by B. B. Palomo
I listened to see if my mom was on her way back, and once I was sure she was still occupied, I sat down in the seat she left. My hand trembled as I placed my fingers against the planchette. It buzzed, the energy more alive this time. Perspiration broke out on my forehead, tiny droplets running down past my ears as I gulped down anxiety.
Just breathe.
“D—” I cleared my throat and tried again. “Dad? Are you there? Please talk to me.”
I waited, the time seeming to turn into an eternity as I prayed for something to happen. For my act of kindness to let me reap instant benefits. For that stupid thing to move over to yes, affirming he was here so I could talk to him, tell him how I felt, but it never moved. It never even flinched. Tears built in the corners of my eyes, spilling over like lava. The soft footsteps of my mom returning forced me to wipe at them angrily and pull back from the board.
“The floor!” she exclaimed and rushed toward the window that was still open, the rain falling heavier than before.
I jumped up to help, thankful she hadn’t just seen me messing with the Ouija board on my own. We pushed the glass closed together. It gave some resistance in the storm but eventually conceded and slammed shut. By the time we moved back, our clothes had been drenched in rain. She laughed, and I couldn’t help but join in even if it was forced. It made me happy to see her happy.
“Well, that was an experience,” she said.
“I didn’t think it would work,” I admitted, curious what her position was.
“It didn’t.” She shook her head and walked over to the board. “At least not the way they think.”
“What do you mean?” I asked and followed her.
“Oh, where is it?” She looked around, and I realized the planchette wasn’t on the board anymore. I was sure that was where I had left it, though. “Ah! There.” She reached down and picked it up off the floor.
It must have fallen?
She bent down again and reached under the table, retrieving a little round black disk. It took me a moment to figure out what she was doing. However, as she put it to the bottom of the cursor, it snapped together. I immediately realized what she meant. It did work, but only because she’d made it work.
She had pulled one over on them…and me.
“See.” She forced a smile. Anyone who didn’t know her would never be able to tell its illegitimacy, but for me? I knew it wasn’t as real as she pretended. “Nothing to be afraid of”—she said it in a way that made it seem like she was still convincing herself of that— “and”—an excited hand rustled in her pocket to pull out a stack of bills, folded and pinned together with a silver money clip— “they still paid!”
I let out an exasperated laugh, the sound landing somewhere in between relief and disappointment. The money would help tremendously, I mean, it looked like they’d just thrown their whole wallets at her, but I couldn’t help being a little disappointed that the experience wasn’t real. For a moment, even if that moment was fleeting, I thought I would be granted the opportunity to see my dad, to force him to talk to me, even if it was only one more time.
“Are you okay?” she asked me seriously.
“Y-yeah.” I scrunched my face like it was a ridiculous question.
She sized me up, looking for something I couldn’t put my finger on and I almost wanted to come clean. I opened my mouth before snapping it shut when I noticed the dark bags under her eyes. I couldn’t add on to her stress. She was mourning, just as I was. Telling her that I was seeing ghosts might send her over the edge. I needed to get myself together and be stronger for her.
“You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”
I flinched, afraid she’d manage to read my mind.
“Of course,” I lied, hoping it would be enough.
It worked.
Mom said she’d clean up the mess, reminding me I had school and work tomorrow. I didn’t argue, offering to at least grab the towels, which she happily allowed me to do. After I left her to lay them on the floor to suck up the water from the carpet before it began to smell like mildew, I turned down the hall to my room. The door shut with a definite click, a period on a far too eventful night.
I shot a quick text to Noah before slipping out of my wet clothes and stuffing myself into pajama bottoms and a partially torn shirt. I lay down on the plush pink comforter from my childhood bed set, the mattress dipping under my weight, familiar and comforting like it knew me. I’d never bothered to exchange it for something more mature, even when Adira made fun of me for the princess-like designs.
