Ashes to Ashes (9 page)

He's right. I have more important things to worry over. Nick and Carson. I watch them trailing along behind the group as Lantern Guy leads everyone back to Church Street and the tour's main office.

Carson and Nick hang back while the other members of the group thank the guide before leaving. I see Genevieve and Ryan trail after a woman who must be her mother. Nick stands off to the side with his arms crossed, still with that heavy sadness, but also annoyed and impatient. His hair is limp and dull—not like it was when I saw him just a short time ago. It doesn't look like he's washed it in
days
.

“How much time has passed since I saw him?” I ask.

“A couple of days.”

“Shouldn't I be with him most of the time?”

“We can't bombard them with our presence. It drains our energy and isn't good for them.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn't look like time without me has been good for him either.”

After everyone else has gone, Carson pulls Lantern Guy aside. “I'm looking for something more,” she says.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I know the ghost stories, I know the flashbulb trick . . . but I want to know, is there any
real
way to connect with someone who may be on the other side? Like, if you think you might be able to bring them back?”

Thatcher steps away from the conversation. I wonder if he doesn't want to hear the hogwash that old man is probably going to spout, but I'm intrigued by Carson's question. I lean in closer because Lantern Guy looks uncomfortable, like Carson is pushing him to reveal something vitally important.

But then he just says, “Lighten up, missy. It's a ghost tour, not a horror movie.”

Carson frowns at him. She trudges over to Nick, grabs his arm, and drags him down the street toward her car.

I catch up to Thatcher, and we fall into step behind them.

“I told you,” Nick says, his voice listless. “This is all just stupid BS.”

“It was worth a try,” says Carson determinedly. “Next we can get out the Ouija board, and if that doesn't work, we'll have to attempt a séance—”

“Carson,” says Nick, opening the passenger-side door of her VW Bug. “I came with you tonight to be a good friend, but you sound like a crazy person.”

They both slide into the car and Thatcher and I join them, slipping into the backseat quickly through their open doors. I almost feel guilty for eavesdropping, and I say so, but Thatcher says, “We're not eavesdropping; we're
haunting.
”

“Feels the same to me.”

“It won't once you're doing it properly, Callie.”

They sit in the car for a minute, letting Nick's insult hang in the air.

“Don't you want her back?” asks Carson.

A heavy silence descends as Nick stares at the dashboard. I tense up. His answer is suddenly important and I don't know why. Before this moment I was so sure what his answer would be, but now I'm not so certain.

“Of course,” he says.

I relax.

“Then let's try. If we believe she's still reachable, we can call on her spirit to—”

“To what?” says Nick, his voice tinged with anger. “To meet us in a cemetery during a ridiculous ghost tour? To show up in a photograph as a lens flare?”

My gaze drops to the floorboard as his comment hits me—I
was
there. I would be in a photograph, if I could be, if the trick were true.
I wish they could see me.

“Nick Fisher, you stop it!” Carson demands, and I recognize her tone. It's the one she uses when I'm feeling sorry for myself and she wants me to just get up and
fix
whatever it is that's bothering me. It's a Carson signature. And she'd probably use it on me right this minute if she knew how I was dealing with death—not very well. God, I miss her.

“We're going to get Callie back,” she continues. “I promise, she'll be in the stands with me cheering for your first soccer game of the season.”

Oh my God, Carson's gone crazy.
She actually thinks she can bring me back from the dead. I feel a pang of intense longing, because I wish she could. I wish she possessed such power.

“Forget it,” Nick yells. His hair is in his face again—I can't see his eyes. He slams the dashboard with a heavy fist, and I jump at his force. He's not like this. Even when we fought—usually over some trivial something that we never could recall later—we argued heatedly, but we never yelled. “She's gone. I wish people would just accept it and move on.”

Move on? They can't because I'm not doing my part. They're stuck because I'm a failure at haunting.

