Ashes to Ashes (21 page)

He peers over at me to see if I get his meaning—that he, Leo, and Reena were all friends back then—and I nod my understanding, encouraging him to go on.

“We'd had a lot to drink. Just beers, but a lot. In the rowboat, Leo and I were standing up and being stupid. It had just rained for three days straight and the river was higher than usual, rougher. We shouldn't have been out on the water.”

Thatcher runs his hands through his hair and then clasps them in front of his face.

“The boat tipped over in the dead center of the river,” he says softly, his voice muffled. “Any other night, we could have swum to shore, no problem. But that night, we couldn't. We didn't.”

My chest tightens. “You all drowned?”

He nods.

“Oh my God. Thatcher, I'm so sorry.”

“Hayley, somehow, hung on to the boat, yelling for help. But by the time anyone got out to us, she was the only one still at the surface. I don't even remember sinking down under the water.”

“The three of you died together?”

“Yes.”

Staring out at the ocean, I imagine the river—the way it gets so dark at night, almost black. What is it like to have that water pull you down, take away the air, fill your lungs?

“Thatcher, I had no idea—that's terrible.”

“It was a long time ago,” he says, brushing off my sympathetic tone. “The hardest part happened later. In the Prism.”

“Were you and Reena still together?” I ask awkwardly, wondering if that's even a possibility for ghosts . . . being together.

“Yes. When we first got to the Prism, it didn't feel sad, exactly. It felt more like a new adventure. The three of us came together, so we had more of a sense of memory than the ghosts who come alone, but the memories weren't sad; they were just . . .
there
.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“At first Reena was calm. Peaceful even. Her prism was this tranquil park—one that came from her imagination, I guess. We used to take walks and talk about our haunting. Hers was going well; mine wasn't. I messed things up with Wendy—I couldn't reach her. I was so afraid Reena was going to merge without me. She and Leo. Then I'd be left alone.”

My heart aches for him.

“Anyway, Reena was hanging out with Leo, and they were figuring out ways to channel their energy so they could interact physically with the Living. They convinced me that I needed a different approach to connecting with Wendy.” He looked at me, his eyes solemn. “I did what you wanted to do. When I was with Wendy, I moved things. I said things to her. . . . I . . .” His voice falters and I think he might stop talking altogether, but then he steels his jaw and keeps going. “It made things so much worse. She thought she was going insane; she totally closed up. It was like she put up a wall. I couldn't reach her. I can't reach her.”

“I'm so sorry.” I don't know what else to say.

He shakes his head. “I knew I'd screwed up, big-time. I went back to the way it's supposed to be done, concentrated on the right way. Once Reena and Leo saw Wendy freak out—they thought it was fun. They wanted to mess with people they didn't even know. But I got serious about haunting, I didn't want to have anything to do with the tricks they wanted to play. It created a distance between us that only worsened.”

He grows quiet, and I know he's struggling with a bad memory. I'm afraid he'll stop now. I want to understand him as I never wanted to fully comprehend anyone—not even Nick. I want to be able to help Thatcher, but to do that I need to know everything. “How did it get worse?”

“It was Leo.” His jaw tightens. “He had so many questions, even for his Guide. We couldn't remember why we'd all come to the Prism together, and it mattered to him. He found a way to get back.”

“Back?”

“To the river,” says Thatcher. “To where we died.”

“And what happened?”

“He changed almost instantly—he was bitter, rageful.”

“And he took Reena there, too,” I guess.

“I watched as he got angrier and angrier—he remembered so much, and it hurt him. Reena tried to help him, I saw it, and then, in a moment, I saw her change, too. He'd taken her back. And from then on, they didn't want to be a part of the Prism—they called it ‘the Prison'—they wouldn't hear anything about Solus. They wanted to return to Earth—they couldn't accept that we had died so young.”

“That's understandable.” I can't help it—I feel sympathy for Reena and Leo.

“It is, in a way,” says Thatcher. “But we're meant to move on, to merge with Solus. If my sister, Wendy, could have accepted my death, I'd probably have merged myself—I want to be a part of Solus.”

“Why just probably?” I ask.

He stops walking and looks down at the frothy waves. “Reena wouldn't go . . . and I couldn't leave her,” he says softly.

