THE SKY IS BLACK, but the yellow glow of a streetlamp peeks through the Spanish moss that hangs from the giant live oaks over the crumbling tombstones. This is a huge cemetery—we’re in Historic Charleston. A crowd of people are gathered around a man in old-timey clothes who’s holding an oil lamp above his head.
He rambles on about Charleston’s paranormal history, talking about Boo Hags, creatures who “ride” their victims by slipping into their skin and walking around wearing their bodies. “It’s best not to fight a Boo Hag,” says the guide. “They won’t kill ya unless you struggle—they may want to come back again for another ride later, see?”
“At least we know Boo Hags and possession aren’t real,” I say to Thatcher, like we’re a couple sharing a private joke. His jaw twitches but he doesn’t respond; he just stares straight ahead into the night.
The tour group is closed in tight around the guide, but a few other figures are hanging back a little bit.
I recognize Ryan, one of the Guides who met me when I first got to the Prism. He’s with a girl who’s about our age, and both of them have the glow and the moon mark. When Ryan sees me wave, they walk over to us.
“Hello, Callie, Thatcher,” he says, smiling. “This is Genevieve—she joined us this week.”
Genevieve has wide eyes and one of those mouths that relax into a frown.
Thatcher does little more than give her a nod in welcome. Nick, on the other hand, would have been totally gracious and known her entire life story in two minutes flat. He would have had her laughing in three.
I study this person who maybe can relate to what I’m feeling a little bit—the sweeping sense of devastation I’m dealing with.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Or, um, the loss of you . . . or . . .” What does a person say in this situation?
“Hi.” Ignoring my sympathetic gaffe, she rests her eyes on Thatcher, who’s no longer looking in our direction. He and Ryan have moved away from us and seem to be engaged in a serious discussion.
I catch only a few of Ryan’s words: “—an eye out for possible trouble.”
“They won’t do anything if we’re here.”
“They’re getting bolder. Sarah had an encounter . . .” His voice goes so low that even straining, I can’t make out what he’s saying.
Thatcher swears harshly. Is that sort of language allowed in the afterlife?
“Is he your Guide?” Genevieve whispers to me.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Oh.” And I hear her wistful tone, like she’s thinking I’m so lucky.
I don’t know why, but I feel a sense of ownership over the strong shape of Thatcher’s shoulders, the way his lips are parted slightly, his eyes narrowed as he scans the area like his stance alone can thwart any danger.
Stepping back over to us, Ryan smiles at me, and if ghosts could blush, I would.
“Genevieve,” says Ryan, extending his hand in an inviting gesture. “Your mom . . .”
With a sigh, Genevieve turns back to the tour, and I can almost feel her energy level ebb. “My mom . . .”
I eye Genevieve warily. When I returned to Earth and saw Nick the first time, nothing in the world could have kept me from reaching out to him. Is she so distracted by Thatcher that she forgot her haunting?
“You’re here to see your mom?” I ask.
“Yes.” She looks at me with calm eyes. “She’s lovely, but so sad.” She turns to Ryan. “We’ll help her, right?”
Ryan nods, and the two of them move away without a word and head closer to Genevieve’s mom.
“Is everything all right?” I ask Thatcher.
“All under control.”
I don’t think he’d admit it if it weren’t.
“Why does Genevieve seem so oblivious?” I ask.
He appears slightly guilty, like the answer is somehow his fault. “That’s the normal state for someone who is new to the Prism.”
I can understand how it would make the transition easier. “I guess that’s why Ryan freaked out about my emotional outburst.”
He gives me a wry grin. “Yeah.” As though he expects more questions, he nods toward the group. “Pay attention.”
Lantern Guy is talking more loudly now, shouting to be heard by the back row of tourists. “Your cameras will capture orbs of light—those are ghosts, and sometimes you can catch as many as ten at a time in a photograph.” The tourists take out their Canons and start snapping away. The flashes point toward us, and I put my hand in front of my face to block all the lights.
