Ashes to Ashes (7 page)

“Yeah, I can feel it, but it's more than that.”

“We're leaving now,” Thatcher says. “You should do the same.”

“Has she been to her spot?” asks Reena, directing her question at Thatcher, stopping him in midstride.

“My what?” I ask.

“Let it go, Reena,” says Thatcher, and it's more of an order than a suggestion.

I wonder what
it
refers to.

“Thatcher's a little protective of his charges,” says Reena, still scrutinizing me as though I'm a sudoku puzzle that she can't quite complete.

“Was he your Guide?” I'm eager to learn more about this girl—and in the process maybe find out more about Thatcher. He obviously carries some weight around here.

“Something like that,” she says.

“Are you a Guide?” For some reason, my question makes Reena and Leo break up in laughter.

“No, we both completed our haunting,” says Reena.

Leo grins. “We avoided Solus another way.”

And the way he says it, it sounds like
Soulless.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Come on, Callie,” Thatcher says, indicating the doorway. “No good will come of staying here.”

“What's the rush?” Leo asks. “Afraid she'll learn the truth?”

“There are ways to extend your stay in the Prism, Callie,” Reena cuts in quickly before Thatcher can respond to Leo's challenge. “Don't let Thatcher convince you that you can't have more time on Earth.”

More time on Earth
.

“Yeah,” says Leo. “Not everyone wants to move on.”

“I thought Solus was like Heaven,” I say, looking to Thatcher.

“It is,” says Thatcher. “There's an order to things, and there are rules that some people refuse to accept.”

He glares pointedly at Reena, and it strikes me that she and I might have some things in common.

“You used to be more exciting when you didn't mind living outside the lines,” says Reena. Then she turns to me. “It's no fun to follow the rules.” She grins. “When you get bored of his restrictions, come find me.”

Thatcher clenches his jaw as he stares hard at Reena.

“Time to go,” he says through tight lips.

“We were just leaving.” Leo smiles, and the flash of his big white teeth is almost blinding. He moves forward and fake-jabs at Thatcher, who flinches a little. Leo's laugh echoes eerily up to the rafters.

He motions for Reena to follow him, and they turn to walk out of the barn. With his back to me, I see that Leo's moon tattoo is dark and jagged, not like the smooth glowing green crescent I've seen on the other ghosts. I look quickly at Reena, but her hair is covering her neck. She gives us a small wave before they both exit through the large wooden double doors.

I expected them to create a portal, but they just walked into the night like normal living people.

When I'm sure they're gone, I ask, “Who were they? How do they know who I am?”

“Forget them,” says Thatcher, avoiding my questions. “They just want to cause trouble.”

“Why did they look more like living people? They were in regular clothes, without this—”

“We're all in regular clothes.” Thatcher's voice is clipped, im-patient. His eyes look more gray than blue now. “The shimmering aura means you're haunting, that you're on the path to Solus.”

“If they finished their haunting, why are they still here?” I ask.

“They've broken the rules,” he says. “They can't move on from the Prism because of their obsession with being on Earth.”

“We can stay in the Prism?”

“Not indefinitely,” he says, putting his hand on his forehead like his brain hurts. “The Prism is just a gateway to Solus, where we're all meant to be.”

His skin is growing pale. It almost looks like he's fading away.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“My energy is low,” he says. “Leo's aggression drained me. We have to get . . .” His voice trails away like he no longer has the strength to push out the words.

I don't want to leave Earth, not now, but he appears sick and exhausted. . . . I hesitate for a moment, but when he creates the portal, he is barely able to lift his arm in order to make it large enough, and his weakness scares me a little. I stop arguing. I don't know how else to help him. I'm assuming everything I learned in the first-aid class I took is pretty useless here.

We step into the portal and are thrust through a speeding tunnel; I've already tuned out the sensation of movement that comes with this method of transportation. My mind is churning—I'm wondering how much time I can spend with my father, with Nick, with Carson, before I have to move on. Maybe I can stay with them on Earth. I'm thinking about Reena, hoping I'll see her again. She said something that resonated with me: It's no fun to follow the rules.

