Between Seasons

by Aida Brassington

  Her voice faltered at the last word of the scene as she tentatively touched the glass still balanced on her knee.

  “Patrick…”

  “Sara!” Patrick yelled, hoping like Hell she’d hear him, acknowledge him. “I’m here!”

  She didn’t move or make any indication that a ghost was screaming at her. She simply continued rubbing her thumb over the surface of the glass.

  “There’s no way,” she whispered. “This is crazy.”

  “It’s not,” Patrick murmured, his legs bringing him closer to her without even realizing they were moving. “I’m real.”

  Even he had doubts about that.

  “No.” She closed her fist around the glass, face screwing into a scowl. Her body exploded off the couch, streaking up the stairs before Patrick could even react. “No!”

  “Oh, shit!” Sara was going for the attic. Maybe he should let her find his cigar box. She’d know the truth, although if he was in her position, he didn’t know if he’d ever allow himself to believe something so idiotic. A lovesick ghost was leaving him presents? Yeah, right. Sure .

  He ran after her, catching up to her as she sprinted up the attic stairs. His books were all hidden again –nothing to indicate the location of the cigar box, so maybe she wouldn’t find it? Maybe she’d start at the other end of the attic. It was a big space, and it was unlikely she’d discover the right spot. Even though he wanted her to know he’d really given her the glass, he worried about how she’d react. It was one thing to know a guy died in her house and pretend to talk to a ghost and maybe think she could sense something touching her, but it would be quite another to have evidence of channeling a spirit and knowing for sure he loved her and left the gift.

  His sigh of relief when she started peering under insulation in the wrong spot filled the attic, and he sat gingerly on the plywood floor in front of where his box hid, hoping maybe if s he came near he could touch her, send her running. He didn’t want to scare the crap out of her, but the feeling of it being a bad idea to confirm his existence wouldn’t leave him alone.

  In the meantime, he enjoyed the view. Sara’s ass waggled while she searched on her hands and knees. She did find other things… his book on religion, for instance, as well as an old notebook he’d stashed. In truth, he’d forgotten about the notebook. He’d used it to keep track of his life –just lists of things he did every day, important dates. That kind of thing.

  She gave up after twenty minutes, standing up as straight as the low beams of the attic would allow.

  “I must be nuts,” she said, swearing under her breath before stalking down the stairs.

  Sara seemed to always have the piece of glass. At night she slept with it on her bedside table, and throughout the day it was in her pocket or sitting on her desk when she worked. He’d dodged a bullet , so to speak, with her in the attic, although she’d gone back up there to search a few more times. He ’d moved the cigar box twice already, hoping she’d eventually forget about it. He’d been tempted to move it to the basement but couldn’t shake the feeling he’d somehow get caught.

  "Oh, please, Jules. I’m not an idiot.” Sara pulled the phone away from her ear and stuck her tongue out at it before listening again. “Yeah… yeah… no. Okay, look. All I’m saying is I found a piece of sea glass and then wrote a story about the ghost leaving it for me… yes, I know how that sounds… I don’t know –kinda… yeah, I’ll email it to you.”

  Sara opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bunch of stuff, sandwiching the telephone between her shoulder and her head while she sliced up cheese and tomatoes. “No, I’m telling y –.”

  It was hot in the house, the humid summer air making everything stale and thick. A bead of sweat ran down the back of Sara’s neck; before he could stop himself, Patrick swiped at it. The phone clattered to the ground.

  “Shit! Sorry, I dropped the phone,” Sara explained after she retrieved it, looking behind her with a raised eyebrow. Patrick laughed uneasily , guilt chewing at his skin .

  “Hey… I’m really not buying into this whole ghost thing. How could I? Yeah, I’m sure it wasn’t a dream. Yes, I know. Yeah, I know. Seriously, Jules, would you leave –”

  He tried not to take her denial personally because whether she believed he was there or not, it didn’t really matter. No matter what he wanted, this was as close as he’d ever be to her.

