“If it matters, I like your hair.”
Instead of responding, I redirected our topic. “Okay, well…what do you think I should do about Evan?”
“Jane, I don’t know how many ways to say it. You have to figure out what he wants.”
“But, what if he doesn’t want anything? What if he’s happy?”
“Would you be happy like that? Living between two worlds? Unable to touch and feel…stuck?”
“He’s not unhappy and he can touch me.”
Confusion filled his eyes. “Why, though? He shouldn’t be able to. They can’t touch.”
Ignoring him, I said it again. “He can touch me. It took awhile, but he can.”
“Can you touch him?”
I shook my head.
“Can he touch anything else?”
“Objects. Mostly small ones.”
“I don’t know if that’s good. That seems to break some kind of cosmic rule.” He stood up and began pacing across the small space. “He’s never hurt you, has he?”
“No! No.” I stood up now, too, irritated and annoyed at his questions. The peaceful moment we had just shared was gone. “Evan has never hurt me. He takes care of me. And you’re not being helpful at all.” We faced one another. He was so tall, he towered over me.
Connor moved his hand to the back of his neck and scowled. “I’m trying. Let me talk to him. Maybe he’ll tell me. We can figure this out together.” He reached for my arm but I twisted away.
“Forget it,” I said, panic twisting in my stomach.
He threw his hands in the air. “What? What are you talking about?”
“This.” I gestured between us. “This thing between us isn’t going to work. I’m sorry you had such a crappy situation. Seeing all the ghosts and you were so…” I paused, feeling horrible for him. “You were so young. But that’s not how it is for me. Evan obviously didn’t tell me about the shelter for a reason. I think I overreacted and he was just trying to protect me.” My eyes were focused on the ground because I couldn’t look at him. “I think you should go, and I promise I won’t tell anyone you were here or anything you said today.”
Connor stepped back—moving toward the door, his fingers gripped the edge of the wood. The muscles in his neck and jaw tightened. “Something’s off here and you know it. I won’t push, but don’t shut me out.”
“Bye, Connor,” I said, gesturing to the door. He walked backward, never taking his pleading eyes off my own, but I held my ground until I heard his feet on the steps and the front door shut.
MY MOTHER BARELY LET me enter the kitchen before the questions started. Is that him? Connor? You didn’t tell me he’s older. He is older, right? Boys didn’t look like that when I was in school—I think his beard may be thicker than your father’s. I hoped my face wasn’t too red, and gave one word responses to the barrage of questions while stirring the large crock of stew on the counter.
“So why did he come over?” she asked. My mother—always direct.
I wasn’t exactly sure how to answer that one, but I noticed her studying my blotchy eyes and red nose and knew I needed to come up with an answer fast before she got the wrong idea.
“Volunteering at the shelter was hard today. Those kids are in a crappy situation.” I turned my back, breaking eye contact. “He called me and I told him I was upset and he just came over.” When I was finished lying I looked at her again. “I didn’t invite him. He just showed up.”
“Hmm,” was all she said, but by the way her nose wrinkled as she tossed the salad I could tell she had much more on her mind.
“It’s not like that.”
“Like what?” I fought the urge to roll my eyes at her coy, innocent-sounding questions.
“He doesn’t like me like that. We just…” I struggled for the words, “…we have things in common, but at the same time, we don’t really run in the same groups at school.”
She handed me the large wooden bowl and gestured for me to put it on the table. I moved the large, red poinsettia to the opposite end of the table and put the bowl in its place. “So he’s in your class?”
“He’s in my grade, but yes, I think he’s a year older,” I explained, concerned about how much to reveal about Connor and his past. She didn’t respond, though, and instead busied herself getting bread out of the oven and placing the steaming rolls in a basket on the counter. I decided to go for it. “I met him in Art class and then later, I saw him in the counselor’s office. I think maybe he’s had some…” I paused, searching for the right word, “problems like I did.”
This comment got my mother’s undivided attention and her eyes shot up to meet mine. “Problems?”
Unable to hold back, I sighed in frustration. “Yeah, he also meets with Mrs. Crawford. It’s nice to know someone else at school isn’t perfect.” And sees dead people, I wanted to add, but I clamped my mouth shut.
My mother strode toward me and engulfed me in a hug. I wasn’t surprised; she was an affectionate person, but this one was tight and a little desperate. We rarely spoke about my counseling and whenever we did, it was emotional.
She stepped back but kept her hands on my shoulders. “You know you can always talk to me, right?” she asked, believing her own words. I knew better, though. She didn’t want to hear the truth. She thought Evan was gone—a bizarre manifestation of my rebellion.
I played along, though, because I loved my mother and she meant well. “I know. It’s different to have someone my age to talk to—someone at school who understands.” As I said the words, I acknowledged the power behind them. It was different, and I realized why Connor continued seeking me out, and why he showed up today. We needed each other. We needed living, breathing people to be with and talk to who understood.
Tears welled up again and she noticed, moving her thumbs up to wipe them away. “Okay. I understand,” she said. “Go upstairs and wipe your face. Dad will be home in a minute and we can eat. He’s closing up the shop for the holidays. We’re taking a couple days off.”
