“How can you joke around at a time like this? Amy is in trouble.” I feel the oily stink of evil that lurks inside Uncle Herb. The thought of getting close to it again sends a cold shiver down my spine. “Gran, you have to do something! Aunt Susan is your daughter. Go back and tell her what her husband is doing.”
“I’ve been dead too long,” Gran says. “Besides, Susan won’t listen to me. I didn’t like Herb from the moment he set his slimy foot inside our house. I always told her there was something twisted about him.”
She hadn’t liked my dad either.
“True enough,” Gran admits. “He’s too much of a perfectionist.”
It is true. And with me gone, Amy will be in for more of Dad’s criticisms.
And more of Uncle Herb’s attention.
I love my little sister. I love her too much to leave her for the rat bastard. Except evil is more powerful than I ever thought it could be. I don’t want to face it again.
“Oh for heaven’s sakes, Logan, don’t be such a weenie.” Gran puffs impatiently on her cigarette. “You’re more powerful than Herb any day of the week. Go back and haunt the guy, I don’t care. Just stop him from hurting Amy.”
Wade looks at me. He knows what I am thinking. Either I go forward and face the Council or I go back and face the evil.
Both choices suck.
Especially for someone like me who is used to taking the easy way out.
Suddenly I am struck by a thought. “If this is heaven or something close to it, then that means there’s a God.”
Wade and Gran nod. For once they agree on something.
“And I assume that God is good?”
They nod a second time.
“Then why would a good God let a bad thing happen to a girl like Amy?”
Gran and Wade exchange glances. Then Gran speaks. “I don’t have all the answers, Logan. All I know is that you were supposed to help Amy when you were alive and you messed with the Big Plan. The Council has given me permission to come here and talk some sense into you. If you don’t get down there and fix things, Amy’s going to pay the price.”
I have no choice at all. Amy is what matters.
“You said it takes skill to communicate with the living,” I tell Wade, “so show me how to do it.”
Love destroys evil.
It will also help me communicate.
Wade has told me this.
I am in my dining room, and dinner is being served. Cutlery clinks against plates; Dad pours water into glasses. We—they—are having store-bought lasagna and bean salad from the deli. I smell tomato sauce, garlic bread. I know the neighbor brought the meal over; Mom has no interest in cooking.
Slipping into my chair, I concentrate on the love I feel for Amy, for my parents, for Hannah. I pull it around me like a cape I wore when I pretended to be Superman as a kid.
I want to be Superman now.
Or at least alive.
Instead I’m a dead guy trying to stop a live guy from hurting my sister.
Mom pushes her food around her plate. Her appetite died with me. She doesn’t know how to live now that I’m gone. The only thing keeping her a little bit sane is Amy. “How was school today?” she asks.
Amy shrugs. “Fine.” She does not want to talk.
Come on, Amy! I will my sister to open her mouth and tell our parents everything Uncle Herb has done to her in the last eight months. Instead she pushes a piece of pasta around her plate and refuses to say a word.
I want to shake her, yell in her ear, slam my fist on the table and make everyone jump.
But I can’t.
Just like I can’t materialize in my chair and tell them I’m okay but Herb isn’t.
Dead people do materialize. Wade has told me this. But it’s rare. Done under special circumstances. And only if a person has earned the right. Earning the right doesn’t come down to how much money you’ve got when you die. It comes down to how much love you gave away when you were alive.
Wade forced me to think hard about that. After a while, I had to face it: The only kind of love I thought of giving away when I was alive involved Hannah and our couch. I haven’t earned the right to do much of anything, never mind materialize.
But listen, it’s not like the dead are completely useless. We can touch people’s minds, go into their dreams, create wind.
No, not that kind of wind. The breeze kind.
I was disappointed until Wade pointed out that dreams can change lives and breezes can grow to be pretty powerful.
I just hoped mine would be powerful enough to stop a rat bastard. And to let my parents know I was okay.
