Wraith (21 page)

"Goodnight, Zane."     

"Pathetic," Zane said with a sigh, looking
out over a fantastically beautiful seascape of azure water, moderately sized
churning waves (moderate for Hawaii, meaning as big as any I’d ever seen on the
East Coast), and golden sunshine. A steady, moist wind blew strongly in our
faces, but the air was still comfortably warm.

"Worthless."

My eyebrows rose. Sunset Beach looked idyllic this
morning. The red flags that ordinarily signaled "Do not swim here or you
will die a horrible death" were conspicuously absent. A sprinkling of kids
played in the sand. A few people waded. The now familiar shadows that haunted
this particular stretch of beach near my condo were all in their usual places.
But not a surfer was in sight.

"What’s wrong with it?" I asked.

"Onshore wind," he said simply.

As if that explained anything.

Ordinarily, I would ask for more. This morning, I
had other things on my mind.  "Sit down with me," I urged, unrolling
my beach mat in a prime location under a cluster of palms. "I want to
talk."

He sat.

Things were a little awkward between us this
morning, but it wasn’t too bad. What had been harder was convincing my parents
that I would rather hang out on the beach again—presumably alone—than join them
in a second day of house hunting. My mother in particular had been
disappointed, even a little hurt. But I knew I could make it up to her later.
How much time I had left with Zane, I couldn’t bear to think about.

I had been tossing and turning all night.

"So, how much do you remember now?" I
asked quietly. "Do you know your name? Where you came from?"

He sighed and ran a hand absently through his curls.
His body was tense, his expression cheerless. It was a long time before he
answered. "For a while, I was trying to remember," he said finally,
his voice low. "But then I quit."

There was a profound sadness in his voice. I
couldn’t feel it like I could feel the emotions of the shadows—or Rod’s
particularly passionate anger—but it affected me, nevertheless.
"Why?" I asked.

"Because," he began tentatively, idly
plucking at a strand of sea grass which his fingers coursed right through.
"I have this feeling… that my past is not somewhere I really want to
be."

A wave of something, part sympathetic sorrow, part
fear of hurting him further, wafted through me like a dark cloud. I wanted to
tell him to forget it, that we should bag the drama and go do something fun. I
wanted to see him smile again. I wanted to
have
some fun. But a larger
part of me knew that avoiding the elephant that was Zane's predicament would be
selfishness. If we had been brought together for some cosmic reason, it
certainly was not for my entertainment. We needed to do this thing. I needed to
help him.
Really
help him.

"You have to remember, Zane," I insisted.
"One piece at a time. You remembered when your father died. You remembered
a couple years later, when you found out how. Have you remembered anything else
since? Middle school? High school?"

He offered no response.

I coaxed him with a smile. "You remembered you
were an awesome dancer."

He turned his head slowly toward mine. He smiled
back. But only a little. "Like riding a bike, I guess. I do remember a few
school dances. But they couldn't have been in high school, because I remember I
was shorter than the girls."

I laughed. "I’m sure the preteens found you
adorable, despite the height challenge."

Slowly, his smile began to broaden, as if he was
remembering something he didn’t mind at all. Then he downright smirked.

"Maybe," he replied.

I cracked up. "
Shocked
, I am!" I
teased. "Holy crap, Zane, whenever you do remember high school, you’re
going to be impossible. Once the growth spurt hit the girls must have been all
over you."

His green eyes looked into mine. "If they
were," he said with sudden seriousness, "none of them were anything
like you."

My heart skipped a beat. "What do you
mean?"

He held my gaze. "I'm not sure. I just feel
like, if I’d had you around then—maybe I wouldn’t be here, now."

I drew in a breath and held it. "I don’t
understand."

His head turned. He exhaled roughly and trained his
eyes out on the water. "It’s why I don’t want to remember, Kali. Because I
know, somehow, that where I came from—I mean, whatever was happening with me
more recently, before I died—it wasn’t good. It was horrible. I wanted away
from there. And I don’t want to go back now, either in my mind or… any other
way."

