Hereafter (5 page)

“Wow.” He blinked in surprise but then composed himself again. “So you’re saying this ‘connection’ is the reason I was the only one who could see you? Some sort of magic, or something?” He said the last words uncertainly, as though he were trying out a strange new language.

“I think so.” I bent my head down toward my lap again.

“And the connection exists because you died?” he asked.

I only nodded.

“And you came back to life, like me?”

A heartbeat or two passed, and then—

“No, Joshua. Not that part.”

For a while there was only silence. Then I heard him suck in a sharp breath. Here it was—the moment. The finale. I finished it off with nothing but a whisper.

“You see, Joshua—I never did come back to life.”

At the worst possible moment, I had one of those new, unpredictable sensations. I could suddenly feel the warm breeze against the skin of my legs and arms. The air felt charged, electric, like the gray sky would tear open and let thunder and lightning and all hell break loose around us. Goose bumps rose on my arms. Real goose bumps, like the ones Eli had inspired.

I couldn’t look up at Joshua’s face, but I could hear him stammering, making incredulous little noises. Then he became very quiet and still. This stillness lasted for possibly a full minute before he spoke with an unnatural calm.

“Amelia, are you trying to tell me you’re . . . ?”

“Dead.” I spoke immediately. It felt wrong to delay the inevitable any longer.

“Dead.” He repeated the word without any inflection.

Another heartbeat passed and then, unexpectedly, Joshua leaped off of the bench. He spun around to face me. I stared up at him, undoubtedly wild-eyed and frantic. His face, however, was expressionless. He wore a sort of mask—hiding terror, anger, disbelief, hatred? I had no idea.

I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand the frozen look on his face, the look I’d put there with the truth. He thought I was crazy, or he knew I was dead. Whichever conclusion he’d made, I would certainly lose him, however little I’d had him.

In this moment I felt impossibly and utterly alone. Alone for eternity probably, and now painfully aware of what I would be missing.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned—apologizing to him, to myself, to who knows who—and clasped a hand over my mouth.

I was so lost in sorrow for myself, I almost didn’t notice it: something on my cheek. Something warm and wet, trailing its way to the corner of my lips. Without taking my eyes from his empty face, I touched one finger to the edge of my eye. I pressed the fingertip to my lips. It tasted salty.

A tear. My dead eyes had shed a tear.

Something about that single tear must have stirred Joshua, because his frozen expression suddenly melted. His eyes and mouth softened.

“Amelia.” His voice was rough, and it broke. My name had never sounded more beautiful.

Joshua reached out to me, moving his hand as if to cup it around my cheek. Without giving a thought to anything but the ache that raged inside me, I leaned into his gesture.

Nothing could have prepared us for the moment when his skin once again touched mine.

Chapter
Seven

I
shouldn’t have been surprised. My world had changed the first time he laid his hand upon my cheek—there was no reason why it shouldn’t change when he did it again.

Yet when his hand cupped my face for the second time, we both gasped and jerked away, stunned. My fingers involuntarily flew up to the burning spot on my cheek, and likewise he grabbed his right hand with his left.

Our actions may have looked protective, even defensive, to an outside observer. For me, however, they were anything but.

The moment his skin brushed mine, a current shot through my entire body, from my scalp to the tips of my fingers. The current made the ache in my chest, and the tingles that raced along my spine each time he looked at me, seem like low-burning cinders. My heart, my brain, my skin—all of it was momentarily engulfed in flame, a flame lit only by the spark on my cheek.

I’d never felt anything so exhilarating. Not in death . . . not even in life. I knew it, deep within my core.

Joshua stared at me, rubbing his hand. He continued to breathe unevenly, as though he’d just run a long distance. Then, still gasping, he smiled. Hugely.

“What,” he managed to choke out, “was that?”

“I have no idea.” And I began to laugh. “Want to do it again?”

“Hell, yes,” he growled, and lurched forward to grab my hand from my lap.

As it had been with my cheek, we didn’t make perfect contact. Not exactly. I couldn’t feel the texture of his skin or the force of his fingers gripping mine. I felt the old, familiar pressure that always came when I tried to touch something from the living world. But I didn’t feel numb; the fiery shock came again, just as strong and fantastic as before, and there was nothing numb about it.

We simultaneously pulled back our hands, gasping again.

“What . . . what does that feel like to you?” I finally stuttered.

“Like fire. In the best possible way. You?”

“The same. Good.” I shrugged, almost sheepishly. “Very good.”

“I’m pretty out of breath,” he confessed with a grin.

“Me too.” I laughed. “Which is saying something for someone who doesn’t really need to breathe.”

He stopped smiling and cocked his head a little to the side. I immediately regretted my words. Stupidly, I’d jerked us out of the moment and back to the topic at hand. I shook my head, furious with myself.

Might as well quit playing around and get it over with,
I thought bitterly. I took a deep breath to steady myself and cut right to the chase.