“I understand,” I say. Because I do. No matter how contentious he and Reena have become, Thatcher loved her once. And I know how hard it is to let go, even when a situation is impossible.

And then, because I have to know: “Do you still love her?”

“No,” he says. Then he pauses. “At least . . . not in the way I did. She's not the girl I knew on Earth.”

“But you feel—”

“Responsible,” Thatcher says, finishing my thought. “I feel responsible for her. And Leo, too, I guess.”

I can't imagine the weight of the burden he's carrying. At least my reckless driving didn't kill anyone else. I understand him so much better now. Why he's so serious, the bad decisions he's trying to atone for, the friendships he's lost.

We stand quietly, letting the story hang in the air around us. My grandfather used to say you had to do that with the best kinds of stories, the ones that teach you something or make you think or reveal some secret about life . . . or death, I guess. You sit with them, to process.

I'm ashamed to admit, even to myself, that I'm jealous of Reena, but the bitter emotion is there nonetheless. For a while, she belonged to Thatcher. I hope she appreciated him more in life than she does in death.

When I look at Thatcher, his profile is so radiant—so
ethereal
—that I want to close my eyes for a moment and burn it into my brain.

I realize now that he understands far more that I gave him credit for. He's been through it, having to let someone he loved go. He knows the pain and the heartache, but in some ways, for him it was worse. “Thank you for sharing.”

“It's only fair,” he says. “I know your story. I know what you're going through, Callie. You just need to be patient.”

“Patience has never been my thing. I've always been about the rush. But I'm learning, Thatcher.”

We stand there on the edge of the water, just looking at each other. I want to comb my fingers through his hair. I want to bring him comfort. I want to be his solace.

He is so very alone, and when I move on—

“So did you want to go on the roller coaster?” he asks, as though he's growing uncomfortable with my scrutiny, as though he knows the paths my mind is traveling. As though he knows they can lead to no happiness.

“It wouldn't be the same,” I tell him, allowing the moment we were sharing to slip away. I don't want to make things harder for him. “I wouldn't feel the wind rushing by, tugging on my hair. Wouldn't feel the car shaking beneath me since we wouldn't actually be touching it.” Just like now, if I remove my shoes, I won't feel the sand between my toes.

“Right,” he teases. “I knew you were a carousel kind of girl.”

“No way!” I swipe at his shoulder, and his body doesn't do the repel thing. Because we're on the same plane, I can feel him as though he's solid. But the world of the Living is something we can only pass through, not truly experience. “Never been on a carousel in my life.”

“You're kidding!” He appears horrified.

“Nope. Never saw the appeal. Even as a little kid. Too boring a ride.”

“It's not boring. It's . . . peaceful.”

“I prefer the heart-pounding thrills.” I turn my attention back to the sky.
Pop! Pop! Bang!
The fireworks light up the world.

Then they go silent, and the smoke catches on a breeze and blows out toward the ocean.

“Come on,” Thatcher says, taking my hand, our fingers entwining.

“Just a little more time.”

“We're not leaving yet. Come on.” Together we walk onto the midway. We pass by cotton candy, pretzel, and funnel cake booths. I suddenly miss being hungry. Would love to experience those tastes again on my tongue.

I hear the calliope belting out the tinny music that plays at the carousel. Suddenly we're standing before it as the horses circle round and round.

“We're going for a ride,” Thatcher says, and he urges me onto the platform.

Placing his hands on my waist, capturing my gaze, he slowly lifts me onto a horse. His hold is more than a touch; it reaches beneath the surface to a deeper level. I feel a measure of regret when he releases me. Although I'm not in direct contact with the wooden horse, my body moves with the carousel, remembering what it would have done in life. Thatcher stands by me, smiling.

“Aren't you going to get on a horse?” I ask.

“No, I just want to watch you.”

I hold my arms up and release a scream like I would if I were on a roller coaster, plummeting down the tracks.

Thatcher laughs, a full, deep-throated laugh that silences me. Its richness echoes around us. I hold his gaze as we circle around. Behind him are the twinkling lights of the amusement park, the sounds of excitement, the mouthwatering smells. But they're all faint. He's the only thing that's real.