“John, in accounting, gave me tickets to hear the Village Voice choir in Leavenworth next weekend,” Dad says before shoving bean salad into his mouth. He is stuffing his feelings, pretending life is normal. “I thought we could go and do a little skiing, maybe wander the village. Herb offered to watch Amy overnight.”
Of course he did. The slime bucket.
Mom tenses. She doesn’t want to leave the house, my things. Amy’s stomach flips. She can’t stay there, not again. Dad repeats himself, rattles on about Leavenworth. He is desperate to get away, to forget my death happened.
I concentrate on love and a breeze. The love is supposed to make it easier for the living to see the signs. The breeze is supposed to knock the water jug over, or at least shake the water enough to slosh on the table.
I can’t even create a ripple.
“It would be good for us to get away,” Dad continues. “Herb says the village is really beautiful at this time of year.”
Panic radiates from Amy. She can hardly swallow, she is so scared. I stare at the water jug and try again.
Nothing.
Dad scrapes up the last of his lasagna. “I’ll book the hotel.”
That’s when I see it. A single salt crystal rolling across the table. It stops at the water jug.
It’s hardly the breeze I wanted.
And it’s hardly enough to stop a rat bastard.
I have my work cut out for me.
Chapter Six
That night, I go into Amy’s dream.
Wade has told me how to do it.
I cannot make a dream for her. I have to arrive in one she makes herself. And I must slide in sideways, all natural, like I belong there.
But I also have to make her remember.
I am so desperate to do it right that I am almost afraid to try. Gran’s words mock me. Don’t be a weenie, Logan.
Gently I touch Amy’s mind. She is dreaming a happy dream. I slide inside, sideways, and then wait in the shade of a tree.
Amy rides her bike toward me. Pink streamers fly from her handlebars; her hair blows out behind her like ribbons of taffy candy. I am about to yell “get your helmet,” but then I remember it is a dream and it doesn’t matter if she has her helmet on or not.
But it’s a good way to get her attention, Wade says in my head.
When she gets closer, I call out “Amy!”
She stops, throws her bike to the ground and launches herself into my arms. “Logan!”
I stagger back from the force of her hug. Wade warned me. To the dead, dreams are more real than life. Still, I am surprised at how solid Amy feels.
“I miss you.” She squeezes my neck like it’s silly putty.
I hug her back. Tears choke the back of my throat. I want to stay with her forever. “You forgot your helmet,” I say.
“It’s more fun riding without it.” She pulls away, studies me with her solemn gray eyes. “Why did you have to die? Where did you go? Mom is so sad. She never stops crying. Dad just pretends you’ll be back next week or something.”
This is the tricky part. Making my answers big enough that she will remember them in the morning. And tell Mom and Dad. “I’m not dead, Amy. I’m still alive, only I’m somewhere else.”
Her face lights up. “So you are coming back?”
“Not really. Not in the way you think.”
&
nbsp; Her face falls.
“But I am alive and Gran is here and she still goes to the track and you have to tell Mom and Dad that I love them and I’m sorry about taking the car, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And Amy?” I hold her chin in the palm of my hand so she can’t look away. “You have to tell them about Uncle Herb.”
A shadow drops over her face. “I can’t.”
I tighten my hold. “You have to! He won’t hurt you, Amy, not if you tell. I promise he won’t. He’ll only hurt you if you don’t tell. You have to tell Mom and Dad, okay?”
She wiggles out of my grasp and grabs her bike. “I have to go now,” she says. “I have to get my rabbit and take it for a walk.”
And then she is gone, in a flutter of pink streamers and taffy candy hair.
At breakfast, I whisper into Amy’s ear. It takes three tries but she finally says, “I dreamed of Logan last night.”
Mom is buttering toast. Her arm stops in mid-air. Dad gulps his coffee. His hand shakes as he puts his cup down. “That’s nice.”
“He says he’s okay and he’s still alive.”
“Logan is dead, Amy.” Dad stands, grabs his suit jacket. “You know that.”
“Not in my dream,” Amy says stubbornly.
That’s the sister I know and love. I keep whispering in her ear.
