by Edie Claire
I released my pent-up breath. This was hard. He didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to face his demons. And I didn’t want to make him. But he could not go on like he was. Not forever. There had to be something better for him. Something more… satisfying.
"I’m not sure, Kali," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I’m afraid I might have—" he broke off, not wanting to voice the thought. "I’m afraid I might have killed myself."
No!
The word reverberated in my brain like the clang of a gong. I didn’t want to accept it. I would not accept it. It was all wrong.
"Maybe that’s why I—" he began miserably.
"No!" I said again, this time out loud. "You did not. There’s no way."
He looked at me curiously. "How can you be so sure?"
"I don’t know," I said stubbornly, "but I am." I looked at him. At the healthy glow of his sun-kissed skin, the red blush of his cheeks, the normally laughing eyes. Not this soul. No way. "Zane, I’ve never met anyone who loved life quite the way you do. You exude optimism. You reek with humor. Everything about you is passionate, hopeful, resourceful. No matter how bad things got, you would not give up on yourself. You would find a way to turn it around. I know you would."
His eyes flashed; I saw a glimmer of relief. "You really think so?"
I smiled. "I know so. So if you’ve been blaming yourself for the state you’re in, please cut it out. Sheesh—if every person who committed suicide ended up like you, I’d be talking to ghosts 24/7. Whatever happened to you, I promise you, it was not your choice."
He smiled back at me, but he was clearly still troubled. "I wish I could be as sure of that as you are."
With a flash of inspiration, I sat up on my mat. "Do you have any scars?" I asked. "Like, from when you were a kid?"
His eyebrows rose. "Sure, on my forehead. Do you see it?" His face was conveniently solid at the moment, and when he raised a sheaf of curls with his hand I could just see a moon-shaped scar high on his left temple. I nodded.
"I got that flying over the handle bars of my bike when I was eight," he continued. "Not my fault, for the record… stupid ramp collapsed. I got six stitches."
"So, your scars do stay with you," I deduced. "Stretch out your arms."
He complied warily. "Is there a point to this?"
My gaze traced the length of his upper and forearms, which were mostly solid, though the edge of his right hand was missing. The limbs were lean, muscular, and smooth skinned.
Not a mark on them.
"Look at yourself," I prompted. "Do these look like the arms of a cutter to you? Almost everyone who thinks about suicide screws around with less dangerous stuff first. Your arms are perfect. All of you is perfect. You’re the picture of health, Zane. You obviously took care of yourself."
His answering smile was genuinely grateful, but the glint in his eyes was wicked. "Really? You think all of me is perfect? Do tell."
Heedless of annoying vibrations, I smacked playfully at his still outstretched hands. "Shut up! What I mean is, there’s no reason to think you suffered from depression before you died. No cuts, no needle tracks, no picked scabs—"
I paused. Somewhere between "depression" and "scabs" he had withdrawn his arms abruptly. His face was like a stone. "Zane? What is it?"
He didn’t answer. His mind seemed far away. For a long moment, all of him seemed far away. A wide band of transparency floated through his chest. His tanned torso blended disturbingly well with the sand beyond, making him, for a moment, look almost invisible.
"Zane!" I repeated.
He stood up. "Sorry," he said vaguely. "What were we talking about?"
I stood up with him. "We were talking about you, and you obviously just remembered something important. What was it?"
He hesitated.
"Please tell me," I begged. "Don’t worry about what I’ll think—this is all about getting you to a better place, remember?"
His eyes flashed with pain. A deep, bitter pain I would give anything not to see.
"A better place," he echoed dully. Then he turned and took a step toward the water. "I'm thinking this is a pretty great place right here. How about a walk? Or a drive? Your parents left the car, didn’t they?"
I could not let him off the hook that easily. I stepped back to his side. "Don’t do this, Zane. Don’t avoid it. Whatever it is, I’ll help you deal with it. I promise. Just try me."
