Dying For You (11 page)

“Cathy and Jack think that now that your body’s been found, there’s no reason for you to keep haunting them.”

“I’m not haunting them!” she yelled. “How many times do I have to say it? I’m stuck, but I’m not haunting. I
want
them to get on with their lives, crissake, what’s it been, three months?”

“Four and a half,” Tom corrected her.

“Right! My point! Tell ’em I said to get lost! Go back to their lives! Bye-bye, Charlie!”

Tom blinked, then turned to Cathy. “She says finding her body made no difference. She wants you to get back to your own lives. She wants you to leave.”

“But—but she’s still here.”

“Yup,” he agreed.

“Look, if I could poof on to heaven or the next plane or the next life or whatever, don’t you think I would have by
now? I think—don’t tell them this—I think I’m stuck here because
they’re stuck here. I’m not haunting this place,
they are.”

“She thinks your refusal to move on is why she’s trapped here.”

“I told you not to tell them!” she howled.

“My God, that’s awful,” Cathy gasped. “But—but tell her we can’t just leave her here in limbo like this.”

“Then she’s doomed,” Tom said. “Sorry to sound dramatic, but there it is. She can’t move on if you can’t move on.”

Cathy bit her lip and looked down at her lap. Jack patted her arm with one hand, and tapped the nightstand with the fingers of his other hand, an obnoxious habit he had when he was thinking about something difficult.

“Besides, she won’t be alone,” Tom added. “I’ll stay here. You know, help her onto the next plane, all that stuff.”

“What?” Nikki was appalled, intrigued, and appalled all over again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh—you will?” Cathy brightened. “You’ll stay with her? That’s different. I mean—now that they’ve found the body—there isn’t anything else for us to do. At least she can see you, talk to you.”

“Right! Well, half right. Good-bye! And take
him
with you.”

“Shall we discuss your fee? Because—”

“No, no.” Tom waved that away. “The fee you already paid is more than I make in six months. That’s fine.”

“Well.” Cathy bit her lip again and looked at her husband. “I guess we’d better pack.”

Nikki walked back outside before Tom could hear something she might regret. They were doing what she wanted, right? They were

(abandoning)

leaving her, right? It’s what she wanted all along, to have a chance to

(be alone)

pick up the pieces, to let them

(live)

get back to their lives.

So how come she felt so shitty?

They packed. Took the van. Flew away. The other van (she assumed it was the coroner’s van, if such a tiny island had such a thing) left. The coast guard left. Everybody left.

And now, finally, new guests were coming. She supposed that was a good thing, for the lodge at least. But she sure didn’t like seeing strangers in what she thought of as Cathy and Jack’s place. Guests who never knew she had existed, and certainly didn’t care either way.

And she got what she wanted, right? Cathy and Jack had moved on. Her body had been found, identified, claimed, and, by now, buried next to her parents in the Hastings Cemetery. Everything was as fine as could be, under the circumstances. Right? She’d missed her own funeral, but who’d want to go to that anyway? Right?

Tom stayed. And because he was the only one she could
talk to, she swallowed her anger and started speaking to him again.

“So, did they get back okay?” she asked.

“It speaks!” he cried. He had sat down in one of the chairs and was pulling off his sandals; now he threw them in the corner and leaped to his feet. “Is it Halloween already?”

“Har-de-har-har. I was just wondering if my friends made it back okay.”

“They’re fine. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to get over your mad-on? A damned month!”

“Oh, it hasn’t been that long.”

He muttered something. It sounded like “fucking dead people.”

“What?”

“Spirits have no sense of time. At all.”

“Oh. Well, this spirit doesn’t, anyway.”

“And why were you mad, anyway? Was it so awful that I liked spending time with you and wanted to do more of it?”

“I just think you should have told Jack the truth, that’s all.”

“That I spent half a day making out with you instead of doing my job?”

She giggled; she couldn’t help it. He looked so aggrieved. “Maybe that
is
your job, American Gigolo.”

“Sure. Right.” He went to the bed, sat on it, became Lotus-Tom, and then Ghost-Tom stood up out of him. “So!” he said cheerfully, carefully climbing down (she could relate—if you moved too fast, you went
under
the cabin) and approaching her. “How about another kiss for your favorite psychic medium?”

