I Was, Am, Will Be Alice

By Elise Abram

Winner of 2017 Kindle book review award for YA fiction and 2015 A Woman’s Write Competition!

When Alice Carroll is in grade three she narrowly escapes losing her life in a school shooting. All she remembers is the woman comforting her in the moments before the gunshot, and that one second she was there, the next she wasn’t.

It’s bad enough coming to terms with surviving while others, including her favourite teacher, didn’t, let alone dealing with the fact she might wink out of existence at any time.

Alice spends the next few years seeing specialists about her Post Traumatic Stress as a result of VD--Voldemort Day--but it’s not until she has a nightmare about The Day That Shall Not Be Mentioned, disappears from her bed, is found by the police, and taken home to meet her four-year-old self that she realizes she’s been time travelling.

Worried someone may find out about her problem before long, Alice enlists her best friend (and maybe boyfriend), Pete, to help her try to control her shifting through time with limited success. She’s just about ready to give up when the shooter is caught. Now more than ever, Alice is determined to take control of her time travelling in order to go back to That Day, stop the shooting, and figure out the identity of the stranger who’d shielded Alice’s body with her own.   

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elise Abram
• Release date: Mar 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781988843261

Elise Abram

Elise is a retired high school teacher of English and Computer Studies, former archaeologist, and current author, editor, freelance writer, avid reader of literary and science fiction, and student of the human condition. She has been writing for as long as she can remember. Over the years, writing has become as essential to her as eating, sleeping, or breathing.  Elise is best known as an urban fantasy and young adult novelist, but her writing interests are diverse. She has published everything from science fiction, horror and the paranormal, and contemporary fiction and police procedurals for all ages. She has also published five children’s picture books.

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Elise Abram

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I WAS, AM, WILL BE Alice

Copyright © 2016  by Elise Abram

All rights reserved.

Published by EMSA Publishing 2016

Thornhill, Ontario, Canada

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

First printing

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

PUBLISHED BY EMSA PUBLISHING

http://emsapublishing.com

I Was, Am, Will Be Alice is printed in Cambria

Cover by Elise Abram

Credits: Girl with Pocket Watch © Irimaxim | Dreamstime.com

File ID: 42220276

License: Royalty Free

Also by Elise Abram

Phase Shift

The Mummy Wore Combat Boots

Throwaway Child

The Revenant

Acknowledgments

I set out to write this book after reading a column by Chuck Sambuchino on the Writer's Digest website, listing new agents looking for clients. One of the agents said that she'd love to read a young adult Time Traveler's Wife. I loved Time Traveler's Wife, and accepted the challenge. As I wrote, I realized that the topsy-turvy world my Alice was experiencing was a lot like what Alice in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland felt, and I found myself incorporating elements of that into my story as well, mainly in the naming of the characters, which are either based on the names in the book, or in some cases, the names of the actors playing some of the characters in the Tim Burton version (even though I haven't seen it yet).

I was first introduced to Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland while taking a university level children's literature course. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass and Peter Pan, were by far my favourites, with Winnie the Pooh coming in a close third. I've watched many interpretations of Alice and Peter over the years, but none of them did the originals justice. At least, not until ABC's Once Upon A Time tackled the Peter Pan story, and it was fabulous. I think this is where calling Alice's friend Pete Flay comes from. There are no boy characters in Alice, so when I needed a name, I chose a synonym for pan, maybe because I was so mired in OUAT at the time, or maybe because Neverland and Wonderland both have that ethereal, unreal feeling that my characters were experiencing in their lives.

I owe a debt of thanks to Chuck Sambuchino, Audrey Niffenegger, Lewis Carroll, Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz, and Tim Burton for much of my inspiration.

THANK YOU ALSO TO MY colleagues and students at Maple High School who continue to support me in my writing and publishing endeavors. Nothing warms the heart more than when a random student, one whom you have yet to meet, stops you in the hall wanting to talk about one of your books. Thanks also to the many people who will help me by publicizing my book, posting during my blog tour, reviewing, and retweeting and/or reposting. A special thank you goes out to the members of the Clean Indie Reads Facebook page, for their ongoing support and advice and for convincing me that I didn't need to swear in order to pen a realistic teen fiction. A special thanks to Christine Grey and Barb Goss, who continue to support, inspire, and impress me with their work and feedback.

Thank you, also, to my friends and family. I get quite a bit of inspiration from my children, and many of the insults Pete and Alice banter back and forth comes from them. Thanks, especially, to my daughters who help to fill me in on teen popular culture, like the names of actors and singers they're interested in.

