Ashes to Ashes (4 page)

She smiles before disappearing into the mist with Ryan.

I give my attention to Thatcher, who's staring right at me. He's clenching his strong, defined jaw, his arms folded over his broad chest. If I concentrate, I can see beneath his shimmering robe to faded jeans and a tight black T-shirt that hugs his shoulders. He has a rangy, athletic build.

“How old are you?” he asks abruptly.

“Sixteen,” I say. “You?”

“Eighteen forever.”

His intense gaze slams into mine. A chill sweeps through me.

When he sees me shiver, he crouches near me, and I realize that warmth radiates, pulses, from his body. “You're warm. Or is that another phantom sensation?”

“It's real. The energy within souls generates heat. Sometimes it can provide comfort.”

“I thought ghosts were supposed to be cold.”

In one smooth motion, Thatcher unfolds his body and stands up. “You can't believe everything you hear on Earth.”

I slowly push myself to my feet, my legs unsteady. “Earth,” I say, and it sounds so weird. Am I not on
Earth
? “I want to go home. I have to see my dad, I have to—”

“It won't be the same. You must understand that. You can't interact with the Living.”

“The Living? Oh, God, this is such a nightmare.”

“It might prove helpful if we start your haunting,” he says quietly.

“So what—now I'm supposed to rattle chains and scare people, try to be featured on
Ghost Hunters
or something?”

I can tell that he doesn't want to, but he can't help himself. He smiles. If he'd walked through the door with that grin on his face, I might not have taken an immediate dislike to him and this place. It's comforting, familiar. “That's not what haunting is.”

“What is it then?”

“It's easier to understand if I show you. Please, come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

His smile withers and along with it our momentary connection. I sense that he regrets both, that they were a mistake that won't happen again. “It'll make everything easier on both of us if you'll just trust me.” He starts walking away from me.

Peering through the fog, I see nowhere, nothing. An endless sea of gray mist and emptiness. I follow him, moving one foot in front of the other in a hopeless march.

He leads me toward the doorway through which he came earlier, and I see the kaleidoscope of color rippling again.

“This is a
portal
—it's a gateway to another dimension,” he explains. His gaze lands on me again, but I don't react. I have the sense that I'm trapped in a science fiction movie.

“We live in three dimensions on Earth, but the Prism isn't restricted that way,” he continues, void of emotion, a teacher who has no passion for the lesson. So why did he volunteer to be the one to teach it?

I can't focus. I'm thinking about the last movie I saw—a 3D horror film with Nick. He tried to be the big strong boyfriend, but when the killer jumped out at a totally unexpected moment, he screamed and spilled our entire bag of popcorn. We both laughed in that silent-shake way that you do when you're trying to be quiet, and then he reached for my hand. “Never tell anyone about that sound I just made,” he whispered. “I promise,” I said, leaning in to kiss him. I was so happy, so content that day.

“
Callie, are you listening
?
” Thatcher must have kept talking while I was lost in a memory.

I glare at him. “I don't want to be here.”

“Then pay attention to what I'm telling you.”

“So you're going to teach me how to escape this place?”

“Not
escape
, but move beyond it.”

What does that mean?

He disappears through the portal, and I realize that if I don't go, I might be stuck in this misty no-man's-land. Alone. Who knows if it's safe? If it were, would I need someone to watch over me?

The portal looks like a gathering of all the sunspots I saw around us earlier—it twinkles and shifts, and I wonder if the Prism is called that because it's like one of those multifaceted crystals that you hang in the window to make rainbows. When I walk through, it feels like I'm traveling at the speed of light, like I just stepped onto a moving sidewalk that goes a thousand miles per hour. But I'm not jolted, not pulled, just
moved
. I don't see Thatcher—I don't see anything, really; I just sense pure motion.

And then I'm on the other side, and it's so familiar that I want to cry.

Home
, I think.

Four

IT ISN'T MY HOME,
but it's definitely Earth. The wind hits my face first, and I smell the familiar salty air as an involuntary smile crosses my lips.

The Charleston Harbor
. It's midday, and the sun is high in the sky. I tilt my head back to see the sky and inhale deeply. “Love the way it smells—”

“You're not really smelling it. Scent is one of the strongest memory enhancers. Just like the smell of pecan pie can bring memories of Thanksgiving with family, so seeing something can cause you to remember a fragrance.”

I glare at him, wanting to prove that I'm not like him, that I'm different, that I'm not really dead. “I
am
smelling it. I'm feeling the wind—”

I stop. Tall palmettos blow in the breeze, but my hair isn't whipping around my face. God, he's right. I'm only imagining these sensations, because past experience has taught me to expect them. “So you can't tell that I smell like wild strawberries?”

Before he blinks, I see longing reflected in his eyes. He slowly shakes his head.

“Don't you miss all the different aromas? Sunscreen, hot dogs, decaying fish?”

