Echoes Between Us

by Katie McGarry

  “Do you mean the fact we’re becoming friends or that I’m attracted to you and would give just about anything to pull you close and kiss you until you can’t breathe?”

  Heat rushes through me like liquid fire at the idea of my body wound tight to his. “Both.”

  “Do you understand what’s happening?” Sawyer asks.

  “No,” I whisper. “But I like it.”

  “Me, too.”

  Another round of silence, but this time Sawyer reaches over and places his hand over my mine and my heart nearly beats out of my chest. I swallow to help my dry mouth. If I don’t speak, we might kiss, and as much as I want it, I’m equal parts scared of what feelings kissing might create.

  “Tell me something I don’t know about you,” I say quietly into the night.

  “You like this game, don’t you?”

  “If it makes you feel better, you’re the only person I’ve played this game with.”

  Awe flashes over him and he quickly averts his gaze to the flames. I watch him as the firelight dances across his face, curious what he’ll share with me next. Maybe that he likes peanut butter in his vanilla ice cream like me or that he, like his sister, has seen a ghost.

  “My dad told me once I had to be brave,” he says.

  “Sorry?”

  Sawyer doesn’t look at me, only the flames. “You asked me earlier how I remained calm. When my mom and dad got divorced, he told me I had to be brave. He told me that my mom needed me and that Lucy needed me and that I had to be the man of the house since he wasn’t going to be around anymore. He said that if I let Mom know I was scared that she would be scared and then so would Lucy so I needed to find my courage and not show fear.”

  That was heavy. “How old were you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “And you listened?”

  Sawyer rubs the back of his head, but keeps his gaze trained straight ahead. “I had to. My mom was working her way up the sales force with the company and the company told her she had to move here to cover this sales route. Mom’s parents died a long time ago, and while she knew people here, she didn’t know anyone well enough that they’d help us. After Mom worked all day, she had to come home and take care of us. Lucy was a baby, and while I always struggled in school, I had yet to be diagnosed with dyslexia. Mom lost her temper a lot and would cry as soon as she put us to bed.

  “I felt bad for her and figured Dad was right. Watching Mom be scared and hearing her cry made me feel terrible. I figured my fear was making her worse so I decided to be brave.”

  Brave. People use the word all the time, but I’m not a fan of it. “When my mom was first diagnosed with cancer, all sorts of people came out of the woodwork. Old friends and family members. Mostly people who felt guilty for things they had done and wanted forgiveness to feel good about themselves before she died. Most of them would show up and then leave just as quick, but my mom had this sister who had completely disowned her when she married my dad because who would marry a truck driver, right? Like that’s the most scandalous thing.

  “Anyhow, my aunt stuck around and I hated this lady. She would try to talk to me as if she had the right to tell me what to do, and she’d come into our house and rearrange things because she said it would make our life easier, but she didn’t know anything. She used to tell me all the time to be brave and to not cry in front of Mom.”

  I pause as my throat burns with the memory of standing in the hallway of the hospital. Of how I hated the sanitized smell, how small I felt as doctors and nurses passed by and how I hated the thought of seeing my shrunken mother in a bed hooked to all sorts of machines.

  But then Mom called my name, my heart leaped and as I began to run into the room, my aunt had grabbed my arm, squeezing my bicep so tightly that it left a bruise. Don’t you dare cry in front of her. She has enough to worry about. You’re old enough to be brave.

  Yet that’s all I wanted to do. I wanted to throw myself onto the bed, I wanted to be cuddled in my mother’s arms and I wanted to cry until I couldn’t cry anymore.

  Moisture in my eyes and I rub at them, hoping Sawyer doesn’t see.

  “Being brave didn’t save her and neither did all the poison they pumped into her. She died in a hospital bed, too weak to even turn her head. All Mom ever talked about was wanting to see sunflowers again, but her treatments were so intense that she couldn’t leave the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “About your mom. I didn’t know.”

