“To them, if they felt you at all, you were an unwelcome presence. An eerie sensation.”
“A ghost?” I asked.
Charon shrugged. “As a mother whose heart is still broken for him, Nancy is able to recognize Mark. In her grief, she can neither hold on to her son nor let him go.”
“She wants him to come back to her,” I said. “Even though she says she doesn’t.”
“Who knows what a human heart wants?” His eyes burned, the color of the liquor in his strychnine glass.
“Will he ever …?” I thought about what Mark had said to me the last time I’d seen him: “I don’t want to know what you know.” I shut my mouth. I opened it again and asked before I could think it through: “Will he ever get what he needs from his mom? You know, so he can pass?”
“Attend to what I have told you. He requires nothing from his mother. The one Mark must make peace with is his brother.”
Like I was right back in their spooky, haunted house, I heard Mark’s brother scream: “I’m the one who’s still here!” John wouldn’t have his mother back until Mark let her go. And maybe Mark had lost too much of her to let go of the shreds he still had.
“But … wait,” I said, stumbling in my head over it. “How can Mark be haunting his mom — and that’s bad — but he’s still supposed to talk to John to do whatever it is he’s supposed to do? Wouldn’t that be haunting his brother?”
“Ah.” Charon sipped his drink. “There is haunting and there is visitation. The former involves your neediness and desire to be healed, and as I said, it damages. The latter involves your ability to deliver healing to the one you contact. A visitation is a gift to another that may damage you.”
Charon set his drink down, and I watched a blue flame skate across the surface of the liquid inside. It snuffed out and the drink was just a drink again.
I sat there with my mouth hanging half open, until all the big words he’d used kind of filtered through and I thought I knew what he meant. But also, another part of me was back at school, by the telephone with Mark. “He had my coin,” I whispered.
“Some students are charged with holding the coin of another, when the lessons are intertwined. You were able to show Mark that it is possible to love someone and also let them go, without being destroyed by the process. Before you, he was unable to contemplate it, but it is the skill he must gain to free himself of Lethe.”
“What about me? What was my lesson?” I swallowed back tears.
“That you are capable of both loving someone and knowingly hurting them. As all people are. Mark will ache from your decision, and you knew this, and you chose your coin, anyway.”
I nodded, my heart heavy. I closed my eyes and went back to that moment at the pay phone. Except this time, somehow I did something differently, which changed things. I would take that coin, pinch it between my fingers, and push it right back in the coin slot. I would hear it chink down into the belly of the pay phone, and then I’d grab Mark’s hand and …
“What if …” Trying to explain that you love someone is no easy thing. The best I could get out after a while was “Please.”
The boatman’s jaw set. “You cannot save him from pain. You cannot even save yourself.”
I couldn’t have stayed at Lethe, knowing what I did. But part of me wanted to. When no words showed up to explain how it felt, all these tears came out instead.
Charon studied the ocean.
I turned the page of the book in my lap. It occurred to me that each obituary got me closer to my own page. I tried to get lost in the little articles and updates, understanding these secrets about the people I had known on campus. There was Thatch, who was riding a bike when he got hit by a car. In a way, it was overwhelmingly sad to see death everywhere. But in another way, it made me smile. I mean, I knew how Thatch turned out — he’d gotten to kiss a girl like Nora. Death wasn’t the end of him.
A few pages later, I saw Troy had died during a frat initiation party, of alcohol poisoning. I bet he knew all about peer pressure. Then I thought about what he’d said to me after Brynn’s egging. I didn’t have to ask — I knew he must’ve spied a gold coin swimming in the yolk of his last broken egg. It gave me chills to know I’d been so close to someone else’s crossing over, and I hadn’t even known it.
Next I saw: Two Men Found Dead, One Missing. The first paragraph read, The bodies of Alan Wentz and Shane Stanton, both twenty-five, were found Monday in Los Padres National Forest, at the bottom of a ravine. Forensics suggests horseplay was likely a contributing factor in their deaths.
“They were older in their … article … than they were at school,” I said.
