Ashes to Ashes (14 page)

Lifting my gaze to his, I'm struck by the raw emotions swirling in the depths of his blue eyes: pain, turmoil, sadness.

“You're not an echo either,” I assure him.

“I wish I were.”

“No,” I say, my voice so low it's almost a whisper. “Don't wish for that.”

Instinctively, because I can't help myself, I reach for his face. When my fingers graze his jaw, a charged current runs through my hand and into my stomach, and from there it blossoms out into my fingers and toes, making me tremble and buzz. I move his head to the side and look at his green moon tattoo.

“It's almost full,” I say.

“It's frozen. The moon cycles build to become full at a merging, but mine will stay that way until Wendy accepts my death.”

“And when that happens, you'll be gone?” I ask, suddenly not wanting to lose him, now that we're becoming closer.

“
If
that happens,” he says. “Then I'll go, yes.”

I move my hand away from his face and drop it back to my side, but Thatcher catches my fingers in midair and the pleasure washes through me in rolling waves, like the ocean constantly lapping at the shore. I'm beginning to understand why touch is discouraged. It's so much more than physical. It's like completion.

“It's been years,” he says, still holding on to me. “I've said good-bye to lots of ghosts—it's been cathartic to help them. But with you . . .”

When he pauses, our faces are just inches apart. If we were alive, I'd be able to feel his breath on my cheeks. As it is, my heart speeds up at his nearness—and although I know it must be a phantom feeling, it doesn't seem like the memory of my heart in this moment—it feels like it's really there, beating bloody red liquid life through my body. I feel drawn to Thatcher, like there's a magnet between us, an energy field that needs to connect—mine with his.

Suddenly a Frisbee flies past us, through us, and a dog races after it, deftly dodging the area where we stand even though I know it can't see us.

The action interrupts the pull I felt, and one face flashes through my mind:
Nick.

I stumble backward. “I'm sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “Can we just go back? I want to go back now.”

Thatcher's face hardens as he steps away from me. “Of course.”

He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders, and I can tell he's closing up to me again, like a shop putting down its blinds and locking the door.

Twelve

I'M STILL A LITTLE DAZED
when Thatcher delivers me to my prism. When he orders me not to let anyone in, I promise I won't. I don't want him hanging around any longer than necessary.

I lie on my bed and stare at my ceiling. If it were dark in here, would I see the glow of the stars on my ceiling in my real room? It's a silly thing to focus on, but I'm trying really hard not to think about how close I came to kissing Thatcher, to just rising up on my toes and pressing my mouth to his. What does an after-death kiss feel like?

I love Nick, so what is this attraction that's drawing me to Thatcher? Is it because he's my all-knowing, all-powerful Guide? No, it's deeper than that. It's this connection, this loneliness in his soul that I want to befriend, this ache in mine that he soothes. It's this satisfaction that I feel when I calm the storm in his eyes. It's the strength in him tempered with compassion.

I can't imagine the sadness that would engulf me if he left the Prism before I did. What must it be like for him, knowing that each bit of progress I make is carrying me away from him? He said he's had lots of good-byes but I'm different. Will he grieve when I go? Will I miss him the way that I miss Nick?

It seems inconceivable, and my yearning to be with Nick suddenly overwhelms me. I miss him so much, but it's the Nick before I died who I long for. The Nick I've seen lately scares me—and saddens me. It's like he's pushing me away, pushing me toward Thatcher, even though he doesn't know Thatcher exists.

All these thoughts cause guilt to ratchet through me. I'm being unfair to Nick. He's grieving. I need to see him—alone. Those texts, the empty bottle . . . I'm worried about the downward spiral he's in. Something's not right. I know he believes it's his fault that I died, but I sense that something more is eating at him. I'm not sure that I want Thatcher to be around when I find out what it is.

I wonder if I can gather my thought energy to create a portal that will lead me to Nick, like Reena said it would. I close my eyes, ready to try to do this. And I fill myself with glimpses of my boyfriend.
Dark curls I can run my fingers through, a smile that makes my heart jump even from across the halls at school, the softest cheek with a bristle of stubble, brown eyes that light up when I walk into the room, the smell of Old Spice and peppermint Tic Tacs, curious lips that open with mine when we kiss . . .

When I hold out my hand to trace the portal, it almost feels involuntary, like someone else is doing it for me. A doorway framed by glowing flecks of light appears. And before I can second-guess myself, I walk through.

