A Boy a Girl and a Ghost

by Robert J. McCarter

  He has brown eyes and black hair. He has a habit of biting on his lower lip. He gesticulates broadly when he speaks.

  If only I could hear him. If only I was sure this wasn’t all in my mind.

  6

  Saturday, June 18, 1977

  “I think I’ve got this figured out,” Helena says as she slumps to the ground next to me and lights a cigarette. The night is overcast and it’s darker than usual in the graveyard. They mowed the grass today so it smells all fresh and green.

  “What?” I ask.

  “This,” she says, pointing her cigarette at me and then pointing back to herself. She’s got her “La Familia” outfit on and we’ve both got flashlights on the ground producing some general illumination.

  My ghost friend is there, smiling as he looks her up and down.

  “Sorry,” I say, I’m still confused.

  She exhales, cigarette smoke floating up into the air, the scent of it mixing with the smell of the grass. “Long shift,” she says. “I’m not being clear. Let me back up. You know the game called ‘Truth or Dare’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I propose we play ‘Truth or Truth.’ Right here, right now. You ask me anything you want, and I’ll tell you the truth. And then I can ask you anything I want, and you tell the truth. But, I won’t ask you why you’re here in the middle of the night hanging out with the gravestones. You decide when you tell me that—once, you know, you think you know me well enough.”

  I’m stunned. Who the hell is this girl? The idea of being able to ask her anything is scary and exciting at the same time. And I can’t even imagine the kinds of things she’ll want to ask me.

  “Well?” she asks. “What do you think of my brilliant plan?”

  I still don’t speak. This means that she’s been thinking about me. This means she wants to get to know me better—even if it is only to find out my secret. “Umm… Sure,” I finally say. “How… how do we do this?”

  “One more thing,” she says, grinding her cigarette butt out in the grass. “When we are here, when we are playing our game, everything shared is confidential. Absolutely secret. You can’t share a word of it with your best friend, your mother, or even your priest. I can’t either.”

  I start to hear my heart pounding in my ears. My ghost friend’s eyes are a bit wide, but his head is nodding. I look around and he’s the only ghost that is close. Does he want to play too? But I still can’t hear him.

  “Are we agreed?” she asks, extending her hand.

  “Agreed,” I say, shaking her hand and notice that the ghost has put his hand in there too.

  “Sweet!” she says after the handshake is over. She pops a piece of gum in her mouth and starts chewing loudly. “So, shoot, my man.”

  I bite my lip. What the hell to ask her? What I want to ask is how she feels about me, why she’s hanging out with me. But that is just too scary, the potential for disaster is way too high. “Ladies first,” I say. I know I’m chickening out, but I really need her to set the tone.

  She purses her lips—I’m pretty sure that’s what she’s doing. I know she’s staring at me, but in the dim light it’s a bit hard to read her face. She’s silent for a few breaths and then says, “What’s it like? Having leukemia, that is?”

  I suck in a breath and blink. The ghost is looking at me real hard now, surprised—how could she have known? “How… you know about that?”

  She shrugs. “Small town, kid-o. I asked around about you. Took me about three seconds to find that out.”

  She asked around about me? I feel strange, like I’m not really in my body. Billy’s words echo in my head: class-A babe and world-class trouble. No one has ever asked me about that. They worry and fret. They get scared and stay away. They get all pity-filled and saccharine. But they don’t ask me what it is like. And this is her opening question. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  “You are serious about this game of yours,” I finally say.

  She nods and smiles. “I am.”

  I sigh and wrap my arms around me. Suddenly my sweat jacket is not warm enough for the chill of the night. “It’s not as exotic as it sounds. At first it was… well, I was just tired. I got sick a lot. Bruised easily, these tiny weird purple marks on my skin. Ran low-grade fevers all the time. Kind of like having the flu for way too long.

  “My mom, she’s a nurse, so she was all over it and took me into the doctor as soon as symptoms showed up. Still, it took about a month to diagnose. At first, they thought it was the flu or that I was anemic. Then when they found it out, that’s when it got tough.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  “It changes everything. It’s this whole different world with language and terms and treatments and everything. I had acute lymphoblastic leukemia or ‘ALL’ for short.

  “There is a vast difference between having a flu you can’t shake and having capital-C Cancer with a name and treatment plans and survival rates. The diagnosis changes everything. How you go about your life, what you spend your days doing, and worst of all, how people treat you.”

  She’s quiet, but I can tell she’s watching me closely. I look up at the ghost and he looks sad, his head slowly nodding. As if he knows what a disease like this can do to a family, as if he wants me to keep talking. And it feels kind of good to talk to someone about it who wasn’t there.

  “The chemo was worse, though,” I say.

  “What? Worse than the leukemia?”

  I nod. “Way worse. Try being so nauseous that you want to puke every hour of every day for months. Try having all your hair fall out and feeling like if you sneeze you might crack a rib. I know the chemo saved my life—twice now, I’ve got two strikes—but it was a bitch to go through.”

  “Two strikes?”