Lastly, many thanks to you, dear reader, for picking up this book and for reading it. It is my hope that you will enjoy the time you spend with me and my characters over the course of the remaining pages.

I'm sure I can't be Mabel...she's she, and I'm I, and─oh dear, how puzzling it all is!

─ Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

I WISH FOR A MOMENT that time would lift me out of this day, and into some more benign one. But then I feel guilty for wanting to avoid the sadness; dead people need us to remember them, even if it eats us, even if all we can do is say, 'I’m sorry' until it is as meaningless air.

─ The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

I Was Alice

1

Alice is 9

The first time it happens , it happens like this:

I'm huddled beside the bench in the grade three cloakroom, head scrunched against my knees, hands clasped behind my head. I hear the shots, three of them, and I swear my heart stops pumping each time. There's a woman next to me, kneeling, whispering in my ear, telling me it's going to be okay. Her hand grips my shoulder firmly, and there's a familiar quality to her voice that's somewhat soothing. The man's heels clack into the cloakroom and the gun cracks as he readies it for the next shot. The woman stands. and I can tell by the air she moves with her that she's taken a step toward him. Her lips make a wet sound as if she's parted them, and she draws in a breath as if to speak, and then the gun booms─it's deafening─and she goes down.

I scream and I go away.

When I come back, the woman is gone. So is the man with the gun. The classroom door opens with a whoosh. My breath catches in my throat and my heart thumps in my chest and I hear shoe clacks again...

2

Alice is 9

A lice? a man says when the clacking stops. It's loud enough to snap me from my trance. You're covered in blood! Are you okay?

I blink at him. I don't think it's mine.

The man, Principal Cotton, clucks his tongue and says, For God's sake, girl, why are you still here?

I shrug my shoulders. I have no idea.

His shoes click away. When they click back he has a woolen blanket in his hands. I feel the warmth of his body as he nears and the wet warmth of his breath at the back of my neck as he drapes the blanket over me. He's a smoker. I can tell.

The blanket's scratchy, like Daddy's beard on a weekend morning. It starts to slide off me, but I grab as much of it as I can and pull it close.

Mr. Cotton holds his hand out to me. I take it and let him lead me to the office.

IT’S WEIRD SITTING in the Bad Kid Chairs, and I get A Case of the Nerves waiting for my parents to come. I have to breathe deeply and evenly; the last time I got A Case of the Nerves, I went away, and I don’t want to do that again. Not here. Not now.

By the time my parents come for me, Mr. Cotton has let me get washed up. My clothes are sticky in places where the blood is still wet and hard where it's dried in others. We sit in his office, the four of us around a small, round table. I try to picture us sitting this way in a coffee shop, waiting for the waitress to take our orders. Mom orders a latte, lactose-free and with three sugars. Dad orders something slushy. Mr. Cotton looks like a tea man to me. I order something fruity and icy with lots of whipped cream.

Mr. Cotton says, She was curled into a ball when I found her, spoiling the illusion. She was just glued to the spot, huddled into a ball and holding her breath.

Where did the blood come from? Mom sniffles. I hate it when she cries.

We don't know. She seems physically unharmed. Mr. Cotton shuffles the papers on the table in front of him. I want to give you this. He hands her a pamphlet. Grief counsellors will be here for the foreseeable future to talk to the children who need it, but seeing as Alice was so close to...well, to the action, Post-Traumatic Stress is a likely possibility.

Mom gasps. Oh, God! Dad reaches for her hand. I sit in my chair taking long, deep breaths, willing myself to grow smaller and smaller until I disappear.

"Call this number, Mrs. Carroll. There are counsellors there to help you cope, too. Support groups and the like."

Mom reaches for a tissue from the box on the table. She blows her nose, looks at her lap, and continues to weep.

Thank you, Mr. Cotton, Dad says. He stands up and shakes the principal’s hand. He touches Mom’s shoulder and she stands, too. She nods and forces a smile at Mr. Cotton.

Come, sweetie, Dad says to me. He takes my hand and pulls me from my chair.

THE DRIVE HOME WOULD be silent but for Mom’s sniffles and snorts and gasps. When we get there, she announces, I’m going to lie down for a bit. She smiles at me and says, You can lie with me if you like, Alice, as an afterthought.

I nod. I don’t feel like being comforted by my mother. I feel embarrassed at losing control. Ashamed at being found by Mr. Cotton, of all people, just sitting there, crying like a baby. I want to eat chocolate cake till I puke and crawl into a hole somewhere and die.

Ice cream sundaes, kiddo? Dad asks.

I nod and smile in spite of myself and follow him into the kitchen.

