In Your Dreams

by Gina Ardito

  He got it in three, but she didn’t flinch or nod. She remained stone-still.

  Justin sighed. “At least tell me he promised to quit smoking if you promised not to kill yourself.”

  She bolted rigid. “You know?!”

  “Of course I know. Breath mints and Listerine only go so far, sugar. The stench is all over his skin, on his clothes, even in his kiss. How could I not know?”

  Point taken. She glanced at the slate tiles below the chaise as guilt heated her cheeks. “Are you mad at us?”

  “No.” He slid off his chair and walked to her side. Bending, he kissed her forehead. “I’m grateful. You know I couldn’t bear to lose either of you.”

  Well, now, didn’t that statement suck donkey balls?

  He nudged her with a hip. “Skooch.” She sidled over, and he sat on the edge of her chaise. “I love you, Belle. You know that, right?”

  God, how she hated emotional crap! Time to flip this maudlin mood. “Ditto, binky. If I had a Y chromosome, I’d fight Tony to the death for you.”

  “Lucky for me...” He brushed the bangs on her forehead with a fingertip. “I get to have you both. For a long, long time.”

  Right. A whole year—two, at best. “Lucky you,” she murmured and returned her interest to the starlit sky. Was Sean up there? Was he waiting for her to go to bed so they could talk? Or had she dreamt their earlier interlude, thanks to the aftereffects of her overdose?

  “Hey.” Justin chucked a gentle fist under her chin.

  Shaking off her daydream, she leveled her focus on his face. “Huh?”

  “You promised, right?” The anxiety in his teary eyes nearly broke her heart.

  She nodded. “Don’t worry, Justin. When I die, it’ll be because it’s my time, okay?”

  “Okay.” Relief erupted in a long sigh. “Good.” He gripped her hand in his, as if he could keep her tethered to him here forever through this simple connection.

  If only...

  On a sigh, she pushed to her feet. “I should probably get some sleep. Tomorrow, I want to start rebuilding my life.” A total lie, but worth the cost to her integrity when Justin’s face lit up as if bottle rockets burst in his cheeks.

  “That’s my girl!”

  Not really. She was somebody else’s girl. At least, she believed she belonged to her phantom guy. Sean Martino. Then again, how did she know he hadn’t come with the house? A package deal? Most ghosts were tied to an object or piece of property, according to all those specter-hunting television shows that were so popular these days. But once the suspicion crept into her head, she couldn’t stifle the sharp teeth of doubt. Pausing at the sliding door that led into the house, she tossed back over her shoulder, “Hey, binky?”

  Justin looked up, his face still aglow. “Hmm…?”

  “Is this place…” She swallowed, cleared her throat, and pushed out the ridiculous question. “…haunted?”

  His elated expression flipped to dubious. “What kind of question is that?”

  “An unimportant one,” she replied with a saucy wink. “I just thought, maybe I could get back on the boob tube with a new reality show about living with a ghost.”

  He chuckled. “Been done already, darling. About a hundred years ago. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. Ever hear of it?”

  “Yeah.” She dipped her head to hide her smile. Sean was hers! “All righty then. You have to admit, it was worth a shot.”

  “Start thinking outside the box, sunshine. Literally. Okay?”

  “Okay. Goodnight.”

  On his goodnight reply, she entered the house, said goodnight to Tony, and headed to the staircase. If she’d had the ability to sprout wings, she would have flown to her Barbie bedroom. Instead, she ascended with dignity while her insides flopped like a fish on land.

  Justin, being Justin, had picked up a bunch of her clothes and personal items while she’d slept earlier and transported them into the bedroom’s closet and armoire. So now, which nightgown should she wear for her dream visitor? Not that it mattered. This afternoon, she’d worn something she didn’t own. His doing? If so, maybe he could conjure up a nice Oscar de la Renta for her. Or even an Alexander McQueen. Something she’d never owned and probably never would IRL—in real life.

  Opting for a pale green silk chemise scalloped with ivory lace, she changed, climbed into the bed and waited. And waited. Time crawled. She punched the pillow, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited. She focused on even breathing and waited. She relaxed her body, beginning at her toes and slowly loosening each muscle and fiber ‘til she reached her hair. And waited.

