My first support group meeting was...revelatory. At the opening of our session, each person stood and said their name and shared why they were there. Things went smoothly until it was my turn. I was by far the youngest person. Everyone else was at least a septuagenarian.
"Hi, I'm Alice," I said.
"Hi, Alice," the group said in unison.
"I'm here because I was murdered when I was fifteen years old."
Boom.
A few of the group members looked so shocked that, if they hadn't already been dead, I would have thought they were having heart attacks. But a heart attack is impossible without a heart.
One old man--the one who died of a complications with diabetes--raised his hand. "What happened?"
The group leader winced. "George, we're not supposed to pry here. This is a safe place."
"It's okay," I said with a shrug. "I was run over by a car."
"That's not murder," someone mumbled.
"Seven times," I added.
More gasps. More shock.
George raised his hand again. "Who did it?"
"I don't know."
The woman who died in her sleep asked, "Shouldn't you know? You are dead, right?"
I shrugged again. "I don't know."
"Why would someone kill a fifteen-year-old girl?"
"I don't know."
We spent the next half hour debating the details of my death. How could I not have known? How did I know that I had died? Would I find out the truth if the living find out the truth? How was I supposed to guide the investigation if I didn't know where to guide it?
At the end of the meeting, I returned to my family home where my great-grandparents and my mom's cousin were gardening.
"How did it go, Alice?" Great-grandpa asked. "Was the meeting helpful?"
"I don't know," I said.
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