  “Yeah. First occurrence when I was eleven. Reoccurrence when I was fourteen, a little over a year ago. Each time cancer occurs your odds of survival get worse. Two strikes.”

  She takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. She starts to dig in her purse, for another cigarette, I presume, but then wraps her arms around her chest. “That sucks, Wade. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. I… Well, it’s not so bad talking about it. No one really does want to talk about it, you know. I think they’re afraid I might freak out, or the words will somehow make it more real.”

  I feel something shift in regards to Helena. I mean, she’s beautiful and all. She seems kind of wild and mysterious. But she’s different. She hangs out in a graveyard with a kid she hardly knows, she screams at boys in the road that don’t treat her right, she has secrets to keep, and she has the guts to ask me something no one else has ever bothered to ask me about. She’s beautiful, yes, but she’s fascinating on so many other levels.

  “Wade,” she says.

  “What?”

  “You need to talk about this. Anytime. I’m here. Seriously, I mean it.”

  I nod, but I can’t speak, I’m holding back tears because of her kindness, and I sure as hell don’t want her to see me cry. She lets the silence be for a few minutes, which I like about her too. So many people can’t abide by silence and have to rush in to fill it.

  “I owe you some truth,” she finally says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. What I want to know most, I don’t dare ask—how she feels about me. And judging from the question she asked me, I could ask that question, or really anything. What do I want to know most about her?

  I look up at sky above and find a small patch of stars peeking through a break in the clouds. You can really see them in Cedar, not too much light pollution, good air. A thought pops into my head, so I just blurt it out while still looking at the heavens. “Do you believe in god?”

  I hear her shuffling around and look back at her. She’s got another cigarette out and is lighting it, her hands shaking. I feel bad, like I did something terrible with my questions.

  “You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to,” I say.


  Even in the dim light I see her face go hard and I feel like my stomach just dropped into the ground. “Don’t do that,” she says, her voice low. “I set the rules, I will follow them.”

  I want to apologize, but keep my mouth shut. I figure she’ll not like that either.

  “Why do men do that?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “They see a woman experiencing an emotion and they try to get out of the way, try to stop it. You just did it. Why do men do that?”

  “Because it scares the hell out of us,” I say.

  She laughs, smoke coming out of her mouth and engulfing me. I cough. “Just don’t treat me like I break easy, okay?” she asks.

  “Okay,” I say.

  It’s silent as she smokes her cigarette. When she’s done, I look straight at the ghost, who’s now sitting on the grass near us. Except he’s not exactly sitting—he looks like he’s sitting, but I can see that the grass is not pressed down and he’s not really touching the ground. It’s weird and makes me wonder again what it’s like to be a ghost.

  “So, do you believe in god?” I ask.

  I watch the ghost closely. He smiles, but it’s a small whimsical thing. He holds his hands out, palms up, and shrugs. Kind of like he’s saying, “I’m a ghost, what do you think?”

  “I used to,” Helena begins. “Our family was religious, I mean religious enough. We went to temple on Sunday. We didn’t have a lot of money, but we tithed anyway. We did our best to do the right thing.” She bites hard on her lip before continuing. “Then my mom got sick. She had always been high strung. I knew she was different than other kids’ moms. Always worrying, always scared or freaked out about something.”

  I shrugged. “That’s a mom for you.”

  “No, Wade, not like this. She would throw milk out a week before its expiration date afraid it would make me sick. Once when I scraped my knee playing and got some dirt in it, she dragged me to the ER. If she couldn’t find me, she would freak out, standing at the front door screaming at the top of her lungs or calling everyone we knew. It wasn’t the normal motherly stuff, it was something else.

  “When I was very young, I didn’t know she was different. But when I was five or six, I figured it out. I started doing whatever I had to do to keep her safe.”

  I nodded. I knew what it was like to grow up early.

  She took a deep breath and sighed, reaching into her purse again and then shaking her head and wrapping her arms around her chest. “As the years went on, it got worse and worse. She started hearing voices, she hardly slept, she could barely function. Then one day when I was ten, she lost it. She thought I was part of some conspiracy, that I was trying to hurt her. The voices told her she had to do something about me.

  “It was a bad day. When my dad came home, she had me backed into a corner with a knife in her hand. She had decided that killing me would stop the conspiracy. Keep her safe.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  She groans. “Nothing good. To make a horrible story short, my dad got the knife away from her. He called someone, they took her down to a facility in St. George and loaded her up with meds. Except they didn’t do such a good job. At some point she must have stopped taking her meds and convinced her caregivers that she was still taking them. She ended up hanging herself.”

  She digs into her purse and pulls out another cigarette. She smokes it while a thick silence hangs between us. The graveyard closes in and the dark seemed oppressive. The chirping of the crickets grating, the rattle of the leaves jarring.

  The sound of a car passing slowly on Main Street jolts her out of it. “And that, my friend, is why I don’t believe in god.”

  “I’m… I…” I stammer, unsure of what to say. “I’m so sorry, Helena. Man, that sucks.”

  She nods. “But hey, we’re really getting to know each other tonight, aren’t we?” She tries to laugh, but it comes out all weird, too high pitched and forced.

