Talia
“Does she really treat you like that all the time?”
I frown up at Matt. “What?”
“Your mum.” He’s sitting on the windowsill again. It’s become his place, stolen it from me, the wee shite. “Is she always like that? The swearing and stuff?”
I save my document and turn my chair, pulling one foot up so I can rest my chin on my knee. “Eh, no, I guess. Most of the time, she ignores me, so I can do what I want.”
“But you guys don’t get on?”
I snort. “No.”
He’s quiet, and it’s unnerving. I’m getting used to his constant monologues on the events in the quad below, and this new silence makes me squirm, like he’s annoyed. I’ve done something wrong, and I don’t know what. I don’t mind people being annoyed with me, not if I’ve done something to warrant it. I bite my lip and think harder.
“She probably has depression. Definitely addicted but just to alcohol, so I’m lucky.” He snorts, but I’m saying this, so I ignore him. “She had me young. Her own parents were vicious, from what I can tell. I don’t know them much. I think they stopped asking after me when I was a bairn.” I shrug. “She had her reasons.”
“For doing what?” He’s sitting with both legs inside the room now, looking intently at me.
I shrug again. “For, I dunno, ignoring me. Yelling, kicking me out—”
“She kicked you out?” He’s clearly horrified, and that’s a strange reaction. I don’t think my home life’s that much worse than the norm, surely. Loads of my classmates were kicked out way earlier. Couple of lads slept in the park for most of the summer holidays after S4. Is what it is.
“Aye, she thought I’d stolen some money. I hadn’t. Maybe I should’ve, though.” I look at the bare mattress. It’s gonna cost half a paycheck just to buy sheets and a pillow.
“Bloody hell, Talia,” he says, sitting back and looking away. He sounds angry, and my back prickles.
“Why does it bother you?” I demand. “It’s not like it affects you.”
“Why does it…bloody hell, because she shouldn’t do that. She’s your mum, looking after you is her job.”
“Well, not like she’s good at holding them down either.”
“Why doesn’t this bother you?” he says, waving his arms at me.
“It’s normal for me, you know? Just because your dad is perfect—”
He snorts and turns away, and it dawns on me.
“Matt, are you okay?”
“No,” he snaps. “I’m fucking dead. I’m dead, my dad is grieving, he actually bloody cares about me, and it’s not fucking fair, okay? Leave me alone.”
I’m not sure what he means. I sit as still as I can in my chair, picking at my cuticles, and I hear his words round and round in my head, trying to read between the lines, work out what he wants to say, what’s hidden behind the words.
“I’d take your place if I could,” I say hesitantly. But now…I’m not sure it’s true. I think it might be what he wants to hear.
“Fuck! No, Talia, bloody hell, just no. And don’t you dare tell Kitty that either.” I bite my lip and watch the sky behind him. At last, he sighs and rubs his face. “I wouldn’t want anyone to take my place. It’s just not fair.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”
“I wish my dad didn’t care,” he whispers.
I think if he was corporeal, I would go over there and hug him. I wonder if I would, if I’d be able to. If I’d risk being pushed away. It’s pointless anyway. I can only watch him stare out the window and hurt.
“You want to go for a walk?” I ask at last.
The text comes through as I’m walking toward George Street through the fog, numb from the cold, and this thing that seems to grab at my ankles and try to pull me under asks me why I bother, what’s the point in eating, sleeping, breathing? When I see Kitty’s name come up, the thing pulling me down seems to lose its grip on me a little.
I’ve been checking this book I got from work. Nothing concrete but maybe a couple of ideas. Want to come over tomorrow?
I blink sluggishly at the screen and lean against the wall of some bridge or other. Matt is below me, walking along the bottom of the river because, apparently, he can.
Yeah, I think so, what time?
Come for lunch? Any time really, I’m off on Wednesday.
Wednesday. It’s like a punch to the gut, and my eyes widen in horror. I’ve said yes now. I’ve said yes to her and yes to Daniel. My mother’s voice cuts through the dull of my mind, shouting about how disorganised I am, how useless, how I make everything more difficult for her, I’ve got to sort this out before anyone finds out, how can I do both how can I—
“Is that Kitty?” Matt says, and I jump so hard, I nearly drop the phone. “Whoa, bloody hell,” he says. “Twitchy much?”
