A Soul's Kiss

by Debra Chapoton

  I wasn’t the one to call 911. I don’t know who did, but help arrived quickly. Two ambulances.

  Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. The car was totaled, but I could see heads moving on the passenger sides. Hannah. Michael.

  I tried to pray. I repeated to myself, everything always works out. I wanted to get out of the car and run over to the accident, but I was too scared.

  I pulled the music sheet out of my pocket and stared at Jessica’s notes. If I practiced hard, I could get better at my sculling. I could master a gaviota and . . . and . . . we could have the best duet ever.

  I guess I was in shock. Tears made things fuzzy, but I was positive that I saw Jessica outside of the car, though how that buckled door could have opened I didn’t know. I blinked and she was gone. An apparition? No, a sign. An angel, maybe. A good sign. The first sign. The second sign came the next morning.

  * * *

  I followed the ambulance in Jessica’s little car, limping along like a champ. I stayed in the ER waiting room until my mom came and got me.

  I heard that Tyler’s stepbrother, Keith, was pretty bad off. I caught a glimpse of Tyler as the nurses let him and Keith’s parents through right after the accident. He seemed incredibly upset.

  My mom called in another excused absence for me on Friday morning and I spent the day bedside with Jessica’s parents.

  I’d never seen someone in a coma. Jessica was badly bruised, but there was a soft, relaxed look to her face that whispered of sweet serenity. I felt bad that I was mad at her for expecting us to do hard water ballet tricks. I’d give anything to see her make a face at me again. I looked away from her and stared at the white curtain where it was rippling for no apparent reason.

  Why couldn’t Jessica just be standing there instead of lying on the gurney?

  And then I swear I saw her exactly as I imagined earlier. I gasped and that made her parents look up from the floor and search Jessica’s face for a sign. “Sorry,” I said “I thought I saw . . . I thought . . . sorry.”

  They kept staring at her face and the monitors, but I looked back at the curtain where Jessica had been standing a moment before.

  Tyler

  A Year Ago, Thursday, and Friday

  Three words describe Jessica: perfect, perfect, and perfect. Crap, I can do better. Jessica is pretty, funny, and smart.

  Words . . . crap. Deep breath, try again.

  Jessica . . . oh, man, please don’t die.

  I blew my best chance with her a year ago. I was working up the nerve to try again this year, before homecoming. I’ve liked her as long as I can remember.

  The stupidest thing I’ve ever done happened last year. But it was worth it.

  Summer football practice was a bear. Double sessions. The heat. The sun. The guys called me Tomato. I worked extra hard. Lifted weights. For a sophomore I was big. I made Varsity. Pretty cool, though I was never that into football.

  The second day of school—it was the day before the first game—I stayed after in my last class, Spanish class, to hang some posters for Señora Vargas. I’m pretty tall. Practice didn’t start for fifteen minutes so I had time.

  It took eight minutes to help la profesora.

  Afterward it was faster for me to cut across the bus pick-up lane and use the sports entrance to get to the locker room. The buses were gone. They didn’t wait for stragglers. Five minutes after school let out and it was adiós.

  “Oh no!” I heard Jessica lament. She said it two more times, louder and with more drama. She stomped her foot, too. Cute.

  “Hey, Jessica.”

  “Oh, hi, Tyler. Man, your face is red.”

  My mind raced through a dozen thoughts. I walked closer. “Did you miss your bus?”

  She gave the biggest sigh, “Yessss. Stupid me. I thought I had time to use the restroom.” She groaned then. “I’m never going to the bathroom again.” I thought it was funny the way she said that. We both glanced around the parking lot. There were still a few juniors and seniors getting into cars. Maybe she could catch a ride with someone.

  She looked up at me. “How are you getting home? You don’t drive yet, do you?”

  I stumbled over an answer. I wished I could drive, but I didn’t have driver’s ed until after football season. Crap. I couldn’t stand out here and be late for practice. Coach would make me do laps and push-ups. “I don’t have my license yet. I usually walk home.” I only lived a street away.

  “Well . . .” she looked around again, “I guess that’s what I’ll have to do. My parents are at work so, um, I guess this’ll teach me not to miss the bus.” Her smile was amazing. She brushed a strand of long brown hair away from her eyes. Big eyes. Green.

