Dead City

That Weird Bigelow Girl

It was the last Friday of summer vacation, and I was running late. I’d made it halfway out the front door when I heard my dad call out from the kitchen.

Molly, you forgot something.

I took the trash out last night, I answered.

Not the trash.

I started to run through a quick mental list of my chores. I’ve got my lunch right here, I said, holding up my brown bag.

Not your lunch.

I rolled my eyes and walked back to the kitchen doorway to look at him. He’d worked the late shift and was still wearing his navy blue paramedic’s uniform as he hunched over a bowl of cereal.

You want to give me a hint?

He smiled that goofy dad smile and raised his cheek up to be kissed.

Seriously?

What? he answered. You’re worried someone might see you in our apartment? Worried that it could ruin your reputation?

It’s not that. It’s just that I’m not a little kid, I explained. I don’t need a kiss every time I go outside.

Notice the cheek, he said, tapping it for emphasis. I get the kiss, not you.

It was pointless to argue, so I walked over and gave him a peck on the cheek. As I did, he turned his head and gave me one too.

Gotcha, he said with a movie villain’s laugh. By the way, last night I used those same lips to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to this really old woman. She was scary looking and had bad breath. She even had a little mustache thing going on. He added a couple of hacking coughs. I hope I didn’t catch something.

You see what I mean? I said with exasperation. Nothing in my life can be normal.

Normal? He laughed. Aren’t you the girl on her way to hang out . . . at the morgue?

I tried to give him my scrunched-up angry face, but I couldn’t help laughing. He kind of had a point, so I rewarded him with an unsolicited good-bye hug.

He smiled. Was that so hard?

Can I go now?

You can go. Say hi to Dr. H for me.

I will, I answered as I hurried out the door and down the hall.

I do realize that it’s not normal for a girl my age to hang out at the morgue. (Okay, I realize that it’s not normal for a girl of any age to hang out at the morgue.) But I guess the first thing you should know about me is that I’m not exactly a cookie-cutter kind of girl. Even if I wanted to be, I think my mother had other plans.

When I begged her to put me in ballet class, she somehow convinced me that Jeet Kune Do was a better fit. So after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when the rest of the girls were learning pirouettes and grand jetés, I was down the hall mastering the martial art of the intercepting fist.

And when I wanted to join the Brownies, she signed me up for the New York City Audubon Society’s Junior Birder program instead. As a result, I don’t know a thing about cookies or camping but can identify sixty-eight different varieties of birds known to inhabit the five boroughs.

She even led me to the morgue.

My mom was a forensic pathologist for the New York City Office of Chief Medical Examiner. When the police needed help figuring out precisely how somebody died, they called her. She was really good at her job. The best. Sometimes she was even on TV or in the newspaper when she had to testify at a murder trial.

I know it sounds gory and gross, but she loved it. She liked to say that even after someone dies, they still have a story to tell.

One Friday when I was seven years old, my grandma was supposed to watch me. At the last minute she couldn’t make it, and Mom had no choice but to take me to work with her.

I can still remember how terrified I was as we rode the subway into the city. I’d always pictured her office looking like something out of a horror movie, with dead bodies scattered all over the place. But it wasn’t like that at all. It turned out to be the most amazing science lab I could have ever imagined. I liked everything about it, except for the dead bodies. But they were mostly kept out of the way.

Going to the morgue became our thing to do. During the summers I went to work with her every Friday. She was careful not to let me see anything too gross, because she didn’t want to give me nightmares. But she taught me all kinds of experiments and showed me how to use the cool equipment. Eventually, I even got less and less freaked out by the dead people.

Death is part of the natural order of life, she would explain. You shouldn’t be scared of it. You should be respectful of it.

A couple of years later, when they diagnosed her cancer and she started going to chemotherapy, she used the morgue to help prepare me, in case she died. She explained that while the human body was amazing, it had limitations. She wanted me to know that when her body gave out, her spirit and soul would still live on in me and my sister.

