I couldn’t imagine such a thing. Adjust? Not in a million years.
Creesie popped a single finger into the air and Cat arrived promptly with another steaming cup of coffee, simultaneously clearing our table. I fussed with the edge of the red and white checked tablecloth hoping to distract myself from gaping. Suddenly my eyes went wide as I realized the horrible truth.
“Souls?” I choked, staring at her in disbelief. “So, I—I’m dead?”
Creesie laughed heartily. “Oh, heavens no!”
She sure did throw the word heaven around a lot. It made me a little paranoid. I wished she would quit doing that. No sooner had I thought this than Creesie tilted her head again to look at me for another long moment. It seemed disturbingly impossible, but I suspected she was reading my mind.
“It’s not meant to be a literal thing,” Creesie confirmed. “But visitors like yourself often take it that way.”
“I’m just visiting?” My hands were still shaking, but my heart had leveled off.
“Absolutely.” Creesie leaned against the window, stretching her short legs across the seat. “But I should tell you, you’re more the exception than the rule. Most of the folks you see around here are what you might call . . . permanent residents.”
I gulped. “You mean they’re all dead?”
“Well, yes,” she said, as if this were no big deal. “But don’t trouble yourself about it. They’re still very busy people.” She sipped from her cup and the steam swirled up and around her head, forming small, perfect circles. “Lots of changes start to happen after that big event. Some faster than others.”
Morbid curiosity set in. Since she had confirmed that I was very much alive, I felt freer to explore the comings and goings of the beautiful dead people around me.
“Like what, for instance?” I took a huge swig of milk, glancing at her over the top of it, attempting to ignore the throng of stunning souls moving about the café.
“We quickly forget what it’s like in the physical world. We forget how slowly the living walk and talk. We also forget to speak our thoughts aloud, mostly because it isn’t necessary. That’s one of the first changes to occur. If we’re paying attention—and to tell you the truth, most of the time, we aren’t—we can hear almost anyone’s thoughts. It does require a bit of practice, though, and it’s easier if we have some kind of connection . . . a friend or a family member, or someone we love.”
This was both a wonderful and terrible thing. Did I really want perfect strangers—emphasis on perfect—knowing my every thought? I’d really have to watch myself. But I didn’t understand why Creesie had said that the living moved slowly. Gigi was sixty-five and she could hop one-legged in high heels faster than most of these people could run.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I argued, guessing that Creesie had already heard the words in my head. “These people are so pokey they’re practically moving in reverse.”
Creesie pealed with delight. “Trust me. It takes a lot of effort to move like turtles. At the Station, we practice being human for a while, eat a little something for the journey, and then head out to visit our families.”
“Visit?” I asked, puzzled. “But why do they need the Station? Can’t they just pop from one place to the other—materialize or something like that? I mean, they’re all dead, right?”
“My dear Hope,” Creesie said sweetly. “You’ve been watching too many movies. There’s an order to the universe. The Stations are quite organized, lots of folks coming and going.”
I caught the plural of “Stations,” but suddenly got distracted. One of the very cute French boys I eavesdropped on moments ago was bidding au revoir to his table, and after waiting patiently for several travelers to move past, he stood and walked gracefully out of the café.
“When we visit, it’s usually for a reason,” she continued, doing that head tilt thing again. “And often because our loved ones are having a hard time with us being gone. The living seem preoccupied . . . often to their detriment, with needing to know whether we’re happy or not.”
A buried memory was burrowing its way to the surface, but sensing the sadness surrounding it, I worked at ignoring it. “But if they’re just visiting, how do they make sure they’re seen?” I asked. “When I was at the hospital, only one little girl noticed me.”
Creesie’s head bobbed. “Hmm, yes . . . children and animals, very sensitive. But it’s not only them. Virtually anyone could see us if they chose to—most prefer not.”
Despite my efforts, the buried memory was gaining ground. With a rising sense of anxiety, I stammered, “But who—I mean, how do they do it?”