“Old wives’ tale,” says Thatcher, leaning in toward me. He’s relaxed again, in Guide mode. “Those are just lens flares they’re getting.”
“So we won’t . . . show up?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “They have no idea we’re here.”
“Tragic.”
“What?”
“Well, these people are in the presence of real ghosts, and they’re going to fall for Lantern Guy’s tricks.”
Thatcher doesn’t reply, but he appears amused.
The flashes stop as the guide starts talking again. “There’s been more paranormal activity this summer than ever before.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, like he’s letting this whole tour group in on a big secret.
Ping-ping.
Searching in the area of the unexpected sound, I see a couple of small stones bouncing off a particularly haggard-looking tombstone. When I follow them to their source, I spot Leo. He’s with another guy—a tall, lanky type. They’re sitting on the roof of an ornate Gothic mausoleum, laughing as they toss stones in the air.
The way they’re glowing in the dark night, against the aging, jagged stone, they look lit up with a spotlight, like performers in a show. And I guess they are. Each time a rock hits the gravestone, the tourists jump, but I can tell they’re all having fun seeing this. It’s what they came for.
Thatcher’s presence is closer than ever, over my shoulder, and when I turn slightly, his face is inches from mine. I can see the sweep of his long eyelashes over his cheeks when he blinks. If he were alive, I’d be able to inhale his scent. He strikes me as a classic Ivory soap kind of guy. He’s so intense, and while on one level his seriousness irritates me, on another his dependability is incredibly attractive.
“Let’s go,” he says quickly.
I step away. “Not yet.” I eye him carefully. “This is interesting. They’re moving things—people can see that they’re here.”
Thatcher shakes his head. “They shouldn’t be here.”
“Those little rocks aren’t going to hurt anyone. Show me how to do that. I want to throw a stone.”
He frowns. “No, Callie, you cannot throw a stone.” He darts a quick glance up at Leo and the other guy with disdain before settling his gaze back on me. “It takes a lot of energy to move things—they can only do it because they’re sharing energy, which can have unintended consequences. And for what? They have absolutely nothing meaningful to do here. They’re just performing parlor tricks!”
“Wow, you’re really mad.”
Thatcher inhales, no doubt a habit from when he was alive. “Forget them. We’re here to help your loved ones grieve, not to act like circus monkeys.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I just thought it might be fun.”
“It’s not fun to mess with the living. It’s dangerous.” He points up at Leo and the skinny guy. “They are dangerous.”
Leo is holding on to a tree branch, jostling it in the air. “There’s no wind,” the tour guide loud-whispers. “And yet it moves. . . .” The people on the ghost tour are oohing and aahing, snapping photos and chattering energetically about this being the best ghost tour ever.
I shrug, imagining how rapidly my heart would be beating if I were on the tour and didn’t know the truth—the wild adrenaline rush of the possibility of ghosts. Even though I didn’t believe in ghosts, these guys could spook me. Or more likely I’d have been convinced it was all fake and talked Nick into hanging back so we could investigate and figure out how it worked. “It looks totally harmless to me. It’s just giving the people a thrill.”
“Creating thrills is not our purpose.”
And then, as quickly as they appeared, Leo and his friend create a portal of glowing light and vanish through it.
Thatcher sighs, visibly relieved, and I decide to save the rest of my questions for later, maybe for Leo himself.
“She’s what we’re here for,” Thatcher says.
I crane my neck to see where he’s pointing. The tour guide is saying something about a woman named Theodosia Burr Alston, and that’s when I spy Carson’s glossy curls as she stands up from where she was sitting on a bench in the front of the crowd.
She brushes her hair out of her face, revealing that her normally sparkling eyes are tired. She has dark circles and she isn’t wearing any makeup, which is rare for Carson, especially when she’s out. Her usually smiling mouth is clenched in a tight line, and her sadness is so unfamiliar that my heart cracks open some more at the sight of it. She should be laughing, singing, dancing around like she always does, even in the face of darkness. But losing a best friend might be enough to break the brightest spirit I’ve ever known. I can’t let that happen.
