Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Apparently there was another viewing tonight besides Logan’s. I was glad the ghosts couldn’t see and hear each other and start fighting over that poor dead (and apparently twice-widowed) lady inside.

  A man I didn’t recognize sat on a bench outside the front door, smoking a cigarette. He nodded in our direction, oblivious to the ghost weeping beside him.

  Just a few more steps. I could see Megan through the glass doors in the lobby. It would be quiet in there.

  “My poor, poor Logan.”

  The woman’s voice froze my feet. Gina was holding the door open for me, but I had to turn around.

  “Grandma Keeley?”

  The man leaped up from the bench. “Shit.” He coughed on his smoke. “There’s one sitting next to me?”

  The ghost ignored him and wiped her wispy violet eyes. “Hello, hon. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “It’s Aura. I remember you used to haunt Logan’s old house on Calvert Street.”

  The man stubbed out his cigarette in the sandy ashtray. “I’ll never get used to this.” He strode through the door my aunt was still holding open.

  “I can’t get in,” said Logan’s ex-grandmother. “I can’t go to my own grandson’s viewing.”

  “But you can come to the funeral and burial on Wednesday,” I said, trying to be helpful. I was pretty sure Logan’s church wasn’t BlackBoxed, though I’d heard they were taking up a collection.

  “Pah.” She waved her hand. “There’ll be nothing to see but a casket. I want to see his beautiful face one more time.”

  “Me too,” I whispered, and realized it was true. The dread I’d felt all day at the thought of viewing Logan’s … corpse was suddenly swamped by the need to touch him, to drink in my last glimpse of him before he became nothing but a flat image in a hundred photographs.

  The other ghosts began to gather around, lured by my presence.

  “Sorry, I gotta go.” I left Logan’s ex-grandmother to cry alone in the dark.

  Megan stood in the lobby, handing out programs and directing people like a playhouse usher. Working at her family’s funeral home meant that since turning sixteen, she’d had an even creepier job than mine. For an extra charge, Mr. or Mrs. McConnell would bring her to a grieving family’s home to see if the deceased’s ghost appeared with any special requests, which were almost always weird.

  Megan’s hair was pulled back to cover the green streak, and her lipstick was a warm red shade instead of the usual near black.

  She led an elderly couple toward the closest viewing room, which had a small sign outside: EDITH MASTERSON. The multiple-husband lady, no doubt.

  Then Megan swept over and gave me a huge hug. “He looks as cute as ever,” she whispered.

  I guess that was supposed to comfort me.

  “Logan’s grandmom is outside,” I told Megan.

  “I know,” she said as she hugged my aunt. “Dylan was talking to her for a long time. People walking by kept staring at him.”

  By “people,” of course, she meant pre-Shifters.

  A group of six guys wandered in, looking awkward in suits and ties. I’d seen them at the Keeley Brothers’ gigs. My gut grew heavy as it hit me that there’d never be another show.

  “Mickey’s friends. I should say hi.” Megan handed us a pair of green programs, then leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Be strong.”

  My legs felt numb carrying me down the corridor. When we turned into the viewing room, I clutched Gina’s hand so tight I thought her bones would crumble. But she squeezed back just as hard. It was the only thing that kept me standing.

  A sea of people filled the low-lit room, where a long line led between rows of chairs. Vaguely I recalled the viewings of my great-aunts and great-uncles in Philadelphia. We had filed past the family, hugged them (like at a wedding), kneeled in front of the open casket for an appropriate amount of time, then taken our seats. Zero drama.

  Except for the hugging and kneeling, this was nothing like the old people’s viewings. Sobs, sniffles, and a ragged chorus of “I can’t believe it” drowned out the supposedly soothing organ music. Everyone leaned on one another like the pieces in a house of cards. I wanted to ask Gina if my mother’s funeral had been this emotional.

  I forced myself to breathe. I can do this.

  Suddenly the line shifted as Siobhan and Mickey pushed past. Instinctively I put out my hands to them.

  Siobhan lurched forward into my arms. “I can’t take it anymore. Dylan’s already lost it, he’s holed up in the men’s room.”

