Ashes to Ashes (8 page)

“The first level of the soul. With most who arrive here, the memories come when they are ready to be dealt with. Since you have all of yours, you can pick the ones you want to focus on, like a kaleidoscope.”

I shake my head—this is getting too weird for me, and I don't need the pressure of connecting with my soul.

“I'll be back after a while, Callie.”

“You're leaving me alone?” I'm suddenly cold at the thought of Thatcher leaving. I don't want to be alone with my thoughts, dwelling on my death. “Please don't go.”

“You'll be fine. Just focus on what is instead of what's not. You're safe here.”

“Safe? Safe from what?” I ask.

“It's just an expression.”

“What about that Leo guy?”

He stiffens. “He can't bother you here. Just remember not to invite anyone in.”

I glance frantically around my prism. “I'm not ready to be alone yet.”

“But everything here is designed to bring you comfort.”

I rub my hands up and down my arms. “It's not working. I know you're tired, that you need to be reenergized or whatever, but can't you do that here? You can rest on the bed. You don't even have to talk to me. I just don't want to be by myself. Not yet.”

He studies me intently. Compassion flickers in his eyes. His gaze darts to the bed, to the chair, to me. “You can have the bed.”

In long strides, he crosses over to the chair and settles into it.

Relief swamps me, because he's staying. The thought of being alone filled me with such dread. What if I had another panic attack? I never had them when I was alive. How strange to have one when I'm dead.

I wrap my arms around my body as I walk around my room, a little too antsy just yet to rest.
I wish Mama were here
. It's a thought I had a thousand times while I was alive. I'm sure everyone who loses a mother feels that way. But losing a mother and having a father who pushes away grief and tamps down his own feelings feels especially lonely sometimes.

When I was alive and loneliness hit, I found my next adventure, anything from trying to do a skateboard jump off the roof at age seven (minor cuts and bruises) to my last exhilarating moment, speeding along the highway (which didn't end so well).

But here? I have no idea how to chase away the empty.

A mirror hangs on the back of my door, and I pivot around in front of it, taking in my image. I look alive—I can't even see the shimmering robe in this mirror, just my last outfit—white shorts, boatneck T. I lean in closer to inspect my neck, but I don't see a moon mark.

“You can't see it here,” Thatcher reminds me.

“I thought maybe I was an exception.”

“Apparently so when it comes to a lot of things, but not that.”

I glance over at him. He doesn't seem irritated or upset. He seems to just be waiting. “Will this hurt ever go away?”

“Eventually. Try to focus on your memories.”

I take in each detail of this space, letting my eyes travel over the curve of my dresser drawers and the slight nick near the bottom where I ran into it roller-skating around my room in second grade, the collection of neglected but not yet donated stuffed animals in a corner chair, the soft draping of my sheer yellow curtains brushing the window seat.

As I absorb each inch of my prism, the hollow feeling in my stomach starts to fade.

This place is cozy, this place is mine—it knows me. I realize there are even items from different time periods on display. My bulletin board features the horse jumping ribbon I won in first grade—the one Dad let me take to school for show-and-tell three times, just so I could talk about how I urged the spotted pony Double Take over the highest fence on the course. I finger the purple satin, marveling at how real it feels. It can't be actually here, right? Does this place truly exist, like in a way that would hold up in science class?

I sit down on the bed, which feels exactly like my bed at home—the perfect combination of soft and firm—and I struggle to get in touch with the inner peace that ghosts are apparently supposed to have. Lying back, I let my head touch the pillow as I roll over on one side. I draw solace from Thatcher's presence. He's so tall, broad, strong. I bet every girl wanted to be his when he was alive. And now—

“Can we do anything on Earth except haunt? Can we sneak into a movie—”

“No. We have to remain focused on our purpose.”

“Right, our purpose.”

“Draw on your memories—”

“They just make me sad. To know all that's gone.”

He leans forward, planting his elbows on his thighs, his eyes earnest, the blue darkening into sapphire. “If you could only hold on to one memory forever, which would it be?”

“Is that how it works? I can only keep one?”

He slowly shakes his head. “No, it's just an exercise to help you focus. But wouldn't you choose a good memory, one that makes you feel loved?”

“I have so many of those.”

“Pick one. Concentrate on it. Share it with me,” Thatcher urges solemnly, his voice hypnotic.

To pick only one seems an impossible task. But I give my mind the freedom to explore all the possibilities. A jumble of memories rushes through my mind, and it's almost like I'm inside each memory—hearing, seeing, smelling, feeling the moments. I'm being pummeled with the past, but I can't stop thinking of more and more—it's addictive to be with Nick again, and that's what it feels like, like I'm really
with
him for the time it takes to recall a memory.