I want to rush up and squeeze her, but I know enough now to realize that won’t work. I hang back, studying her more and thinking that she looks better than Nick did, at least, like she might be dealing with things in signature Carson fashion—moving forward, always.
But then I remember where we are.
“What’s she doing on a ghost tour?” I ask.
“Looking for answers,” he says. “But she knows it’s a scam.”
“You can tell?”
“I can read people.” I look at him closely, wondering if that’s what Thatcher’s pain is—that he sees the sadness of the Living as he helps other ghosts haunt. How does someone apply for the job? And why would they? I think it would be don’t-want-to-get-out-of-bed depressing day after day. It would take someone with a certain temperament, a special gift. While he holds himself aloof, I have to admit that I believe he is truly trying to help me—even if I don’t appreciate ninety-nine percent of the lessons.
“What?” asks Thatcher, obviously uncomfortable with my scrutiny.
“Nothing.”
When I turn back to Carson, I see the bored disappointment carved in her stony expression. “You’re right. She’s not buying this.”
She reaches out her hand and pulls someone up beside her. His profile is reflected in the moonlight.
“Nick,” I whisper.
His head is down, shoulders slumped. The weight of what’s happened is sitting on his back and taking its toll. The darkness casts shadows over his face, making him impossible to read. I can’t see his eyes; they’re half closed and he won’t pick up his head—it’s like he’s broken. I notice his fingers moving back and forth, back and forth, over the smooth amber heart he took from my room.
I can’t believe he came—he’s never thought much of Carson’s interest in this stuff.
“Stay with me,” Thatcher orders, and I’m aware of him eyeing my profile. He’s afraid I’m going to run up to Nick again, but I follow his instructions this time.
We walk with the tour group through the graveyard. As we listen to more stories about various people buried here, we climb a hill to a specific gravestone that’s supposedly a hot spot for paranormal activity. But Leo and his friend aren’t around, so there’s no action.
“Boo!”
Startled, I jump and spin around. Leo is standing there, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Did you like the show?” he asks.
Before I can answer, Thatcher growls, “Get out of here, Leo.”
“Aren’t you tired of hanging around with this guy yet?” Leo asks me, totally ignoring Thatcher. “I can teach you so much.”
“There’s nothing you can teach her that she needs to know.”
Leo glares at Thatcher. “Shouldn’t she at least know her options, make her own decisions?”
“What options?” I ask.
“Ah, there’s so much. Where to begin? With an encore, perhaps?” He dances a short distance away, as though he believes Thatcher is going to try to stop him. “Look at these suckers, Callie, all wanting the ghost experience. I could give them something they’d never forget.”
“Leave them alone, Leo,” Thatcher commands.
Leo steps toward me, holds his hands out imploringly. “But my partner in crime took off, and I’m a little low on energy. Want to give me some?”
Thatcher slides in between us. “She’s not giving you anything.”
“He’s not trying to protect you, Callie. He’s trying to deceive you, to make sure you never learn the truth about your powers. That’s the way it is with the Guides. They want you to follow them like mindless sheep to Soulless. He knows if you knew everything I know, you’d never accept what he’s offering.”
“There’s no peace to be found in your way,” Thatcher says.
Leo throws his head back and stretches his arms toward the stars. “Who needs peace when we can have everything?”
He runs to the edge of the crowd and crouches. When Lantern Guy starts leading them away, Leo picks up a fallen tree branch just enough that someone trips over it, staggers, and falls. Leo’s laughter, almost maniacal, echoes around us. He runs on through the crowd and disappears.
“See?” Thatcher says. “He’s dangerous.”
Okay, I have to admit that tripping someone isn’t very nice, but still—
“He picked up a tree branch.” Which weighs a lot more than a little pebble. What are his limitations? I don’t ask, because I know Thatcher won’t tell me. I don’t think he’s trying to keep anything from me, but I don’t think he’s telling me everything either.
