Ashes to Ashes (13 page)

I look down at my feet so I don't have to see Nick's pain. That's when I spot an empty bottle of Jameson whiskey sticking out from under the bed.

Thatcher catches me eyeing it. “Desperate times . . .”

“That's not like Nick. He hardly even drinks at parties.”

“Grief can do strange things to people.” Thatcher grows somber, like he's talking not just about the change in Nick, but his own personal experience.

“What do the texts mean?” I ask, but he just shakes his head. “Was he talking about the time since I died? Three weeks?”

“That's not your focus,” he says. “You can't get into their everyday lives. You're here for something bigger, and your energy needs to be calm. Get your feelings under control.”

I hate this
. Thatcher keeps telling me to even out my energy, to contain my feelings, but I can't. I don't know how to
not feel
what I feel. And what I feel is confusion about those texts, not to mention devastation at the sight of my boyfriend, who's drinking alone, mourning the loss of . . . me. It's so unfair that I'm here but he doesn't know it.

“Nick! Dinner!” Mrs. Fisher calls from downstairs, and after a beat, Nick snaps out of his spacey trance and heads down the stairs.

“Let's try with someone else,” says Thatcher. “Maybe if it's not Nick, you'll be able to control your emotions a little more, hold the peace longer.”

I hesitate for a second, staring at the phone. Instinctively, I reach out to touch the screen, recalling hours of texting Carson and flipping through apps. It scrolls up, and I can see more of the conversation. Just one more line.

“I touched it!” I say, jumping up and waving my arms. “I touched the phone!”

Thatcher folds his arms across his chest. “Yes, you did.”

“Your enthusiasm seems less than genuine.”

“Touching objects is not your goal. It has nothing, in fact, to do with what we're trying to accomplish.”

Reena would be excited for me—she'd help me do even more
.

I'm so happy about the touch that I almost forget why I reached for the phone screen in the first place. Almost. I read the top line.

H: Why didn't you do it before the accident?

Eleven

AS WE HURTLE THROUGH THE PORTAL,
my mind races with questions:
Who is “H”? What was Nick supposed to do before the accident? Were they definitely talking about
my
accident?
Thatcher wants me to forget it—I can tell that he thinks seeing Carson will distract me. I know he wants me to sit and be calm, but no matter what he says, I'm going to touch something again, and get some answers.

We're standing in Carson's front yard. I can't feel the sun's rays the same way I did when I was alive. Instead I'm experiencing the fantasy of this type of day, an imagined warmth. It doesn't seem real because it isn't—my body isn't here. All sensation is a memory. But I can see the sultry heat in the wilting stems of the front-garden flowers. The sun is beating down in that harsh way that only Charleston in summer can withstand, when every glass of sweet tea is sweating like it's in a sauna and people move three times more slowly than they do in the winter.

Carson's VW Beetle is in the driveway of her bungalow-style house. Intense barking echoes in the distance.

“Come on,” I say to Thatcher, glad to have him following
me
for once.

We walk along the side path to the backyard where Carson's puggle is sniffing around the lace-curtained doghouse.

“Georgia, girl!” I shout, wishing I could scoop her up in my arms.

She starts barking like crazy.

I squat next to her. She keeps barking in random directions, like she's trying to find me.

“Georgia, what on the green Earth are you doing?”

From the sliding glass door of her patio, Carson stares down at Georgia and shakes her head. She's wearing bright pink flip-flops, tiny jean shorts, and a white T. She's got a copy of
Their Eyes Were Watching God
in her right hand—it's on our summer reading list for English. I have the urge to rush up and hug her, to take her hand and get in the car to go for a drive, to tell her
everything
that's happening to me. I feel bottled up, stuck, without her to talk to.

I stand up, but Thatcher moves forward, cautioning me.

“I won't do anything,” I reassure him. “I just want to be near her.”

Georgia's still barking as I move closer, and Carson is shouting, “Hush, Georgia, hush!”

“Shhh . . . ,” I whisper to the dog. Georgia stops and cocks her head—she's looking right at me.

Carson looks up, too, not at me, but past me into the backyard.

“I think the dog sees me,” I say excitedly, moving closer to Carson.

“Callie, be careful,” says Thatcher, and I ignore the caution in his tone. I'm determined to show her I'm here.

I reach forward for Carson's arm, sure that she'll feel my touch—she's so in tune with people's spirits; she's always believed. And since the night of the ghost tour, with our song coming on the radio, she's probably looking for me everywhere.