Shrugging, Creesie said, “The living tend to shut themselves off from the dead. In fact, you could say they avoid us like the plague.” She chuckled a little. “Because of their irrational fear of us, we have to wait until their minds are more receptive, more—open.” It seemed Creesie was waiting for something, maybe a light bulb to go off in my head. If so, I didn’t feel even a tingle. “And so we wait,” she repeated. “And visit the living as they dream.”
The once-distant memory punched me in the stomach. Tears burned my eyes as I recalled my mother’s message, “I’m not really dead.” It had been real! The sensations, her touch, the way her perfume had lingered afterwards. I hadn’t imagined her. I hadn’t made her up. My mother was there! She’d heard my wish!
“Oh, no!” I wailed, covering my face in my hands. “What have I done?”
“There there, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Creesie comforted. “It often requires more than one visit for the living to understand. You’ll see her again, I’m sure of it, when she thinks you’re ready. For now, she’s giving you some much-needed time to yourself.” Then, she added, “Well, there’s that and she doesn’t want to interfere in your decision.”
“Decision?” I moaned, sounding more like myself. I’d only just arrived and there was work to be done? I sniffled a little as I said, “What kind of decision?”
“Oh, you’ll know soon enough. We prefer to let life unravel in its own time.”
And then it sort of slipped—not out of my mouth—into my head. Amora came to mind, and the question she’d asked at the hospital, and I felt stupid even as I thought it.
In response, Creesie uttered, ‘“Am I an Angel?’” She snickered freely, her head thrown back, her mouth wide open. “That’s a knee-slapper! Most of the Angels I know would laugh till their wings hurt if they heard that one.”
I folded my arms across my chest like a pouting child, waiting for her laughter to subside. When it came to the topic of Angels (especially in this place), who knew?
“Let me try to explain.” Obviously, Creesie was eavesdropping again. She tapped a finger to her lips. “Think of me as your travel agent. I’ll be at your service anytime you require assistance with your . . . travels.”
Still grumbling, I said, “So I guess you’re dead, too.”
“Oh, very much so,” she replied. “This is my second time. Technically, I also died three years ago, but it wasn’t my time yet. I was lying splat in a parking lot, suffering from the agony of a heart attack, when a young girl saved my life. She didn’t make a big deal of it, just did what she thought anyone should do.” Again, I got the notion that she was hinting at something. Unfortunately, my brain was on sabbatical. “Truly touching,” she went on. “And heroic! Just a fifteen-year old girl trying to do the right thing.”
I closed my eyes as another image came barreling back. But this time it was more like I was there—reliving it rather than remembering it.
A swirling pile of leaves stopped me dead in my tracks as I left Afton’s drugstore, a prescription in hand for Mom. Although it had been only a few months since her breast cancer scare, she was doing much better. After wiping the dust from my eyes, I spied an old lady at the opposite end of the parking lot clutching her chest, her face screwed up in misery. As I ran toward her, she slumped hard against her car door, then slid from view. I reached her, se
conds later, placed my hand near her mouth, then pressed my head to her chest. Nothing!
Holy crap! What if she dies in my arms? I attempted unsuccessfully to recall our CPR lessons from Biology. What were those stupid counts again?
Telling myself that I could do this—that I had to do this—I straightened her out, went three fingers above her breastbone, and pressed firmly with both hands. I tried not to think about what I was doing. Breathing into the mouth of a mannequin was one thing, but this was something else entirely. The procedure was deceptively simple. Thirty chest compressions followed by two short breaths . . .
My eyes flew open. I looked at Creesie—young, smiling, happy.
“You’re Mrs. Brown?” I said, startled. “But . . . she had to be pushing eighty. And you’re what . . . seventeen, eighteen—?”
