Then unexpected calm, as though everything is ripped away.
I land, untouched, onto soft ground, in the midst of a dark fog. It reminds me of early mornings in the Blue Ridge Mountains in North Carolina, where my parents used to have a cabin. We only went there a couple of times when I was little, but I remember that when I woke up each day, for a few minutes it felt like we were inside a cloud. It even smells like those mornings, I think, though I don’t know how I can recall such a specific detail. It’s colorless here, but not in the threatening gray of storm clouds—more a glistening silver, somewhere on the cusp between night and morning.
How did I get here?
Suddenly images rush at me—Dad shining his shoes, the keys to the BMW, speeding along the dock, Carson laughing in my car, my name and Nick’s in a red heart, white lace, Nick’s worried voice. Huh? I was on my way to Nick’s. . . . He was . . . And then it hits me—a truck, shattering glass, the sickening way my body went limp when the impact came.
My skin prickles with goose bumps even though it’s perfectly warm. Am I . . . ? I don’t allow myself to finish the question, too scared to even voice it in my head. I sink to my knees on soft, spongy ground. A tear slips down my cheek, surprising me—I haven’t really cried since I was twelve, and that was about Mama. I wipe at the wetness and fight back a wave of sadness that threatens to crash down over me. There has to be another explanation. I can’t be . . .
I must be asleep. That’s it. I’m still snuggled in my bed with Nick right now, safe and warm, just dreaming about this weird colorless place where I feel hopelessly alone. Sometimes in dreams you wonder if you’re in a dream, you consider it, you ask yourself . . . It’s possible . . . it’s . . .
Just as I’m starting to believe that there’s hope, that I’ll wake up at any moment, I see a ripple of light out of the corner of my eye—a rainbow of colors, blurry, like it’s underwater. A doorway appears in the distance.
Three figures emerge. The rainbow fades, and they stride purposefully in my direction. I shove myself to my feet. I don’t know who they are, but I have an immediate aversion to them. I glance around quickly, searching for some sort of escape. But there are no other doors. Nothing. No one else. Only us.
They’re wearing light gray robes with a slight shimmer to them, like those rocks you can find that have a rainbow sheen—mica. One of the guys has a stocky frame with dark hair and deeply tanned skin, like maybe he’s Native American. The girl, who bounded forward with the most energy, has a blunt brown pixie haircut and a constellation of freckles across her face.
The second guy is the most riveting. He exudes confidence, control. His blond hair whispers against his neck. His eyes are stormy blue, almost gray, like they’ve got a whole weather pattern of their own—swirling clouds, strong winds, and the glimmer of sun as dawn breaks over the horizon. I almost become lost in them before I shake off this intense pull and take in the sharp angle of his cheekbones and the soft arch of his full lips.
A soft buzz tingles through my body, like I’m holding the electric razor my dad uses to keep his buzz cut close to the scalp. I flash back to watching him in the bathroom as a little girl, sitting on the closed-lid toilet and helping him make sure to get the spots in the back.
“Calpurnia May McPhee,” says the stormy-eyed guy, and his deep, rich voice breaks my reverie. It booms, like he's announcing something, but there is a familiar undertone that makes it seem like those three words—my name—mean something to him. I think that I must have met him before, somewhere, but I know that if I had, I never would have forgotten him.
Craning my neck back to meet his gaze—he’s got to be over six feet tall—I wonder how he knows my name. His eyes draw me in, calming my erratically pounding heart.
“Welcome to the Prism,” says the pixie-haired girl in a friendly tone. She smiles warmly, and so does the stocky guy. The taller one, though, keeps his lips in a firm, straight line. But his expression is softened by a tenderness—a knowing—that makes me instinctually lower my eyes. It’s like he’s trying to communicate without words, trying to force me to accept what I’m fighting not to acknowledge. I briefly wonder if I look crazy, like if there’s dried blood all over me or glass stuck in my face or anything. I give my body a quick scan, and I realize that I’m cloaked in shimmering gray, too. But it’s not a robe, it’s just an illusion, like a metallic rainbow sheen that’s covering my body—the clothes that I was wearing when I was on my way to Nick’s are beneath it, and when I try to touch it, it’s not really there.
“I’m Sarah,” says the girl. “This is Ryan, and this is Thatcher.”
A thousand questions spin through my mind. I can’t seem to focus on just one.
“You’re in the celestial plane between Earth and the next dimension,” says Ryan, the stocky one. “You may feel a slight buzz of energy; that’s the echo of your life force, the part that’s still left in your body. Sarah, Thatcher, and I are Ghost Guides. Our job is to teach you how to use your new ethereal form and—”
“Wait.” I hold up my hand so he’ll stop, so I can take this in. “Ghosts? My ethereal form?”
“Calpurnia, we should start with—” says Sarah, and her voice is calm and soothing as she steps toward me.
“It’s Callie,” I interrupt. “And this is nuts. I’m in a totally whacked dream.”
“No dream,” Thatcher says. Regret is laced through his voice. More, I see it in his eyes.
“No. I just have to wake up. I just have to—” Get out of this freaking dream!
I start running, but nothing changes. It’s just fog and mist and gray. It’s like I’m on a treadmill or something, trapped, with no hope of escape. Thatcher is suddenly in front of me. An invisible wave slams into me. I bounce back and land in a sprawl. He didn’t push me, he didn’t touch me at all, but it was like my body was repelled by his, like a force field was surrounding him.
“What was that?” I ask, disoriented.
“Our form is protected by what you might consider an energy shield. It repels any ghost who gets too close.”
“Cool trick, but look, I’m not a ghost. I’m alive. I’m gasping for breath from the running, my heart is pounding—”
“Those are just remembered reactions, phantom sensations, like an amputee who wants to scratch an itch on his toe even though his foot is no longer there. Your soul hasn’t yet adjusted to the fact that you are no longer housed within a body.”
No longer housed within a body? I shudder, and I don’t care what he says about phantom sensations, my heartbeat kicks up a notch. I can hear blood rushing between my ears.
“Over time, the physical sensations will fade as you become accustomed to your new form,” Sarah says kindly.
“No, no, you don’t understand. I just need to wake up.” I slap my face. It’s there. I can feel it. And earlier, I was weeping. Tears. Real tears. Wet, warm. I pinch my arms, my legs. I experience the tiny pricks of pain, but they’re surrounded by that weird buzzing sensation.
“It doesn’t do any good,” Thatcher says. “It won’t change anything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Denying what’s happened. Grieving your former life. It’s better to move on quickly.”
His voice doesn’t waver, it doesn’t catch, but I sense a sorrow underneath it, like he doesn’t fully believe what he’s saying.