The ceiling fan spun in bumpy circles, the chain that hung from it clinking against the glass shade of the lightbulb. I counted the turns like sheep. Its blades were warped from use, and the layer of dust hiding on the other side drifted over me occasionally, tickling my nose until I sneezed. I meant to wait until Noah responded, but watching the slow, constant motion pulled me into a deep, dream-filled sleep.
Chapter Four
The slam of Dad’s steel toolbox nestled up to the exterior cab of his beat-up truck always signaled the end of a job. It rang in my ears different than when it was opened and shut before starting work and even when Dad pulled some of his more expensive tools from it when he arrived home. Maybe the actual difference was me being his apprentice. I earned memories with him instead of money, and I looked forward to it every time I could convince him to let me tag along.
Dad slapped his hands together, scruffing calloused skin up and down to add extra finality. I rubbed my own palms against dark blue jeans, the grease from the tools as his skilled gopher transferring to the material in a perfect outline of my fingers.
“Ready, kiddo?”
I looked up with a smile, not bothering to mention the dirt speckling his chin from scratching it earlier. His blond hair was mostly hidden under his favorite blue baseball cap but still snuck out enough to curl over the hem. His yellowed shirt sleeve had been ripped while climbing under the client’s sink, catching on a sharp nail protruding from the wooden cabinet, and now exposed his shoulder as the fabric hung loose.
“Almost,” I said before swinging my bag into the trunk. “Okay, ready.”
“You did well today,” he said while hanging onto the truck to stretch his back out.
“Yeah.” I raised a testing brow his way. “Lots of talent in knowing the difference between a wrench and hammer.”
“Hey.” He feigned a serious tone. “That was more than I knew at your age.”
“Oh, whatever.” I rolled my eyes, knowing that was a lie.
“I’m serious,” he pressed on. “At this rate, you might as well be my boss.”
“First new order then,” I said, waiting for him to give me a what is it look before continuing. “My first paycheck.”
“You’re telling me you aren’t volunteering out of the goodness of your heart?”
“Not when I need my own car,” I said as casually as I could, but it wasn’t lost on him.
“A car, huh?”
“Well, I’m gonna need a way to get around when classes start,” I said.
“Have you talked to Mom about this?” he asked.
“You know she doesn’t want to think about me moving so far away for school.” I shrugged.
Where most parents are excited about college acceptance letters, my mom had a fit. She battered me with questions about why I chose something so far away and if I was running from her. I wanted to say it was the place I was trying to escape from, but so much of her life was weaved into the confines of the town limits that to her it was the same thing.
“You know”—he turned away so I couldn’t see his eyes—“I’m kinda with Mom on this. I don’t know how I feel about you going all the way to Richmond.”
“It’s not that far, plus I’ll visit, and you both can too,” I said.
“I know, but you have to remember you’re our baby girl.” He looked back, and tears gleamed in his eyes before he blinked them away. “So we worry.”
“I know, but you don�
�t have to,” I said.
“You’ll understand—”
“When I have kids, I know,” I finished his sentence for him, having heard it all before.
He laughed, shaking his head.
“All right.” Dad slapped the metal truck, the sound echoing through the trees and sending the birds flying. “It’s getting late. We should get going before your mom wrings us both.”
“I’m driving,” I declared.
He threw the keys over his shoulder without looking, knowing I’d catch them easily.
“Then I choose the station,” he said, and I agreed.
The old but reliable vehicle groaned as we got in and comfortable. I turned the key and waited patiently while the stubborn engine whined until it finally gave in and started up. We wouldn’t have much light left on the way home with how quickly the sun raced away on the horizon.
As I pulled onto the main road, Dad settled on an eighties rock station, which was predictable. If I knew nothing else, it was that Whitesnake was his favorite band, and music cured his soul—or so he said. I groaned over the choice, but secretly got excited when a song I knew the lyrics to came on. The genre was lumped together generally as hairbands, but each group had a unique sound and message. Over the years, I’d found it impossible not to thump my foot to the beat and sing along when Dad was trying to hit notes he had no business being able to reach.