Shrug. “Sometimes you go backward to learn what you need to go forward,” he answered. I thought about what bullies they were, what they’d done to Brynn.
“What happened to them?” I asked.
“Does it matter to you?” Charon answered. It was not a question. It felt good to let them go. Good-bye, jerks, I thought.
Brynn was next. Teen Tennis Champ Missing, the first headline announced in bold font. The missing girl was last seen leaving Feather Point Country Club with her mother’s former boyfriend, Ned Dillinger…. Then: Jenni Laurent Alibis Ned Dillinger in Daughter’s Disappearance. Followed by: No Body? No Trial? No Justice for Brynn. And the last one: FOUND! It was next to a grainy photo of Brynn smiling in her tennis whites.
The mystery of Brynn Laurent’s disappearance ended last month, when cold-case detectives found her remains buried on the property of oil executive Ned Dillinger. Authorities had long suspected Dillinger, the on-again, off-again boyfriend of Brynn’s mother, Jenni Laurent. Several witnesses claimed Dillinger had a “creepy” interest in the teenager. Laurent alibied Dillinger, but suspicions were raised when Dillinger later purchased several luxury items for Laurent, including a house on Wedgewood Drive and a Lexus convertible.
Charon smiled. “Every student has a mortal wound. An injury that is echoed throughout their time here, until it is resolved. Tell me, what was Brynn’s?”
I felt sick, trying to imagine what kind of mother Jenni Laurent must have been. And then, of course, I thought about how Brynn had gotten egged. “People who were supposed to care for her used her.”
Charon nodded. “The thing that has damaged you, Camden, is the thing you must face.”
The shadow of how this theory might apply to me slunk into my ear and hung out in the back of my brain. Examining it would have been like squeezing a tube of understanding toothpaste — there’d be no going back once it was out, and I got the feeling it was going to make a big mess, too. I shook my head, my short hair brushing against my neck.
“Is that what happened in the theater?” I asked.
He nodded. “Jenni Laurent once stumbled upon Brynn at the hands of a terrifying ghoul, much as Brynn discovered you and me in the theater. That woman turned a blind eye, forfeiting her daughter for her own selfishness. To receive her coin, Brynn had to do what her mother could not. She refused to sacrifice you, and broke free of becoming like her own mother.”
“Why did I have her coin?” I asked.
Charon’s voice turned sharp. “Do not ask that to which you know the answer.” He tapped the center of his chest, where a person’s heart would be, and I knew. Brynn and I, we’d learned how to be friends. When Charon’s finger pressed the linen of his shirt, I saw the smooth bones of his ribcage. His finger tapped once more and then turned and pointed at me. I blotted away tears.
“Mr. Graham knew what you were, and he knew I had Brynn’s coin. Why didn’t he try and save her?” I asked. But then I remembered Mr. Graham told me: I let her go. Mr. Graham’s obituary was next: a motorcycle accident in the rain. The question of suicide threaded through the words, unasked, as the article revealed that Mr. Graham struggled to cope with his sister’s murder, three years prior. On the next page, DNA Analysis Links More Victims to Serial Killer John Darcy, along with a photo array of twelve girls. In small print, a list of name
s started: Likely victims include Janine Graham, previously reported as a runaway. Mr. Graham’s sister was the girl in the top left square. In the picture, too, she reminded me of Brynn.
Mr. Graham was the only suicide I’d seen. Remembering something Mr. Cooper had said to me, I flipped through the book, searching for other teachers.
The next teacher who caught my eye was Miss Andersen. A cold chill ran down my spine: Poison Peggy Found Dead, her headline blared. The article read, Peggy Andersen was found dead in her home Tuesday morning of apparent natural causes. Andersen had been awaiting trial for the murder of her sister, Beatrix. Andersen famously answered, “Just a little,” when police asked if she’d poisoned her sister.
