Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys

by Jennifer Fischetto

  What are we though, and what do I want us to be?

  I love him. I know that. Do I want a future with him? Yes. Do I want that future if he doesn't stop fixing? I don't know, and that's where I've been stuck all of this time.

  Hilary suddenly appears not two inches from my face, and I gasp so loudly I fear Ma will run into the kitchen. I'd like to spare her the thought that my dead ex-friend is hanging out by the stainless steel table she prepares the lasagna on.

  "Did I scare you?" Hilary asks with an intense glare.

  She enjoyed that.

  I rush to the back door and step out onto the gravel parking area. "What do you want?"

  "Don't want Mommy to overhear you talking to a ghost?" She floats in front of me, forcing me to stop or feel that finger-numbing cold when I walk through her.

  My hand hits the center of her belly, and I pull back immediately.

  "Wait, she knows you can see me, right?" Hilary asks.

  "Yes, she knows. My entire family knows, but I like to not tell them every time a ghost is around so that they can sleep at night."

  Hilary's hardened glare softens. "That's sweet."

  "And my parents are coming with me to your funeral tomorrow."

  Her eyes widen. "What?"

  Oh no! Did she not know about that?

  "Tanya called this morning to say it's tomorrow at your mom's church. I'm sorry you didn't know." I truly am too. What a way to find out.

  I walk around her, unlock the downstairs door to the stairwell to my apartment, and go up. I place my purse on a stool at the breakfast bar and kick off my shoes. Without work, what am I going to do today? I should visit Izzie and see how she's doing. She may not want visitors though. I'll call.

  Hilary passes through my front door and no longer looks surprised. She's back to glaring.

  "This stinks!" she shouts. "I'm dead. My mother is crying, and I can't console her, and my killer…"

  She stops short.

  "What about your killer?" I ask. It feels like she stopped talking to try to not say something, and my internal radar beeps.

  "He's getting away with it because you won't tell Sanchez what I told you."

  I narrow my gaze and take a step closer to her. "Oh no, you will not make this about me. You want Sanchez to know so badly? Tell him yourself."

  Of course I realize how silly that sounds after I say it.

  She ignores me, floats past me, and stands by the coffee table. "This isn't how my life was supposed to turn out. A failed marriage. Dead before thirty. I wanted kids, a family, a nice home. I wanted what your parents had. What they still have. Don't you remember me saying that?"

  A flood of memories rush back. That's right. We were in junior high, hanging in my kitchen while Ma cooked dinner. Hilary and I were doing our homework at the kitchen table, and Ma was humming by the stove.

  Pop came home and went over and kissed Ma's cheek. It was dark out, and Ma was making a late dinner because she'd had errands earlier. Most nights we ate before Pop came home. Most of the times that Hilary was at my house during the school week, Pop wasn't around.

  This night though, he said hi to us, and then he and Ma began spontaneously dancing. Ma was half humming and half laughing. Pop twirled and then dipped her, and Hilary sighed.

  I glanced at my friend and saw she was smiling big and bright. Then she whispered, "I want what they have."

  I hadn't thought of that in years.

  Now I look at my ghostly ex-friend, and instead of that dreamy expression, she's full of sadness and probably regret.

  "I'm sorry," I say and mean it. For the first time this week, I'm truly sorry she's dead.

  "So am I," she shouts and waves her arm super-fast in irritation.

  A force of air rushes by, rattling the TV remote and the edges of my curls.

  Whoa! She just did that.

  Her eyes get huge, and she stares at me in shock.

  I've seen ghosts move things before, but apparently Hilary wasn't aware she could. It takes a lot of skill and usually time to get used to your new abilities. She hasn't been dead that long.

  Her stunned look turns into a big, eerie, mischievous grin that makes me nervous.

  Then she disappears.

  Uh-oh. What is she up to?

  * * *

  After Hilary's church services, Mom, Pop, and I drive to the gravesite several towns over. It is a miserably humid day with an overcast sky, and I have to keep reminding myself that I'm here for Mrs. Porter and Steven. Otherwise, I'd likely call for an Uber and leave. I'm physically and emotionally unprepared to stand here, sweating over a hole in the ground, and listen to everyone cry before lowering Hilary's casket.

