by C. C. Hunter
A nurse rushes past me to go inside the room. Hayden moves out. His blue eyes land on me with anger, but I feel something else. Embarrassment. Shame. Humiliation. It belongs to him.
Why? Then I instantly know. I wouldn’t want anyone seeing me like that, either. But doesn’t he know I don’t care?
He comes closer. “Leave. Don’t come back.”
“No. You have to listen to me!”
He frowns and glances toward his room. “I’ll see you later.”
“No. Now.” My voice is low but lined with steel.
“Can’t you see my mom’s upset? I’m serious, Riley. Go. Don’t come back here. Ever!”
“Will you come to see me?” I ask.
He looks at me but doesn’t answer. Tears fill my eyes as I watch him go back inside his room. I almost follow him, but my gut tells me it’ll only make it worse.
• • •
My stomach drops with the elevator. When it stops, I walk out. Then I realize I’m not in the lobby. A number lit up on the elevator says it’s the fourth floor.
I turn around and punch the button. It opens. I enter. I push the L for lobby. It closes. It moves. Doors open. I get off. I stop.
I’m still on the fourth floor.
I push the button. It opens. I enter. I push the L for lobby. It closes. It moves. Doors open. Before I get off, I poke my head out.
Okay, this is creepy. I’m still on the fourth floor.
I walk out and step to the second elevator. I push the down button. Nothing happens. It doesn’t even light up.
I look around and decide to just find the staircase. I start walking, searching for exit signs. As I walk past a door, I feel as if I’ve stepped into a walk-in freezer. Then something orange catches my eye. I slow down and gaze inside. Prisoner-ghost is sitting in a chair. In the bed I see a small girl curled up with a book. It looks like her mother sitting in the bed with her, flipping through a magazine.
The little girl puts her book down and glances up at her mom. “Please don’t be sad anymore.”
“I’m not sad,” the mom says.
“Yes you are. I see it in your eyes. You’re sad because I’m not getting a part of someone’s liver.”
“You’re going to be okay.” Emotion fills the woman’s voice.
“But if I’m not, it’s okay. I can go to heaven. I’ll bet it’s very nice there.”
Tears fill the woman’s eyes. “You are not leaving me. They haven’t stopped looking for a match. They’re going to find one. I know it.”
I look at the placard beside the door with the name: Annie Nobles, Princess. I almost smile, but then an unnatural chill crawls up my spine and holds the air in my lungs hostage. When I turn away from the placard, the ghost is beside me. Close enough to breathe down my neck, if he could breathe.
I start walking. I feel him stay with me. His wintry aura surrounds me. “Please help me. Not for me. But for her.”
I see the exit sign and a placard that reads “stairway.” I wonder if prisoner-ghost is the reason the elevator crapped out on me. Yanking open the door, I hurry down the first few stairs. Thump-Thump. Thump. The tendrils of cold, now bolstered with fear, wrap around my limbs. Then bam, I realize he might push me down. I grab the stair railing tight.
I take another step and I see him. He’s standing on the landing three steps below me. I’m contemplating if I should keep going or run back up.
“Please, help me.” His voice echoes up and down the stairs.
His voice and the pain coloring his words draw my gaze up. What I see first is his spider tattoo running up his neck. Did that tattoo mean anything? Like he killed someone? Fear curls up in my stomach. Yet I feel something else, too. Something stronger. I feel his pain. His desperation. I feel his love for that little girl back in the room.
“You nearly killed me,” I say. “And you threatened to kill my friend.”
“No, I . . . I didn’t mean to almost get you in an accident. I swear. I didn’t even know I could move anything. I was just so upset. I grabbed the wheel. I wasn’t thinking. And I never threatened your friend. That must have been someone else.”
Now he’s lying. Still grasping to the railing, I take one step back. “You told me my friend was going to die.”
He stands there puzzled, as if trying to remember.
“This morning. At my house!” Bitterness ekes out of my words.
