by Luanne Rice
Why couldn’t she have another miracle, right here in this spot? Why couldn’t Charlie come back to her? She was Catholic, and although her family didn’t go to church much, she believed in resurrection. She knew that Charlie’s bones were in the ground, but she had believed that he had risen from the dead and was in heaven.
Was it possible that she’d seen his ghost? That could explain everything…. She’d seen his spirit earlier today. He wasn’t alive after all…he was a ghost, and he’d come back to haunt her.
Her tears flowed into the dirt and grass. Suddenly everything made perfect sense. How could heaven be anything better than what they’d had? They’d loved each other so much; she’d always wondered whether she could find someone to love as much as her father loved Stevie, but she had, and it was Charlie. So of course he would come back….
She’d wait right here, so he’d know where to find her. She had to stay awake, make sure she was vigilant, so she wouldn’t miss him. Her eyelids flickered as she felt sleep tugging her down. Thoughts drifted through her mind, random things about Charlie. She remembered those pictures on Gavin’s computer. Something bothered her—not the photo of Charlie’s look-alike, but something else. What was it?
One of the other pictures…she could almost see it now, one of the band shots. Cumberland, Box Turtles, which band was it? And what difference did it make? Who cared about someone in the band, when Nell had just seen Charlie?
The breeze blew through the trees, through the tall oaks and the robins’ white pine, and it whispered to Nell, and she reached up to trace Charlie’s gravestone with her fingertips—the angel, the strings of her guitar, the dates of Charlie’s birth and death—and she whispered his name over and over to keep herself awake, keep herself ready.
CHAPTER 15
THE YOUNG MAN STOOD IN THE BATHROOM OF THE house he’d broken into, washing the cut on his leg. His shin was skinned raw and stung like crazy, but most of his senses were busy being alert for the sound of anyone approaching. He didn’t want to ruin the homeowners’ towels with his blood, so he dried the scrape off with toilet paper. Rummaging in the medicine cabinet, he found first aid cream and put some on. There were Band-Aids, but the small kind, and his cut was pretty big. So he left them untouched.
Walking around the house, he tried to take stock of where he was and what he was going to do next. First, he had to assess how long he had before the owners came home. Looking around, it didn’t take much to figure out the place belonged to a retired couple.
There were a few glaring clues: a wheelchair pushed into a corner, some big old terrycloth slippers in front of it. Lots of pictures, snapshots, of a gray-haired couple surrounded by kids and grandkids. There was a plastic pill-holder, the seven-day kind that got you through the week, on the old enamel kitchen table. Coupons had been clipped, stuck into the napkin holder—something clearly handmade, probably by a kid. Shells and macaroni glued to the wood spelled out “Grandma.” He took it all in without sentiment; he had to stay cool and not get all wrapped up in personalities while there were plans to make.
He didn’t really want to be here, in these circumstances. It had been a while since he’d broken into a house. He hadn’t had to recently, plain and simple. His needs were pretty much all met, at least in the material realm. But right now, he knew he had to stay close to Hubbard’s Point. He’d wanted to get away as fast as he could, but the more he thought about Nell, the more he wanted to stay—just a short while longer.
A calendar hung on the wall, by the phone. It was one of those make-it-yourself-at-the-photoshop calendars, with a different family photo for each month of the year. Just glancing at August, he saw a group shot on the boardwalk that included several faces that looked familiar from the pictures in the living room.
He scanned the dates, and saw what he needed: written on the past Monday were the words At Billy’s, followed by a long, shaky line and arrow all the way through Labor Day. The same spidery hand had written flight information. They’d flown American to Chicago; they would return Labor Day on a flight that got into Bradley at six-thirty at night.
Why would the old folks leave this beach paradise in the middle of the summer to go see Billy, whoever he was? Retirement, he thought. Gave you plenty of freedom to do what you wanted when you wanted. Just like the artists in the music business, retirees could make their own schedules, pretty much. He wondered who Billy was. Probably their son. Maybe the dad of the kid who’d made the “Grandma” napkin holder. Perhaps the balding thirty-something guy in the family photo. Someone they loved enough to visit in Chicago for two weeks in the heat of August.