  Steven's eulogy pulled at everyone's heartstrings. Even my own.

  I am sorry that Hilary's life was cut short. I am sorry that she doesn't get to fulfill her dreams and that this will mar her family's future for the rest of their lives. I still don't wish I could take back the years Hilary and I didn't speak, but I do wish I could take back her murder. No one deserves to have their life end by someone else's hand.

  "Are you okay?" Pop whispers. He's standing to my right, in between Ma and me.

  I nod, not wanting to speak.

  Ma glances over and says, "Maybe she's finally sad."

  I want to roll my eyes, but that's too disrespectful to do to my parents, especially if they're watching. Plus, I'm too drained to even move those muscles.

  Hilary appears at the end of the hole and looks down. She had been at the services too. She had sat next to her mother and leaned her head toward the woman's shoulder. I couldn't see her expression because we were sitting four pews behind, but at one moment, I caught Hilary's profile, and if ghosts could uncontrollably sob, she would have been doing that.

  Now she looks at her raised casket and then to me. She's angry. It's in every pore, the flare of her nostrils, the hardened line of her mouth and chin, and the glare in her eyes.

  I can't imagine why she's mad at me. At least nothing new. I brace myself for her blowing over and scaring me in some way that will be obvious to others. But she doesn't come for me.

  Instead, she turns around and rushes to Kevin.

  He's standing off to the side, not with her family. Sanchez is several feet behind his partner, and other than that, Kevin is by himself.

  Hilary flies over and clenches her hands into fists. "This is all your fault!"

  She screams so loud that I'm surprised others don't flinch, even if they can't hear her actual words.

  "Why are you even here?" she yells. "It's not like you loved me."

  Kevin keeps his gaze straight ahead. Of course, he has no idea he's being verbally assaulted by his dead wife. The whole thing is like a scene out of some weird sitcom, but it's not even remotely funny.

  Michael is here too. He stands on the other side of Hilary's family, closer to me, but we haven't even acknowledged each other yet. I'm not mad at him. Not exactly. It's a little hard for me to get past the fact that he and Hilary were having an affair. Like why? What did he see in her?

  Wait, why do I sound jealous? I don't want Michael.

  I stare at Hilary's back as she's jabbing her finger in Kevin's face. Because if Hilary and Michael are together now, that means the kiss they shared in high school really meant something. And that means that he never saw me romantically, even though I'd seen him that way. It means that he liked her and had deliberately stopped speaking to me, and I'd known him our whole lives. And, well, that stings. It doesn't matter how long ago it was.

  Maybe I have some of that wrong. Maybe there's a side to the story, like his, that I don't know. That he didn't tell me when we talked earlier this year. But he's still a jerk.

  "Listen to me!" Hilary's latest scream pulls me from my thoughts.

  I want to remind her that he can't hear her, but of course, I keep my mouth shut and pretend I'm not inwardly cringing at her rising hysteria.

  Kevin glances to Michael, and there's a moment
of hostility on his face, but then he looks back to the casket, and his expression softens. Maybe he wasn't in love with his wife, not in the way a spouse deserves, but you can't tell me he didn't care about her.

  Hilary raises her arm and swings toward Kevin's face.

  My mouth drops open as she slaps him, a ghost's version of it anyway.

  Her hand goes through his skull, and while it didn't have the effect she probably wanted, I notice him shudder a bit.

  As much as I don't want to be slapped by Hilary, feeling her coldness doesn't sound like a bad idea right now. The zipper along the back of my black dress feels awful against my damp skin.

  Hilary must have found some joy in the action because she slaps him again. And again. Over and over like on a loop. I can lightly hear her laughing above the pastor's words. And poor Kevin seems a bit whiplashed. Between the chills he's evidently feeling, he sniffles, and his face looks a bit puffy.

