by Hilary Duff
“Or,” Ben says, “we could stop it by freeing both their souls, and letting them both move on.”
The circles under Ben’s eyes look darker suddenly, and the moonlight casts shadows that sink his cheeks and eyes.
I’m scared, but I’m not sure anymore of what. Maybe of myself and what I’m thinking. I can’t let Nico’s soul suffer. He doesn’t deserve it. And Sage has been alive a very long time. Maybe his soul needs to rest too.
I tremble as I ask, “Do you know how to do that? Expel Sage’s soul from Nico’s body?”
“Not yet,” Ben says, “but from what I’ve read, I do know there’s something I’d need. Something I don’t have and maybe you do. Something personal of Nico’s. Do you have anything?”
The ring Nico left me weighs heavily against my chest. I pull the heavy gold ring on its chain and hold it in my palm. Ben leans forward, and his head bends close to mine as he studies the swirling loops.
“He left it for me with a note that said, ‘One day,’ ” I say, the words barely more than a whisper.
“It’s old. The center is a Celtic triskelion. It represents the unity of spirit, mind, and body. The outside ring surrounding it? That’s eternity.” Ben looks up from the ring. “Nico was living under a curse. This symbol represented his hope that he’d break it—that his spirit, mind, and body could live forever in unity, free from that curse. He wanted you to have it because he believed ‘one day’ it would happen . . . and when it did, he wanted his spirit, mind, and body to be with yours, for eternity.”
I stare at the ring and imagine Nico’s face. Not the way I’ve seen it lately, warped by Sage’s soul, but Nico’s own sweet, open smile, and his clear blue eyes. The swirls of the necklace swim as tears fill my eyes, and I squeeze it in my hand before I turn around and lift my hair off my neck.
“Take it,” I say, my voice thick in my ears. “Before I change my mind.”
Ben unclasps the chain and takes it away. I sob a little as I feel its absence against my chest.
“Find a way to do it.” I whisper, my back still turned to Ben. “Free his soul. He deserves that.”
Ben doesn’t say anything. I feel the heat of his hand above my back, like he wants to comfort me, but I stiffen and he doesn’t touch me. I hear his feet as he climbs the stairs.
Alone in the window seat, I stare out at the moon and the red rocks. I focus on Nico’s soul and promise him peace.
eleven
CLEA
The first place Burnham Brightley leads me is his office, beautifully decorated but appropriately humble for a man who has dedicated his life to helping others. He’s clearly thought of everything. He walks toward a circular mahogany table and pulls out one of the chairs. As I sit on the cushy maroon-upholstered seat, he heads to a sideboard and offers me my choice of refreshments before sitting across from me.
“You’re here because you’re ready to make a change, yes?”
“Yes,” I say in my meek-Charlotte voice.
“You’ve taken the first step,” Brightley says with an oily smile. “Your soul has reached out, and Spirit Krysta answered that call. You must be very grateful to her for that kindness.”
He looks so condescending I want to puke. I can only imagine how desperate most of the people who check in here must be if they don’t see it.
“I am.”
“And yet much as you want to, you and Spirit Krysta are having trouble making the transition.”
“Yes,” I say, trying to fill my voice with the proper amount of pain and suffering. It’s a good thing Charlotte would be a woman of few words; I don’t know how much of this I can pull off.
I guess I managed to sound more pained than disgusted, because Brightley frowns sympathetically and places his hand on mine. It feels clammy. “We can help. We will give you the peace you seek, and allow Spirit Krysta to rise in full bloom. However”—he grips my hand with what I think is supposed to be solemn compassion—“we just can’t say for sure how long it will take. Some transitions happen almost immediately once the spirits are in our nurturing environment, while other spirits need to be teased out, even if they want to emerge very badly. Does that make sense?”
No. “Of course.”
“While you’re awaiting transition, you’ll be in a very sensitive place, and the last thing we want you thinking about are your finances. That’s why we like to take a credit card in advance. We’ll charge only the days you use, and we’ll return the card at the end of your stay.”
