When Autumn Leaves: A Novel (29 page)

Alone in the tent, Sylvie listened to the sound of her own breathing. Being aware of one’s breath was a skill that a lot of people couldn’t master. Even Sylvie herself had had trouble in the beginning, but Autumn had helped her learn to do it.

Sylvie had been able to go outside her own body ever since she could remember. At first, she didn’t realize it was unusual; when she did, she started keeping it to herself, or telling only Molly. For a long time, it was only random child’s play. As she got older, she eventually worked up the courage to tell her mother’s friend Autumn, who she correctly suspected would have useful advice for her. With Autumn’s direction, she learned to specify her destinations, to go to people and places that she had only ever dreamed about.

She had been to India, smelled the distinct smell of poverty and desperation, but also the woody amber of sacred water. She had seen the great cities of Europe, read newspaper headlines from balding men and bejeweled ladies refreshing themselves in the outdoor cafés. Sylvie had even spied on her fellow Aveningians, finding out secrets she herself had been too young to completely understand. When she had asked Autumn, quite innocently, why Mr. Atkins, who owned Thor’s Hammer Hardware, looked so happy in his wife’s cocktail dresses, she learned the hard way that people’s private lives were private, and it was wrong to go somewhere she knew she wouldn’t be wanted.

It was a novelty for Sylvie, but it soon wore off. Lately, she hardly had the energy for anything other than sleep. But even still, in that particular state, her spirit would demand its release from the pain, fly through the clouds, higher and higher until the sky itself gave her the peace that her life could not.

Molly and Sylvie had been friends since before either of them really had a concrete idea that they could do unusual things, and had fallen naturally into a gossipy, girlish way of sharing their strange discoveries: Sylvie the places she went when she left herself, Molly the things she saw before they happened. But as they got older, their abilities became a tacit secret, something they realized they couldn’t share widely with everyone they knew, binding their friendship further in a kind of collusion.

Sylvie thought it out of character for Molly to suggest any kind of supernatural visit to Callum. However irresponsible her own behavior, Molly was a great proponent of karma and what was meant to be, and spirit-stalking a rock star in his private hotel room seemed unarguably out of karmic balance. It was wrong, and he would despise the intrusion. But Sylvie had a niggling suspicion Molly wouldn’t have made the suggestion if she hadn’t had some premonition about the outcome. And she just couldn’t help herself.

Her breathing slowed and steadied until she felt that familiar click, of her brain releasing and sealing itself to guard what remained behind. She was light, lighter than air, lighter than thought. She saw herself straight and still beneath her. She rose, flying above the park, following the road out.

Callum was not asleep. He lay curled in his thin hotel blanket, haunted by what had happened only hours earlier, the damage brought about by his concert. In a way, everything had been his fault. He was twenty-four, a grown-up, and had been performing for seven years now, but he’d never once been jarred this badly by the fallout of his music.

The moment she arrived, the hairs on his arms stood to attention and a warm breeze blew through the airless room. He was on his side, his back to her, but he found himself turning. The moment he saw the shimmering person by his window he knew it was her, the girl who had died tonight, trampled to death at his concert. This was her ghost, He was surprised by her beauty, her serenity and the kindness of her face. Tears sprung to his eyes and he got up so quickly that the girl flinched.

“You!” he couldn’t help himself from shouting.

“You can see me?” she asked, sounding surprised.

Callum threw himself down on the ground in front of her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s my fault, all of it.” He was weeping, and between his sobs, he kept on repeating his apology.

The girl reeled, her diaphanous arm reaching for the nightstand. “Most people can’t see me,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d . . .”

The girl was clearly confused, not malicious. Callum began to calm down. “Just say you forgive me,” Callum told her. “And then you’ll be able to move on. That’s what’s keeping you here, right?”

“Forgive you for what?” Her puzzlement was heartbreaking. “Move on where?”

“Oh God. You don’t even know, do you? You don’t even know you’re dead.”

“Dead? Callum, I’m not dead! I’m—”

He cut her off before she could finish. “Can I know your name?”

“I’m Sylvie, but—”

“Sylvie.” He digested her name, and bravely went toward her and sat on the bed. “Think back to the concert tonight. Think about what happened. There was a fight, people went crazy. You were crushed in the crowd.”

“I had no idea someone died,” she said softly. She looked horrified, almost embarrassed.

“Yes,” he replied, the guilt welling up in him again. “Someone did.”

“I have to go,” she said, shaking her head. “This isn’t what . . . I have to go, I’m sorry.” And like that, she was gone.

The next morning was damp and cold. Molly and Sylvie woke at seemingly the same moment, sat up, and looked at each other.

“You have to go back, Sylvie,” Molly told her matter-offactly. “You have to apologize and tell him what really happened.”

“Are you crazy? I can’t go back!” Sylvie threw up her hands. “He’ll hate me, he’ll think I’m some kind of a stalker. No, no way.”

“He knows your name. You told him. He’s going to find out that you and that girl aren’t the same person, and he’s going to want to know just who the hell you were. He deserves to know the truth, don’t you think?”