“Nineteen. Then again, I’ve been told I look young for my age.” Creesie patted her hair and smiled. “Souls, remember? You’re seeing the beauty of our souls. Most of us didn’t die young, although some of us did. Ever heard the expression, ‘you’re as young as you feel?’ It takes on a whole new meaning after you’re dead. Of course, right before we visit, we have to alter our appearance. Otherwise, no one recognize us.”
I smiled, seeing it clearly for the first time, snapping it all into place like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit together so easily. It was then that I heard him. I closed my eyes to give him my undivided attention. A voice, beautiful and melodious, spoke in my head.
“Who is it?” Creesie asked, probably already knowing the answer.
“Just a boy.” My voice was barely a whisper. I opened my eyes.
“Can’t be just any old boy,” she declared. “There has to be a strong connection in order to hear people. Especially the living! He must be someone special.”
“He says he thinks he knows me, but I’m sure he’s mistaken. If he met me then that would imply that I’d met him, and trust me, there’s no way I’d ever forget that face.” I shrugged so she didn’t think I was making a big deal of it.
“Yes, well . . . it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” Creesie nodded thoughtfully as my eyebrows knotted together. “Soul groups tend to travel together throughout lifetimes. Sort of like best friends for eternity. Ever meet someone and feel as if you’ve known them all your life? There’s a reason for it.”
“Oh!” I said, suddenly thinking of Ethan. Forever. How mind-blowing was that? Still, my group of forever friends probably filled one small room, whereas my sister’s required a whole stadium, possibly all of Antarctica. Claire was very popular.
Creesie motioned for Cat, and two warm slices of peach pie with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream arrived almost instantly. We both slid our forks into the pie, and lifted it to our lips. It melted in my mouth.
“He reminds me of my Joseph,” Creesie gushed. “Has a good heart, too. I can feel it.” She scooped the last of the ice cream from her plate, and then raised her eyes to mine. “You’re free to go see him, Hope. After all, now you’re a traveler, too.”
“Liberty Station,” I mumbled under my breath, realizing the implications.
“There are, of course, a few guidelines you should bear in mind.”
“Guidelines? You mean rules, don’t you?” I was never a fan of such things.
“As I said, we’re very organized around here,” she reminded me. “The universe has an order to it. I would have thought you’d figured that out by now.”
Though I didn’t fully understand, I nodded as if I did.
“First off, these are just people.” She waved one arm around. “Best not to use the word ghosts. It’s archaic and has quite the negative connotation. After all, do we look like things that go bump in the night?” I believe she meant it rhetorically, but I shook my head anyway. “And spirits?” she snorted. “Too ethereal! Often makes the living think of Angels, which . . . as you’re aware, we are not.”
I nodded again. This was easier than I’d expected.
“Oh, and be careful about feeling other people’s emotions. It can be difficult for newbies to handle. Strong emotions, either positive or negative, can be so powerful that they incapacitate you. Try not to let any of the living walk through you.”
I shuddered, remembering far too well how I could feel my sister’s panic, and the grief of Amora’s mother from clear across the room. Even the tall boy from the accident. I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began. His feelings for Caroline became my feelings for Caroline. Though she didn’t mention it, I supposed the reverse was also true. I tried not to think about my earlier glimpse into Ethan.
“Just one thing,” I asked, wanting to confirm my status. “You said I wasn’t” —I struggled to speak the word—“dead.”
“Heaven’s no! You’re very much alive,” she insisted with a sweet smile. “You’ve merely separated from your body. It’s the reason you can experience some of the things we can, but not quite all.”
“And since I’m not dead, where does that leave me exactly?”
“You’re Somewhere,” she said matter-of-factly, as if she assumed I would both understand and accept this brief explanation. The slack expression on my face must have given me away because, after another long thoughtful moment, she said, “Try to think of it as the point between; it sounds so much more impressive that way.” I got the sneaking suspicion she was making a joke, but neither of us laughed. “Then again, most folks here just refer to it as The Station.”
She pointed to the front of the building, in the direction of the floating sign, but on this, I needed no clarification. I was more than a little confused about how and where and what I was, but I could certainly read the signs.
