Wherever You Go (15 page)

"Destiny, then. Some people are destined for things."

"Was I destined to die, or was that me meeting my fate?" you ask quietly.

Aldo shifts on the bench. "That's a tough one. I'm not sure."

"If things happen for a reason, then all of this was supposed to happen," you say.

"That's one way to see it."

There are thoughts niggling at the back of your mind. Thoughts that feel unripe. You let out a sigh. "Do you think I'm destined to get out of here?"

"Certainly," Aldo says. "Why would God keep you here forever? What purpose would that serve?"

"True."

A light wind ruffles strands of hair sticking out from Aldo's cap. "You died in a crash, Roberto. Correct?"

"Yeah."

"That's not a pleasant way to go," Aldo says. "When I die, I hope I drift off to sleep."

You nod. "Much nicer, I'm sure."

"I imagine it was painful," Aldo says.

Instinctively, you reach up to touch your forehead. "Yeah. The car hit a tree, and it smashed the windshield. I faded in and out, and then it was all over."

"Winter time, eh? Snowy roads?"

"No. September."

Aldo's eyebrows raise slightly. "Ah."

You feel an ache in your heart. "You don't know about the crash, Aldo? Well, Holly—she was in the car with me."

"My sweet girl?" He nearly imperceptibly shakes his head. "No. I didn't know."

The ache in your heart spreads to your gut. "I thought they would have told you."

"They don't tell you shit when you're like this, kid." Aldo lets out a long sigh. "So, you crashed with Holly in the car. Not good."

"Obviously, she survived," you say.

"Yes." Aldo's eyes take on a glazy look, like he's about to cry.

A light breeze kicks up again, freeing some cherry blossoms from the branches overhead. Pinkish white blooms rain down all around Aldo. There are some on his hat, on his light nylon jacket. If you could, you would reach out to brush them away.

"My Holly, she's strong," Aldo says.

"Yeah," you say. "Always had her stuff together."

"After her grandma died, I didn't see Holly very much," Aldo says. "This coming to be with her, with Julia and little Lena, it's a gift. A half-given gift, but a gift nonetheless. I know you want to get out of here, but did you ever think that maybe this time given to yo
u is the same?"

"A half-given gift," you repeat. "Isn't that worse than no gift at all?"

His eyes are clear again. "It's some kind of second chance, even if it's not ideal," he says.

He doesn't return to the topic of the night you crashed. He doesn't ask you aga [t av> in about Holly. He simply gets up and walks back inside, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

And you are relieved. More than you can admit.

"I'm only here to talk to my son, Mona. Oh, good. Here he is now."

"Peter, he's got plans with his friends, probably."

Jason could hear his parents on the front porch as he cut the engine of the Audi and glided into his parking place next to his dad's Beamer in the driveway. He'd been in a good mood up until that point of the day, buoyed by the time with Holly at lunch. He was sure something had shifted between them, that he'd shown her, finally, how great things could be between them. He'd been smiling since he'd walked her to her fifth period class. Humming along to the indie radio station as he drove home.

And now ... back to reality. He pushed his sunglasses back on his forehead and pulled the keys from the ignition.

"Hey," Peter called, jogging over. He was wearing a Cornell tee, shorts, and tennis shoes, like he'd just come from working out. On the porch, his mom stared over at the two of them, her mouth pulled into a tight line. Jason gave her a wave.

"What's up, Dad," he said as he grabbed his backpack from the passenger seat and shut the car door.

"Listen, I feel real bad about last night," Peter said, leaning in close. "I got your messages after my meeting. I tried to call you, but I guess your phone was off the rest of the night."

Jason shouldered his bag. "Whatever, it's no big deal."

"Hey, I screwed up. I'm good at that sometimes." His dad tested a smile. "You didn't take the boat out, right?"

"Of course not. You weren't there. I had Holly's family with me. None of them could have helped me crew the boat. You think I'd sail
Lucy
without you?"

"No. Of course not."

"Then why did you look nervous just now, like I'd sailed her alone?"

"I didn't say a damn thing, Jason."

"I know the rules. I keep my word."

Peter cocked his head to the side. "That some kind of jab at me?"

"You completely ruined the night by not showing up. Well, almost completely ruined it, anyway. It was not cool."

"Your girl wasn't impressed, huh?"

"The whole point was to take her grandpa out on the water. It wasn't all about Holly." That felt a little dishonest to say. ^s Aldont>

"We'll go another time," Peter assured him.

"When is that?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "I've got a couple more days in town before I head back down to Portland. Maybe this weekend sometime?"

"Okay, sure." Jason started up the stone walkway. "Just call me later, I guess, to make a plan."

His dad jogged back down to the Beamer and climbed in.

Jason waved back at him from the porch's first step. All guilt, all remorse, had disappeared from his dad's face. Another task completed in his dad's day book.
Apologize to Jason.
It was probably written on a sticky note somewhere.

He was pretty sure he wouldn't be going sailing with his dad that weekend. But he didn't mind too much. He'd rather spend time with Holly anyway. "What did he want?" Mom asked the question as if she couldn't care less, but her tense lips gave her away. She set the mail she was sorting down on the console table in the hallway and clacked out of her high-heel shoes.

"Nothing, Mom."

She let out a long sigh. "He was sitting in the driveway when I got home, so I assume it was something important."

"We just needed to talk."

She followed Jason into the living room, where he was dropping his backpack onto the couch. "I don't like feeling that you're keeping things from me."

"I'm not. Mom, it was something stupid. Just forget about it."