I step out into the middle of East Bay Street, Charleston's Rainbow Row. The houses are painted all different pastels—pink, yellow, blue—and window boxes are filled with flowers. A slew of tourists are taking pictures. The colors are almost blinding in the bright sun, and I see a couple of ghosts milling around on the street, too—strolling slowly beside the Living with serene faces that are lit up with the Prism's glow.

At first I think my portal must not have worked—I meant to find Nick, not go sightseeing. But then I spot him sitting alone on a bench, and my heart leaps. Reena was telling me the truth. I
can
control where I go.

Nick is sitting across from the pink house, my favorite. I used to stare up into the five second-floor windows of this one every time I walked by after Mama died, wondering who was inside and what their lives were like. It seemed like a magical place where no one would ever let a mother go away.

When I felt close enough to Nick to share memories of Mama, I brought him here, too. Once I started telling him about her—the way she brushed her hair before bed, the way she dabbed on perfume in succession: neck, wrists, backs of knees—it was like a floodgate had opened and I couldn't stop telling him the tiniest details, like I was desperate for someone else to know these things about her. My memories had been bottled up for so long because Dad didn't want to discuss her, but Nick always listened and said just the right things to make me smile again. When I see his expression now—forlorn and empty—I want him to know that I'm still beside him.

His eyes are closed as he turns his face up to the blazing midday sun, and he's got his headphones on. I glance at the screen of his iPhone—Bon Iver. He's in full wallow mode. I notice that his right hand is closed around something, and I guess that it's the amber pendant he took from my room—his piece of me. I sit down next to him, wondering if I can make a connection on my own. I'm not going to do anything crazy, like try to make a magnolia blossom float in front of Nick's face or anything. But I'm also not going to just sit on this bench next to him sharing energy. I want him to really know I'm here.

I start to rub my hands together, trying to pool some of my energy. My palms warm, and then I separate them and hold them slightly apart. I can still feel the heat emanating from them. Then I pause and wait for a moment before I reach up to lightly touch the edge of Nick's earbud. I want him to unplug so that all of his senses will be open to knowing I'm here.

My hand moves closer, closer . . . but before my finger grazes him, Nick opens his eyes and pulls out the earbud closest to me. He looks down at his iPod and stops the music.

He's aware of my presence.

“Nick,” I say softly.

He looks around, looking right through me, and even though he doesn't see me, I can tell that he senses something.

He takes out the other earbud and slowly puts his left hand—the one in between us—onto the bench. His palm opens slightly.

An invitation.

I rub my hands together again, wanting to gather more energy and make sure this connection works. When I feel a tingle, I gently reach my hand down and place it over his, lacing our fingers together—the way we always held hands.

His fingers curl up automatically, weaving through mine. And I can feel it. I think I can feel his touch.
Can he feel mine?

He's staring straight ahead, his eyes wide open like he can't quite believe what's happening—his hand is holding mine. I want to lean into him, but I'm afraid. I think of the mark I left on Carson—if I get too excited or eager, could my energy hurt Nick, too?

So I sit there, still, trying to be content with this light touch. A thousand thoughts rush at me—
I will never hold Nick again, This is one of the last touches we'll ever share, Does he know that this is me trying to help him say good-bye?—
but I bat them all away, worried that if I let my emotions take over, I'll lose this moment.

Then I hear Nick whispering softly to himself. And I realize that he's whispering to me.

“I'm so sorry, Callie,” he says, his lower lip starting to tremble. He opens his right hand a little and I see the amber heart there. He fingers it gently as he speaks. “Your father blames me; everyone does. I do. It was my fault. I tried to tell you; I was going to . . .” His voice falters then, but I want to hear what he has to say. Still, I fight not to panic; I focus on staying calm. I'm holding his hand—maybe there's a way to connect physically
and
bring some peace to the Living. Maybe Thatcher doesn't know that the haunting methods can coexist.
The connection is working
.

Then Nick looks down at our hands, and I wonder what he feels. His fingers are curled around mine—but what does it look like if he can't see me?

A rueful chuckle escapes his lips, and the noise doesn't sound like his laugh. It sounds bitter, hard. He picks up his hand and it passes right through mine. He shakes it like he's flinging off soreness or brushing away a bad thought.

“I must be crazy,” he says under his breath, shoving the amber heart back into his pocket with a disgusted sigh.

