As he talks, his words run over my body and I can’t help but feel something physical, despite him telling me to let that go. Because of his voice. His voice. It’s like a velvet cloth draping over me and closing out the rest of the world with its soft, tender tone. He doesn’t sound authoritative or impatient or frustrated. His rhythm is effortless and full of grace. I almost feel like I’m falling asleep, but I open my eyes and I’m wide-awake, here in Nick’s room. The blanket of Thatcher’s voice, though, makes me feel thoughtless. Not in the sense of being uncaring, but in the sense that my brain isn’t moving. I’m giving in to a sensation of . . . peace?
I watch Nick scan the room. His breathing is even, his face soft. He looks serene, still. Maybe it’s working. His gaze moves in my direction, unseeing, but I imagine that he feels my presence. He always used to be able to sense that I was coming: even if I was just walking behind him in the hall at school, he’d turn and meet my eyes. Or if I was about to drive up to his house, he’d be waiting in the window. I can still see the shadow of his smile the last time we—
Suddenly the tone of a text on Nick’s phone sounds. To me, it feels like glass is shattering, like the fragile hold that peace had on me, on us, is broken.
Nick picks up his phone and starts texting back, and more texts come in, rapid-fire style, as he responds with fast-moving fingers.
I look at Thatcher. His eyes are still closed.
“You stopped talking,” I say.
“I never spoke.”
“I heard you—the stuff about the life force, and my body.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks.
“You were tuned in to an internal peace. I thought it, but I didn’t say it out loud.” He smiles. “You’re learning.” I think about when I tried to call to Reena and she came—that must have been more than coincidence.
“Jesus.” Nick tosses the phone to the end of his bed, annoyed. Before I think twice, I lean over and read the parts of the text conversation that I can see. The person he’s talking to is just the letter H.
Nick: because i didn’t get a chance to
H: well i guess it doesn’t matter now
Nick: Just
Nick: i can’t talk about this ok?
H: It’s been 3 weeks
That’s the end of the conversation. Three weeks. “Three weeks since what?” I wonder aloud.
“Callie, the world of the Living isn’t your concern anymore,” says Thatcher. “I know your pain is hard to let go of, but didn’t you feel the peace just now, the larger picture?”
I did, but hello . . . who is H? What are these texts? “Not now, Thatcher,” I say, looking back at Nick. He’s leaning against his headboard, staring into space. His face is tortured.
I look down at my feet so I don’t have to see Nick’s pain. That’s when I spot an empty bottle of Jameson whiskey sticking out from under the bed.
Thatcher catches me eyeing it. “Desperate times . . .”
“That’s not like Nick. He hardly even drinks at parties.”
“Grief can do strange things to people.” Thatcher grows somber, like he’s talking not just about the change in Nick, but his own personal experience.
“What do the texts mean?” I ask, but he just shakes his head. “Was he talking about the time since I died? Three weeks?”
“That’s not your focus,” he says. “You can’t get into their everyday lives. You’re here for something bigger, and your energy needs to be calm. Get your feelings under control.”
I hate this. Thatcher keeps telling me to even out my energy, to contain my feelings, but I can’t. I don’t know how to not feel what I feel. And what I feel is confusion about those texts, not to mention devastation at the sight of my boyfriend, who’s drinking alone, mourning the loss of . . . me. It’s so unfair that I’m here but he doesn’t know it.
“Nick! Dinner!” Mrs. Fisher calls from downstairs, and after a beat, Nick snaps out of his spacey trance and heads down the stairs.
“Let’s try with someone else,” says Thatcher. “Maybe if it’s not Nick, you’ll be able to control your emotions a little more, hold the peace longer.”
I hesitate for a second, staring at the phone. Instinctively, I reach out to touch the screen, recalling hours of texting Carson and flipping through apps. It scrolls up, and I can see more of the conversation. Just one more line.
“I touched it!” I say, jumping up and waving my arms. “I touched the phone!”
Thatcher folds his arms across his chest. “Yes, you did.”
“Your enthusiasm seems less than genuine.”
“Touching objects is not your goal. It has nothing, in fact, to do with what we’re trying to accomplish.”
Reena would be excited for me—she’d help me do even more.
I’m so happy about the touch that I almost forget why I reached for the phone screen in the first place. Almost. I read the top line.
H: Why didn’t you do it before the accident?
Eleven
AS WE HURTLE THROUGH THE PORTAL, my mind races with questions: Who is “H”? What was Nick supposed to do before the accident? Were they definitely talking about my accident? Thatcher wants me to forget it—I can tell that he thinks seeing Carson will distract me. I know he wants me to sit and be calm, but no matter what he says, I’m going to touch something again, and get some answers.
We’re standing in Carson’s front yard. I can’t feel the sun’s rays the same way I did when I was alive. Instead I’m experiencing the fantasy of this type of day, an imagined warmth. It doesn’t seem real because it isn’t—my body isn’t here. All sensation is a memory. But I can see the sultry heat in the wilting stems of the front-garden flowers. The sun is beating down in that harsh way that only Charleston in summer can withstand, when every glass of sweet tea is sweating like it’s in a sauna and people move three times more slowly than they do in the winter.
Carson’s VW Beetle is in the driveway of her bungalow-style house. Intense barking echoes in the distance.
“Come on,” I say to Thatcher, glad to have him following me for once.
We walk along the side path to the backyard where Carson’s puggle is sniffing around the lace-curtained doghouse.
“Georgia, girl!” I shout, wishing I could scoop her up in my arms.
She starts barking like crazy.
I squat next to her. She keeps barking in random directions, like she’s trying to find me.
“Georgia, what on the green Earth are you doing?”
From the sliding glass door of her patio, Carson stares down at Georgia and shakes her head. She’s wearing bright pink flip-flops, tiny jean shorts, and a white T. She’s got a copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God in her right hand—it’s on our summer reading list for English. I have the urge to rush up and hug her, to take her hand and get in the car to go for a drive, to tell her everything that’s happening to me. I feel bottled up, stuck, without her to talk to.
I stand up, but Thatcher moves forward, cautioning me.
“I won’t do anything,” I reassure him. “I just want to be near her.”
Georgia’s still barking as I move closer, and Carson is shouting, “Hush, Georgia, hush!”
“Shhh . . . ,” I whisper to the dog. Georgia stops and cocks her head—she’s looking right at me.
Carson looks up, too, not at me, but past me into the backyard.
“I think the dog sees me,” I say excitedly, moving closer to Carson.