  Her constant raised arm, the swell of her laughter, and Kevin's slight reaction plays on my last nerve, and before I can control myself, I scream, "Stop!"

  Everyone, and I mean everyone, turns my way, including Hilary.

  The pastor stops speaking mid-sentence. Mrs. Porter stops crying mid-sob.

  Oh no!

  "What are you doing?" Ma whispers.

  "I'm sorry," I say loud enough for everyone to hear me. "I…" I wave away my words and look to the ground, trying to play off that I'm so upset that I am beside myself. How else can I explain telling the only person audibly speaking to stop?

  "What's going on?" Pop asks.

  "Her ghost is over there beating up Kevin," I whisper and hope everyone will go back to ignoring me.

  "Oh my," Ma whispers and then smiles at the mourners. "Please excuse my daughter. Carry on, Pastor."

  The man nods and continues talking.

  "Thanks, Ma," I say and glance over at Kevin and Hilary.

  Now she's glaring at me. Great.

  Kevin frowns my way for a moment but then pays attention to the casket again.

  Hilary floats my way, and I suck in a breath. I can handle this. She'll come over, maybe slap me or yell at me, but I'll see it. I can simply walk away. No one will think it's weird, and then when we're out of earshot, I can tell her to get over herself.

  But she doesn't come all the way over.

  She stops in front of her casket, and before I can figure out what she's doing or planning, she raises her arm and swipes at the flowers that are resting in a basket, ready to hand out for each of us to toss into her grave.

  The white carnations wobble a bit. No one else seems to notice.

  Hilary, however, is overcome with glee. She giggles and does an impression of the Running Man. She raises her arm again, and I hold my breath.

  This time the flowers go flying—up into the air and out to the sides.

  Everyone stops again, but luckily, they aren't staring at me this time.

  Nope, their confused and wide-eyed expressions are solely on the raining buds.

  I'm so glad I don't have to explain this.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I only register their shock for a moment before I angrily nod at Hilary to follow me. I expect her to stay behind out of spite, but surprisingly she floats past her family, friends, and the falling flowers and meets me at a thick tree near the back of the cemetery.

  "Did you see that?" she asks with a full smile lighting up her face. I haven't seen her this happy in a while.

  "Yes, it was wonderful, but what you're doing to your mother is not," I sternly whisper.

  Hilary does a double take and frowns. "What do you mean?"

  "No one can understand what just happened. Their minds are going to try to find reason. Maybe they'll think it's wind, even though there's no breeze. Perhaps Kevin will think that same non-breeze made him feel chilly every time you slapped him."

  She chuckles. "That was pretty cool too."

  I ignore her comment and say, "But how much weirdness should your mother handle on the day she has to bury her only daughter?"

  Hilary's smile fades. She glances over her shoulder and then sighs. "Fine. I get it."

  She disappears, and I'm left staring at the crowd.

  Several people had already volunteered to gather the scattered flowers. There's a low chatter that spreads amongst them. And while everyone is focused on the flowers, Mrs. Porter, or the pastor, Kevin is staring directly at me.

  Did he just see me talking to the air?

  * * *

  An hour later, we all arrive at Mrs. Porter's apartment. I'm not sure how thirty of us are going to fit. As we walk to her door, I realize that Kevin hasn't followed. Maybe he's arriving late? Is it possible he's not coming at all?

  When I walked back to my parents at the cemetery, Kevin's gaze had followed me, but he didn't come over or try to say anything to me after they lowered Hilary into the ground.

  Mrs. Porter's door is wide open, and there are small groups of people scattered—one set on the couch, another standing by the front windows, another at the dining room table, more in the kitchen.

  Ma, Pop, and I find Hilary's mom standing beneath the archway that leads back to the bedrooms. An older woman is squeezing her hand and saying something. We hang back for a moment, not wanting to interrupt, and when the woman passes us, we take our turn.

  Mrs. Porter looks worn out. Her eyelids are heavy, her eyes deeply bloodshot, and her complexion is dull, except around her nostrils where her skin looks raw from crying and blowing her nose too much.

  When she sees me, she tries to add a smile to her face, but the corners of her mouth don't want to move upward.