  “Most people don’t. I’m barely an afterthought so why would they care about my mom?”

  Sawyer is nice enough for guilt to flicker over his expression. “What type of cancer did she have?”

  I nibble on my bottom lip and it’s tough to tell him the truth. “Brain cancer.”

  There’s silence on his end and I hate it. “Of course there can be inherited genetic factors that causes people to have the same type of tumors and cancers, but Dad thinks it’s because we used to live near this industrial plant. A lot of people in our neighborhood got sick. Quite a few died of cancer. Lawyers visit Dad, but I don’t want to know what’s happening so he keeps the class action lawsuit to himself. But that’s why we moved here—to be away from the city.”

  “Are you scared the same thing is going to happen to you?”

  Daily. “Mom fought for every second of her life. She went through every course of treatment available. Even when the doctors told her that doing so wouldn’t add much more time. But Dad didn’t want her to stop. I remember hearing him beg her to do the treatments even though they made her so sick that she couldn’t get out of bed. They made her lose weight, too. She looked awful, and she felt awful.

  “Sometimes I couldn’t be around her because her immune system was compromised and they were scared I’d make her sick. The treatments helped her live longer, but it was terrible, and I don’t want that. I never want to die like her. If my tumor ever grows and becomes malignant, I’m not doing a damn thing to stop it. Instead, I’m going to live every day to its fullest until I drop dead. I want quality of life, not quantity.”

  “How old were you when she passed?” he asks.

  “She died when I was fifteen.” I touch my hand to my hair. I lost Mom’s sunflower barrette and the pain in my chest rivals the one that’s often in my head. A lump forms in my throat. “Mom was diagnosed when I was eleven. I was diagnosed a few months later.”

  The sympathy on Sawyer’s face is real. It’s not pity, it’s understanding. He nods at me, as if telling me it’s okay. That he understands there are some hurts that don’t go away, as if he knows that somehow at eleven, we were both changed forever.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. I lost my barrette in the fall. I’m a little sad about it, but it’s a barrette so whatever.” I need to change the subject. “How did you become brave?”

  Sawyer’s mouth curves up. “I killed a spider.”

  “What?”

  “I was terrified of spiders and there was this huge one in Lucy’s room. One of those big hairy wolf spiders. I swear to God that thing was the size of my palm.”

  “And how did you kill this Australia-sized spider?”

  “A shoe. Scared the crap out of me, but I did it. So I figured if I could do that, then maybe I could be brave forever if I tackled my biggest fear.”

  “What was that?”

  Sawyer lowers his head like he’s embarrassed, like he’s sharing secrets he never intended to share. He lifts his head again, and when he looks me in the eye, there’s a bond that’s created between us. An energy that’s so tangible it feels as if I can reach out and touch it.

  “I jumped,” he said.

  “You jumped?”

  “From the high dive. I’ve been jumping and swimming ever since.”

  A swift breeze blows from the direction of the bridge and it’s cold. An odd and eerie sensation, especially since the night is warm. Taps come from inside the bridge and Sawyer’s head
shoots in that direction. “Did you hear that?”

  I did, and it’s the most beautiful sound. I scramble to my feet and Sawyer joins me.

  “Grab your camera,” I whisper, and he does.

  As we approach, a chill tingles the base of my neck, and Sawyer rubs his arms as if he is also affected. I stand on the edge of the bridge, and it’s like I entered the air of an electrical storm. Sawyer steps farther in than me, scans the area, but I know what he sees—darkness.

  “Take a picture of the inside of the bridge,” I whisper. “Three pictures in quick succession, but before you take them, ask the ghosts to be present in the photo.”

  His entire face contorts. “Do what?”

  “It’s like picture day at school. Everyone likes to run their fingers through their hair before sitting. If we want a ghost to show, we have to give it time to work up enough energy to take the photo. Plus, how would you feel if some stranger showed up and started taking pictures without asking? If you think about it, it’s sort of rude.”

