“Is that why you turned away from me earlier?”
His face falls, but just for a moment, and then he puts on his mask again. The one that hides his feelings. One of the things I love about Nick is his openness and honesty. He never hides anything from me. That’s why he’s hurting so badly now.
“Okay,” I say. “If you’re really on my side, then take me to my father.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“There’s an order to haunting,” he says. “First you practice on people who aren’t as close to you—the portals will lead you to them. And you work up to the ones who mean the most.”
I consider this “order” for a moment. “But Nick is someone I love. He’s as close to me as anyone in my life.”
Thatcher doesn’t respond; he just looks out the window.
“Did you hear me?” I say. “Nick is important!”
“I don’t decide these things,” says Thatcher. “The universe does.”
“The universe does,” I mock him. He sounds so crazy. This is all so freaking crazy. And terrifying. I don’t want to be without the people I love, the ones who love me.
“Can’t you just leave me here?” I ask. “I’ll sign something saying that I take full responsibility for my actions. I’ll figure it all out on my own.”
“It’s not that simple. I know it might not feel like it, but you did well. Your energy is extreme, but . . .” His voice trails off and then he meets my eyes. “Don’t worry—you’ll find ways to help everyone you love move forward.”
His tone is gentle again. I soften, letting my frustration give way to sadness as I sink down onto my bed. Thatcher scans the room once, taking in each corner of my old life, and then he comes back to the bed and sits down with me. When I look up at him, I notice a tiny scar on the left side of his chin. I wonder how he got it.
“But how do I move forward?”
“I need you to be patient while you learn,” he says. “You are not to haunt anyone unless I’m by your side. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I’ve always been independent, willing to explore new things, but it’s not like I can research this realm on Google and figure out where I need to go or what I need to do. As much as I hate to admit it, I also seem to have no instincts when it comes to this haunting business. It felt horrible trying to make Nick see and hear me without any response from him. Thatcher is the only thing here that makes me believe that I still exist.
Then he stands up, and panic rises in my chest. I don’t want to go anywhere, not now. “No, I’m not leaving my house. I need to stay here. I want to see my father—”
“Callie, I swear to you, you’ll see your father,” says Thatcher. “Right now let’s just take a break.”
I look down at my yellow area rug, all tufted and bright except for the worn-in spot where I step out of bed in the mornings. I want to lie down under my soft comforter and sleep forever, only waking up if I can start this day all over again.
“I don’t want to go,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says, a tinge of regret in his voice, like he does know.
“Did you . . .” Within the depths of his gray-blue eyes is an openness, an honesty that draws me in. “Did you, you know, haunt your family?”
He turns away from me. “I tried.”
The back of his neck stiffens.
“Do you still haunt them?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says, turning to me again. “But sometimes I—”
His eyes meet and hold mine. I see him struggling to find the words. For the first time, he seems almost as vulnerable as I feel.
“Sometimes you . . . ,” I prod gently.
Sadness flickers in his eyes, and he doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead he says, “We’ll come here again very soon.”
I decide not to push him. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
“It wasn’t Nick’s fault. My death, I mean.”
“Of course not.”
“You know how I died?” I ask.
“I know enough.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, to cause so much sorrow.”
“We never do.” Thatcher’s voice holds an immense amount of understanding. I wonder who-all he hurt. Maybe I do need to trust him. It’s clear that reaching out to Nick on my own won’t work—I can’t even connect with a perfume bottle, let alone a person.
“Will I ever be able to tell him that?” I ask. “That it wasn’t his fault?”
“Yes,” Thatcher says, creating a portal and motioning for me to stand up.
And I do, because I want to believe him.
Six
KALMIA, MAGNOLIAS, AND ROSES are growing in this perfectly kept garden. It’s dark outside, but I’d know this spot even if I were blindfolded.
“Middleton Place,” I whisper.
After speeding through the portal, I find the stillness of the historic plantation startling, almost like a quiet morning after a torrential rainstorm. We’re on Ashley River Road, right along the water. There’s a main house with wide-sweeping terraces that look out on acres of manicured grasses, gorgeous paths, and long, garden-lined vistas to the river and the marshland in the distance.
“I used to come here with Mama,” I tell Thatcher, staring out at two swans swimming in the reflection pool in front of us. Lanterns along the dark shore cast a soft yellow glow. “We’d bring bread crumbs and sit by the water together.”
I smile at the memory of my mother—it seems sharper in my mind now that I’m back here again. I spin around slowly, taking in the landscape and missing the light, powdery scent of the crepe myrtle all around us. Homesickness and a deep loneliness wash over me.
“Is there someone I’m supposed to haunt here?” I ask, wondering when I’ll visit Carson. I want to see her, but I doubt she’s out in the middle of the night.
“No,” says Thatcher. “I just wanted to bring you, I mean . . . I wanted you to have . . .”
He fumbles over his words, like he’s nervous.
“I wanted to give you a break,” he finally says. “After seeing Nick. I know that was kind of . . .”
“Intense,” I finish for him. I flash back to my bedroom, and I realize how suffocatingly sad it felt there, surrounded by all that I’ve lost. I’m grateful for the open night sky above me right now.
“Right. And this is the most serene spot I know of in Charleston, at least at night, so . . .”
He pauses again, and when I see his furrowed brow, I realize that he’s waiting for my reaction. “Thank you,” I say. “This place means a lot to me.”
Thatcher gives me a quick smile and turns toward the path, away from the pond. “Shall we take a walk?” he asks, like he’s an old-time gentleman come to call on the lady of the plantation.
He starts off on the path without waiting for an answer, and I watch him move gracefully, a few steps in front of me. I peer down at his feet, so close to the earth but not quite touching it, and I wonder if he always had this smooth rhythm to his walk or if it’s a ghost thing. His motions are so controlled, so deliberate. It’s like he’s holding on to something—maybe his whole sense of the universe—very tightly.
I follow behind him, my eyes raking over the grounds. I’ve never been here at night, and as ironic as it sounds given my current ghost status, it’s a little spooky without all the tourists milling around.
I rush to catch up to him, and for a second I almost take his arm, because it feels natural, but something holds me back. We walk together slowly and quietly. There’s an ease to our silence that’s almost more comforting than talking, and I’m suddenly glad that it isn’t Sarah or Ryan who’s with me in this strange new space.
“Why did you volunteer to be my Guide?” I ask.