Fighting Back

by C. C. Hunter

  I thought it looked quite convincing. It’s one thing I’m good at: drawing, copying things. Not usually forging signatures. But now I realize that if anyone questions it, Kelsey might be able to point a finger at me, since she’d seen me outside the house.

  Great! Something else to worry about.

  I get to my bedroom door and leave it open.

  Returning to my bed, I sit. Wait.

  I’m barely situated when she appears. She looks pretty in the dress. Her hair is blonde, hanging in a nice neat wave. Confusion mars her lovely face. I’d had a spirit, an elderly man, last year that hadn’t realized he was dead. Giving that bit of news was loads of fun. Not.

  I’m hoping this won’t be a repeat of that case.

  “You can see me, can’t you?” she asks.

  I nod. When it first started happening, I tried pretending I didn’t. But something always gave me away. They’d move. I’d jump. They’d talk. I’d listen.

  I discovered it’s easier to just deal with them, to get them to pass over. That’s the best part. Seeing them go. They are all different. Bessie was that falling star. Some of them become a bolt of color. I can’t really explain the feeling, but when I see them cross over, there’s this sensation like . . . I did something really good. Like I’ve just checked off one item on Destiny’s to-do list.

  Truthfully, this isn’t anything I would have chosen. But that’s kind of the point. I didn’t choose it. It chose me. And for that reason it feels like fate. As if turning away from it will screw up some underlying purpose for my life. This doesn’t stop me from sometimes resenting it.

  The woman gets tears in her eyes. She’s young, but older than me. Maybe in her twenties.

  “Is he your father?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “He’s a nice man.”

  They all tell me that. That he respects them when he drains their blood, and when he fills them back up with embalming fluid. They say when he gets them ready for the funeral he takes his time. Looks at photos of them and tries to get it right. They tell me he even talks to them, but he never answers them when they talk back.

  I get up to close the door, so Dad won’t notice me talking, but then I hear it. The sound. That little noise.

  My chest fills with a heaviness. I lean against the door frame and fight the tears stinging all the way up my sinuses.

  Who knew the sound of ice filling a glass could be so sad? Sad because I know he’s pouring himself a drink. Probably the first of many tonight.

  This morning I had to wake him up before I went to school. Normally, he beats the sun up. He looked as if the sun had already beaten him up, but at least he went to work. Would he tomorrow? Is he going to mess up and lose this job, too?

  He’s a good man. He’s the only family I have. I love him, but I’m pretty sure he’s an alcoholic. And I don’t know what to do.

  He’s so proud that he’s hiding it from me. He’s so afraid to let me down. And he is. He’s letting himself down too.

  Anger stirs my gut. I’m tempted to storm downstairs and rip open his secret, try to stop him, but I’m afraid he’ll just drink more then. At least if he’s hiding it from me, he’s not drinking all the time.

  I shut the door and turn to face the ghost, but she’s gone.

  That’s fine. I’m not really up to talking right now. I need to figure out how the hell I’m going to help my dad.

  • • •

  Two hours later, I’ve finished my cookies, my homework, and my pity party. And I’m no closer to figuring anything out. I go to take a shower. A short one. Wet but clean, I step across the hall with a towel wrapped around me. I can’t help stopping to listen for the sound of the fridge spitting out more ice. Thankfully, only silence whispers up the stairway.

  I try to tell myself that he’s okay. He’s not drinking too much. But from what I’ve heard about alcoholism, even one drink is too many.

  He’s never told me he’s an alcoholic. I read about it in Mom’s diary. I found the small leather journal in a box tucked away in a closet when we moved last year. There were only a few months’ worth of entries, but I treasure every word.

  The older I get, the more I ache to know everything about her. Did she hate fish like I do? Did she cry at the drop of a hat when she was on her period?

  When I told Dad I’d found her diary, he’d seemed upset, but he didn’t ask me to return it. And I didn’t offer. I kept the photographs, too.

  Dad had given me a few photos a couple of years before when I’d asked him about her. I still wonder why he didn’t give them all to me then. Does he still miss her that much?

  I step back into my room. Pumpkin stands on the edge of my bed, his orange hair puffed up around his neck, his ears tucked back to his head. I know what that means.

  “She’s back,” I say and turn around. Then I see . . . not her, but him. I almost scream. Air bubbles up in my throat.

  I don’t even know why I’m so startled, except I was expecting it to be the same woman in orange. It’s not.

  He’s standing there, a good foot taller than me, dark brown hair, blue eyes. Young. My age. Eyes wide. Eyes that are checking me out.