“You love her!” Carson exclaims. “She's your girlfriend and you believe you've lost her so you're not thinking clearly—”

“She
was
my girlfriend,” says Nick. His face looks tired, drawn. “Carson, she's
gone
.”

“I
just
died!” I shout, leaning into the front seat and talking in between them. All right, it's been a little over two weeks, but still, grief sweeps through me. Didn't I matter more than that? I know I have no right to feel that way. I look imploringly at Thatcher. “He doesn't need me. He's already moved on. I know I should be happy—”

“He hasn't moved on,” Thatcher cuts in.
“Listen.”

I cross my arms and sit back, frustrated that he's not more sympathetic, that he's not helping me deal with all these rioting emotions. I want Nick to move on, but at the same time, it hurts.

Carson's still protesting, but Nick interrupts her.

“Letting her go is the best thing,” he says. “I don't need more of a guilt trip from you than I'm already giving myself. I know it was my fault.”

“Nick, you're not to blame,” she says.

“Please, Cars,” he says, running his hand through his limp hair. “Just drive me home.”

She frowns but turns the key in the ignition and heads out.

It's superquiet in the Bug—I can't remember a time when there's been such silence in this car. Usually Carson and I roll down the windows and blast the radio. Sometimes when we do that—when the wind hits my face and the scenery rushes by and the song is the perfect one for the moment, with the perfect rhythm and lyrics that push me to want more, to live more—it can feel like I'm flying. We would scream out the words, smiling and loving those frozen pieces of time, never knowing that we wouldn't get enough of them.

Carson pulls up to the curb in front of Nick's house, and he leans his head back against the seat, his eyes closing.

“I miss her laugh,” Carson says solemnly. “What about you, Nick? What do you miss the most?”

“Don't do this, Carson.”

“Come on, Nick. Just tell me. Her bright red glittery toenails or the way she pulls her hair back or—”

“Her spirit, the way she's not afraid of anything. Wasn't afraid of anything.”

Very unobtrusively, extremely slowly so as not to draw attention to myself, so Thatcher won't stop me, I slip my hand farthest from him around the front seat and touch Nick—or at least I think I'm touching him. I can't feel anything. But I desperately want him to know I'm here, to sense my presence, to be comforted by my love.

“She's talked about marrying you, you know,” says Carson quietly. “She's that in love.”

In any other situation I'd be mad at Carson for revealing what I told her in confidence, but right now, I'm glad he knows how I feel.
Felt.
I never really told him.

I sense Thatcher's eyes on me, but I don't meet them. I'm too focused on Nick. He doesn't say anything, doesn't open his eyes, and a tear rolls down his cheek.

“It's too late, Carson,” he rasps. “Can't you understand that?”

Without another word, Nick gets out and slams the door shut.

My heart is breaking for his anguish. “He's confused,” I say to Thatcher.

“Yes.”

“He's grieving.”

“True.”

But having my thoughts affirmed doesn't make me feel much better.

Carson pulls away from his house, but she stops a few doors down and parks on the street. She flips on the radio, leans her head against the steering wheel, and breathes deeply.

“What's she doing?” I ask.

“I think she's trying not to cry,” says Thatcher, talking over the classic country DJ's thick twang.

“Carson,” I say, leaning into the front seat again. “Don't be too hard on Nick. I'm here; I'm going to help you—”

“She can't hear—” starts Thatcher.

“I know,” I interrupt, annoyed. “I
get
that she can't hear me. But I'm here; I want to talk to her. And maybe deep down, she
can
hear. I know she'd get the idea if I could just do something, like honk her horn or make the turn signal blink or something. I don't understand why—”

“That's not how it works,” he says. “It's your presence that helps her. Remember how I told you about the first level of the soul, the conscious part where memories live?”

I nod slowly, still skeptical.

“We're trying to get beyond that, to reach Carson's
unconscious
sense of you. That's the second level of the soul. And just by being here, sharing her space, we'll do it.”