  “Why don’t you turn the air conditioner on or something?” Patrick asked, watching the hazy lines of heat rise off the street outside. “You’re obviously hot.”

  She rarely turned on the air, something he couldn’t understand. The summers were something he could remember vividly, even after all the time that had passed. The swampy feeling in the air sucked every bit of energy out of him, and the memory of shivering in bed in the middle of August never left him –his mother hated the heat and humidity as much as he did, although his dad complained bitterly about the high electric bill every month.

  Sara seemed to enjoy it – surprising, given that she was from the west coast. He’d once heard it was so much drier there. He didn’t mind it when she paraded around in tiny shorts and tank tops, though, that was for sure. He didn’t feel quite so much like a perv about it since she was dressed, although she didn’t exactly know anyone was staring at her ass cheeks hanging out the bottom of the cut-offs.

  “… not sinful. Stop it. Yeah, I’m serious. Just quit trying to imply I’m a crazy child molester… so what? He was nineteen. I’m not that much older, and… wait, are we really having this conversation? First, you think I need to seek professional help because I like to pretend there’s a ghost in my house that left me a rock –”

  “Sea glass,” Patrick corrected.

  “… and now you’re implying I’m luring pretty, young boys to the house with can–”

  He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Pretty, huh? I’ll take it, but I’d prefer ruggedly handsome or Marlboro Man macho.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jules. Oh, okay, sorry – for Pete’s sake. I’m sure there isn’t a demon in the house. Oh, come on! I’m sorry you think I’m not being a very good Christian, but he looks nice. He’s just a kid from the seventies . Feathered hair, the whole nine.”

  At the mention of his hair, he raised his hands, smoothing the sides. Not like he needed to worry about a hair being out of place –lucky he managed to train it before he died; he was assured of perfect hair forever … even if his hair could be messed up .

  “Yeah… hey, I have to run. I’ve got a writers’ group meeting tonight… oh, uh, I’m going to read something I’ve been working on… no, I don’t think so.”

  Patrick wondered what she was going to read. She’d written a short story the other day about a woman watching a man die, but it definitely hadn’t been about him. It had been set in Los Angeles, and the man died when a car ran him over. Strangely, it had been really funny, and on some level he thought maybe it was really about Sara’s ex… some sort of cathartic venting.

  If he ever made it to Heaven, Patrick would look up that douche Sara married, although he had serious doubt a guy like that would go… you know, up. He kind of hoped the theory of resurrection was true – he’d love to be reborn or come back to life and have the chance to lay that dude out. Sara deserved so much better.

  “My car’s running a little wonky, so a woman from the group is picking me up. Ginny - remember?”

  Patrick whipped his head toward her. Ginny was coming over? She hadn’t been there since that first writers’ group meeting at the house, and Patrick felt a little guilty about that –she’d been freaked when he copped a feel. Hell , he’d been freaked out and surprised, too, when she reacted.

  “Yeah, alright. I’m calling Mom and Dad tomorrow, so maybe I’ll call you afterward... okay. Bye.”

  “I’m not crazy,” she muttered after she put the telephone down. Louder, she called, “Patrick, you’re keeping me sane. And I’m still half in love with you.”

  “Just half, huh?�
�� Patrick teased. The grin slid off his face as he considered maybe that was what was keeping him out of Heaven . Maybe it was some screw y version of It’s A Wonderful Life , but instead of helping Sara discover how good her life was, he was supposed to get her to fall in love with him. It was kind of cruel to do to her, especially if he’d just fly off to Heaven on new wings when she did. He shook his head. Dumb idea. Stupidest idea he ever had. Not that it mattered – he was grasping at straws and always had been.

  “Okay, I have to go change into something less slutty.”

  “Yeah, if Kevin’s going to be there, maybe you should dress like a nun.”

