Ghostgirl ~ JB Salsbury

by JB Salsbury

  “She was a danger to herself and others. She could’ve killed Julian by not letting the paramedics get to him. Milo, she’s not well.”

  “She was trying to save him!”

  Both Miguel and Chris look at me as if I’ve lapsed into speaking German.

  “Come on, Chris, you know what I mean. She was upset. She was trying to help him. She’s not fucking crazy.”

  A flash of pity crosses his expression as if he knows Mercy better than I do. Like I’m the gullible idiot for falling for her story, for falling in love with the woman she is and looking past the damage done to her by some deranged cult.

  “I wanna see her.”

  “Milo, she’s safe. That’s all that matters. Laura and I need to be here for Julian, and so do you. Your brother needs you. Mercy needs time to rest and work to get back on track, and then we’ll see where things go from there.”

  I fall back into the chair shaking my head. “This is fucked up, Chris. I know what you think, but Mercy doesn’t deserve to be locked up. By putting her back there, you’re no different than the psychos that fucked her up in the first place.”

  “Milo—”

  “Can’t believe you guys did this. Now is when she needs us the most.”

  Mercy

  I’VE BEEN ASLEEP for days. Maybe weeks. My body is useless.

  My mind, however, won’t stop.

  The visions are all gruesome—the blood, Julian’s tiny broken body. They play on a loop over and over behind my eyelids, and no matter how hard I try to scream, to claw my way through the darkness to escape, I’m unable to move or make a sound.

  I know now this isn’t my hell.

  I know now this isn’t my eternal damnation.

  This is just my life, the regular life of an abnormal girl who tried to be normal.

  Laura was right all along. Everything I thought I could do was a lie. I have no more power to heal than I have to fly or reverse time so that I could save Julian from that car.

  I am not divine.

  The only thing that makes me stand out is the color of my skin.

  I am an outcast.

  I am not a blessed creature created to help and love mankind.

  I am not an angel.

  Whispered voices. Flashing lights.

  Blood.

  Blood.

  Blood.

  And Milo.

  I focus on the image of his face, the same one I bring to mind every free minute of every day. His dark hair is cut short on the sides but long enough on top to catch the breeze. His strong forehead and his dark eyebrows give away his many moods. His pale brown eyes are so warm they pull me in and wrap me up with even the tiniest glance, and his jaw is all hard lines but soft to the touch. His bottom lip is bigger than the top, so he always looks like he’s pouting, which manages to soften his hard expressions. Those lips part as though he’s sucking in one last quick breath before pressing his mouth to mine—I can see him so clearly.

  I pretend he’s hovering over me protectively, keeping me safe the way he always has.

  But he can’t protect me from myself.

  He can’t erase the damage in my mind, can’t defuse all the triggers that have me blabbering nonsense and raging like the crazy person they all think I am—the crazy person I may very well be.

  I was so close to being free, so close to a life with Milo, but now I’ll never get that chance.

  I couldn’t save Julian.

  So I’ll remain locked inside my head, fighting off the nightmare of a normal life with the dream I had in Milo.

  Milo

  “WE’RE MOVING JULIAN out of ICU. The swelling in his brain is down, and he’s able to answer questions.”

  Hugging another grown-ass man wouldn’t be something I’d ever consider doing, but when that other man is a doctor who just told me my little brother is going to live, the güey is getting a fucking hug.

  “Thank you, Doc. For real.”

  He grunts and shifts awkwardly in my arms as though maybe I’m crushing the good doc’s rib cage, so I pat him and step back.

  He coughs a little, but he’s smiling as he looks around the hallway of the ICU.

  I haven’t left the hospital since the night I showed up. No matter how many times Laura told me I should go home and get some sleep, no matter how much she tried to bribe me with talks of hot showers and home-cooked meals, I refused to budge. My answer to her was always the same: “Is Mercy home?”

  She’d shake her head.

  “Then I’m staying.”

