Dwellers Read Online Free Page B

of rehabilitation, recurrent dislocations, chronic pain, dependence on drugs, and a brace I have to wear my whole life. If Meryl
was still alive I would tell her,
Rejoice in your life, rejoice in your beautiful, healthy body, in your lack of hurt.
I would tell her family and her detractors that they are fools, that
they have marred a crystal-clear happiness. I mourn Meryl. I mourn the boy who once climbed a tree, fell from its branches, and rebounded just a week later, ready to play again. I mourn my previous
body, now probably locked up in a morgue somewhere, about to head to an unmarked mass grave. It was disease-free, resilient, and strong. It was not in pain. Such a waste, I think now, but:
you
should be grateful, you should be grateful, you should be grateful.
    “I don’t want to be stuck in this body,” I say, and I am surprised by the hitch in my breath, the tears on my cheeks. My ruined knee throbs. I cover my face with my right hand.
I want to be left alone, I don’t want to be touched, but when Louis leans forward and embraces me, I don’t push him away.
    The sad thing about pain is that you can’t share it or pass it on, no matter how willing the next person is. No one can take agony away from you, no matter how many times the people you
love tell you,
I know exactly how you feel
. You know they really don’t. You suffer alone, in the end.

8
    LOUIS DIGS A hole near the porch the next morning, drops the planner in, and covers it carefully with a layer of soil and fertilizer. He stands up. I watch him look through the
potted plants beneath the bougainvillea bushes and pull out a clay pot carrying a pale yellow chrysanthemum plant. He brings this to the hole. He takes the flower along with its roots out of the
pot and places the plant into the soil. There are other flowers lining the porch—geraniums, peonies—but the chrysanthemum stands out, its petals pale against the lush pinks and purples.
I don’t see it from my bedroom window, but when I roll out onto the porch and lean forward, it stares back at me like an infected eye.
    The TV in the living room has been largely ignored ever since we got here, but Louis watches the news now every night. I know what he is waiting for. I don’t listen, choosing, as always,
to stay in my room or out on the porch with a book until I get sleepy.
    For a few days, we almost—almost—made ourselves believe there was no dead body in the basement.
     
    IT IS THURSDAY, three days since the planner was buried. Since it’s drizzling, I decide to go to my room instead of out on the porch. “What are you reading
today,” Louis asks idly, sinking into his usual spot on the sofa in front of the TV, but I never get to answer because the evening news has begun and up on the screen is Meryl’s big
smile.
    The decomposing body believed to be that of Meryl Angela Solomon, an 18-year-old college student reported missing last January, was found by police in an abandoned building on university
grounds.
    Louis freezes for a second, then sits up, and leans forward, as though a closer look at the screen will help him understand the story better. I wheel myself around the sofa.
    There are shots of a dark one-story building surrounded by tall grass; policemen walking, windows, cobwebs, graffiti on stone walls.
    Solomon’s body was found wearing a white shirt and jeans. A backpack filled with her belongings, including several of her IDs and a silver necklace, was also found with the
body.
    Shots of a purple backpack, covered in grime. Her IDs on a table. Some books. A silver necklace with a sapphire teardrop pendant. A body bag on a gurney.
    Police began an on-site investigation following reports of a foul smell emanating from the old Fine Arts building. The building has not been used for five years and is generally avoided by
students as it sits on a remote, unlit field.
    The building has been the site of on-campus crime in the past.
    Due to the body’s advanced