3

Alice is 9

Dr. Hatfield is a pretty redhead about Mom’s age. She lets me go into her toy room when we arrive. Pick any toy you like, she tells me. I choose a stuffed, pink and fuzzy unicorn with iridescent horn and wings.

Dr. Hatfield smiles at my choice and says, She’s pretty, isn’t she?

I turn toward her, hold the unicorn at arm’s length and say, It’s so fluffy! in my best Despicable Me Agnes voice. Dr. Hatfield smiles, but I don’t think she gets it.

We go to the next room. I sit on a worn sofa. Dr. Hatfield sits in a worn, brown leather armchair on the other side of a beat-up, old, wooden coffee table.

What happened, Alice? she asks me.

I shrug and pretend to be more interested in the pink unicorn’s fur. I think I’ll call her Princess Pinkie Pie.

Do you want to tell me about your last day at school? Mom pulled me out of school after It happened. I haven’t been back in three or four days now. Mom hasn’t been to work in that time, either. It’s really boring at home with her. We watch a lot of television, bake, and make crafts. Mostly, Mom lies in bed and either watches television or sleeps.

I shrug again. Princess Pinkie Pie’s horn looks twisted, but when I try to unravel it I realize it’s just a cone of pretty material sewn to look twisted.

When did you first think you might be in trouble?

Again, I shrug. I let Princess Pinkie Pie run her fluffy, white tail through the circle that forms when I touch the tip of my thumb to the tip of my forefinger.

This goes on for a while, Dr. Hatfield asking questions, me shrugging as I examine every centimetre, every millimetre of Princess Pinkie Pie’s body. At last, she tells me to put the unicorn to sleep for the night and calls Mom into her office.

There’s an oversized bed in an oversized dollhouse that’s not quite large enough for Princess Pinkie Pie to sleep comfortably, but the room has pretty pink and cream striped wallpaper with pale pink flowers in full bloom. There’s a window, and a dresser, too. A picture of thick blades of grass and a happy-faced daisy under a blue sky is hung over the headboard. A fat yellow and black bee wearing a huge grin buzzes over the daisy.

As I lay Princess Pinkie Pie on the plastic bed I imagine myself in a make-believe house, in a make-believe room, lying on a make-believe bed. I am the same as all of the make-believe people who live in the house. I am the perfect doll of a child. I never get into trouble. I am not sick with Post Tra...whatever Syndrome. I never disappear. I never find myself bloody and shaking in the cloakroom at school, make-believe or otherwise.

...traumatized to the point of... I hear Dr. Hatfield say. I kiss Princess Pinkie Pie goodnight, lay her on the bed, and sneak to the door. If I stand behind the open door and peek through the crack between the door and the jamb, I can just see Dr. Hatfield and my mom in the next room and hear them as if I were still in the same room as them, as if I were right there, still sitting on the ratty old couch beside my mom.

What do I do?

I can help her. Next time she comes, we’ll play a game or two, try to build a rapport.

Whatever that means.

I’m hoping she’ll open up to me once she trusts me.

What about school? I can’t keep her out much longer. I can’t miss work much longer, either.

Take her back to school tomorrow. Stay with her for a while.

Like that’s going to happen.

She needs to begin to feel safe in the school environment again.

WHEN WE’RE ALONE IN the car I tell her, I think I can handle school tomorrow.

I can tell it takes a lot of effort, but Mom smiles. Didn’t I tell you it’s not polite to eavesdrop? She backs out of the spot in the parking lot. When we’re on the road she says, I can go with you, you know, till you feel safe and all.

It’s just school, Mom.

But Dr. Hatfield said—

I heard what Dr. Hatfield said. Mom looks at me out of the corner of her eyes and presses her lips together in disapproval. But I think I’m good.

Really?

Uh-huh.

There’s one other thing I’m good at apparently—lying to my mom.

4

Alice is 9

Igo back to school the next day. They're holding class in the library. The principal has moved us there because it's at the front of the school and none of us would have to pass by the scene of the disaster to get there.

A grief counsellor has moved into the spare room in the front office. I meet her on my first day back. We're sitting in the library watching Charlotte's Web (we'd finished reading it the very day...you know...happened) and Pete elbows me. Next victim, he says.

What?

That's right. You don't know.

Know what?

Pete looks over his shoulder. I follow his gaze and feel my face beam. It's Miss Dinah!

Grief Lady.

What? Doesn't he see her standing there? I'm just about to stand and run to her, hug her, hold her, tell her I'm so glad she's okay, but Pete says, "They brought her in to talk to us about Miss Dinah, Michael Barrie, and that kid, Ada, you know, the kids that died.

