Dust to Dust

by Melissa Walker

  I look down. Now that I’ve seen Thatcher, I have the feeling he wouldn’t want me talking about the Prism. But I’ve already told Carson something about that world, and my best friend is not someone who lets these things go.

  “Can I take a rain check on that conversation?” I ask her. “I’m sorry . . . I’m just not up for it right now.”

  She looks disappointed, but I can tell she doesn’t want to push me too much.

  “Why don’t you tell me more about the gossip that happened while I was in the coma,” I say. “I want to be caught up for school on Monday. What’d I miss? Who’s fighting? Who’s in love? Who got drunk and hooked up?”

  It’s a lame attempt to change the subject because Carson knows I don’t really care about stuff like that, but she reacts strangely. She freezes for a moment, and her face looks stricken. Then she moves slowly to a spot on the bed next to me, her eyes glistening with tears.

  “Cars, what is it?”

  She averts her gaze. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but . . .”

  The pause is excruciating. “What?” I ask finally.

  Her face crumples. “Um, it’s about Nick.”

  “What about Nick?”

  Another pause. “Two things.” I can tell the tears are about to come streaming down her round cheeks. “I’ve been holding this in and I don’t think I can do it anymore and I have to tell you because if I don’t I’m going to go crazy and—”

  “Geez, Carson! What is it?”

  “IthinkIkissedhimwhenIwasdrunk.”

  She says it in such a gush—“I think I kissed him when I was drunk”—that if I didn’t already know about this, deep down, I’d probably have to ask her to repeat it. Carson covers her face with her hands, peeking out through her fingers to see my reaction.

  I close my eyes, though, because I’m picturing a moment in my mind, a vision that’s been triggered: Reena using my energy to take control of Carson’s body during a party at Tim McCann’s house.

  Carson’s lips curving up in triumph. Carson straddling Nick and pressing her lips to his. Her hair falling over her neck as she leans down to . . .

  I shake my head to try to stop the memory as it comes. I saw Reena enter Carson’s body; I saw her possess my best friend and kiss Nick in that moment, right after he said . . . that he was planning on breaking up with me.

  How did I forget that? Those words came out of his mouth—he even told Carson. But the real Carson wasn’t there. She was already possessed. Thinking about it makes my skin crawl and my stomach ache, but I know it wasn’t Carson who betrayed me—it was Reena.

  As I open my eyes to stare at Carson now, I worriedly search for aftereffects of the possession in my best friend, scared that she might be physically weaker or somehow mentally changed. But thankfully I see nothing different about her at all—Carson is Carson. The possession doesn’t seem to have hurt her.

  Once that fear has worn off—temporarily, at least—I’m aware that it wasn’t her fault . . . and yet, as she looks at me nervously, I feel an arch in my back, a heaviness in my chest. My Nick. She kissed him. I’m surprised at myself. Maybe . . . maybe the boy who’s alive has more of a hold on me than I thought.

  She drops her hands and grabs mine. “Oh, Callie, I’m so sorry. I don’t what came over me. I would never, ever do something like that to you! But I know it happened and I’m just . . . I hope you can forgive me.”

  “It’s okay. Grief can do strange things to people,” I say to her. It’s something Thatcher said to me in the Prism, and it’s true. So true that I can’t help but wonder if my little fit of jealousy over Nick just now wasn’t a piece of me grieving what is clearly the slow fizzling-out of our relationship.

  “You don’t hate me?”

  “No. I don’t think I could hate you if I tried.”

  “Is that because you have a newfound appreciation for life and love and some kind of wisdom that makes you not get mad at your best friend who kissed your boyfriend? Because, goodness gracious, Callie, that is generous of you!”

  I want to tell her that I’m not being generous, and another vision of what Reena did to her comes tumbling back to me. Part of me wonders if I should tell Carson, but I should talk to Thatcher first. He said I wasn’t in danger anymore, and I want to believe that means Carson is safe too. Even though I trust him, it’s hard not to worry, now that I’ve fully remembered how powerful Reena and her “friends” really are.