Sylvie flopped back down in her sleeping bag and closed her eyes. Of course Molly was right. But there had been a small part of her, a very small part, that had hoped somewhere down the line, when she was older, she would actually get to meet Callum and pursue some kind of relationship with him. Not necessarily romantic (although that would have been nice) but a friendship at least. If she went to him and admitted she had projected her way into his room, into his personal space, there would never be any kind of chance. She doubted she would even be able to fantasize about such a thing, and those fantasies had been part of her emotional landscape for years now.

They drove home in silence, the road bending around their thoughts. Sylvie wished more than anything that her mother were there. She knew what her mother would have said; it just would have been so much easier to go through with it if she had Piper’s approval.

As soon as they got to Brigid’s Way, the girls exhaled deeply. Sylvie had to stop at Totems to pick up her paycheck, and Molly parked the Volvo around back so she could run in. It was early, the store would not be opening for another fifteen minutes, but Sylvie knew her boss, Michael River Dog, would be in already. She rang the service bell, and waited for him to answer the door. As always, when she saw him, her stomach did a little flip. Tall, long-haired, with beautiful tattoos on his biceps, he was undeniably gorgeous. There was an ongoing flirtation there, and Sylvie’s favorite way of playful teasing was to hold up covers of various paperback romance novels and accuse him of modeling for their covers. Michael always laughed and shrugged and called her “Geisha Girl.” It was harmless enough, but Sylvie wondered what would happen after she turned eighteen. She hoped he would ask her out, despite their eight-year age difference.

“Hey, Sylvie. Glad to see you.” He gave her a quick hug. “The concert was all over the news last night. I was worried.”

“It was? Good thing we texted our parents.”

“Wow, so responsible. I guess you’re here to pick up your check, huh? You shouldn’t have spent all your money on drugs, Sylvie, seriously,” Michael said, chuckling as he walked towards his office in the back. “Peer pressure. Just say no.”

“Ha,” Sylvie called to his back. “That is so funny. Make sure to tell that one to my dad, okay?” She looked around the bookstore as she waited. Michael had revamped it when he was promoted to store manager three years ago (the owners were an elderly couple who had all but retired). Michael said he wanted to give the community a book experience. He stocked a large selection of popular fiction, but also lesser known yet impressive work that usually didn’t get any attention. But the best part of the “book experience” was Michael himself. Women of all ages came in and came often just to see him and talk to him.

“So, was it bad?” he asked, returning with her check.

“I don’t know. Molly got one of her feelings and dragged me off before anything happened. But it was in the air, Mike, and it was horrible.”

Michael grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what you wanted it to be. If anyone deserved a night off and deserved to have fun, it was you.”

Sylvie smiled. “Thanks, Michael. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She stood up on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. She felt his cheeks warm beneath her lips.

Molly suggested they stop at Hallowed Grounds to pick up some coffee. They ordered their drinks from the ever-present Sean (did he ever go home?) and each got one of Rona’s zucchini-walnut muffins. The morning was warm enough to sit outside, but cold enough so that a steaming latte felt good in their hands, and they watched the street come alive around them. They had missed the Mabon Harvest street fair, which had happened yesterday on Brigid’s Way. In her life, Sylvie had never been absent from one, and she felt a bit sad that she had missed the craft booths, great food, and wandering bands.

At almost eighteen, she was just beginning to respect the importance of shared beliefs and values, how it made her feel like she belonged to something bigger than herself. She could never leave Avening. That wasn’t strictly true; she could leave, she could go to college elsewhere, she could travel the world. But she would never live anywhere else. In and amongst the traditions of her community she felt the presence of the Great Mother whom Autumn had taught her so much about, and more than anywhere else, her real mother. She leaned into Molly, who was blowing at the frothy milk of her coffee. “Molls, I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“I’ll go back tonight, to Callum. I’ll tell him everything. But you have to do something for me in return.”

“Wait a minute. You can’t drag me into this.” Molly put down her drink and folded her arms disapprovingly. “What’s going on with you and Callum West has nothing to do with me.”

“Not technically. But . . . It’s something brave that I’m going to do. So you should do something brave, too.”

“Eh?” said Molly, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“You need to talk to someone about your gift. Think about all the good you could do for the world if you learned how to use it properly, if you learned how to actually ask for a premonition?”

Molly looked at her friend through narrowed eyes. There had been times over the years when Sylvie had asked her to do something similar, but Molly had always refused and sworn her to secrecy. Particularly in the last year, Molly had started to toy around with some really extraordinary skills—on St. Patrick’s day, for example, Molly had dressed festively for school, including bright green hair. Sylvie had watched Molly comb the green into her hair while peering into her rearview mirror, the bouncy orange curls streaking shamrock green from root to tip behind the comb, and Sylvie was perhaps the only person who realized the result was neither a wig nor the product of a spray can.

Sylvie knew that that ability, to casually alter what nature had made without upsetting anything, was far from commonplace. Furthermore, Sylvie knew that on some level Molly was scared of the things she could do. She also wanted to be loved and successful for her accomplishments; she didn’t want her gift to be the most interesting thing about her.

Molly still hadn’t spoken, and was staring fiercely at Sylvie. Sylvie could tell she was thinking, processing. “Look. You and I both know you’ve reached some kind of turning point. Think how much easier it could be with help, or advice, at least.”