“No. No!” His voice rings with confidence, then relief. “I didn’t mean your friend. I meant my daughter. You saw her. She’s dying. And I was supposed to save her. Now I can’t. But I know who can. I have a brother. And I need you to find him. To get him to help.”
The door to the stairway opens. Voices and laughter become a part of this cold place.
Prisoner-ghost disappears.
“You okay?” a nurse asks when she sees me stopped, dead still, in the middle of the stairway.
“Yeah.” I start moving down. I think of the spirit’s pain. The image of the little girl fills my heart. Maybe I do need to help him. I slow down, then realize the spirit knows where to find me.
I’m halfway home when I remember I wanted to look for Ethel Burstein, but I was so distraught I completely forgot.
“See!” I look up as if addressing some higher power. “I suck at this.”
I blink away tears as I drive the rest of the way home. I’m not even sure why I’m crying. If it’s Hayden, the Bursteins, or prisoner-ghost’s little girl. Or maybe because I’m probably going to have to confront Dad.
Ugh. I hate my life.
I pull into the driveway and hit the garage opener to see if Dad’s here. He is. Or at least his car is.
Wiping the tears off my face, I take a deep breath. I can do this. I go ahead and pull into the garage.
Deciding to just leave my homework in the car, I snatch my purse and what’s left of my mangled heart and go to face the music.
Chapter Five
I enter the house through the garage, which puts me in the kitchen. Music, screaming guitar screeching, thumps through the house. Several years ago Dad played his music a lot. He used to make me laugh so hard when he’d start dancing, that hard rock, head-banger kind of dancing that was more rattle than roll.
I put my purse down on the small breakfast table and look over the bar counter that opens up to the living room. I don’t see Dad.
Is he in his room?
My gaze shifts to his bedroom door. It’s open. The washing machine from the laundry room swishes and swashes under the guitar notes. Is this good news? Does him working on chores mean he’s not drinking? I hope.
Pumpkin greets me, meowing. He’s the only thing in this house that makes it feel like a home.
All of a sudden I get a whiff of cooking meat. I look out the window and see Dad standing at the grill on the back patio. He’s flipping something on the grill. I stare at him, and my heart twists like a wet rag, wringing out raw emotions. It’s hard to be angry at your only parent. Someone who you know loves you, even when they’re making a mess of things.
He looks up, sees me, and smiles. Is this how he plans to play this? Just pretend like last night didn’t happen? No apology? Not even a dropped it-won’t-happen-again sentence.
Am I wrong to be so angry? Even if you forget that I’m almost certain he was drunk, he seriously screwed up, didn’t even go upstairs to see if I was home, and called Jacob—who he thought was Jacob’s parents, which would’ve even been worse—at three in the freaking morning. That requires an apology.
He walks in, wielding a pronged fork and an all-is-well expression. With him comes the scent of barbeque.
“Hey.” He raises his fork. “I was just going to text you to tell you to hurry home. I hope you’re hungry. I’m in the mood for barbequed chicken. I even bought some potato salad, baked beans, and pickles. And some of those chocolate chip cookies you love.”
I almost say I’m not hungry, but it sounds so rude, I swallow the words.
“You want to mak
e a salad?” he asks.
Without a word, I turn around and go into the kitchen. Dad goes back outside. My chest goes back to hurting.
I take out all my frustrations on lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers—I don’t even show empathy on the baby carrots—I chop them to smithereens as well.
In five minutes, he axes the music and we’re sitting at the table. I still haven’t spoken, but Dad keeps up my side of the conversation. I think he knows I’m pissed. Knows he hurt me. I think he’s hoping I’ll just forget about it.
I’m not good at forgetting.
“So you got your homework done today?” he asks.
I nod.
“Good. I got us a movie. The one you said you wanted to see a month ago. The one that’s part musical.”
I nod again. And stab at my chicken breast. I’m really not hungry.
He starts eating. I keep picking.