He’d been to Chicago, just two weeks ago. The tour had taken them there, and to Ann Arbor, Detroit, and Milwaukee. It had been hot as blazes, heat just rising from the pavement without even a whisper of wind; so much for the Windy City. So why would these people choose to spend hot summer days there unless it was to see someone they loved very much?
Loved very much.
Those words still felt phony to him. He felt like a fraud saying “love” out loud, or even thinking it. It seemed like a word from the movies, or a greeting card. He’d tried believing he had it with Lisa, and look what happened. Thinking it now, even about this family, felt fraudulent, and if he got caught at it, he’d be made fun of or run out of town. Run out of the house.
Then he remembered: it wasn’t his house.
He was hungry and tired. Walking to the refrigerator, he opened it to check things out. The people were very careful—they hadn’t left any milk or bread, anything that would spoil. That’s why he was surprised they’d forgotten the newspapers—they should have called to stop delivery. Save themselves a few bucks, and keep people like him from knowing there was no one home.
He scanned the shelves, seeing jars of pickles, mustard, mayonnaise, big bargain-size bottles of Coke and ginger ale, a package of individually wrapped slices of American cheese, a big jar of peanut butter, some small jars of homemade grape jam. He hadn’t eaten all day, not since he’d left the motel outside Philadelphia—his three-quarters point on the drive from Nashville—at dawn, and that cheese would have tasted good. But he wasn’t going to take any.
He’d wait till dark before heading back to his car, then go to the grocery store, buy his own supplies. Before too long, he’d measure the window, fix the pane he’d broken. He hadn’t always been so conscientious or concerned about the people whose houses he’d broken into, but people changed. They really did. It might seem like a dumb thing, but to him it was big: he wasn’t going to eat these people’s food. Picking up an envelope off the kitchen counter, he checked the name: Herbert Martin.
Glancing around the house, he checked to make sure the shades were all drawn. They were dark green, cracked with time—old-fashioned blackout shades from World War II, when everyone had been on the lookout for enemy planes and ships. A lady like Mrs. Martin wouldn’t want her rugs and furniture getting all faded from the summer sun. That was good. The shades would keep anyone from looking in while he stayed there—not long, just a few days.
Just long enough to see Nell…
And maybe talk to her.
NELL SLEPT, AND HAD a dream so real, she thought she must be awake. It was just getting dark; she had dried grass stuck to her cheek. Fireflies glowed in the trees and tall grass around the edges of the cemetery. She lay on her back, looking up at branches in the sky. Through the leaves, she saw stars scattered in the deep blue sky.
She felt thirsty, and even in her sleep she knew she wanted to drink from the pump again. Stretching, she arched her back and reached behind her, to touch Charlie’s gravestone. Instead, she felt a leg and a canvas sneaker. She jumped, but strong arms eased her back down.
“Shh,” the voice whispered. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Blood was rushing through her veins, and she felt scared and disoriented. What time was it—how long had she slept? Was she still dreaming? She was…his touch was filmy, as if his hands wer
e made of air. But he’d eased her down with such gentle force, as if the strength came not from his arms, but somewhere deeper.
“I dreamed of you,” she said, her voice coming out in a croak.
“I always dream of you,” she heard him say, and she felt his ghost-hands stroking her hair, the side of her face. She half turned, saw Charlie sitting there, leaning against his gravestone.
He kissed her, their lips parting, and she felt the most intense shock of connection—he was there but not there. Her hands tried to grasp his hands, his wrists, his forearms, but she couldn’t take hold. He was vapor, just a shape in the air.
She twisted around, knelt in front of him. He was wearing an old blue T-shirt, one she knew so well, with Hubbard’s Point in white letters. Her hand hovered over his heart, wanting to touch him. She did, and her hand passed through, straight to the stone behind his back. She raised her gaze to meet his eyes. They looked so clear and bright, but filled with the hugest sadness she’d ever seen. And then she knew the truth.
