Seven
BACK IN THE PRISM, Thatcher appears to have recovered somewhat. He looks more like his no-nonsense, let’s-get-this-done self.
“If you stay on Earth for too long, your energy will fade,” he explains, now that his voice is back. “Earth is not a natural place for the soul to exist without a body, so it takes a lot of energy for us to be there. After a short amount of time away, we always need to return to the Prism—it’s our energy base.”
We walk for a few minutes through the mist. Nothing is getting any clearer—I can’t see more than five feet in front of my face—but Thatcher moves with a purpose, like he’s heading somewhere specific.
We stay silent, and I notice that I’m experiencing things differently here than I do on Earth. In the Prism, there’s a lightness—it almost feels like I haven’t eaten for a while. My whole being has a slight hum running through it. I become conscious of the fact that my sight and hearing are crisp, but my body feels like it’s underwater—blurred.
My thoughts are buzzing with everything that’s happened since the accident. My entire world has shifted—it’s been lost, found, and reshaped. This mysterious place with fog and mist and grayness isn’t my home. I want to be on Earth, to stay there as long as I can. Thatcher made it seem like that wasn’t a good choice—or even an option—while Reena indicated that there was a way. And Ella Hartley was at the pier, walking alongside her family like everything was almost happy, nearly okay. That’s what I want for the people I love, too.
I flash to Nick’s sadness, the way he crumpled onto the window seat in my room, and I wince at the memory. His pain was so visceral—I have to find a way to ease it. Is that really what Thatcher will teach me to do?
Thatcher. I take in his profile, strong and sure. He’s merely inches away from me, and I realize that he hasn’t once brushed up against me or led me with a touch. I know if I—or anyone—rush toward him, it creates that undulating wave that repels, but what about a subtle approach?
I lean sideways in his direction slightly and his body moves away from me in a fluid motion, almost like we’re opposing magnets. I try again, stretching my fingers toward his, but his hand moves in the other direction, and it looks involuntary, like we’re meant to maintain a certain measured distance between us. I’m not even sure he’s aware of my reaching for him.
Just as I’m about to ask him about it, we arrive at a blue door.
“Each of us has a prism, a sanctuary,” Thatcher says. “This is yours. Open it.”
When I turn the silver knob, the door swings inward, and I step into my room. It’s not really my room, at least not as it exists now—there’s no life-interrupted quality to it like my real room had, with the lemonade and the unmade bed. This room looks as if it’s from my childhood, a past version of my room, and my phantom heart suffers a hit—thump—as I take in my desk, my bed, my window seat, my posters, my closet, my shelves. Mine.
Everything shimmers just a little bit, like it might disappear if I touch it.
Thatcher is standing just outside the doorway. His lips are parted slightly as he examines my space, but he’s careful not to lean over the threshold even as his eyes fill with wonder.
“If you’re so interested, you should just come in,” I say.
He doesn’t move, but he presses his lips into a firm line and quickly masks his awe. “You shouldn’t invite ghosts into your prism,” he chides as though I should have known. “It’s your personal space.”
I tilt my head, searching his face. Why does he shut down his feelings? Why does he avoid sharing too much with me?
“I’ve been through a lot today,” I remind him. “And you’re the one who’s been beside me for all of it. Don’t tell me you’re leaving me now.” I reach out to take his hand, but he pulls away from my touch, as though it could harm him, destroy him even.
I look down, a little hurt.
“Callie, I . . .” When I lift my gaze to his, he tries to smile as he cautiously steps into the room. Immediately, he gasps. The sunspots—the ones that gather to form a portal—dance across his body, lighting up like a thousand fireflies all around him. I watch him, captivated, as he stands still and straight until the glow starts to fade.
“What was that?” I ask, almost breathless at the sight of him now. He looks lit from within.
But he tries to brush it off, turning to the window so I can’t see his face as he answers. “The energy in your prism is very strong. When I entered, it was shared with me.”
“Well, you’re welcome!” I say, trying to lighten things a little. I go to stand next to him at the window, but when I approach, he moves to the side, putting a foot between us.
“Got it,” I say, turning to my bed across the room.
“No, I didn’t mean . . . ,” he starts. But then he says, “Never mind.”
“What?” I ask as I sit on the bed.
“Touching is discouraged,” he says quietly.
“Why?”
“There’s an energy exchange when ghosts touch. Like when I entered your prism. I’ve taken some of your energy already, just by being here.”
“But if we touched, then wouldn’t you be sharing some with me, too?” I ask.
“Yes, in theory. But—”
I shake my head, cutting him off. “It’s okay,” I say, suddenly feeling self-conscious that I’m sitting here trying to talk Thatcher into touching me. It’s not a direction I meant to go in.
“Callie, it’s not that I don’t want to,” he says, interpreting my interruption as disappointment. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve shared even a casual handshake with someone. I miss it, sometimes.”
I would think so. My heart aches for him.
“That makes me sad. Carson used to say that touch was the best healing people could give to each other.”
Thatcher crosses his arms over his chest and nods. “It can be, yes.”
“I went through a phase after my mom died where I didn’t want to be touched,” I confide in him. “But Carson would not tolerate it—she would wrap her arms around me and hold tight until I stopped trying to fight her off.”
I smile at the memory, but when I glance at Thatcher, he looks bewildered.
“Don’t worry, I won’t do that to you,” I say.
“You wouldn’t be able to,” says Thatcher. “Touching only happens if both ghosts are open to it.”
“Is that why I’ve felt this magnetic opposition between us sometimes, how you stopped me from reaching Nick and Leo couldn’t make contact with you?”
“Right. Your energy is personal—you need it for haunting—and it isn’t to be shared. To that end, Callie, you shouldn’t invite anyone else into your prism.”
“What? So no prism-warming party?” I ask, teasing him a little.
I can tell that he doesn’t know whether or not to take me seriously. Finally he says, “No parties.”
“No jokes either,” I say under my breath.
I move over to my green Pottery Barn antique-look desk and pick up a photo frame that holds a picture of me and Carson from Halloween about ten years ago—we’re both wearing bumblebee costumes. Mine’s orange, hers is blue. The frame is solid in my hand; it’s really here. Mama took the picture—it was the last Halloween she had with us.
“Who set up this room?” I ask, wondering if it might have been, if it could have been—
“You did.”
I feel silly for thinking Mama might have done it. I don’t want to accept that she’s not here waiting for me. I haven’t been to church regularly, but I do know that the idea of a Heaven where your family members wait for you to join them has been in my head since I was a kid. It’s heartbreaking to know that’s not how it works. It doesn’t seem fair.