“Did you say psychic or psychotic? And how about not?”
She fended him off with a hand under his chin, trying not to giggle. “Is that all you’ve been thinking about? Being a ghost and making out?”

“Well, yeah,” he admitted, knocking her hand away and grabbing for her, causing them to fall through the chair, the wall, and into the bathroom. “Pretty much.”

“Have I mentioned I really like you shirtless? In fact, you should go shirtless all the time. Pantsless, too.”

“Ditto.” Their clothes (were the clothes incorporeal, too? must be) went flying (through the bathroom wall!), and she was kissing him with wild kisses, kissing him the way a desert survivor drank water, kissing him and loving being touched, being caressed, being groped. He wanted her at least as badly as she wanted him, so there weren’t any flowers or candles or tenderness, just two bodies urgently trying to get into the same place.

She groaned as he entered her, but when he gritted “sorry,” she responded by wrapping her legs around his waist and pushing back.

“Sorry, save your sorry and fuck me,” she muttered, and his hand slapped the tile beside her head and curled into a white-knuckled fist, and he shivered over her.

“Better not say that again,” he groaned, “or we’ll be done right now.”

“So one of your powers isn’t stamina?”

He groaned again and laughed at the same time, and their stomachs slapped against each other as they quickened to some internal beat, a song only they could hear. She wouldn’t come, of course, she was the kind of woman who needed at
least ten minutes of foreplay, but that was all right, because just being touched, being with him, was enough for—

She came. She came so hard she thought the top of her head would come off. And he was right there with her the whole time, and he never stopped touching her, and she never wanted it to stop, not any of it, not ever.

“Look at this,” she said, picking her shirt up and putting it back on. “Is it a real shirt? Why do I have to put it back on?”

“You don’t.”

“Funny. But why do we even have clothes? Are they ghost clothes? Why am I always in this shirt and these shorts?”

“Because that’s how you saw yourself—casually dressed, comfortable, attractive.”

She touched her hair and tried to look modest. “And you said the dead have no sense of time—how come?”

“You’re not ruled by clocks like the living. How long have we been stuck in that shitty bathroom, making love?”

“Half an hour?” she guessed, stepping into her shorts.

He looked wounded. “All day. We missed the lunch bell and the supper bell.”

“Oh. Well, it was a great day,” she assured him. “Don’t you want to go eat?”

“I’ll stay here with you.”

“Both of you?” she asked, a little creeped out. Here was Ghost-Tom, strolling around naked, and here was Lotus-Tom, sitting like someone frozen to the bed.

“I can only touch you in this form,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, but Tom, you’ve got to take care of your—your living body.”

He shrugged, indifferent. “Want to go for a walk?”

Yep. Definitely broken.
“Uh, sure. But it’s no problem to wait until you’ve eaten. Hell, I probably won’t even notice if you leave for half an hour; it’ll seem like thirty seconds to—”

There was a rap on the hut door, which Tom ignored. Nikki, being the kind of person who always had to answer the phone or the door, stuck her head through the wall and said, “It’s the manager. Don’t you want to answer it?”

“No.”

“But it might be important.”

“Is he holding phone slips?”

She peeked again. “Yes.”

“It’s just job offers.”

“Job offers?”

“Jobbbb offffers, arrrre youuuuuu haaaaaving trrrrouble hearrring meeee?”

“Very funny. You’re turning down work to hang out with the dead girl?”

He shrugged; a maddening habit, but eloquent. “Your friends paid me plenty.”

“But still. Don’t you want to get back to work?”

He looked at her. “No.”

She was surprised to discover that a ghost could blush. “Oh.”

“So how about that walk?”

She smiled. “Sure. I’d love a walk. I can show you all the places I’ve been haunting.”

He laughed. “Two ghosts, no waiting. Wouldn’t the tourists just shit?”

“What if one of them is special, like you?”

“Nobody’s like me,” he said simply. Not bragging; stating fact.

“Well, that’s the truth.”

“Say it twice,” he said smugly, and held out an arm, and escorted her through the wall.