We were a good three hours away from home. Dad getting jobs this far away wasn’t abnormal, and he rarely turned anything down. Word of mouth about his affordable and well-done services kept him busy and on the road, but as long as I was allowed to tag along, I didn’t mind.
Mom, on the other hand, would definitely be annoyed that we were getting in so late.
After Dad pointed me in the right direction, he leaned back into his seat, getting comfortable. He pulled his hat down to cover his eyes, muffling his yawn into the cap.
“You gonna be okay if I nap?” he asked, sounding like he was already half asleep.
“Yeah,” I assured him. “Get some rest. We should be home in no time.”
It didn’t take long for his breathing to regulate, and when I turned down the radio without him stopping me, I knew he was fast asleep. I drummed my thumb against the steering wheel, keeping to the beat but staying quiet enough not to disturb him.
I made it over an hour before the silence had my eyes drooping. I rolled down my window and let the warm air hit me in the face, needing the temperature change to fight the sudden fatigue sweeping through my body.
I adjusted, then readjusted, popping my back against the backrest, squirming in my chair, anything I could think of. There was no reason to feel this tired. I’d slept in, only ran for tools, but my head bobbed on my shoulders like I’d pulled an all-nighter.
“I can’t do this,” I yawned to myself.
Turning to my dad, I reached over to stir him awake. I’d held onto the wheel too tight and pulled us off into the dirt. The truck rocked as I slammed both hands back on the wheel, steadying us until the wheel hit pavement. My eyes burned with a need to close and even as I screamed internally that I needed to stay awake, a velvety voice snuck through my ears, saying it would be okay if I closed them, just for a moment.
“Shit,” I cursed under my breath, heart racing when my body tried to comply. “Dad? Hey, Dad!”
“Huh?” He shot up, rubbing his eyes when the baseball cap fell from his face. “Are we home?”
“No.” I shook my head, still struggling to stay conscious. “I don’t think I can drive anymore. I’m not feeling okay.”
“Are you sick?” He reached over and placed the back of his hand against my forehead. “You’re a little warm.”
“I-I don’t know,” I stuttered, my tongue harder to control. “I’m going to pull over.”
“Okay,” he agreed and, after a moment, spoke again. “Willow, you’re gonna pull over, right?”
His words got lost in the fray of my mind. My foot pressed down on the accelerator, without my control, and my body grew heavy. I was dizzy, not even able to tell if I still had a hold of the wheel or not. My skin buzzed as bile clawed its way up my throat, burning my mouth as I tried to hold it back.
“Willow,” my dad screamed, yanking the wheel with his hand as the truck ventured off the road again, heading right for a guard rail.
The old shocks couldn’t take the fast correction. One second all four wheels were on the ground, and the next, we were flying, the crunch of metal deafening as we rolled from the road.
Glass shattered across my face, slicing my skin as Dad grunted, trying to hold on to anything to brace our fall. We came to a sudden stop, impossible to tell which side was up. My head cracked against the steering wheel, the sound radiating through my skull as it fractured.
“Wait,” I heard my dad yell through the fog clouding my mind.
I tried to do as he said, but there was nothing to hold on to as my agony-ridden body was dragged under the icy, midnight waters of my end.
Chapter Five
Nausea curdled my stomach as I rubbed my temples, the pain behind my ears throbbing hard and hot. The area around my eyes was puffy, itchy, and protruding into my field of vision after a night of painfully vivid dreams. Restful sleep was near impossible to come by since that night, but this was different. Burnt rubber clung to my nose as if I’d just walked away from the scene, my scar burning from an impact that happened six weeks ago. I fisted the drenched shirt I’d worn to bed at my chest, twisting it every time I took a breath to remind myself I was here and not where the life I’d known went up in flames.