  “Do you live far away?” I asked, though I knew exactly how far away she lived. My older stepbrother had his license. We’d bombed around a few times. I dared him to drive us by her house.

  She smiled again. Shrugged her shoulders.

  “A few miles, I guess. Should I take the main roads, do you think? Or cut through subdivisions? I don’t want to take forever.”

  Her left eyebrow sank down. Irresistible.

  Oh shoot, I was going to give in to my impulse.

  “I’ll walk you home,” I heard myself say.

  “Okay.”

  And that was it. So easy. Just say you’re going to do something. Do it. Forget practice. Forget coach. Forget consequences. Walk with Jessica. Perfect Jessica. Pretty Jessica. Funny. Smart.

  Talkative.

  When we reached the sidewalk along the main road I switched to the outside. I remembered hearing somewhere that it was good manners for the man to walk nearer to the traffic. Protect the woman. Maybe she would notice. I’d been drilled in the usual good manners. Pull out chairs. Hold doors. What else could I do? Carry her books? She only had one and she used it as a prop, waved it around to emphasize her stories.

  It was easy to walk next to her, to listen to her. I managed to work in a few questions. A comment. A joke I’d heard. I pointed out a friend’s house when we cut through Meadow Run. She smiled. A lot. There was a connection between us. I know there was.

  “Wow, that didn’t take as long as I thought it would,” she exclaimed when we reached her street. Darn. In my excitement to be with her maybe I had kept us walking too fast. There was no way to make this afternoon stretch out now unless she invited me in.

  “Yeah.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Thanks for walking with me, Tyler. That was fun. Do you have much farther to go?”

  “Uh, no. No problem.” My tongue went numb. “Uh, see ya tomorrow.” I kept walking on down her street. Took another turn and ran all the way back to school.

  I was inexcusably late to practice. For a second I thought coach was going to cut me on the spot, but instead he demoted me to the junior varsity squad. He made an example of me, I guess. My temper wasn’t as quick to flare as other redheaded goons, but sometimes my impulses got the better of me. It wasn’t anger that made me walk away from football; it was pride.

  But it was worth it. I didn’t tell my mom about the demotion, only that I’d quit. Told her I wanted to play basketball and baseball, that I needed the fall for driver’s ed class. All that was a year ago.

  * * *

  Yesterday after school, I spotted Jessica turning down the senior hallway instead of going to her locker. She seemed in a hurry. Didn’t want to miss the bus, I supposed. I waited all last fall for that to happen again. It never did. We’ve hardly spoken this past year.

  When I got to the intersection in the hallway I saw a knot of kids, but it wasn’t the chanting huddle of spectators like when there’s a fist fight. Something had happened and I could see that Jessica was the center of attention. My stepbrother, Keith, was right next to her.

  Crap. They walked away. Together.

  “Hey, Tyler, what’s up?” I heard Rashanda’s voice, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Jessica walking with Keith.

  Then Rashanda screamed
at Jessica to stop. She practically blew out my eardrums. I grabbed for her hand.

  “Let her go with him. It’s all right,” I said. Rashanda jerked away. She knew about my secret crush.

  “But . . .”

  “He’s my stepbrother,” I said. I followed Rashanda through the doors. I watched as Keith opened the back door of the new car his dad, my stepdad, bought him. “If she wants a lift home from him, oh well.”

  “We have practice. She doesn’t need a lift.” Rashanda sounded odd. She looked toward the tennis courts and pointed. “There’s her car.” She was more agitated than seemed necessary and I tried to figure out why. I watched the little group at the Ford, Hannah helping Jessica into the car. Why would she need help? Rashanda saw the same thing. “They’re kidnapping her,” she said.

  That was stupid. If they were kidnapping her she would have struggled. It was interesting, though, that both girls were in the back seat. That gave me a spark of hope. Maybe my stepbrother wasn’t after Jessica. I was still up for giving him an arm-pounding, though. He had some explaining to do.

  Rashanda scrambled off to “rescue” her best friend. Somebody bumped into me and I moved like a zombie. Looking back, I should have run after Rashanda, got in the car with her, and then maybe we could have done something that would have changed the course of events.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Keith. It went to voicemail.

  Cars honked at me as I crossed the lot. I climbed over the fence and cut through somebody’s backyard. I was home in minutes.

