I wonder if I can gather my thought energy to create a portal that will lead me to Nick, like Reena said it would. I close my eyes, ready to try to do this. And I fill myself with glimpses of my boyfriend. Dark curls I can run my fingers through, a smile that makes my heart jump even from across the halls at school, the softest cheek with a bristle of stubble, brown eyes that light up when I walk into the room, the smell of Old Spice and peppermint Tic Tacs, curious lips that open with mine when we kiss . . .
When I hold out my hand to trace the portal, it almost feels involuntary, like someone else is doing it for me. A doorway framed by glowing flecks of light appears. And before I can second-guess myself, I walk through.
I step out into the middle of East Bay Street, Charleston’s Rainbow Row. The houses are painted all different pastels—pink, yellow, blue—and window boxes are filled with flowers. A slew of tourists are taking pictures. The colors are almost blinding in the bright sun, and I see a couple of ghosts milling around on the street, too—strolling slowly beside the Living with serene faces that are lit up with the Prism’s glow.
At first I think my portal must not have worked—I meant to find Nick, not go sightseeing. But then I spot him sitting alone on a bench, and my heart leaps. Reena was telling me the truth. I can control where I go.
Nick is sitting across from the pink house, my favorite. I used to stare up into the five second-floor windows of this one every time I walked by after Mama died, wondering who was inside and what their lives were like. It seemed like a magical place where no one would ever let a mother go away.
When I felt close enough to Nick to share memories of Mama, I brought him here, too. Once I started telling him about her—the way she brushed her hair before bed, the way she dabbed on perfume in succession: neck, wrists, backs of knees—it was like a floodgate had opened and I couldn’t stop telling him the tiniest details, like I was desperate for someone else to know these things about her. My memories had been bottled up for so long because Dad didn’t want to discuss her, but Nick always listened and said just the right things to make me smile again. When I see his expression now—forlorn and empty—I want him to know that I’m still beside him.
His eyes are closed as he turns his face up to the blazing midday sun, and he’s got his headphones on. I glance at the screen of his iPhone—Bon Iver. He’s in full wallow mode. I notice that his right hand is closed around something, and I guess that it’s the amber pendant he took from my room—his piece of me. I sit down next to him, wondering if I can make a connection on my own. I’m not going to do anything crazy, like try to make a magnolia blossom float in front of Nick’s face or anything. But I’m also not going to just sit on this bench next to him sharing energy. I want him to really know I’m here.
I start to rub my hands together, trying to pool some of my energy. My palms warm, and then I separate them and hold them slightly apart. I can still feel the heat emanating from them. Then I pause and wait for a moment before I reach up to lightly touch the edge of Nick’s earbud. I want him to unplug so that all of his senses will be open to knowing I’m here.
My hand moves closer, closer . . . but before my finger grazes him, Nick opens his eyes and pulls out the earbud closest to me. He looks down at his iPod and stops the music.
He’s aware of my presence.
“Nick,” I say softly.
He looks around, looking right through me, and even though he doesn’t see me, I can tell that he senses something.
He takes out the other earbud and slowly puts his left hand—the one in between us—onto the bench. His palm opens slightly.
An invitation.
I rub my hands together again, wanting to gather more energy and make sure this connection works. When I feel a tingle, I gently reach my hand down and place it over his, lacing our fingers together—the way we always held hands.
His fingers curl up automatically, weaving through mine. And I can feel it. I think I can feel his touch. Can he feel mine?
He’s staring straight ahead, his eyes wide open like he can’t quite believe what’s happening—his hand is holding mine. I want to lean into him, but I’m afraid. I think of the mark I left on Carson—if I get too excited or eager, could my energy hurt Nick, too?
So I sit there, still, trying to be content with this light touch. A thousand thoughts rush at me—I will never hold Nick again, This is one of the last touches we’ll ever share, Does he know that this is me trying to help him say good-bye?—but I bat them all away, worried that if I let my emotions take over, I’ll lose this moment.
Then I hear Nick whispering softly to himself. And I realize that he’s whispering to me.
“I’m so sorry, Callie,” he says, his lower lip starting to tremble. He opens his right hand a little and I see the amber heart there. He fingers it gently as he speaks. “Your father blames me; everyone does. I do. It was my fault. I tried to tell you; I was going to . . .” His voice falters then, but I want to hear what he has to say. Still, I fight not to panic; I focus on staying calm. I’m holding his hand—maybe there’s a way to connect physically and bring some peace to the Living. Maybe Thatcher doesn’t know that the haunting methods can coexist. The connection is working.
Then Nick looks down at our hands, and I wonder what he feels. His fingers are curled around mine—but what does it look like if he can’t see me?
A rueful chuckle escapes his lips, and the noise doesn’t sound like his laugh. It sounds bitter, hard. He picks up his hand and it passes right through mine. He shakes it like he’s flinging off soreness or brushing away a bad thought.
“I must be crazy,” he says under his breath, shoving the amber heart back into his pocket with a disgusted sigh.
No! I want to scream and flail and cry out. I’m here! I will him to look at me, to see me, but he’s leaning away from me now, an angry frown on his face.
His phone rings—Carson. He hits the Ignore button.
“Nick, please,” I say.
My throat clenches as I watch Nick open his backpack and pull out a half-empty bottle of Jameson. He unscrews the top and takes a long pull. Then he wipes his sleeve over his mouth and puts the bottle back in his bag, zipping it shut.
This isn’t you.
I shut my eyes tight, not wanting to see what’s happening. Did my touch make it worse? When I look up again, Nick stands and walks away from the bench—away from me—without glancing back.
Why would he? His girlfriend’s not here. I’m just a ghost who made him think he’s gone mad.
As he climbs into his car, I realize that his grief isn’t just paralyzing him—it’s dangerous. Doesn’t he remember how much he has to live for?
He pulls out from the curb and I watch him drive away. I couldn’t stop him if I tried—I’m helpless. I slump onto the bench, unsure of myself. What have I learned to do? Sit peacefully, blow out a lit stick, trick my boyfriend into holding a hand that isn’t there?
Tears well up. I’ve made things worse. I’m going to be like Thatcher. A failure. Those I love are never going to move on. I’m causing Carson and Nick more pain each time I see them. What will I do to my father? I’m afraid to face him.
Suddenly a buzz electrifies my shoulder, and a wave of sensation like being yanked beneath an ocean swell and losing my balance washes through me.