I don’t have a credit card with Charlotte’s name on it, but I have come prepared. I still have Larry Steczynski’s black Amex. Larry Steczynski is one of Sage’s aliases; he had several when he was waiting around between my soul’s various lifetimes, and apparently they all did quite well for themselves. “My uncle said he’d cover the cost,” I say, handing over the card and a folded piece of paper. “He sent along a signed letter of permission.”
Brightley raises an eyebrow at the card, then compares the signature on the back to the one on the note. I can all but guarantee that as far as he’s concerned, Spirit Charlotte will need a very long time to make her transition. I told Sage to give me twenty-four hours. If I need more, I’ll tell him, but I definitely won’t be staying as long as Brightley would hope.
“Wonderful,” he says. “Now we have some forms for you to sign. All very routine.”
That pretty much guarantees that the forms are not very routine, but I soothe myself as I sign by reminding myself I’m not signing my own name, so they can’t possibly be binding.
“Excellent. Now Spirit Bitsy can take you to get changed.”
We rise from the from the table, and although I didn’t see him press any kind of button or alert her in any way, Spirit Bitsy the Sunflower is right there when he opens the door.
“This is it, Spirit Charlotte!” she bubbles. “The beginning of your new life. Let’s go.”
As she leads me over hardwood floors and under wrought-iron chandeliers, I ask if everyone working at Transitions has transitioned themselves.
“Oh, yes. Spirit Burnham has a beautiful story of how he made his transition. I’m sure you’ll hear it; it’s very inspirational.”
I’m sure it is. “How about you?”
“Before I worked here, I was a transitioner just like you. This body was born with the sprit of Anna, but she couldn’t handle living with the difficulties it entailed.” She holds up her clawed hands. “Sprit Bitsy was more than happy to work within those confines, and we’ve both been happier since I’ve walked in.”
“You’ve both been happier?” I ask. “You’ve been in touch with Sprit Anna?”
“Oh, no. But I know how badly she wanted to move on, and I’m sure she’s now at peace.”
Spirit Bitsy reaches into her pocket with her clawlike hands to fetch a key card, which she presses against a panel. An unmarked door springs open to reveal the most unassuming room I’ve seen yet at Transitions. While the carpet is a luxurious deep pile in an unfortunate shade of baby blue, the room itself holds nothing more than a mirror, a dresser with a shelving unit, and a dress rack. No windows. The shelves are filled with women’s flats, all in the exact same shade of blue as the carpet. On the dress rack are six simple sundresses, all that same blue, all the same shape, though they range in size from super petite to extra large.
“The first step in easing Sprit Krysta’s way is to give her a blank slate. Spirit Charlotte has been entrenched in this body a long time. Everything about it—the clothes you wear, your accessories, even everything in your wallet—it’s all tied to Spirit Charlotte. So I’ll need you to hand over all your possessions, then get changed into whichever dress and shoes fit you best. There are underpants, brassieres, and socks in the drawers. Once we know your sizes, we can stock your closet.”
She says this like it’s the simplest thing in the world, but there are so many indignities stuffed inside, I don’t know where to begin.
“Hand over all my possessions?”
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“They belong to Spirit Charlotte. We’ll keep them safe, and when Sprit Krysta emerges, she can decide what to do with them.”
Unease curdles my stomach. It’s not like I’ll be turning over a lot. Knowing I’d be undercover, I don’t have much with me. My ID, credit cards, and anything else with my name on it is in the glove compartment of our rental car. The only things I brought in my purse were a lip gloss, the black AmEx I already turned over, and my cell phone.
It’s losing the cell phone that makes me nauseous. It feels like throwing away my only key to that locked front door—a door “Spirit Burnham” will want to keep closed so he can drain Mr. Steczynski’s credit card as much as possible.
To calm me, I think about Sage and let his face fill my mind. Amazingly, it’s his new face I see, not the one I used to know. It’s the face I want to be with the rest of my life, and that can’t happen unless I find whatever secrets this place might hold.