I wonder if we take our memories from the Prism into Solus. I don't want to forget him, the blond of his hair, the way it curls around his ears. I want to remember the blue of his eyes, the tiny scar on his chin. I want to treasure the way his gaze never wanders from mine, the slightly crooked smile. I don't want to lose these few precious moments of contentment that we've shared.

And he's right. The carousel is so much more than I ever expected it to be. I was so caught up in experiencing the thrills of life that I missed the small things that matter most. The carousel slows to a stop, but I don't want to leave. I just want this moment with him to go on forever.

The lights go out, plunging us into the grayness of an amusement park closing down for the night.

“We'd better go,” he says, breaking the spell that's been holding us, but I can tell that he's as sorry as I am that it's over.

Twenty

THATCHER'S GIFT TO ME
cost him. His energy is almost depleted as he leads me through a portal to my prism. But I don't feel tired—I feel full and vital.

And guilty.

What I shared with Thatcher was deeper than anything I ever shared with Nick. Nick and I had fun. We sought thrills, we laughed, we joked, we made out. I love him. I don't doubt that, but what I feel for Thatcher is a whole different level. Maybe it's the plane we're on, maybe it's because we're no longer alive so we don't have all our other senses to rely on, to give us the physical complements that I had with Nick, so we have to go deeper for a connection. I can't believe how much I care about Thatcher.

I still have feelings for Nick, but I have to let him go.

I'm incredibly aware now that bringing peace to those I love will mean leaving Thatcher. I'm filled with contradictory desires. I want to help the people who mean everything to me while finding a way not to leave Thatcher alone. Once my goal was to find a way to stay on Earth. I couldn't bear the thought of being without Nick, Carson, my father.

But I know they're suffering. I have to ease their pain. Especially Nick's.

Nick was the love of my life. Thatcher is the . . . I don't think I'm ready to admit that he's the love of my death, but he's very important to me. While I know he doesn't want me haunting by myself, the things I need to say to Nick, the way I need to connect with him in order to let him go—

I can't do that with Thatcher watching over my shoulder. I don't recall ever seeing Ella with a Guide, so once we learn how to haunt, like riding a bicycle, the training wheels must come off. And Thatcher taught me what I need to do—with my dad, he showed me how to bring the sense of peace not only to the person I love, but to myself.

I can do this. I need to do this. And I need to do it alone.

I pace the floor, concentrating on the images of Nick that now haunt me—the empty bottle, the bitterness on his face, the way he talked to Carson. I have to see him.

I won't do anything crazy, I reason. I'll just test things out a little bit, decide for myself how I can best haunt Nick. Thatcher has given me faith in the unconscious process by letting me see my father. And being with Reena and Leo and the others—well, they've shown me things, too. I know so much about how everything works now—I understand more. I can reach Nick this time, surely, one way or another.

 

When I step through my portal, I have to let my eyes adjust. It's getting dark outside, but I can hear leaves under my feet as I step along an uneven path—I seem to be in the woods. When my view sharpens, I recognize that I'm near Cotter's Pond, a little body of water in Nick's neighborhood.

I blink a few times before I see his rumpled form on the ground, leaning against a tree trunk. I move closer to him, relieved that his chest is rising and falling.

I crouch down next to him and his eyes snap open. He flips on a flashlight.

“Nick,” I whisper.

He doesn't react to my voice but he slowly stands up, stretches his arms over his head and yawns. The corner of his gray T-shirt pulls up and exposes the left side of his stomach. Before I can stop myself, I'm standing, too, reaching over to touch his waist, to skim my fingers over his skin. And I remember so well how his body felt, how soft his skin was in all the right places, the little bit of hair on his stomach, how warm his chest was against mine, that I do make a connection—I touch him.

In that moment, emotions rush at me, flooding my heart with a surge of adrenaline and wistfulness and passion. I want to linger here, to put the world on pause, to stay frozen in our skin-on-skin contact. I didn't know how delicate this type of moment was until it was gone and I had to fight so hard for each one.

And I realize that I'll never know what Thatcher's skin feels like. I'll never have with him what I had with Nick. Part of me is clinging to the past and part of me wants to consider the future.

Nick flinches, looking spooked.

Come to think of it,
spooked
is the perfect word for his expression. My heart drops—I felt everything; I felt my love for him.

And he felt afraid.

“Nick,” I whisper.

