by Jeyn Roberts
“Yes!” I say. “Yes, I’ve done that!”
“I’m not saying it’s not possible,” Parker says. “I’m just saying it’s different. Telling someone their elderly mother is passing is not the same as telling a young girl she’s about to be beaten and killed. It’s something we need to discuss. It won’t do you any good to get worked up.” He waves his hand around. “It’s not like we can do anything. We’re stuck. You don’t even have a date. And time moves differently here. For all we know, it could have already happened.”
“No,” I say. “I refuse to believe that.”
“I wonder why,” Parker says. He pauses, staring off at the water. Thirty seconds go by, and I start to think he’s simply lost the words he meant to speak. “That many people against a young lady. Whatever might possess them to behave that way? How many did you say again?”
“I don’t know for sure,” I say. “About ten, at least. More. I could hear voices even if I couldn’t see them all.”
“All those people against a wee girl?” Mary says. “That’s why I’m glad I’m dead. Stupid mentality of men. Cowards. They need to group together to attack. Don’t have the tallywags to go at it themselves. Why, back in me day there was this young bloke. Nicked some bread. You should have seen the way they hunted him down. Disgusting.” She spits on the dirt, and the saliva instantly disappears. “Absolute cowards.”
“That’s not really the point,” I say. “How can I stop this from happening? How could God show that to me and not allow me a way to help?”
“I’m pretty sure God has nothing to do with this place,” Mary snaps. “If he did, he’d see how bloody boring it is and give us some jollies.”
“There is a plan to everything,” Parker says.
“Prove it,” Mary says. “Find me the plan in this place. Sure, Molly’s got that fancy little gift. But the rest of us just scare innocents every bloody full moon. There’s no reason for all this. No purpose. We sit here every damn day and do nothing but stare at a bunch of water. What kind of afterlife is that? Where’s our paradise? Where’s my eternal rest? Instead I’m stuck here, occasionally showing my deathly knickers to a bunch of alley cats. And they don’t care in the slightest. Have you ever tried scaring a cat? Bloody impossible.”
I’m too restless, so I stand up. I walk over to the edge of the lake and look across the water. I love Mary and her observations and opinions. She’s one of the only people here who can make this place seem like fun. But right now, it’s not making me feel better. She’s right. I can’t do anything. I’ve never appeared to the same person more than once. I’ll sit on this log for days or months, until finally I’m summoned back up again to warn someone about his or her wayward spouse. By then it’ll be too late.
Being helpless is the worst thing in the world. And that’s what I am. So are Parker and Mary and every other person who finds themselves dropped off in our little valley. Parker is right. If there is a universal plan, none of us can see what it is. And when we’re stuck here, some of us for centuries, it’s hard to imagine what purpose all of this holds.
But this. The ability to foresee Tatum’s death. If I could find a way to prevent it, then I’d have meaning. My death wouldn’t have been for nothing.
Parker comes over to join me. We stand together, listening to Mary ranting quietly to herself. She’s really wound up. It’ll take a while before she grows calm. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen her like this.
“Maybe you’ll see her again,” Parker says. His shoulder brushes against mine. The thickness of his linen shirt presses against my skin.
“It’s never happened before,” I say.
“There’s always a first time,” he says. “You said it yourself: This is something different. You’ve never foreseen a death. Did you get a clue to when it’ll happen?”
I think about it for a few minutes. Were there any hints to give away a time and place? “No,” I finally say. “But soon. The weather was the same. Cold, but not winter.”
“Let’s wait a bit,” Parker says. “Maybe you will go back. If not, I might be able to help you.”
I look up at him. His brown eyes dart to the right, straight into the forest. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been working on something for a while,” he says. “Nothing concrete yet. Just ideas. But I may have found a way out.”
I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, Parker starts to disappear.
Fade.
“My turn,” he says. Then he’s gone.
Poof.