  This was ridiculous! Rolling onto her back again, she stared up at the silken canopy. Isabelle, you are the dumbest blonde in L.A. Since when did she believe in ghosts? One weird-ass dream, and she’s writing love sonnets to a shadow. Of all the stupid—

  “Hey, Belle.”

  And suddenly, there he was, just as she remembered him: with boyish, tousled blond hair; Pacific blue eyes; and a grin that could melt the polar icecaps. This time, though, he wore a sleek blue suit—and not off the rack, either. The lightweight wool hugged his shoulders and tapered to his narrow waist. He’d paired the jacket with a butter yellow shirt and a simple, solid blue tie. She would’ve liked to check out the fit of his pants, but he was seated. So was she. At a table covered with a white cloth, his hand holding hers, thumb skimming across her knuckles.

  “Where are we?” she asked him.

  “You tell me,” he replied with a casual shrug. “This is your dream, not mine.”

  Apparently so. Because she wore a gorgeous Alexander McQueen—a gown she’d envied on some two-bit actress at the Oscars last year, ivory silk organza with gold embroidery.

  “You look incredible in that dress, by the way,” he crooned. “It’s a perfect fit for you. And the gold threads highlight your hair like the tips of flames.”

  “Easy on the charm, buddy. You’re not getting me in the sack, even if that were possible.”

  Despite her protests, his compliment melted her hard shell. Too many years without true affection from an attractive man who didn’t expect a Hollywood favor in return had left her brittle and suspicious. But Sean? All he seemed to want from her was her company. And her promise not to kill herself, of course.

  No one, except Justin and Tony, had delighted in just talking to her since before she’d scored her first acting gig. After that dumb cereal commercial, she’d become a commodity, a cash cow to all who knew her and pretended to love her. A block of emotion clogged her throat, and she sipped the ice water to the left of her bread plate.

  A restaurant. They were definitely at a restaurant. So the dead man had made good on his promise to take her out to dinner. Around them, all the other tables sat unoccupied, and no wait staff was in sight. Mellow instrumental music played in the background. Candlelight flickered from sconces on the walls.

  But food had yet to arrive. Not that she wanted any. She was still fighting indigestion from Justin’s full-course spread.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “Confused,” she admitted.

  “About what?”

  Oh, I don’t know. How I wound up here, what I’m supposed to do now, what’s going to happen to me. But she wouldn’t let him see her self-absorption. Or her terror. “You, for starters.”

  “Me?” His hand left hers and flew to his chest. “What do you want to know?”

  “Are you an angel?”

  He laughed, a sound so brandy-rich-and-smooth, warmth filled her insides. “No. As far as I know, angels don’t exist. Nor do devils.”

  “Well, then what are you?”

  “I’m Sean.” She quirked a brow, and he added, “I guess the closest I could come to a generic term for what I am now is ‘spirit.’ It’s not a hundred percent accurate, but it’ll do.”

  “Do you fly?”

  “Not the way you’re thinking. I don’t have snow white wings or play a harp, either. You’ve gotta get that whole angel picture out of
your head. I’m made up of energy so if I centrifuge, my pieces scatter into electrical impulses that easily travel through the air. I can transport myself wherever I need to be with a little mind focus.” Her confusion must have shown because, with a drawn-out sigh, he clarified, “Ever see any old Star Trek episodes? When Kirk and Spock would beam up or down? And they’d go all grainy for a few seconds then solidify again when they landed? It’s kinda like that. Except I don’t have Scotty pushing buttons for me.”

  She still didn’t fully grasp his explanation, but parts of it made sense. “What’s it like? Being dead?”

  “Different, and yet the same. I don’t know how to describe it. I go to work, just like I did when I was alive, but I don’t go home after my eight-hour shift. I don’t really have a home. There is no eight-hour shift. No clocks. No time.”

  “No time?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand...”