I give my whole purse to Spirit Bitsy, then at her direction I turn out my pockets so she can see there’s nothing there. “I’m sorry if it seems draconian,” she says sweetly, “but even the smallest link to Spirit Charlotte can hamper the transition process.”
“I understand.”
“I remember my first day,” Spirit Bitsy says, a hint of mist in her eyes. “It was so overwhelming. But believe me, once you transition, you’ll be so much happier. Spirit Krysta will take over all your burdens, and you’ll have eternal peace and happiness. I’ll be right outside the door. Just knock when you’re ready.”
She gives my arm a supportive squeeze, then uses her key card to pop open the door. Handles and knobs are apparently at a premium here at Transitions.
I stare at the dress rack.
I hate baby blue.
The underwear I at least expect to be white, but when I open the drawer, I find another sea of baby-boy pastel. Ugh. As I find my size and pull it on, I can’t help thinking about how many other people have worn them, and for a second I can’t bear to let it touch my skin. Next I go to the dresses, which run big; I try on two of them before I find the one that fits. It’s comfortable, at least; a soft cotton with thick straps over the shoulders and an empire waist. I add the flats and look at myself in the mirror. Aside from the color, it’s not a hideous outfit. I guess Brightley figures that with the crazy money people spend on this place, they want their institutional wear to at least smack of chic.
I knock on the door, and Sister Bitsy pops it open immediately, her face aglow.
“You look beautiful,” she says. She bags up my regular clothes, makes note of all my sizes, then says she’ll lead me to my room. As we go, we walk out the back of the reception building and onto a rock path that winds over the lush lawn, around the pool, and toward a circle of casitas, each three stories tall, with large windows and patios off each level. There are a few more people around the pool, and I notice what I missed before: All their bathing suits are the same shade of powder blue as my dress. I can’t fathom how Brightley imagined powder blue would be the perfect “neutral” shade; maybe the dye was on closeout.
Spirit Bitsy calls out hellos as we wander along the path. Then, as we get closer to one of the casitas, I notice a clutch of three women sitting on the patio of the top floor, dressed in tops and shorts splashed with every color except baby blue. “Some of the transitioners keep their regular clothes?” I ask Spirit Bitsy.
“Oh, no,” she says. “They’re facilitators. They’ve already transitioned, so their new spirits are of course free to personalize their bodies. It also makes them easy for transitioners to spot. If you have any questions; they’re the ones to ask. Along with myself and Spirit Burnham, of course.”
“Actually, I do have a question,” I say. “After you transitioned, did you ever have any problems?”
“What kind of problems?”
“Issues with your new soul. Did your body have any trouble accepting it?”
“Not at all. Why would it?”
“No reason. Just wondering. Have you known any other transitioners to have problems afterward?”
She gives me an understanding smile and puts a gnarled hand on my arm. “It’s normal to be worried about the next step, but if you ask me, that’s what’s holding you back from making the change you want. Let go of your fear. Spirit Krysta will do just fine in your body.”
I smile and thank her, but inside I’m disappointed. Either Spirit Bitsy has no experience with soul rejection, or if she does, she won’t say anything about it.
She leads me to an outdoor spiral staircase, and we climb to the second floor of the casita next to the one where the facilitators are taking in the sun. Unlike the doors in the main building, this one has a regular knob. “Spirit Charlotte, welcome to the last earthly building that will ever weigh you down, and the first that Spirit Krysta will call home.”
She flings open the door to an airy, open apartment. Light streams in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating every room I walk through. Everything is large and spacious: the kitchenette, living room, bathroom, and bedroom. There’s plenty of closet space, which Spirit Bitsy assures me will be filled with a full wardrobe of clothing within the hour.
It has all the amenities of a five-star hotel, but without the technology: no computers, no phones, no TV. Spirit Bitsy says this is so transitioners won’t be distracted by the outside world as they prepare to make their change. Before she leaves, she hands me a paper cup with my “vitamin” and tells me to take it right away, then assures me someone will fetch me for my therapy session before dinnertime, but until then I’m free to wander the grounds and relax.
