Ashes to Ashes (3 page)

“Okay, yeah, I get that.” His willingness to always help others is only one of the many things I like about him. I tried to assist with the first house but quickly discovered that my forte is bringing food, not hammering nails. Although I am pretty talented at hitting thumbnails.

When all the food is gone, everyone starts wandering back to work. Carson sweet-talks one of the guys into carrying the baskets back to the car. I know she's giving me some time alone with Nick—not that we can be truly alone here.

“I'm glad you came by,” he said.

“Yeah, me, too. Do you have a marker?”

He pulls one from his jeans back pocket and hands it to me.

“Red. Perfect,” I say. “Is this board going into the house?”

“Yep.”

Right in the middle of it, with a flourish, I write, “Callie + Nick Forever” and the date. Then I draw a heart around it.

“You know that will get covered up with Sheetrock,” he says.

“But we'll always know it's there. I like the idea of immortalizing us.”

He puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me to the car. Once we get there, I move closer to him and run my hand down his strong back, resting it just under the bottom of his T-shirt. With my other hand, I trace his lower lip, a move he loves.

His eyes flicker with emotion, desire, I think. He wants this as much as I do. I take a deep breath. “So . . . I was thinking maybe tonight we could see how far the seats recline.”

Nick gives a little laugh. “Let's stick to the original plan.”

“You're making me dinner?”

He smiles, and it's like a heat lamp just hit my face. “Yeah,” he says. “I need some time with you when no one else is around.”

Oh, I need that, too.

“I cannot wait,” I whisper, moving in again and letting my lips linger on his for one more moment before I reluctantly back away. “See you in a few hours.”

“Okay.” He gives my arm a squeeze before he opens the car door for me. I slide in behind the steering wheel.

“Bye, Carson,” he says.

“Later, Nick.” She wiggles her fingers.

I turn the ignition, rev the engine, and peel out.

“Speed limit!” Carson yells over the wind rushing by.

I slow down. It's one thing for me to chase after a rush, another when someone else is with me.

“He's cooking for you now?” Carson asks.

“It's nothing,” I say casually. “He's making dinner.”

“With his parents?”

“They're out of town.” I can't stop myself from grinning so wide that my jaw aches.

“Shut
up
!” says Carson. “Are you sleeping over? Does your dad know? Do you have something special to wear? We need to stop and get you something sexy, something that will blow his mind. Victoria's Secret. Turn right at the next light.”

I laugh at her rush of questions and commands. I knew she'd be excited, too. Nick and I have been dating for a little over a year, and last month I wanted to celebrate our anniversary by, um, taking the next step in our relationship. Nick, frustratingly, wanted to wait. Herein lies the problem with dating Southern gentlemen. They can be so . . . gentlemanly.

I take the right. “So you'll help me pick out something appropriate?” I'm suddenly just a little nervous. I want everything to be perfect.

“Absolutely. I'm thinking red.”

“Nope. White. And lacy.”

“So virginal,” she says.

“Duh. You get to wear white honestly only once.”

Carson giggles. “He
did
ask you to stay over, right?”

“Well, not technically.”

“But he told you his parents would be gone, and he's making you dinner, and anyone can plainly see that he
looooves
you.” She's being the best best friend ever. “Oh, Callie, tonight's the night!”

I'm glad the windows are up, because someone might call 911 if they heard the squeal she just released. Carson acts out what I feel inside. I never thought a guy would get to me, but Nick is definitely The One.

I've known him since kindergarten, but I didn't notice him until ninth grade—the year he got serious about soccer. Nick Fisher was always a skinny, goofy kid who made people laugh. But freshman year, he sat in front of me in earth science, and I suddenly noticed how broad his shoulders had gotten over the summer, how the back of his biceps curved into a delicious, muscular shape, how his soft brown eyes lit up when he turned around to pass back a worksheet or ask me for a pen.