  “Think about it this way. What is time and how is it measured? You here on Earth know daytime from nighttime by the amount of light in the sky. You can see the sun. At night, you see the moon and the stars. Your time is based on Earth orbiting the sun and the moon orbiting Earth. But, where I am? The sun doesn’t touch my horizon. I’m in a place beyond the moon and the stars. There is no day, no night. No minutes or hours. It just...is.”

  “Then how do you know when to eat? When to sleep?”

  He shrugged. “We don’t do either. You have to remember I’m not human anymore—not flesh and bone, even though I seem that way to you here. I’m made up of astral energy now.”

  “Astral energy.” She thought about the concept, but couldn’t fathom how he could look so real, so physical, and yet be nothing more than a spirit. For God’s sakes, she’d touched him. Not once, but at least a dozen times. He’d held her hand. And she’d never once felt him as any less than solid.

  “It’s true.” He nodded as if to lend credence to his words. “I’m just a bunch of bouncing neutrons and electrons in constant flux.”

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  “You get used to it.”

  “Does that make you like...a robot? I mean, if you’re electrical, and you don’t eat or sleep...what? Do you have to be plugged in and recharged?”

  “No. We’re absorbent creatures. We can pick up electricity from the air and recharge on the fly—so to speak.”

  “Oh.” She circled the rim of her glass with the tip of an index finger and looked around the empty room. Where was everybody anyway? She’d kill for a breadstick—not to eat, just to have something to occupy her twitchy hands. The minute the thought popped into her head, a waiter appeared between them with a basket of warm, yeasty breadsticks. Magic? Or good timing? Hard to know for sure. She chose one from the garlic-scented pile, offered it to Sean.

  He shook his head. “No, thanks.”

  “Right.” Embarrassment parched her throat. “You don’t eat. Forgot.” She nibbled on the end and asked, “After I die, will I be with you?”

  “God, I hope not!”

  “Gee, thanks,” she retorted and bopped his hand with her breadstick.

  He offered an apologetic shrug. “No, what I mean is...where I am? It’s for those of us who committed suicide. We died before we were supposed to and screwed up our life lines. If you show up where I am, it means I failed you, and you took your own life after all.”

  “And since that’s what you’re supposed to prevent, if I kill myself, you’ll get in trouble,” she summed up. “What would happen to you? Would you get fired? Or sent to hell or something?”

  “There is no hell.”

  No hell? Well, that sucked. After all the hours she’d spent picturing Carlo roasting in a pit of flames.

  “There’s no hell, but there is karmic justice,” he replied as if he’d heard her thoughts. “Don’t worry. All those who wronged you in this life will get what they deserve in the Afterlife. Including your mother, your stepfather, and your ex-husband.”

  She didn’t want to talk about any of them. Certain monsters were better off left locked up. “Is that how you wound up taking care of me?” she asked. “Some kind of punishment for somebody you screwed in life?”

  She meant the comment as a joke, but he frowned, and she realized she’d actually come close to the truth.

  “Sort of,” he admitted, his fingertip tracing invisible circles on the white tablecloth. “But, my fate doesn’t worry me. I’m a lost cause, Belle. I screwed up my life, and I’ve pretty much screwed up this Afterlife gig, as well. Eventually, the Elders will say, ‘Enough,’ and finally put an end to me.”

  “Put an end...? How?” Insane visions bounced through her imagination: electricity short-circuiting in blazes of fireworks, an agonizing spark-by-spark extinguish that began with that charming smile and ended on one final glimmer before darkness devoured him, the simple snuff of inner light like a blown-out birthday candle. No matter what scenario she pictured, the end result was the destruction of the friendly ghost that was Sean Martino: guardian angel or guardian spirit. Whatever he was.

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. Like I said, I’m a hopeless case. But, you? You can still get your life right. One thing I’ve learned on the other side is that everyone on this side has a purpose, a reason for living. If you haven’t discovered yours yet, you can’t give up just because you’ve hit a rough patch.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “‘A rough patch?’ I’m dying. You know that, right?”

  “Yes. And I’m sorry.” He took her hand again, rubbing comfort into her knuckles. “If I could make you well, I would.”