  Mickey had re-dyed his hair, replacing the blond-streaked jet-black with the natural Keeley nut brown. The same color as Logan’s before he’d bleached it two years ago.

  “Everyone’s giving us looks.” Mickey’s upper lip curled to a near snarl. “Like we don’t feel guilty enough.”

  “It’s our fault,” Siobhan cried. “We were supposed to take care of everything. We never should’ve had that party.”

  “Stop it, Siobhan.” Mickey raked a hand through his hair, which now fell in short, soft waves instead of gelled-up spikes. “Let’s get you some water and some air.”

  The line had moved on without me, and Gina gave me a small wave a few feet ahead. I joined her. The casket was visible now against the far wall. A light shone down from above, like a spotlight from heaven. But Logan’s body was blocked by the people kneeling in front of the casket.

  I can do this. I had to keep it together for Logan’s parents.

  “Oh, good Lord.” Gina clicked her tongue. “That poor woman looks tranq’d to the gills. I don’t blame her. I’d be comatose if anything ever happened to you.”

  In her black dress and hat, Mrs. Keeley stared past each greeter with distant, clouded eyes, nodding briefly at their words of comfort. She looked twice as stoned as I’d felt on Saturday after the Valium. Mr. Keeley seemed to be feeling the pain for both of them—his face was red, damp, and twisted with grief.

  The line moved again, and there was Logan.

  A chill spread up my body until I couldn’t move or even blink.

  His hair had been dyed back to brown. In his dark blue suit and red tie, he looked older and younger at the same time. Like a stockbroker or a kid playing dress-up.

  This. Wasn’t. Logan.

  “No …” My eyes began to burn. “Why couldn’t they—why did they have to—”

  Through the flood of tears, I saw a blur of Gina’s blond hair as she pulled me close, then pressed my face against her neck. Her perfume almost made me gag, but I didn’t move away.

  “Sweetie, I’m so, so sorry.” Her own voice choked. “This should not happen. This should not ever happen.”

  Then she steered me away from the casket toward Logan’s parents. Mrs. Keeley gazed past me and Gina as we greeted her, saying nothing but “Thank you so much for coming.” I turned to Logan’s father.

  “Aura, hon.” Mr. Keeley wrapped me up in a bear hug, so tight I couldn’t breathe. “You poor girl. I can’t even imagine …”

  I grasped his back, scared he would collapse. He was the closest thing I’d ever had to a father. I couldn’t lose him, too.

  When Mr. Keeley finally let go, the funeral director touched his arm and whispered a question about the ceremony. Gina held on to Mrs. Keeley’s hand, murmuring and shaking her head.

  Leaving me alone with Logan.

  As I approached his casket, the room behind me hushed. By now everyone knew I’d been the last to see him alive.

  I dropped to my knees beside him. His skin had a rosy, unnaturally healthy hue. His lips were pink and full, like after we’d been making out for hours. I couldn’t stop staring at them, remembering how they’d felt against mine.

  But it was all so wrong. This wasn’t Logan, and I don’t mean because his spirit was in a better place. I mean it was wrong. Because those lips were just there, doing nothing. Not kissing, not singing, not smiling.

  I lowered my chin to pray, sort of. Sorry, God and the Pope, bu
t this open casket thing is retarded. I didn’t want to remember Logan this way. I tried to recall my last image of him. His ghost had looked like he did when we were in bed together, his shirt open and his hair tousled by my hands.

  I tried to go back to the full-color version, and found that the violet had blotted out my memory. But Logan the Ghost was a million times better than Logan the Corpse.

  “Wherever you are,” I whispered, “I hope you’re smiling.”

  I felt my aunt kneel next to me, heard the rattle of her purse’s zipper as she crossed herself. I knew she was praying silently, fervently, for Logan’s soul to pass on and never come back.

  I can’t do this.

  I ran.

  It was a miracle I got out of the crowded room without stepping on anyone or breaking my leg. Megan called my name as I swept past her in the lobby, but I didn’t slow down.

  Grandma Keeley was waiting on the bench outside the front door. I sat beside her, and we cried together, while the ghosts of strangers held their own silent vigils.