“So, Joshua, here’s the part where you run screaming into the night, right?” I paused to stare around at the clearing, lit up by the overcast daytime sky. “Metaphorically, that is.”

“Amelia, do you see me running?”

I leaned back, startled. “Well . . . no.”

“And why would I run?”

“Because any sane person would think I’m either crazy . . . or dead.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.” He kept his voice even, and quiet.

“Huh. Um. So.” I couldn’t get my brain to form a logical sentence.

“So,” he went on to finish my incoherent thoughts, “the way I see it, process of elimination leaves only one conclusion.”

I kept my lips shut tight and studied his face. His midnight blue–colored eyes were wide and a little stunned. He looked as surprised as I felt by this turn in the conversation. Yet he sounded completely serious, maybe even . . . accepting? I shook my head, bewildered.

“You
believe
me?”

“I guess so.”

“You believe I’m . . . dead? A ghost?”

Joshua blew out a long breath and ran his hand through his black hair.

“Yeah, I kind of think I have to,” he said with a shrug. “I mean, I don’t have an explanation for the river. How you were underwater with me, but you weren’t drowning. How you were on the shore—looking pretty damn dry, by the way—but no one saw you. And how it feels when I touch you. I mean, unless you are alive. And you have gills, and you’re invisible. And you’re electrified.”

I shrugged back. “I don’t know. Maybe I am.”

He smiled—an unbelievably casual gesture, considering the topic. “You mean you don’t know if electrification is a common trait for ghosts?”

I stared at him, openmouthed. Was he
joking
about me being dead? “Um . . . no, Joshua, I have no idea what is or isn’t a common trait for ghosts. This is my first . . . ah . . .”

“Haunting?” he offered.

I snorted. “Yes, this is my first haunting.”

“Then I’m flattered.”

“Joshua,” I said, rubbing my forehead, “you’re taking this awfully well.”

He sighed, still smiling, and walked over to sit beside me again on the bench. Tingles, like little licks of the flame I’d just experienced, raced along the side of my body closest to him.

“You know, I’ve heard ghost stories all my life. Especially ones about the bridge, from my grandma. I’ve never believed any of them, of course. But like I said before, I kind of have to now, don’t I? Because otherwise I’m crazy, and I’m talking to a beautiful, electrified,
imaginary
girl.”

“I swear I’m not imaginary.” An uncontrollable grin spread across my face. “I would know if I was imaginary, right?”

He laughed, rubbed his palm down the length of his thigh, and then raised his hand up toward heaven as if to ask the sky that same question. “Who knows? Maybe we’re both crazy. But I’d like to think I’m not just talking to myself on a park bench.”

“Well, you probably look like you are, you know.”

“Huh.” He frowned. “I hadn’t really thought of that.” He glanced around the clearing, looking relieved at the emptiness of our surroundings. “We’re going to have to be kind of careful about that, aren’t we?”

“We are?” I sort of croaked the question. “We’re planning on future conversations . . . and in public?”

“Of course.” He shook his head impatiently and then abruptly switched gears. “So, am I really the only person who can see you?”

“The only living person,” I qualified.

“What about other dead people?”

His question, and the fact that I had absolutely no idea what rules governed this situation, gave me a disconcerting jolt. Because I knew of only one other soul who could possibly know the answer—Eli. Eli, who could clearly see me, and who I could now see, too. Eli might be able to tell me every “how” and “why” about what was happening between Joshua and me. But I mentally shook my head firmly against the idea of contacting him. I made an internal vow never to fulfill Eli’s prophecy that I would seek him out voluntarily. Nor would I let Joshua know about Eli if I could help it.

“I’m not so sure about that one,” I answered cautiously. “I haven’t had a lot of experience with that.”

“Hmm.” Joshua pondered my response briefly. I expected some kind of follow-up question, one that would certainly be harder to answer; but he asked me something entirely different.

“Just out of curiosity—why did you ask me what you look like? When we were on the bridge yesterday.”

I wasn’t prepared for that question, either. I covered my mouth with one hand. “God, Joshua, do I really have to answer this one?” My words came out muffled, and dripping with embarrassment. But he just stared at me expectantly, so I sighed and dropped my hand. “I guess it’s because I have no idea what I look like.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“Um, yeah.”

“No reflection?”

“No, not that I’ve ever seen. I mean, I can see some of myself without a mirror.” I gestured down at my clothes and then up at my hair. “I just can’t remember what my face looks like. I think I sort of . . . forgot.”

“Wow,” he breathed.

“I know.” I sighed again. “Incredibly embarrassing, right?”

Joshua didn’t answer me. Instead, he sat in complete, motionless silence, thinking who knows what. I was too mortified to speak, and he was staring at me in an intent way that, of course, unnerved me further.

Finally, he broke the silence. “I wasn’t lying yesterday when I said you’re beautiful.”

Wow.

“Oh,” I said aloud, and suddenly found something very interesting to study on the filmy, tulle overlay of my skirt. I spared a quick glance up at him and found him grinning at me.

“Should I go on?” he asked.