“Forget about him, Callie,” Thatcher says, as though he knows the direction my thoughts are traveling.
He’s right. I have more important things to worry over. Nick and Carson. I watch them trailing along behind the group as Lantern Guy leads everyone back to Church Street and the tour’s main office.
Carson and Nick hang back while the other members of the group thank the guide before leaving. I see Genevieve and Ryan trail after a woman who must be her mother. Nick stands off to the side with his arms crossed, still with that heavy sadness, but also annoyed and impatient. His hair is limp and dull—not like it was when I saw him just a short time ago. It doesn’t look like he’s washed it in days.
“How much time has passed since I saw him?” I ask.
“A couple of days.”
“Shouldn’t I be with him most of the time?”
“We can’t bombard them with our presence. It drains our energy and isn’t good for them.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t look like time without me has been good for him either.”
After everyone else has gone, Carson pulls Lantern Guy aside. “I’m looking for something more,” she says.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I know the ghost stories, I know the flashbulb trick . . . but I want to know, is there any real way to connect with someone who may be on the other side? Like, if you think you might be able to bring them back?”
Thatcher steps away from the conversation. I wonder if he doesn’t want to hear the hogwash that old man is probably going to spout, but I’m intrigued by Carson’s question. I lean in closer because Lantern Guy looks uncomfortable, like Carson is pushing him to reveal something vitally important.
But then he just says, “Lighten up, missy. It’s a ghost tour, not a horror movie.”
Carson frowns at him. She trudges over to Nick, grabs his arm, and drags him down the street toward her car.
I catch up to Thatcher, and we fall into step behind them.
“I told you,” Nick says, his voice listless. “This is all just stupid BS.”
“It was worth a try,” says Carson determinedly. “Next we can get out the Ouija board, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll have to attempt a séance—”
“Carson,” says Nick, opening the passenger-side door of her VW Bug. “I came with you tonight to be a good friend, but you sound like a crazy person.”
They both slide into the car and Thatcher and I join them, slipping into the backseat quickly through their open doors. I almost feel guilty for eavesdropping, and I say so, but Thatcher says, “We’re not eavesdropping; we’re haunting.”
“Feels the same to me.”
“It won’t once you’re doing it properly, Callie.”
They sit in the car for a minute, letting Nick’s insult hang in the air.
“Don’t you want her back?” asks Carson.
A heavy silence descends as Nick stares at the dashboard. I tense up. His answer is suddenly important and I don’t know why. Before this moment I was so sure what his answer would be, but now I’m not so certain.
“Of course,” he says.
I relax.
“Then let’s try. If we believe she’s still reachable, we can call on her spirit to—”
“To what?” says Nick, his voice tinged with anger. “To meet us in a cemetery during a ridiculous ghost tour? To show up in a photograph as a lens flare?”
My gaze drops to the floorboard as his comment hits me—I was there. I would be in a photograph, if I could be, if the trick were true. I wish they could see me.
“Nick Fisher, you stop it!” Carson demands, and I recognize her tone. It’s the one she uses when I’m feeling sorry for myself and she wants me to just get up and fix whatever it is that’s bothering me. It’s a Carson signature. And she’d probably use it on me right this minute if she knew how I was dealing with death—not very well. God, I miss her.
“We’re going to get Callie back,” she continues. “I promise, she’ll be in the stands with me cheering for your first soccer game of the season.”
Oh my God, Carson’s gone crazy. She actually thinks she can bring me back from the dead. I feel a pang of intense longing, because I wish she could. I wish she possessed such power.
“Forget it,” Nick yells. His hair is in his face again—I can’t see his eyes. He slams the dashboard with a heavy fist, and I jump at his force. He’s not like this. Even when we fought—usually over some trivial something that we never could recall later—we argued heatedly, but we never yelled. “She’s gone. I wish people would just accept it and move on.”
Move on? They can’t because I’m not doing my part. They’re stuck because I’m a failure at haunting.
