Ghosted

by J. M. Darhower

  Breezeo: Ghosted

  Issue #4 of 5

  “Have you read it?” she asks.

  “Never heard of it,” you say, flipping through the thing. “Looks shitty.”

  She snatches the comic right back. “How dare you! Blasphemous.”

  “Okay, fine, I retract that.” Laughing, you grab the comic book again. She reluctantly releases it. “So, what, he’s some kind of superhero?”

  “Something like that,” she says. “He was a normal guy, but he caught an experimental virus that’s making him disappear.”

  “Like a ghost,” you say, glancing at the pictures.

  “Yeah, so he’s just doing what he can to save the girl he loves while he has the chance.”

  “Huh, let me guess—they find a cure and live happily ever after?”

  “It’s not over yet. There’s still one more issue left.”

  “But you have the others?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring them to me,” you say. “Let me read them.”

  She gives you a horrified look. “Why in the world would I do that?”

  “Because we’re in ‘fuck your clubs’ club together.”

  “You didn’t join.”

  “I still might.”

  She rolls her eyes as she gets up to leave. You walk her to the front of the school. Nearly everyone is gone, just a handful of students remaining. A maroon-colored Honda is parked along the right-hand side of the circular driveway, a man approaching the building.

  She tenses, feet stalling, when she notices him. “Dad! You’re early.”

  “Figured you’d appreciate not having to hang out here on a Friday,” the man says, smiling until his gaze shifts to you, standing awfully close to his daughter. His eyes narrow as he holds his hand out to introduce himself. “Michael Garfield.”

  “Jonathan,” you say, shaking his hand, leaving it at that, but it’s a pointless omission.

  “Cunningham,” her dad says. “I know who you are. I work for your father. Wasn’t aware you knew my daughter, though. She hasn’t mentioned it.”

  Disapproval is evident in every syllable of those words. You have a reputation with the people who work for your father, and it’s not a good one.

  “You knew he went here, Dad,” she grumbles, face reddening with embarrassment that he’s making this a thing. “It’s a small school.”

  You don’t say anything as she drags her father away. She’s about to climb into the passenger seat of his car when you step forward, calling out to her. “Hey, Garfield…”

  She stalls, turning to you.

  Her father glares from behind the wheel.

  “You forgot this,” you say, holding up her comic book.

  She grabs it, but you don’t let go right away, hesitating as she says, “Please, don't call me that. Call me anything but that.”

  You release your hold, and she gives you a smile before climbing into the car and leaving, taking her comic book.

  You don’t know this, but that girl? She gathers up her Breezeo comics as soon as she gets home. All fourteen issues in all three storylines—Transparent, Shadow Dancer, and Ghosted. She spends the weekend re-reading them, just so they’re still fresh in her mind, so when she brings them to school for you to borrow, she remembers every single line.

  Chapter 5

  KENNEDY

  “In entertainment news, Breezeo star Johnny Cunning was involved in an accident last night in Manhattan…”

  I’m halfway to the kitchen when those words strike me, my footsteps stopping. I turn around, looking at the television across the living room, thinking I must’ve heard them wrong, but no… there he is, stock footage playing from some red carpet, his smiling face on the screen, bloodshot eyes staring right through me.

  “The twenty-eight-year-old actor was struck by a car near the set of his latest film. Eyewitnesses say Cunning stepped into traffic during an altercation with the paparazzi.”

  I approach the TV as the image on the screen changes, a video of the aftermath playing. The first thing I see is blood streaming down his face. He’s alert, though. He’s alive. The relief that floods my body nearly buckles my knees.

  “A spokesman for the actor says he’s currently stable and in good spirits. Filming for the movie has been temporarily suspended as Cunning heals from his injuries.”

  “Mommy?”

  The second that I hear Maddie’s voice, I press the button to turn off the TV, hoping she hadn’t seen it. I turn to her, my hopes dashed right away. Oh crap. She looks shocked. “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Is Breezeo okay?”