  Oddly enough, she believed him. And wished he could perform a miracle for her. “That’s not your purpose, huh?”

  “No. My purpose is to keep you from ending your life precipitously. But don’t hold on for me. Hold on for you. And trust that, at the end, you’ll know why your life needed to follow this path. I know you already promised Tony, but now, I want you to promise me.”

  “No.” Removing herself from his care, she folded her arms over her chest and leaned back to put more distance between them. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. I can make a promise like that to Tony. He doesn’t know what’s in store for me yet. You do. In fact, you probably know more than you’re telling me.”

  His cheeks flushed scarlet. Yeah. She figured as much.

  “If the pain gets brutal or I lose my dignity somewhere down the line,” she continued, “which I bet will happen faster than I think, I want an open window I can use to check out early. Tony will understand that. He’d feel the same way. But you? You want to slam that window shut and lock it because that’s what you were sent here to do. I can’t allow that.” She grinned and flipped a curl of hair off her shoulder. “Besides, if I make that promise, your job is done, and I won’t see you again. I think I’m better off keeping you around until the bitter end. After all, that’s what you promised. The bitter end. And I’m gonna hold you to it.”

  Chapter 8

  Malik Greg lay silent in his hospital bed. The ventilator pushed air into and out of his lungs. Whoosh, hiss. Whoosh, hiss. Whoosh, hiss. Another machine beeped in timed increments, spitting out tape with lines of brain activity, steady anthills of up and down. Not very high, not very low—barely noticeable blips in an endless parade.

  Meanwhile, his parents kept vigil, holding his hand, weeping silent tears, begging him to come back to them.

  His little sister sat in the bedside chair, which dwarfed her dainty stature to fairy-like. Between rubbing her watery eyes with her fists, she stroked the soft fur of the teddy bear she’d bought with her allowance and tucked between his hip and his left arm. “Mom says you can hear me,” she said. “So wake up, Malik, okay? I miss you.”

  From her side of the clipboard, Xavia watched the drama unfold while speaking in urgent tones to the comatose boy. “Come on, Malik. Fight back. You’re too strong to give up. Don’t let the bullies win.”

  At sixt
een, Malik had an entire lifetime ahead of him: a lifetime filled with joy, love, and success—if he could survive this suicide attempt. Too many months of name-calling, bruising punches, and public humiliation from his high school peers had taken their toll on Malik’s self-esteem. His doctors had done all they could after his mother found him in the basement, dangling from an overhead pipe. Now, only Xavia’s persuasive words and Malik’s own determination could bring him back from the brink.

  Days had passed while Malik lingered in this half-existence, with Xavia trying to find the right words to propel him back into the life he’d attempted to cut short. This was Malik’s last chance—and Xavia’s, as well. She couldn’t bear to lose another child. Especially after hearing of Noah’s failure again.

  “Wake up,” she beseeched. “Please. You have so much to live for: a bright future, the love of your family…” She assessed his mother and father hovering, their eyes red-rimmed and shadowed, his little sister weeping. “Don’t throw all that love away.”

  Xavia’s words were echoed by Malik’s sister, Karisma. “Wake up, Malik. Please. I promise, I’ll be good every day if you’ll just wake up. I won’t go through your stuff anymore. I’ll do my chores and yours. Without anyone asking. Please, Malik? Please? Wake up. We need you. We love you.”

  Poor Malik. And his poor family. Xavia knew their pain, how the hurt of a lost child cut bone-deep, shoveled out the heart, and left a parent hollow. With vivid clarity, she recalled the sight of Noah’s pallid face against a stark white hospital pillow, asleep for eternity. Silent screams of grief scalded her memory, and she squeezed her eyes shut to block out the images.

  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

  “He’s coding!” someone shouted from the hospital room. “Get the crash cart!”

  Xavia snapped alert. “Malik! No!” She refocused on the boy in the bed, watched the hospital staff dive into action. The back of a white lab coat filled her screen and...

  The clipboard went blank.

  Game over.

  She’d lost him.

  “Goddamn it!” She hurled the board against the wall with enough force to leave a dent.