Ashes to Ashes (12 page)

I smile. “That was great.”

“Aw, shucks, it was nothing.” She smiles at me.

“Eli's not going to forget it,” I say.

“Well, he deserved it. Calling Carson fat. What an ass.”

It's almost like now Reena's our friend, too. Even though Carson doesn't know her. Will never know her.
Stop thinking about sad stuff.

“So can you show me how to do that?” I ask.

“Which part?”

“All of it,” I say. “The whispering, the moving things . . .”

“Sure,” she says, her doll face growing serious. “As long as you promise to use it for good and not evil.”

“I promise,” I say earnestly.

Reena laughs. “Callie, I'm kidding. I just used my ghost powers to knock beer around. I don't care what you do with it. I mean, we're dead. We need to be able to enjoy
some
perks.”

“Like freaking out the jerks I went to school with,” I say, smiling back. “I forgot that I wasn't talking to—”

“Thatcher,”
Reena and I say at the same time, breaking up into laughter together.

“He's okay,” says Reena, slipping down onto the sand so that her back is against the log I'm on. “He's just really uptight.”

“Yeah.” I wonder if Reena sees what I see. That his controlled facade hides so much pain.

“You probably shouldn't mention that we hung out,” she says. “He wouldn't like it.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“We just see life—or I guess death—in different ways,” she says.

“How?”

“He's all right with it; I'm not.” Her face is serious now as she looks out into the darkness. The fire is dying, but the small flickers of light play on her cheeks, casting shapes under her glowing eyes.

I know that what she said isn't true. Thatcher isn't okay with death; he's tormented by having to stay in the Prism. But I'm not sure he reveals that to everyone, and I don't want to betray what I've sensed in him—the sadness he carries. “How could anyone be all right with death?” I ask.

“Right?” says Reena. “I mean, I'll admit it: I'm angry. I'm too young to be dead. And idiots like these guys . . .” She gestures toward the fire pit. “They don't appreciate what they have—they just act stupid all day.”

Her voice is hard, her smile gone. A stab of regret pierces me as I realize that I didn't do much better than the soccer guys when I was living my life. In my own way, I acted stupid all day, too—I didn't live the way I could have, if I'd only been more aware, and more grateful.

“That's why I like spending as much time as I can on Earth,” she says. Her voice is heavy with longing. “I would give anything,
do anything
, to be alive again.”

Shadows are dancing on her face, her eyes almost glowing with the desire to be alive. Her intensity sends a shiver racing through me. Then she relaxes and shrugs.

“So that's the difference between me and Thatcher,” she says.

We sit there for a while longer, listening to the water, the final crackles of the fire, the wind in the trees at the edge of the beach.

Finally, I ask her again: “Can you show me how to move things?”

“Sure,” she says, her voice quiet. “Here.” She reaches out and holds my shoulder with one hand, and it buzzes where she's touching me. Then she picks up a stick in her other hand and holds its end in the flames. When it lights, she pulls it back, close to us.

“Fire is a good thing to practice with,” she says. “Try to use your energy on this, get the flame to go out.”

I stare at the flickering light, unsure of what to do.

“You're not here in the same way that you used to exist,” says Reena, sensing my confusion. “You have to
feel
yourself blowing out the flame before you can actually do it—almost like you're imagining it happening first.”

She bends over slightly, one hand still on my shoulder. Her pink lips round into an O shape, and she closes her eyes as she blows out a steady stream of air.

The fire on the stick goes out.

“Wow. Impressive.”

“That's nothing.” She holds the stick in the burning embers again, letting it catch. Then she brings it close to us. “Now you.”

Closing my eyes, I remember birthday cake wishes—my fifth birthday in particular, when I had a Care Bears cake with trick candles that kept relighting as I tried to blow them out, which made Mama laugh and laugh. I remember Carson's last séance attempt, where the room was so filled with candles that I declared it a fire hazard and threatened to leave unless she let me extinguish all but one that we could keep our eyes on—it took me ten minutes, circling the room huffing and puffing, to get them out. I remember a night with Nick when he tried to be romantic by lighting a kiwi-scented candle that smelled more like something that had gone bad in the fridge.

And then, I blow. It doesn't quite feel like air is rushing from my mouth, more like there's a wish—a desire—that's transported through me. I open my eyes, and the fire that was on the stick is out, a thin trail of smoke coming from its tip.

“Ah!” I jump up and clap excitedly. “I did it!”