“You love her!” Carson exclaims. “She’s your girlfriend and you believe you’ve lost her so you’re not thinking clearly—”
“She was my girlfriend,” says Nick. His face looks tired, drawn. “Carson, she’s gone.”
“I just died!” I shout, leaning into the front seat and talking in between them. All right, it’s been a little over two weeks, but still, grief sweeps through me. Didn’t I matter more than that? I know I have no right to feel that way. I look imploringly at Thatcher. “He doesn’t need me. He’s already moved on. I know I should be happy—”
“He hasn’t moved on,” Thatcher cuts in. “Listen.”
I cross my arms and sit back, frustrated that he’s not more sympathetic, that he’s not helping me deal with all these rioting emotions. I want Nick to move on, but at the same time, it hurts.
Carson’s still protesting, but Nick interrupts her.
“Letting her go is the best thing,” he says. “I don’t need more of a guilt trip from you than I’m already giving myself. I know it was my fault.”
“Nick, you’re not to blame,” she says.
“Please, Cars,” he says, running his hand through his limp hair. “Just drive me home.”
She frowns but turns the key in the ignition and heads out.
It’s superquiet in the Bug—I can’t remember a time when there’s been such silence in this car. Usually Carson and I roll down the windows and blast the radio. Sometimes when we do that—when the wind hits my face and the scenery rushes by and the song is the perfect one for the moment, with the perfect rhythm and lyrics that push me to want more, to live more—it can feel like I’m flying. We would scream out the words, smiling and loving those frozen pieces of time, never knowing that we wouldn’t get enough of them.
Carson pulls up to the curb in front of Nick’s house, and he leans his head back against the seat, his eyes closing.
“I miss her laugh,” Carson says solemnly. “What about you, Nick? What do you miss the most?”
“Don’t do this, Carson.”
“Come on, Nick. Just tell me. Her bright red glittery toenails or the way she pulls her hair back or—”
“Her spirit, the way she’s not afraid of anything. Wasn’t afraid of anything.”
Very unobtrusively, extremely slowly so as not to draw attention to myself, so Thatcher won’t stop me, I slip my hand farthest from him around the front seat and touch Nick—or at least I think I’m touching him. I can’t feel anything. But I desperately want him to know I’m here, to sense my presence, to be comforted by my love.
“She’s talked about marrying you, you know,” says Carson quietly. “She’s that in love.”
In any other situation I’d be mad at Carson for revealing what I told her in confidence, but right now, I’m glad he knows how I feel. Felt. I never really told him.
I sense Thatcher’s eyes on me, but I don’t meet them. I’m too focused on Nick. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t open his eyes, and a tear rolls down his cheek.
“It’s too late, Carson,” he rasps. “Can’t you understand that?”
Without another word, Nick gets out and slams the door shut.
My heart is breaking for his anguish. “He’s confused,” I say to Thatcher.
“Yes.”
“He’s grieving.”
“True.”
But having my thoughts affirmed doesn’t make me feel much better.
Carson pulls away from his house, but she stops a few doors down and parks on the street. She flips on the radio, leans her head against the steering wheel, and breathes deeply.
“What’s she doing?” I ask.
“I think she’s trying not to cry,” says Thatcher, talking over the classic country DJ’s thick twang.
“Carson,” I say, leaning into the front seat again. “Don’t be too hard on Nick. I’m here; I’m going to help you—”
“She can’t hear—” starts Thatcher.
“I know,” I interrupt, annoyed. “I get that she can’t hear me. But I’m here; I want to talk to her. And maybe deep down, she can hear. I know she’d get the idea if I could just do something, like honk her horn or make the turn signal blink or something. I don’t understand why—”
“That’s not how it works,” he says. “It’s your presence that helps her. Remember how I told you about the first level of the soul, the conscious part where memories live?”
I nod slowly, still skeptical.
“We’re trying to get beyond that, to reach Carson’s unconscious sense of you. That’s the second level of the soul. And just by being here, sharing her space, we’ll do it.”