He doesn't realize that I'm here. I hear Thatcher's voice echoing in my head, telling me that touching is the wrong way to haunt, a poltergeist's mistake.

Nick brushes the dirt off his jeans and kicks a couple of beer cans at his feet.

I want to scream at him:
This is not you
.

We had an amazing kiss in these woods, when he took me for a walk one Saturday afternoon. I was the one who made it happen. He reached out for my hand to help me over a fallen branch, and I took it and pulled him close to me. His lips tasted like peppermint. I could feel his grin as we kissed in the late-afternoon sun. And when we finally parted, he said, “Thank God. I was waiting for that all day.”

I smile just remembering it, but this scene looks nothing like that one. Nick is sad and stumbling, surrounded by empty cans and the stink of a life unraveling. Because of me.

His phone buzzes and I look over his shoulder as he checks the text.

It's from Austin Getts, a guy we've never really hung out with. He's kind of a stoner. “McCann's in 30 mins,” it says.

Tim McCann throws legendary parties. The big-house-on-the-hill, teen-movie-worthy kind.

When Nick bends down to pick up his empty six-pack, I'm grateful that he's enough himself not to leave trash in the woods. But I'm still worried as he begins to head back to his car. And I'm determined not to leave his side tonight, not until I bring him peace. Until I let him go.

As Nick gets into his Camry, I pass through the door and slide into the passenger seat. “Nick, call someone to come get you. You've had too much to drink.”

He looks in my direction, and for a split second, I think maybe he's heard me. But then he reaches through me toward the glove compartment. Energy ripples between us, like when you're in a pool and someone swims by you and stirs up the water, but Nick doesn't notice my presence. He grabs his iPod plug-in and sets it up, choosing Neutral Milk Hotel. Then we back up out of the driveway.

“Nick, please.” To my surprise, he's driving straight, so maybe he hasn't had that much to drink. Still, he shouldn't be on the road. Maybe if I can reach him, he'll pull over.

“Since when do you meet Austin Getts at a party?” I ask.

No answer.

“You look good,” I say. “Your hair's getting longer.”

His eyes narrowing like he's concentrating, Nick stares straight ahead at the road.

“I thought you didn't like your hair long in the summer—last year you said it made your neck too hot.” An image flashes through my mind: I'm pushing aside the fringe of Nick's hair, when it was getting long, to kiss the back of his neck. We were down by the docks last summer, and his skin was tan from the sun—it tasted like salt water because of the breeze. The way he looked at me that day, it made me feel powerful and wanted and loved—because this was my Nick, and I knew that he felt it, too. The way we belonged together. The way we just
fit.

But we don't fit anymore. I think of Thatcher. I have memories of him now. Not as many, but they're still strong and vivid. I'm trapped between two worlds.

Tears start to sting the corners of my eyes.
I have to let this one go. I have to let Nick go.

I stare at the dashboard for a minute while “In the Aeroplane over the Sea” plays. I think about the texts that I saw in Nick's room, and I wonder again what they meant. What secrets did Nick have from me?

That doesn't matter now,
I tell myself. I have to pull it together and make this haunting work.

Some part of me wants to ignore the fact that I'm the dead girl in the front seat; I want to believe that I'm sitting here with my boyfriend on the way to a party. But he's not acting like my Nick at all. I study his face, trying to see what's changed. His eyes are more sunken and his skin is sallow. He's grieving, I remind myself, but it's more than that.

It's so quiet in the car, the silence thick and heavy. Nick reaches into the center console and pulls out a small bottle of Jameson, like those little ones on planes. At the stop sign near Tim's neighborhood, he unscrews the tiny cap and drinks it down in two gulps.

“What's happening to you?” I ask him, my voice quiet.

His eyes are glassy, and if I thought there was a chance he'd realize I'm here, it's wiped away now. He's not in tune with anything around him, let alone the ghost of his dead girlfriend in the passenger seat.

When we pull into the giant circular driveway, I see that there are already dozens of cars parked haphazardly on the sprawling lawn.

I follow Nick to the front door and enter my first postmortem social gathering.

 

The grand, sweeping staircase is already littered with teetering underclassmen who sit along its steps, stare out into the grand foyer, and watch the jocks funnel beer over the marble floor.