I imagine the softness of her cotton sleeve as my fingertips get closer and closer. . . . But just before I touch her, a jolt of heat rushes through me, stinging my hand, and Carson yelps in pain. She rubs her arm near where my hand was, where a faint red shadow lingers.

“Georgia, did you see . . . ,” she starts. She gazes out into her yard, and her eyes reflect something that looks like wonder—or hope. Then her face clouds over and her mouth falls into a heartbroken line, like she's been hit with a fresh wave of hurt.

“Carson, I'm sorry,” I say, reaching out to her again.

Suddenly I feel a pull, something sweeping me away . . . Thatcher. And then we're not at Carson's anymore. We're out on the Battery, a walking path on the water at the tip of Charleston's peninsula, under the palmettos that sway in the soft breeze.

“What just happened?” I ask.

“I had to get us out of there,” he says, staring at me intensely. “You were too worked up. Your energy wasn't controlled—it misfired, you
hurt
her, and you were about to do it
again
.”

I lower my head instantly as a tear threatens to fall. “I didn't mean to. I was trying to show her I was there.”

“I know. I know. But I've been trying to explain how that type of connection—the surface level—only makes them linger in sadness.”

He runs his hand through his hair and looks out on the water, frowning. “Trying to prove that you're physically with them only leads to them holding on tighter. We're looking for a release. Superficial connections can make them sad—only a soulful connection brings peace.”

I nod. I understand what he's saying, but it's such an abstract concept. Reaching out feels so much more natural to me.

“Are you hurt?” asks Thatcher.

I realize I'm cradling my hand, the one that touched Carson. I can still feel it throbbing with energy.

“Callie,” says Thatcher softly. He looks at me carefully, his face more sympathetic than usual.

He moves his arm toward me, and I place my vibrating hand in his, knowing that in this instance, he is choosing touch, reaching for it. The moment our skin meets, I feel an undulating wave of pleasure wash through me. If I still breathed, it would steal my breath. It's cataclysmic, intense. A rush of emotion, affection, magnetic power encompasses me. Thatcher turns my hand over and traces the lines of my palm very slowly. As he does, the buzzing slows and then stops. His fingers are soft on my skin, and it's like he's drawing out the excess energy from an ocean and leaving a glassy lake in its place, still and serene.

I look up at him in wonder, and I take in his blue eyes—which are open and kind in this moment. “You have so much energy,” he says, his voice almost wistful. “But it will fade, and then you'll be calmer, like the rest of the ghosts.”

“Am I supposed to want that? To feel
less
?”

“Don't think of it that way. It's not feeling less; it's feeling
peace
.”

I look at him skeptically.

“It's better,” he reassures me. “Trust me. It makes it much easier to haunt. Most ghosts come to the Prism without their memories and with a natural sense of tranquillity because we're incomplete echoes of our former selves. Only merging with Solus makes us whole again.”

“I don't like the idea of being an echo,” I say.

“You're not one,” says Thatcher, and I think I see a smile on his lips. “That's the problem.”

“But I still don't understand why I'm not at peace like the other ghosts,” I say.

Thatcher stares at me, his face growing serious again, but he doesn't reply. It almost seems like he's trying to will me to answer the question for myself.

“Maybe it's because I've spent my life trying to feel
more
,” I mumble.

“What?” Thatcher tilts his head.

I shrug. “Nothing.”

He looks away, and for a second I think he's going to put up a wall again, turn back into a Guide instead of a friend.

Instead he motions inland. “Do you know White Point Gardens?”

“Of course.” He doesn't face me, but I can see the openness in his relaxed profile, and warmth consumes me as I fall into step beside him.

“I like to walk and talk,” he says, and I understand, because I'm like that, too. Somehow, moving forward makes conversations a little lighter, a little easier.

We step through the manicured grounds, under dappled shade from the dozens of live oaks that seem to stretch out horizontally with long arms and leafy green fingers. In this park, there are war monuments—cannons and mortars from the Civil War—and we always used to take field trips here in elementary school to hear about “The War of Northern Aggression.” Today, though, I look up into the trees and spot a heron nesting amid the Spanish moss, settling into a soft bed under the warm golden sun.

Thatcher stares straight ahead, and I wonder what he sees in White Point Gardens, what memories of his lie here.

“I had a little sister,” he says quietly. “Wendy, like the girl from
Peter Pan
—my mom loved J. M. Barrie.”

I stay silent for a moment, eager to learn more about Thatcher. We're almost friends . . . aren't we? So I go with it.

“Mama was a huge reader, too. I'm named after the housekeeper in
To Kill a Mockingbird
.”