The best part is that he's still that kid who makes people laugh. He's smart and he's kind and he has no idea how much every girl at our high school wants him. He just knows he wants me. At least, that's what I thought until he told me he wanted to wait to have sex.

A one-year anniversary in high school is pretty much like reaching the golden fifty in real-world relationships, so I was more than ready to kick things up a notch. I remember what I told him as I tried to pull him closer to me that night. “You only live once,” I whispered.

But he didn't give in—he wanted to wait. I'm hoping that my leaving for the summer will make him more accepting of a going-away gift from me. Because tonight, I'm determined not to take no for an answer.

 

I slam the front door as I leave, overnight bag in hand. Carson went home an hour ago after helping me get ready for the night. I took another shower—complete with Carson's wild strawberry–scented body wash, which she swears is “like honey to a bear” with guys—so I'm extra clean and sweat-free. I feel a twinge of guilt knowing that my father would not approve of what I'm doing. I did tell him I was going over to Nick's, but I may have left out the part about Nick's parents being out of town. Still, there's no way I'd give up tonight's plan. Nick means everything to me.

When I get to Route 52, I put the BMW's top down. The shadows of the giant live oaks along the drive make the air feel slightly cooler, but it's the wind that really makes the heat bearable. I know my hair's blowing all over the place, but Nick likes it when I look a little wild. I'm wearing almost-too-short white shorts and a red-striped boatneck T-shirt. I press my white espadrille platform down on the clutch and shift into fifth gear, feeling a blast of air as I speed up to seventy. I wonder if being with Nick—really
being
with him—will curb my need for other types of adrenaline rushes.

My phone rings. I know I shouldn't pick it up while I'm driving, but I fish it out of my slouchy yellow Marc Jacobs bag anyway. I have to dig past a pack of gum, an extra hair band, and a sample of Chanel perfume that Carson made me take “for after.”

“In case you get all sweaty and stinky,” she said.

I find the phone and see his gorgeous face on the screen, all cheekbones and soulful brown eyes. “Nick.”

I glance at the clock—7:26 pm. I'm late.

“Sorrysorrysorry,” I say, putting my iPhone up to my ear.

“It's okay. I mean, if you can't make it, it's—”

“I'm on my way!” I interrupt. “I was making sure I packed exactly the right . . . outfit.”

“Callie, you're so—” he starts. And he sounds serious and sexy, but I want to save that for when I'm with him in person.

“Hold that thought,” I say, hoping he can hear the flirty smile in my voice. “I'll be right there.”

I press down on the gas pedal, urging the speedometer up to ninety. There's no traffic on the road, and I want to get to Nick.
Now.

“Guess how fast I'm going,” I say, laughing.

“Callie, maybe you shouldn't . . .” His voice catches then, he pauses, and I wonder at the emotion I hear. It sounds . . . strained, like something is wrong. And it scares me.

“Nick? What is it?” I ask, and the smile is gone from my voice.

“Not on the phone. We'll talk when you get here.”

“
Talking
is not on my agenda,” I tease, trying to make this sense of foreboding go away.

“Callie—”

A truck suddenly looms out of nowhere, swerving in front of my car, and I slam on the brakes to avoid a collision. Every part of my body tenses and my senses heighten—I hear screeching tires, I smell a hint of magnolia over burning rubber, I see the flash of the truck's metal grille in the setting sun, and a shock of fear slices through me. My head crashes into the driver's side window and the windshield explodes, showering me with sharp glass. The whole world darkens; my body goes limp.

And then I'm gone.

Three

THE JOLT ISN'T PAINFUL;
it isn't horrifying. It's a soft tug that becomes a strong pull, like when you slip your head beneath the water and the ocean current rushes by. But then a tidal wave grabs my ankles and drags me—fast, faster, beyond any speed I've ever known. A tunnel of white noise shifts and spins around me, like I'm in the middle of a cyclone, untouched by anything that might hurt me but at the very epicenter of an incredibly powerful force.

