014-906598-1

  First published in the United States, 2015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951602

  Summary: Mel is tormented by thoughts that she may be responsible for her best friend’s suicide attempt.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs

  provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book

  Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia

  through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Chantal Gabriell

  Cover images by iStockphoto.com and Dreamstime.com

  Author photo by David Lowes

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

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  18 17 16 15 • 4 3 2 1

  For Pat Schmatz

  Table of Contents

  Falling

  Death Row

  Death Penalty

  Another Chance

  Dreaming

  Planning to Die

  Black Holes

  Lucid Dreams

  Event Horizon

  Waking

  Drowning

  Water Under the Bridge

  Execution Day

  Last Meal

  Weirdo, Freak, Retard

  The Point of It All

  Crazy Is Normal

  Krishna Consciousness

  Zombie Girl

  Running Away

  Letting Go

  Acknowledgments

  Falling

  Jeremy stands close to the low concrete barrier that runs for miles along the edge of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. The wind is whipping his hair back, blowing cool night air and the smell of salt into our faces. He braces his hands against the top of the wall and leans out over the water. “Come over here, Mel!”

  The wall only reaches my waist, and when I stand close to it and look down, I feel dizzy, as if sheer gravity could pull me over. Far below, the water is an inky black. I step back, shivering, and look up at Jeremy instead. He is facing into the wind, and I fix his profile in my mind, as if I’m taking a picture: black hair flying away from his high forehead, long slightly beaky nose, parted lips, serious expression. Resolute.

  “Jeremy?” I say. My voice sounds strange in my own ears. “We’re not really going to do this, are we?”

  “Yes.” He looks at me. “You know we are.”

  “I don’t know. I never thought we’d take it this far.”

  “We won’t feel a thing. It’ll be fast, Mel. Real fast.”

  I imagine those long seconds of falling, time slowing down, the dark water rushing toward me. Will my life really flash before my eyes? Or is that just a myth?

  “Here,” Jeremy says. “Take my hand. We’ll jump together.” He reaches for me. I take his hand in mine and am surprised by how warm it is. With my other hand, I tighten my grip on the metal post of the No Stopping sign we’ve parked beside.

  I guess this is crazy, but I am terrified of falling.

  “It’ll be okay, Mel,” Jeremy says. His voice is so soft, I can barely hear him over the wind blowing through the bridge cables.

  “Jeremy.” I start to cry. “Stop. Please.”

  “Have you changed your mind? Because if you have—”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I don’t know.” I’m sobbing now. “I don’t know.” Jeremy thinks we’ll come back, that we’ll be reincarnated. I don’t know what I believe. I haven’t had dreams like the ones he’s had. Mostly, I think that this is all there is: you get one shot, one life, and the only choice is whether you want to live it or not. If we jump, the world will just go on without us.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s just do it. Ready?” He lifts one leg, swings it over the wall—

  “No. Jeremy…” I grab his arm, and the falling weight of him jerks at me, pulls me forward. Something inside me is screaming no no no, and my heart kicks inside my chest so hard it hurts, and it’s too late, my feet are lifting off the ground, I’m going to fall…

  And then Jeremy’s sleeve slips from my hand and I am clinging on, one arm wrapped around the metal pole, my feet kicking and scrabbling for traction on the bridge. I am still here, standing on the edge.

  And Jeremy is gone.

  I stand there, staring down into the darkness that swallowed him up. I feel like time has stopped. I can’t see anything, can’t even make out the surface of the water under the bridge. There’s just blackness down there, thick and solid.

  I could still do it, could still jump…but I already know I won’t. I turn away from the barrier and watch car after car flash past. People going about their lives like nothing happened. No one stops. My legs feel like liquid. My breath comes in painful, ragged gasps. Distant sirens get louder, and lights flash red and blue from way down the long line of the bridge. I wait there, frozen, until a police car pulls up and I hear someone shout. I slip down into a crouch, my back to the concrete wall. I am shaking, my whole body trembling, my teeth chattering. Two men in uniform are getting out of the car and one is walking slowly toward me, his hands raised, palms out, as if he is approaching a wild horse and doesn’t want to spook it. “It’s all right,” he says.

  But nothing is all right. Nothing will ever be all right. “He jumped,” I say. “Jeremy jumped.”

  “Why don’t you get in the car?” he says. He’s an older man, with stubbly gray hair and tired eyes. “Out of the wind.”

  “What about Jeremy?” I say.

  “A boat’s already gone out to look for him,” he says. “Someone saw him jump and called it in.”

  To look for his body, I think. That’s all that’s down there. Whatever made him Jeremy is gone. I move toward the car and I can see the cop relax, his arms dropping back to his sides. “He just jumped,” I say again. “I didn’t think he’d really do it.”