  I swallow hard and attempt a smile. “Carson, a lot of weird things happened while I was in that coma. Let’s add this one to the list.”

  She hugs me tightly.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I whisper into her hair.

  She pulls back and grins. “I had to. The guilt was eating me alive.”

  “So. You said there were two things . . . ?”

  “Right.” She smoothes the comforter under her hands.

  “Well, what is it?” I’m truly afraid if the second thing is harder to say than the first.

  “I didn’t want to mention it, because Nick was in a really bad place and even drinking a lot during the summer but he’s stopped that and it seems like things are good with you guys now and I just—”

  “Carson!” My patience for her rambling is just about gone.

  “Nick was talking to Holly Whitman a lot while you were . . . away.”

  “Holly Whitman? Seriously?”

  She nods, eyes wide, afraid of my reaction.

  Nick and Holly. That’s what I heard in her voice at the movie theater—it wasn’t pity for me; it was sadness that she wasn’t standing in my place. For all I know, she was the person he was texting the whole night, too.

  I feel my jaw clench. Another visceral reaction to someone else being with my boyfriend. But this is different. It’s not about Holly wanting Nick. It’s about Nick wanting to be with Holly. And even though I’ve just remembered that he’d wanted to end things with me before my accident, I think about how supportive, sweet, and kind he’s been to me since I’ve woken up, and now all of our time together seems a bit false and forced. Like it was between us the other night.

  I finger the amber pendant that I haven’t taken off since Nick fastened the clasp for me last week, and I take a deep breath in. I remind myself that when I was in the coma, I was falling for someone else too. I was discovering a whole new part of myself that I didn’t know existed and somehow Thatcher knew was always there. Maybe that’s what Nick was going through with Holly, and if it was, I have no reason to judge him.

  I open my eyes again. “Are they still . . . you know, interested in each other?”

  “I don’t think so,” says Carson. “I haven’t seen them together or anything since you woke up. . . .”

  I’ve always known Nick to be a Good Person, and him keeping his distance from Holly is even more evidence of that. Which is why I should let Nick go, let him be with her or whomever else he might want, even though he’s still one of the most important people in the world to me. But as much as I hate to admit this, there’s a part of my heart that’s acting out of selfishness.

  The person I’ve been longing for is a ghost, someone I can never be with. Having Nick near me, even if what we are to each other is changing, makes that feeling of loneliness somewhat bearable.

  When I search my soul and try to sense Thatcher’s presence, nothing is there and a tear trickles down one cheek. I wipe at it angrily, feeling like I’m a terrible person.

  “Are you okay?” Carson hands me a tissue.

  “I’m fine!” I snap at her, but when I see her hurt expression, I soften.

  “It’s not your fault, Cars,” I say. “Things are just . . . complicated.”

  She reaches over to give me a squeeze, and I accept it, feeling a little less horrible about myself, thanks to her hug. “You know what might help?” she asks.

  “Please not a Hallowed Hauntings marathon.” I groan.

  “I wouldn’t do that to you!” says Carson, even though that's her favorit
e show.

  “Roman Holiday?”

  I smile. “Yes.”

  I want things to be like this, simple. Like before. So I try to push away my memories of the Prism for tonight, just like Thatcher wants.

  We change into pajamas and tuck under Carson’s covers, side by side on her bed as she streams our favorite sleepover movie. When Gregory Peck comes on the screen, his cheekbones remind me a little of Thatcher . . . and my mind leaves Carson’s room once again, floating into a wish where he comes back to me for more than just a speech about moving forward.

  I fall into a fitful sleep before the scooter scene, and when I wake up in the morning, Carson is already dressed and sitting on the end of the bed, looking at me intently.