“After the spring dance, I had a curfew and Nick didn't,” I begin. “My dad made sure I was home by midnight, but after I said good night to him, Nick came up to my room . . .”

 

“Is the coast clear?” he asked, whispering in the darkness.

“Shhh.” I pushed back my covers and met Nick at the window in my pajamas. He was still wearing his suit.

“You changed,” he said.

“You're overdressed,” I said, pulling him close and loosening his tie.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, stepping back and offering me his hand.

I took it, and he led me to a square of moonlight that spilled onto the little yellow rug near my bed.

I tried to get him to take off his suit that night, to crawl under the covers with me. But he said, “Tonight is about romance,” and we held each other, swaying to the quiet songs my iPod shuffled until two a.m.

 

A fresh surge of grief hits my chest. I just re
lived
that moment. Was that my unconscious mind taking over? A tear forms in my eye. Why did I always push things away like that? Why didn't I savor that moment in the moonlight? Why did I need it to be
more
?

“That was intense,” I whisper. “I could see, hear, smell, touch . . . everything. Like it was real again.”

“I know. I could sense it . . . almost like I was there as you painted the images. Your memories are so powerful.”

We're both silent for a minute.

Then he says, “You really miss him, don't you?”

“
Yes
. Isn't that normal? Didn't you lose a girl you loved when you died?”

Sadness equal to mine seems to consume him. I watch his throat muscles work. If he were alive, he'd be swallowing. “I lost her later.”

Before I can say anything, he shoves himself to his feet, and I know he's regretting that he opened a small portal into his soul, revealed a hint of vulnerability, shared a portion of his life. I have an urge to wrap my arms around him and reassure him that everything will be all right.

“We've rested enough,” he says succinctly. “We should probably return to haunting now.”

In spite of the questions nagging me, I swing my legs over the bed and stand up. I point down to my desk, at the photo of me and Carson.

“I want to see her,” I say, and to my surprise, he nods agreeably.

But when we rush through the portal that Thatcher draws, we don't emerge in Carson's room or her backyard or even her car.

We land in a graveyard.

Eight

THE SKY IS BLACK,
but the yellow glow of a streetlamp peeks through the Spanish moss that hangs from the giant live oaks over the crumbling tombstones. This is a huge cemetery—we're in Historic Charleston. A crowd of people are gathered around a man in old-timey clothes who's holding an oil lamp above his head.

He rambles on about Charleston's paranormal history, talking about Boo Hags, creatures who “ride” their victims by slipping into their skin and walking around wearing their bodies. “It's best not to fight a Boo Hag,” says the guide. “They won't kill ya unless you struggle—they may want to come back again for another ride later, see?”

“At least we know Boo Hags and possession aren't real,” I say to Thatcher, like we're a couple sharing a private joke. His jaw twitches but he doesn't respond; he just stares straight ahead into the night.

The tour group is closed in tight around the guide, but a few other figures are hanging back a little bit.

I recognize Ryan, one of the Guides who met me when I first got to the Prism. He's with a girl who's about our age, and both of them have the glow and the moon mark. When Ryan sees me wave, they walk over to us.

“Hello, Callie, Thatcher,” he says, smiling. “This is Genevieve—she joined us this week.”

Genevieve has wide eyes and one of those mouths that relax into a frown.

Thatcher does little more than give her a nod in welcome. Nick, on the other hand, would have been totally gracious and known her entire life story in two minutes flat. He would have had her laughing in three.

I study this person who maybe can relate to what I'm feeling a little bit—the sweeping sense of devastation I'm dealing with.

“Hey,” I say. “I'm so sorry for your loss. Or, um, the loss of you . . . or . . .”
What does a person say in this situation?

“Hi.” Ignoring my sympathetic gaffe, she rests her eyes on Thatcher, who's no longer looking in our direction. He and Ryan have moved away from us and seem to be engaged in a serious discussion.

I catch only a few of Ryan's words: “—an eye out for possible trouble.”

“They won't do anything if we're here.”

“They're getting bolder. Sarah had an encounter . . .” His voice goes so low that even straining, I can't make out what he's saying.

Thatcher swears harshly. Is that sort of language allowed in the afterlife?

“Is he your Guide?” Genevieve whispers to me.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Oh.” And I hear her wistful tone, like she's thinking I'm so lucky.

I don't know why, but I feel a sense of ownership over the strong shape of Thatcher's shoulders, the way his lips are parted slightly, his eyes narrowed as he scans the area like his stance alone can thwart any danger.

Stepping back over to us, Ryan smiles at me, and if ghosts could blush, I would.