I looked up. “Mr. Cooper was trying to tell me something that night at the dance, wasn’t he?” Charon didn’t bother to answer, and I was already flipping through the book. Dr. Falzone’s article was easy to miss. Guess they didn’t allot too much page space for drunks who drove into a car full of teenagers and later died of cirrhosis. I remembered how Dr. Falzone had squeezed my shoulder after I’d gotten in trouble, and how he’d come looking for me the morning Jessie disappeared. It was hard to believe his old life had been so full of despair.
“Have all the teachers killed someone?” I asked.
Charon paused before answering. “For teachers, the requirements to obtain a coin are more stringent. In the past, they proactively intervened to change fate, usually by taking a life. They unbalanced the universe with their actions. To leave Lethe, they must repay what they have taken. They must help students cross, but they must not proactively interfere. As psychopomps, they are required to wait until the right set of circumstances allows them to pay their debts.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“During his life, Henry Graham suffered survivor’s guilt, believing he did not deserve to live while his sister was dead. Eventually, his mind twisted until he thought his own death could pay his sister’s coin; that to sacrifice himself, he could retroactively save her.”
“That’s why he couldn’t take Brynn’s coin.”
“Yes. He must not pay for anyone’s life but his own. Mr. Graham’s penance was not only to stand by as students passed, but to help one go. As it happened, you were the one. He could help because you asked.”
I thought of Mr. Graham, what it must have taken out of him to deliver me into the hands of death. I wished I could go back and tell him I was OK.
Unlike most of the other obituaries, Mr. Cooper’s disappearance and presumed death were discussed on a glossy magazine page, apparently a national interest story. Our drama teacher had been spelunking in a New Mexico cave. His whole party had gotten disoriented deep below the earth. “Our compasses may have malfunctioned due to a geologic anomaly — a large portion of metal ore nearby,” one of the surviving explorers was quoted as saying. “But I can’t think of any cause for the lanterns to fade in and out.” Against the advice of the group, spelunker Gregg Ross rappelled into a crevasse. When he did not reappear, George Cooper followed to assist. Minutes later, both returned. “I’ll be right back,” Mr. Cooper was reported to have said, as he went back into the crevasse alone. He was never seen again. His rope was retrieved, severed. For twenty-four hours, firefighters, policemen, and volunteers attempted search and rescue. No member of the rescue team reported compass or light malfunction. Mr. Cooper was never located. When interviewed, Mr. Ross was unable to recall any detail of the spelunking trip.
“Mr. Cooper’s different,” I said. Charon nodded. “He helps people figure out they’re dead, doesn’t he?” I asked. “I saw him on your boat in one of the pictures.”
Charon shrugged. “Yes, he is unlike the others. Cooper is my assistant. Long ago, he made a pact with another, and this put him out of my grasp. Over time, he has seen the error of his agreement. Now he watches the others as they learn and go, hoping to find a way for himself.”
“Another?” I asked, but Charon did not answer. Dread, like ice water, trickled down my spine as I considered what kind of supernatural creatures could be waiting in the cracks of the earth for an unlucky traveler. What creature could cheat death? What price had Mr. Cooper paid? I turned the page.
Nora Alpert. Nora had been brushing her teeth when a weak spot in an artery blew like a bald tire. My friend had been dead before her body had hit the ground, her awesome brain drowned in blood. Her coin-collecting dad pounded at the door, but her body blocked it closed. That was why she’d been so set on locking the secret room.
The brain obscures the events of death, Charon had told me. Maybe part of Nora believed she’d locked that bathroom door, instead of dying against it, like Jessie, who believed she’d buckled her seat belt. Suddenly, I remembered the day of Brynn’s egging, how horrified Nora had been. “The door’s locked,” she’d said about the balcony doors. But then she’d changed to say, “It’s blocked.” Had seeing Brynn trapped behind that door helped Nora start to figure it out, then?
I touched her obituary and missed her like crazy. Nora’s whole life was so short there on the page, not at all saying how cool she was, how her runner’s legs had been so strong they had taken her wherever she needed to go. I blew my nose. Good-bye, Nora, I’ll miss you, I thought.