  Peeling myself away from Julian’s side would be next to impossible, but I’d consider it if it meant I could see Mercy. God, I miss her. I never thought I could possibly miss someone so much. I miss her the way I missed my mom before I got used to living without her.

  Even though I’m aware I may only get to see Mercy during the facility’s visiting hours or talk to her when she’s able to make occasional phone calls, I’ll never get used to living without her.

  “He’s showing steady improvement. We won’t know the extent of brain damage for a while—”

  “Brain damage? But you said he was doing better.”

  “He is, but his brain has experienced trauma. Only time will tell the full extent of the damage. I don’t think you need to worry at this point.”

  With my hands propped on my hips, the weight of relief drops my head forward.

  “We’re going to run some tests, so if you want to grab a bite or head home for a shower . . .”

  I glare at him, wondering if Laura paid him to try to get me to go home.

  “You sayin’ I stink?”

  He chuckles. “It’s been five days, Emilio.”

  I’ll take that as a yes.

  He squeezes my shoulder. “We’re going to have him pretty tied up this afternoon. I don’t think he’ll miss you.”

  I guess I could swing home for a shower, and I need to figure out what I missed at school. I nod and pop back into Julian’s room.

  He looks tiny on the hospital bed, tubes coming from a few different places on his body, his head wrapped in gauze and his eyes black and blue from impact.

  “’Manito? Estás despierto?”

  His eyes are still quite swollen, and with the pain meds, he doesn’t move much, so telling when he’s awake and asleep is hard.

  “Yeah, I’m awake,” he whispers.

  I turn the chair I’ve been living in to face him and drop into it so that he doesn’t have to strain to look at me. “Good news. You’re moving to general population. No more solitary for you, ese.”

  The tiny puff of air that comes from his nose is as much of a laugh as he’ll give.

  “Doc says they have some tests to do. Laura is in the cafeteria, getting something to eat, but when she comes back up, I’m gonna take off and get a shower.”

  “Good.” Another puff of air. “You smell like gym socks.”

  I smile, and the act feels foreign on my face. When was the last time I smiled? That feels like years ago even though it was only days.

  “Mercy healed me.”

  I grip his knee, one of the only places on his body that isn’t littered with bruises. “You know she can’t do that, Jules. But if she could, she would’ve. She really wanted to.”

  His head swivels just a little, enough so that he’s no longer looking straight ahead, but his eyes are more level with mine. “How do you know?”

  “How do I know she can’t heal? Well, first off because it’s ridiculous. Magic isn’t real. People don’t have powers. It’s make-believe, ʼmanito. And second?” I nod toward his broken body and jacked-up head. “Think it’s pretty obvious.”

  “I was dead.”

  I clear my throat and drop my forehead because I can’t stand to look at my baby brother all busted up and talking about dying. “You don’t know that—”

  “I was dead,” he says again, and this time his voice cracks with emotion.

  I squeeze his knee gently. “Julian, the paramedics woul
d’ve told us if you’d died. They said your pulse was steady. You didn’t die—”

  “I saw Mom.” He’s crying now, tears streaming down his swollen cheeks. “Did you know Mom was dead?”

  “Julian—”

  “Did you know?”

  Fuck. Maybe? “Your brain was badly hurt, Jules. You were pulling up visions of things that made you feel safe and comfortable, and you saw Mom. That’s all that was.”

  His head drops back softly onto his pillow. “She said she loves me. She wanted me to come with her, but I couldn’t. I tried, but I couldn’t move because something held me back.”

  I look over my shoulder, half hoping a nurse is nearby and hearing all this, because they clearly need to lower the dosage of pain meds, but no one is there. We’re alone.

  “It just wasn’t your time.”

  “Yeah,” he says, sounding tired. “Or it was Mercy.”