  “I … um … am going to take your picture now,” Sawyer calls out, and I cringe with how it’s apparent how stupid he feels. “If that’s okay.”

  Not the most eloquent, but it will do. Sawyer raises the camera, takes several photos in a row, changes position and does it again.

  I pull out the recorder and extend my arm into the black of the bridge. “As I said earlier, we aren’t here to hurt you, but to talk to you. Are you trapped on this bridge?”

  Knowing the drill, Sawyer goes completely still and we wait a few seconds to see if the ghost responds.

  “If you’re trapped, what do you need us to know so you can be free?”

  More silence from us again.

  “Is there anything you think I should know?”

  I wait some more, and then turn off the recorder. Stepping off the bridge to the fire, I use the light there to find the folder and play back what I just asked. Sawyer’s also walked off the bridge, but he’s near the edge where I fell and that gives me shivers. It’s as if the boy has no sense of self-preservation.

  On the playback, I ask my first question. No response. I ask my second question. More nothing. I ask my third and I jerk as if shocked by electricity. I back it up, listen again, and my hands shake with excitement.

  Me: “Is there anything you think I should know?”

  A whispered voice: “He’s hurting.”

  SAWYER

  Veronica laughs as I bust a modified move in the driver’s seat of my car. It’s late, and we’re both slaphappy. I like to dance. It’s something most guys avoid, but it doesn’t bother me to get on the dance floor and move with the music.

  After her fit of giggles, Veronica returns to singing along to the song and throwing out some passenger-seat moves herself. I’d love to get on the dance floor with her. I bet the two of us could bring the house down.

  I turn onto Main Street and the song ends. She relaxes in her seat and rolls her head to look at me. From the unexpected river bath, her hair is dried, but it is wild and unruly. Even in the dark of night, she’s brilliant sunshine and she has a way of thawing me out like no one else. There’s something comforting in being in her presence and it’s something I want more of.

  “I’m going to download the audio from the recorder tomorrow and see if I can slow the recording down. Sometimes ghosts will communicate on a different frequency than us. Maybe that will help us hear something we didn’t before.”

  I think she’s going to be sadly disappointed, but I’m game to help. Honestly, I just like being around her. “Still trying to convince me ghosts are talking to you through a recorder?”

  “Not convince, Sutherland. Prove. And you heard the ghost.”

  “I heard something.” The recording was faint and it was nonsense. He hurts. What does that mean?

  “You’ll hear it better when I get it downloaded on the computer, and what are you going to do with yourself when I prove to you ghosts are real?”

  “Probably rock in a corner and then cry myself to sleep every night.”

  She laughs, and I smile along with her.

  “Text me when you’re ready to go over the recording, and if you’re okay with it, I’ll come up,” I say.

  “Okay. You should bring Lucy, too. I need help making more turkeys, and I also need to start making decorations for Christmas. I think I’ll do that in October.”

  Veronica’s done this for years—celebrate holidays at weird times. And it’s not just that she celebrates it in private and it somehow gets leaked. She goes all out. Her clothes, decorating her locker, decorating her friends’ lockers, even handing out gifts to teachers. When she was younger, she sometimes gave invitations to people who would never come. Instead they made fun of her, making her the topic of jokes for weeks. When the teasing eventually died down, she would do something crazy again.

  “Lucy will love that,” I say, and it’s the truth.

  I want to ask Veronica why she does it, but don’t. Doing so could bring down the mood. Tonight has been one of the best I’ve had in months, and I’m not ready to let it go.

  “Would you like to come?” Veronica asks as I turn onto our street. “To Thanksgiving? It’s a week from today. Dad makes this huge turkey and I make the sides and you should see all the desserts. You can bring Lucy and your mom if you want. Dad wouldn’t mind. In fact, he’d probably like getting to know you all since you’re living downstairs.”

