Ashes to Ashes (10 page)

“How do I help them move on?” I ask.

“I told you that memories inhabit the first level of the soul. The unconscious is the second level, and that's what we're trying to connect with now. But Carson and Nick, and your father, won't fully release you until we haunt the third level of the soul.”

I wonder again when we'll go to my father, but I'm afraid to ask, afraid to see him and acknowledge the state he's in. Facing Nick is hard enough. My father must be devastated.

“What's the third level?” I ask.

“The heart.”

“The heart,” I echo. And I wonder when Mama reached that stage with me. Was it when I was twelve? On the day I went to her grave without my father and lay on the grass in front of her stone in the warm sun, trying to gather everything I remembered about her and hold it close to me as tears ran down my face? I felt a release that day.

“I remember so much,” I whisper into the darkness of Carson's backseat.

Thatcher nods. “I know.”

“But you . . . ,” I start. “You remember your life, too?”

“All the Guides do,” he says. “We failed at our haunting, and the obliviousness of dying, the amnesia of the initial entry into the Prism that protects most ghosts, has worn off. So yes, we remember.”

“That's harsh.” I ache for Thatcher and the Guides, and for myself, sad that we have to suffer. But I'm also glad that beings like us are in the Prism, that everyone's not all calm and unemotional like most of the ghosts I've seen.

“So why do I remember everything?” I ask, worried that I've already somehow failed at haunting, too.

“You're a special case, Callie. But you have to let go of some of your questions. Solus is the answer to all things, but you can only get there if you find peace—and help your loved ones find peace—in the present. Try not to fear the unknown.”

“You sound like you're reading something from a textbook,” I say.

“I've said it a few times, to a few ghosts.”

“Slowpoke!” Carson chides the car in front of her in her signature I-never-curse way, and I laugh.

“Thatcher,” I say, staring at my friend as she drives. “I don't want them to forget me.”

“They won't. You didn't forget your mom, right?”

I shake my head no.

“As hard as it is to accept, it's
good
for them to let you go.”

Carson has a slight smile on her face. I want to believe that just my presence, just my being here and somehow connecting with her unconscious, put it there. But she's not feeling comforted because we're sitting in this backseat giving her good vibes. She's smiling because Leo changed the radio station and she experienced a tangible connection to me. No matter what Thatcher says, that's undeniable. I want to connect like
that
.

“Can't I help them let go in my own way?” I ask him. “I think if I could move something or show them that I'm really here—”

“Playing with energy like that is dangerous, Callie—it can drain the Prism of its reserves.” Thatcher's voice is back to being serious, firm—I despise how quickly he can put up a wall. “We are not supposed to connect to Earth in that way—we're souls now, not humans.”

Internally, I roll my eyes at what we're “not supposed” to do. Externally, I stay quiet and turn to the window to watch the houses in my neighborhood pass by. When we pull up in Carson's driveway, I look down the street at my own house. The light in my father's study is on.

My heart sinks as I stare at Dad's window. How many nights did he stay up late working while I texted with Carson or went online to plan my next stunt: bungee jumping, river rafting, finding the tallest, fastest roller coaster? Why did I never knock on my father's door to say good night? Or snuggle against him while he watched a military documentary, or tell him I loved him?

I sigh. When I was alive, I was so busy chasing a rush that I didn't let myself experience the parts of life that I miss the most now. Since I died, I haven't once wished I could get back into a car and speed down the docks. But I'd give anything to hug my father again.

As I watch Dad's shadow move across the drawn curtains, I promise myself that I'll show him I'm here—I'll prove it to even his scientific mind. I may have died, but I'm not gone, so I have no intention of “letting go.” Not if it means never telling the people I love what they truly mean to me.

It's clear after tonight that Thatcher isn't going to help me to connect that way. And now someone else's words echo back to me: “When you get bored of his restrictions, come find me.”

Nine

WHEN THATCHER LEAVES ME
in my prism and orders me to “rest,” I try to figure out how I can find Reena.

I could go back to Middleton Place, but I have no idea how to return to Earth, so I close my eyes and call out to Reena in my mind. Carson was big on telepathy, meaning she was always trying to get me to guess what number she was thinking of. It worked, like, twice, and she was convinced we were cosmically in sync. I laughed it off—especially since I guessed the number wrong ninety percent of the time.

The thing is, since I died, nothing seems impossible. Who knows? Maybe I can summon Reena. It's worth a shot.

I spend ten minutes sitting cross-legged on my bed with my fingers in little “okay symbols” like I've seen people do in yoga class. I half expect Reena to pop into my room out of thin air.

But . . . nothing.

Finally losing interest, I flop backward and stare at the ceiling. I want to call up a memory, let my mind go to Nick, but Thatcher intrudes. Solus means so much to him, and yet it's denied to him—all because someone wouldn't let him go. But is that really a failure on his part? I think it could be something positive. . . . Someone loved him so much that they didn't want to give him up. Don't we all want that kind of lasting commitment?

Still, it hurts Thatcher to be trapped here.

And I wonder about the love he lost after he died. Was it someone he was guiding? Did he fall for her, then have to watch her move on to Solus while he stayed behind? Is that why he keeps his distance? To make sure he never goes through that anguish again?