  Milo

  WITH ONE WEEK left of school, that week being finals week, and having missed four days of school sitting at Julian’s bedside, I quit my job as janitor. The principal was cool about it, what with everything going on with Jules, but walking the halls now feels wrong. The faces all look like strangers, and the draw to get my diploma seems utterly pointless now even though I’ve worked hard to get one.

  I made it this far. Only a few bubble tests stand between me and being able to walk away from high school forever.

  I mostly keep to myself, hanging with Damian and Keaton between classes and at lunch but avoiding pretty much everyone else. I can’t stand the looks of pity and the whispers. And I hate that Mercy isn’t here and that people are gossiping about where she is, and they’re mostly right.

  Turns out Julian’s run-in with a pickup truck was picked up on a dozen different cell-phone videos that went viral. Everyone with a social-media account watched the “albino girl” clutching the body of her lifeless foster brother. The local media picked it up, calling it the feel-good story of the year, even instigating discussions about the bond between foster siblings.

  Back in the mental facility, Mercy has no idea she’s become an instant celebrity.

  “You gonna go see her?” Damian’s eyes are on his food, so he can’t see me glaring at him from across the lunch table.

  I want to. Her eyes and smile haunt me even when I’m not sleeping. I even smell her in the warm Santa Ana breeze. But my dreams are the most vivid. We’re always back together in my room, on the bed where we were before Julian’s accident, but in my dreams we’re not worried about touching or who might see us. And every morning with my alarm comes the disturbing reality that it’s only a dream. So I roll out of bed and go to the main house and pass by her room, half expecting to see her on her knees, her fingers playing in the sunlight, and her brilliant smile inviting me to come join her.

  “I’m gonna get her out of there.”

  Damian’s eyes snap to mine. “Emilio, don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I’m just sayin’ if they don’t let her out, I’ll see if I can get a lawyer and do what I can to get her free. She doesn’t deserve to be there. She’s not crazy.”

  My cousin’s eyes widen over my shoulder, and when I follow his gaze, I find Carrie standing behind me.

  I groan and turn back to my food with a mumbled “Fuck me.”

  “Hey, Milo.” Her voice is heavy with sympathy, which is a new emotion from Carrie—not that I care, just something I noticed. “Can I sit with you guys?”

  Damian pretends she’s not even there.

  She doesn’t wait for my answer and drops down next to me. “I’m really sorry about what happened to Julian.”

  “Thanks.” I push around a few chips on a napkin.

  “I’m also really sorry about Mercy.”

  Sure you are. I can’t say anything, so I just nod.

  “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  I gather my shit in one swoop of my arm and stand, staring down at the adolescent girl. “Thanks, Carrie, but you’ve done enough.”

  And with that, I head straight to the parking lot to get the fuck out of here.

  The responsible side of my subconscious is screaming that I’m fucking everything up, that I’ve worked too hard to get this close to my high school diploma, but the other side of my subconscious, the side I’ve been caging up since we came to live with Laura and Chris, has come unleashed and reminds me of the shit that really matters.

  My mom disappeared.

  My little brother is still teetering on the edge of life and death.

  The only woman I’ve ever been in love with is locked up in a hospital for the mentally ill.

  And I’m over here worrying about fucking finals?

  Nah . . . fuck that shit.

  I’ve been playing bitch to this life for long enough.

  I drive over the speed limit, run red lights, and screech to a halt in front of Laura and Chris’s house. I need a joint and a forty. I need just a minute to relax and forget and get my shit together.

  I rip my backpack out of the passenger seat, and when I round the hood, I notice a strange car in the driveway. Chris and Laura are supposed to be at the hospital with Julian or at work, so who the hell is in the house?

  The door is unlocked, and I hear foreign voices the second I cross the threshold.

  I find Chris and Laura in the living room with a man wearing a dark suit that looks expensive.

  Laura jumps to her feet. “Milo.” She’s smiling. “What are you doing home?”

  My gaze jumps between her and Mr. Fancypants. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you with Julian?”

  “We were,” Chris says, standing slowly. “But we got a call that we had to take care of.”