I released my pent-up breath. This was hard. He
didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to face his demons. And I didn’t want to
make him. But he could not go on like he was. Not forever. There had to be
something better for him. Something more… satisfying.

"I’m not sure, Kali," he continued, his
voice barely above a whisper. "But I’m afraid I might have—" he broke
off, not wanting to voice the thought. "I’m afraid I might have killed
myself."

No!

The word reverberated in my brain like the clang of
a gong. I didn’t want to accept it. I would not accept it. It was all wrong. 

"Maybe that’s why I—" he began miserably.

"No!" I said again, this time out loud.
"You did not. There’s no way."

He looked at me curiously. "How can you be so
sure?"

"I don’t know," I said stubbornly,
"but I am." I looked at him. At the healthy glow of his sun-kissed
skin, the red blush of his cheeks, the normally laughing eyes. Not this soul.
No way. "Zane, I’ve never met anyone who loved life quite the way you do.
You exude optimism. You reek with humor. Everything about you is passionate,
hopeful, resourceful. No matter how bad things got, you would
not
give
up on yourself. You would find a way to turn it around. I know you would."

His eyes flashed; I saw a glimmer of relief.
"You really think so?"

I smiled. "I know so. So if you’ve been blaming
yourself for the state you’re in, please cut it out. Sheesh—if every person who
committed suicide ended up like you, I’d be talking to ghosts 24/7. Whatever
happened to you, I promise you, it was
not
your choice."

He smiled back at me, but he was clearly still
troubled. "I wish I could be as sure of that as you are."

With a flash of inspiration, I sat up on my mat.
"Do you have any scars?" I asked. "Like, from when you were a
kid?"

His eyebrows rose. "Sure, on my forehead. Do
you see it?" His face was conveniently solid at the moment, and when he
raised a sheaf of curls with his hand I could just see a moon-shaped scar high
on his left temple. I nodded.

"I got that flying over the handle bars of my
bike when I was eight," he continued. "Not my fault, for the record…
stupid ramp collapsed. I got six stitches."

"So, your scars do stay with you," I
deduced. "Stretch out your arms."

He complied warily. "Is there a point to
this?"

My gaze traced the length of his upper and forearms,
which were mostly solid, though the edge of his right hand was missing. The
limbs were lean, muscular, and smooth skinned.

Not a mark on them.

"Look at yourself," I prompted. "Do
these look like the arms of a cutter to you? Almost everyone who thinks about
suicide screws around with less dangerous stuff first. Your arms are perfect. All
of you is perfect. You’re the picture of health, Zane. You obviously took care
of yourself."

His answering smile was genuinely grateful, but the
glint in his eyes was wicked. "Really? You think
all
of me is
perfect? Do tell."

Heedless of annoying vibrations, I smacked playfully
at his still outstretched hands. "Shut up! What I mean is, there’s no
reason to think you suffered from depression before you died. No cuts, no
needle tracks, no picked scabs—"

I paused. Somewhere between "depression"
and "scabs" he had withdrawn his arms abruptly. His face was like a
stone. "Zane? What is it?"

He didn’t answer. His mind seemed far away. For a
long moment, all of him seemed far away. A wide band of transparency floated
through his chest. His tanned torso blended disturbingly well with the sand
beyond, making him, for a moment, look almost invisible.

"Zane!" I repeated.

He stood up. "Sorry," he said vaguely.
"What were we talking about?"

I stood up with him. "We were talking about
you, and you obviously just remembered something important. What was it?"

He hesitated.

"Please tell me," I begged. "Don’t
worry about what I’ll think—this is all about getting you to a better place,
remember?"

His eyes flashed with pain. A deep, bitter pain I
would give anything not to see.

"A better place," he echoed dully. Then he
turned and took a step toward the water. "I'm thinking this is a pretty
great place right here. How about a walk? Or a drive? Your parents left the
car, didn’t they?"

I could not let him off the hook that easily. I
stepped back to his side. "Don’t do this, Zane. Don’t avoid it. Whatever
it is, I’ll help you deal with it. I promise. Just try me."