Seven

BACK IN THE PRISM,
Thatcher appears to have recovered somewhat. He looks more like his no-nonsense, let's-get-this-done self.

“If you stay on Earth for too long, your energy will fade,” he explains, now that his voice is back. “Earth is not a natural place for the soul to exist without a body, so it takes a lot of energy for us to be there. After a short amount of time away, we always need to return to the Prism—it's our energy base.”

We walk for a few minutes through the mist. Nothing is getting any clearer—I can't see more than five feet in front of my face—but Thatcher moves with a purpose, like he's heading somewhere specific.

We stay silent, and I notice that I'm experiencing things differently here than I do on Earth. In the Prism, there's a lightness—it almost feels like I haven't eaten for a while. My whole being has a slight hum running through it. I become conscious of the fact that my sight and hearing are crisp, but my body feels like it's underwater—blurred.

My thoughts are buzzing with everything that's happened since the accident. My entire world has shifted—it's been lost, found, and reshaped. This mysterious place with fog and mist and grayness isn't my home. I want to be on Earth, to stay there as long as I can. Thatcher made it seem like that wasn't a good choice—or even an option—while Reena indicated that there was a way. And Ella Hartley was at the pier, walking alongside her family like everything was almost happy, nearly okay. That's what I want for the people I love, too.

I flash to Nick's sadness, the way he crumpled onto the window seat in my room, and I wince at the memory. His pain was so visceral—I have to find a way to ease it. Is that really what Thatcher will teach me to do?

Thatcher. I take in his profile, strong and sure. He's merely inches away from me, and I realize that he hasn't once brushed up against me or led me with a touch. I know if I—or anyone—rush toward him, it creates that undulating wave that repels, but what about a subtle approach?

I lean sideways in his direction slightly and his body moves away from me in a fluid motion, almost like we're opposing magnets. I try again, stretching my fingers toward his, but his hand moves in the other direction, and it looks involuntary, like we're meant to maintain a certain measured distance between us. I'm not even sure he's aware of my reaching for him.

Just as I'm about to ask him about it, we arrive at a blue door.

“Each of us has a prism, a sanctuary,” Thatcher says. “This is yours. Open it.”

When I turn the silver knob, the door swings inward, and I step into my room. It's not really my room, at least not as it exists now—there's no life-interrupted quality to it like my real room had, with the lemonade and the unmade bed. This room looks as if it's from my childhood, a past version of my room, and my phantom heart suffers a hit—
thump
—as I take in my desk, my bed, my window seat, my posters, my closet, my shelves.
Mine
.

Everything shimmers just a little bit, like it might disappear if I touch it.

Thatcher is standing just outside the doorway. His lips are parted slightly as he examines my space, but he's careful not to lean over the threshold even as his eyes fill with wonder.

“If you're so interested, you should just come in,” I say.

He doesn't move, but he presses his lips into a firm line and quickly masks his awe. “You shouldn't invite ghosts into your prism,” he chides as though I should have known. “It's your personal space.”

I tilt my head, searching his face. Why does he shut down his feelings? Why does he avoid sharing too much with me?

“I've been through a lot today,” I remind him. “And you're the one who's been beside me for all of it. Don't tell me you're leaving me now.” I reach out to take his hand, but he pulls away from my touch, as though it could harm him, destroy him even.

I look down, a little hurt.

“Callie, I . . .” When I lift my gaze to his, he tries to smile as he cautiously steps into the room. Immediately, he gasps. The sunspots—the ones that gather to form a portal—dance across his body, lighting up like a thousand fireflies all around him. I watch him, captivated, as he stands still and straight until the glow starts to fade.

“What was that?” I ask, almost breathless at the sight of him now. He looks lit from within.