He was dead, and this was a dream. She pulled back, kneeling eye to eye with an apparition; and even though she realized that she was asleep, she stared deeply into his eyes, knowing she would find the truth there.
“You ran away from me before. And you weren’t wearing that shirt…”
He didn’t speak, but kissed her forehead, her eyebrows, her eyelids. The kiss felt like a whisper.
“Not me…” Was he talking? Or was his voice in her head, as it always was?
“It was! I saw…and you ran away. I couldn’t believe you ran away from me.”
“You know, don’t you? He just looks like me…”
There was so much she wanted to know. Her body trembled, thinking how terrible it was that she didn’t know what to believe. She was wrestling with herself, her thoughts, the awful ideas Gavin had raised.
“We never had secrets before,” she said.
“Death is full of secrets,” he said. “And I can’t stay long. But you whispered me back. You fell asleep here, saying my name. It called me…”
“I love you,” she gasped, trying to hold him. If she could grab on, find a way to touch him, he couldn’t go; she wouldn’t let him leave.
He reached for her, kissing her, and in her dream she felt it. She melted into his arms and body, the angry fire dying down. She felt like liquid inside, as if she were becoming part of him. She tried to hold on, but again there was nothing there—it was like trying to embrace vapor. Staring, she saw his outline—his head and body, his strong shoulders—dissolving.
“Don’t leave me!” she begged. “Tell me what to do.”
“He just looks like me,” he whispered. “He just looks like me…”
And then he kissed her again, the longest, sweetest kiss in this or any other world, and then he wasn’t there anymore.
Nell sat bolt upright. The cemetery was dark and deserted. The crickets were chirping, and overhead bats and night birds were swooping through the trees, on the hunt for moths. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and realized: she’d been dreaming. That’s all it had been. Just a dream.
She felt frantic, confused. Death is full of secrets.
She felt as if she’d been presented with a choice—Charlie as a dream ghost, or Charlie alive, running away from her. Either one broke her heart, made her feel crazed and lost. She sat very still as the night birds flew all around, and the wings of bats and moths clicked and murmured overhead.
Just then she heard a car start. It had been parked over by the maintenance shed, where the beach crew parked the truck, and Nell saw its headlights come on. She didn’t know how she knew, but it was him.
She sprang up from the grass, started to run. Hiding behind the trees as he pulled out, she waited to see for sure. He stopped at the entrance to the drive, looked both ways. She caught sight of his profile, and felt adrenaline: it was Charlie. But even as her heart leapt to see him, she thought of the words from her dream…he just looks like me, he just looks like me.
Tyler always hid the keys to the beach truck in a little magnetic box in the right front wheel well. Nell felt for it, found the key, and climbed into the truck. She was barefoot and had left her license at home, but none of that mattered. She started the engine, pulled out onto the road, and followed his car under the trestle and onto Route 156.
Fifteen minutes later, they were at the A&P. She hadn’t been quite awake at the start of the drive, but now she was as alert as she’d ever been. Slouched down behind the steering wheel, she watched him get out of the car and stride, head down, into the grocery store. Cruising past his car, she jotted down the license number—it was from Tennessee. Nashville, she thought.
Parking across the lot from him, she ran into the store. She caught him in the baked goods aisle, hung back as he loaded bread into his basket. She watched him pick up milk, cheese, sliced bologna, a can of peanuts. As he took his time picking out a box of cereal, she studied his face.
And here in the fluorescent glare, she heard the words again: he just looks like me. He wasn’t Charlie, not at all. The shape of his face was similar, and so was the way he stood—tall, but with a slight curve to his spine, as if he didn’t want to be the tallest boy in the room. Where Charlie’s features had been so fine, almost chiseled, this person’s seemed a little more rounded, a little softer. He was slightly heavier, and there was a lack of grace in the way he moved.