He was a silent a moment longer. His gaze remained
on the horizon. The muscles in his jaw clenched. "I hate this," he
whispered huskily.

Everything in me wanted to touch him, to comfort
him. But he wouldn’t even look at me. All I could use was my voice.

"I know."

We stood a long time, the wind blowing my hair into
a mass of tangles, his  own curls still as death.

"I remembered a lot just now," he said
finally. "It happens like that sometimes—in a rush. But I don’t want to
talk about it. It’s not you… I just need some time. Do you mind?"

I took a breath. Despite the gravity of his words,
his tone sounded steadier. Perhaps whatever he had remembered, bad as it was,
was an improvement over the wondering.

"No," I said, deciding. "I don’t
mind. For now. If you promise—"

"I promise," he interrupted. "Let’s
talk about you instead."

I groaned. "We talk about me constantly!"

"Oh, I don’t want to talk about superjock,
believe me," he retorted. His voice had turned playful again, and its
familiar, cheerful tone enfolded me like a warm blanket. "I want to talk
about the pre-Oahu you."

I grinned back at him. I had to admit that I was
flattered by the interest he showed in my life—even the little, boring stuff. A
short break in the seriousness would be okay, wouldn't it?  We had all day,
after all.

I turned to sit back down on my beach mat, but
jumped to notice the sudden appearance of a particularly grungy looking biker
dude, a little too solid for comfort, standing over the spot of beach I had
just vacated. He was drinking a brand of beer I didn't recognize, smoking a
cigarette butt so short he could barely hold it, and staring aimlessly down at
the sand. As I watched, wondering why I'd never seen this particular spectacle
before, he let out a belch and flopped down, sprawling one incredibly
disgusting looking foot—in dire need of a good wash, not to mention a toenail
trim—right over the spot of mat where my head should be.

"Ugh!" I groaned out loud. I grabbed a
corner of my mat and tugged on it, but as I did, a curious sensation washed
over me.

His heart is breaking.

"Kali?" Zane asked, "Is it a
shadow?"

I stared at the apparition, one of so many
unpleasant ones that, over the years, I had ignored without a second thought.
It was easier when I didn't feel them.

"Yes," I answered absently, still
studying. The biker was just about the ugliest man I ever saw—early thirties
maybe, but already with a pot belly and thinning hair. His face was acne
scarred; his nose far too big for his face, and crooked besides. He had a pouch
rigged up to hang from a belt loop that poorly concealed some type of knife.
And, although odor wasn't usually part of the equation with the shadows, I
could swear I caught a whiff of B.O.

"What's it doing?"

I dragged my beach mat a few yards away and laid it
back down, still unable to take my eyes off the shadow. "He's mourning a
lost love," I answered
. And very soon, he's going to slit his wrists.

I shook my head to clear the image. I didn't know
that for sure. I couldn't possibly. But his despair went deep; his sense of
worthlessness was profound.

And, as always with the shadows, there wasn't a
single thing I could do about it.

"Is it bothering you?" Zane asked.
"We can move somewhere else."

Without answering, I dragged my mat several more
yards out of the shade of the palms and into full sun. What the heck? I wanted
a tan.

I plopped back down on my beach mat, determined to
put the shadow out of my mind. So what if I could feel them all more now? I had
learned to ignore the sight of them; I could learn to ignore their feelings,
too.

I had to.

"What were we talking about?" I asked, as
cheerfully as I could manage.

Surprisingly, Zane did not pursue the question of
the shadow, but sat back down beside me with a smile. "We were talking
about you," he explained. "Like why you never learned to swim."

My eyes rolled. "We were? Funny, I don't
remember that."

"How is it possible?" he continued
doggedly. "You’re a natural athlete."

I grimaced. "It’s embarrassing."

"Tell me."

"You’ll laugh."

"I won’t!" he insisted. "I
promise."

I let out an exaggerated sigh. It was hardly my
favorite topic, but it beat thinking about the biker dude. I couldn't help him.
I
could
help Zane. At least, I hoped I could.

"When I was three years old," I began with
resignation, "my day care went on a field trip to a Japanese garden."