  There might have been something wrong with Patrick; even thinking about Sara in a long black dress and veil didn’t diminish how badly he had the hots for her. Well, then again, Gidget had looked pretty hot in her flying nun costume –maybe it wasn’t so weird.

  Twenty minutes later, Sara came back downstairs in a short dress that reminded him of how tan she was getting. She looked so much healthier now than she had when she moved in. She held the sea glass between her fingers, smoothing her thumb over the surface, something that had become a habit. She was going to rub a groove in it if she wasn’t careful.

  “I better leave this here,” she said. “I don’t want to lose it.” After looking around, she chose to place it in the silver bowl on her coffee table. “That’ll do.”

  The chime of the doorbell rang through the house, startling her. She laughed and grabbed a black folder. Tucking it under her arm along with her wallet, she slid her keyring over her index finger and opened the door with a friendly greeting for Ginny. Patrick just caught a glimpse of her before the door closed. Still the same Ginny as before, but he caught her nervous glance at the inside of the house.

  Being alone in the house, knowing Sara would be back in a few hours, had turned into a treat. His record player was set up in Sara’s office, and he played some of his albums, keeping the volume low enough not to raise any concerns. Sara sometimes played his records, too, but it was nice to put on what he wanted, what he was in the mood for. Sometimes he got comfortable and read one of his books, humming along.

  Every once in a while Sara would leave a novel open on her desk, an event Patrick looked forward to simply so he could read something new, although it was frustrating as Hell because at most he ever got to read two pages. He’d tried to flip the page with one of his possessions, just as he’d used a book to dig the insulation out in the attic, but it never worked out very well.

  He regarded his relief to have time alone with suspicion – Sara walked around the house like everything was fine, but he just couldn’t be sure it would last. Still, he hoped nothing was wrong. She seemed happy... content. He sure as Hell was.

  Tonight he put on Pink Floyd and sang “See Emily Play” at top volume, saving the latest open book – a novel called House of Leaves –on Sara’s desk for later. After the last strains of “Interstellar Overdrive” faded, Patrick put the record away, returned the player to its original settings , and leaned over Sara’s desk to read the pages of the book. Thank God Sara always left a light on over her desk, almost as though she anticipated his needs.

  He didn’t know what to think about the book and found himself instantly confused. The text on one page was shaped into a diamond. After thirty minutes of trying to follow the story, he gave up, wishing he could have started from the beginning, wondering if he would have understood it even then. Maybe he just wasn’t equipped for modern literature. Maybe it had outgrown his brain or something.

  The thought bummed him out. He was a dinosaur, for all intents and purposes. He didn’t know what half of Sara’s gadgets did or what they were for. Everything seemed smaller, and he rarely saw electronics that looked anything like they had when he was alive. Her television looked kind of the same, but her remote control had a million buttons –the one that went with his dad’s Zenith had three. Ginny, Jimmy, and Mrs. Stout all still survived… were they confused by everything, or had they adapted and learned how to use it all? The world was just a different place.

  He heard the click of the Sara’s keys in the lock and the sound of the door pushing open, Sara’s voice drifting up the stairs. Patrick rushed down to welcom e her home, stopping short at the sight of Ginny in the armchair.

  “…coffee,” Sara said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Yes, coffee would be great,” Ginny answered, smiling… but it slid off her face as soon as Sara disappeared into the kitchen. Instead she looked directly at the stairs and shivered. Shit . She was still weirded out about the house, probably remembering the last time she’d been t here.

  Sara was back before too long with two mugs of coffee. “Do you want sugar or milk or anything?”

  Ginny shook her head. “No, this is great. Thanks.”

  “I loved your reading tonight. The imagery of the moon was great.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear.” She sipped at the coffee, eyebrows pulling together. Patrick had seen that look before –it was Ginny’s I have something important to say, but I don’t know how to say it look. “I, uh, wanted to ask about your reading.”

  “Yeah?” Sara folded herself onto the couch, cradling a mug in her hands.

  “This is going to sound… well, did you find a diary in this house?”