Vitamin. I’d bet any amount of money it’s some kind of psychotropic drug to help residents believe they’re really “transitioning.” I pretend to take it in case there are any Big Brother cameras around, but I actually palm and flush it.
Now to mingle.
I really want to talk to the five facilitators. If any of them had a genuine Walk-In experience, they might have dealt with soul rejection. I go outside and look up at the patio next door, but the three women aren’t there anymore. Instead I wander to the pool. It’s so hot outside I’m dying to jump in, but my no doubt baby-blue swimsuit hasn’t been delivered yet, so I just sit on the side and dangle my feet in the water. Of the ten transitioners, five of them are here at the pool, but the person who catches my eye is an older man with thick white hair and wrinkled flesh that sags off his gaunt build and over the band of his disturbingly small bright-green Speedo.
Bright green. A facilitator.
He walks back and forth in the shallow end, and when he notices me he smiles, showing his yellowed teeth.
“Why, hello!” he says. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I’m Spirit Angus.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “Spirit Charlotte.”
He shakes my hand. His grip is strong, and the life in his dancing blue eyes takes years off his age.
“How long has it been since you transitioned?” I ask.
“Oh, two years now.”
“Really? And you’ve stayed here the whole time?”
“Of course! It’s incredibly fulfilling to see the joy brought into people’s lives when they transition. And what would I do out there in the world, pay a small fortune for a retirement community? I’d rather spend my nest egg here and give a little something back to Spirits like yourself.”
“You don’t ever want to go back?” I ask. “What about your family?”
“I don’t have any family out there. Spirit Rory did, of course. A wife, close friends . . . but they all passed on, one by one. They take your memories, when they go. When you can’t share them with anyone who was there.”
He’s lost in that past, and it’s so easy to picture how painful it must have been.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“His wife was the worst,” Spirit Angus continues. “When he saw her lowered into the ground, under the stone with the blank half just waiting for his own name .
. . that’s when he was done.”
He sits with the memory a moment, then blinks, and the sunshine returns to his eyes. “But that wasn’t my life, it was Spirit Rory’s. He was terribly depressed, of course, but then I stepped in and offered to take his place, so he could join his loved ones. Now we’re both where we’re meant to be.”
I think about his story, and Spirit Bitsy’s wasted hands. I’m understanding more about Transitions now, and I ask the next question with a good sense of what he’ll say ahead of time.
“After you transitioned, did you have any problems? Trouble with your memory, sickness . . . anything?”
A transitioner in the Jacuzzi looks up at my question. She looks like she’s my age or just a little older, with the body of a swimsuit model, long brown hair, and a perfect tan, and I wonder what brought her here. Despite her beauty, she seems uncertain in her own skin. Her shoulders hunch a little bit, and she lets her hair fall around her like a curtain between herself and the world. She looks away shyly when I catch her eye.
“Spirit Charlotte, the only problems I had were before my transition,” Spirit Angus assures me. “Trust me, this will be the best thing you’ve ever done.”
I thank him, and he goes back to walking the pool. I want to talk to the transitioner with the long brown hair, but she’s already in her towel, scurrying back to her room.
While I don’t get to chat with her, the pool is clearly the focal point for socializing at Transitions, and over the next couple of hours, I talk to several more residents, both transitioners and facilitators, and I get it. Everyone here has a sob story, some terrible trauma they can’t handle. Listening to the stories, I feel like I’m manning a suicide hotline. People tell me about murdered family members, terrible accidents, debilitating diseases, crippling depression . . . it’s gut-wrenching.
Yet somewhere along the way, each of the residents stumbled into the theory of Walk-Ins and jumped on it, creating a new “spirit” that wanted to take over. A spirit that had never experienced the trauma, and could therefore function in the world. Word of mouth led them to Transitions, where the combination of vitamins and therapy let them embrace their new self and eventually return to the world.