The next obituary was one of those weekend edition articles. It had a photograph of a swollen and frail girl in a hospital bed, surrounded by family and flowers. My fingers felt cold on the paper, and I remembered what Charon had said. “Usually, by the time a person meets with me, they have completely passed.” I pointed at the book. “She’s not dead.”
I guess Charon didn’t need to peer over to see who I was talking about. He said, “She is here but not dead.”
The first article was a request for donations. The family’s oldest daughter had died of illness, the article said, and a few months later, their younger daughter was diagnosed with the same disease.
“She’s going to fight it,” her father was quoted as saying.
The next article about her: Hope Remains Strong for Family of Illness-Struck Girl.
Then: Local Charity Raises 100K for Treatment of Ten-Year--Old Tamara Stratford.
The next one: Valiant Efforts Fade as Girl Slips into Coma.
From a magazine, instead of a paper: Right-to-Life Battle Wages in Small Town. It read:
The marriage between Todd and Penny Stratford survived the devastating illness and death of their oldest daughter. But just three years later, their other child was diagnosed with the same severe form of the disease. When twelve-year-old Tamara suffered a massive stroke as a complication of treatment and fell into a coma sixteen months ago, the Stratfords’ tattered union dissolved.
Since their separation, the Stratfords have not come to an agreement on the continuation of their daughter’s life support. The father’s lawyer states, “Doctors have determined Tammy has no hope for recovery. Any movement or behavior she exhibits now is only reflexive—the misfiring of damaged circuits in her brain. To keep her on life support dishonors the active and loving child she once was. Her father wants peace for her.”
The mother’s lawyer states, “Tammy responds to light and the sound of her mother’s voice. She smiles and she makes noise. Tammy may not have the type of life the rest of us do, but that does not give anyone the right to end it.”
The two quotes were separated by a grainy black-and-white photo of my roommate. Not the snarky girl I knew, but pale and slack-faced, bald in spots from rubbing against her pillows. By chance or not, the photographer had caught a glimmer of a smile on Tamara’s face as she lay there, surrounded by family.
“How is she here if she’s also there?” I asked.
“She is both places and neither. More like a weekend visitor than a full-time resident in either life. She fights to live. But there is not much for her in that hospital bed. She comes here to grow and learn as a normal child would.”
I glanced down at the picture again. Two teenage boys sat on the empty hospital
bed next to Tamara’s. They were identified in the print as her cousins.
“They were in my room.” I jabbed my finger at one of the boys. “She told me they weren’t, but they were.”
“The reality around Tamara is warped. What you saw that night were living boys bleeding through into our world. Just as when you sat too close to Tamara, you perceived the hospital and her illness, the vortex into her other world. It made you sick. It makes her sick as well. She smells death on you.”
Ew. I didn’t want to smell like death. I gave my pit a discreet sniff. I didn’t smell anything. Still, I felt bad. I thought about the night I had hugged Tamara, the antiseptic smell floating around her.
“Will she die?” I asked. Charon didn’t reply. After a moment I realized the answer. Of course. Everyone dies.
The next page was mine. I knew before I even read it. The article was no more or less ordinary than any other I had seen: Minor in Grave Condition After Pool Party Tragedy. Below, it read: Police and EMS were summoned to 113 Peacock Circle at nine o’clock yesterday evening in response to a drowning. Reports indicate horseplay resulted in the victim being pushed into the Jacuzzi, where her long hair was drawn into the drain, trapping her underwater. Rescue and resuscitation efforts were performed by minors in attendance. The victim was transported to Community Hospital and is listed in grave condition. Drug use or foul play do not appear to be factors, although a toxicology report is pending.
For a moment, I am there again. “… go swimming,” she says. The shove knocks the wind out of me. I spy the first star in the sky. Then bubbles in the water. The hard scrape against my butt as I hit the underwater bench, and still I’m falling. Water up my nose …
On the next page I saw: Camden Fisher, fourteen, died Monday due to complications from a near drowning earlier this month. Services will be held at Goode & Sons on Thursday, from ten to noon.
The Last Academy Page 18