* * *
One night, a few months after I turned fifteen, I pulled a small suitcase from under my bed and began filling it. I didn’t need a lot, just a few things to get me through the next week. My peasant skirt, the love beads that Dad had brought home from a Mardi Gras trip to New Orleans, my two favorite blouses, and whatever else I thought I couldn’t live without. I couldn’t help but feel worried when I snapped the lock down.
“It’s going to be great,” Andrea, my best friend, said. She had her own bag, already in the trunk of her car. She sat at my vanity, rifling through the makeup on the glass stand, trying to find a color she liked.
“It’s going to be amazing,” I said. Noticing my hairbrush on my nightstand, I reached over and snagged it. Wouldn’t do me any good to accidently leave that behind.
I remember the heat that night. We were in the height of summer, and the humidity wasn’t going away without a fight. There was so much moisture in the air that every time I inhaled, I felt as if I were trying to breathe underwater. The sweat stuck to my skin, dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. It pooled in the center of my bra. My clothing was still damp, even though the sun had gone down several hours ago. The window in my little bedroom was open, but there wasn’t a breeze in sight.
Andrea and I were heading to Bethel, New York. It was 1969, and we were going to Woodstock.
I was more excited than I could remember. In my fifteen years, I’d never even been across state lines. My father was a trucker, so his idea of a vacation was cracking open a beer and sitting on the couch. The farthest I’d gone was an hour or two away to visit relatives when I was little. This was going to be my big adventure. And it would be better than Disneyland, more alluring than white sand beaches and faraway exotic lands.
Hendrix. Janis Joplin. Arlo Guthrie. Grateful Dead. CCR. The Band.
Andrea and I had spent our entire summer sitting on my porch with the music blasting. Thankfully, I had cool neighbors who often came over to join us instead of complaining about the noise. We stuck extension cords together so I could put my old record player out on the steps. Once the sun set, taking away some of the unbearable heat, we’d dance around the yard, our bare feet trampling the dying grass. People would bring over beers and lemonade. Even my brother would tear himself away from the television to come join us. It was the best summer I could ever remember having.
Andrea and I babysat to raise money for our addiction. We spent days cruising record stores, buying up all the new vinyl we could find. Weekends were memorable: sneaking into bars in neighboring towns and listening to local musicians play their hearts out. I bought a guitar from a pawnshop and began to teach myself a few chords, but I grew disillusioned, because no matter how I stretched my fingers across the fret, no matter how I tried to pluck the strings, I couldn’t get the right sounds. I finally gave up and sold the instrument to my neighbor after coming to the conclusion that I didn’t have to make beautiful sounds; I just needed to hear them.
The music couldn’t get loud enough.
Music was life. The way I felt when the sounds surrounded me, carrying me away to far-off places that didn’t exist. The way it made me forget all my problems, not that they were really worth complaining about. It was as if something had been lying dormant inside of me my entire childhood. Once it awakened, it was the only thing that mattered.
I never told my dad I was going. I knew he wouldn’t approve, even though Andrea had her beat-u
p Ford car that burned blue smoke but still managed to be reliable. We scraped together enough gas money to get us there and back. I borrowed a tent from one of the families I babysat for.
We did all this under complete secrecy. Andrea’s parents were relaxed and fine with her attending the concert. They’d even expressed interest in going themselves for a bit. They gave her the lecture about not doing drugs or drinking with strange men and then gave her twenty bucks for gas. But I knew Dad would be furious if he knew my upcoming secret. I was only fifteen, and he wouldn’t want me crossing state lines. That’s why I never asked him. I figured I could deal with the consequences when I got back. Even if he grounded me for the rest of the year, it would be worth it.