  She squishes her lips the side, and I’m completely drawn in. “Actually, it would be awesome if you came. Since Dad travels for his job, he gives me a lot of room and trust, but he expects me to be honest with him about what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with. He’ll want to meet you.”

  She peeks at me then, from under long eyelashes, and it doesn’t matter what she would have asked, the answer is, “Sure.” A pause. “Don’t worry about Mom, though. She travels in the area for her job, even on Saturdays, but Lucy and I will come.”

  That smile she unleashes is close to lethal. “Great! This is going to be so much fun! We play games and we have a question at the dinner table that everyone has to answer and there’s going to be pie! So much pie you’ll think you died and went to heaven.”

  I pull up in front of her house, and there’s a strange combination of sadness and nerves. Something I’m unfamiliar with. I’m not ready for this night to be over. But it’s late, I have a curfew, and even though Veronica wears the most beautiful smile, there are dark circles under her eyes and her skin is a bit too pale—as if she needs to sleep for a week.

  I turn off the engine, and there’s silence as we both stay seated in the car. I wonder what it means that she hasn’t jumped out yet. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but there’s a part of me that wants it to mean something because as weird as it is to admit—I like her. “I had fun.”

  “Jumping off a cliff was fun?”

  I smile to take the sting out of the truth. “That’s my every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night. I try to fit jumping in during the week when I can, but school often gets in the way.”

  “School ruins everything,” she says.

  “Yeah.” A pause on my end. “I meant what I said earlier. I like hanging out with you.”

  There’s something in how her blue eyes soften that causes me to feel lost and then found. “I like hanging out with you, too.”

  My head tilts, as I almost forgot. I dig into my jeans pocket and pull out her flower barrette. “When you were trying for EVPs that last time, I went over to check out where you fell and I found this.”

  Her gorgeous mouth pops open into an adorable O. “Where did you find it? I looked everywhere on the ground for it.”

  I shrug one shoulder like it wasn’t a big thing as she sweeps locks of her hair up to fasten the barrette into place. “It had fallen down the cliff. Not as far as we fell, but down a bit.”

  “And you went for it?” Her voice rises in pitch as if she thinks I’m crazy. I am, but that would be news for her.<
br />
  “It wasn’t a big deal. As I said, it wasn’t nearly as far down as we went and—”

  I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence as Veronica launches herself across the console at me. Her arms around my neck, her soft body pressed to mine, the sweet scent of her hair and perfume filling my nose.

  “Thank you,” she says against my neck. Her hot breath causes me to become warm, and the air surrounding us grows rich with electricity. “You have no idea how much this means to me. It’s like you’ve given me the world.”

  I’m hesitant, so slow in moving because I don’t want to do anything that she doesn’t want, but I’ve been going crazy with the need to touch her nearly all evening. And with her arms still wrapped around me, with her head nuzzled intimately on my shoulder, her breath against my neck, I weave my arms around her and allow my hands on her back.

  She sighs then, as if she’s happy, and she relaxes further into me. I close my eyes and hold on tighter. I never knew a hug could feel like this. Every cell in my body buzzes, and I’d give anything to turn my head and kiss her.

  Veronica slowly edges back, but she doesn’t pull completely away. She keeps her hands on my shoulders as her eyes bore into mine. “You shouldn’t have done that. The ground could have given way again and you could have fallen into the river and it was pitch black and what if you had hit a rock on the way down and passed out and drowned and—”

  “But I didn’t,” I cut her off. I glance down as I tell her more than I’ve ever told anyone else. “Sometimes a good adrenaline rush makes me feel alive.”

  The humor in her eyes tells me she thinks I’m joking. “That’s insane.”

  “That’s me.”

  A renegade curl breaks loose from the barrette and bounces near her eye. I hold my breath as I capture the lock of hair and tuck it behind her ear. The air around us pops and sizzles as my fingers barely brush the skin of her cheek and neck.

  Her eyes darken and she wets her lips. She stares down at my mouth as if she also feels this heat. As if she’s also been thinking about touching and kissing me.