  “Fourteenth one this year,” the second man says. He’s leaning against the car, and behind him, the lit-up yellow cables of the bridge slant upward into the night sky, glowing and weirdly beautiful. As I approach, he straightens and opens the back door for me. “Hop in. You’ll be warmer.”

  I slide into the backseat and wrap my arms around myself. The older man gets in beside me, and the younger guy gets in the driver’s seat. The doors click locked, and I wonder if they think I am going to dash out and leap over the wall.

  Every muscle in my body is vibrating like a tightly strung wire. “I didn’t think he meant it,” I say again. “I didn’t think he’d really do it.”

  “I’m Offic
er Jeffers,” the cop beside me says. “What’s your name?”

  “Melody.”

  “Was it your boyfriend who jumped, Melody?”

  I shake my head. “My friend.” I am numb. None of this feels real. “His name is Jeremy Weathers.”

  The cop in the front seat is talking into his radio. He turns to face me. “Do you know his address?”

  I picture Jeremy’s house: the low, ranch-style bungalow, the palm-tree-dotted expanse of green lawn. “Um, Lakewood Estates,” I say. “He lives with his mom… I don’t remember the house number, but it’s on Desoto near Columbus Way.”

  The cop relays the information to whomever he is talking to, and I imagine someone driving over there, through the wide dark streets of his subdivision, up his long driveway. A cop knocking on the door, Jeremy’s mother answering, dressed in her housecoat, maybe, since they’ll be waking her up. She’ll see the cop standing there, and she’ll feel a sudden clutch of fear.

  I wasn’t supposed to be here for this part. Jeremy and I never talked about anything after the leap from the bridge. I never thought about what would happen after.

  There wasn’t supposed to be an after.

  “The fellow who called it in said you were right there by the wall with the kid who jumped,” the older officer—Jeffers—says. “He said it looked like you tried to stop him.”

  I stare at him blankly, and the two men exchange glances.

  “We’re going to take you to the hospital.” He reaches across me and buckles my seat belt. “Can we call someone to meet us there? Your mom, maybe?”

  I close my eyes, and for a moment I wish I had jumped too. Only not really. Because in that moment when Jeremy’s weight almost pulled me over with him, in that moment when I thought I was falling, I realized one thing: I didn’t want to die. “I want to go home,” I say.

  “You know, I don’t get it,” the younger cop says from the front seat. “Couple kids like you two, young, healthy, you got everything to live for. What could be so bad that it’d make you want to die?”

  All I can think about is Jeremy, falling.

  “What a waste,” he says. He starts the engine. “What a goddamn waste.”

  I’m not sure about this, but I think Jeremy looked up as he fell. I couldn’t see his expression—just a glimpse of the pale oval of his face, his open mouth, and then he was gone. Was he saying something? Did he have time to realize that I hadn’t jumped, that I had pulled my hand free?

  Maybe he didn’t look up at all. Maybe I made that memory up. I was panicking, struggling to keep my balance and my grip on the metal pole.

  I don’t know how reliable memory really is.

  I ask the cops to drive me home, but they take me to the hospital instead. Apparently they think I’m a suicide risk, even though I obviously chose not to jump when I had the chance. A nurse ushers me into a tiny room, and one of the cops stands by the door—in case I try to leave, I guess.

  “There’s a social worker coming down to talk with you,” the nurse says. She’s an older woman with short gray hair and a name-tag chain threaded with jewel-like beads. “She’ll be here in a minute.”

  “Has anyone called my parents?” I ask.

  “No. Would you like me to call them?”

  I shake my head quickly. “No. Please don’t. But it’s past eleven, and they’ll be expecting me home soon. Can’t I just go home? Please?” My mom’s car is still illegally parked on the bridge, I realize. Or maybe it’s been towed away by now.

  “Let’s take things one step at a time,” the nurse says.

  I lower myself onto a gray plastic chair. The nurse leaves, and I eye the open door. The cop—the younger guy—is still standing there. “Is Jeremy…Do you know if…”

  He shakes his head. “Haven’t heard anything.”

  “Hello, Melody?” A woman slips through the open door, ignoring the cop. “I’m Christine. I’m a social worker here. I’d like to talk with you. Is that okay?”

  I don’t imagine I really have a choice. She pulls up a second chair, sitting a couple of feet away from me. She’s youngish, in her twenties, I guess, with shoulder-length brown hair, freckles, huge dark eyes. Her earrings are tiny candy canes. “I imagine you’re feeling pretty shaken up right now,” she says.

  I nod. “Have you heard anything? Did they find…”

  “Jeremy? Yes, they did. Melody, he’s pretty badly injured.” Her voice is soft, cautious.

  “He’s alive?” This hadn’t even occurred to me. I hadn’t known it was possible to survive that fall.