He was a silent a moment longer. His gaze remained on the horizon. The muscles in his jaw clenched. "I hate this," he whispered huskily.
Everything in me wanted to touch him, to comfort him. But he wouldn’t even look at me. All I could use was my voice.
"I know."
We stood a long time, the wind blowing my hair into a mass of tangles, his own curls still as death.
"I remembered a lot just now," he said finally. "It happens like that sometimes—in a rush. But I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not you… I just need some time. Do you mind?"
I took a breath. Despite the gravity of his words, his tone sounded steadier. Perhaps whatever he had remembered, bad as it was, was an improvement over the wondering.
"No," I said, deciding. "I don’t mind. For now. If you promise—"
"I promise," he interrupted. "Let’s talk about you instead."
I groaned. "We talk about me constantly!"
"Oh, I don’t want to talk about superjock, believe me," he retorted. His voice had turned playful again, and its familiar, cheerful tone enfolded me like a warm blanket. "I want to talk about the pre-Oahu you."
I grinned back at him. I had to admit that I was flattered by the interest he showed in my life—even the little, boring stuff. A short break in the seriousness would be okay, wouldn't it? We had all day, after all.
I turned to sit back down on my beach mat, but jumped to notice the sudden appearance of a particularly grungy looking biker dude, a little too solid for comfort, standing over the spot of beach I had just vacated. He was drinking a brand of beer I didn't recognize, smoking a cigarette butt so short he could barely hold it, and staring aimlessly down at the sand. As I watched, wondering why I'd never seen this particular spectacle before, he let out a belch and flopped down, sprawling one incredibly disgusting looking foot—in dire need of a good wash, not to mention a toenail trim—right over the spot of mat where my head should be.
"Ugh!" I groaned out loud. I grabbed a corner of my mat and tugged on it, but as I did, a curious sensation washed over me.
His heart is breaking.
"Kali?" Zane asked, "Is it a shadow?"
I stared at the apparition, one of so many unpleasant ones that, over the years, I had ignored without a second thought. It was easier when I didn't feel them.
"Yes," I answered absently, still studying. The biker was just about the ugliest man I ever saw—early thirties maybe, but already with a pot belly and thinning hair. His face was acne scarred; his nose far too big for his face, and crooked besides. He had a pouch rigged up to hang from a belt loop that poorly concealed some type of knife. And, although odor wasn't usually part of the equation with the shadows, I could swear I caught a whiff of B.O.
"What's it doing?"
I dragged my beach mat a few yards away and laid it back down, still unable to take my eyes off the shadow. "He's mourning a lost love," I answered. And very soon, he's going to slit his wrists.
I shook my head to clear the image. I didn't know that for sure. I couldn't possibly. But his despair went deep; his sense of worthlessness was profound.
And, as always with the shadows, there wasn't a single thing I could do about it.
"Is it bothering you?" Zane asked. "We can move somewhere else."
Without answering, I dragged my mat several more yards out of the shade of the palms and into full sun. What the heck? I wanted a tan.
I plopped back down on my beach mat, determined to put the shadow out of my mind. So what if I could feel them all more now? I had learned
to ignore the sight of them; I could learn to ignore their feelings, too.
I had to.
"What were we talking about?" I asked, as cheerfully as I could manage.
Surprisingly, Zane did not pursue the question of the shadow, but sat back down beside me with a smile. "We were talking about you," he explained. "Like why you never learned to swim."
My eyes rolled. "We were? Funny, I don't remember that."
"How is it possible?" he continued doggedly. "You’re a natural athlete."
I grimaced. "It’s embarrassing."
"Tell me."
"You’ll laugh."
"I won’t!" he insisted. "I promise."
I let out an exaggerated sigh. It was hardly my favorite topic, but it beat thinking about the biker dude. I couldn't help him. I could help Zane. At least, I hoped I could.