I smiled, thankful she understood, and happy that she didn’t push for once. I needed to talk to Evan, and then I had to talk to Connor and get this straightened out. We didn’t have to agree but we did need to support one another. There was no other way.
AFTER DINNER, I WALKED into my room and found Evan waiting for me. He was in his corner, quiet, yet offered a wry grin as I entered.
“Hi,” I said, dropping on my bed, causing the springs to squeak beneath my weight.
“Hey.”
I stared at his shirt and the jeans and his wavy blonde hair that all was exactly the same as in the photograph at the shelter. It struck me—harder than ever before—how young he had been when he died.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I asked finally, hating the rift between us, hoping that whatever he told me would make it go away.
Evan took a step out of the shadows. “I didn’t want you tainted by what happened to me. It was horrible. Someone like you should never have to know about something like that.”
I stared at him, annoyed at his protectiveness. Evan was technically younger than I was, frozen in time. “That’s not fair. You can’t infiltrate my life, know my secrets, but not share your own. It’s not how friendship works.”
Again, Evan moved closer until he stood right in front of me. “My secrets are scary and ugly. They’re dangerous. I don’t want you to know about them.” His eyes were tense and his jaw was tight. “Before, when I lived with…” He swallowed the words and started over. “Even at the shelter, where everyone knew where I came from, what I endured, I felt their pity. You never pitied me. You were the first person to accept me for me.”
I focused on my hands, using a nail to scrape paint from earlier off my fingers. He was right. I never pitied him. I was only happy he was here with me. “Please just tell me about yourself and who you were.”
Evan moved back to the shadows and I thought he was leaving. Before I could protest, though, he spoke in hard
, clipped words. “When I was eight, my father moved out of the house. He left us with my mother when my youngest sister was only a baby. My mom,” he paused to take a deep breath, “my mom took care of us alone until I was fifteen. Then she met him.”
I searched the dark corner to see his face. “Who? Who did she meet?”
“A guy. A jerk,” he said, his voice turning angry. “She met this guy at work and they started dating. I knew it though, from the very beginning, I knew he was trouble.”
“So he hurt your mom? He was abusive?”
“Yes,” he said, his hands balled into fists. “She just took it, time after time. I don’t know why.”
“Did he hurt you?”
Evan looked to the side and said, “Eventually my mother realized we had to get away from him and she moved us to the shelter. We stayed there for a couple months and my mom got a better job, and counseling, and eventually we moved back into our house. She kicked him out.”
He never answered my question, which scared me. I scrambled off the bed and stood before him. “Did he hurt you?”
“Not like that. Not like he hurt her.”
My stomach twisted in repulsion. “What does that mean?”
Again, he refused to look me in the eye, instead focusing somewhere over my shoulder. “It means that even though he never laid a hand on me, he is the one that did this.”
I put my hands on my head to control the spinning. What he said didn’t make sense. Evan died in a car accident. “But the car…”
“He did it. He came after us and he caused the accident.” He fought to keep his voice calm, but the rage was evident. “We thought we were safe, but he knew all along that he wouldn’t let her go. He wanted her back, and he would do it by any means necessary.”
I wiped my eyes and nose with my shirt. Why didn’t I know this from the beginning? How could we even talk about this? He was dead. He’d just described his death—his murder.
“Geez, Jane. God, don’t cry,” he muttered and took a step closer, reaching for my hand. “It’s okay. It’s done.”
“Okay. It’s done,” I repeated, trying to absorb his confidence, wiping my face again. “And your mom, she’s okay, right? That guy, he went to jail or whatever?”
Evan’s fingers tensed against mine, subtly, but it was there. “Right?”
“No. She’s not okay and neither are the girls. And no, he didn’t go to jail.”
“What? How? Where are they?”
“They’re with him.”
I gasped, my hand moving over my mouth in surprise. “But why?”
Evan shrugged and dropped my hand, moving backward again into the shadows. His safe place.
“I wish I understood, Jane. I do. But my mother makes bad choices and I’m so worried about the girls.” He shoved his hands into his jean pockets and looked at me from under his lashes. “Connor’s right. I’m here for a reason.”
“What?” I whispered, clamping a hand around my churning stomach.
“He was right. I should have left before when I had my chance, but I didn’t. I stayed, roaming, searching for my family, trying to find a way to make sure they were safe. But instead I found you, or was directed toward you by the forces that manage this world I’m in.”
“Forces?”
Evan sighed. “There are forces that guide us, trying to get us where we belong. I was directed to you. Obviously others are directed to Connor, and so on.”
“So, like Connor said, I’m supposed to help you?”
He shook his head and hands. “No! No. Just because I was sent to you doesn’t mean you’re supposed to help. I’m fine. I’m waiting and watching. It’s where I want to be.” I must have looked skeptical because he added, “I promise.”
I moved back over to my bed and sat down. “You’ll tell me though, right? If you need me?”
