The Immortals by Mary Hallberg (chrysanthemum read aloud txt) 📗

about funerals than I did. Or, if they did, they never imagined they would attend the funeral of Dr. Fred Palmer. He was supposed to live forever.

Afterwards, we all stood on the front lawn together side by side: Mom, me, then Luke. People came one by one, sometimes two by two or three by three, and told mom how sorry they were for her loss. Sometimes the old ladies would put their gloved hands gently on hers, which struck me as sort of phony. Touching hands is supposed to be a sign of affection — I thought about the way Gage always used to take my hand in his — and surely these people didn’t care enough about grandpa to be that sorry. Where had they been during the last few months of his life, when he could barely sit up on his own?

After the old ladies talked to mom, they would ask Luke what he was doing right now. “Working as a photographer,” he would say, smiling. They didn’t have to ask me what I was doing, or at least they didn’t think they did. Most of them asked how The Necropolis was. All I told them was that I was moving back to Rochester. They didn’t know the rest of the story. They tried to hide their surprise but some of them ended up gasping as if they had just learned that that old singer from the 1950’s, Elvis Presley, had just come back from the dead or something. Nobody came back to Rochester from The Necropolis. Nobody came back to wherever they came from after living in The Necropolis. Well, nobody but grandpa. And look where it had gotten him — lying in a pine box, most of what was left of his small fortune gone. I really could have used a drink after about the tenth person unintentionally reminded me of that, but unfortunately I was only 17, and the drinking age was actually enforced here. I could have asked Luke to buy me something after the service, even something non-alcoholic like coffee or soda, but I didn’t want to use up his money.

We were on about the twentieth old lady when I spotted Corrina Girard in my peripheral vision. I turned away and focused on some guy with his back to me talking to mom, sort of hoping that she wouldn’t be able to see me if I couldn’t see her. It was late afternoon and the sun was bright in my eyes; I couldn’t stand it after a minute so I turned back around and there was Corrina. She was coming from the opposite direction as mom so while she continued to talk to the strange man, Corrina just started rambling. She sort of reminded me of Jacey in that sense, which made me miss her as well. I would have to give her a call after the graveside service.

“McKenzie, can I talk to you?” Corrina asked.

“I’d really rather not.”

She sighed. “Look, I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to right now. But I have something to tell you and I think you’ll want to hear it. It’s about my book.” She motioned her head toward the open front doors of the sanctuary. “Can we go some place private?”

“Wait…how do you know that I know about your book?”

“Please Kenzie, I’m not stupid. My notebook mysteriously disappeared out of my bag right after I had lunch with you. After what I did to you guys, I probably deserved it.”

Mom stopped talking to the stranger, apparently overhearing us. “Go on, honey,” she said. “We can handle this.” I glared at her but she'd already turned back to the stranger and didn’t see me. I groaned and followed Corrina.

The sanctuary was empty but we still slipped into the back where the choir comes in. “McKenzie,” Corrina said, “I really am sorry about your grandfather.”

I scratched my eyebrow. “The notebook is at my house. I can go get it if you want.”

She tapped the messenger bag at her side. “No worries. I’ve got a copy here.” She reached into the bag and pulled out the manuscript. It was thick but not as thick as I had expected, and it looked professional. She was probably getting ready to send it off to some publisher. “Everyone’s in there, even you.”

She handed me the manuscript and I fumbled with the pages in my hands. “You haven’t…added anything to it, have you?”

“Only what you told me. Why?”

I shook my head. “No reason.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Kenzie, what did you do?”

I wanted to tell her that she had no right to call me Kenzie, that only my friends and family could call me Kenzie, but I didn’t. “Nothing,” I replied. “At least, nothing I’m going to tell you.”

“That’s understandable. I wouldn’t tell me anything either.” She snickered. “But Kenzie, you should know, and this is really the reason why I wanted to talk to you in person...I’m not publishing it.”

“What? Why not?”

“What’s the matter? I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Of course it is. But you’ve been working on it for months. Years, maybe. And if it’s published then you’ll be...well...you could be Immortal.”

“Immortal? Come on, McKenzie, wake up. I’ll never be Immortal and we both know it. Even if it got published, the panel wouldn’t look twice at me. It’s all a matter of luck. Even if you know all the right people there’s never a guarantee of getting in.”

“I got in,” I said. “If I can do it, you probably could too. Now that I’m leaving, you could even have my spot.”

“Oh give me a break. You got in because of who your grandfather was and because Jerome Glen’s wife kicked it at just the right time so there was an open spot. I’m almost 21 and I’ve lived in The Necropolis my whole life. If I haven’t gotten in by now, I never will.” She sighed. “But it’s okay. Because of the stuff you did, people are