  “Sure,” I say, giving her a smile. “He had a little accident, but he’ll be okay.”

  “You mean like he’s sick?”

  “Something like that,” I say.

  Her expression shifts as she thinks about that, her face lighting up. “I can make him a card!”

  “Uh, yeah, you can,” I say, not letting my smile falter. “I’m sure we can find an address to send it to.”

  His agency accepts fan mail for him. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t personally open it, so there’s no harm sending something, if it’ll make her feel better.

  Maddie runs off to her bedroom to get to work on some art while I get busy making dinner, booting up my old piece-of-crap laptop while a frozen pizza cooks. For the first time in well over a year, I type his pseudonym into the search bar.

  I take a deep breath when the results pop up. Pictures and pictures—whoa, so many pictures—along with a video of the accident. My heart drops as I stare at it. I press play and watch. Thirty seconds. I hold my breath, expecting the worst from him—drunken staggering into traffic with no regard for his life, maybe. But instead, I see him shove a man, telling him to back off when a girl gets caught between them. The girl goes into the road, and his reflexes are fast, so fast, as he grabs her and shoves her back onto the sidewalk before—

  Cringing, I slam the laptop closed the second the car strikes him. He saved that girl from being hit.

  I sit there in silence, stunned. My nose starts twitching, the smell of something burning tickling my nostrils. It takes a moment—too long of a moment—before my eyes start to burn and it strikes me. Dinner.

  I run for the oven, turning it off, and open the door. The smoke detector starts blaring, and I make a face, fanning the smoke away. The pizza is charred.

  “Mommy, what’s stinky?” Maddie asks, strolling into the kitchen with a stack of paper and her box of crayons, her nose scrunched up.

  “Had a bit of a mishap,” I say, glaring at the burnt pizza. “Maybe we’ll just order some pizza for delivery.”

  “And chickens!” she declares, climbing onto a chair at the table. “And the breads, too!”

  “Pizza, wings, and garlic bread—got it.”

  I pick up the phone and call the closest pizza place, ordering the whole gauntlet. Can’t afford to splurge, but what the hell, right?

  After hanging up, I sit down with her, staring at her paper as she draws Breezeo. She’s good. Talented. She could be an artist. She could be anything she wanted.

  I know, because she’s not just my daughter.

  His blood flows through her veins, too.

  He was the dreamer. The doer. The believer.

  When he wasn’t high, when he wasn’t drunk, when he wasn’t so utterly screwed up, I saw something in him, something I see when I look at Maddie. The two of them, they have the same soul, they live with the same heart.

  And that scares the daylights out of me.

  “Mommy, what kinda sick is Breezeo? Where does it hurt?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” I say. “All over, maybe. Johnny—you know, the real guy that plays Breezeo—got hurt by a car when he was helping a girl.”

  “But he’ll get better?”

  She looks at me, her eyes guarded.

  She’s worried about her hero.

  I’ve tried to explain the difference between reality and the movies, to prepare
her, just in case, but I’m not sure if she gets it.

  “He’ll get better,” I tell her. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

  “I just… I can’t believe this,” Bethany says, standing beside me in the aisle as I restock canned goods. She leans against the shelf, nose buried in the latest edition of Hollywood Chronicles. The entire thing is dedicated to Jonathan.

  Story after story, speculation and theories. Drugs. Alcohol. Maybe he was feeling suicidal. I have no interest in reading any of that nonsense, but Bethany insists on spilling every nitty-gritty detail while on her lunch break.

  “You know, you’re supposed to pay for that before you read it,” I tell her. “This isn’t a library.”

  She rolls her eyes, flipping the page. “You sound like my mother when you say that.”

  I make a face. “I’m not that old.”

  “You sound it.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble. “I’m just saying…”

  “You’re saying either put up or shut up.” She closes the magazine as she pretend-gags. “I’ve already read about as much as I can take, anyway. Who even buys this junk?”

