Relief swamps me, because he’s staying. The thought of being alone filled me with such dread. What if I had another panic attack? I never had them when I was alive. How strange to have one when I’m dead.
I wrap my arms around my body as I walk around my room, a little too antsy just yet to rest. I wish Mama were here. It’s a thought I had a thousand times while I was alive. I’m sure everyone who loses a mother feels that way. But losing a mother and having a father who pushes away grief and tamps down his own feelings feels especially lonely sometimes.
When I was alive and loneliness hit, I found my next adventure, anything from trying to do a skateboard jump off the roof at age seven (minor cuts and bruises) to my last exhilarating moment, speeding along the highway (which didn’t end so well).
But here? I have no idea how to chase away the empty.
A mirror hangs on the back of my door, and I pivot around in front of it, taking in my image. I look alive—I can’t even see the shimmering robe in this mirror, just my last outfit—white shorts, boatneck T. I lean in closer to inspect my neck, but I don’t see a moon mark.
“You can’t see it here,” Thatcher reminds me.
“I thought maybe I was an exception.”
“Apparently so when it comes to a lot of things, but not that.”
I glance over at him. He doesn’t seem irritated or upset. He seems to just be waiting. “Will this hurt ever go away?”
“Eventually. Try to focus on your memories.”
I take in each detail of this space, letting my eyes travel over the curve of my dresser drawers and the slight nick near the bottom where I ran into it roller-skating around my room in second grade, the collection of neglected but not yet donated stuffed animals in a corner chair, the soft draping of my sheer yellow curtains brushing the window seat.
As I absorb each inch of my prism, the hollow feeling in my stomach starts to fade.
This place is cozy, this place is mine—it knows me. I realize there are even items from different time periods on display. My bulletin board features the horse jumping ribbon I won in first grade—the one Dad let me take to school for show-and-tell three times, just so I could talk about how I urged the spotted pony Double Take over the highest fence on the course. I finger the purple satin, marveling at how real it feels. It can’t be actually here, right? Does this place truly exist, like in a way that would hold up in science class?
I sit down on the bed, which feels exactly like my bed at home—the perfect combination of soft and firm—and I struggle to get in touch with the inner peace that ghosts are apparently supposed to have. Lying back, I let my head touch the pillow as I roll over on one side. I draw solace from Thatcher’s presence. He’s so tall, broad, strong. I bet every girl wanted to be his when he was alive. And now—
“Can we do anything on Earth except haunt? Can we sneak into a movie—”
“No. We have to remain focused on our purpose.”
“Right, our purpose.”
“Draw on your memories—”
“They just make me sad. To know all that’s gone.”
He leans forward, planting his elbows on his thighs, his eyes earnest, the blue darkening into sapphire. “If you could only hold on to one memory forever, which would it be?”
“Is that how it works? I can only keep one?”
He slowly shakes his head. “No, it’s just an exercise to help you focus. But wouldn’t you choose a good memory, one that makes you feel loved?”
“I have so many of those.”
“Pick one. Concentrate on it. Share it with me,” Thatcher urges solemnly, his voice hypnotic.
To pick only one seems an impossible task. But I give my mind the freedom to explore all the possibilities. A jumble of memories rushes through my mind, and it’s almost like I’m inside each memory—hearing, seeing, smelling, feeling the moments. I’m being pummeled with the past, but I can’t stop thinking of more and more—it’s addictive to be with Nick again, and that’s what it feels like, like I’m really with him for the time it takes to recall a memory.
“After the spring dance, I had a curfew and Nick didn’t,” I begin. “My dad made sure I was home by midnight, but after I said good night to him, Nick came up to my room . . .”
“Is the coast clear?” he asked, whispering in the darkness.
“Shhh.” I pushed back my covers and met Nick at the window in my pajamas. He was still wearing his suit.
“You changed,” he said.
“You’re overdressed,” I said, pulling him close and loosening his tie.
“May I have this dance?” he asked, stepping back and offering me his hand.
I took it, and he led me to a square of moonlight that spilled onto the little yellow rug near my bed.
I tried to get him to take off his suit that night, to crawl under the covers with me. But he said, “Tonight is about romance,” and we held each other, swaying to the quiet songs my iPod shuffled until two a.m.
A fresh surge of grief hits my chest. I just relived that moment. Was that my unconscious mind taking over? A tear forms in my eye. Why did I always push things away like that? Why didn’t I savor that moment in the moonlight? Why did I need it to be more?
“That was intense,” I whisper. “I could see, hear, smell, touch . . . everything. Like it was real again.”
“I know. I could sense it . . . almost like I was there as you painted the images. Your memories are so powerful.”
We’re both silent for a minute.
Then he says, “You really miss him, don’t you?”
“Yes. Isn’t that normal? Didn’t you lose a girl you loved when you died?”
Sadness equal to mine seems to consume him. I watch his throat muscles work. If he were alive, he’d be swallowing. “I lost her later.”
Before I can say anything, he shoves himself to his feet, and I know he’s regretting that he opened a small portal into his soul, revealed a hint of vulnerability, shared a portion of his life. I have an urge to wrap my arms around him and reassure him that everything will be all right.
“We’ve rested enough,” he says succinctly. “We should probably return to haunting now.”
In spite of the questions nagging me, I swing my legs over the bed and stand up. I point down to my desk, at the photo of me and Carson.
“I want to see her,” I say, and to my surprise, he nods agreeably.
But when we rush through the portal that Thatcher draws, we don’t emerge in Carson’s room or her backyard or even her car.
We land in a graveyard.
Eight
THE SKY IS BLACK, but the yellow glow of a streetlamp peeks through the Spanish moss that hangs from the giant live oaks over the crumbling tombstones. This is a huge cemetery—we’re in Historic Charleston. A crowd of people are gathered around a man in old-timey clothes who’s holding an oil lamp above his head.
He rambles on about Charleston’s paranormal history, talking about Boo Hags, creatures who “ride” their victims by slipping into their skin and walking around wearing their bodies. “It’s best not to fight a Boo Hag,” says the guide. “They won’t kill ya unless you struggle—they may want to come back again for another ride later, see?”
“At least we know Boo Hags and possession aren’t real,” I say to Thatcher, like we’re a couple sharing a private joke. His jaw twitches but he doesn’t respond; he just stares straight ahead into the night.
The tour group is closed in tight around the guide, but a few other figures are hanging back a little bit.
I recognize Ryan, one of the Guides who met me when I first got to the Prism. He’s with a girl who’s about our age, and both of them have the glow and the moon mark. When Ryan sees me wave, they walk over to us.