My blanket had jumped ship sometime during the night and now lay strung out in a heap on the floor, abandoning me and my likely flailing. Stiffness froze the curvature of my spine as soon as my feet hit the floor. I took a deep breath before I stood, readying myself. The sounding cracks were unmistakable as my body readjusted and settled into place as if I were in my seventies rather than hanging onto my last teen year.
I was in a war against the rats’ nest piled at the top of my head, and when I was convinced I’d won the battle against the knots, it frizzed wildly, reaching out toward every direction like I’d stuck my finger in a light socket. With a defeated sigh, I threw it up, twisting the length of it to resemble a rope and circling it around itself, which I then clipped to my head in a bun. Frayed strands stuck out rebelliously, tickling the nape of my neck. I grabbed my favorite jeans—the ones that had the holes you paid for both in cash and awful dad jokes. I pulled a cotton shirt over my head, the maroon neck declining into a slight vee.
I’d missed several calls and texts from Noah, so I typed out a quick apology and explained I’d fallen asleep before hitting send. I worked my way toward the kitchen, rubbing out the last kink in my shoulder. It turned out to be more stubborn and only tightened when I applied more pressure, which riled up the headache I was actively ignoring. I gave up as I passed my mom’s door, slightly ajar, meaning she went to bed in a good mood. Still comfortably asleep, her soft snores filled up the empty house, warming it despite my dad's absence.
Light shone through the windows, the cicadas already awake and thunderous after a long night of storms. Thick humidity clung to my skin, soaking into my shirt. The soft fabric stuck to me like I’d just left a shower without enough time to towel myself off. I yanked it away, optimistic I could get relief by air drying my skin, but it merely settled back down and repeated the irritating cycle. This warm front was rare as we rushed through the last days of fall. Most people would be thankful for the break, not ready to say goodbye to the sun's heat and settle in for the snowstorms that would inevitably hit, but I personally preferred the cold.
To others, my argument was simple. The chill was manageable with layers to combat the temperature. In contrast, the heat couldn’t be avoided unless hunkering down next to a noisy air conditioner that took up the whole window. There was something about how the winter brought each leaf to the ground, its death a beautiful array o
f oranges and browns as they melted into the earth. Then, those full clouds opened up to unleash the first perfect snow of the year, each flake individually falling, unique in its shape and size. The way the white powder coated the branches and ground, crunching perfectly under a pair of boots. I lived for it and the peace it brought me.
I ambled to the kitchen to grab bread from the box, the soft pastry already imprinted with the deep fingerprints of hasty bagging, and set a butter knife next to the loaf on the counter. I rummaged through the pantry for some nut spread, finding it hidden on the very back of the shelf. I could have moved ingredients out of my way, but instead, I weaved my arm through the items and grabbed the tub like it was a piece in a game of Operation. I did a little dance as I successfully retrieved it without knocking down anything else.
Moving back to the counter, I set the tub down and pulled two slices of wheat from the bag, preparing to use the knife to spread the protein on it. I reached for my utensil, but my hand came up empty. I patted the counter like the butter knife could somehow have fallen into the middle of the grouted divots of the square tiled counter, but unsurprisingly it didn’t magically reappear. Peering around yielded no results either. It hadn’t tumbled to the ground or made its way to the sink in my sleepy haze. Without a second thought, I retrieved a new one, assuming I’d just imagined I grabbed it in the first place.
After my quick, unfulfilling breakfast, I cleaned up and put my plate away before slinging my bag over my shoulder and heading off to school, making sure to shut the door quietly behind me. On my way to the bus stop, the familiar rumble of my favorite truck crept up behind me. I glanced over my shoulder without need, already knowing who it was. The dented blue and concerningly rusted door came to a stop right in front of me as Noah reached across to manually roll the passenger side window down.
“You need a ride?” He gave me his version of an award-winning smile.
“Hmm.” I forged uncertainty. “I really shouldn’t get in the car with a stranger.”