  Later that night the Keeleys had a gathering at their house, just for family and a hundred close friends. Brian Knox came but didn’t speak to me, even when he literally bumped into me at the buffet table, spilling my punch all over my mini ham sandwich. He murmured an apology and left the room. It seemed Brian, Nadine, and Emily didn’t stay long once they realized the adults were enforcing the drinking age.

  Away from the somber funeral home, I held it together okay and managed to carry on a normal-ish conversation with Connor and a couple of Keeley cousins. But while part of my brain was listening (and even contributing a thought or two) to their discussion of the upcoming Ravens game, the rest of me was looking for a chance to run up to Logan’s bedroom and crawl under his covers. I wondered if his pillowcase still smelled like his hair. If I folded it really tight, it would fit inside my jacket without leaving a bulge.

  When the front foyer was empty, I moved toward the steps, pretending I was on my way to the bathroom.

  A shriek came from the darkened upstairs. Children laughing. Not giggling or snickering. Howls of laughter.

  I hurried up to find out what was going on. A little girl in a dark green velvet dress streaked down the dim hallway, her patent leather shoes slapping the carpet. Her laughter made her sway back and forth.

  A boy her age poked his head out of the master bedroom and waved frantically. “He’s in here now! Go back!”

  The little girl slid to a stop, falling on her butt. The boy doubled over and pointed at her. A slightly older girl I recognized as Logan’s cousin Elena appeared behind him.

  “Danny, move! I almost got him.” Elena pushed back a dark blond strand of hair that had fallen out of her butterfly barrette. “He’s coming through the—”

  “Ow!” came a voice from inside the wall.

  My breath stopped.

  Logan stepped into the hallway, rubbing his violet nose. “Man, I forgot the bathroom was BlackBoxed. You guys win this—”

  He stopped short when he saw me. I uttered his name in the barest of whispers, afraid to wake myself from this new dream.

  Logan broke into the widest smile ever. “Aura!” He streaked forward, and by reflex I raised my arms for him to hug me. Violet filled my vision, surrounding me, absorbing me.

  But when I closed my eyes, I felt nothing.

  Logan jumped back. “Sorry, I forgot. God, it’s great to see you.”

  My heart crumpled at the sight of him like this, but I smiled so hard my chapped lips cracked. “Where have you been? I thought you’d moved on.”

  “No way,” he said, like I’d suggested he spend the evening at the ballet. “Too much here for me.” He took a step toward me, his gaze as intense as ever. “Especially you.”

  “But where have you been? Why didn’t you, you know—”

  “Haunt you?” Logan fidgeted with the tails of his open shirt, looking sheepish. “I knew you guys were mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad, I’m—” I curled my fingers near my face, as if I could sign-language the depth of my pain.

  “Aura, please don’t cry. I can’t stand it, you know that.”

  I wiped my face. I hadn’t even noticed the tears—these last few days, their presence seemed more normal than their absence. “So where were you?”

  “Everywhere I’ve ever been. Dude, this is so amazing. Watch.”

  He disappeared. I grabbed the banister in my shock. The kids giggled.

  “Logan?” I fought back panic.

  He popped into view again. “Guess what? Just now I was back in Dublin.” He spread his arms like a magician after a trick. “How cool is that?”

  “Wow,” I said, at a loss for other words.

  “I missed you. A lot.”

  Logan was close enough for me to touch, to smell, to feel his breath on my forehead. Close enough to kiss. If only he were alive.

  “I missed you, too.” I still miss you. My legs felt watery as I backed away. How could it hurt so much to find him again? “It’s been hell. Why didn’t you come see me?”

  “I’m sorry.” He fisted his hands in his spiky blond hair. “Ugh, I was such an idiot. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

  The kids were staring at us and fidgeting.

  “Can we talk alone?” I whispered to Logan.

  “Good idea.” He brushed past me (minus the actual brushing) and moved toward his room. “See you guys later.”

  Elena twisted the lace on the front of her dress. “Promise you’ll come back?”

  “Of course I promise,” Logan said with a wink. “You’ll see me again.”