“I figured,” says Thatcher.

“You did?” I realize as I say it that I hardly ever tell anyone that, but if I do I usually get a blank stare.

“Freshman English. I watched the movie instead of reading the book.”

“You cheater.”

“Reading took too long. I had better things to do.”

I can relate. I smile at Thatcher. I want to know his story more than ever. “Wendy Darling. Go on.”

“She was like that character, too.” Warmth, like from a crackling fire on a cool morning, flows through his voice as he remembers her. “Even though she was six years younger than I was.”

“You mean she took care of you?”

“She looked out for me. I wasn't always the most . . . cautious person.”

“Really?” I ask, wondering what other unexpected things Thatcher and I might have in common. “You seem so . . . controlled.”

“I changed. I wasn't this way when I was alive.”

“Well, I guess not if you ended up dead,” I say, jokingly. But that sounds awful, so I quickly add, “Sorry, I didn't mean—”

“It's okay; I've accepted it. And you're right. When I was alive, I wanted attention. I felt bored all the time. It was like I was waiting for something exciting to happen to me, but nothing ever did. I started doing stupid things, like driving with my headlights off at night and getting drunk whenever I could—just to feel more
there
. To feel like I existed. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” And then I look back over my shoulder, pointing toward the water, which is sparkling in the bright summer sun. “On the day that I died, I took my car for a spin on the pier.”

Thatcher's eyes get wide. “Whoa.” For a second he's not my Guide, but like a future friend I'm meeting for the first time. “What did you get up to?”

I smile with satisfaction and maybe even a little pride that my daredevil antics have impressed him. I shove away this little voice that is asking why it matters if he thinks highly of me. “Sixty. I didn't time it, but I'd guess it took less than five seconds.”

He lets out a low whistle.

We turn back around and keep walking. “How did it make you feel?” he asks.

“Invincible.”

“Alive,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Were you bored, too?” he asks. “Is that why you did it?”

“Not bored.” I think about it for a minute, searching for the right word so he'll understand. “Empty.”

“Empty?”

I rub my thumbs over the tips of my fingers, trying to generate sensation, but it's so faint. I wonder how much longer before I won't be able to feel them at all. It almost feels like I'm fading into nothingness. “I think so. After Mama died, it felt like I wasn't allowed to feel sad. I pushed that deep down.”

“But you still wanted to feel
something
,” says Thatcher.

I fold my arms across my chest protectively, but I nod.

“So you chased the thrill,” he says.

I nod again. “Uh-huh.”

“I understand,” he says. “I really do.”

“But you did it because you were bored,” I point out.

“Well . . . partly.” Then he smiles like he's remembering something nice. “Wendy used to wait up for me no matter how late it was when I got home. I'd see the crack of light from under her bedroom door—she'd turn it off as soon as she heard me in the bathroom getting ready for bed. I don't think she could sleep unless she knew I was home safe.”

“She sounds sweet.” I wonder what it's like to have a sibling. I always wanted one, but now that I'm dead, maybe it would just feel like an extra sadness.

“She was. She is, I guess. She always acted like a little adult. I think it's because she had a rare form of leukemia when she was four years old, and she spent a lot of time in the hospital.”

“How awful. I know how hard it is when someone you love is sick. It sucks for everyone.”

“That pretty much describes it, yeah. For a while, it's your entire focus. It consumes your life. The good news is that she recovered fully, but she kept this sense of purpose with her, this reverence for life.” We slow down a bit. “At least, she did until I died.”

“And then . . .”

Thatcher looks down at the ground and keeps walking. “And then something in her eyes went dark. I was gone—I was trying to haunt her, and my parents . . . but I couldn't reach her. I never did.”

“Never?” I ask.

His face darkens. “Well . . . once,” he says. “But it wasn't the right moment—”

He stops talking and I see his face shift, like he's closing off a memory before he continues. “I tried. I tried it all, just like you're doing. But that surface connection—the kind that comes off to them like tricks and ghost stories—it doesn't work. It can make things worse.”

“Worse?”

But he doesn't explain. “She's the reason that I'm a Guide,” he says. “Until she moves on and accepts my death, I can't merge.”

“Oh.” I lower my gaze to the ground, focusing on the ramifications of everything he's shared.
That
he shared at all. It creates this strong connection between us that I had thought was impossible. I knew someone hadn't gotten over Thatcher's death. But hearing the specifics, knowing about Wendy and his relationship with her, is devastating. All this time, I had deemed him a creature incapable of emotion.

But now I understand that he is—or at least he was—able to love deeply.