Elsewhere(25)

"And who would I be buying a souvenir for exactly?" Liz asks.

"For yourself."

"You buy souvenirs to take back to other people," Liz snorts. "I don't know anyone else and I'm not going back."

"Not always, not yet," Betty replies. "Come on, I'll buy you whatever you want."

"I don't want anything," Liz says as she follows Betty into the tacky gift shop. No one is inside. A soup can sits by the cash register with a note: "Out to lunch. Leave payment in can. Cut yourself a good deal, just between us."

To satisfy Betty, Liz selects a book of six Elsewhere postcards and a plastic snow globe. The snow globe has a miniature SS Nile submerged in sickly blue water, wish you were here is written in red across the base of the dome.

"Do you want an Elsewhere beach towel?" Betty asks as Liz sets her two items on the counter.

"No, thank you," Liz replies.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Liz says tightly.

"Maybe a T-shirt, then?"

"No," Liz yells. "I don't want a goddamn T-shirt! Or a beach towel! Or anything else! All I want is to go home!"

"All right, doll," Betty says with a sigh. "I'll meet you outside. I just have to add everything up."

Liz storms out of the store, carrying her new snow globe. She waits for Betty in the car.

Liz shakes the snow globe. The tiny SS Nile thrashes wildly in its plastic dome. Liz shakes the snow globe even harder. Slimy, stale blue water leaks onto Liz's hand. There's a small gap where the two seams of the dome were fused together. Liz opens the car door and throws the snow globe onto the pavement. Instead of shattering or cracking, it bounces across the parking lot like a rubber ball, stopping at the feet of a small girl in a pink polka-dotted bikini.

"You dropped this," the girl calls out to Liz.

"Yes," Liz agrees.

"Don't you want it?" The girl picks up the snow globe from the ground.

Liz shakes her head.

"Can I have it?" the girl asks.

"Knock yourself out," Liz replies.

"The sky don't fall here, not much," the girl says. She flips the globe over so that all the snow collects in the dome. She places her pinky over the leak.

"What do you mean?" Liz asks.

"Like this." The girl flips the snow globe over.

"You mean snow," Liz says. "You mean it doesn't snow here."

"Not much, not much, not much," she sings. The girl walks over to Liz. "You're big."

Liz shrugs.

"How many are you?" the girl asks.

"Fifteen."

"I'm four," the girl answers.

Liz looks at the child. "Are you a real little girl or a fake little girl?"

The girl opens her eyes as wide as they'll go. "What do you mean?"

"Are you really four, or are you just pretend four?" Liz asks.

"What do you mean?" The girl raises her voice.

"Were you always four or did you used to be big?"

"I don't know. I'm four. Four!" the girl cries. "You're mean." The girl drops the snow globe at Liz's feet and runs away.

Liz picks it up and gives it another shake. She drains it of all the remaining blue liquid until the only thing left is a cluster of fake snow crystals.

Betty emerges from the gift shop, carrying a small paper bag.

"I bought this for you," Betty says to Liz. She tosses Liz the paper bag. Inside is a T-shirt with the slogan my grandmother went to elsewhere and all she got me was this stinky t-shirt.

For the first time that day, Liz smiles. "It does stink," Liz agrees. She puts the T-shirt on over her pajamas.

"I thought you'd like it," Betty says. "I said to myself, there aren't going to be too many opportunities where that T-shirt actually makes sense as a gift." Betty laughs.

For the first time, Liz really looks at Betty. She has dark brown hair and light laugh lines around the eyes. Betty is pretty, Liz thinks. Betty looks like Mom. Betty looks like me. Betty has a sense of humor . . . Suddenly Liz realizes that her grandmother may have better things to do than worry about a surly teenager. She wants to apologize for today and for everything else. She wants to say she knows that none of this situation is Betty's fault. "Betty," she says softly.

"Yes, doll, what is it?"

"I. . . I'm . . ." Liz begins. "My snow globe has a leak."

That night, Liz writes out all six of the Elsewhere postcards. She writes one to her parents, one to Zooey, one to Edward, one to Lucy, one to Alvy. The last one she writes is to her biology teacher, who had skipped her funeral.

Dear Dr. Fujiyama,

By now, you have probably heard that I'm dead. This means I won't be attending this year's regional science fair, which is a great disappointment to me as I'm sure it also is for you. At the time I died, I felt I was starting to make real progress with those earthworms.

I really enjoyed your class and continue to follow along from the place where I'm now living I now find myself. Dissecting the pig looked pretty interesting, and I thought I might try it. Unfortunately, there aren't any dead pigs here for me to dissect.

It isn't bad here. The weather is nice most of the time. I live with my grandmother Betty now who is old, but looks young. (Long story.)