“Nice job,” says Reena. Her voice is faint, and when I glance down at her I realize that she looks
exhausted
. Like she's just run a marathon or gotten over the flu or something. Her glow is waning and her eyes are dull; even her body seems slighter.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“My energy is fading—we should go back to the Prison . . . uh, I mean the Prism. Can you create the portal? I'm tapped.”

“Oh, I haven't done that yet.”

“You haven't?”

I feel silly. “I mean, Thatcher always does it—he hasn't shown me how or anything so . . .”

Reena frowns. “You should know how to do this. Lots of new ghosts don't have the memories to be able to do this, but you do. Watch and learn.”

She closes her eyes and slowly traces a door as she talks. “I'm creating this portal by picturing where I want us to go, but not just with my eyes. I use each sense—sight, taste, touch, sound, and smell —to determine where it will lead.”

Reena pauses. “Like, remember when you were telling me all that stuff about Carson?”

I nod.

“You could use those thoughts to get to her. After you fill your mind with somewhere—or someone—you just outline the shape of the doorway with your hand, using the energy you've gathered through calling on your senses.”

“Okay, but I'm confused. When you go to Earth, doesn't the portal decide where you end up?”

“No.” Reena pauses in front of the doorway she created, which is rippling with light. “Who told you that?”

“Thatcher.”

She twists her lips. “Maybe there are places he doesn't want you to go.”

She stumbles a bit, and I grab her arm to steady her, another pulse of energy passing between us. She looks so tired that I'm afraid she might faint right here. But I need one more answer.

I frown. “Why did Thatcher tell me I don't have control over where I go?”

“So he would have it,” says Reena, her voice barely audible.

Ten

REENA AND I STEP THROUGH
the portals she's created. When I enter mine, I enter my prism room—and I'm not alone.

Thatcher's back is to me as he gazes out the window. It's weird to see him, this guy I've just met, standing in such an intimate space—my bedroom, or at least a replica of it—and waiting for me. His muscles seem tense and rigid. The soft edges of his hair are grazing his neck, and I take in the width of his broad shoulders. When he's still like this, and quiet, I can feel the power within him. The way he's standing—so protective, so watchful—almost makes me feel guilty. Almost.

And then he turns. “Why did you leave your prism?”

His eyes are flat with anger.

“I went out with a friend,” I say, defensive.

“Out with a friend? This isn't high school.” He crosses the room and stands next to me. “Didn't I tell you to stay here?”

“You did not,” I say lightly, ignoring his imposing figure and flopping down casually on the bed. “You said to rest. I feel rested. I took a walk on the beach with Reena and I feel much—”

“You were with Reena?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Thatcher leans over the bed. “Did you let her into your prism?”

“Thatcher, stop it,” I say, my eyes widening. “You're scaring me.”

“Did you?” he shouts, and the vibrations of his anger course through my skin.

“Yes,” I say, defiantly. “Yes, I let her in.”

He plows his hands through his hair. “You don't realize what you've done. Now she can come in anytime she wants.”

“Just like you. Why do you hate her so much?”

“I don't hate her, but she's a complication. Spending time with her distracts you from your purpose.”

“I only want a friend here.”

“The Prism isn't a place for friends.” I can tell by his tone that he's repeating a rule, and I'm not sure it's one he wants to follow.

“But Norris and Delia seem so nice,” I say. “And Reena is hilarious—she's fun and open and interested in my life—”

I stop talking because I see that Thatcher is glowering at me.

“What did you tell them about your life?” he asks, looking around the room like he's searching for something.

“I don't know,” I say. “Reena asked about Carson, and we went to Folly Beach. Why?”

Thatcher doesn't say anything for a minute; he just shakes his head. When he looks at me, his face is tight and controlled. “I thought I explained that your prism is sacred. I told you not to open the door.”

“But
you're
here!” I shout at him, tired of his chastising. “You came in while I was gone and you didn't even have the decency to wait outside. Is that what you mean by
sacred
?”

He bows his head, eyes to the floor. “You're right,” he says. “I shouldn't have entered without your permission. I thought we were . . .” His voice trails off again as he looks up at me. “Never mind. I'm sorry.”

But that's not what I want from him—I don't want him to apologize for feeling comfortable here.

“Thatcher, it's okay,” I say. “I don't mind if you come in; that's my point. I want us to be friends, I just—”

Thatcher shakes his head. The depth of seriousness in his blue eyes silences me.

“I'm not your friend,” he says slowly. “I'm your
Guide
. Death isn't a party, Callie.”

