A noticeable shift in the air after I’d passed the pillars caught my attention. An odd stillness mixed with an eerie calm lay heavy in the air. My eyes swept across the rolling hills of headstones, searching for any lurking ghosts. Relief filled me when I realized I was utterly alone.
I cut a left at the entrance and began walking down a white, graveled path at a slow pace, unable to keep my eyes from skimming the headstones which surrounded me. I’d only been back one other time since my mother had been buried, but the names I read were the same ones that always seemed to catch my attention: Abigail Collins… Charles Haskins… Greta Thompson.
I continued forward as a deep sadness gathered in my chest and spread quickly to my mind. Cemeteries are meant to be places where you bury the dead, but what people often don’t realize is that they’re also a place where old memories lay buried—memories that don’t resurface until the very moment you step inside.
Remembered clips of my mother’s life swarmed through my mind like angry little bees: a flash of her warm smile, her sad green eyes when our black cat, Shadow, was run over by a car, her nervous breakdown during my first story-time session at the public library when I was six, her final ‘I love you’ I had hurriedly responded to as I rushed out the front door headed to school, not knowing it would be her last.
I came to an intersection and cut a right, following another path. My mother’s grave was at the very end, marked by a large headstone made of solid black granite; I was sure my father was still making payments on it. A granite headstone requires little to no maintenance, an answer to my father’s prayers, since I didn’t think he planned on visiting her gravesite any time soon.
I stopped in front of the last headstone and stared, soaking in the beauty of the spellbinding script in which my mother’s name had been etched and the words written upon it that meant so much.
Salene M. Harper
1968-2011
A loving wife, mother, and friend
whose memory will always burn brightly
in the hearts of those she loved.
I continued to gaze unblinkingly at her name, until I was staring past the letters that made it up with unfocused eyes. A tightness began to build in my chest while I struggled to keep my tears at bay.
Coming here hadn’t made me feel any better and it hadn’t answered any of my questions that had lurked around in my mind for the past week and a half. All it did was make the emptiness that always seemed to eat away at my insides grow a little bigger.
“You miss her a lot?” A familiar voice murmured behind me, sending a waterfall of emotions crashing over me.
“Yeah,” I whispered, before shifting to glance over my shoulder at Jet.
He moved to stand beside me and I relished the fuzzy feeling of relief and happiness seeing him again brought on.
“People like to say the pain and hurt of losing a loved one diminishes with time, but even I still have yet to feel it,” Jet said, and I saw the truth in his words cloud his eyes.
A sadness, that came with complete understanding of what he was feeling stormed through me and a sudden urge I’d never felt in his presence gripped me.
I wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him.
Chapter Eight
I found myself wondering if my fingertips would pass through him unnoticed or if he would be solid. The fact that I could see him more clearly than each of the other spirits I’d come in contact with stood out in my mind and intensified my curiosity.
“Are you real?” I asked, without intending to speak.
Jet’s lips twisted into a hint of a smile as he shifted his sapphire-blue eyes to mine. “Well, I’m not a figment of your imagination, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No,” I whispered. “Real as in… to touch…”
His eyes widened as the brightness of wonder seeped into them, but he didn’t answer right away. I skimmed my eyes over him, which piqued my curiosity even more, and noticed when his eyebrows drew together, making him appear lost in thought. I wondered if I’d feel anything besides air when touching him… or if I’d die instantly.
I pushed the last thought from my mind and raised my hand, extending my fingertips toward him.
“Wait—I’m not sure what will happen.” Jet panicked, hoping to freeze my movement, but his words couldn’t stop me.
Not now, not when my death was at the edge of my every thought. Would it really matter if touching him plucked my soul from my body, which was withering in pain from old memories and the shattering truth of my newly discovered fate?
I inched closer, stopping once my fingers were a heartbeat away from his. I glanced into his piercing blue eyes, which had become filled with worry.
“Rowan, I don’t know what will happen,” he insisted.
I didn’t hesitate any longer; I reached out and touched his hand.
An energy that both terrified and delighted me snaked its way through my fingertips and continued traveling up my arm. It was just as intimate as it was electrifying. It was utterly soul-baring. My eyes grew wide and my breath caught in my throat from the sudden rush I felt and the images which played before my eyes.
Random clips of Jet floated through my mind at a dizzying pace: him sitting in a chair by a campfire, his head being bashed with a log, his tears mingled with blood.
Without warning, Jet pulled away, breaking our contact and sending me crumpling to the ground on weak knees.
“Whoa,” I muttered, bringing a hand to my chest, winded. “What happened to you?” I asked, my voice raising an octave.
Jet’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
I shifted to sit on the brittle grass instead of the hard gravel. “I saw… images… in my head. Images of you sitting in some kind of chair by a campfire, falling asleep, then some bulky guy hitting you with a log,” I paused, as the brutal images flashed through my mind again. “You were crying and your tears were mixing with blood. Is that how you died—were you murdered?”
Jet rubbed his forehead and let out a long breath. “Yeah, pretty much.” he mumbled.
