Suddenly a thought occurs to me. “Did I miss my funeral?”
“What?” Thatcher blinks in surprise.
“My funeral,” I repeat. “If it hasn’t happened, can we—”
“Not possible,” says Thatcher. “Time here feels very slow, but it actually moves quite quickly in Earth terms. Your accident was over two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks? That can’t be possible. I just got here.”
“It’s possible. We’re in a different dimension. The time-space continuum—”
“Save the physics lesson.” I sigh. “So my funeral already happened.”
I look down at my hands and wonder if Dad spoke, if Carson said anything. If Nick wore the dark blue suit he bought for last year’s formal.
Morbidly, I also wonder if Dad had an open casket for me—if my body was . . . intact.
I suddenly realize that I haven’t thought of the other driver, and guilt rushes through me for being so selfish. “Was anyone else hurt?”
“No. Only you.”
“Oh.” That’s good. How could I have been so self-involved that I didn’t think to ask that until now? Is the Prism changing me? Dulling my humanity somehow? I almost can’t believe I’m able to go a moment without weeping. Am I transforming into one of the calm and placid ghosts? Do I want to?
And then I wonder: How does Thatcher know so much about me?
“It seems like you know more about my death than I do,” I say.
He nods. “The Guides know the circumstances of souls who come into the Prism. It helps us to aid them with the haunting process.”
“It was Route Fifty-two, right?” I ask him.
“Yes, but going back there isn’t an option. Dwelling on the end won’t help your loved ones, or you, move forward.”
I didn’t ask to go back there, I think. So why is he so insistent that I not go?
“What was your end?” I ask him.
“An accident,” he says. “Like yours.” He doesn’t flinch. But I’ve already seen the pain that blurs the edges of his controlled persona, the softness that lies underneath.
I gaze at his face, hard and resolute. I study the square line of his jaw. There’s the slightest bit of stubble around the edge of it, like he hasn’t shaved in a day or two. I wonder if his face is frozen in time, exactly the way it was on the day he died. I have the urge to reach up and touch it—I can imagine its soft bristle on my fingertips. I haven’t touched anyone, even for a second, since I’ve been in the Prism, and now that Thatcher’s told me it’s “discouraged,” I feel even more like I need to do it. Just a quick touch, his strong arms coming around me, bringing me in against his solid chest.
As though he knows the direction of my thoughts, he breaks his gaze from mine and clears his throat soundly.
“You’ll be comfortable here,” he says in a businesslike tone. He looks around again, like he’s a real estate agent showing me the property. “So anyway, this is your prism, and you create what that is. Some people’s prisms may be totally devoid of memories, but it’s all about what you’re focused on, and what’s best to help you transition.”
I take in a deep breath, acutely aware of the absence of sensation: no scent, no air rushing through the passages, no need to exhale because I’m not actually filling my lungs. A momentary panic shoots through me, as though I could suffocate.
“Are you okay?” Thatcher asks, taking a step toward me.
I nod quickly, try to swallow. No saliva. Crap. “Yeah, I’m just suddenly really noticing what’s not there. I feel like I’m dying all over again.”
He moves nearer. “Look at me, Callie. Don’t center your thoughts on what’s not there. Concentrate on what you can see.”
What I see are his eyes, such a deep blue, like the view of the middle of the ocean from a ship my dad and I once went on. I couldn’t see into the depths of the water, but I knew so much was there. Thatcher’s like that. A calm surface, but buried beneath it is more than I can ever imagine.
“You can’t die here,” he says, his voice even, soothing, drawing me away from the panic. “No more pain.”
“No more pleasure,” I stammer.
“Not true. There are some physical sensations, not true physical sensations, but there are pleasant experiences. Right now, though, notice that your sight and hearing are so much more attuned. You still have them. Your soul can feel electrical impulses. When you need to feel that, rub your thumbs over your fingers.” He holds his hand up to demonstrate.
His hands are large, strong, the kind where the muscles and tendons seem flexed even when they’re relaxed. I follow his orders, circling my thumbs over my fingers, feeling myself becoming more centered.
I find myself swallowing again, even though there’s no saliva, nothing to swallow. But it’s not frightening. It’s just what it is—or what it’s not.
“Let yourself absorb the energy of your prism.” His voice is almost hypnotic. “Just relax. Imagine you’re floating on gentle waves, balloons holding you up, moving you with the soft wind.”
I nod. “I’m okay now.” But I still need his voice. “Tell me about this place.”
“I like to think of the Prism as a honeycomb, like bees make. Each of us has our own chamber, or room, or our prism . . . and all the prisms make up the big world of Prism with a capital P. Does that make sense?”
“I think so,” I murmur, back to being myself.
“Good,” he says, backing away slowly as though I’m a skittish cat he doesn’t want to frighten. “So this is your personal prism, your resting place.”
“My final resting place?” I joke, trying to get us both back to where we were before I made a fool of myself.
He smiles indulgently, and I appreciate that. “Why don’t you relax here for a while?”
“Relax?” I ask. “What am I supposed to do without the internet?”
“Nothing,” he says. “That’s the beauty of it. Sit, connect with your conscious mind, work through some of your memories. That’s the first level.”
“The first level of what?” I ask.
“The first level of the soul. With most who arrive here, the memories come when they are ready to be dealt with. Since you have all of yours, you can pick the ones you want to focus on, like a kaleidoscope.”
I shake my head—this is getting too weird for me, and I don’t need the pressure of connecting with my soul.
“I’ll be back after a while, Callie.”
“You’re leaving me alone?” I’m suddenly cold at the thought of Thatcher leaving. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts, dwelling on my death. “Please don’t go.”
“You’ll be fine. Just focus on what is instead of what’s not. You’re safe here.”
“Safe? Safe from what?” I ask.
“It’s just an expression.”
“What about that Leo guy?”
He stiffens. “He can’t bother you here. Just remember not to invite anyone in.”
I glance frantically around my prism. “I’m not ready to be alone yet.”
“But everything here is designed to bring you comfort.”
I rub my hands up and down my arms. “It’s not working. I know you’re tired, that you need to be reenergized or whatever, but can’t you do that here? You can rest on the bed. You don’t even have to talk to me. I just don’t want to be by myself. Not yet.”
He studies me intently. Compassion flickers in his eyes. His gaze darts to the bed, to the chair, to me. “You can have the bed.”
In long strides, he crosses over to the chair and settles into it.