Then unexpected calm, as though everything is ripped away.

I land, untouched, onto soft ground, in the midst of a dark fog. It reminds me of early mornings in the Blue Ridge Mountains in North Carolina, where my parents used to have a cabin. We only went there a couple of times when I was little, but I remember that when I woke up each day, for a few minutes it felt like we were inside a cloud. It even smells like those mornings, I think, though I don't know how I can recall such a specific detail. It's colorless here, but not in the threatening gray of storm clouds—more a glistening silver, somewhere on the cusp between night and morning.

How did I get here?

Suddenly images rush at me—Dad shining his shoes, the keys to the BMW, speeding along the dock, Carson laughing in my car, my name and Nick's in a red heart, white lace, Nick's worried voice.
Huh?
I was on my way to Nick's. . . . He was . . . And then it hits me—a truck, shattering glass, the sickening way my body went limp when the impact came.

My skin prickles with goose bumps even though it's perfectly warm.
Am I . . . ?
I don't allow myself to finish the question, too scared to even voice it in my head. I sink to my knees on soft, spongy ground. A tear slips down my cheek, surprising me—I haven't really cried since I was twelve, and that was about Mama. I wipe at the wetness and fight back a wave of sadness that threatens to crash down over me. There has to be another explanation. I can't be . . .

I must be asleep
. That's it. I'm still snuggled in my bed with Nick right now, safe and warm, just dreaming about this weird colorless place where I feel hopelessly alone. Sometimes in dreams you wonder if you're in a dream, you consider it, you ask yourself . . . It's possible . . . it's . . .

Just as I'm starting to believe that there's hope, that I'll wake up at any moment, I see a ripple of light out of the corner of my eye—a rainbow of colors, blurry, like it's underwater. A doorway appears in the distance.

Three figures emerge. The rainbow fades, and they stride purposefully in my direction. I shove myself to my feet. I don't know who they are, but I have an immediate aversion to them. I glance around quickly, searching for some sort of escape. But there are no other doors. Nothing. No one else. Only us.

They're wearing light gray robes with a slight shimmer to them, like those rocks you can find that have a rainbow sheen—mica. One of the guys has a stocky frame with dark hair and deeply tanned skin, like maybe he's Native American. The girl, who bounded forward with the most energy, has a blunt brown pixie haircut and a constellation of freckles across her face.

The second guy is the most riveting. He exudes confidence, control. His blond hair whispers against his neck. His eyes are stormy blue, almost gray, like they've got a whole weather pattern of their own—swirling clouds, strong winds, and the glimmer of sun as dawn breaks over the horizon. I almost become lost in them before I shake off this intense pull and take in the sharp angle of his cheekbones and the soft arch of his full lips.

A soft buzz tingles through my body, like I'm holding the electric razor my dad uses to keep his buzz cut close to the scalp. I flash back to watching him in the bathroom as a little girl, sitting on the closed-lid toilet and helping him make sure to get the spots in the back.

“Calpurnia May McPhee,” says the stormy-eyed guy, and his deep, rich voice breaks my reverie. It booms, like he's announcing something, but there is a familiar undertone that makes it seem like those three words—my name—mean something to him. I think that I must have met him before, somewhere, but I know that if I had, I never would have forgotten him.

Craning my neck back to meet his gaze—he's got to be over six feet tall—I wonder how he knows my name. His eyes draw me in, calming my erratically pounding heart.

“Welcome to the Prism,” says the pixie-haired girl in a friendly tone. She smiles warmly, and so does the stocky guy. The taller one, though, keeps his lips in a firm, straight line. But his expression is softened by a tenderness—a knowing—that makes me instinctually lower my eyes. It's like he's trying to communicate without words, trying to force me to accept what I'm fighting not to acknowledge. I briefly wonder if I look crazy, like if there's dried blood all over me or glass stuck in my face or anything. I give my body a quick scan, and I realize that I'm cloaked in shimmering gray, too. But it's not a robe, it's just an illusion, like a metallic rainbow sheen that's covering my body—the clothes that I was wearing when I was on my way to Nick's are beneath it, and when I try to touch it, it's not really there.