“It’s…yeah. Uh, yeah, it’s Kitty. She wants us to come over tomorrow.”
“You’ve got work tomorrow,” he says, as if I hadn’t figured that the hell out. “Ask if she can do Thursday instead.”
“I’ve already said yes, and what if she…what if…”
What if what? What can she do? She isn’t my mother. She isn’t my teacher. I take a deep breath. It doesn’t calm me like people say it does. Why does it not calm me? Everyone always says “take a deep breath” when you’re panicking, but why?
Matt’s looking at me quizzically. “Just say you forgot. Duh.”
Duh.
I type again. I’m sorry, I forgot I have work tomorrow. It’s a new job. I’m so sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. Can you do Thursday?
There’s a tense moment while Kitty types. Tense for me; Matt seems unconcerned watching the little speech bubble on my screen. I notice I’ve written “sorry” twice, and it grates at me. I want to take it back, pretend I have my life and my emotions under control.
Got to go back to the warehouse to pick up my last paycheck that day. You can come after that if it’s not too late?
And that’s it. That’s how easy it is. Matt’s looking at me again, and I scream at myself in the privacy of my own head, do something. Say something. Don’t stand there like an idiot. The voice sounds like Ma.
That’s fine. I can pick you up, I offer, my hands almost shaking with relief.
Are you sure?
Of course.
Why don’t you stay the night? she asks, and I have to gulp to swallow my heart, which seems to have beat its way up my throat.
“Makes sense,” says Matt, peering over my shoulder. He looks at me, his head to one side. “What’re you waiting for?”
“I don’t have a sleeping bag,” I say stupidly.
“That’s okay. Kitty has a duvet she leaves out for me when I stay over.” He stops. “Used to stay over.”
I’m caught up in my head, and it takes a while for his tone to creep through my mental flailing. When I look up, he’s already starting to walk off, his head drooping and his hands shoved into his pocket. Okay, thanks, I text back, barely thinking about the exact wording and how to make it perfect. Probably for the best, I’ve never been good at perfection. Then I shove my phone into my jacket and run to catch up with Matt.
“I’m nervous,” he says as I reach him, and he tries to laugh.
“Why?” I frown. It’s not like anything she does can hurt him or make him more dead. But then, what do I know?
“What if it doesn’t work? What if I’m stuck to you for the rest of your life?”
I stare out into the darkening streets. “I don’t know.”
* * *
Matt pretends like he doesn’t care about the car journey, but I can tell it bothers him. He jogs his knee, taps his fingers, stares out the window. A bus pulls out on the inside lane, and he shudders and starts jabbing at the radio. “God, don’t you have any actually good music? What the hell is this?”
I don’t call him on it. This I can do. “Oh, right, what do you consider ‘good,’ then, Mozart?”
He looks at me with such disdain dripping from his sneer that I can barely hold my laugh back.
“What’s so bad about this radio station, then?” I don’t even know which one it is.
“Er, only everything. It’s crappy generic top forties rubbish, innit? Don’t tell me you actually like this stuff.”
I shrug. “I dunno, just give me something with a beat, and I’m happy.” I glance at him. He looks aghast, and it’s much better than that raw, blank shell he was before. “I don’t really care what it is.”
“Come on, you have to have a favourite artist.”
“Not really,” I say. “It’s background noise, that’s all.”
He throws his hands up. “I can’t believe I got stuck with such a total heathen. Seriously, wait till I get you back to Oxford. We are gonna open up my Spotify, and I’m going to give you a proper education. You know, when I’m a producer—”
He stops and bites his lip. It feels like someone’s scooping all the manic joy out of the car and leaving us with the grey truth. His hands drop to his lap, and he laughs. “I was gonna be a music producer, you know.”
It’s silent for too long. When I speak, I have to push the words out of my throat. “Don’t say that.”
“Say what?”
“Was. Don’t say it like you’ve lost hope.”
“What hope, Talia?” he says, and part of me wants to go back to the way we were before, when he was only sharp-tongued and feisty. Before he fell into trusting me with this raw, hollow vulnerability. “I’m dead. We both know this is just delaying the inevitable.”
The car eats up miles beneath our tyres. “You’re dead,” I agree. “But your best friend’s a witch who brings people back to life.” I turn to hold his gaze at a red light. “Don’t lose hope.”