“Well, it couldn’t hurt to really show her I’m here, could it?” I ask.
“That’s the spirit, Callie.” A deep voice booms in from outside the car, and when I snap my head around, Leo is grinning through the passenger window.
“Get out of here,” growls Thatcher, his tone low but firm.
Leo slips into the front seat, his figure moving through the car door as if it isn’t there. He’s inches from my best friend, and for some reason he makes me nervous. At least he doesn’t have a hay hook in his hand. But what’s he doing?
“All you have to do is concentrate, Callie,” says Leo, twisting around in his seat to look at me. “Energy radiates off you. You have more power than you realize, than this guy will ever tell you.”
“Don’t listen to him, Callie,” Thatcher says. “You don’t understand the harm you can inflict.”
I glance over at Carson. She’s still sitting with her head down on the wheel. She doesn’t sense any of us, but I wish she did.
“Can you show me how to touch something real?” I ask Leo. “Like you were doing with the rocks?”
With a smile, he reaches for my shoulder. I feel a slight shock skitter through me where his fingers are, like when you grab a door handle after shuffling around on the carpet. He puts his other hand on the radio button. “You mean like this?” he asks.
The station changes.
“Holy shit!” I shout, excited. “How did you do that?”
Before he can answer, Carson lifts her head, and then I hear the song. It’s one that Carson and I loved in a jokey way, because it contains this lyric that says, “Call me Mr. Flintstone, I can make your bed rock.” We found that hilarious. Slowly, a smile spreads across her tear-streaked face.
“Callie?” she whispers.
“Yes!” I shout. “I’m here!”
I turn back to Thatcher, and his quiet rage at Leo’s presence is palpable. “She senses me,” I say.
“She knows you’re here, Callie,” Leo assures me.
“No,” says Thatcher. His face is tight and aggravated. “She doesn’t. You’re making a superficial connection right now. This isn’t a game—we’re trying to connect with her in a deeper way, on a soul level.”
Leo rolls his eyes. “Good luck with this guy,” he says to me. Then he leans over to Thatcher and whispers, “Relaaaax,” before he slips out of the car and into the night.
Carson starts up the engine again and we drive toward her house.
“Show me how to do that,” I say to Thatcher.
“What? Touch the button on the radio?”
“Yes!” I say. “Something! When will I be able to connect for real?”
“You are on your way to connecting for real. Your energy soothes them on an unconscious level. That’s the second level of the soul—it’s beyond the conscious—and it helps them know that you’re okay. If you keep getting frustrated and upset, they’ll feel that, too. And it won’t have the desired effect.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “So I should smother my emotions?” I ask. “Like you do?”
Thatcher looks me right in the eyes. “My feelings are not your concern.”
“So you admit that you have feelings. Well, there’s a step forward.” I know I’m being mean, but he’s telling me I have to let my entire world go, like throwing out a used napkin or something.
Thatcher’s jaw clenches as he faces forward. The streetlights cast sporadic streams of light over his handsome features as we drive—we’re almost back in my neighborhood—but his expression doesn’t change. Regretfully, I think I might have hurt him.
After a moment, he stares at me intently, the blue-gray of his eyes almost swirling. “I care more than you will ever understand,” he says, his voice a loud whisper. “Being a Guide isn’t a privilege—it’s a punishment. It means that I couldn’t help someone move on. That someone is still suffering because of my death. And it’s the heaviest burden any ghost has to carry.”
Oh my God. I don’t know what to say. A punishment? I’ve been wondering why anyone would do this willingly. “Someone in your family?” I ask him. “Someone never got over losing you?”
He nods quickly. What he’s dealing with seems like one of the most awful things anyone could experience. “I find comfort in helping other ghosts move on,” he says. “But I’m trapped in the Prism for now.”
Thatcher holds my gaze. I see his pain, his torment. My heart aches for him. I wonder what it would be like if, after years, Carson didn’t get over my death. If she remained perpetually grieving.