But he tries to brush it off, turning to the window so I can't see his face as he answers. “The energy in your prism is very strong. When I entered, it was shared with me.”

“Well, you're welcome!” I say, trying to lighten things a little. I go to stand next to him at the window, but when I approach, he moves to the side, putting a foot between us.

“Got it,” I say, turning to my bed across the room.

“No, I didn't mean . . . ,” he starts. But then he says, “Never mind.”

“What?” I ask as I sit on the bed.

“Touching is discouraged,” he says quietly.

“Why?”

“There's an energy exchange when ghosts touch. Like when I entered your prism. I've taken some of your energy already, just by being here.”

“But if we touched, then wouldn't you be sharing some with me, too?” I ask.

“Yes, in theory. But—”

I shake my head, cutting him off. “It's okay,” I say, suddenly feeling self-conscious that I'm sitting here trying to talk Thatcher into touching me. It's not a direction I meant to go in.

“Callie, it's not that I don't want to,” he says, interpreting my interruption as disappointment. “I don't remember the last time I've shared even a casual handshake with someone. I miss it, sometimes.”

I would think so.
My heart aches for him.

“That makes me sad. Carson used to say that touch was the best healing people could give to each other.”

Thatcher crosses his arms over his chest and nods. “It can be, yes.”

“I went through a phase after my mom died where I didn't want to be touched,” I confide in him. “But Carson would not tolerate it—she would wrap her arms around me and hold tight until I stopped trying to fight her off.”

I smile at the memory, but when I glance at Thatcher, he looks bewildered.

“Don't worry, I won't do that to you,” I say.

“You wouldn't be able to,” says Thatcher. “Touching only happens if both ghosts are open to it.”

“Is that why I've felt this magnetic opposition between us sometimes, how you stopped me from reaching Nick and Leo couldn't make contact with you?”

“Right. Your energy is personal—you need it for haunting—and it isn't to be shared. To that end, Callie, you shouldn't invite anyone else into your prism.”

“What? So no prism-warming party?” I ask, teasing him a little.

I can tell that he doesn't know whether or not to take me seriously. Finally he says, “No parties.”

“No jokes either,” I say under my breath.

I move over to my green Pottery Barn antique-look desk and pick up a photo frame that holds a picture of me and Carson from Halloween about ten years ago—we're both wearing bumblebee costumes. Mine's orange, hers is blue. The frame is solid in my hand; it's really here. Mama took the picture—it was the last Halloween she had with us.

“Who set up this room?” I ask, wondering if it might have been, if it could have been—

“You did.”

I feel silly for thinking Mama might have done it. I don't want to accept that she's not here waiting for me. I haven't been to church regularly, but I do know that the idea of a Heaven where your family members wait for you to join them has been in my head since I was a kid. It's heartbreaking to know that's not how it works. It doesn't seem fair.

Suddenly a thought occurs to me. “Did I miss my funeral?”

“What?” Thatcher blinks in surprise.

“My funeral,” I repeat. “If it hasn't happened, can we—”

“Not possible,” says Thatcher. “Time here feels very slow, but it actually moves quite quickly in Earth terms. Your accident was over two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks? That can't be possible. I just got here.”

“It's possible. We're in a different dimension. The time-space continuum—”

“Save the physics lesson.” I sigh. “So my funeral already happened.”

I look down at my hands and wonder if Dad spoke, if Carson said anything. If Nick wore the dark blue suit he bought for last year's formal.

Morbidly, I also wonder if Dad had an open casket for me—if my body was . . . intact.

I suddenly realize that I haven't thought of the other driver, and guilt rushes through me for being so selfish. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“No. Only you.”

“Oh.”
That's good.
How could I have been so self-involved that I didn't think to ask that until now? Is the Prism changing me? Dulling my humanity somehow? I almost can't believe I'm able to go a moment without weeping. Am I transforming into one of the calm and placid ghosts? Do I want to?

And then I wonder: How does Thatcher know so much about me?