He takes a deep breath and smiles. It’s sad and broken, but it’s there, and the silence feels a little less dark.
Kitty’s waiting for us by the side of the road in an industrial estate when we pull up to the pin she dropped on Google Maps. Matt slips backward through the seat to let her take shotgun. He leans forward to kiss her on the cheek as she climbs in. “You look better,” he says. “Way less knackered than usual.”
“Thanks, darlin’,” she says, catching my eye and giving me an amused look. It feels conspiratorial, and I try to concentrate on the drive so I don’t blush too hard.
I should have expected someone to be there when Kitty opens the door to her flat, but somehow, I’d forgotten she doesn’t live alone. It’s not her brother, though, that greets her with a smile. It’s Matt’s dad.
“Papa,” Matt breathes, and Kitty and I glance at each other in horror.
“Everything okay?” Peter says with a confused smile.
“Sorry, Peter,” Kitty says, shaking herself. “I forgot to stop at the shop. How’s your day been?”
Peter looks thin and drawn, even compared to when I last saw him at Matt’s funeral. He’s smiling, though, and less manic, at least. I follow him and Kitty into the living area. Sam glances up and nods a greeting to me. I nod back, and he returns to his work, one socked foot tapping against the leg of his chair.
“Peter, this is Talia,” Kitty says, and I look up, a rabbit in the headlights.
“Hello,” I say awkwardly. Your son is behind you. He’s crying. I’m sorry he’s stuck to me instead of to you.
I swallow.
“Would you two like a cup of tea?” Peter asks.
Kitty nods. She hesitates, then presses forward to wrap her arms around his waist. He’s less surprised about the suddenness of it than I am. His long arms cradle her, cupping the back of her skull in one hand, his eyes closing, a window on his grief.
I look away and catch the brother’s eye. He gives a sad smile. “Hi again,” he says quietly, and I drift over to him. “Kitty says Peter needs more hugs than he thinks he does, so we’re to hug him as often as we can,” he says with a jerk of his chin toward the kitchenette.
I look up to the depressing tableau. In the harsh fluorescence of the light, they’re haloed, the two living people. Matt, though, he’s paler. His face is pressed to his father’s back as he sobs, clutching his father’s shirt, though it makes no imprint on the material. It makes me swallow harder to see him, knowing there’s nothing I can do to comfort him. No hugs I can give him, even if I could get over my stubborn reluctance to touch.
Kitty pulls back, and she and Peter give each other a nod and a smile, like they’re pretending not to grieve, pretending to be okay. They both know it’s not true. Matt continues to cry quietly, whispering something in Polish. The back of my throat stings.
Peter walks around the kitchen, making our tea, and Kitty comes over to give Sam a kiss on the head. Matt follows Peter. I think, distantly, of the sound his shoes should make, shuffling against the lino. Of the way Peter would react.
I try to imagine what it would be like to love my parent so much that it hurt not to be able to hold them in my arms. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way about anyone. It’s always been a good thing. I’ve relied on myself alone. I’ve never needed anyone else. I’ve always known that Morgan and the others at shul were temporary. What would it be like to have deep roots like that? Am I defective? Is Matt?
Peter hands me a mug of tea, and I blink owlishly, reconnecting to my body and reality. “Thanks,” I say. He smiles, and the lines around his eyes remind me of Morgan. Matt is no longer crying, but he still stands pressed against his father, his eyes dull and blank. When Kitty tugs my elbow and nods toward her room, Matt doesn’t make to follow.
“We can leave the door open,” Kitty says softly. “I don’t know if shutting it would pull on the bond between you two, but I’d rather not risk it.” She straightens the duvet on her bed and sits on the pillow end, gesturing to the foot of the bed, right near the door, for me to join her. “I’m sorry, I should have thought about Peter being here,” she sighs. “I just…sometimes I forget, you know?”
“That he’s a ghost?”
She nods. “That he’s dead at all, really. I didn’t think about it when I made him visible. He’s here, but he’s not here.”
I twist my lips and look at my tea. “I think I know what you mean,” I say. “He’s more real to me than anyone at uni.”
She smiles sadly and stares off into space. My mind races for something else to say, something light, something social, something that won’t make her think of her dead friend. “So what is it, exactly, that you do? Obviously, I know about the whole exchanging souls thing or whatever, but—”
She sits forward, crossing her legs, a certain animation entering her demeanour. “It’s not exchanging a soul. That would be putting the soul of the dead person into the living body. What we do is more like…do you know the story of the Fates in Greek myth?”