“I'm open!” shouts Nick as he walks into the fray and grabs the funnel-and-tube contraption from a wobbly Rich Langley.

And then sweet, not-a-big-drinker Nick holds the tube above his mouth and funnels the can of beer that the soccer boys pour into his throat without spilling a drop.

“Yeah, Fisher!” they shout, clapping him on the back.

Who is Nick becoming?

Shaking my head, I follow him into the kitchen. This is the kind of party where Carson and I definitely would have made an appearance, if only to gossip about people later. The short skirts and the long, blown-out hair all swirl together as I move through the house. I hear Leila Donninger fake-laughing at Mike Rutiglia's bad joke, and the shrill sound hurts my ears. Faces rush past me with caked-on sparkle, making pink cheeks shine with cheer even as black-rimmed eyes betray darker emotions.

Most people seem to avoid the spot where I'm standing, maybe by instinct or some unseen energy that I'm holding here, but others stumble right through me. When they do, I feel a slight tingle, soft and barely perceptible. I know the Living feel nothing—they don't pause or even change expression—and I'm aware again of my complete invisibility, my nothingness to them.

Danny Boyster pushes by Gina O'Neill, and I watch her face fall as he sidles up to Morgan Jackson, who's wearing a pink halter top with a low, sequined neckline that shows off her huge chest. The halter top is tucked into a tiny white skirt that would prompt Carson to say, “Pull that down before someone sees Christmas!” because it comes just under the curve of her behind. She grins and brushes against Danny while Gina turns away and flashes a bright smile in the other direction—but her watery eyes tell another story. I hear her whisper, “Morgan is such a slut,” to Molly Raider, but the pain of rejection in her voice is obvious.

Everyone seems nervous, on edge, somehow more desperate than I remember. I wonder if that's because I'm watching them from the outside.
Did I use to be like this?
It all looks like such a waste of energy to me now.

I realize that getting caught up in Gina's drama made me lose track of Nick, and I do a quick walk-through of the living room again before I wander upstairs to try to find him. In the second-floor hallway there's a line for the bathroom because Tim is stingy about that—he lets partygoers use only one bathroom, even though the house has, like, six.

I pass through a door into an empty room with a four-poster bed and ivory crown molding. I imagine it's called “The Peach Room” because all the walls have a pink-orange glow.

Then I hear the toilet flush and a door open, and I realize that there's a connecting bathroom here and someone's been smart enough to find it.

I peek around the corner and watch as my best friend leans toward the mirror and reapplies her favorite lipstick—Chanel's Muse—with a deft hand.

“Carson.”

Her glossy brown hair is pulled back into a purposefully messy updo and lined with fish-tail braids. She's wearing a strapless seersucker dress and white sling-back Tory Burch sandals—her tan shoulders and browned legs seem to glow against the pale colors of her outfit. She looks so pretty.

Smiling at her reflection, she blots her lips with toilet paper. Jessica Furlow is in here, too—she and Carson go to youth group together.

“Thanks for making me get out of my house,” says Carson.

“It's good for you,” Jessica says, and I feel a pang of regret that I'm the reason Carson isn't living her normal life. I have to admit that there's also a pinch of jealousy—Jessica can help her move on from losing me.

“
This
is good for you, too.” Jessica smiles as she hands Carson a bottle of Miller High Life, and my best friend hesitates for just a second before she throws her head back and takes a swig. She coughs a little and says, “I don't even like it much.”

I smile.
So
Carson.

“You'll get used to it,” says Jessica, which kind of annoys me. But I'm not here to begrudge Carson a drink after she's lost her best friend—me.

I follow them out into the peach room, and then back to the main throng of the party. Jessica stops to talk to someone, but Carson walks gracefully down the stairs, around the girls who line the steps. She smiles at their compliments on her ensemble with signature sweetness. “Aw, y'all are so nice!
Thank yooou!
” I can tell by her tone that she's a teensy bit drunk. The swig she took upstairs was apparently not her first.

When Carson wanders into the kitchen, she takes in the scene without breaking her stride. There's a tray of Jell-O shots, and Austin Getts is mixing brownie batter with some of his friends. They're laughing hysterically, and I know that if I were alive, I'd be able to smell the pot that they mixed into the batter.