A corner of his mouth quirks up. “The rotting sea life, not so much. The other . . . I don't think about it. We're separate from Earth. Like being in a bubble. You have to realize that your outer shell is an illusion, a security blanket so everything isn't stripped away, so you have something familiar to anchor you. Don't focus on what's missing. Concentrate on what you can see, observe.”

That's so hard. It's like all of a sudden, I can only think about the sensations that are absent: the grit of sand caught in a whirlwind blowing across my calves, the tangy aroma of barbecue, the heat of the sun beating down. With a great deal of effort, I put it all aside and focus on what I can see.

Tourists pass by with ice cream cones, women wear big straw hats to protect their skin, and people hold hands, laughing. The scene before me is vivid and sharp—like we're watching a high-definition show from inside the TV.

I notice a little boy standing off to the side of a mother, father, and baby girl who sit together on a wooden bench with a lunch of pulled pork sandwiches and coleslaw. The boy attracts my gaze the most—he has a glow to him, almost like there's a subtle spotlight over his head.

Just down from the family, an older woman with tightly permed grandma hair sits next to an old man. She has the same glow as the little boy, and she stares at the man lovingly as he gazes over the water in front of them and into the distance. I drink in the scene, noting how she is so much more vibrant than he is, but he doesn't even seem to know that she's there.

I follow the old man's eyes out over the water, to a sailboat off the harbor with a family of four in the cockpit. As they take down the mainsail, I catch a glimpse of a girl my age—glowing—on the bow. “She's going to fall in,” I say. “You can't stand out there when—”

I stop and catch my breath. Or I experience the sensation of catching my breath.

“Ella Hartley,” I whisper.

“Yes,” says Thatcher. “You remember her, too?”

“I need to sit down,” I say to him as I start to realize what he's showing me and another wave of despair washes over me.
I am like Ella Hartley now
.

When Carson and I were little, Ella was in our ballet class—I remember she had the most incredible violet-colored eyes. She died last month when her body rejected the kidney she'd been given. It was huge news in town because everyone had been so hopeful when they finally found a donor. But it didn't take. Her friends decorated her locker with flowers and photos and poetry. Carson even added a sachet that included marjoram because she believes the herb brings serenity to the recently departed. I thought it was pointless to leave tributes for someone after they died—I thought the gestures were more for the Living than the dead.

Now I wonder if Carson will gather funeral herbs for me.

Thatcher and I sit on a bench near the very dock I sped down in my new BMW, and I watch Ella and her family motor in.

The Hartleys tie up their boat and step off, one by one, near where we're sitting. Ella trails after them with a soft smile on her face, lit up by that singular radiance. They walk right by us, unseeing, but when Ella passes, she gives me a slow nod, like we're in the hallway at school or something. I wave back, hoping my face isn't etched with the heartache that consumes me at the sight of her. Her eyes appear hollow, blank—their color muted. As she walks by, her long brown ponytail swings to the side and I see a small, green, half-moon-shaped tattoo on the side of her neck.

Immediately I shift my gaze back to the old woman on the bench. Her tight perm hovers over the same green moon symbol, but hers is a crescent. The little boy has an identical mark. My mind reels as a realization unfolds while I take in the full length of the dock and all the people on it.

In between the families strolling, the couples holding hands, the kids racing up the wooden planks, are some people who seem to be lit from within. They're in Technicolor—it's almost like I'm watching a movie where certain stars are in 3D while the others are flat. And the radiant ones . . . they share the moon mark. Their eyes reflect a mirror of placidity, an eerie calm.

“They're dead,” I announce with certainty.

“Ghosts,” says Thatcher, nodding.

“They seem so tranquil.”

“They're echoes of their former energy.”

“They glow,” I say. “And they have a . . .” I move my eyes to his neck. He bends his head and turns slightly. His skin looks soft and radiates warmth as I lean in, wondering how this dead boy can seem so alive. And I see it. He has one, too—a nearly full moon mark. Was I so drawn to his face that I didn't notice it before?

He must decipher the question in my eyes, because he says, “You can't usually see it when we're in the Prism. Down here, though, the glow and the green moon are how we distinguish who's living and who's not.”

“But we can see the Living, too, right?” I ask, grabbing onto the first glimmer of hope I've had since waking up in the gray mist. “The people I see without the . . . the moon and the glow . . . they're real?”

“They're
alive
,” he says. “We're all real.”

I don't find that as comforting as he seems to expect me to. “And I have the mark, too?”

Thatcher looks down at my neck, and I pull back my hair. I can feel his eyes on my skin and it makes me shiver.

“Yours hasn't shown up yet,” he says, backing away. “It will. Sometimes it takes a little while.”

“I always wanted a tattoo,” I say lightly.

Thatcher studies me curiously.