Lacey? You know how she's afraid of the ghost she insists she saw in kindergarten in the cloakroom? She had to practically be hospitalized. She kept on saying the ghost was an omen, that she must be psychic or something because she saw the ghost and it was a sign of bad things to come in that room.

I look back at Miss Dinah, but she's gone. This other woman, a pretty brunette about the same age as Miss Dinah, stands in her place.

"Grief Lady's been coming into our class ever since, picking us off one by one. She says it's to talk to us, but some of us don't come back.

Mr. Heart? He's our new teacher, an old man who's practically ancient, with his grey hair and paunch belly. He says some of the kids are too upset to come back after talking about That Day, but I think it's more than that.

The Grief Lady plasters a smile on her face and advances on our class.

Grief counsellor, my ass! I think there's more to it than a lone psycho going postal on the third-grade class. I think the government was involved, and the kids that don't come back saw something they shouldn't have, and they refuse to keep it quiet, so they off them.

After Pete watched this 9-11 documentary with his dad, he started to believe The Attack on the Twin Towers was a huge conspiracy theory and that the U.S. government was involved. Pete's research didn't stop there, oh, no. Day after day I had to listen to him talking about magic bullets in the J.F.K. assassination and how Marilyn Monroe was killed by the Kennedys because she would hold J.F.K. back. Then there was the whole Area 51 Alien Fiasco. And that was just the first week after watching.

Pete continues to spin his yarn about why the government─of Canada, no less─would want to send a gunman to kill a primary school teacher or two and a few kids and maim or wound a few others, but I'm too busy trying to read the Grief Lady's lips as she talks to the new third-grade teacher. When the conversation ends, Mr. Heart says, Alice? and I look up. He crooks his finger at me in a come here motion. When I stand he says, Go with Miss Duchess, please.

Pete puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It was nice knowing you, Al, he says.

MISS DUCHESS OFFERS me a seat at a small round table in the corner of her office and closes the door behind us. She sits in the seat next to me, props her elbows and forearms on the table, and clasps her hands in front of her. We haven't met yet, she says. She smiles and I'm mesmerized. She could be Miss Dinah's sister. When I blink, she almost morphs into Miss Dinah in the fraction of a second my eyes are veiled by my eyelashes. I'm Miss Duchess.

Mr. Heart said.

So he did. She leans back in her chair and buries her still-clasped hands in her lap.

First of all, welcome back, dear Alice.

I force a smile. Different teacher, different class, and now this inquisition with a stranger─nothing welcome about it.

Is there anything you wanted to talk about today?

I shake my head. Uh-uh.

She takes a beat then says, Do you know what happened here the other day?

Of course I know what happened, stupid, I want to say, but I nod instead.

Do you miss Miss Dinah?

Another stupid question. Of course I do. Why do you even care?

I shrug my shoulders.

Do you want to talk about it?

The grilling by Dr. Hatfield two days ago, another one tonight, Mom's inability to even look at me without tearing up, Dad's near silence and pitiful stares? The last thing I want to do is talk about it even more. I shake my head.

How does it make you feel?

I shrug.

Miss Duchess tries her best to give me a verbal hug, to iron out my wrinkled feelings, but I don't want any of it. One shrink a day is enough. Any more than that and my brain may shrivel up like a raisin or something.

At last she says, I'm going to be here for the next few weeks, Alice. If there's anything you need, anything I can do─anything from talking to helping you take a time out─you be sure to let me know, okay? She parts her lips and bares her teeth in a hideous forced smile and I can't believe I ever saw a resemblance between her and my beloved Miss Dinah.

Can I go now? I ask, barely able to keep my behind in the chair.

She nods. Uh-huh.

I bolt for the door.

I can't believe I missed Charlotte's Web for this.

5

Alice is 9

Pete lies beside me on the grass, playing with a feather. He holds it over his mouth, lets go, and blows, competing with himself for the best time afloat. I pick out a single blade of grass, examine it, toss it aside, and pull another from the ground.

My mom took me to a shrink, I say to Pete, my eyes locked on the grass blade between my fingers.

Pete turns his head toward me. The feather, no longer airborne, falls onto his damp lips and sticks. He sits up quickly, sputtering and wiping his mouth clean.

You’re so gay, I tell him, shaking my head.

You don’t mean that, he says in his best Miss-Caulfield-Gym-Teacher voice. You don’t mean, 'he’s so homosexual,' you mean 'he’s so silly.' What he’s doing is stupid, not homosexual. He mimics Miss Caulfield’s accent so the word comes out huh-muh-seckshul. I laugh in spite of myself.

Goof, I say.

Dweeb.

I go