“Of course,” he assured, giving me a half smile that was supposed to make me feel better, but didn’t. “But it’s Christmas, and nothing between us has changed, and I want to make the best of it, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, getting up and going to my dresser and rummaging through the drawer for some clothes. I glanced in the mirror hanging on the wall and saw his reflection. Catching his eye, I asked, “Is that where you go? When you’re not here? To them?”
“I try. It’s not always easy to navigate and I have to use a lot of focus to find them. When I’m looking for someone else I tend to lose track of you for a minute, otherwise I can find you every time. It’s like there’s a homing device between me and you. You’re my anchor. But anyone else I have to search for, and often times it doesn’t work.”
I turned, holding my pajamas in hand and walked to the door. I paused with my hand on the knob and said, “I know what you mean.”
“What?”
“You’re my anchor, too. I feel it also. When you hurt, I hurt. Remember that. Don’t shut me out.” The irony of that statement wasn’t lost on me. I slipped out the door before he could respond.
I lingered in the bathroom, tying up my hair and washing my face. The hard tiles were cold under my feet, giving me a chill, but I knew that this wasn’t what was causing my unease. The story Evan had just shared was devastating and I didn’t know how to react. I stared at my red eyes in the mirror, pressing a cool cloth against them to lessen the swelling.
“Ugh, I look like crap,” I said to myself, again a little horrified Connor had seen me this way.
I needed sleep. I changed clothes and returned to the room, ready for this horrible day to end. Before I even looked, I knew he was gone; his absence was evident in my heart. Now though, I knew where he was—which before tonight I would have found comforting. That was no longer the case. I climbed into bed and pulled the covers over my legs, exhausted mentally and physically from the long day. My chest hurt, knowing that he and I were bound, and knowing that it was wrong. I had a job to do and I needed to find the courage to do it.
“JANE, DEAR, COULD YOU go grab that plate of desserts and put it on the table?” my mother asked as she whirled through the room, energized by her party and guests.
Yep, New Year’s Eve and I was at home with my parents and their friends. It was so pathetic I wasn’t even embarrassed anymore, just resigned to it. I grabbed the tray of chocolate and fruit pastries from the kitchen counter and made my way through the men and women socializing in the house and placed it on the dining room table.
“Those look wonderful,” a woman with short brown hair said from her position next to the table. I think she owned a shop in the retail area near my parents’ gallery.
“They do, don’t they?” I said, not wanting to explain I had nothing to do with them, other than taking them out of the bakery box and arranging them on a plate.
“I’m Camille,” she said, offering me her hand. “I own the book store three doors down from your parents’ shop.”
“Oh! I’ve been in your shop. I bought several books there last fall.”
Did I ever say I was horrible at small talk with adults? In an attempt to not make further eye contact, I looked around the room, trying to formulate the words for a conversation before I escaped. Nothing came, so I settled on a weak grin. Camille, tall and curvy, with the brightest green eyes I’d ever seen, appeared unfazed by my social awkwardness.
“I love your shirt,” she said, eyeing the retro, red velvet shirt I’d paired with dark jeans and boots.
I tugged at my sleeves. “Thanks.”
More awkward silence filled the air between us before she spoke again. “So, what’s a girl your age doing here with us old folks?” she asked, popping a white glazed tart in her mouth.
Did she think I wanted to be here? I swallowed back the sarcasm that threatened to explode from my mouth. Instead I said, “I just thought I’d stick close to home—that’s all.”
Truth was I’d tried to make other plans. I called Ava to see if she wanted to do something, but her family was on their annual ski trip. After that I even nervously cal
led Julia, but she was on a date with Brennan. About three blocks over was a party hosted by a girl in my class, and though it was open to everyone (even I got a message on Facebook), I wasn’t comfortable going alone. To be fair, I’d also received an invitation to visit and party with friends from my old school. Grace (former BFF and current complicated-friend situation) called and practically begged me to go, but as I listened to her talk about boys I didn’t know and gossip I didn’t care about, I declined, pretending I had obligations here. I stared at this normal, middle-aged woman attempting to make small talk with me, and realized anything would have been better than this.
I waited for Camille to respond with sympathy about my lack of social life, but instead her focus seemed to be on something over my shoulder. I turned, expecting to find Evan, but instead she stared at a painting from Jeannie propped over the fireplace.
“That’s gorgeous,” she said, taking a step closer and looked between the painting and myself. “Oh! That’s you!”
“My aunt sent it to me for Christmas. She’s the artist.”
“She’s wonderful,” she exclaimed and studied me again. “She captured your spirit.”
The large package arrived on Christmas Eve, addressed to me. Inside was a collage, abstract of course, but it was me. There was no mistaking it. Jeannie had not only captured my spirit, but Evan’s as well. Bright colors of red surrounded the primary figure, followed by black. Each a piece of paper with one word written over and over again in heavy script.
I picked up a thick, iced brownie and said, “She’s very talented.”
Camille moved closer to the painting and up on her tiptoes. “What does that say?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I couldn’t make out the word.”
She reached in her pocket and found a small pair of glasses and slipped them on. Smiling back at me she sighed and said, “When you get old your eyes fail,” which caused me to laugh a little because she looked far from old to me. She continued to examine the words, her eyes narrowed and tight.
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