"When I was three years old," I began with resignation, "my day care went on a field trip to a Japanese garden."
Zane's eyebrows rose. "And?"
"And I fell into a koi pond."
The corners of his mouth twitched. His cheeks reddened. His whole face began to contort.
"Oh… FINE!" I shouted at him. "Go ahead and laugh already!"
He did. The laughter exploded from him like a volcano, and as he rolled on the sand I could not help but laugh along with him. "You’re terrible!" I accused.
"I’m sorry," he said finally, wiping away faux tears with a finger. "Really, I am. It’s just… not exactly what I was expecting to hear. I mean… you’re so graceful, and coordinated, not to mention brave—"
"Oh, spare me," I snapped. "I know it’s stupid; you think I don’t? My parents made me take swimming lessons every summer for years. I was twelve before they gave up. It was so humiliating."
"But what was the problem?" he asked intently, now all ears. "Wouldn’t you even try?"
I sighed. "I was too scared."
"How deep a fish pond was it?"
"A foot and a half," I said sharply. "Whether or not my life was ever in danger is not the point. The point is, for a couple seconds, I thought I was drowning, and I’ve never gotten over that feeling. I can’t put my face in the water. It terrifies me."
He studied me seriously for a moment. "Very interesting," he concluded. "Particularly for a girl who isn’t afraid to talk down a crazed football player with a knife. But I think I understand. I could help you, you know."
I looked at him skeptically. "Many have tried. All have failed."
He smirked. "Well, they’re not me. I could teach you to swim." His face lit up. "I could teach you to surf."
I laughed. "Can you teach me how to fly, too? Be serious. It’s hopeless."
His expression sobered. "Under the circumstances, probably so. It’s not like I could save you if you got into trouble."
I had a fleeting image of what it would feel like to be pulled out of the water by Zane’s strong, solid arms, to be held against his dripping wet chest—
I squelched it.
"Still," he continued, his voice more hopeful again. "There are things we could do that would be safe." He considered. "Have you ever been out on a glass-bottom boat?"
"Yes!" I said brightly. "I loved it. Seeing underwater was the coolest thing… I’ve always wished I could snorkel."
His eyes gleamed. "You do realize you’re vacationing in the midst of some of the greatest snorkeling on the planet?"
"That hardly does me any good if I can’t swim!" I protested. "Not to mention the whole face-in-the-water thing. I told you, I’m hopeless. It ain’t happening."
Eyes still gleaming, he stood up and offered me his hand.
I looked at it quizzically.
"Oh, just fake it," he quipped.
I reached my own hand into empty air, felt a faint buzz, and pretended to let him help me up.
"Get your car keys," he ordered. "We’re taking another field trip."
Chapter 17
"Come on," Zane cajoled. "That's not a bad price. And it will make a perfect souvenir."
"It's a kid's toy!" I protested, looking at the picture on the box of a grinning preschooler.
I glanced around self-consciously, but what was undoubtedly the least sophisticated retail establishment in Haleiwa was so crowded with tourists I had little fear of drawing anyone's attention. I took another look at the picture. The item Zane had so enthusiastically led me to was an inflatable raft—more like a boogie board in size—with a clear plastic window. Supposedly you filled the window with water, and then could float on the raft and see clearly into the ocean below. Smiling child or not, the mere thought of floating out on the open sea made my blood run cold.
"So what?" Zane argued. "It's perfect for our purposes. This isn't about ego is it? About being afraid of looking silly?"
"No!" I protested. "It's about being afraid of drowning. Or being eaten by a shark, or—"
"Kali," Zane interrupted, holding my gaze firmly with his own. "You know I wouldn't suggest anything that wasn't perfectly safe for you. Where we're going is a protected cove. The waves are cut off by walls of rock and the water is only a few feet deep—it's like a glorified kiddy pool. But at the same time, it's real ocean—with coral and fish and plants. You'll love it."
I wavered. "Really?"