“Well, it couldn't hurt to really show her I'm here, could it?” I ask.

“That's the spirit, Callie.” A deep voice booms in from outside the car, and when I snap my head around, Leo is grinning through the passenger window.

“Get out of here,” growls Thatcher, his tone low but firm.

Leo slips into the front seat, his figure moving through the car door as if it isn't there. He's inches from my best friend, and for some reason he makes me nervous. At least he doesn't have a hay hook in his hand.
But what's he doing?

“All you have to do is concentrate, Callie,” says Leo, twisting around in his seat to look at me. “Energy radiates off you. You have more power than you realize, than this guy will ever tell you.”

“Don't listen to him, Callie,” Thatcher says. “You don't understand the harm you can inflict.”

I glance over at Carson. She's still sitting with her head down on the wheel. She doesn't sense any of us, but I wish she did.

“Can you show me how to touch something real?” I ask Leo. “Like you were doing with the rocks?”

With a smile, he reaches for my shoulder. I feel a slight shock skitter through me where his fingers are, like when you grab a door handle after shuffling around on the carpet. He puts his other hand on the radio button. “You mean like this?” he asks.

The station changes.

“Holy shit!” I shout, excited. “How did you do that?”

Before he can answer, Carson lifts her head, and then I hear the song. It's one that Carson and I loved in a jokey way, because it contains this lyric that says, “Call me Mr. Flintstone, I can make your bed rock.” We found that hilarious. Slowly, a smile spreads across her tear-streaked face.

“Callie?” she whispers.

“Yes!” I shout. “I'm here!”

I turn back to Thatcher, and his quiet rage at Leo's presence is palpable. “She senses me,” I say.

“She knows you're here, Callie,” Leo assures me.

“No,” says Thatcher. His face is tight and aggravated. “She doesn't. You're making a superficial connection right now. This isn't a game—we're trying to connect with her in a deeper way, on a soul level.”

Leo rolls his eyes. “Good luck with this guy,” he says to me. Then he leans over to Thatcher and whispers, “Relaaaax,” before he slips out of the car and into the night.

Carson starts up the engine again and we drive toward her house.

“Show me how to do that,” I say to Thatcher.

“What? Touch the button on the radio?”

“Yes!” I say. “Something! When will I be able to connect for real?”

“You are on your way to
connecting for real. Your energy soothes them on an unconscious level. That's the second level of the soul—it's beyond the conscious—and it helps them know that you're okay. If you keep getting frustrated and upset, they'll feel that, too. And it won't have the desired effect.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “So I should smother my emotions?” I ask. “Like you do?”

Thatcher looks me right in the eyes. “My feelings are not your concern.”

“So you admit that you
have
feelings. Well,
there's
a step forward.” I know I'm being mean, but he's telling me I have to let my entire world go, like throwing out a used napkin or something.

Thatcher's jaw clenches as he faces forward. The streetlights cast sporadic streams of light over his handsome features as we drive—we're almost back in my neighborhood—but his expression doesn't change. Regretfully, I think I might have hurt him.

After a moment, he stares at me intently, the blue-gray of his eyes almost swirling. “I care more than you will ever understand,” he says, his voice a loud whisper. “Being a Guide isn't a privilege—it's a punishment. It means that I couldn't help someone move on. That someone is still suffering because of my death. And it's the heaviest burden any ghost has to carry.”

Oh my God. I don't know what to say. A punishment? I've been wondering why anyone would do this willingly. “Someone in your family?” I ask him. “Someone never got over losing you?”

He nods quickly. What he's dealing with seems like one of the most awful things anyone could experience. “I find comfort in helping other ghosts move on,” he says. “But I'm trapped in the Prism for now.”

Thatcher holds my gaze. I see his pain, his torment. My heart aches for him. I wonder what it would be like if, after years, Carson didn't get over my death. If she remained perpetually grieving.