A rap on my door stops my careening thoughts.

Ghosts knock?

“Callie?”

It's a girl's voice, muted by the barrier between us. I open the door, and there is Reena, her dark hair swirling around her face like she's in a shampoo commercial for extra shine. Her eyes still have a fire in them, though they look less wild and more like a soft shade of brown now that I see them up close.

“Reena.” My melancholy is replaced with the excitement of maybe having summoned her. “Did I, um . . . call you here?” I ask, sounding stupid even to myself.

She laughs. “No. That's not a power we have. I came to find you. I wanted to talk.”

“Oh, okay.” I'm disappointed to discover that I don't have magical psychic powers. So far, death isn't impressing me with the benefits it provides.

“Why? Were you looking for me?” she asks.

I feel like an absolute idiot. “Sort of. I mean, I was hoping I'd see you again.”

“Good,” she says. “Listen, I'm sorry if I came off as rude before. Leo's one of my best friends, and he and Thatcher don't get along that well, so I'm a peacekeeper.”

I grin at her. “You must be busy with that.”

“I don't mind. Keeps me out of trouble, most of the time.”

I like her loyalty, and I feel a connection to her—sometimes only a girl can understand another girl. Right now, I really need someone who understands me.

“Do you want to come in?” I ask, my curiosity about Reena overriding Thatcher's edict that I not invite anyone in. After all, he was here. It can't be that bad to share your space. “I'm supposed to be ‘resting,' but I don't think I know how to do that yet.”

“Sure.” Reena bounds into the room. And even though she's probably, like, five feet, two inches, she fills the space with her presence, just like Carson does. Did. Does.
How am I supposed to think of my best friend now?

“Resting is overrated,” says Reena, looking around the room. She seems to light up slowly, like when you push the Brightness button on your computer screen. She smiles at me, and the word
megawatt
comes to mind. Throwing her arms up and her head back, she spins around. “Great energy! Your prism is so much like real life.”

“It's my old room. I mean, almost.”

“Wow.” Reena points to the cluster of framed photos on the desk. “You have so many pictures.”

“Carson and Nick,” I say, watching her gaze land on a shot of the three of us at the state fair last year. “My best friend and my boyfriend. I guess whatever subconscious or soul thing conjures this room thought I needed them.”

“Tell me about
her
,” says Reena, pulling her hair up into a ponytail as she points at a photo of Carson.

“What do you want to know?” I ask.

“Everything. She's your best friend?”

“Since forever.” I'm grateful that someone wants to listen to me. I close my eyes so I can hear Carson. “She laughs all the time.” I can't help but smile at the memory. “Sometimes in short little bursts that she tries to catch with her hand, like if we're in class or church or somewhere she can't let it out, and sometimes in big, long hoots where she has to gasp for air. But she never fake-laughs—it's always this genuine joy that just comes out of her, almost like she can't control it.”

I open my eyes to find Reena studying me intently, as though I intrigue her. “She sounds awesome,” she says. “What else do you remember?”

“Well . . . Carson's nice to everybody—even people who are completely annoying—because she really does believe in that old saying about catching more flies with honey. We're different that way; she just has this positive energy.

“And speaking of energy, she's really in tune with ghosts and paranormal stuff. She's had a Ouija board since we were eight years old, and she's even tried to get me to do séances and stuff like that.”

“Fascinating,” says Reena, and she doesn't sound sarcastic—she's really interested. “Your memories are so detailed, so sharp.”

“I know,” I say. “Thatcher says most ghosts forget things when they get here.”

“Not me,” says Reena. “I remember everything, too, just like you. I was a cheerleader, if you can believe that.”

I grin at her. “Yeah, you struck me as the cheerleader type.”

“Do not stereotype. We were good!” She flops down onto my bed. “Our squad was really athletic—we did lots of tumbling and all that stuff.”

“Cool,” I say, glad to be hearing about a life instead of a death.

“I was top of the pyramid,” says Reena, holding her arms out straight and making cheerleader fists. “And I only fell once!”

I look at her curiously, wondering . . .

“Oh, no!” she says. “That's not how I died.” She gives me that megawatt smile again, and I laugh.

“Phew,” I say, although I'm not sure why I'm relieved. She
did
die, after all.

She pops up from the bed and circles around the room again. “This is really cool. Usually it's just family around these parts, if there's anything personal at all. There has to be a lot of love for a friend to make it into someone's prism.”

“Carson and Nick are my family.” I realize that I probably should have said “were,” but I just can't. “Them and my dad.”

“So they're the ones you have to haunt,” she says, sitting on the window seat and letting her feet dangle over the edge.

“Yeah, I haven't really gotten to do much besides watch them yet, but Thatcher says just being with them is part of it?”

My voice goes up into a question because I wonder how Reena feels about this—if she really thinks that haunting shouldn't involve actually proving that we're there.

“Thatcher.” Reena looks up at my ceiling where the glow-in-the-dark stars that are in my real room are also placed. “How do you like him so far?”