“It seems like you know more about my death than I do,” I say.

He nods. “The Guides know the circumstances of souls who come into the Prism. It helps us to aid them with the haunting process.”

“It was Route Fifty-two, right?” I ask him.

“Yes, but going back there isn't an option. Dwelling on the end won't help your loved ones, or you, move forward.”

I didn't ask to go back there
, I think. So why is he so insistent that I not go?

“What was your end?” I ask him.

“An accident,” he says. “Like yours.” He doesn't flinch. But I've already seen the pain that blurs the edges of his controlled persona, the softness that lies underneath.

I gaze at his face, hard and resolute. I study the square line of his jaw. There's the slightest bit of stubble around the edge of it, like he hasn't shaved in a day or two.
I wonder if his face is frozen in time, exactly the way it was on the day he died.
I have the urge to reach up and touch it—I can imagine its soft bristle on my fingertips. I haven't touched anyone, even for a second, since I've been in the Prism, and now that Thatcher's told me it's “discouraged,” I feel even more like I need to do it. Just a quick touch, his strong arms coming around me, bringing me in against his solid chest.

As though he knows the direction of my thoughts, he breaks his gaze from mine and clears his throat soundly.

“You'll be comfortable here,” he says in a businesslike tone. He looks around again, like he's a real estate agent showing me the property. “So anyway, this is your prism, and you create what that is. Some people's prisms may be totally devoid of memories, but it's all about what you're focused on, and what's best to help you transition.”

I take in a deep breath, acutely aware of the absence of sensation: no scent, no air rushing through the passages, no need to exhale because I'm not actually filling my lungs. A momentary panic shoots through me, as though I could suffocate.

“Are you okay?” Thatcher asks, taking a step toward me.

I nod quickly, try to swallow. No saliva. Crap. “Yeah, I'm just suddenly really noticing what's not there. I feel like I'm dying all over again.”

He moves nearer. “Look at me, Callie. Don't center your thoughts on what's not there. Concentrate on what you can see.”

What I see are his eyes, such a deep blue, like the view of the middle of the ocean from a ship my dad and I once went on. I couldn't see into the depths of the water, but I knew so much was there. Thatcher's like that. A calm surface, but buried beneath it is more than I can ever imagine.

“You can't die here,” he says, his voice even, soothing, drawing me away from the panic. “No more pain.”

“No more pleasure,” I stammer.

“Not true. There are some physical sensations, not true physical sensations, but there are pleasant experiences. Right now, though, notice that your sight and hearing are so much more attuned. You still have them. Your soul can feel electrical impulses. When you need to feel that, rub your thumbs over your fingers.” He holds his hand up to demonstrate.

His hands are large, strong, the kind where the muscles and tendons seem flexed even when they're relaxed. I follow his orders, circling my thumbs over my fingers, feeling myself becoming more centered.

I find myself swallowing again, even though there's no saliva, nothing to swallow. But it's not frightening. It's just what it is—or what it's not.

“Let yourself absorb the energy of your prism.” His voice is almost hypnotic. “Just relax. Imagine you're floating on gentle waves, balloons holding you up, moving you with the soft wind.”

I nod. “I'm okay now.” But I still need his voice. “Tell me about this place.”

“I like to think of the Prism as a honeycomb, like bees make. Each of us has our own chamber, or room, or our
prism
 . . . and all the prisms make up the big world of Prism with a capital
P
. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” I murmur, back to being myself.

“Good,” he says, backing away slowly as though I'm a skittish cat he doesn't want to frighten. “So this is your personal prism, your resting place.”

“My final resting place?” I joke, trying to get us both back to where we were before I made a fool of myself.

He smiles indulgently, and I appreciate that. “Why don't you relax here for a while?”

“Relax?” I ask. “What am I supposed to do without the internet?”

“Nothing,” he says. “That's the beauty of it. Sit, connect with your conscious mind, work through some of your memories. That's the first level.”

“The first level of what?” I ask.