“Tom…”

“Mmmm?”

They were in the pool, walking around in the deep end holding hands. It was a riot! They both ran and jumped to get momentum, and here they were. Nikki kept holding her breath from force of habit, then remembering and letting it out with a whoosh, which Tom found endlessly amusing.

“This has been a great couple of days—”

“Three weeks,” he corrected.

“Right. And it’s been awesome. Don’t get me wrong. But…when are you going to go?”

He frowned at her. “Go?”

“Yeah, you know. Hop a plane, get back to your life. You must have one.”

“A plane?”

“A life.”

“I like it here,” he said, sounding wounded.

“Well, yeah, but Tom—you can’t just stay here indefinitely with me.”

“Why not?”

“Why
not
? What do you mean, why not? You just can’t! It’s not like we’re a normal couple. I’m dead, for crying out loud.”

“So?”

She stopped walking and pulled her hand out of his. A pair of legs appeared in the shallow end and she had a
Jaws
-eye view of the swimmer.

She ignored it and addressed the (rather large) problem at hand. “Let me get this straight. My problem was Jack and Cathy couldn’t move on, and now it’s that you can’t move on? You’re not eating, you’re not taking work, you’re in limbo just like me.”

“Just like you.”

“No, Tom, that’s a
bad
thing. That’s why you’re so goddamned skinny: You escape your life by hanging out with ghosts. And you lose track of time, just like I do. Have you considered the fact that one of these days you might just starve to death?”

“That would be awful,” he said without a shred of conviction.

“Oh, come on! That’s not a plan, is it? A seriously fucked-up plan?”

“Would it be so bad if it was?”

“Tom, you have a life! You can’t just—just throw it away so we can hold hands and watch the sunset. Come on!”

“Can’t we?” he asked quietly.

“You. Have. A. Life. This.” She gestured to the legs flailing above them. “Is not. A life. You’re alive! You’ll be dead soon enough, even if you live to be eighty.”

“It’s different for everyone,” he said, still so quietly she had to strain to hear him.

“What?”

“It’s—I think it’s whatever you can imagine. If you see harps and angels, that’s where you go. If you see hell, that’s where you go. If you think you have unfinished business, you stay here. The afterlife—it can be anything. Anything at all. And I don’t know if—what if I live to the end of my life and go somewhere else? What if I can’t find you again?”

“Are you saying—are you saying that you love me and want to be with me?” Because he hadn’t said it. She hadn’t, either.

They’d had sex all over the island—once on top of the bar in front of six patrons who couldn’t see them.

They’d talked about things, private things, they had never told anyone.

The only thing they hadn’t talked about was the future. Because, of course, there wasn’t one. Not for them, anyway.

“Because I—” Love you, she started to say, then stopped. Wasn’t that making things worse? How could he move on if she told him? And that was the worst of it: four months ago
(or six, or eight, or whatever) there had been one ghost trapped on the island.

Now there were two.

“Of course I don’t love you, how could I love you?” he cried, and his voice was bitter, so bitter. “You’re the same as all the others, why can’t I think of you like all the others? You’re just one of
them
.”

“Them?” But she knew. Sure she knew. Here was Tom, spirit walking with a dead woman because that was better than anything else he had planned for that day, that month, that year. And here was why.

“Just a—just another ghost who distracted my dad. I couldn’t get any fucking attention from that guy unless I was working. Do you know what it’s like to be eight years old and totally jaded on the human condition, but still want your dad’s approval more than anything?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t.”

“Well, it fucking sucks. And you—you! You’re just the same, just another dead person who only cares about what she can get so she can move on, just me-me-me, and never mind that maybe my dad and I should have had a life, never mind that there was never enough money in the bank account to satisfy him, there was always one more job, one more person to help, never mind Christmas, never mind my birthday, we gotta drop everything because some idiot didn’t look both ways and got creamed crossing the street, and now she’s freaking out about not telling her husband about the new checking account.”

He paused and gulped in a new breath (not that he needed to in this form, but old habits died hard and if she didn’t believe that, just look around her), and she waited for more tirade, but he deflated like a stuck tire. “I guess that’s all I have. Your turn.”