“You really chopped that salad.” He looks at the thin slices.
I go for another nod.
Silence reigns. He continues eating. I pick some more. He looks up at me every few seconds.
He finally drops the everything’s-okay façade. His fork falls with it, clanking against the wood table. “You’re still angry at me.”
I stare at the mangled piece of meat on my plate and say my first word. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t wake me up when you got home. I was scared something had happened.”
“And if you’d had a clear head, you would have thought to go up to my room and see if I was there.”
He exhales. “That would’ve been the smart thing.”
I point my fork at him. “You were drinking, weren’t you?”
His expression turns defiant. I grow taller in the chair—shoulders back, spine stiff, mouth thin. I stab my fork in the chicken and leave it sticking up like a testament of my temper.
“Answer me, Dad!”
“I’m the parent here, Riley. You have to accept that.”
“Then start acting like it! Or are you saying it’s okay to drink until your daughter can’t wake you up? Because you know I very well may follow in your footsteps, Dad! Wouldn’t you be proud?”
He shoves his plate away. “I only had a few drinks!”
“You’re an alcoholic.”
“I’m not an alcoholic. Your mom was a drama queen. She was half crazy. Heard voices and everything.”
Fury rolls over me. Dad’s never spoken badly of Mom. Then his words seep into my brain. I hear them again. Then again. And I start connecting dots. Mom heard voices? Did she also see ghosts? Is that where I got this from?
“What kind of voices?” The question comes out breathless, I’m a girl needing answers.
He stands up. Rakes a hand over his face. “I don’t know, but . . . I shouldn’t have told you that. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I called your boyfriend’s parents. I’m sorry for everything.” He closes his eyes, then opens them. “I’m trying, Riley. I’m trying to be a good father. Don’t be so hard on me.”
I hear his pain. I hear my own louder, echoing in my chest. I push the whole Mom-might-have-seen-ghosts thing away to deal with Dad. “I love you. I’m worried.”
“You don’t have to be. I’m not . . . I got this under control. I’m not an alcoholic.”
I want to argue, make him see reason, but my gut says it’s futile. Until Dad accepts he has a problem, there’s no helping him. Nothing I do will work.
I stand up and start cleaning the table. Dad comes over and hugs me. His arms feel strong. I feel safe in them. Closing my eyes, I let my head rest on his shoulder.
“Please take care of yourself, Dad,” I say into his shirt. He smells like grilled chicken. Smells like the man who taught me to ride a bike, to tie my shoes, to change a tire. He smells like love. “I can’t lose you, too.”
• • •
We skip the movie. I help do the dishes and retire to my room. Retiring with me is my faithful red tabby. The first thing I do is get Mom’s old diary out and reread it, hoping I’ll come across something about her hearing voices or seeing ghosts.
Of course it’s not there. I’m pretty damn sure I’d have picked up on it. But I keep reading, soaking up each word she wrote, longing to connect with someone I haven’t seen since I was four. A person whose life ended with a brain aneurysm. Leaving me with only vague memories of the life we shared.
I drop back on my bed and stare at the ceiling fan going round and round, sifting through the few things I remember of her. She’s helping me color, laughing. She’s handing me some hot chocolate. She’s painting our toenails, or she’s putting on lipstick. Sometimes I discover a new one out of the blue. Like a piece of the puzzle that is my past. I can’t even tell you if she was a great mom, but the snippets of memories I hoard say she wasn’t bad. They say I loved her. I don’t remember losing her, but oddly enough I remember feeling an empty spot in my life. Feeling abandoned.
Closing my eyes, I feel the stirred air on my face. “Mom, please come talk to me.” It just doesn’t make sense that I can talk to the dead, but my own mom hasn’t stopped by.
All of a sudden the cold prickles my skin. I open my eyes and sit up. I see him, see Hayden, standing at the end of my bed, and my heart jolts. He no longer looks so angry. But I remember when his presence wouldn’t give me chills at all. Is he getting closer to death?