Nell had planned on tailing him some more, to see where he’d go after the grocery store. But suddenly she became a Mack truck that had lost its brakes, and she started barreling down the aisle, unable to stop or hold herself back, and she crashed right into him, punching him in the chest with both fists.
“Hey!” he said, shocked.
“Who are you?” she asked, grabbing his shirt and shaking him. “What do you want?”
“Jesus, get off me,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Right,” she said, shoving him away. “I’ve made a mistake!”
“Yeah. You have.”
“Try again. That might have worked with ancient old Mr. Belanger, but it won’t with me. I chased you up the hill, remember? I saw you get that—” She gestured angrily at his skinned shin, wanting to kick it.
“I swear,” he said. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“Charlie,” she said.
“Uh,” he said, starting to turn red, as if he were embarrassed for her. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Charlie Rosslare,” she said. “That’s who I mistook you for.”
“Well, I’m sorry I’m not him.”
“No, you’re not. But you were at his grave.”
“Girl,” he said, putting his basket down on the floor and backing away, “you’re all confused. Look, I swear, I’m really sorry. I can tell you’re upset, and I wish I could help you out. But…”
Suddenly she felt dizzy, almost the way she had earlier, when she’d seen those kids sitting at the table with her and Charlie’s initials. Was she losing her mind? If she’d just dreamed of seeing Charlie, could this be a dream, too? A dream of the A&P, fluorescent lights and all, and a young man who reminded her so much of Charlie? She swooned slightly, felt him catch her by the elbow.
“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”
“Not really,” she said.
“You want to sit down?”
She glanced around; they were right in the middle of the cereal aisle. People were passing by, pushing grocery carts along, looking at them. He held her arm, helped her toward the front of the store. Just before they got to the electric door, he put his basket down. Then he walked her out.
After the air-conditioning, the night felt muggy. It made Nell’s head swim. Moths flew around the orange parking lot lights. She looked up into the young man’s face. She nearly tripped over her own feet because his eyes were Charlie’s eyes. Out here, away from the much brighter lights inside, she felt crazier than ever. She heard herself whisper his name.<
br />
“You got to stop doing that,” he said, shaking her lightly. “I’m not him.”
“But you…”
“My name’s Jeff,” he said.
“No, you’re…”
“What’s yours?” he asked, cutting her off.
“Nell,” she said.
“Good to meet you, Nell,” he said. And when he said her name, his voice broke. She had no idea why, but he was overtaken by emotion and had to stop. He looked away, staring up past the parking lot lights at the sky.
“Will you tell me what’s going on?” she asked.
“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said. “I wanted to find you…and talk to you.”
“You know me?”
“Know of you,” he said.
“But how?” she asked.
“My brother told me. He talked about you…”
“Your brother?” she asked, her heart starting to race, waiting for his answer, although, of course, she already knew, it was what Charlie had been trying to tell her in the dream.
“Charlie,” he said, his voice cracking again. “Charlie was my brother.”
AFTER THAT, once she realized he wasn’t going to run away again, Jeff went into the store to buy his stuff. He didn’t want to let her know where he was staying, so he made up something about an inn in town. She’d guessed which one—the Renwick Inn, because it had housekeeping cottages where he could cook his own meals—and he’d just nodded. Lying was so easy with honest people. They never thought you weren’t telling the truth, even after you’d lied repeatedly and they’d caught you at it. It was as if they just didn’t believe in lies.
Jeff felt no pleasure or triumph in lying to Nell, or in having her believe what she was starting to want to believe: that he was all good. He could see it in her face—an almost-glow in her skin and eyes, just knowing she was in the presence of a blood relative of Charlie’s.
They drove in a two-vehicle caravan down the street to the stop light—the only one he’d seen in town. Luckily, he had had Nell lead—otherwise he’d never have been able to find his way to the inn where he was supposedly staying. She led him into a circular drive, and they parked in front of a stately yellow colonial house with big white columns. He noticed there was a bar inside and another in a barn out back. Instead, they walked down by the river.