“Callie, be careful,” says Thatcher, and I ignore the caution in his tone. I’m determined to show her I’m here.
I reach forward for Carson’s arm, sure that she’ll feel my touch—she’s so in tune with people’s spirits; she’s always believed. And since the night of the ghost tour, with our song coming on the radio, she’s probably looking for me everywhere.
I imagine the softness of her cotton sleeve as my fingertips get closer and closer. . . . But just before I touch her, a jolt of heat rushes through me, stinging my hand, and Carson yelps in pain. She rubs her arm near where my hand was, where a faint red shadow lingers.
“Georgia, did you see . . . ,” she starts. She gazes out into her yard, and her eyes reflect something that looks like wonder—or hope. Then her face clouds over and her mouth falls into a heartbroken line, like she’s been hit with a fresh wave of hurt.
“Carson, I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out to her again.
Suddenly I feel a pull, something sweeping me away . . . Thatcher. And then we’re not at Carson’s anymore. We’re out on the Battery, a walking path on the water at the tip of Charleston’s peninsula, under the palmettos that sway in the soft breeze.
“What just happened?” I ask.
“I had to get us out of there,” he says, staring at me intensely. “You were too worked up. Your energy wasn’t controlled—it misfired, you hurt her, and you were about to do it again.”
I lower my head instantly as a tear threatens to fall. “I didn’t mean to. I was trying to show her I was there.”
“I know. I know. But I’ve been trying to explain how that type of connection—the surface level—only makes them linger in sadness.”
He runs his hand through his hair and looks out on the water, frowning. “Trying to prove that you’re physically with them only leads to them holding on tighter. We’re looking for a release. Superficial connections can make them sad—only a soulful connection brings peace.”
I nod. I understand what he’s saying, but it’s such an abstract concept. Reaching out feels so much more natural to me.
“Are you hurt?” asks Thatcher.
I realize I’m cradling my hand, the one that touched Carson. I can still feel it throbbing with energy.
“Callie,” says Thatcher softly. He looks at me carefully, his face more sympathetic than usual.
He moves his arm toward me, and I place my vibrating hand in his, knowing that in this instance, he is choosing touch, reaching for it. The moment our skin meets, I feel an undulating wave of pleasure wash through me. If I still breathed, it would steal my breath. It’s cataclysmic, intense. A rush of emotion, affection, magnetic power encompasses me. Thatcher turns my hand over and traces the lines of my palm very slowly. As he does, the buzzing slows and then stops. His fingers are soft on my skin, and it’s like he’s drawing out the excess energy from an ocean and leaving a glassy lake in its place, still and serene.
I look up at him in wonder, and I take in his blue eyes—which are open and kind in this moment. “You have so much energy,” he says, his voice almost wistful. “But it will fade, and then you’ll be calmer, like the rest of the ghosts.”
“Am I supposed to want that? To feel less?”
“Don’t think of it that way. It’s not feeling less; it’s feeling peace.”
I look at him skeptically.
“It’s better,” he reassures me. “Trust me. It makes it much easier to haunt. Most ghosts come to the Prism without their memories and with a natural sense of tranquillity because we’re incomplete echoes of our former selves. Only merging with Solus makes us whole again.”
“I don’t like the idea of being an echo,” I say.
“You’re not one,” says Thatcher, and I think I see a smile on his lips. “That’s the problem.”
“But I still don’t understand why I’m not at peace like the other ghosts,” I say.
Thatcher stares at me, his face growing serious again, but he doesn’t reply. It almost seems like he’s trying to will me to answer the question for myself.
“Maybe it’s because I’ve spent my life trying to feel more,” I mumble.
“What?” Thatcher tilts his head.
I shrug. “Nothing.”
He looks away, and for a second I think he’s going to put up a wall again, turn back into a Guide instead of a friend.
Instead he motions inland. “Do you know White Point Gardens?”
“Of course.” He doesn’t face me, but I can see the openness in his relaxed profile, and warmth consumes me as I fall into step beside him.
“I like to walk and talk,” he says, and I understand, because I’m like that, too. Somehow, moving forward makes conversations a little lighter, a little easier.
We step through the manicured grounds, under dappled shade from the dozens of live oaks that seem to stretch out horizontally with long arms and leafy green fingers. In this park, there are war monuments—cannons and mortars from the Civil War—and we always used to take field trips here in elementary school to hear about “The War of Northern Aggression.” Today, though, I look up into the trees and spot a heron nesting amid the Spanish moss, settling into a soft bed under the warm golden sun.
Thatcher stares straight ahead, and I wonder what he sees in White Point Gardens, what memories of his lie here.
“I had a little sister,” he says quietly. “Wendy, like the girl from Peter Pan—my mom loved J. M. Barrie.”
I stay silent for a moment, eager to learn more about Thatcher. We’re almost friends . . . aren’t we? So I go with it.
“Mama was a huge reader, too. I’m named after the housekeeper in To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“I figured,” says Thatcher.
“You did?” I realize as I say it that I hardly ever tell anyone that, but if I do I usually get a blank stare.
“Freshman English. I watched the movie instead of reading the book.”
“You cheater.”
“Reading took too long. I had better things to do.”
I can relate. I smile at Thatcher. I want to know his story more than ever. “Wendy Darling. Go on.”
“She was like that character, too.” Warmth, like from a crackling fire on a cool morning, flows through his voice as he remembers her. “Even though she was six years younger than I was.”
“You mean she took care of you?”
“She looked out for me. I wasn’t always the most . . . cautious person.”
“Really?” I ask, wondering what other unexpected things Thatcher and I might have in common. “You seem so . . . controlled.”
“I changed. I wasn’t this way when I was alive.”
“Well, I guess not if you ended up dead,” I say, jokingly. But that sounds awful, so I quickly add, “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay; I’ve accepted it. And you’re right. When I was alive, I wanted attention. I felt bored all the time. It was like I was waiting for something exciting to happen to me, but nothing ever did. I started doing stupid things, like driving with my headlights off at night and getting drunk whenever I could—just to feel more there. To feel like I existed. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” And then I look back over my shoulder, pointing toward the water, which is sparkling in the bright summer sun. “On the day that I died, I took my car for a spin on the pier.”
Thatcher’s eyes get wide. “Whoa.” For a second he’s not my Guide, but like a future friend I’m meeting for the first time. “What did you get up to?”
I smile with satisfaction and maybe even a little pride that my daredevil antics have impressed him. I shove away this little voice that is asking why it matters if he thinks highly of me. “Sixty. I didn’t time it, but I’d guess it took less than five seconds.”