“Hey,” I say, but think, Please don’t die.
“Hi.” He stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets. Pumpkin bolts off the mattress and does figure eights around his legs.
Hayden kneels down and pets my cat, then his gaze shifts up to the book resting beside me. “Reading your mom’s diary again?”
“Yeah.”
He stands back up. “So your dad’s still drinking?”
I pull one knee up to my chest. “You were downstairs?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” My throat tightens, and I stand up. “I missed you.”
He glances down. “I told you that you need to move on.”
“I don’t want to. And I don’t want you to die. Why did you lie to me about that? Did it occur to you how I would feel since I told you to cross over. That I’d blame myself?”
He scuffs his tennis shoe on my wood floor. “This isn’t your fault.” He exhales. “I thought . . . if you knew I wasn’t dead, then you’d be sad when I was. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t! You don’t have to die. You’re still alive.”
“Not for long.”
“How do you know that? You can get better. You have to want to get better.”
“I’m getting sicker, Riley. I feel it. Besides . . . do you know how rare it is that someone can wake up from a coma after two months and be okay?”
“It’s happened,” I say. “I know because I googled it last night.”
“Yeah and a lot of those people wake up brain damaged. The doctors have told my mom that.” Pain deepens his voice. “You think I want to live like that? I don’t. It’s pathetic. And I don’t want people to see me like that. Especially not . . . you.”
“Why not me?”
“’Cause . . . I like you. Because I want you to know me like I was. Like this. I want to be strong for you.”
“Then get better! Get better so we can really get to know each other. Wake up.”
“I don’t know how.” He shifts his shoulders as if too much emotional weight is there.
“Then let me help you?”
“I don’t think you can.”
“How do you know if you don’t let me try? You’re not a quitter.”
“Riley, you need to move on. I’m hurting too many people already. Enjoy your life. Don’t get wrapped up in me.”
I see in his eyes that he’s thinking about seeing me with Jacob.
“I’m sorry I said what I did earlier. I was just . . . feeling sorry for myself.”
“I don’t like Jacob,” I blurt out.
He cuts his eyes in a way that s
ays he doesn’t believe me.
“I don’t. I tried to. I mean, he’s nice. I want to be his friend, but not anything else. Because he’s . . . he’s not you. I need you in my life. I miss you sooooo bad.” I feel tears slipping down my face. “Please don’t push me away.”
I move closer. He’s colder than before, but I don’t care.
I lean my head on his chest. “When you’re here my life doesn’t feel so sucky.” His arms come around me, and I let out a half sigh, half sob.
“Don’t cry.” His arms tighten around me. “I hate it when you cry. It hurts me. And it gets mascara all over my shirt. See, I still have some from last time.”
I look up, knowing the last part of that was a joke. He’s smiling. I smile through my tears. “Promise me you won’t stay away. Promise me you’ll let me help.”
He frowns. “I don’t want you at the hospital.”
“But maybe that’s how I can help.”
“How?” he asks.
“I don’t know, but my gut says it is.”
He brushes a strand of hair off my cheek. “But won’t this just make it harder for you if . . . if I don’t make it?”
“You’re going to make it,” I say. “I have to believe that.” I reach up on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his. He’s hesitant at first, then he gives and kisses me back.
My phone dings with a text. I pull away and look at him. “Is that you?”
“No,” he says. He pulls back and looks at my phone as if thinking about something. “You know when I made your phone ding at the hospital, and you were touching me, I actually moved my hand. I don’t think I’ve ever done that.”
“Your heart rate increased, too. Do you think that was good or bad?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
“Maybe if you try hard enough to control things, it’ll help you wake up.”
He nods. “Yeah, maybe.”
Then I remember. “You know, it kind of makes sense. Cause I just learned that some ghosts can actually move things.
“Really move things?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I tell him about prisoner-ghost and the whole nearly dying experience.