“Genevieve,” says Ryan, extending his hand in an inviting gesture. “Your mom . . .”

With a sigh, Genevieve turns back to the tour, and I can almost feel her energy level ebb. “My mom . . .”

I eye Genevieve warily. When I returned to Earth and saw Nick the first time, nothing in the world could have kept me from reaching out to him. Is she so distracted by Thatcher that she forgot her haunting?

“You're here to see your mom?” I ask.

“Yes.” She looks at me with calm eyes. “She's lovely, but so sad.” She turns to Ryan. “We'll help her, right?”

Ryan nods, and the two of them move away without a word and head closer to Genevieve's mom.

“Is everything all right?” I ask Thatcher.

“All under control.”

I don't think he'd admit it if it weren't.

“Why does Genevieve seem so oblivious?” I ask.

He appears slightly guilty, like the answer is somehow his fault. “That's the normal state for someone who is new to the Prism.”

I can understand how it would make the transition easier. “I guess that's why Ryan freaked out about my emotional outburst.”

He gives me a wry grin. “Yeah.” As though he expects more questions, he nods toward the group. “Pay attention.”

Lantern Guy is talking more loudly now, shouting to be heard by the back row of tourists. “Your cameras will capture orbs of light—those are ghosts, and sometimes you can catch as many as ten at a time in a photograph.” The tourists take out their Canons and start snapping away. The flashes point toward us, and I put my hand in front of my face to block all the lights.

“Old wives' tale,” says Thatcher, leaning in toward me. He's relaxed again, in Guide mode. “Those are just lens flares they're getting.”

“So we won't . . . show up?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “They have no idea we're here.”

“Tragic.”

“What?”

“Well, these people are in the presence of real ghosts, and they're going to fall for Lantern Guy's tricks.”

Thatcher doesn't reply, but he appears amused.

The flashes stop as the guide starts talking again. “There's been more paranormal activity this summer than ever before.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, like he's letting this whole tour group in on a big secret.

Ping-ping.

Searching in the area of the unexpected sound, I see a couple of small stones bouncing off a particularly haggard-looking tombstone. When I follow them to their source, I spot Leo. He's with another guy—a tall, lanky type. They're sitting on the roof of an ornate Gothic mausoleum, laughing as they toss stones in the air.

The way they're glowing in the dark night, against the aging, jagged stone, they look lit up with a spotlight, like performers in a show. And I guess they are. Each time a rock hits the gravestone, the tourists jump, but I can tell they're all having fun seeing this. It's what they came for.

Thatcher's presence is closer than ever, over my shoulder, and when I turn slightly, his face is inches from mine. I can see the sweep of his long eyelashes over his cheeks when he blinks. If he were alive, I'd be able to inhale his scent. He strikes me as a classic Ivory soap kind of guy. He's so intense, and while on one level his seriousness irritates me, on another his dependability is incredibly attractive.

“Let's go,” he says quickly.

I step away. “Not yet.” I eye him carefully. “This is interesting. They're moving things—people can see that they're here.”

Thatcher shakes his head. “They shouldn't be here.”

“Those little rocks aren't going to hurt anyone. Show me how to do that. I want to throw a stone.”

He frowns. “No, Callie, you cannot
throw a stone
.” He darts a quick glance up at Leo and the other guy with disdain before settling his gaze back on me. “It takes a lot of energy to move things—they can only do it because they're sharing energy, which can have unintended consequences. And for what? They have absolutely nothing meaningful to do here. They're just performing parlor tricks!”

“Wow, you're really mad.”

Thatcher inhales, no doubt a habit from when he was alive. “Forget them. We're here to help your loved ones grieve, not to act like circus monkeys.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I just thought it might be fun.”

“It's not
fun
to mess with the living. It's dangerous.” He points up at Leo and the skinny guy. “
They
are dangerous.”

Leo is holding on to a tree branch, jostling it in the air. “There's no wind,” the tour guide loud-whispers. “And yet it moves. . . .” The people on the ghost tour are oohing and aahing, snapping photos and chattering energetically about this being the best ghost tour ever.

I shrug, imagining how rapidly my heart would be beating if I were on the tour and didn't know the truth—the wild adrenaline rush of the possibility of ghosts. Even though I didn't believe in ghosts, these guys could spook me. Or more likely I'd have been convinced it was all fake and talked Nick into hanging back so we could investigate and figure out how it worked. “It looks totally harmless to me. It's just giving the people a thrill.”

“Creating thrills is not our purpose.”

And then, as quickly as they appeared, Leo and his friend create a portal of glowing light and vanish through it.

Thatcher sighs, visibly relieved, and I decide to save the rest of my questions for later, maybe for Leo himself.