  She does, I think. I’ve seen her buying copies.

  She’s quiet for a moment as I work before she asks, “You don’t believe any of it, do you?”

  “Believe what?”

  “Any of this,” she says, waving the paper around.

  “I believe my opinion doesn’t really matter.”

  “But where Johnny Cunning is concerned, anything is possible, right?”

  I cut my eyes at her when she tosses my own words at me. “Right.”

  She frowns, defeated, and goes back to her register.

  I finish what I’m doing, trying to shove all of it out of my mind. When three o’clock comes, I clock out, grabbing a few groceries and heading to checkout. I have to be back here in an hour for inventory, giving me just enough time to see Maddie after school and get her settled at my father’s. I pay and am about to leave when I notice the Hollywood Chronicles paper tucked beside Bethany’s register, meaning she bought it.

  “Look, you met Johnny Cunning, right?” I ask. “And he was nice to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Whatever that trash says about him being horrible, you felt different. Don’t let some guy sitting behind a computer spinning sensational stories change what you believe.”

  She smiles.

  I don’t linger.

  I cringe, honestly.

  As if to make the moment worse for me, Cher’s Believe starts playing on the supermarket radio, and I figure that’s my cue to leave. The soundtrack to my life needs a serious update. Getting into my car, I drive to my father’s house, pulling into his driveway as the school bus arrives. My father’s sitting on the front porch in his rocking chair as he stares out at the neighborhood.

  “Ah, there’s my girl!” he says, shoving to his feet, holding his arms open. Maddie runs to him for a hug, dragging her backpack along the ground.

  “Guess what, Grandpa!” she says, not giving him time to guess before she continues. “I seen that Breezeo got sick in an accident, so Mommy told me I could draw him a picture!”

  My father’s eyes go wide as he shoots me a look.

  “I told her we’d find an address and mail it to him,” I explain. “You know, like fan mail.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “You wanna draw one, Grandpa?” Maddie asks. “I bet mine would be better, but you can try, too.”

  He scowls at her. “What makes you think yours would be better?”

  “ ‘Cuz I’m best at drawing,” she says. “You’re good, too, but Mommy can’t draw.”

  “Hey,” I say defensively. “I can draw some seriously cool stars.”

  Maddie dramatically rolls her eyes, making sure I see it, announcing, “That don’t count!” before making her way inside.

  “You heard the girl,” my father says, grinning and nudging me when I join him on the porch. “Your stars don’t count, kiddo.”

  After I get Maddie settled in, sandwiches made for her and my father as they hunker down at the kitchen table with paper and crayons, a fresh chocolate cream pie sitting on the counter (don't think I didn't notice), I press a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ve gotta go back to work, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight.”

  It’s starting to drizzle when I head outside. Ugh, what is it with all this rain lately? Pulling out my keys, I start off the porch when I sense movement. I turn in the direction of my car, my footsteps coming to an abrupt stop.

  My heart drops right to my toes, my stomach knotting. I lose my breath in that instant, caught by surprise when I see the familiar face. Oh god. Everything in me says run… run… run… get away while you have the chance… but I can’t even move.

  He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, a hat on his head. A black leather jacket is draped over his shoulders, his right arm tucked into a sling. His skin is battered and bruised, but it’s him.

  Jonathan Cunningham.

  He’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel his gaze clawing at my skin. He doesn’t speak, looking about as tense at the moment as I feel. My insides are wound tight. My chest hurts as I inhale sharply.

  “Hey,” he says after a moment of strained silence, that simple word enough to make me woozy.

  “What do you want?” I ask, sparing a greeting, my tone harsher than I mean it to be.

  “I just thought…” He glances past me, at the house. “I thought maybe—"

  “No,” I say, that word flying from my lips.

  He sighs, his chest rising and falling as he lowers his head. “Can we at least talk?”

  “You want to talk.”

  “Just a conversation,” he says. “That’s all I’m asking for. Just a minute of your time.”