  I suddenly feel naked. Oh, hell, I am naked except for a strategically placed towel.

  “Get out!” I look down to make sure all of my important parts are covered. Unfortunately, the towel is small, and either my top or my bottom is going to be a little compromised.

  His eyes lift up, wide with surprise, and he . . . smiles.

  Smiles.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi? You don’t say hi, when someone yells for you to get out!” I scowl at him.

  “Sorry,” he says, which is better, but he doesn’t sound sorry. He doesn’t look sorry. He looks happy. Like I’m a present that’s already unwrapped.

  “I said get out!” I even stomp my foot like an angry two-year-old.

  He fades. Only then do I realize another reason I was so startled. He was different. For a fraction of a second I thought he was . . . real. Alive.

  All of the spirits in the past looked like faded photographs, aged and kind of yellowed. He wasn’t faded. He was . . . bright. He was . . . too young to die.

  I hurry to my closet, shut myself in there, take a few deep breaths, then pull on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

  When I step out, I look around. He’s not there. Pumpkin peers at me from under my bed skirt.

  “Is he gone?” I ask my cat as if he might answer.

  Then I smell it. That same scent I got earlier when walking home. Aftershave. Or deodorant. They all come with their own scent. Each different, like a fingerprint.

  But this one is almost familiar. It’s a boy smell. A cute boy smell.

  Carl used to smell similar after he showered. I used to really like that scent. When I take another deep breath, I also detect a hint of jasmine.

  Oh, crap! Does that mean I have two spirits? I’ve never had two at a time. I’m not sure I can handle that.

  • • •

  “Have a good day, Sweetie.” Dad squeezes my shoulder and picks up his briefcase and lunch bag. “Be careful driving. I left the insurance card on the coffee table. You have enough lunch money?”

  “Yeah. Thanks,” I say without enthusiasm and spoon some Lucky Charms into my mouth. I’m still pissed at him.

  Although I didn’t have to wake him up this morning—he was packing himself some stew for lunch when I came down—he appears to be dragging. I’m not an expert on hangovers, but I saw Carl moving around like a sloth a couple of times after indulging in too many beers.

  When Dad walks out, I spoon-chase a pink marshmallow around my bowl, then just drop the utensil with a thump on the table. What am I going to do about him?

  I sit there listening to Pumpkin crunch on his kibbles. Then bam, I realize I’m not relying on the go-to source that’s helped me through most of life’s issues—my first period, sex, how to use a condom—hey, I wanted to make sure Carl did it right
.

  Yup, Google had saved me. I run upstairs, sit at my desk, and type in “alcoholism.” Ten minutes later, I’m more confused than when I sat down. It’s not that there’s not any advice. There’s too much.

  And reading it makes me aware that I have no proof that Dad’s drinking. Or that he’s really an alcoholic. I only read it in a diary written before I was born. Yeah, I heard the ice last night, I know he lost his last two jobs after showing signs of irresponsibility—sleeping late, calling in sick—all of which he’d never done before.

  But is that enough to draw this conclusion?

  Other than the two job losses that he swears were due to other issues, I have no proof. I’ve never seen him so much as consume a beer. Never seen him stumbling, slurring his words. Never even smelled it on him.

  I need proof. But maybe I don’t have it because I haven’t looked for it.

  Snagging my backpack, I run downstairs, drop it on the table, and rummage through the cabinets. Nothing. No liquor. No evidence.

  I turn around and stare at Dad’s closed bedroom door. I move toward it, reach for the knob. Turning it is so hard. This is Dad’s room. He’s a private man. Invading his space feels . . . wrong on every level.

  Something else feels wrong, too. Silence. So silent I hear the living room clock counting time. Tick. Tick. Tick. It seems to be the only sound in the house.

  My heart starts to keep beat with the tiny sound. The slight thump in my chest makes me realize I’ve stopped breathing. My gaze shifts to the clock on the living room wall.

  If I don’t leave for school now, I’m going to be late. That’s all the motivation I need to let go of the doorknob. Later.

  I cut off the kitchen light, throw my insurance card in my backpack, and fly into the entryway.

  And come to a rubber-sole-skidding halt.

  He’s standing in front of the door, blocking it, looking too bright, still smiling. I inhale to confirm his scent. It’s there. Still familiar. The aroma takes me back to being close with Carl. Back to being intimate with Carl.

  “You going to school?” His voice is deep, almost husky.

  “Yeah,” I manage, and rub my thumb and index finger on the backpack strap hanging off one shoulder.

  He leans against the wall, as if he plans to stay there and visit with me for a long time. “What grade are you in?”