“Not beyond what they do in Percy Jackson,” I admit.
“That’s perfect.” She laughs. “The whole threads thing, right? Each person has a thread that relates to their life. It’s a common theme in European myths, I suppose, the Norse myths have a…never mind.” She smiles ruefully, and I’m shot with a bolt of she’s adorable. I look at my tea quickly. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m a bit of a nerd.”
I shrug. “I read books about quantum physics for fun.”
Kitty laughs properly, and my head snaps up to watch her. It’s like a benediction. I can’t convince my gaze to turn away, back to the safety of the tea. “Nerds for the win,” she says. “The threads of fate. That’s what I, well—we, I guess—all the reapers, swap over.”
I nod like I understand. I’m sure that, somehow, the metaphor explains all the changing of the past, and the fact that I’m the only one who knows that I died. For a while, I was dead. And nobody will ever really get that except three people in this house.
“Kitty, dinner’s ready,” Peter calls.
I follow her into the kitchen. Matt’s sitting on the counter, swinging his legs. “Dad still can’t cook neatly, can he?” he asks Kitty, and he’s smiling too, but it’s a different kind. You can see the sadness through it, and weirdly, that’s less worrying than the alternative.
“Talia, please, have a seat,” says Peter, and I feel my scalp tensing up. He’s an unknown. He’s a parent, a powerful being in comparison to the rest of us. And who am I kidding? I don’t know how families have dinner together. It can’t really be like it is on the telly, can it?
I slide into my seat with a flash of a smile. I hope they don’t try to say grace because I honestly don’t know what I’ll do. I watch the rest of the room. I try to follow all the social clues, the movements Kitty makes, the way Sam gets off his seat to fetch himself a drink, the way Peter squeezes Kitty’s shoulder as he sits. My head already hurts.
“Would you like a drink, Talia?” Sam asks, leaning through the hatch to the kitchen.
“Uh, just water, please,” I say. I’m desperately thirsty, I realise as I say it.
“So, Talia,” Peter says, and he gives me a social smile. I try to return it. “I think I saw you at the funeral, yes? How did you know my boy?”
I clear my throat and gulp some water. “Uh—”
“Ey, don’t panic, Talia,” Matt says from his perch. “He’s not, like, testing you or anything, chill.”
“I met him online,” I say. Makes sense to stick to the same lie.
Matt groans. “Ugh, okay, let’s see, you play Call of Duty. We met on the Discord server.”
“On the Discord for Call of Duty,” I relay dutifully and hope nobody asks me about my stats or anything because I might’ve played once in my life, but I’m pretty sure I only lasted two minutes.
Peter smiles and shakes his head, looking at his food. “The world today is a smaller place. But you are not from England, yes?”
“Yeah, I’m from Glasgow. I moved for uni.”
“In Oxford?” His eyebrows raise. “What are you studying?”
“Physics,” I say. It comes out defensive. I know it shouldn’t, but I expect ridicule. I can’t possibly be in Oxford uni. A girl like me can’t possibly know anything about science.
“Talia’s really smart,” says Kitty, and my mind goes blank. I think I’m redder than a tomato. I duck my head and try to be smaller. Don’t look, don’t look, and for God’s sake, don’t test me.
“That’s amazing,” Peter says, and he sounds like he means it. I glance at him. He looks…proud of me? “You must have worked very hard to get there, well done.”
“She’s got a scholarship and everything,” Matt says, and what the hell? He knows Peter can’t hear him. Is he teasing me?
“Yeah, she’s got a scholarship,” Kitty says to Peter, and I think I might implode with how small I’m trying to be. This is too much. Why are they being nice?
“Have you learned about string theory?” Sam says. “I heard about it on a YouTube video once, but I don’t know what it was going on about, something like everything in the world is made of these little strings, and they’re in, like, an infinity shape, and they twist.”
“I…yes, I know it.”
“Tiny strings? How can that be? Is that true, Talia?”
“It’s possible?” I don’t know how to explain string theory to a small child, a pretty girl, and the father of the ghost I have stuck to me. I gulp more water and pray for the strength to survive this meal.