“I'm Sarah,” says the girl. “This is Ryan, and this is Thatcher.”

A thousand questions spin through my mind. I can't seem to focus on just one.

“You're in the celestial plane between Earth and the next dimension,” says Ryan, the stocky one. “You may feel a slight buzz of energy; that's the echo of your life force, the part that's still left in your body. Sarah, Thatcher, and I are Ghost Guides. Our job is to teach you how to use your new ethereal form and—”

“Wait.” I hold up my hand so he'll stop, so I can take this in. “
Ghosts?
My
ethereal form
?”

“Calpurnia, we should start with—” says Sarah, and her voice is calm and soothing as she steps toward me.

“It's Callie,” I interrupt. “And this is nuts. I'm in a totally whacked dream.”

“No dream,” Thatcher says. Regret is laced through his voice. More, I see it in his eyes.

“No. I just have to wake up. I just have to—”
Get out of this freaking dream!

I start running, but nothing changes. It's just fog and mist and gray. It's like I'm on a treadmill or something, trapped, with no hope of escape. Thatcher is suddenly in front of me. An invisible wave slams into me. I bounce back and land in a sprawl. He didn't push me, he didn't touch me at all, but it was like my body was repelled by his, like a force field was surrounding him.

“What was that?” I ask, disoriented.

“Our form is protected by what you might consider an energy shield. It repels any ghost who gets too close.”

“Cool trick, but look, I'm not a ghost. I'm alive. I'm gasping for breath from the running, my heart is pounding—”

“Those are just remembered reactions, phantom sensations, like an amputee who wants to scratch an itch on his toe even though his foot is no longer there. Your soul hasn't yet adjusted to the fact that you are no longer housed within a body.”

No longer housed within a body? I shudder, and I don't care what he says about phantom sensations, my heartbeat kicks up a notch. I can hear blood rushing between my ears.

“Over time, the physical sensations will fade as you become accustomed to your new form,” Sarah says kindly.

“No, no, you don't understand. I just need to wake up.” I slap my face. It's there. I can feel it. And earlier, I was weeping. Tears. Real tears. Wet, warm. I pinch my arms, my legs. I experience the tiny pricks of pain, but they're surrounded by that weird buzzing sensation.

“It doesn't do any good,” Thatcher says. “It won't change anything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Denying what's happened. Grieving your former life. It's better to move on quickly.”

His voice doesn't waver, it doesn't catch, but I sense a sorrow underneath it, like he doesn't fully believe what he's saying.

“Wait. My
former
life? You're saying that I'm . . . I'm really
dead
?”

I whisper the word, not wanting to speak it aloud, not wanting it to be true, even though I'm beginning to realize that I'm not in a dream. I'm in a nightmare, but deep inside, I know it's not one I'm going to wake up from. I
feel
that I'm no longer living. You can't die in a dream, I've heard. If you do, you're really . . .

Thatcher opens his mouth, but I turn away before he can say another word, because I see the truth in his eyes. I'm dead. The painful knowledge nearly doubles me over. I wasn't ready to die. I wasn't supposed to die! Carson, she'll go off the deep end without me to ground her. Nick . . . we were on the verge of sharing something really special. And now I'll never see him again. My father has lost both his wife and his daughter. He gave me the BMW—he'll blame himself. I bow my head as the sorrow overwhelms me.
What will happen to my father? He's totally alone.

A sob escapes my throat, because I know now for sure. I know what the truck did. I felt my body jolt. I felt my . . . my whatever, my soul . . . leave. I felt myself die. I hear a primal cry that sounds like it's coming from a wounded animal, someone whose anguish can't be contained with normal, human sniffles. And I realize it's coming from me.

