Ghosting You

by Alexander C. Eberhart

  “How’s the weather?”

  Rod interrupts my stream of thought and I look up to a sopping Nick, leaking onto the hardwood.

  “It’s a little warm for my taste,” Nick quips, brushing a layer of darkened hair from his eyes. “But you know, it’s a dry heat.”

  I snicker, but Rod doesn’t seem to find the humor. That, or maybe he doesn’t get it. Either way. Awkward.

  “Is Mel around?” Nick asks, pawing under the counter for a dry hand towel.

  “Why do you care?” Rod asks with an edge that leaves me unsettled. Rod isn’t one to speak pointedly. Most things about him are round.

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  Uh oh. A brawl is the absolute last thing my nerves need, even if I’m not involved. I’m not above pouring a carafe of steaming black doom on them if they start shit. This is a coffee shop, for Christ’s sake.

  Rod opens his mouth, but I’m faster.

  “Come on, Nick,” I say, stepping between them. “I’ll help you bring the cans inside.”

  Grabbing him by the elbow, I don’t give them a chance to continue their little pissing contest.

  “What’s his deal?” Nick whispers as we walk down the hallway.

  I let go of him and give a quick shrug, then prop the back door open with the loose brick I repurposed into a doorstop after the second time I locked myself out. The rain has slacked off, patches of sunlight peeking through the clouds. I go for the first can but stop short.

  “Dude.” I turn back to Nick, who’s hiding in the doorway. “What the hell?”

  The bottom of the trash can is coated in grime and crusted coffee filters. He hasn’t even touched it.

  His grin is sheepish. “I was hoping no one would notice.”

  “Gloves. Now.”

  “Okay, that should do it.” Reese grins at me from my laptop.

  I stare at the cheap-o phone. “Is this really going to work? This thing looks ten years old.”

  “Only one way to find out, ye of little funds. Hang on.”

  The phone lights up with Reese’s number on the desk.

  “I was wrong to ever doubt you,” I say, swiping to answer the call. “You can hear it in stereo now. You’re the best.”

  “I’m sorry, can you say that louder, but into the microphone?”

  I snort and Reese beams. I end our traditional call and wave at her on the laptop. “Goodnight, my hero.”

  She blows me a kiss. “Sleep well, Princess. And try not to break this one.”

  I close my laptop. Today has been downright shitty, but at least I won’t have to worry about the phone thing for now. I launch myself onto the bed, ready for a trial run.

  Jesus. This thing is slow. It takes a solid five minutes for the Facebook app to download. I can’t remember the last time I waited five minutes for anything. I count the planks of wood that run along the ceiling.

  Once I’m logged in, it’s nice to lose myself in the details of my friends and their summer trips. Kev is in Brazil with his parents, visiting their family. Based on his smile and the bikini-clad girls clinging to him in this photo, he’s having a good time.

  Janet is interning in Atlanta at her Dad’s law firm over the summer as a paralegal, but even she’s found time to go clubbing with Reese. Looks like she was present for the Waffle House Mendes sighting. Huh. That guy kinda does look like him… if you squint hard enough.

  I’m half an hour deep into my scrolling when a text pops up from some random number. I’m in the middle of Kev’s latest photo album, so I swipe away the notification and continue my envious swiping. It’s not till I’ve exhausted my newsfeed and double checked my notifications that I see the little red badge sitting on the text icon.

  I open the message.

  I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It should be me in the ground, not you. 8:04 pm

  Um. Okay?

  I type back the only appropriate response that comes to mind.

  I get off work with just enough time to make it. Somewhere around five, the clouds parted altogether, and the sweltering sun reclaimed its rightful place in the sky over Hester. Now it’s sinking behind the Blue Ridges to the West. Shadows grow longer by the minute. The air teems with insects and the small of my back is damp with sweat.

  But none of that matters. Only one thing holds my attention.

  A polished rectangle of marble jutting from the meticulously trimmed grass.

  Embossed on the stone is your name, bronze and cold and just plain wrong. It’s your birth name but not your real name, not the name I’ve called you since eighth grade. The name your parents hate.

  The ground is still damp from the rain earlier, but grass stains are the furthest thing from my mind. I sit, just waiting to find the words.

  “Brought your favorite,” I say, to make this illusion I’m personifying a little more real. “Or at least, I tried to. They don’t actually make the Cap’n Crunch cupcakes anymore. So, I went with the Count Chocula’s Chocolate Catastrophe. Figured it would probably be your second choice.”

  The plastic container opening sounds like gunfire in this place of serenity. I manage to set your cupcake on the corner of your headstone without making a mess. Then comes the candle. You were always so extra, so I got you the one that sparkles. It hisses to life, the smoldering sparks of light ricocheting off the gleaming surface like shooting stars bouncing around the heavens.

  After I finish humming Happy Birthday, I add, “Wish you were here.”

  My chest swells, pulverizing my lungs. You should be here. But you’re not. I suck in a breath.

  And it’s because of me.

