Postcards from a Dead Girl by Kirk Farber Read Free Book Online Page A

now. I head out on foot, cruise the streets, keep my eyes open for Big Ben, Parliament, a post office. I feel suddenly more alive than ever before because I am completely out of place. Everything is new: the cobble of the sidewalks, the reversed flow oftraffic, the big red double-decker buses. The coins in my pocket are heavy; they don’t jingle as much as knock together. I’m fascinated by their weight, and I wonder why we Americans have such light money.
    Down one street, I see several restaurants and a grocery. A man sits on a blanket in front of the grocery, a cup open and empty before him, waiting for donations. I walk over and drop my heavy coins—three of them—into the cup. They make an amazing thunking noise. He smiles up at me, then taps a sign he’s made out of cardboard and marker. BE GRATEFUL , it says. I drop two more into the cup. What a great sound.
    It’s good advice: be grateful. I try to review my list of blessings as often as I can. My parents taught me to do that. Today I’m grateful I have a home, and food, and enough coins in my pocket to give away. Sometimes the list works. Sometimes it doesn’t.
    Sometimes I feel this ache inside over Zoe, and it won’t go away. I imagine her sitting down to write these postcards and taking the time to stamp them and carry them off to a post office somewhere in a foreign land. I like to think of her in a cheesy souvenir shop, spinning the postcard towers around in circles, picking out the perfect one just for me—the one she knows will make me smile, the one that will make me think of her.
    I create a new gratitude list:
    I’m thankful I have lungs.
    I’m thankful I can see.
    I’m thankful for my dog.
    And I am thankful for the postcards, but I still can’t understand why Zoe left, why she won’t call, why I can’t find her, and how to make this ache go away.
    The ache sometimes sits inside my rib cage. It feels like I took a cheap shot in a fight. Some days it will creep north and lodgeitself in my throat, where it burns and swells. That’s when I’m especially vulnerable, when even if I’m thinking happy thoughts or feeling hopeful, the burning lump makes itself known, a tangible reminder of something missing. A missing part. A missing person. Today I’m grateful the ache is sitting low under my ribs.
    I gather up my courage and try out the tube subway system. It’s not as complicated as I thought it would be, and with all the posted maps, I don’t have to worry about anyone yelling and pointing at me. A recorded omnipresent voice reminds me to “mind the gap,” which I am trying very hard to do. A busker plays a Beatles song, and while everyone else on the train seems annoyed, I find it comforting.
    I visit the places I think Zoe might have gone. Piccadilly Circus isn’t unlike Times Square with all its flashing lights and noise. There is a Chinatown here too, but it’s not the same, it’s smaller, it’s all wrong. I spend some time in St James’s Park, and buy a hot dog from a vendor. Zoe wouldn’t let me buy any when we went to Central Park. She would hate that I’m eating meat from a cart.

chapter 19
    Inside the phone booth it smells like soup. I’m afraid that the stench is emanating from the receiver, that the last person to use the phone was sick or a messy eater. I do my best to hover the phone a few inches from my face. This makes hearing more difficult on an already faded connection.
    â€œAre you in a tunnel?” Natalie asks. Her voice, oddly enough, sounds like she could be in a tunnel. I picture her talking from one and wonder why she would think I was doing the same.
    â€œYes, I’m in a tunnel,” I say sarcastically.
    â€œIt sounds like you’re in a tunnel,” she says, insistent.
    â€œHow’s Zero?”
    â€œHe’s fine. I think he misses you.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œHe whines a