No!
I want to scream and flail and cry out.
I'm here!
I will him to look at me, to see me, but he's leaning away from me now, an angry frown on his face.

His phone rings—
Carson
. He hits the Ignore button.

“Nick, please,” I say.

My throat clenches as I watch Nick open his backpack and pull out a half-empty bottle of Jameson. He unscrews the top and takes a long pull. Then he wipes his sleeve over his mouth and puts the bottle back in his bag, zipping it shut.

This isn't you
.

I shut my eyes tight, not wanting to see what's happening. Did my touch make it worse? When I look up again, Nick stands and walks away from the bench—away from me—without glancing back.

Why would he? His girlfriend's not here. I'm just a ghost who made him think he's gone mad.

As he climbs into his car, I realize that his grief isn't just paralyzing him—it's
dangerous
. Doesn't he remember how much he has to live for?

He pulls out from the curb and I watch him drive away. I couldn't stop him if I tried—I'm helpless. I slump onto the bench, unsure of myself. What have I learned to do? Sit peacefully, blow out a lit stick, trick my boyfriend into holding a hand that isn't there?

Tears well up. I've made things worse. I'm going to be like Thatcher. A failure. Those I love are never going to move on. I'm causing Carson and Nick more pain each time I see them. What will I do to my father? I'm afraid to face him.

Suddenly a buzz electrifies my shoulder, and a wave of sensation like being yanked beneath an ocean swell and losing my balance washes through me.

Bolting off the bench, fighting off a spurt of dizziness, I spin around.

I'm not alone.

I shiver as Leo grins at me, his eyes glowing.

Thirteen

I BACK UP A STEP.
“You're not supposed to touch me without permission.”

He holds up his palms in a surrender gesture. “Sorry. I just needed a little energy boost.”

Maybe I didn't repel him because all my defenses were down, or maybe it has something to do with the black mark on his neck. I get the sense that not all the rules of the Prism apply to him. “Are you stalking me?” He was at the graveyard and in Carson's car. Now here.

“You're paranoid.”

“Doesn't mean I'm not right.”

Shrugging, he sits on the bench, stretches his arms along the back and his long legs in front of him. “I'm waiting for someone.”

Is it just coincidence that he's waiting where I happen to be?

“Where's Thatcher?” he asks.

Guilt swamps me, along with a sense of disloyalty.

Leo chuckles. “He doesn't know about your little private excursions, does he? He will not be happy.”

Don't I know that.

“I have to go.” But I'm suddenly self-conscious about him watching me create a portal.

“What's the rush? You should stay. It's always more exciting when Thatcher isn't around. He is such a total downer since he died.”

I'm taken aback. “You knew him when he was alive?”

“Oh, yeah.” He interlaces his fingers together, makes a double fist. “We were close.”

Before I can ask him what happened, Reena appears down the street. When I turn toward her, she waves. “Hey!”

Behind her are Delia and Norris.

“About time,” Leo says, shoving himself off the bench.

“Sorry. We got caught up in something.” She smiles at me. “So glad you're here, Callie. You can hang with us.”

“I don't know. I've been gone for a while.”

“Are you feeling tired?”

“No, but—”

“Then play with us.”

A thousand alarm bells go off in my head. I know Thatcher wouldn't like this, but my curiosity has always overwhelmed my caution. Besides, I know these ghosts.

“I guess I could stay a little while longer.” Not to mention I welcome a distraction from my inability to make any progress with Nick. Maybe hanging around with Reena will teach me something that will help.

“Great. So what's up?” Reena asks, smiling fully now.

So many things
.

“Not much,” I say. “Still dead.”

Norris and Delia laugh enthusiastically. “I like you, Callie,” says Delia. “Just being around you, I feel amazing.”

“Callie's found what Ponce de León never could,” says Norris, and I'm not sure what he means, but he's smiling, so it must be good.

“How are things going with your haunting?” prods Reena.

Her face is cheerful, curious. The warm glow in her eyes says that I can trust her, that I can talk to her.

“I don't know,” I say. “I mean, I'm trying. I just feel kind of . . .”

“Down?” asks Reena.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

She reaches into her pocket for a hair tie and pulls her long black locks into a quick ponytail.

“Why don't we all go have a little fun?” she suggests. “I can show you how to interact a little more. You want to connect with those you love, don't you?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Thatcher has her brainwashed,” Leo sneers.

“No, he doesn't,” I say in my—and his—defense.