  You feel so far away now, no matter what I say out loud, no matter how much I want you here with me… I’m only talking to a grave. I pull out my phone, type what I need to say and hit send, hoping you have cell reception wherever you are.

  Me: I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It should be me in the ground, not you. 8:04pm

  The tears I’ve held for you for so long now spill over, plummeting to the ground. The drops vanish, the earth soaking up the sadness and pain. Maybe it can make sense of the things that I cannot. Filter this smothering guilt through the layers of dirt and rock.

  You never would have blamed me for what happened. That’s not a kindness I pay myself.

  The sun is gone now. The mountains have claimed it for another night, stealing away its warmth with halos of shimmering gold.

  I wipe my face, then take your cupcake and box it back up. The thought of ants marching all over you makes my skin crawl. Another memory surfaces and I want to share it, so I grab my phone again but stop short.

  My text stares back at me. Something is missing. The symmetry of our one-sided conversation has been skewed. Three little dots appear on the opposite side of the screen, then disappear.

  Chills shoot up my spine.

  Did I just see that?

  No. I’m imagining things. I’ve finally cracked under the weight of my life. It makes way more sense than the alternative. I always thought you could do anything, but not even you can text from beyond the grave.

  Still...

  I shake the possibilities. This isn’t the time to lose my shit. I’ve got too much at stake to get lost in my head. Again.

  Gathering myself and my things, I stand. For a second, in the shadows, I think I see you. But it’s just a trick of the light. I have to stop giving myself false hope.

  You’re gone. And you’re not coming back.

  My phone vibrates. I open the message from your number with trembling hands.

  New phone. Who dis? 8:23pm

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you back here, Thomas.”

  I sit on the edge of the leather sofa, anxious energy twisting my shoulders into knots. “Really? Because you don’t exactly sound surprised.”

  Dr. Paxton pulls off her translucent glasses, folding them in her lap. “After a certain number of years, I’ve found that life has lost the ability to surprise. What�
�s unfortunate is that often times, I miss the sensation. Doesn’t really make sense, huh?”

  My leg bounces with nervous energy. “Honestly, no. I think it’s ludicrous that anyone would miss it. I’ve had my fill of surprises. I crave certainty. Not to be crude, but I’d give my left nut to never be blindsided again.”

  Dr. Paxton cracks a smile. “It begs saying again that your particular viewpoint is refreshing, Thomas.” She sits back in her chair, setting aside her tablet and glasses. “So, what brings you in today?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that question all morning.”

  The truth is, I’m not really sure why I’m here.

  That’s a lie. I know exactly why. It’s more I don’t know how to convey the reason without being committed.

  I’m here because you aren’t. Once again, you’ve disappeared on me. Complete silence. And ever since I got that text from your number, I’ve honestly been freaking out. You took my lifeline, the thing I count on to keep me tethered to this place and my life. Without it, I’m drifting. Lost in a sea of uncertainty, battered by waves of constant change.

  Sure, I can keep talking to you, but now that our conversation is completely one-sided, I feel a little crazy.

  I think I’m crazy because I don’t hear voices. How fucked up is that?

  I should tell Dr. Paxton, but instead I shrug and avoid her gaze for as long as I can. That’ll solve all my problems.

  “Is everything okay at home?” she probes.

  That’s a loaded question. Has anything really been okay at home since Mom got sick? I guess it really depends on your definition of the word ‘okay.’ I get the notion there’s a major difference between mine and Dr. Paxton’s.

  “Everything is the same,” I say. Even though the entire world has changed over the last two days and my anxiety over that fact is completely controlling my life and I’m drowning over here. Help me, Doc!

  “And the new job?”

  “It’s fine.”

  She sighs. More than likely out of disappointment. We both know this is a dead-end street. So why am I here? It’s not like this place has done me any good. My brain is just as broken. Life just as fucked.

  Why am I here? Better question: why aren’t you here? You’re the better choice.

  “Thomas,” Dr. Paxton says, leaning forward and brandishing her glasses. “I want to help you, but if we don’t unpack some of these things—”

  “I’m drowning.”

  The words fall out. Leap from my mouth like base jumpers chasing their next thrill.

  “I don’t follow, Thomas.”

  My other leg bounces now too, as I try to control the unbridled tension from the words threatening to burst through. “I’ve been thinking about water a lot lately. For obvious reasons, but I think it’s actually more than that. No matter what I do, I always end up back at the water.”

  My words are liquid now, seeping around every breach. I should stop, but I’m tired and my lifejacket is gone. Why not jump in head first?

  “It’s crazy, if you stop to think about it. Water. It signifies life and healing and peace. So how is it that it took away everything I care about? The substance that’s vital to our survival is the thing that robbed me of my life. Is that how irony works?”

  Dr. Paxton leans back in her seat once more, the leather crinkling as she does. I take that as an invitation to continue fleshing out my thought.

  “And yet, because the universe is full of fuckery, I can’t stay away from it. No matter what I do, I always end up back in the river. Back to the place that took everything away.”

  A shuddered breath wedges its way between my words.

  “am I crazy or just masochistic?”