Lucky for me, Dad was on the road, spending long hours driving from one end of the country to the other. I was the good kid, never doing anything that got me seriously into trouble. My brother, Marcus, was two years older and had a job at the auto shop that kept him busy. Dad didn’t think twice about leaving us alone for weeks on end while he worked. He knew he’d come home after each shift and find the house still standing. Besides, he didn’t really have a choice. Mom had run away when Marcus and I were both still little. They’d gotten married far too young, and I guess she never could accept the idea of staying in one place for the rest of her life. One evening she packed her bags, called a babysitter, and snuck out in the middle of the night while Dad worked a double shift. No goodbye kiss. No letter. Just the babysitter, angry and annoyed the next morning when Marcus and I awoke.
Dad did whatever he could to try and raise us kids. Trucking brought in good money. We needed the income. From the time Marcus was twelve and I was ten, we’d pretty much been keeping the house clean and doing our homework by ourselves. Our neighbor would keep an eye on us to make sure nothing bad happened, and Dad often made it home on weekends to check that we’d behaved while he was away.
Marcus and I were both self-sufficient and there were no pets to take care of. Dad was allergic to dogs. The town we lived in was amazingly boring and predictable. Nothing exciting ever happened. The “bad” families were just poor; there hadn’t been a murder in twenty years, not since two brothers got into a fight over who got to keep a prized horse.
Dad was delivering a load of foodstuff out to the West Coast and wasn’t due back until three days after Woodstock ended. I planned on going there and coming back before he even noticed I was gone.
“Where are you going?” Marcus asked when Andrea and I came into the kitchen. I had the suitcase under my arm, and Andrea was carrying the tent. So much for hoping he’d still be at work and I wouldn’t have to say anything.
“We’re going camping at the lake,” I said. I handed Andrea my suitcase, and she headed out the door, letting the screen slam behind her. I went over to the kitchen and grabbed a few items. “Where’s the kettle? Do you mind if I take it? We might want to make coffee in the morning.”
Marcus opened the old Frigidaire and yanked one of Dad’s beers from the back. “Yeah, sure. I didn’t hear anything ’bout camping. Who’s all going to be there?”
“It’s just us girls, so keep it quiet,” I said. “No boys allowed.” I grabbed the kettle off the counter and packed it, along with a few other things I thought would come in handy.
My brother put his beer against the counter and used the corner to catch the edge of the bottle cap. Beer foamed from the top, soaking his fingers. The cap rolled along the floor and went straight under the fridge.
“You better replace that before Dad gets home,” I said.
“I will,” Marcus said. He turned and headed off into the living room, where he’d probably sit in front of the black-and-white television until he fell asleep. At seventeen, my brother was already getting old. Sure, he still liked to party and listen to music, but most nights he just wanted to relax.
When I look back on it now, I can see how easy it was to leave. I wanted adventure. I dreamed about it. Funny, when some of the ghosts around here talk about the choices that led them down their fateful roads, they often express regret, wishing they’d made different decisions. They wish they’d never left home and gone out on their own. They wish their spouses had been more attentive so they wouldn’t have had to stray. If only they’d stopped drinking. Or not gone down that dark alley at night. Or never talked to strangers.
I never regretted leaving my house that night. No matter how short my life turned out, that time between the moment I left for Woodstock and the moment before I got into the van with Walter was the happiest in my life.
“Come on,” Andrea said, sticking her head inside the door. “Let’s get going.”
I didn’t stop to take one last glance at the worn-down kitchen before leaving. I was still under the impression that I’d be back in a week. And technically, I was. Julian drove me back so I could pick up more clothing and other personal items. But by then the place no longer felt like home. I’d already moved on.
I never intended to fall in love. But love is like that. It can easily slap you on the head from behind and you don’t care.
* * *
We sit, our backs to the trees. Our faces stare dispassionately at the blue water.
“It hasn’t happened yet,” I say. I’m leaning against the log beside Mary, waiting for Parker to return. “I’m sure of it. This thing I saw. I’m sure I’m being given enough time to make a difference. Do you think we can change fate?”
“I don’t know,” Mary says. “We’re puppets right now, ain’t we? Being played on an imaginary string. Can’t stop Fading.”