  She gave a quick knee-bend bounce. “Yay.”

  I moved past Logan toward his room, but just as I touched the doorknob, I heard the crash of shattered glass.

  A voice behind us shouted, “Logan!”

  We turned to see Dylan taking the stairs three at a time. In the foyer below, a broken glass lay next to a spreading puddle of soda.

  Fear flitted across Logan’s face, until he saw his brother was smiling.

  “Where’ve you been?” Dylan exclaimed as he approached. “We all gave up on you.”

  “I’m sorry. I was giving you space.”

  “Fuck space.” Dylan’s grin looked like it would split his jaw. “I’d rather have my brother back.”

  But he’s not really back, I thought. Or is he?

  Below us, the foyer was filling with people, giving me a horrible feeling of déjà vu. The night he died, they’d all gathered and stared, just like now.

  “Look!” some kid yelled. “He’s here!”

  I closed my eyes, wanting to run, wanting to hide. Wanting to be a ghost.

  Feet of all sizes and weights stomped on the hardwood floor below. Voices cried out, some in joy, some in confusion.

  And one in horror.

  Mrs. Keeley’s scream ricocheted off the high ceiling. It traveled down my spine, then back up.

  When I opened my eyes, Logan was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  Megan was late to school the next day, so I didn’t see her until lunch. But I knew from her midnight text message (THIS SUX) that things hadn’t gone well at the Keeleys’ house after Mrs. Keeley fainted. Everyone had left after that—everyone but the McConnells, that is, who needed to alter the funeral arrangements now that Logan’s ghost was around to give his input.

  “He wants to be cremated.” Megan nudged a tomato off her salad with her fork. “Have his ashes scattered at the Hill of Tara in Ireland. There and Molly Malone’s bar in L.A.”

  “Why there?”

  “That’s where Flogging Molly first played. But Catholics can’t have their ashes scattered. Not everyone obeys that rule, but the Keeleys are hard-core.”

  “What did Logan say when they told him no?”

  “He freaked.” Megan set down her fork and shoved away her yellow plastic tray. “I swear, if he could’ve actually touched anything in that living room, the place would be a wreck. The mo
re he tried to throw and kick stuff, the more pissed he got.”

  I sipped my iced tea through the straw, hoping it would settle my empty, aching stomach. “Did he get, you know …” I almost didn’t dare say the word. “Shady?”

  “No way, nothing that bad.”

  “Really? You look kind of sick.”

  “Just tired.” She took a swig from her water bottle. “Plus, I snuck a huge glass of wine while they were all arguing, so I’m a little hungover.”

  Zachary entered the cafeteria, flanked by two girls on each side. They watched him speak, their mouths open, tongues practically hanging out. That accent was deadly.

  “How were Logan’s parents?” I asked Megan.

  “Mrs. Keeley couldn’t stop sobbing. She kept begging Logan to go into the light. Between her crying and Mr. Keeley yelling, I couldn’t get a word in for Logan.” She slid her hands up into her sleeves and rubbed her knuckles together. “My dad was like, ‘Can we please stay calm and make some decisions for your son’s burial?’ but they couldn’t deal.”

  “The funeral Mass is tomorrow. They have to figure this stuff out.”

  “I know.” She wiped her bleary, bloodshot eyes. “Oh, but they’re letting Logan pick the music for the luncheon. He’s pretty stoked about that.”

  “How did he seem to you?” I spoke softly because I was afraid of the answer.

  “He seemed like Logan. You know, cute and charming until he doesn’t get his way, and then a big-time brat.” She rested her chin on her knuckles, shoulders sagging. “Funny, out of all of us in that room, he seemed the most normal. And he’s the dead one.”

  That statement should’ve made me shiver. This was my boyfriend we were talking about, not some anonymous violet specter floating in the shadows of the food court.

  But Logan didn’t feel dead anymore. I’d never touch him again, but I’d see him and hear him. I was grateful that Megan also didn’t refer to him as “ex-Logan.” Maybe she was just being nice, or maybe he seemed too alive to be an “ex.”

  “I wish he’d come see me,” I said.

  “Yeah, he’s been in your room a ton of times.”