I sense the line he's drawing in his mind, and I don't want him to shut me out.

Without responding, I stroll over to my desk and pick up the framed photo of me and Carson. The now-familiar grief stabs me as I look at our smiling faces. “I'm so alone. Don't you understand that . . . even a little?”

Thatcher stands up and walks toward me. He stops when he's a foot away, looking over my shoulder at the picture in my hand.

“You've surrounded yourself with memories,” he says. “I know it must be very hard for you to try to let go, when they're here with you, all around you.” He takes in my room, furnished with life, and as his gaze travels over my things, he softens, moving away from the declaration he just made.

“When I tell you to rest here, it's because being in the Prism, letting its energy flow into you, should help you connect with a deeper level of your soul—a level beyond your memories of Earth.”

I put down the frame and turn toward him. “How did you get beyond your memories?”

“At first I didn't remember much,” he says. “Just little flashes of my life, like a backyard birthday party, a football game . . . but it was like I was watching someone else's home movies. I didn't connect to the memories fully until later, when it became clear that my haunting was failing.”

“And then what happened?” I ask.

He sits on my bed. “I came here with . . . friends. And they remembered some things. Together, we had a larger collective memory than most ghosts do. As the haunting dragged on, I remembered more and more. Each memory started to come with a wave of fresh pain. I knew I had died, I knew what that meant—emotionally knew it—and it was the most intense heartache I've ever felt.”

I sit beside him, leaning in as close I can without repelling him. “So you're not as immune as the other ghosts. You do know how this feels.”

“I know,” he says, his voice softer, with a ragged edge, and I can hear how desperately he wishes that he didn't know. My heart goes out to him. I want to fold my hand around his, to squeeze, to re-assure him with a tender caress. Words fail me. I can never touch him the way I'd want to, living.

“Does that help you trust me?” he asks.

“What?”

“I need you to trust me,” he says, and his eyes are sincere, wide open. “When I leave you to rest in your prism, I expect that's what you'll do. You need to connect with a deeper part of your soul—it's essential. I don't want you to have to exist as I do.”

“Gosh, Thatcher, it almost sounds like you care about me.”

“No, no, I . . . I just don't want you going off on your own or spending time with other ghosts.”

I smile at him, feeling grateful that he shared all that with me.

“So you're saying we're exclusive?” I joke.

He frowns, and I wonder if a time will ever come when he can accept my teasing. “Just . . . please,” he pleads, “do as I ask.”

“Okay.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I'll try.”

“Thank you,” says Thatcher. “So what did you and Reena . . . do?”

I shift my eyes away from him. “We walked on the beach. We talked.” I don't want to tell him about running into the soccer guys; I don't think he'd approve of that part.

“Did she say anything about me?”

“Not really.” He flinches but rights himself quickly, back to business.

“We should continue with your haunting,” he says.

“You mean with my being in the same room as living people?” I ask, half joking, half impatient.

“Remember how you just said you'd trust me?” he says. “Sharing your peaceful energy with them is a much more advanced form of haunting than throwing rocks or changing the radio station—no matter what you may have heard from Reena. Let's just see where the day takes us, okay?”

He stands up and traces a portal.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Where we're needed,” he says. And I wonder if he's controlling our destination, now that I know that it's possible.

 

When I walk through the portal, I look around, and my heart drops.
Nick's room.

I don't see him anywhere—it's dark, the shades are drawn, and a dirty laundry pile is spilling over in the corner. There's a soiled shirt on top. I want to pick it up and breathe in Nick's scent. As soon as I imagine that, I can almost feel the soft fabric clinging to his sculpted back, under my hands.

On Nick's desk there's a half-eaten bowl of Cheerios. I have to bite my lip to keep from tearing up—it's so
Nick
to eat cereal in his room. It must seem silly to Thatcher, the fact that dirty dishes make me emotional. I fight to control my reaction.

The desktop screen saver flashes photos from last year—Nick and me tandem parasailing, me and Carson with the top down on the day she got her VW Bug, Nick and me screaming at the top of our lungs as the bungee-like Sling Shot propelled us toward the fluffy clouds. It was such a rush. I peer over at Thatcher—and our gazes collide. I want to drag him over to the computer, make him watch the slide show, and ask him, “How can you expect me to give all this up without a whimper?”

Then he looks away quickly, his attention drawn to the bed.

“He's asleep,” he says.