  Sara’s forehead crinkled, clearly confused. “What do you mean? What does that have to do with my excerpt?”

  “So you didn’t find anything of Patrick’s? You know, the boy who used to live here? Some kind of journal? Humor me.”

  “No… not that I know of.”

  Ginny wagged her head back and forth. “I can’t believe… okay, I’m just going to lay this out there, and you can decide I’m suffering from dementia… or not.”

  Sara laughed. “You’re worrying me a little, Ginny.”

  “Believe me, I’m second-guessing myself right now. What you read tonight? You described my break-up with Patrick perfectly… even down to the song playing on the radio.”

  Both Patrick and Sara sat in the living room after Ginny left, Patrick perched on the bottom step while he watched Sara’s face for any reaction to Ginny’s disclosure . Sara had taken the news calmly, laughing and talking about coincidences. She’d pointed out that she’d been listening to the Nashville Skyline album recently, and didn’t all break ups seem the same? They both appeared quick to accept the explanation, although even Patrick could tell the agreement they’d come to was uncomfortable and strained.

  Sara’s arms held her knees to her chest, chin tilting down to stare at the coffee table. Her teeth gnawed on her lip, the air in the house growing more tense by the second.

  With an exaggerated slowness, she pulled her laptop over and opened it, crossing her legs and settling it into her lap.

  “Okay.” She blew out a sharp breath and leaned back. “I’m thinking… of saying goodbye to my parents.”

  Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Don’t go ape. I know this is a little real, but don’t leave me.” He thought it was neat that she could see his memories now even when he wasn’t feeding them to her. He wondered if she could see his parents’ faces as crisply in her mind as he could.

  “I can see them from the door, getting into a car.”

  He pressed his hands together in front of his face, pressing his nose along the edge. “Shit. Look, everything’s fine.”

  Sara started typing, pausing every few minutes to stare at what she was writing. “You know,” she said conversationally, her voice low and flat, “I was so excited to find out I could see these scenes in my head, imagine these great moments with such clarity. And now I find out maybe I’m psychic or something.”

  “Psychic?” Patrick let out a sharp, barking laugh. That was a relief – thinking she could read minds was a hundred times better than imagining there was a ghost watching her and feeding his thoughts into her head. Father Thomas had once said demons could get into the body and tell people what to do, fill their heads with evil thoughts. If she
told her sister about this, she would give Sara a similar lecture, he was sure. He didn’t want her to think he was going to start telling her to kill people or anything. Granted, for all he knew, maybe he really was a demon, which would certainly explain why he hadn’t gone to Heaven … but he didn’t feel malevolent. Depraved, sure… he did want to do some pervy things to her most of the time, but he wasn’t bad. At least he didn’t think so… would he even know?

  “I’ve seen Ghost Searchers, you know. Maybe I’m just picking up the memories of the house. But… well, that doesn’t make sense –the break up happened in a car.” She put her laptop aside on the couch cushion. “Are you talking to me?”

  Patrick winced, staying quiet.

  “I feel you around me, Patrick. I feel like an idiot sitting here and admitting that out loud because I’m completely serious. I mean, this could be a serious symptom for me. The doctor warned me to be on the look out for any sign I was losing it again. An early intervention is best.”

  “You’re not crazy!” he blurted.

  “Of course, now I’m going to think about you every time I write, wondering if you’re giving me a scene, if I’m picking up on something that happened in the house on my own, or if I’m actually writing something I came up with.”

  “I’m sure it’s not everything. You did write about a dog that one time. I’ve never had a dog!”

  “I should call Dr. Turnball,” Sara muttered, huffing out a long breath. “This doesn’t feel like last time, but do batshit people know they’ve gone off the deep end? I’m talking to a ghost, for the love of God.”

  Patrick carefully leaned over the couch, getting as close to Sara as he could allow without touching her; now didn’t seem like a good time. “Everything will be fine, Sara. You’ll see.”