“But what if we can do something?”
“Like what?” Mary arranges her dress and yanks at her petticoats. I catch a glimpse of slender leg before it disappears under all that ruffle. “If I could change anything, I’d like me a new outfit. It gets boring wearing the same dull thing all the bloody time. Christ almighty, I just want to breathe.” She yanks at the strings on her corset.
“You don’t breathe,” I remind her.
“Well, it feels like I do.” Mary finally lets the outfit settle against her chest. The way her breasts push up toward her chin, I can imagine that many a man found them attractive in her living days. Her brown hair falls gently against her chest, and she pushes it back aggressively. “What I’d like are some of those modern clothes they wear today. A pair of trousers! I’d kill to have that. Always thought dresses were too prissy anyway. When I was a wee girl, I used to run around naked. Always hid me dresses, I did. Ma was forever scolding me. She was constantly bending me over her knee. No wonder I turned out the way I did. If ever there was someone born to be a dance-hall girl, it was me.”
I think of Tatum and her warm winter clothes. They are so different from the styles I used to wear. Of course, I wore pants too: bell-bottom jeans with painted flowers across the denim. I also wore skirts, soft cotton that slid against my legs and spun outward when I twirled. As much as I’d like to see the way my breasts might rise up in a corset like Mary’s, I’m thankful I’m stuck in my simple yellow blouse. But right now isn’t the time to be discussing wardrobes, not when I have too many other thoughts on my mind.
“It hasn’t happened yet,” I say again.
“What?” Already Mary’s lost the plot.
“The girl is still alive. Maybe I saw it wrong.” I turn on my seat, my thoughts hopeful. “I warned her. She knows. She’ll be able to protect herself. Stay away from wherever she’s supposed to go.”
“It’ll happen,” Mary says. “It always does. The living are too stupid to listen to warnings. Especially from a bloody ghost. I mean, come on, would you have believed it if some pale creature appeared to you and gave you a warning? No. You would have sauntered along, oblivious, like the rest of us.”
“I don’t know,” I say, but I know she’s right.
“It’ll happen. And I wish I could be there, in all my finest ghostly getup, all cut and torn the way the bastard left me. No offense, chicky, you’re too pretty a lass to scare an
yone. But me? I’m the queen of gore. At least my killer had the decency to go after me alone. Of course, he was still mental. God-fearing bunch? I’ll give them something to fear.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t see the point. Instead I glance out at the water and wait for Parker to return.
TATUM
“I’m going to be late coming home.”
Tatum sits at the table while Mom spoons scrambled eggs onto a plate. That’s the number one rule of the household: everyone has breakfast. No exceptions. Mom’s a dietitian. She spends her days at the hospital, teaching people the benefits of following healthy guidelines and making sure everyone eats the right amount of each food group. Because of this, the kitchen cupboards are filled with all sorts of crap. There’s not a potato chip or piece of bacon to be found. And Mom is constantly going off on rants about the proper way to eat. Tatum has officially heard “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day” more than any other teenager in the world.
“Why’s that?” The toaster pops up, and Mom grabs the slices of sunflower bread, shoving them onto the plate before passing it over.
Tatum takes the salt, ignoring Mom’s frown, and heavily flavors the eggs. Her mother might be good at making everyone eat, but she’s never been the best at cooking. “I’ve got a paper due. Thought I’d get some work done on it today. Going to head into Seattle and hit the library.”
“Into the city? Tonight? Why don’t you go to the library here…” The words get stuck in her throat.
Mrs. Paracini’s sister runs the local library. The last time Tatum tried going there, the afternoon Tuesday book club, a group of middle-aged women, spent the entire time glaring at Tatum and talking loudly among themselves. And if someone tries to convince you that small-town people are always polite and friendly, they should spend a few days in Hannah. It ended with Tatum going home in tears, and the next day Mom got into a fight with a gossipy nurse while getting gas at the Shell.