I thought it was just a rumpled, unmade bed, but now I see that Nick
is
here. He's almost all the way under the comforter—just a tuft of brown curls is visible. My chest tightens painfully as grief wells up.

“It's good that he's asleep,” says Thatcher, looking at my boyfriend like he's studying a science experiment. “The transitional moments between sleeping and waking are more vulnerable, more open for a connection.”

“Oh, so that means—”

But Thatcher is already leaning toward Nick. Then the comforter rustles. When Nick sits up sleepily, I stagger back a step. His face is puffy, his eyes dark and drawn. He looks like he's been in a boxing ring with a prizefighter.

Every aspect of me—body, heart, soul—yearns to comfort him. I'm angry that I can't, that I have to watch him suffer like this. Being in the Prism is purgatory.

“Callie, stay calm,” says Thatcher. “He's suffered a loss. It's natural for him to lose sleep and be upset. You're going to ease that.”

I nod—this is for Nick. I would do anything to take away the pain reflected in his face.

“Did you wake him up?” I ask.

Thatcher nods.

“But you didn't touch him?”

“No—like I told you, our energy affects them. They can sense our presence on a subconscious level.”

I push my hand forward, toward Nick. I can't help myself. I want to touch him, like Reena did with Eli.

Thatcher moves to block my reach. “The internal connection is more powerful.”

“Knowing that I'm here will help him. Nick isn't Carson; he doesn't believe like she does—we should show him that I'm here first.”
I just want to be able to feel Nick's skin again
.

“What we're trying to do is more than that,” says Thatcher. “If you concentrate on being at peace, that's what you'll give to him.”

“How am I supposed to
concentrate on being at peace
?” I fling his words back to him sarcastically because they sound ridiculous to me. When I'm a jumble of conflicting emotions, how can I be at peace?

“Close your eyes, Callie.”

I huff a little bit, feeling stuck. “Fine.” I do it. I close my eyes.

“Any emotion that you feel, let it go. Anything physical that enters your mind is purely your imagination, so let it go. You are a soul; you are a life force that's evolved beyond the body, beyond your skin and hair and eyes and lips. You are smooth, strong, gentle, everlasting now.”

As he talks, his words run over my body and I can't help but feel something physical, despite him telling me to let that go. Because of his voice.
His voice
. It's like a velvet cloth draping over me and closing out the rest of the world with its soft, tender tone. He doesn't sound authoritative or impatient or frustrated. His rhythm is effortless and full of grace. I almost feel like I'm falling asleep, but I open my eyes and I'm wide-awake, here in Nick's room. The blanket of Thatcher's voice, though, makes me feel thoughtless. Not in the sense of being uncaring, but in the sense that my brain isn't moving. I'm giving in to a sensation of . . . peace?

I watch Nick scan the room. His breathing is even, his face soft. He looks serene, still. Maybe it's working. His gaze moves in my direction, unseeing, but I imagine that he feels my presence. He always used to be able to sense that I was coming: even if I was just walking behind him in the hall at school, he'd turn and meet my eyes. Or if I was about to drive up to his house, he'd be waiting in the window. I can still see the shadow of his smile the last time we—

Suddenly the tone of a text on Nick's phone sounds. To me, it feels like glass is shattering, like the fragile hold that peace had on me, on us, is broken.

Nick picks up his phone and starts texting back, and more texts come in, rapid-fire style, as he responds with fast-moving fingers.

I look at Thatcher. His eyes are still closed.

“You stopped talking,” I say.

“I never spoke.”

“I heard you—the stuff about the life force, and my body.”

Heat rushes into my cheeks.

“You were tuned in to an internal peace. I thought it, but I didn't say it out loud.” He smiles. “You're learning.” I think about when I tried to call to Reena and she came—that
must
have been more than coincidence.

“Jesus.” Nick tosses the phone to the end of his bed, annoyed. Before I think twice, I lean over and read the parts of the text conversation that I can see. The person he's talking to is just the letter
H
.

Nick: because i didn't get a chance to

H: well i guess it doesn't matter now

Nick: Just

Nick: i can't talk about this ok?

H: It's been 3 weeks

That's the end of the conversation. Three weeks. “Three weeks since what?” I wonder aloud.

“Callie, the world of the Living isn't your concern anymore,” says Thatcher. “I know your pain is hard to let go of, but didn't you feel the peace just now, the larger picture?”

I did, but hello . . . who is H? What are these texts? “Not now, Thatcher,” I say, looking back at Nick. He's leaning against his headboard, staring into space. His face is tortured.