“He said he is alive and with Gran and she still goes to the track.” Amy spoons up the last of her cereal. Her appetite is back; somewhere deep inside she remembers our hug. It has made her feel better. “He said he is sorry he took the car.”
Dad’s jaw tightens. He slips on his jacket, kisses Mom on the cheek. “I’ve got to go.” And then he is out the door.
Disappointment rocks me. Amy hasn’t said a thing about Herb. I follow her as she gets ready and goes to school—I keep whispering and nudging—but I know she’s not going to say anything.
When Amy leaves, Mom goes into my room and sits on my bed. She picks up an old skateboarding T-shirt I wore the day before I died and buries her face in it. Traces of me remain on that shirt. The scent of my deodorant. Feelings from the words I spoke that day, the thoughts I had.
Mom knows it. She sobs. Her body rocks back and forth; her pain fills the room like a heavy, black cloud. I can’t stand seeing her like this. I sit beside her, wrap my arms around her. I touch her mind, like Wade showed me, but her grief drowns me. I pull back. This is why I can’t go into Mom’s dreams. Her grief is too huge. I’m not even sure I can go into her mind.
You can, Wade tells me. If you do it with love.
I touch Mom’s mind a second time. I think of how much I love her, will always love her. This time, when the warm feeling comes, it is not strange or unusual. It is big and deep and comforting. After a while, Mom feels it too. She stops crying, looks up from my shirt, stares at my school picture on the dresser.
Now is my chance.
I want that picture to fall down. I need Mom to know I am okay.
I have to do better than I did with the water jug.
I focus hard, deep inside myself, as I used to do before the start of a race. I concentrate on wind. On breezes. The air in the room changes. There is a tremor. A slight, faint rocking. Or am I imagining it?
Mom is restless. She stands, thinks maybe it is time she did my last washing. Or maybe she should go back to work like everyone says. Carefully she folds the T-shirt and lays it back on my bed. She turns to go, brushing past the dresser.
The picture falls.
She stops, turns, stares. Reaches out, picks it up, clutches it to her breast. Her tears start up again.
A part of her believes she knocked the dresser. Another part, the wiser part, knows otherwise.
But Mom does not trust her wise self. Logan is dead, she says silently. Dead and gone.
She puts my picture back on the dresser and leaves the room. How much wind will it take for her to notice I’m right beside her?
Dad is driving a rental car. The Lexus is gone, thanks to me. I know that the insurance company still hasn’t settled.
I sit in the passenger seat and watch him weave impatiently through the afternoon rush hour. Horns blare; car lights flash in the waning daylight. He is anxious to get home. His day has been one meeting after another; he is tired.
He is also tired because he has buried his grief. By pushing it aside, he thinks it will not overwhelm him. But it sucks him dry with every breath he takes.
I try to touch Dad’s mind; he is too closed. I think about trying the wind thing, but it’s too damned hard. Even if I create a bit of a breeze, which is a major long shot, Dad will explain it away.
His cell phone rings. “Robert Freemont here.”
“Hey, Freemont, Underwood here.”
I hear the conversation as if I were inside Dad’s head.
“Hi, Herb, what’s up?” Dad says.
“Did you make your hotel reservation for Leavenworth?” Uncle Herb asks.
“Not yet.”
“Good, because it’s taken care of. A gift from me and Susan. It’s the least we can do.”
I scream into Dad’s ear even though I know he can’t hear me. No, Dad, no! Don’t accept.
He hesitates. “I don’t know, Herb, I’ll have to talk to Barbara. She’s not so keen. Maybe it’s too soon.”
“It’s not. You guys need to get away. The change’ll do you good,” Herb adds quickly. “Amy too.”
At the mention of Amy’s name, heat rushes through me. My head feels like it’s going to explode. Furious, I holler some more. Don’t go! Blow him off. Don’t let him shove you around. He’s a scumball!
A Volkswagen cuts Dad off. He smashes his foot on the brake. Then he says, “Don’t push me, Herb. I need time to think about it, okay. I’ll get back to you.” He hangs up before Herb can answer.