  “Yes. He was brought here—got here just before you did, actually. He didn’t lose consciousness when he hit the water, and luckily there was a boater out there who was able to get to him quickly. But he’s in serious condition. He’s in surgery.” She holds my gaze, and her eyes are unreadable. “The police officer said that the two of you were standing on the bridge together. Is that right?”

  “I was just…I wanted to talk him out of it. Persuade him not to do it,” I say. God. What if he’d been hoping I would? Maybe he’d have taken the out if I’d given him one. But I didn’t beg him not to do it; I didn’t even tell him the truth when he asked if I’d changed my mind. I could have stopped him. I know I could.

  If he survives, will he hate me? “Can I see him?” I whisper.

  “Not now.”

  “But he’ll be okay?”

  “I don’t know.” She sees the look on my face. “I really don’t, Melody. I don’t know any more than what I told you.”

  I nod, and my eyes fill with tears again. “Can I please just go home? My parents will freak out if I’m not home by midnight.”

  “Curfew?”

  I nod. “Uh-huh.”

  “We can phone them.”

  “But I don’t want them to know about this.”

  “Melody, you’re how old?” She glances down at the sheet of paper in her hand. “Fifteen?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Don’t you think your parents would want to know?”

  I don’t want to cry. I clench my fists, digging the nails into my palms. “I’ll tell them.”

  She looks at me for a long moment. “I need to make sure that you’re safe.”

  “I am,” I tell her. “I wasn’t going to jump.”

  Her dark eyes are steady on mine, and I have to force myself not to look away. “Honestly, I wasn’t,” I say. “I just—I just never realized that Jeremy was serious about it. And then when I did realize? It was too late.”

  “Tell me a bit about Jeremy,” she says. “How did you two meet, anyway?”

  “School, I guess,” I tell her. “Right at the beginning of this year. We just started talking.”

  Death Row

  The very first conversation I had with Jeremy was about death. It was back in September, the sky wide open and blue, the sun a hot white disk. I was sitting on the steps of the church across the street from the school, because there’s no smoking on school property—and I was reading Camus and rolling a cigarette when he sat down beside me.

  “Hey,” he said. “Got a light?”

  I put my finger in my book to mark my place and squinted up at him. He was tall and very skinny, and pale for post-summer Florida. I didn’t know him, but he looked vaguely familiar in a seen-him-around-the-school kind of way. I stuck my hand into my purse, felt around for my lighter and handed it to him.

  He lit a cigarette. “I don’t usually smoke,” he said. “Actually, I just bummed this off someone so I’d have an excuse to talk to you.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah, right.” Across the street, I could see a group of girls standing close together, laughing and talking. Devika and Adriana and some others. I wondered if they had put him up to this.

  “You roll your own, huh? That’s kind of cool.”

  I shrugged. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing.” He drummed his fingers on his thigh, took a drag on the cigarette and made a face. “Gross. I don’t get wh
y anyone smokes.”

  “Nearly everyone on death row smokes,” I said.

  He butted out the cigarette. “We’re all on death row.”

  I snorted. “I mean literally. The prisoners at State. They all smoke.”

  “I meant it literally too. We don’t know our execution dates, but we’re all under the same sentence.”

  “What, are you some school shooter or something? Gonna kill everyone?”

  He gave a sudden laugh, and it totally changed his face. “No. Jesus, no. I just meant we’re all going to die eventually.”

  “Uh, yeah. Obviously.” I looked back at my book. “If you don’t mind, I’m actually reading.”

  “Sure.” He stood up. “I’m Jeremy, by the way.”

  “Melody.” I figured he already knew that. “You can tell your friends over there that they can kiss my ass.”

  “My friends?” He looked in the direction I was pointing, at the cluster of girls in front of the school. “Them? Ah, no. Not my friends.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Mine neither.” I opened my book on my lap and tried to read, but he was still standing there and I couldn’t concentrate. The heat of the sun was radiating from the cement, and the light reflecting off the page of my book hurt my eyes.

  “I’ll see you around,” he said.

  I nodded. I didn’t mean to look up at him, but I couldn’t help it. My eyes met his, and he didn’t look away or blink or smile. He just looked right back at me. It was the weirdest thing, but I felt like he was looking right into me. Like he was actually seeing me in a way no one else had ever bothered to.

  I dropped my gaze back down to my book, flustered and not wanting him to see the color rising in my cheeks. When I looked up again, he was gone.

  The door opens and the gray-haired nurse pokes her head into the small hospital room. “Christine, can I talk to you for a second?”

  Christine stands up. “Sure. Just a moment, Melody.”

  I nod and watch her as she slips out the door, not quite closing it behind her. I strain to listen, but although I can see Christine’s back—bright green shirt, black pants—all I can hear is the murmur of their voices. I can’t make out the words. I’m glad to have a minute to myself though, to think. To get my story straight. Most of all, I don’t want my parents freaking out. I don’t want them to think I’m suicidal. They’d be devastated. There’s no way to explain what happened.