“But then, why are you a Reaper?” I asked, perplexed.
Jet interlaced his fingers behind his head and stared at me, visibly growing tense. “Because it wasn’t supposed to be my time, I was given a choice.”
“A choice?”
His eyes remained on mine, even as sadness entered them. “Either to crossover or stay and become a Reaper.”
“And you chose to become a Reaper,” I said unnecessarily.
I watched Jet’s eyes grow as dark as a starless night sky at my words.
“Yeah, well, parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell,” he said, his jaw tight.
“Emily Dickinson.” I muttered, knowing who he was quoting.
It had always been a favorite of mine, but now it resonated with me in a whole new way. Since Jet had been murdered, I imagined being released from that pain must have felt like heaven. And yet, choosing to become a Reaper or simply crossover must have been—and still must be—hell.
“Your life was so happy before your mother took her own life,” Jet said, shoving his hands into his pockets.
I drew my knees into my chest and hooked my arms around them. “It was,” I said, shifting my gaze to her headstone.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Some just can’t handle it.”
The list of questions I’d written down slithered through my mind.
“So, my mother was a Link?” I asked, even though I was already sure of the answer.
Jet nodded, confirming my theory, but didn’t speak.
“Did she become a Reaper?”
“No,” he answered simply, moving to sit beside me. The grass, brown and brittle as it was, didn’t make a sound beneath him. “There’s a place for those who end their own lives.”
A shiver ran up my spine. “Hell?”
He shook his head. “You’d call it Purgatory.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure
if I felt relieved or not. “And what do you call it?”
Jet’s lips twisted into a faint smile. “Purgatory.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t manage to force away the tiny smile that sprang to my lips.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” He grinned. “But in all seriousness, Purgatory is a place where all the souls of those who’ve killed themselves go. There they are able to reflect on their actions and see how it has affected loved ones.”
I let this new knowledge sink in before replying. “So, that means there’s a heaven and a hell too?”
“No, not necessarily. People don’t realize they create their own while they’re alive.” Jet’s face crumpled as disappointment etched itself into his features.
I shifted and stood after a long period of sitting. My butt had grown numb, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take being out in the cold.
“I have to start back; it’s getting colder out,” I said, pointing in the general direction of the school. “Would you mind walking with me?”
Jet stood, and the movement was just as silent as when he’d sat. “Sure, if you don’t mind looking like a lunatic talking to yourself.” He smirked.
I picked my notebook up and walked over to touch my mother’s headstone. “I don’t mind,” I said, feeling more connected with my mother than ever before.
“If I’m a Link and my mother was a Link, then is it hereditary or something?” I asked once we’d exited Wooten Cemetery.
“In some cases it can be, but I don’t think it is with you.”
“Why is that?” I picked at the corner of my notebook while we walked.
“Because you obviously weren’t born one. You didn’t become a Link until a car accident shortly after the suicide of your mother, who, in fact, was a Link her entire life. You’re a replacement Reaper.”
I scrunched up my face. “A replacement Reaper?”
Jet nodded. “You’ll become one to fill your mother’s place.”
My stomach twisted. Had she known her decision to end her life would seal my fate, forcing me to take her place? If she hadn’t, then she did now, watching me from Purgatory.
So many emotions swept through me—anger, betrayal, sadness—all intertwining to form a physical feeling. Pain. It burned beneath my skin like a raging fever, making me ache.
“She didn’t know, if that’s what you’re thinking. I saw how much she loved you when we touched back there. If she’d known the extent of what her choice would do to you, she would have stayed. Trust me.”
I glanced at Jet, letting his words and his sympathetic eyes comfort me in a way no one else could. I realized I’d begun falling for a guy who was already dead… and falling fast.
Chapter Nine
It was nearly five o’clock when I got home. Dusk had fallen and the stillness of night had begun to creep in. I stepped inside my house, feeling strange with a relatively invisible person in tow behind me, and noticed a four-foot-tall Fraser fir standing in the center of our living room. Dad sat on the couch, staring blankly at it.
I froze mid-step as the date suddenly came to me. In all the commotion, somehow Christmas had slipped my mind; tomorrow was actually the final day of school before Christmas break began. I gazed at the tree, dumbfounded.
“Chad from work brought it by this afternoon,” Dad said.
“That was nice,” I replied.
He shook his head. “It’s just not Christmas without her.”
I blinked and shifted my gaze to him, understanding exactly how he felt. I hadn’t thought about how it would feel to spend the holidays without her, until now.
“I know,” I whispered, walking past him, headed to my room.
The absence of my mother seemed to echo loudly through the house. I could sense it swallowing my father whole and threatening to grab hold of me at any moment. I wished for the first time Jet were able to wrap me in his arms, or hold my hand even. Disappointment prickled through me because I knew it wasn’t possible, that there was no physical way for him to console me.
“Are you okay?” Jet asked, once we’d crossed the threshold to my room and I’d closed the door behind us.