  “Twelfth.” I realize in my haste to leave, I forgot to brush my teeth. With my luck, I’ve got a green marshmallow stuck to my pearly whites. I run my tongue over them.

  His smile widens. “So am I.”

  Am, not was. He’s speaking in the present tense. Does he not know he’s . . . dead?

  The way his blue eyes study me reminds me of how he stared at me almost naked last night. As if he might be envisioning me like that right now.

  “We need to . . . set some rules. You can’t just . . .” I’m tongue-tied, nervous, cute-boy kind of nervous. That’s so wrong. Talk about two people being incompatible. “You can’t just pop—”

  “What’s that saying about rules are meant to be broken?” He grins.

  I frown, tighten my eyes, and glare at him.

  “Just joking,” he says teasingly. “What’s your name?”

  “Riley.” I hitch my backpack up higher on my shoulder. “Yours?”

  He pauses one second. “Hayden.”

  It’s different, sort of like him, so I guess it fits him. “I . . . gotta go.”

  He tucks his hands deep into his jean pockets. His shoulders round. The muscles in his arms bulge out just a bit. Yup, it’s definitely cute-boy kind of nervous that I’m feeling.

  “Okay,” he says.

  Pumpkin hisses behind me.

  “Stay away from my cat,” I mumble and motion for him to step away from the door.

  He inches to the side but not quite enough. Not that it matters—he’s not flesh and blood. I switch my backpack onto my other shoulder and head out. I’m one foot out the door when I realize what happened. I felt him. Not like a person, but a light touch as if someone brushed a feather across bare skin. And . . . he wasn’t cold. Why wasn’t he . . . ice cold like the others?

  I shut and lock the door. Run my hand over my tingling shoulder. Then, with my heart doing double time, I hurry to my car.

  I start the car and drive away. Riding shotgun is the question: What makes this boy so different from all the others?

  The Mortician’s Daughter: One Foot in the Grave

  is available now for pre-order!

  Click here to pre-order!

  This Heart of Mine

  A new heart saved her life—but will it help her find out what really happened to its donor?

  Seventeen-year-old Leah MacKenzie is heartless. An artificial heart in a backpack is keeping her alive. However, this route only offers her a few years. And with her rare blood type, a transplant isn’t likely. Living like you are dying isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But when a heart becomes available, she’s given a second chance at life. Except Leah discovers who the donor was—a boy from her school—and they’re saying he killed himself. Plagued with dreams since the transplant, she realizes she may hold the clues to what really happened.

  Matt refuses to believe his twin killed himself. When Leah seeks him out, he learns they are both having similar dreams and he’s certain it means something. While unraveling the secrets of his brother’s final moments, Leah and Matt find each other, and a love they are terrified to lose. But life and even new hearts don’t come with guarantees. Who knew living took more courage than dying?

  This Heart of Mine is a haunting, poignant tale about living and dying, surviving grief, guilt, and heartache, while discovering love and hope in the midst of sadness.

  Books by C. C. Hunter

  New York Times Bestselling Shadow Falls Series

  Born at Midnight

  Turned at Dark (free novella)

  Awake at Dawn

  Taken at Dusk

  Whispers at Moonrise

  Saved at Sunrise (novella)

  Chosen at Nightfall

  Spellbinder (novella)

  Almost Midnight: Shadow Falls: The Novella Collection

  Fighting Back (novella)

  Shadow Falls: After Dark Series

  Reborn

  Unbreakable (novella)

  Eternal

  Unspoken

  Midnight Hour

  The Mortician’s Daughter

  (coming soon!)

  One Foot in the Grave (coming October 31!)

  Two Feet Under

  Three Heartbeats Away

  This Heart of Mine

  (coming February 27, 2018!)

  For more information: www.CCHunterBooks.com

  C.C. also writes adult contemporary romance as Christie Craig.

  To find out more, visit her at www.christiecraig.com

  About the Author

  C. C. Hunter is the New York Times bestselling author of over thirty-five books, including her wildly popular Shadow Falls and Shadow Falls: After Dark series. In addition to winning numerous awards and rave reviews for her novels, C.C. is also a photojournalist, motivational speaker, and writing coach.

  In February 2018, Wednesday Books will publish C.C.’s contemporary young adult and hardcover debut, This Heart of Mine. And the first book of her new paranormal young adult series, The Mortician’s Daughter: One Foot in the Grave, will release on October 31, 2017. C.C. currently resides in Texas with her husband, junkyard dog, Lady, and whatever wild creatures meander out from the woods surrounding her home. To find out more, visit www.cchunterbooks.com.

 

 

 
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