  I assume he’s referring to this guy in the suit when it’s eighty fucking degrees outside.

  Laura motions for me to come closer. “Milo, this is Mr. Vanderburgh.”

  The guy grins but seems as though he’s holding something back. I can’t put my finger on it, but if this guy stepped foot into a group of LS, we’d all keep our fingers on the butts of our guns just in case.

  “You must be Emilio.” He reaches out his hand, and holy fuck, he’s wearing a ring with a diamond the size of a ping-pong ball. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  I shake his hand, wondering about his slight accent. Is this the millionaire relative from the other side of the world we’d always joked about, here to save us? “Wish I could say the same.”

  “Milo!” Laura whispers.

  I ignore her.

  The dude chuckles. “I’m sure this comes as a surprise.”

  Chris gets close enough to brush his elbow against mine. “Mr. Vanderburgh is here from South Africa—”

  “Call me Mikkel,” he says.

  “Mikkel’s been looking for his daughter for nineteen years now.”

  Nineteen years . . .

  I tilt my head and stare at the guy through my glare. “Mercy.” His hair is brown, his eyes blue but nothing like the crystal-clear color of hers. If he is her biological father, he looks nothing like her, but then . . . who does?

  His expression turns dark. “Her birth name is Genevieve Constantine Vanderburgh. She was abducted from our home in Swaziland by one of our servants. We filed a police report but had no luck finding her.” He must pick up my calling bullshit on his story, because he nods toward a folded-up piece of paper in Laura’s hand.

  She opens it up and shows it to me. “Mercy’s birth certificate.”

  I scan it over and see the name and date, still not believing a single word. “Where’s her mom?”

  He frowns, but the sadness doesn’t reach his eyes. “My wife passed away a couple years after the abduction. The loss of Genevieve was too much, and she took her own life.”

  I stare into his eyes, hoping he’ll be the first to look away, but he holds my stare. “You’re trying to tell me you think Mercy is your daughter, your African daughter.” I wouldn’t have pegged her for African. The thought alone is kin
d of ridiculous, and her slight accent sounds more Spanish than anything.

  “I believe she is. The blood results will attest to it.”

  “Blood . . .” I jerk my gaze to Laura. “Does she know? Did you tell her?”

  She shakes her head, frowning. “No. We thought we should wait until we’re absolutely sure.”

  I stare back at the man, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I got here. “How did you find her?”

  “I got a call from one of the investigators I employ here in Los Angeles. He saw the videos. I came as soon as I heard.”

  A small hand grips my elbow, and I flinch, on edge, ready to shake it off until I realize it’s only Laura.

  “Mercy has been psych-evalled and cleared for release,” she says.

  The news pops the release valve in my chest, and I take a deep, relieved breath. If what this Vanderdouche says is true, Mercy’s a legal adult. That means she has the freedom to choose where she goes from here. This whole thing will end up as nothing more than an annoying speed bump to the plans we’ve made.

  He tugs at his cuffs and clears his throat. “I pulled some strings with the lab and had a rush put on the blood test.”

  Laura’s brows fuse together. “That’s unnecessary. I already put a rush on it. We want the answers as badly as you do.”

  “I doubt that.” His eyes get tight, aimed at Laura. “I’ve waited nineteen years for her. I’m ready to be done with this search and take her home.”

  Laura’s chin juts out. “These things take time. There will be paperwork—”

  He silences her with a flick of his wrist, batting away her voice as he would an annoying fly. “My lawyers have prepared all the paperwork, her passport . . . I’ll take her off your hands.”

  Chris comes to Laura’s side in what looks like preparation to hold her back if she goes for the guy’s throat. If that is her plan, she’ll have to wait behind me.

  “She’s a legal adult,” I say. “She doesn’t have to do shit.”

  “Milo . . .” Chris mumbles in warning.

  Dickberg smiles, and it’s all straight sharklike white teeth. “I believe she will. She’s mine.”