I leaned against my dresser and set my notebook down. “No,” I answered truthfully. “He’s right; it won’t feel like Christmas without her.”
I thought of the blue and white icicle lights that wouldn’t hang from our gutters this year, and the three-foot-tall candy canes that wouldn’t line our driveway. I doubted we’d even decorate the tree in the living room, much less have anything waiting under it on Christmas morning.
Tears pricked my eyes. I turned away from Jet and busied myself with lining my nail polishes in neat little rows, forgetting he could still see my face in the mirror.
“Should I go?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
I met his gaze in the mirror as a tear escaped, sliding down my cheek. “No… stay. Please.”
Sympathy swallowed the brightness of his eyes and creased his brow. Jet stepped soundlessly across the distance between us, until only mere inches remained. I struggled to feel something from his closeness that I could take comfort in, but felt nothing. There was no warmth emanating from his skin to mine, no breath gently caressing my forehead; there was just a void.
A sudden urge to kiss him sparked deep inside me, spurred from the emptiness of his closeness. I allowed my eyes to graze his lips and the urge grew like a wildfire with only my thoughts to flame it.
With my eyes open, I stood on my tiptoes and gave in, kissing Jet.
My eyes closed as the same energy from our last touch spiraled through me. I’d expected to feel warmth, but didn’t. If it hadn’t been for the electrifying energy, kissing Jet would have felt like kissing the air. Just as the same images from before began to flash behind my eyelids, he broke our contact.
“What are you thinking?” he demanded. My cheeks reddened and I felt the heat spread to my neck. “We don’t know what will happen to you if you keep on...touching me.”
I could hear the unease and embarrassment playing in his voice as he took a few silent steps backward. “Does it matter?” I countered, feeling slightly dizzy. “If it kills me, so what? I’m going to die soon, anyway.”
The look on his face reinforced my words and the term kiss of death floated to the surface of my mind. If that was all it would take, kissing death, mainly this death—Reaper number 142—then it would be the sweetest form of suicide imaginable. Poetic, even.
“It’s not that I don’t feel anything for you… because I do.” He paused, obviously shaken at having admitted that out loud, and I searched his face for any tinge of pink to stain his cheeks, but saw none. “We just—we can’t keep tempting Fate.”
I shrugged a shoulder. “Why not?”
Worry soaked up all the sparkles of his eyes. “Because you can only tempt Fate for so long before it takes you, and if things don’t happen the way they’ve intended for it to then you might not come out of it as a Reaper, they may force you to just Crossover.”
That thought had never occurred to me, and I made a mental note to behave myself if it meant I’d get to see him again when everything was said and done.
Jet’s icy blue eyes glared back at me, his expression inscrutable. “I think I should go,” he muttered, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
In the time it took my heart to beat its next rhythm, Jet vanished.
Chapter Ten
Days passed and Christmas came and went. The tree in our living room, which had never been decorated, was moved to the edge of the woods in our backyard where the ever-present crows claimed it for themselves.
The only thing about my Christmas break I enjoyed was the ample amount of uninterrupted time I was allotted to spend with Jet. Today though, he’d kept me waiting for his sudden appearance and the silence of my house seemed deafening. I bundled up in my blue marshmallow jacket and fled the emptiness of my house, attempting to save my sanity and kill some time.
T
he noisy cawing of crows assaulted my ears the moment I closed the front door behind myself and nervousness twisted in the pit of my stomach. I crammed my hands into the fleece-lined pockets of my jacket and walked down the driveway, cutting a right this time to avoid the red-headed woman on the corner. I made it to the wooden gate of Dover Farm before the cold became too much and I decided to turn back, but someone’s muffled cries stopped me.
I inhaled so sharply the cold air burned my lungs and my eyes darted around, searching for the source and praying I couldn’t see through whoever it was. I exhaled only once I noticed little Isabel Dover kneeling near the edge of Dover Pond, crying.
“Isabel—what’s wrong?” I asked, already weaving my body through the wooden slats that made up the gate. Isabel’s little tear-stained face jerked in my direction.
“Rowan!” she shouted, her baby-blue eyes gleaming. “You gotta help Fern; she’s stuck out there and I’m too scared to get her!”
I glanced out onto the frozen pond and spotted Fern, Isabel’s dachshund, near the center of the ice. The dog was wearing a bubble-gum pink sweater with an equally pink leash trailing behind her. I began smacking the palm of my hand against my thigh.
“Come here, Fern,” I called. “Come here, girl.”
“She won’t come,” Isabel said, shaking her head. “I think she’s frozen.”
“I doubt that.” I chuckled.
“I’m serious; she hasn’t moved in a while,” Isabel insisted as sincerely as any eight-year-old could.
I suppressed another chuckle and began smacking my thigh even harder. “Fern—come here, Fern!” I yelled a little louder and sweeter than before. Fern took two small steps and then stopped. “See, she’s definitely not frozen.”
“Good girl, Fern! Come on, you can do it, come here!” Isabel coaxed her, but Fern didn’t respond by moving, only by whimpering.
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