  “To talk.”

  “Yes.”

  So much of me wants to say no again. The bitterness that has rooted deep inside of me yearns to shut him down. But I can’t, as much as I might think I want to… I can’t say no without at least listening to him. Because this isn’t about me, regardless of how personal it all feels. It’s about that little girl inside the house, pouring her soul into a picture for a man she still thinks is a hero.

  “Please?” he asks, encouraged by my silence, by the fact that I haven’t told him to leave yet. “Take pity on a banged up guy?”

  “You want my pity?”

  “I want anything you’re willing to offer me.”

  “Look, I can’t do this right now,” I say, stepping off the porch and onto the walkway. “I’m going to be late.”

  “Then afterward,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or the next day. Whenever you decide. Whenever is good for you. I’ll be there.”

  I’ll be there. How many times have I yearned to hear those words? I don’t even know if he means them.

  I slowly approach, pausing beside my car, a mere few feet separating the two of us. “I get off work tonight at nine. If you’ve got something to say to me, you can say it then, but for now…”

  He takes a step back, nodding. “You need me to leave.”

  “Please.”

  I slip past him, climbing into the driver’s seat of my car, watching in the rearview mirror as he hesitates before walking away. He leaves on foot, his steps slow. I don’t know where he came from. I don’t know where he’s going. I don’t know what he expects from me.

  I don’t know why my heart’s racing.

  I don't know why I feel like crying.

  I drive to work after he’s gone and get there a few minutes late, but nobody says anything about it. I’m lost in my head, distracted, wondering what he’s doing and what he could be planning to say. I’m not sure words exist that can make any of this better, but there are a few that could make things worse.

  “Kennedy!”

  I flinch and turn toward the sound of Bethany’s voice in the doorway to the stockroom. “What?”

&
nbsp; “I’ve been standing here talking to you for like five minutes and you weren’t even listening.” She laughs. “Anyway, I just wanted to say goodnight.”

  “Leaving early tonight?”

  “More like late.”

  “I thought you got off at nine?”

  “I did,” she says, glancing at her phone as it starts ringing. “Well, my ride is here, so I’m out!”

  Confused, I glance at the clock. It's almost nine-thirty. I lost track of time. Shoving everything aside, I clock out, avoiding conversation with Marcus. I need to get back to my father’s house before Jonathan shows up.

  Halfway to my car, my footsteps falter when I spot him. He’s here. Jonathan is perched on the hood of my car in the darkened parking lot, his head lowered, the hat shielding his face from view.

  He hasn’t seen me yet. I approach, studying him as I do. If you want to see someone’s true colors, take a peek at who they are when they think they’re alone.

  He’s fidgety, can’t seem to sit still. Nervous, I think. Anxious. Or maybe he’s just high. I’m almost right in front of him when he finally notices. He tenses as he stands up.

  No sunglasses this time, but he's not meeting my gaze.

  “How do you know where I work?”

  His eyes lower, like he’s ogling my chest, so I glance down and roll my eyes at myself. Work uniform. Duh. I’m a walking advertisement for the Piggly Q.

  “I probably shouldn’t have shown up here, but I was worried you might try to avoid me,” he admits. “That you’d blow me off.”

  “So you weren’t going to give me the chance?”

  He laughs awkwardly. “Guess you can say that.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not me. I told you we could talk, so here I am.”

  “I appreciate it,” he says, still fidgeting, his attention on the parking lot. “I, uh… I didn’t really think I’d make it this far. I figured you’d shut me down right away, run me out of town with my tail tucked between my legs like every other time.”

  “Don’t do that,” I say as I cross my arms over my chest. “Don’t act like I’m the bad guy here.”

  “No, you’re right, I didn’t mean…” He sighs as he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. Silence festers between us for a moment. It’s so quiet I can hear crickets chirping in the distance. “Do you think we could go somewhere? Sit down for a bit somewhere more private?”