“It's a joke.” I can't believe I had to explain it to him. Nick would have gotten it immediately, but then he's not uptight. He's always finding the fun in any situation. Nick. I want to be with him. I want him comforting me. But then Thatcher gives me a small crooked smile, one side tipping up higher than the other, and locks of his blond hair fall over his forehead. I have a strange urge to reach up and comb them back. His face is like something out of an old painting—soft but serious, with strong angles and sharp lines. His eyes aren't like the others', though; they're not dulled at all—they're vibrant and . . . well, alive.

What must it be like to have to deal with the newly deceased all the time? In the beginning, does anyone truly accept this new reality?

A little white Westie comes bounding over, its purple leash trailing along behind it. It stops near our feet and starts sniffing around. Thatcher bends down and passes his fingers through its fur, over and over. But the fur doesn't move.

“Can it see us?” I ask.

“No, but she can sense us. Animals are much more attuned to the unconscious mind than humans are. We tend to drown out our instincts with too much thought.”

I wonder about his instincts.

“Duchess, get over here!” A young woman rushes over and scoops the dog into her arms, continuing to scold her as she walks away.

Thatcher straightens, and for a just a moment he appears to be mourning.

“Could you feel her fur?”

He shakes his head. “Old habit.” His hand is clenched on his thigh.

“How long have you been here?” How long have you been without sensations?

He narrows his eyes. “A while.”

“Did you have a dog?”

He nods. “But he wasn't a sissy dog like that. Griz was a black Lab. Got him when he was a pup. I miss him sometimes, the softness of his fur, the stink of his breath, the roughness of his tongue.” He releases a deep sigh, probably another habit, one of those muscle memories that you do without thinking and that I was told would fade in time. It's a little comforting to realize he hasn't totally let go.

He looks away, maybe embarrassed that he revealed all that. I can see him, roughhousing with a dog, tossing Frisbees for him to catch. I'm suddenly thinking of everything we can't experience. I need the familiar.

“Can you take me to my father?” I ask. “We live at Two thirty-six Blossom Drive on the Ashley River.”

“We don't need an address,” he says, relief reflected in his voice because I'm back on task. Maybe he needs the distraction from his momentary lapse, too. “The portals know where to go. They'll take us where we're needed—to the people who need you—and I'm sure your father will be on the list.”

My chin starts to tremble as the sadness engulfs me again. Imagining my father alone is unbearable. Without me, without . . .

“Where is my mother?” I can't believe Mama wasn't my first thought once I realized where I was. Why didn't she greet me? If I can connect with her, maybe some of this awful emptiness consuming me will go away.

Thatcher clears his throat and narrows his eyes like he's having a hard time reading the answer written on a blackboard somewhere.

“What's the matter? Wasn't this question covered in Ghost Guiding One-oh-one?” I ask.

He snaps his head around to glare at me. “You're not taking this seriously.”

“I think you have serious pretty well covered for both of us.”

“Callie—”

“Look, I just want to see my mom.”

“She's not in the Prism anymore.”

I don't know if I should be assured or worried.

“Where is she?” I ask. “Where did she go?”

“She moved on.”

“To where?”

“Beyond the Prism is a realm that's something like what you probably imagine Heaven to be,” he says.

“Heaven.” I sigh. “So she's happy? She's okay.”

“She's more than that,” says Thatcher, and when I give him a doubtful glance he adds, “Yes, she's absolutely fine.”

The conviction reflected in his eyes assures me that he believes his words, and his certainty is a relief. A weight lifts from my shoulders, one that I didn't even know was there.
Mama is okay
.

“But I can't see her?” I ask, just to be sure.

“No,” he says. “I'm sorry.”

“Hmm, you'd think one perk of dying would be reuniting with people you love, right? Isn't that what all the movies show?”

“It isn't like in the movies, Callie,” says Thatcher, with the hint of a smile, a kindness in his face that eases some of the anxiety I'm feeling.

I study the slatted wood of the dock under my feet. The evening shadows are starting to fall now—the sky's golden glow is giving way to a blue twilight, and the Living are heading back to their cars. I see the ghosts shuffling among them, too, slowly, calmly. “Did you know her?” I ask.

“Your mother?”

I nod.

His mouth sets in a tight line, like he's trying to decide what to tell me. “She left just after I . . . arrived,” he says.

“So you met her,” I say.

“Briefly.”

“And then she left because . . .”

“Ghosts move on when they've completed their haunting,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Let me show you. Walk with me.”

We head to the end of the pier, moving quietly side by side. I watch people pass us—mostly Living, but ghosts, too—sharing space and interacting with each other. A few of the glowing beings even nod at me and Thatcher, and I politely wave back. I'm confused, sad, maybe in shock. But I don't feel like my life is over. It can't be. And there was Ella with her family—sailing with them just as if she were alive.

“Everyone is so peaceful,” I say, thinking back on each scene I just witnessed and the ghosts I see now. “It's not at all like the stories I've heard—the moaning and wailing and terrorizing that ghosts do.”

“Ghosts are peaceful beings,” says Thatcher. He furrows his brow like he's thinking about what he just said. Then he adds, “For the most part.”