Mom died two summers ago. It was a Sunday morning, and I remember every single thing about that day. I remember the smell of the pretzels for sale outside the hospital and the mechanical sounds of the monitors in her room. I remember that everything about her looked pale and weak and unrecognizable—except her eyes.

My mom had mismatched eyes. It’s called heterochromia, and I have it too. My left eye is blue and my right is green, just like hers. She said it was our special genetic bond.

That day, I looked deep into her eyes. Everything else was failing, but they still looked as sharp and bright as ever.

Even after someone dies . . . , she whispered.

They still have a story to tell, I finished.

She smiled and then added, That’s right, and my story is going to be told by you.

I was amazed by how many people came to her funeral. The policemen who worked with her on cases and the paramedics and firemen from my dad’s station house were all there wearing their dress uniforms. They looked so big and strong. And every one of them cried.

Everyone cried that day . . . but me.

The following Friday, I rode the subway into the city and went to her office like I always had. I don’t really know what I was thinking or expecting. It was just a habit. But nobody said anything about it or asked me why I was there. They just acted like I belonged.

That day I hung out with Dr. Hidalgo, my mom’s best friend. I’ve been going back and hanging out in his office on summer Fridays ever since. And because this was the last Friday of summer vacation, I didn’t want to be late.

Waiiiit! I yelled as I raced down the hall.

I sprinted the last few strides and managed to jam my hand inside the elevator just as the door was closing. When it sprang back open to reveal who was riding it, I wished that I had just slowed down and waited for the next one.

There was Mrs. Papadakis, whose two favorite hobbies are gossiping and tanning. Judging by her bathing suit, which was inappropriate by at least thirty years and sixty pounds, she was on her way to the courtyard to do both with a group of old ladies I call the Leather Bags. You always have to be careful about what you say or do around her, because anything slightly embarrassing is bound to be the talk of the building by the end of the day.

Next to her were Dena and Dana Salinger, twin sisters from down the hall who like to do everything together—especially torment me. One time they pinned me in the elevator and forced me to ride all the way to the fifteenth floor. They pushed me out into the hallway, even though they knew I was terrified of heights and never went above the third floor.

Today they wore leopard-print bikini tops and matching short shorts and were headed to Astoria Park, a huge public pool just down the street from our apartment building.

But the person I dreaded most was the girl with the Salingers. The one who was giving me the stink eye.

It was my sister, Beth.

Normally, Beth and I have an ignorance is bliss policy when we cross paths away from home. She ignores me and I’m blissful about it. It’s not that we don’t love each other. It’s just I’m in middle school, and she’s in high school. I’m brainy and nerdy, and she’s cool and popular. But as I stepped into the elevator, I was pretty sure she was going to say something.

What do you think you’re doing with that jacket? she demanded.

Did I forget to mention that while everyone else looked like they stepped out of the swimsuit edition of Queens Apartment Living, I was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and, most important to Beth, carrying a bright pink ski parka.

You know, she continued, "the jacket that belongs in my closet."

Bank vaults had nothing on my sister when it came to protecting her clothes. That’s the reason I was running late. I’d waited inside the apartment for nearly forty minutes after she’d left, just to avoid the possibility of bumping into her. Now I was stuck with her on the world’s slowest elevator. Apparently, it had taken the Salingers longer than usual to spray on their fake tans.

It’s Friday, I explained. You know how cold it gets in the morgue.

The morgue? Mrs. Papadakis screeched, her Queens accent exaggerating the word. Did somebody die?

No, I answered sheepishly.

Then why are you going to the morgue?

I didn’t know what to say, so I just told the truth. I like to hang out there.

Beth cringed. It was bad enough that her little sister was that weird Bigelow girl from the third floor. She didn’t need everyone to know how weird I really was.

You hang out at a morgue? Dana said.

"Your sister is a total freak, Beth," Dena added.

Beth shot them a look that seemed almost protective of me. But then she gave me one that was even angrier. "What’s wrong with your jacket?"

I got cadaver juice on it last week, I said as though that was a normal conversation topic. I’ve washed it seven times, but it still stinks.