“Somewhere?” I pressed, trying to understand. “But where is that exactly?”
She smiled pleasantly, her brown eyes, round and wide. “Somewhere is halfway to Everywhere. Just this side of Anywhere. That’s the beauty of it.”
“That doesn’t tell me a thing,” I complained. “Can’t you be more specific?”
“Some things are simpler than we can ever imagine. In time, I think you’ll come to understand.” With a straight face, eyes twinkling, she added, “Then again, being dead helps.” She slid across the bench and reached back for my hand. “Don’t dilly-dally,” she ordered in a motherly tone. Searching my eyes, she extracted his name. “Ethan wants to see you!”
I gawked openly at everyone as we made our way through the Station, but no one seemed to care or notice, which made me feel way better about staring. Creesie was right; no one paid much attention. It was slow moving through the crowd, but as we got closer, I could see that we were heading toward the ticket booth in the corner. It was the size of a wide window, and etched into the wooden panel below it were the same ornate figures I’d spotted on the elevator doors in Amora’s room.
The word TICKETS hung above the window in large capital letters. After waiting our turn, a boy with reddish-blonde hair greeted us. He wore a golfer’s cap a couple sizes too big for his head, a neatly pressed uniform, and a smile the size of Texas. The tiny gap between his front teeth made him all the more adorable.
“What’s the story, morning glory?” he asked Creesie in a lively voice.
“Mac, I’d like you to meet our new arrival.” Creesie looked over her shoulder at me. “This is Hope Valenti.”
“Well!” The boy greeted me with an impish grin. “Welcome to the Station, young lady! We’ve been expecting you. Name’s Johnnie McAllister, but everyone calls me—”
“Mac?” I smiled at him. It was the first thing I’d gotten right all day.
“Well, ain’t you the cat’s meow?” Mac wagged his finger at me and winked. “If I was about thirty years younger, I’d let you chase me around the block. I might even let you catch me!”
“Thirty?” Creesie snorted. “More like sixty, but who’s counting?” Leaning on the counter, she grasped Mac’s hands in excitement. “Hope’s ready to travel!”
“Swell!” Mac said, equally delighted.
“You explain the ropes to her?”
“Not yet, but I will. Patience is a virtue, you know.” She made it sound more like a reminder than a cliché.
“Preaching to the choir, sister! If I’d learned about patience years ago, I wouldn’t have pulled out in front of that speeding car.” Cheerfully, he muttered, “Lesson learned.” Into Creesie’s open palm, Mac dropped a large wooden coin with those familiar carvings. He grinned at me, tipping his red hat politely. “Happy travels, young lady.”
It was slightly disconcerting to look into his twelve-year old face and realize that somewhere behind that façade lurked a possibly seventy-year old man, but I couldn’t help but be charmed. Though I had no idea how this worked, as I rolled the coin between my fingers, I said, “I guess I’ll see you soon?”
“Sooner than you can imagine, doll.” Mac flashed another grin.
Creesie led me to the wall of glass just as several travelers passed straight through it. I was so excited I could hardly breathe. I was going to see Ethan! I—But how?
“All you have to do is get in line, wait your turn—no butting,” she reminded me, as if I would do such a thing. “After you walk up the steps of the bus, drop your coin in the slot, then walk straight down the aisle.”
“And then what?” I was fixated on the tiny wings fluttering above the open door of the very shiny and silver, flat-nosed bus.
“Think of Ethan. You’ll enter directly into his dream.”
My stomach drew up into a knot. “And I’ll be Ethan? Or myself?”
Creesie frowned, then smiled. “Why yourself, of course,” she said, still smiling. “Why would you ask?”
“Just nervous,” I told her. And I was. Every worst-case scenario I could imagine came to mind. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch. “What if I take a wrong turn and end up on Mars?” I groaned.
Creesie chuckled. “Just watch with me a minute.”
Pieces of Hope Page 5