“But he's trying to convince you to stick with the whole soul-touching thing, right?” He leans toward me. “Who are you gonna believe? Those who completed their hauntings? Or the guy who failed at his?”

Although Thatcher did fail, he must have learned something from his experience or he wouldn't be a Guide. Leo's dislike of Thatcher has me not wanting to be anywhere near Leo. I still don't trust him. “You guys go on, have fun. I really need to get back.”

Reena steps nearer to me. “Look, Callie, where's the harm in at least learning how to do it? It's like all the facts you learn for a history exam. They're not all on the test, but you're prepared if they are. Everyone's experience in the Prism is different.” She comes a little closer and lowers her voice, like we're sharing something she doesn't want the others to know. “You already know that Thatcher hasn't told you everything—like the truth about the portals. I'm just saying, knowledge is power. Be prepared. You don't have to do it if you're not comfortable with it.”

She's right. Thatcher did hold out on me. Why shouldn't I learn what I can and make my own decisions? I nod. “I guess it can't hurt.”

Leo claps his hands together, his smile big and broad. “Hell, yes. Who feels like a coffee?”

 

We step into Kudu, a café where people are always hanging out, sitting around and drinking coffee. Some are students, others are townies, but it's kind of a scene. When we arrive, Leo laughs and says, “Laptop city.”

“Who first?” asks Reena with a gleam in her eye.

Norris points at a redheaded girl in the corner who quickly types like her thoughts can't keep up with her fingers. We follow as Reena strolls over to the table and stands behind the typing girl.

Reena touches my forearm and a buzz jolts me, tingling its way through me, like ice cracking in the center of a frozen lake sending out jagged fissures toward shore. Cold and sharp. She stares me right in the eye, almost challenging me not to pull back. “To connect, you just have to heighten your energy,” she explains. “That won't be a problem for you.”

For a tense moment, I could swear I hear a spark of envy in her voice. I almost point out that it's rude to take energy without asking—wondering if they invited me along because of what I have instead of what I am. Like the girl at school who's suddenly popular because she got a sports car over the summer. I shake it off. I have energy to spare and they need it. So what? “How does this work?” I ask.

“You remember the feeling of whatever you're going to interact with,” Reena explains, “so right now, I'm thinking about the light weight of laptop keys under my fingers, the way my nails click a little bit on their surfaces . . .”

She closes her eyes, puts her arms on either side of the girl, and rests her fingers on the keys. The girl is typing out what looks to be a painful history paper, but suddenly the document has a mind of its own—or Reena's own, I guess. Right in the middle of the page, new words emerge:

 

I'M WATCHING YOU, RED.

 

The girl's mouth falls open as she looks nervously around the coffee shop, like someone could have broken into her document virtually and done this.

Leo and Norris crack up at her bewildered gaze. It
is
pretty funny. I would be so freaked out. She erases Reena's typing, then takes a deep breath and starts working again.

“Not a big enough reaction,” says Delia, throwing her golden curls over her shoulder. “Let's try something more drastic.”

“Like what?” I ask.

They all huddle around me, like we're calling secret plays on a football field. “Put your hands in the center,” says Reena. I'm wondering if we're going to do some sort of ghost fight cheer, but when I place my palm on top of the others', I feel a deep vibration, almost like we're holding on to a moving car. Tiny sparks are shooting through me, reminding me of a bug zapper that lights up every time a mosquito hits it.

I look up at Reena, and she must see the question in my eyes.

She smiles reassuringly. “We're pooling energy,” she says. “That way we can do bigger things. Try anything you want, Callie.
Anything
.”

I would expect to feel revitalized. Instead I'm beginning to sag. I must not be doing this right.

After thirty seconds or so, Leo shouts, “Break!” and our hands part. I welcome the break in contact, glad all the little zaps are no longer pinging through me. Everyone turns in a different direction, but I need a moment to regain my equilibrium, so I stand there watching while they put on a show.

Leo focuses on the iPod behind the counter, changing the music from chill indie rock to upbeat hip-hop.

As everyone in the café looks up from their laptops and conversations, Norris starts touching the strings of white lights that are hung around the café, making each of them flash in time with the music.

I laugh as the faces of the Living fill with questions. Some are smiling, some look bewildered, but everyone is exchanging glances, trying to figure out what's going on.

Delia leans over one table and blows the foam off a girl's cappuccino. As it floats into the air, her friend giggles nervously. Then Delia moves from table to table.