She swooped up her long hair in her hands, twisting it into a small bun. "It's been a really long day. You know I'm just getting back into showing houses, and it's hard work. I'm exhausted, Jason. So, can you let me in on your secret? I don't understand what you'd discuss with Dad and not me."

Jason took a seat on a leather barstool in the kitchen and surveyed the platter of Rosie's chocolate chip cookies. "It's not about you," he said, selecting the smooshed-looking one at the edge of the plate, since it had the most chips.

His mom sat down across from him and folded her arms. "I wasn't saying that it was."

For just a moment he considered telling her about his dad leaving him high and dry at the dock. But what good was that going to do anyone? She didn't need to hear anything lame that Dad had done so she could add it to her list of complaints against him. "Dad's schedule is really messing me up," he said simply.

A look of relief crossed her face.

"See, I told you it wasn't about you," he said around a mouthful of cookie. "You totally thought it was."

She smirked, but then her face softened. "I was more worried that it was something bad. That you'd gotten into trouble or something. You've been keeping to yourself even more than normal."

"Really? I didn't think you'd been home to notice."

"Easy, young man. I know from what Rosie told me that you haven't been eating dinner much. And I was getting a little worried. With me and your father having issues—"

"Mom." He held up a hand. "If anything, I'm starting to get over feeling bad. Things are starting to take a turn for the better, maybe."

"All right." She stood up from the chair and brushed the wrinkles from her silk suit. "I'm glad to hear it."

"How'd you do today?"

His mom brightened at the question. "Actually, I scored a new listing for a house in Magnolia with the most beautiful gardens. Lovely English landscaping, a heated greenhouse full of flowers and vegetables, a pool surrounded by classic Roman columns and statuary. The owner's asking four million. Once I sell that, I'll be on my way again." The smile that flooded her face made him smile back.

"Sounds gorgeous."

"It is. Maybe I'll take you over there to help me stage it for showing. The outside's lovely, but the inside needs some help." She paused, batting her eyelashes. "How about if I say pretty please?"

"Mom. You know I'll help you."

She gave him a hug, her jewelry clanging together against his chest. "Thanks." His mom moved back, patting him on the arms. "And if anything does come up, I hope you'll share it with me. Even if I'm not always here, I'm still your mom." "I'm happy," he said, testing the words. "You don't need to worry."

Later he thought about that simple word,
happiness.
It was more than just liking a girl and having her like him back. He'd had a girlfriend before. It was the thought that Holly was special—that she could love him and know him in a way that no one else could.

And yeah, this whole thing had come together in an unusual way, but that didn't mean it couldn't work out.

***

You know some things about being a ghost by now:

1. There are no smells. (This is probably a good thing.)
   
2. No one can hear or see you. (Usually.)
   
3. You don't sleep.
   

The lack of sleep is the hardest to deal with. Being dead makes you tired, but not in a body way. Being dead makes you tired in a mind way. At night you go from place to place, watching the living you are connected to sleep, eat, get naked—which you're not trying to see, necessarily—channel surf, suck down cigarettes as if they weren't lung killers. And even if you float-sit in a chair with yo cchawith me. Eur eyes closed, you don't go anywhere. You don't drift off to the magical realm of dreams. You don't even sink into blackness. Which can only mean, you figure, that anyone you knew who ever became a ghost, like you are now, had you under constant surveillance.

That's right.

They saw you belch, cry, masturbate, take the last sip of milk and put the empty jug back into the fridge instead of into the recycling bin. Of course, this is all speculation. You don't know for sure that anyone you knew died and became a ghost. Or if other ghosts have experienced what you're experiencing. But if they have, surely they have seen some of the things you've seen your friends and family do.

The hardest thing to watch—the thing you are watching now—is Holly crying. She lies on her side in the lower bunk in her room. Above her, Lena is sleeping peacefully, like only a little kid can.

You notice Holly has a pillow between her knobby knees to keep them from aching later. She always did that, at least the few times that you had occasion to see her sleep when you were alive. When you went camping. When she was sick at home with the flu and you visited her. It's amazing how she has her body tucked into itself like a fancy folded napkin. Like she wants to make herself as small as possible.

You can't read her thoughts, but you're not sure you'd want to read them, anyway. As you kept Aldo company earlier in the evening, Holly had been checking her buzzing phone. Jason's number kept popping up. Three missed calls up until the time she clicked the phone into its charger.

At first you were a little peeved about Jason calling, but then you wondered why she wasn't answering his calls. And now you're spinning out theories on why she's crying. You're half-tempted to go visit Jason's house, but maybe you don't want to know the truth. With all the time you spent with Aldo this week, you'd almost forgotten about Jason and Holly's flirtation, but here it is now, right in front of you. Streaming down Holly's face.

You rest your ghostly hands on your knees and cradle your head.
Holly. Don't cry. Whatever he did, he isn't worth your tears.
The door creaks open.

Holly sits up in bed, wiping her face with the sheet. "What? What is it?"

You watch Aldo shuffle in, motion for you to get out of the chair, and settle into it himself once you float over to stand near the window.

"Do you need something, Grandpa?"

"No,
cara mia.
"

She gives him a puzzled look. "Why did you come in here?"

"I heard you crying," he says with great effort.

"I'm sorry." She swipes at her cheeks again. "Here, let me get you back into bed."

"No," he says, his eyes clear and focused. "Don't cry," he says, repeating your mantra.
cant width="5%

"I'm not sad. I'm just frustrated or something. There's this new guy, and I don't know what to do, I guess." Her words are a rush, but then she stops, gazing at him. "I know you probably don't get all this, Grandpa, sorry."