“How do I help them move on?” I ask.
“I told you that memories inhabit the first level of the soul. The unconscious is the second level, and that’s what we’re trying to connect with now. But Carson and Nick, and your father, won’t fully release you until we haunt the third level of the soul.”
I wonder again when we’ll go to my father, but I’m afraid to ask, afraid to see him and acknowledge the state he’s in. Facing Nick is hard enough. My father must be devastated.
“What’s the third level?” I ask.
“The heart.”
“The heart,” I echo. And I wonder when Mama reached that stage with me. Was it when I was twelve? On the day I went to her grave without my father and lay on the grass in front of her stone in the warm sun, trying to gather everything I remembered about her and hold it close to me as tears ran down my face? I felt a release that day.
“I remember so much,” I whisper into the darkness of Carson’s backseat.
Thatcher nods. “I know.”
“But you . . . ,” I start. “You remember your life, too?”
“All the Guides do,” he says. “We failed at our haunting, and the obliviousness of dying, the amnesia of the initial entry into the Prism that protects most ghosts, has worn off. So yes, we remember.”
“That’s harsh.” I ache for Thatcher and the Guides, and for myself, sad that we have to suffer. But I’m also glad that beings like us are in the Prism, that everyone’s not all calm and unemotional like most of the ghosts I’ve seen.
“So why do I remember everything?” I ask, worried that I’ve already somehow failed at haunting, too.
“You’re a special case, Callie. But you have to let go of some of your questions. Solus is the answer to all things, but you can only get there if you find peace—and help your loved ones find peace—in the present. Try not to fear the unknown.”
“You sound like you’re reading something from a textbook,” I say.
“I’ve said it a few times, to a few ghosts.”
“Slowpoke!” Carson chides the car in front of her in her signature I-never-curse way, and I laugh.
“Thatcher,” I say, staring at my friend as she drives. “I don’t want them to forget me.”
“They won’t. You didn’t forget your mom, right?”
I shake my head no.
“As hard as it is to accept, it’s good for them to let you go.”
Carson has a slight smile on her face. I want to believe that just my presence, just my being here and somehow connecting with her unconscious, put it there. But she’s not feeling comforted because we’re sitting in this backseat giving her good vibes. She’s smiling because Leo changed the radio station and she experienced a tangible connection to me. No matter what Thatcher says, that’s undeniable. I want to connect like that.
“Can’t I help them let go in my own way?” I ask him. “I think if I could move something or show them that I’m really here—”
“Playing with energy like that is dangerous, Callie—it can drain the Prism of its reserves.” Thatcher’s voice is back to being serious, firm—I despise how quickly he can put up a wall. “We are not supposed to connect to Earth in that way—we’re souls now, not humans.”
Internally, I roll my eyes at what we’re “not supposed” to do. Externally, I stay quiet and turn to the window to watch the houses in my neighborhood pass by. When we pull up in Carson’s driveway, I look down the street at my own house. The light in my father’s study is on.
My heart sinks as I stare at Dad’s window. How many nights did he stay up late working while I texted with Carson or went online to plan my next stunt: bungee jumping, river rafting, finding the tallest, fastest roller coaster? Why did I never knock on my father’s door to say good night? Or snuggle against him while he watched a military documentary, or tell him I loved him?
I sigh. When I was alive, I was so busy chasing a rush that I didn’t let myself experience the parts of life that I miss the most now. Since I died, I haven’t once wished I could get back into a car and speed down the docks. But I’d give anything to hug my father again.
As I watch Dad’s shadow move across the drawn curtains, I promise myself that I’ll show him I’m here—I’ll prove it to even his scientific mind. I may have died, but I’m not gone, so I have no intention of “letting go.” Not if it means never telling the people I love what they truly mean to me.
It’s clear after tonight that Thatcher isn’t going to help me to connect that way. And now someone else’s words echo back to me: “When you get bored of his restrictions, come find me.”