I could swear I heard an almost playful tone in his question. I shrugged as casually as possible, considering I simultaneously wanted to jump up and down while giggling
and
disappear into a hole in the earth.

“Your hair, it’s dark brown and wavy,” he said nonchalantly, as if he were cataloging the inventory of a store. “You’re pale, but you’ve got some freckles on your nose. Your eyes are really green, like the color of the leaves. And your mouth . . . well, your mouth is . . . pretty.”

If I could have blushed, I would have.

“Oh,” I repeated. One syllable seemed to be all I could muster right now. Joshua studied my face and, possibly seeing my discomfort, grinned.

“Now, your dress makes an interesting statement,” he teased.

I sniffed, trying not to feel wounded. “So, let me get this straight: I have a pretty mouth and an ugly dress? I’ll tell you what—if you can find me the ghosts of someone’s tank top and cutoffs, I’ll get right into them, I swear.”

Joshua grinned wider and shook his head. “No, the dress isn’t ugly.” He gave my figure a quick scan of appraisal and then added, “Far from it, actually.”

“Oh,” I said again. My eyes dropped right back down to my dress. Once more I wished it covered a bit more of my skin. I wondered what kind of girl I’d been to pick out a showy outfit like this: someone bold and confident; someone flashy and mean?

Joshua, however, obviously wasn’t as bothered by my clothing as I was. He chuckled quietly and leaned back against the table with his arms folded across his chest. We sat that way for a while, him in a casually amused pose and me with my eyes glued once more to my skirt. The issue of whether or not I wore a sexy dress was the least of our worries, and I knew it.

Eventually, Joshua leaned forward again.

“So what else should I know about you?”

I couldn’t seem to pull my eyes away from my skirt. “Well, how about this: I can’t feel anything I touch. Except you, apparently.”

“What? You can’t
feel
anything?”

“Nope. Not this bench, those trees—nothing. I can’t even open doors.”

“But what about people? I mean, you and I obviously—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “I have no idea how to explain what just happened between us. You’re the first person I’ve ever tried to touch, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to feel anyone else. Not like . . . well, you and me, anyway.”

“Any guesses as to why that is?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s like what I said earlier, about you being able to see me. Since you were dead for a little while, maybe you can see ghosts
and
you can sort of touch them. And maybe a connection like that can wake up a ghost’s senses, too. At least a little.”

“Maybe,” he mused. After a few seconds he added, “That’s kind of a sad statement on the afterlife, though, isn’t it? That you can’t feel anything unless someone else dies, too?”

I nodded vigorously, still staring at my dress. Once again Joshua didn’t respond but instead fell into a thoughtful silence. Eventually, I peeked up at him, just in time to see what I thought might be a rare dark look pass over his face. It stung me, that look—as if Joshua might have finally reached the crucial moment when he realized how crazy all of this really was. But instead, he just shook his head and gave me a sympathetic smile.

“You know, Amelia, being dead must really . . . suck.”

I barked out a surprised laugh. “Yes, Joshua. It does, in fact, suck.”

We chuckled together. In our laughs, I could hear the strange mix of relief and tension. Then Joshua furrowed his eyebrows and rubbed his hands together.

“So. . . .”

He dragged the word out awkwardly. He sounded cautious now, maybe even afraid to continue. From the tone of his voice, it seemed as though he wanted to ask me something but wasn’t sure how to go about it. I met his eyes and nodded in encouragement.

“Whatever you want to say, Joshua, just say it.”

He cleared his throat and then blurted out the question. “How long have you been dead?”

I frowned, trying to form an explanation that wasn’t scary. “I’m not sure about that one, either. A while, I think. There was a lot of aimless wandering for an awfully long time. I’ve found it pretty hard to keep track. I’d have to guess it’s been . . . years? At the very least.”

Letting out a low whistle, Joshua muttered the word “years” under his breath.

“At the very least,” I repeated.

“And you really can’t remember anything?” He sounded skeptical again.

“Nope. Well, nothing but my name.”

“Not where you grew up? Not who you parents were?”

“No.”

My voice cracked a little with that answer. I hadn’t thought about that until now—the fact that I’d probably had a family, once. A family I’d loved, or one I didn’t even want to remember? Maybe, like the information on my tombstone, the details of my former home life were better left a mystery?

Luckily, Joshua didn’t seem to notice anything unusual in my response, because his questions kept coming. And soon they drew me out of my dark thoughts with surprising ease.

We went on like that for a while, him as interviewer and me as interviewee. Some of his questions were serious and sad (did I remember my childhood home), and some were pleasantly inane (did I ever own a pet iguana, because his sister did, for about two weeks before their parents made her get rid of it). My response to every question was inevitably negative
,
mostly because I didn’t remember the answer.

But strangely, each question made me less depressed about my lack of memory. I began to feel as if I said the word “no,” not because I’d lived the sad life of the waking dead, but as part of some verbal game I was playing with him; as if I would only provide him a “yes” when he asked the right question.