  “Whoa, stalker,” I say. “Why the crazy stare?” I push a wavy mass of my dirty-blond hair out of my eyes. Then I yawn and meet her gaze. Her lips are pursed in anticipation.

  “What?” I ask again.

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  I try to play it cool. “And?”

  “Just one question: Who’s Thatcher?”

  Eight

  OUT ON THE PORCH, over a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and biscuits and gravy cooked by Carson’s mother, aka the best cook this side of the Mississippi, I finally decide to spill it. The Prism, the Guides, Thatcher, my mission to heal my loved ones—Carson included—by haunting them in a subtle way, a soulful way.

  I don’t tell her how I felt, how I feel, about Thatcher. I can’t put that into words yet—it’s too painful. And I’m not sure now is the right time to talk about Reena’s possession, and what she and Leo and the rest of the poltergeists were up to. I don’t know how Carson would handle it. She has always believed in an afterlife but not necessarily one where people here could be actually threatened by those who have left the physical world.

  “I was looking for signs from you everywhere,” says Carson, her eyes glowing with excitement. “I knew you weren’t trapped in that hospital. I could feel it.”

  I smile at her. I’m a little afraid to be sharing all of this, but it is so nice to be able to tell someone. And she takes everything I say as absolute truth, which is a relief since some of it sounds downright cuckoo.

  “Were you hanging around with me a lot?” she asks. “Even when I went to the bathroom and when I was reading that romance novel I have tucked under my mattress? Oh! Were you with me when I googled my face crossed with Ryan Gosling’s to see what our baby would look like?”

  I laugh and throw my balled-up greasy napkin at her. “Of course not! I didn’t have time to watch your every move. I would just visit you . . . sometimes.”

  Like Thatcher does with me now.

  “Let me think,” she says, and I know she’s trying to recall the moments when she felt my presence.

  “When I went on the ghost tour . . . And the radio station changed without me touching it . . .”

  I nod. “I was there. But that wasn’t the way I was supposed to haunt. Another ghost did that for me, changed the station, and Thatcher got really mad.”

  I think back to that night, to Leo interrupting Thatcher’s teaching and stealing my energy to connect with Carson. In that moment I thought Leo’s way was more fun and exciting. But I came to realize how wrong I was.

  The poltergeists lure people with their charm, but all of it was just an act to reel me in and then use me for what they’d never have again.

  A life force.

  “Wait, why did Thatcher get mad?” asks Carson.

  “Because there are Guides, and Thatcher’s one of them. They teach you about real haunting—the kind that helps people truly move on from someone’s death. It’s soul to soul; it isn’t physical.”

  Carson nods like she understands. “That night made me so sad,” she says. “I thought you were there, but maybe trapped in some dimension and trying to escape or something. I didn’t know what to do or how to help.”

  “That’s just what Thatcher taught me—that kind of haunting can do more harm than good,” I say. “It doesn’t ease the Living; it makes them more anxious about your passing.”

  “The Living.” Carson says it with a shiver. “But you were alive that whole time.”

  “I didn’t know. I thought I was dead.”

  Carson reaches out across the table and touches my hand. “You should talk more about this—think of how many grieving people you could help. You could tell them that their loved ones want them to be okay. You’ve seen how it works!”

  I pull my hand away quickly. “Don’t start this again. It’s private. I mean it. You have to promise me you’ll keep all this to yourself.”

  She looks down at the table, but I see her nod.

  “Seriously,” I say.

  “I promise. But I still think you should let people know what you saw.”

  “Your opinion is noted.” I shove a forkful of grits into my mouth.

  Carson looks back up at me. “The stuff about the haunting to help people move on is really beautiful. It makes perfect sense to me.”

  I nod as I chew, wanting to change the subject, now that she’s pressed me more about making my story public.

  “Your mom did that,” she says.

  I look up at her sharply.

  “She haunted me,” says Carson, not backing down.