“He's . . .” I wonder how much to tell her, and how much she knows. I want to say that he's mysterious, he's hurting, he's hiding something. But I can't help but feel that revealing any of that would be a betrayal of him. “He's a little evasive about my questions.”

“Does he say things like ‘There's an order to things
'
and ‘You have to be patient'?” she asks, her intonation dropping to imitate Thatcher perfectly.

“Yes!” I sit down on the bed and draw my legs up beneath me. “So far it's all about
being with
everyone, but not really interacting.”

“He hasn't let you make any real connections yet?” she asks.

I shake my head no
.
“Leo was there the other night—he did something amazing with the radio, but Thatcher told me that wasn't what we're supposed to do.” I feel a twinge of guilt for being so dismissive of Thatcher. I know he's trying to help, but his process just isn't working for me. It's boring and slow.

“Shocker,” Reena says, stretching out on the window seat and leaning against the wall. Her muscular legs stretch out all the way, but they don't reach the end of the seat—she's petite like Carson. “He's totally no fun. You want to be able to show your friends you're there, right?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, I mean, let's get some candles floating around the room!”

I stare at her.

“I'm joking,” she says, breaking into a laugh. “But seriously, the letting-them-know-you're-there thing? I can help with that.”

“That'd be great.” I smile at her. It's nice to have Reena here. She's funny and straightforward and willing to help. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she says.

“When you hang out with your family now, is it really hard?”

Her smile doesn't fade. “I'm done with my haunting.” Then she turns away from me and looks out the window into the gray mist.

I stare at the back of her neck. I shouldn't be able to see anything, but there's a quarter-sized black spot with jagged edges. Her green moon is gone, like Leo's was—it's just a dark, messy circle.

“So everyone in your family has moved on from your death?” I ask, eager to find out more. “But you haven't merged with Solus. . . .”

Reena smiles at me. “You're piecing it all together even though Thatcher hasn't told you anything. I like that. You're smart.”

“Thanks.”

“And you're right,” she says. “I haven't merged. I never will, actually. I can stay in the Prism, and on Earth, forever.”

Forever
. I remember her saying there were ways to have more time on Earth. But forever? “How?”

Reena's smile fades. “It's complicated. But it's not impossible. And whatever you do, don't talk to Thatcher about it. He's all about merging—
graduating
to Solus. Shouldn't death free us from having to do things we don't want to do?”

When I search her face, I can tell that she's conflicted. She's pretending to be happy, but I saw it—I saw the sadness.

Reena brightens again quickly. “It's wonderful to be able to see the people you love living their lives—now I never have to leave them.”

I look over at my photographs and wonder if they're all I have left of the people I love now. Just images, observations, never a real connection. Even if I help them heal, they'll never really know I was there. They'll just move on . . . without me. I feel a tear trickle down my cheek and I avert my face, wiping it away so Reena won't see.

But she's staring at me intently.

“Do you like the water?” she asks, and I'm grateful that she's not calling attention to my emotional moment.

“Of course,” I say.

Reena grins. “Wanna take a walk?”

I glance at the door, hesitating for just a second. Then I say, “Let's go.”

 

Reena creates a portal and we step out into a beach scene—with waves and sailboats and seagulls. The sun is low in the sky, casting an orange-pink glow as it sets, and the sand at my feet is soft and loose, with dozens of footprints. A small dock is about thirty feet out, and two kids are doing fancy jumps and dives off the edge. I spot the remnants of a sand castle at the water's edge.

“Are we at—”

“Folly Beach,” says Reena, finishing my sentence.

“Nice.”

The flat white sand stretches for a few miles, and the pier is in the distance. Walking by, a man with the green moon tattoo—in a near-full phase—nods his head at us. He's strolling next to a woman without the mark, without the glow, and she almost disappears beside the radiance of his glistening figure. I can tell that he's older by his salt-and-pepper hair, but his face is fresh and dewy, shining like that of a guy in a shaving ad after he splashes water on his face. Then a girl on my left catches my eye—she's stretched out in the sand, almost like she's taking in the sun. She has a drizzle of freckles on her creamy skin, visible through her cloaklike shimmer, and it looks like her red hair has a neon light underneath it. Sitting up, she watches as the guy who was next to her stands and walks into the water—he's got a great body and a cute face, but there's no light around him.
He's alive
, I think. The girl looks up at us, though, and her green eyes are calm and serene, like she's in a trance.

As Reena and I stroll, a sense of serenity begins to steal over me, and I start to relax. The gurgle of the water lapping softly on the sand, the happy shrieks of kids as they jump off the dock, the soft strains of music from car stereos in the parking lot behind us—it all feels so . . . normal.

“Did you come here a lot when you were alive?” I ask, and I realize I'm getting used to saying things like that.

“Yeah.” Reena stares into the fading sun. “There are always good bonfires—”

“At the pit by the east entrance,” I interrupt.

“Right!” she says, laughing.

“I forgot you were a local.”

She nods. “All the ghosts you see are—or at least they died around Charleston. The Prism is divided up by location of death.”

“Oh,” I say, thinking about the stretch of highway where I met my fate.

“For me it was the upper Wando River,” she says.