“She's what we're here for,” Thatcher says.

I crane my neck to see where he's pointing. The tour guide is saying something about a woman named Theodosia Burr Alston, and that's when I spy Carson's glossy curls as she stands up from where she was sitting on a bench in the front of the crowd.

She brushes her hair out of her face, revealing that her normally sparkling eyes are tired. She has dark circles and she isn't wearing any makeup, which is rare for Carson, especially when she's out. Her usually smiling mouth is clenched in a tight line, and her sadness is so unfamiliar that my heart cracks open some more at the sight of it. She should be laughing, singing, dancing around like she always does, even in the face of darkness. But losing a best friend might be enough to break the brightest spirit I've ever known. I can't let that happen.

I want to rush up and squeeze her, but I know enough now to realize that won't work. I hang back, studying her more and thinking that she looks better than Nick did, at least, like she might be dealing with things in signature Carson fashion—moving forward, always.

But then I remember where we are.

“What's she doing on a ghost tour?” I ask.

“Looking for answers,” he says. “But she knows it's a scam.”

“You can tell?”

“I can read people.” I look at him closely, wondering if that's what Thatcher's pain is—that he sees the sadness of the Living as he helps other ghosts haunt. How does someone apply for the job? And why would they? I think it would be don't-want-to-get-out-of-bed depressing day after day. It would take someone with a certain temperament, a special gift. While he holds himself aloof, I have to admit that I believe he is truly trying to help me—even if I don't appreciate ninety-nine percent of the lessons.

“What?” asks Thatcher, obviously uncomfortable with my scrutiny.

“Nothing.”

When I turn back to Carson, I see the bored disappointment carved in her stony expression. “You're right. She's not buying this.”

She reaches out her hand and pulls someone up beside her. His profile is reflected in the moonlight.

“Nick,” I whisper.

His head is down, shoulders slumped. The weight of what's happened is sitting on his back and taking its toll. The darkness casts shadows over his face, making him impossible to read. I can't see his eyes; they're half closed and he won't pick up his head—it's like he's broken. I notice his fingers moving back and forth, back and forth, over the smooth amber heart he took from my room.

I can't believe he came—he's never thought much of Carson's interest in this stuff.

“Stay with me,” Thatcher orders, and I'm aware of him eyeing my profile. He's afraid I'm going to run up to Nick again, but I follow his instructions this time.

We walk with the tour group through the graveyard. As we listen to more stories about various people buried here, we climb a hill to a specific gravestone that's supposedly a hot spot for paranormal activity. But Leo and his friend aren't around, so there's no action.

“Boo!”

Startled, I jump and spin around. Leo is standing there, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Did you like the show?” he asks.

Before I can answer, Thatcher growls, “Get out of here, Leo.”

“Aren't you tired of hanging around with this guy yet?” Leo asks me, totally ignoring Thatcher. “I can teach you so much.”

“There's nothing you can teach her that she needs to know.”

Leo glares at Thatcher. “Shouldn't she at least know her options, make her own decisions?”

“What options?” I ask.

“Ah, there's so much. Where to begin? With an encore, perhaps?” He dances a short distance away, as though he believes Thatcher is going to try to stop him. “Look at these suckers, Callie, all wanting the ghost experience. I could give them something they'd never forget.”

“Leave them alone, Leo,” Thatcher commands.

Leo steps toward me, holds his hands out imploringly. “But my partner in crime took off, and I'm a little low on energy. Want to give me some?”

Thatcher slides in between us. “She's not giving you anything.”

“He's not trying to protect you, Callie. He's trying to deceive you, to make sure you never learn the truth about your powers. That's the way it is with the Guides. They want you to follow them like mindless sheep to
Soulless
. He knows if you knew everything I know, you'd never accept what he's offering.”

“There's no peace to be found in your way,” Thatcher says.

Leo throws his head back and stretches his arms toward the stars. “Who needs peace when we can have everything?”

He runs to the edge of the crowd and crouches. When Lantern Guy starts leading them away, Leo picks up a fallen tree branch just enough that someone trips over it, staggers, and falls. Leo's laughter, almost maniacal, echoes around us. He runs on through the crowd and disappears.

“See?” Thatcher says. “He's dangerous.”

Okay, I have to admit that tripping someone isn't very nice, but still—

“He picked up a tree branch.” Which weighs a lot more than a little pebble. What are his limitations? I don't ask, because I know Thatcher won't tell me. I don't think he's trying to keep anything from me, but I don't think he's telling me everything either.

“Forget about him, Callie,” Thatcher says, as though he knows the direction my thoughts are traveling.