The low electric buzz ramps up inside my body, and now it's less like I'm holding an electric razor and more like I grabbed onto a live wire, the energy twitching through me in shocks and starts. I don't feel pain but intense vibration.

The sensation frightens me so much that I stop screaming. I swallow the ache. I stay quiet, and the energy ebbs. Staring into the distance, I feel hollow and empty.

“What's wrong with her?” Ryan asks. “Why was she screaming?” He approaches me cautiously, bends down slightly, and studies me as though I'm some strange specimen that he's never before encountered. “Are you . . . angry?”

I glare at him, incredulous at his confusion. “I just found out that I'm
dead
. Of course I'm angry. Sad. Lost. Alone. How can you think for a single moment that I would be okay with any of this?”

He appears truly baffled. “But ghosts don't feel things the way the Living do.”

Ghosts
. The word sounds so unreal, so wrong. “I'm not a ghost.”

“You're an echo of your former self,” Thatcher says. “Once you're here, your emotions naturally dim.”

“Excuse me?”

“This space anesthetizes you.” He gestures at my surroundings, and I take in the foggy landscape, noticing that there are soft spots of light here and there that move across the bleakness, and it seems like they could cast a warmth over the gray background, if only they'd stay still.

“It's so . . . blank,” I say.

“It's designed to help you detach from life.” His words are practiced, flat, like he's said them a thousand times, and he's not meeting my eyes now. Was it easy for him?

“I don't want to detach from anything!” I shout, more tears coming now. I can't give up what I had without a fight.

“Anger isn't useful.” Thatcher shakes his head like he's as confused as Ryan by my reaction—or maybe feeling threatened by it.

“Not
useful
?” I scoff.

“It won't help you haunt. It can hurt you.”

“So can denial.” My voice, cold and hard, echoes around us. The irony doesn't escape me: I'm doing exactly what I'm accusing him of—denying that this gray place is my reality.

Thatcher flinches slightly, almost imperceptibly. I don't know if he's reacting to my words or my tone. His face becomes an unreadable mask. “Do you remember your life?”

I focus on the bright spots that move across the surface of the mist. A flash of images races through my mind—Mama's pearl nails, Daddy's big brass laugh, my yellow tufted rug, Carson blowing bubbles in the yard, Nick in front of me in science . . .

“Of course I remember it,” I whisper.

His forehead wrinkles with concern. “That's unusual but not impossible to deal with.”

“Well, that's a relief. I wouldn't want to be
impossible
to deal with.” If I weren't already dead, I'd die from the pain.

Sarah kneels in front of me but keeps her distance. “You're going to be okay. We know it's overwhelming at first. That's why you're given a Guide.”

“But there's been a mistake, right?” I ask hopefully. “You're going to send me home.”

“No mistake,” she says gently, cautiously, as though she's afraid of setting off another emotional rampage.

I drop my head forward, confused, disbelieving, and the mist swirls around me quickly.

“So what do you think?” asks Ryan. He glances first at Sarah and then at Thatcher. “She seems extremely emotional. She shouldn't be so emotional.”

Not be emotional? How can anyone not grieve when they've lost everything?

“I'll take her,” says Sarah, her tone light and energetic. “It's my turn in the rotation, so . . .” She gestures for me to stand, but before I do, Thatcher says, “No.”

He glances at Sarah hastily. “I mean, I'll take her.”

“I don't mind,” says Sarah. “You just finished with that boating accident guy and you probably need a break—”

“I said I'll take her,” Thatcher repeats decisively.

Sarah shrugs and stands up, stepping back from me.

“Take me where?” I ask.

“Well, if you've got this, Thatcher . . . ,” says Ryan, turning to go.

“Good luck!” says Sarah as she spins around to follow him. Then she glances back over her shoulder at me. “Don't worry, you'll do fine. Thatcher's a really skilled Guide—he's been here longer than any of us.”