In truth, he had already won. I did love the glass-bottom boat ride, and when it came to my safety, bodiless ghost or not, I trusted him completely.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Kylee and Tara were driving me crazy. I hadn't said a word about having kissed Matt last night—much less everything that was going on with Zane, but I could swear they knew anyway. It was like some kind of weird best-friend telepathy.
"Go ahead and answer," Zane said patiently. "I know you want to. I can tell it's been ringing all morning."
My brow furrowed. "How? I've had it on vibrate."
He shrugged, but his perceptive eyes twinkled at me. "You get a certain look on your face."
Wondering how transparent I really was, I reached into my bag. "I told you that Matt would not be on my agenda this morning, and he's not," I insisted. "But I'll see what everyone else wants."
I flipped through the texts with haste. There was one from Matt, but I didn't open it. The others were from Kylee and Tara.
U R holding out, girl! Talk to me!!! L
Tara was usually more subtle. But not today.
Secrecy doesn't suit you, and it's irritating me. We know you totally kissed this guy. And you'd better start talking. Or else Miss Scarlett spends the rest of break in your room. WITHOUT a litter box.
I winced. I loved animals as much as anybody, but I could hardly stand ten minutes at Tara's house with my allergies… having her cat in my bedroom could kill me. Luckily, she was only kidding.
At least I hoped she was only kidding. I had given her my house key so she could feed the gerbils…
U have 2hr, then im calling u. Deal w it!
On this point, Kylee was dead serious. And she would not be happy when I didn't answer.
I composed a quick message to both, explaining that I was with someone and would fill them in later. I clicked send and dropped the phone back in my bag.
"You did answer him, didn't you?" Zane asked.
I looked at him in surprise. "No. I had a text from Matt, but I didn't open it. Let's go."
I put the box with the raft in it under my arm and started toward the register, but stopped when I realized Zane wasn't following.
"You should answer him," he said from a few feet away.
I stepped back over. "It's fine," I assured.
"No, it's not," he responded flatly. "You can't kiss a guy and then ignore his texts. It'll mess with his head. That's not you."
"No," I agreed quietly. "It's not. But I promised—"
"Forget that," he interrupted, his tone uncharacteristically gruff. "You're not screwing up this thing with Matt because of me. Now text him, dammit. I'll be waiting outside."
In a blur of light, he was gone.
Nothing.
I pulled the phone back out of my bag and texted Matt.
***
"Now, did I lie? Is this place perfect, or what?"
I looked up into Zane's eager, optimistic, drop-dead gorgeous face, and couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth. It had been an awkward ride up from Haleiwa, despite his concerted effort to prove that he was perfectly okay, and I would do just about anything at this particular moment to lift his spirits. But shallow or not, scenic or not, the body of wild, unbridled ocean that loomed mere feet from my person terrified the crap out of me.
"You said there wouldn't be any waves," I squeaked, the now-inflated child's raft clutched tightly to my side. I felt like a moron anyway, wading into the water in a leotard and bike shorts, but I hadn't packed a swimsuit because I didn't own one. I used to have a one-piece I wore whenever Kylee put up the giant water slide on the hill behind her house, but the butt had gotten fuzzy and I had trashed it.
"Waves?" Zane said with disbelief, looking down at the crystal clear ocean water that lapped lazily against the sandy beach.
I supposed an unbiased observer could see his point. The snorkeling cove at Turtle Bay was bordered by the resort itself on one side and a solid pier of lava rock on the other. Its connection with the ocean, several hundred yards from the shore, was buffered by multiple layers of rocky reefs that systematically reduced the incoming waves down to languid sloshes.
The place still scared the crap out of me.
Unaccountably, Zane laughed out loud.
I fixed him with a glare.
"Kali," he continued, chuckling between words, "You are so lucky I'm a ghost."
My eyebrows rose. At least my misery was having a good effect on his spirits. "How do you figure?"