  Carson always told me how my mother would come see her when we were little, after she died. She said she felt Mama’s presence, that Mama wanted me to know that she was okay. But we were little girls, just six years old, and no one would listen to Carson. Not even me.

  Maybe deep down I believed her, but I was jealous. I guess I still am.

  “Why didn’t my mom haunt me that way?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she tried but you weren’t open to it so she had to have me give you the message.”

  Carson says this gently, sweetly.

  I take another bite of breakfast, and Carson asks, “So what kind of powers do you have now?”

  I nearly spit out my eggs. “Powers?”

  “Yeah, like can you still move things without touching them? Are you still . . . telekinetically inclined?”

  I roll my eyes. “No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”

  “You haven’t tried?” Carson shrieks in disbelief.

  Her mom comes over to bring us more warm butter and we quiet down for a minute until she walks back to the kitchen.

  “Go on, make that butter tray move,” whispers Carson.

  “That isn’t how things work.” I realize that I sound like Thatcher responding to me when I wanted him to teach me energy tricks in the Prism. How ironic is that? “Besides, I’m back in my body now. I don’t think I can tap into energy the same way.”

  “I bet you can.” She grabs my arm and closes her eyes, starting a deep hum.

  “What are you doing?” I move away quickly.

  “I’m trying to use your energy to connect with something!” She laughs lightheartedly, but I don’t join in. What she just did reminds me too much of the way Leo and Reena and the poltergeists drew on my energy and started targeting people on Earth I cared about, hoping to take over their bodies and eventually their lives.

  My stomach churns a little, the urge to tell her about the possession she experienced getting stronger every second, but something inside keeps telling me to wait and talk to Thatcher first.

  Only I have no idea when that will be. I haven’t felt the warmth of his presence since yesterday morning.

  “Okay, fine, we can try to move something later,” says Carson, still smiling. “So what happens after you haunt everyone and help them grieve? Do you go to Heaven then?”

  “Sort of. There’s a place called Solus that the Guides say is like Heaven. They call it merging, and it’s what every ghost is striving for.” Well, almost every ghost.

  “How long does it take to get there?”

  “I think it’s different for everyone. Thatcher can’t merge, because his little sister never got over his death.�
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  I look over at Carson and her face falls. “Wow, that’s so sad.” Then she perks up and I see her I have an idea face. “If his sister—what’s her name?”

  “Wendy . . . Wendy Larson.”

  “If Wendy accepted Thatcher’s death, then he’d be able to . . . what was it called?”

  “Merging.”

  “Right. So if his sister got over his death, then he could merge into the Heaven place?”

  “Solus.” I pronounce it like solace.

  “Solus,” Carson echoes. “He could go there if Wendy moved on?”

  “I think so.” Carson’s interest in this is starting to make me nervous.

  “Why don’t we help then?”

  “Carson . . . no.”

  “Why not? If we can talk to her and tell her that Thatcher needs her to get over it—I mean we’ll say it more nicely than that—she’ll understand! She’ll let go of him, and he can merge with Solus!”

  Her face is shining—she’s so excited to find that there’s some truth to an afterlife, something she’s always suspected existed. But I can’t let her meddle—not with Thatcher.

  “We can’t,” I say to her. “It’s none of our business.”

  She looks at me sideways. “You don’t want him to merge.”

  What? “Shut up. Of course I do!”

  Her eyes light up with knowing. “You don’t want him to leave you. You’re in love with him,” she says. “That’s why you aren’t crazy mad about Nick and Holly, why your head is always somewhere else. You’re thinking of him. Maybe even talking to him! Oh my gosh, were you talking to him in your dreams last night? This is incredible. When you first met him, was it like you’d known him for a thousand years?”

  Carson’s smile is huge—it’s like we’re discussing a new crush. But that’s not what this is. And I don’t appreciate it.

  “Stop mocking me.”

  “It was insta-love!” she says, missing my tone and clapping her hands together. “I guess that happens when you’re in some crazy world. I want to visit the Prism!”