  I put my arms around her shoulders and give her a strong hug. I whisper in her ear, "I'm so sorry."

  She doesn't seem to want to let me go, but after a few awkward seconds, I'm out of her embrace.

  Ma and Pop step forward—Pop with a handshake and Ma with a hug.

  The three of them weren't super close when Hilary and I were growing up. My folks worked so often and had little time to socialize. They would get together on some holidays though. My parents were wonderful about inviting the Porters to our cookouts for Memorial, Independence, and Labor Days. They'd buy each other a bottle of wine and a box of cookies or chocolate during the winter celebrations. But they never hung out to just see one another.

  "Thank you for coming," Mrs. Porter says when Ma lets her go. Her words sound robotic, as if she's already said it a thousand times today.

  "Of course. Our daughter Isabella wanted to come too, but she's very pregnant. She and her family send their condolences."

  "I remember her," Mrs. Porter says. "How is she?"

  While they discuss maternal hormones and Pop looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, I spot Tanya and Steven over Mrs. Porter's shoulder. They're talking and standing by one of the shut doors. I don't want to interrupt, but I also don't want to stand here and hear chatter about Izzie's swollen ankles. Again.

  I step around them, say an almost inaudible "excuse me," and walk toward the couple. As I get closer, I notice tension in Steven's posture and jawline.

  "Hi," I softly say and wonder if this is a poor decision.

  Tanya smiles, and Steven loosens up. I hug each of them and ask, "How are you hanging on?"

  "We're managing," Tanya says.

  A door to my right opens, and a woman steps out of the bathroom. She nods at us and then walks to the living room.

  "Excuse me," Tanya says and goes into the room.

  So they're back here waiting to use the restroom.

  "Are you waiting too?" I ask when Tanya shuts the door.

  Steven shakes his head. "No, if you need—."

  "No, I'm thinking we can step outside for some fresh air," I say.

  "Yeah, that sounds good."

  We walk back into the living room. Mrs. Porter and my folks are no longer in the same spot. I squeeze past more people who have arrived and let out a small sigh of relief when I'm outside. />
  Of course, I forgot that "fresh air" wouldn't mean cool air. Not that it was comfortable in the apartment with so many people.

  We step onto the grass, off the walkway, and I notice Michael standing by his car. He's not looking our way, and I can't help but wonder why he's here if he's not going inside.

  "How well do you know Michael?" I jut my chin toward the back of the man.

  Steven turns his head, glances, and looks back my way. "Who?"

  "Michael Sheridan. We went to school together."

  "Oh yeah. Not well. I vaguely recall seeing him a couple of times growing up. You and Hilary mentioned him a lot when we were kids. Mostly you."

  I inwardly cringe at the memory of me being foolishly infatuated with a boy who apparently never thought of me that way.

  "And now, as adults, did he come around?"

  "Other than when he came to pay his respects, I'm not sure."

  "Do you know if he and Hilary spent a lot of time together as adults?" I ask and can't take my gaze off Michael's back.

  "I don't know. Hilary didn't confide in me much."

  That, however, gets me to look away.

  I frown up at Steven. "Any particular reason?"

  He shrugs and adds a soft chuckle. "'Cause I was still her annoying little brother."

  I smile and squeeze his arm. "I'm sure she thought of you as more. She loved you."

  I don't, in fact, know if this is true, but I imagine it is or was. I complained about my siblings growing up as much as Hilary did about Steven, but I love them fiercely and would do anything for them.

  He looks to the grass and nods, but I fear he's not sure if he believes me. Too bad I can't get Hilary here and tell him her exact feelings. But even if I repeat them word for word, he wouldn't know they're from her.

  "Why do you care so much about Michael?" Steven asks. "Still think he's the…what did you say? The cutest and raddest boy ever."

  We laugh at his memory.

  "Did I really use those words?" I'm super thankful Michael can't hear us.

  "Something like that," Steven says with another chuckle. His face is brighter, and I'm glad I helped him get out of his grief for a small moment.