Jubilant, I do a happy dance in my seat. I need Dad to believe Herb is slime. Trouble is, Dad and Herb go way back. It’s not going to be easy.
I talk to Dad all through rush hour. I know he can’t hear me, but I tell him everything. And by the time we pull into the driveway, I’m sure I’ve gotten through. I’m sure he’s going to say no to Leavenworth.
I follow him into the house, watch him put his briefcase on the hall table as he has a million times before. Mom is in the kitchen, dishing out dinner; Amy pours water into glasses.
“Susan called,” Mom says. “She and Herb booked us into that little hotel in Leavenworth.”
Amy’s hand slips. Water dribbles onto the table.
“Herb told me,” Dad says. “I told him you weren’t so sure.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” Mom puts a casserole dish on the table. Tuna something. I smell the fish. “It would be good to get away,” she says.
Amy smashes the water jug onto the table. Water sloshes everywhere. She runs from the room.
“What’s with her?” Dad asks.
Mom shrugs. The two of them stare after my sister.
Me, I stare at the water. Water I failed to spill last night.
And if I had, I know the trip to Leavenworth wouldn’t be happening.
Chapter Seven
Angry with myself, I go outside and sit on the front steps. It is a cold, dark night, and overcast. No moon, no stars, no nothing.
I am scared for Amy and I don’t know what else to do. Gran’s words run through my mind: Go back and haunt the guy.
Like I could.
I have no control over anything. Sure, I can think myself anywhere I want to go, but when I get there I can’t do anything. And I know for a fact that if Wade wants to pull me back from the world of the living, he can.
Like now.
He tugs on my brain, promising me a couple of cheeseburgers and a double fudge sundae if I’ll return to rest and discuss what I’ve done. I don’t need to eat or drink or sleep anymore—it’s optional now—but I have a weakness for cheeseburgers and Wade knows it.
Still, I resist.
I want to see Hannah first. She
loves Amy. Maybe she can stop Herb.
Hannah’s room is on the top floor of her house. She rests in the corner of her pale blue window seat, knees drawn up, hands wrapped around her legs, staring out the window. Top Forty plays softly on her radio. An untouched plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes waits on the floor beside her. I know her family is in the dining room eating dinner; I know Hannah has been excused.
Her eyes are red-rimmed; her skin is blotchy. Hannah has been crying. I stare at her. When did she get to be so beautiful?
I mean, she always was. But now I see her inner light, her glow. Corny? Not to a dead guy. Besides, her glow is so real and so strong that it stretches beyond her body and warms me.
I cannot believe I left her.
I sit opposite her on the window seat.
We were supposed to have a baby together.
Guilt, anger, despair. They rush through me so fast I cannot sort them out. I don’t try.
As Hannah gazes out the window, her fingers play with a small medallion at her neck. My St. Christopher medal. I remember giving it to her just before the race.
I’m scared. I don’t want to go inside her mind. I’m not scared of what I’ll find there; I’m scared I’ll never want to leave.
But I have to do it for Amy.
Hannah’s mind is open. As soon as I touch it, I see that her sadness is different. She knows I am okay because she believes I am somewhere pure and light-filled. But she is angry I got into my dad’s car in the first place. And she feels guilty she didn’t stop me.
She knows there was supposed to be more for us.
I impress on her mind that it was my choice, that she shouldn’t feel guilty. She pushes the thought away. I send her pictures of the last time we were together—pigging out on pizza and watching Punch-Drunk Love. Remembering makes her sadder.
Hopelessness rushes through me. If this isn’t hell, I don’t know what is.
Wade tugs at me again. He wants me back—to rest, regroup. I tell him no. I need to make Hannah feel better. And I need to tell her about Amy.
Determined, I sweep back into her mind. I flood her with thoughts and feelings and pictures of Amy. Hannah is concerned too. She worries about how Amy is taking my death. I send her pictures of Herb and Amy together, but Hannah’s mind won’t accept them. Over and over I try until, eventually, I manage to plant a small thought, a tiny seed of worry.
Exit Point Page 3