  Dr. Paxton doesn’t answer right away, which is just great, let me tell you. After several moments of silent screaming, she does speak, her tone guarded.

  “Those who have suffered a loss similar to yours, Thomas, often find themselves drawn back to the situations and places they associate with their pain. Think of it as exposure therapy. Do you think, in some way, your mind is trying reconcile the loss and the pain with the place it occurred?”

  “How the fuck should I know? Isn’t that what you’re here to tell me?”

  She smiles.

  “As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t know everything, Thomas. The mind is an ever-evolving universe that is capable of wonderful heights and horrendous lows. It’s not always crystal clear why we’re compelled to act as we do. One of the great parts about being human is living in those moments, letting ourselves feel every neuron firing, every chemical that courses through us, elating or terrifying.

  “It’s what proves we’re alive.”

  “Alive?” I repeat the word. It sits on my tongue like a hot coal until it threatens to burn a hole straight through. “That’s not exactly how I would describe myself right now.”

  “I think it’s the perfect word,” Dr. Paxton argues.

  “You obviously need to put those glasses back on, Doc. This touchy-feely crap is all well and good, but how does it help me right now? Experiencing neurons, or whatever the fuck kind of drivel you keep going on about doesn’t change anything. I’m drowning over here and my lifeline has just been cut—”

  I stop myself, muttering a quick curse under my breath.

  Dr. Paxton is dialed in on me now. “And what would that be?”

  “Huh?”

  Shit. This is a disaster. I’m heading for a one-way ticket to the looney bin if I keep on.

  “You mentioned a lifeline. Has something happened, Thomas?”

  My legs jump into hyper-drive, bouncing so hard that the California sushi restaurant downstairs may think they’re back on the San Andreas Fault.

  There’s no point in trying to shove the fucking cat back in the bag, so I take a measured breath before spilling my secrets. Our secrets.

  “I’ve been texting him again. Chase, I mean.”

  Your name drips like honey from my mouth.

  Dr. Paxton does that thing where she sucks in the side of her cheek, leaving half of her face looking gaunt and malnourished.

  “For how long?”

  “A couple of weeks,” I admit, clawing at the heat prickling the nape of my neck. I leave the part out about you talking back to me. She doesn’t need to know. “It’s been tough. I didn’t know what else to do. Sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Thomas. Those messages were a way for you to organize your thoughts and work through—”

  “You don’t get it.” The prickling has progressed to full on back-volcano, beginning its eruption down my spine. “It’s how I kept him alive all this time. Even after Mom was getting better, and I stopped sending those stupid texts, I always knew he would be there for me. Just a few keyboard strokes away. It kept me sane. It kept me alive. It kept me miserable. But miserable is better than nothing, which is exactly what I felt when he left me behind.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had finally started living and then, boom,” I snap my fingers. “Gone. Like he’d never fucking existed in the first place.”

  I wipe a wayward tear from my cheek then press down on both knees to calm the turbulence of my legs.

  “So, what’s changed?”

  My answer is a whisper. “Everything.”

  “And by that you mean?”

  “They recycled his phone number. Some douche-fuck who answered my most private moments with, ‘new phone. Who dis?’”

  “You must have known this moment would come, Thomas.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t.” Dr. Paxton unfolds her legs, rising from the noisy leather chair. “It sucks. And I’m truly sorry it’s happening. But it’s out of your control. I’d like to focus on things that you can control. Are you willing to do that?”

  Silence is the most appropriate response I can think of. Nothing can console me at this point. Dr. Novak is wasting her time.

  “Perc
eptions can always be adjusted. Our perceptions become our realities. I want you to see this as a new opportunity. You haven’t had something taken away as much as you’ve been given a gift. A new chance to change your perspective.”

  I don’t like how much she sounds like you right now. Eternally the optimist.

  “What are you saying? That I should talk to this stranger? Isn’t that like, the opposite of what you’re supposed to tell me?”

  Dr. Paxton hovers behind her desk, shuffling through a stack of papers. “What I’m saying is that you’ve been given an opportunity. What you choose to do with it is up to you.”

  “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

  “You’re an intelligent young man, Thomas. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” Dr. Paxton looks down at her watch, “That’s our time. Same time next week?”

  “It’s weird, right?”

  “Super weird.” Reese whispers. I must have interrupted something important, but who cares. “And you’re sure you don’t recognize the number?”

  “Not in the slightest. All the Google machine could tell me was that it was local to Hester, which doesn’t exactly make me feel better. What do they mean I’m in the ground? Do you think they killed someone?”

  “It’s possible, I guess. People kill other people sometimes. Doesn’t end well for either of them, but everyone usually makes money, so there’s that.”

  “Oh, good. Well I hope you make a gazillion dollars on my life story after I end up butchered in some hillbilly’s basement.”

  Ma knocks on the door of my bedroom. “Dinner in five, Nicholas.”

  “I’ll be right down,” I call.

  “Well, if you decide not to get murdered in the next few weeks, I should be able to make it up for a rescue mission. I’m kidnapping you and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “I’m not thrilled about the verbiage, but that sounds nice. Can’t wait to see you.”