Mrs. Papadakis almost threw up at the mention of cadaver juice.

So your brilliant idea was to get some on mine?

No. I won’t. I promise. Dr. H isn’t even doing an autopsy today. I called and checked.

It doesn’t matter what Dr. H is or isn’t doing, she said, because you are going upstairs and putting it back in my closet where you found it.

If I don’t have a jacket, it’ll be too cold in the morgue, I pleaded.

She gave me that condescending older sister look. Then I guess you won’t go.

I thought about it for a moment before I flashed my evil little sister smirk and then said, Okay. I guess I won’t. Maybe I’ll go swimming at Astoria Park instead. I can work on my butterfly stroke. It’s kind of awkward, and I splash a lot, but who cares if people stare. Besides, I can always ask for help. You know, from the boys you’ll be flirting with. Then the four of us girls can hang out.

Both Salingers shot Beth a look, and I knew I had won.

Fine, Beth said curtly. You can borrow it. But if you get so much as a drop of water on it, you’re buying me a new one.

Deal, I said as we stepped into the lobby.

I only made it a few steps before Mrs. Papadakis decided she just had to butt in. She put a caring hand on my shoulder, like we had some sort of close relationship . . . which we don’t.

Darling, it is not appropriate for a girl your age to visit the morgue. I know your mother—

The mention of my mother was as far as she got.

Beth literally stepped between us and said, Mrs. Papadakis, my mother thought you were a joke. I’m sure she wouldn’t want either one of us to take advice from you. So save yourself the trouble.

Mrs. Papadakis’s eyes opened wide. Well, aren’t you so very rude?

Really? Beth said, not backing down. Because I thought it wasn’t nearly as rude as a woman your age trying to bully my little sister into feeling bad about herself.

Did I forget to mention that despite our many differences, my sister totally rocks?

Popsicles and Vanilla

Mornin’, Molly, the security guard said as I entered the lobby of the morgue. Jamaican Bob was tall and thin and wore his dreadlocks pulled back in a ponytail. You know, it’s a good thing you got here when you did, he continued. The building’s going to be jam-packed today."

Why is that? I asked as I emptied my pockets into a plastic tray and walked through the metal detector.

Haven’t you heard about the morgue? he said with a booming laugh. "Everybody’s dying to get in."

Bob always told the corniest jokes, but I had to laugh because he got such a kick out of them.

Have a good day, I said as I took my backpack from the X-ray machine.

I will, he answered with a big smile. As long as I stay up here and away from that freezer of yours.

Like a lot of the people in the building, Bob was freaked out by the freezer, which is what we called the body storage area, located three floors underground.

I guess it takes a while to get used to the idea of being surrounded by dead bodies.

Even when you do get used to it, there are two things you need to bring with you whenever you work in the morgue. The first is a jacket, because the bodies are refrigerated well below freezing. (If yours is not available, you can always steal your sister’s.)

The second is vanilla extract to fight the smell. My mom taught me this trick the first time I went to work with her. Now I always bring a bottle with me when I come to the morgue. I swipe a finger of it under my nose every hour or so. (Unfortunate side effect: Vanilla milk shakes now make me think of dead people.)

Somebody got a new jacket, Natalie said when I entered the lab.

That’s because somebody spilled cadaver juice on my other one, I reminded her.

Oh yeah, she answered with a sheepish grin. Sorry about that.

I had to steal this one from my sister’s closet, I explained. If anything gets on it, I’m going to end up with the Popsicles. (That’s what we call the dead bodies.)

Natalie is Dr. Hidalgo’s intern. Like me, she’s a student at MIST—the Metropolitan Institute of Science and Technology, a science magnet school that draws kids from all over New York City.

MIST is made up of two separate schools. The Lower School is for sixth, seventh, and eighth grades, while the Upper School is for ninth through twelfth. I’m in the Lower School and Natalie’s in the Upper. Normally, high schoolers don’t mingle with Lowbies, but since Nat and I were often the only living people in the room, we had gotten to know each other pretty well during