“Decapitate all frothy drinks!” shouts Leo.

It's like we're the guests of honor at a party, making everyone stop and stare and spin in wonder, whirling in the unknown and sharing this moment together. Suddenly my energy is boosted. I'm exhilarated, I'm energized, I'm feeling . . .
elated
.

I join in and bend down to the straw of an iced coffee at the table near me where a mom sits with her toddler. I put my lips around it and blow, making gurgling bubbles erupt in the cup. The little boy squeals with delight.

“Nice, Callie!” says Delia.

We all laugh, and I turn to see what Reena's up to. She's standing at the window looking up at the sky, not paying attention to what's going on in the café. I see the dark black mark on the back of her neck, just under her ponytail. It suddenly seems ominous, threatening.

I walk over to her to ask her about it, but before I can speak, she grabs my shoulder. A slight burning sensation where she's touching me has me gasping, and I start to pull away but she holds me fast. She's incredibly strong for such a petite girl, and the wildness in her eyes makes me wish I weren't here.

“What are you doing?” I ask her, my voice raspy and taut.

Triumph lights her eyes as she commands, “Look.”

I follow her gaze outside, where it was bright and sunny just a minute ago. Now, dark gray clouds are swirling and lightning flashes streak the sky. Abruptly, a heavy rain pounds the pavement, the sound like drumbeats in a marching band.

The Living gasp at the quick change in the weather. Chairs scrape across the floor as some get up to come to the window. They look confused, disoriented. Summer storms aren't unheard of, but this one has an almost unearthly force to it. Beyond the window, people run for cover—into stores, below awnings. For a moment, this little street in Charleston resembles the set of a disaster movie. Rivers of water flow down the sides of the street, cars stop in the middle of the road, everyone stares up at the massive web of lightning above.

Reena releases her hold on me and smiles victoriously as Norris, Delia, and Leo join us at the window.

“No way,” says Norris.

“Badass.” Leo enunciates both syllables.

Delia taps her knuckles against Reena's as though she conquered something huge.

“Did you do that?” I ask, pointing outside to the rain, which is lessening now to a slow drizzle. It doesn't seem possible. Touching the weather? As fast as it came on, the storm dries up. Cautiously, people emerge from the buildings. The sun pushes through the gray clouds, turning them back into harmless summer puffs.

“We did,” says Reena. “I told you we're more powerful together.”

“You're our lucky charm, Callie!” Leo knocks me on the arm a little too hard.

I turn back to the café. The Living are all talking excitedly about what just happened.

The barista is staring at the iPod as he switches it back to the Decemberists.

The redheaded girl is telling the guy at the table next to her about how someone hacked into her Word doc just before the storm.

A guy in the corner is pointing to his Sunday newspaper, declaring loudly that his horoscope in the
Charleston City Paper
said this day would be full of “strange occurrences.”

Sunday? I shake off the sadness that more days have gone by, and fight to stay in the moment.

Now that the sun is shining brightly again, it's difficult to believe a storm was raging only a few seconds ago. It looks like nothing happened outside. A little bead of worry nestles into my chest. People were obviously scared, but it doesn't appear anyone was hurt. Their day was interrupted. No big deal. I was having fun, too. Besides, people are slowly resuming their activities, cars are moving along. I think of the words that I always see people in movies stamp onto moments in time—We Were Here.

Reena, Leo, Norris, Delia, and I—we're all dead, but we just showed this one corner of the world that we're not gone.

Then I see Leo sneaking up on the barista, who is leaning on the counter, staring out the window. Leo's exaggerated stealth is comical. It's not needed. The guy can't see him.

When Leo is close enough, when he's nudging up against the guy, he places his arm over the barista's and slowly lowers it until it disappears.

“What's he doing?” I ask Reena.

She's watching, too. Intently. “Shadowing.”

“What's that?”

“Haven't you ever stood behind someone and tried to line your shadow up so it looks like there's only one person?”

“I guess so.”

She shrugs. “It's the same principle.”

The barista walks away, leaving Leo with his arm resting on the counter. Leo swears harshly.

“Why's he upset?” I ask.

“You want to guess their next movement, move with them. Pretend you're part of them. Shadow them—but since we're ghosts, we can shadow them closer in death than we could in life.”

“And Leo's really bad at it,” Delia says, chortling.

I don't get it. It seems boring and pointless to me, but I guess it's not like they can play video games. They have to find entertainment where they can.