  “Thank you for telling me. Really. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Sure. Just two friends sharing their personal horror stories in Cedar City’s lovely cemetery at—” she looks at her watch, shining her flashlight on it “—one twelve a.m.”

  “Can I ask another question?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says, grinding out her cigarette.

  “Why are you here? Why are you hanging out with me?”

  The question just hangs between us, almost tangible. Like her cigarette smoke, or my ghost friend. Something not quite real.

  She sighs and stands up, brushing her skirt off. “Let’s save that for another night, okay?”

  “Sure,” I say, but my heart is thumping in my chest again. Did I insult her? Does she not want to answer the question?

  “See ya, Wade,” she says as she turns and walks away.

  “Bye, Helena.”

  I look at the ghost, he’s watching her, slowly shaking his head.

  “Do you have a clue what just happened?” I ask.

  He turns and says, “No.” I can’t hear him, but he’s close enough that the movement of his mouth makes it clear and that glow of his means that I can see him really well in the dark.

  “Women,” I say. “Now there’s a mystery.”

  He smiles and nods.

  After I sneak back home, it takes me a long time to get to sleep. I lie there in my bed the ever-complicating picture of Helena Monfort occupying my mind.

  7

  Sunday, June 19, 1977

  Helena comes by the store today. She’s got on the usual tight jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt with the arms ripped off. My dad’s behind the counter with a student and I’m puttering around the Southern Utah section. It’s after four, and I don’t really need to be there, but I’m restless from last night. I’m wondering if there might be something in these books about the cemetery, something that might help me not worry about my sanity and the fact that I can see ghosts.

  Helena’s mom went crazy. Helena’s mom heard voices. I see ghosts. I don’t want to end up locked away. I don’t want to hang myself.

  I’ve got “Ghosts of the Southwest” open and am scanning through when she walks in. She smiles nervously and walks right to me.

  “You okay, Wade?” she asks, all serious.

  I’m taken aback. Why is she worried about me? “Yeah, you?”

  She shrugs. There are smudges of dark under her amber eyes, she looks like she didn’t sleep well. “Just want to make sure I didn’t freak you out too bad last night. Hell of a tale to tell in the… you know…” She’s speaking quietly and looks up to my dad as she trails off.

  I glance at him and he’s noticed Helena, looking at her over his glasses. He throws me a little grin before turning back to his student.

  “I’ve been… Umm… I feel bad for you,” I say. “That’s gotta be so hard.”

  “Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “And leukemia—twice—is a freaking picnic.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. I look at it, to make sure this is real. That she really did touch me. Part of me thinks it’s totally lame to be excited by such a small thing, but my body seems to have a mind of its own. I suddenly feel hot and the store seems too small.

  She doesn’t touch me for long. I miss that feeling when it’s gone.

  “Listen,” she says, eying the door. “I just wanted to check in. I’ve got to dash. Won’t be around tonight either, but maybe tomorrow.”

  I nod and blink. I can still feel the warmth of her hand.

  “Seriously, Wade, are you okay?”

  I give her a smile, one I hope is not too weird, and say, “I’m good.”

  She turns to go and I say, “Helena.”

  She turns back, a smile on her face. “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad we’re friends,” I say.

  Her smile gets real big and she nods. The way her black hair flows over her shoulders fascinates me yet again. “Me too… me too.”

  We had chicken for dinner ton
ight, battered and fried. Mom doesn’t do that often and I love it when she does. I even ate all my salad I was so happy.

  As we’re finishing up, my father asks, “So, who was that girl I saw you talking to in the store? I don’t recognize her, is she a new friend?”

  My stomach turns over all the food I just ate, and I cover my mouth with a napkin to hide my surprise. Of course he’s curious.

  “Honey,” Mom says, putting the back of her hand to my forehead. “You feeling okay? You’re a little flushed.”

  My father bites back a laugh and says, “He’s fine, dear.” My mom looks at him, her eyes narrow, but his eyes flick up towards their bedroom in his “I’ll tell you about it later” look.

  “What’s this about a girl?” Mom asks.

  I feel like I’m being interrogated or something. It seems kind of bright in here and the grandfather clock in the living room is ticking so loud I can hear it. “She’s… a friend. Just a friend.”

  “Really?” Dad asks, his right eyebrow arching up.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Friends.”

  “And what is this young lady’s name?” Mom asks.

  “Helena. Helena Monfort.”

  My mother shoots my father a look. Her eyes are a bit wide—she’s concerned.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing dear,” she says, her face coming back into its normal configuration.

  “That was something,” I say. “I know it was. What aren’t you saying?” I’m not usually like that with my parents—demanding answers. But all the energy I have from being asked about her twists around on me and it just comes out.

  My mom opens her mouth and I think I’m going to get a lecture about the “tone” I used, but she closes her mouth and sighs. “She has a bit of a history, son. That’s all.”

  I nod. “Yeah, and so do I.” I get up, the noise of the chair scraping back against the linoleum seeming to be too loud. “And I know all about her history. We’re friends. Friends talk about that kind of stuff.”