  I did about fifty chin-ups on the bar in the garage. Shot some baskets. Todd from next door came over and we played a little one-on-one. Sirens screamed by once and then a second ambulance shrieked by. We hardly noticed.

  My mom pulled into the driveway half an hour later. As she got out of the car she answered her cell. Her face went white and she ordered me into the car. We beat my stepdad and Keith’s mom to the emergency room, but we had to wait before they let us through. I couldn’t take my eyes off Rashanda. She sat in the corner, head down, sobbing. I was afraid to find out what that meant.

  Keith’s injuries didn’t sound life threatening, but he was in and out of consciousness. It was awkward when Keith’s mom told us we could leave.

  I asked about Jessica on the way out and was told by a busy nurse that she was “holding her own.” I hoped somebody told that to Rashanda so she could stop bawling.

  * * *

  My stepdad finally called home with a thorough update. Keith was out of immediate danger though he kept losing consciousness. Low blood pressure. One of the girls was critical; the other boy and girl would be released within twenty-four hours.

  Friday morning was a nightmare. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I swear that Keith came to me in a dream last night. Before I even walked into the building I thought I saw him. Must have been my imagination.

  First hour was going to be the worst part of the day. Both Rashanda and Jessica were in my English class. Their empty seats were like a hole in the room. I’d already received sixteen texts about the accident. Most people didn’t know how I was related to Keith. Now they did.

  I saw Mrs. Brown read a note and then show it to her student teacher. Details about the accident, probably. She nodded my way and whispered in Ms. Gardner’s ear. A bunch of kids started to ask me about the accident. I didn’t have the patience to answer all their questions. Thank goodness the bell rang.

  I figured out what Mrs. Brown must have whispered when Ms. Gardner asked Jason and me to get the grammar books from the storage closet. That was Jessica and Rashanda’s job. Those teachers had no idea how much it would get to me. I almost thought I heard Jessica’s voice in there. My hair and skin prickled with a creepy sensation and I dropped some of the books. I couldn’t get the weird feeling out of my head. It was like Jessica was there.

  When I picked up the books at the end of class there was one on Jessica’s desk. I know I didn’t put it there and Jason had covered the other side of the class.

  Strange thing, too. After class I was telling somebody that Keith was my stepbrother, and at the same time I was thinking that Jessica didn’t even know that. I swear I heard her voice then. I got out of the room as fast as I could and started down the hallway only to be ambushed by more kids at the drinking fountain.

  And then I saw her. Jessica was calling out to Kayla. I blinked, turned my back, got a drink. I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest. I didn’t talk to anybody else and headed to psych class. How appropriate. I was losing my mind. Seeing ghosts.

  Please don’t be a ghost, Jessica.

  Jessica

  Friday

  The look in Rashanda’s eyes flashes through surprise, fear, and disbelief in a nano-second. Those are my emotions, too. Those are my parents beside the hospital bed. That’s me lying all still and soft. Brutally white.

  Rashanda looks away, talks to my parents, looks back and doesn’t see me. But she did see me! I know she did.

  “Mom, Dad, I’m okay.” I take a step closer, lean between them and hug at their backs. I can feel them, warm and tense. My mom’s back softens a little.

  They talk to me. The other me. The me that’s so still. Bruised and purple.

  “Listen, guys,” I say, rushing the words out of my invisible mouth, “it’s all right. I can hear you. See you. I’m still me. I’m right here with you.”

  “Oh, Jessica,” my mom cries out. She squeezes my hand, my other hand, and I can feel it. “Come back to us, baby.”

  Rashanda excuses herself with a mumbled word. She draws the curtain tighter as she leaves. I’m torn between following her, someone who saw me for a second, or staying here to see what else I might feel. I look at the life support machine. Tubes. Wires. It all looks so complicated. The sheet is pulled up above my chest, but my arms are out. Bare. I suddenly feel chilled. Embarrassed. There are little pads with wires that are taped to my chest, sneaking out from under the sheet. A blood pressure cuff is on my left arm; some kind of finger pinching thing is on my hand. It’s snapped on like a clothespin. A clear plastic brace supports my neck with a rolled towel stuffed behind it.

  I am not breathing on my own.

  I suck in as much air as I can. My whole body tingles. As certain as I am that the sky is blue, I’m just as certain that I’m experiencing a reality equal to every memory that shapes my life. I’m not a ghost. I am not in some parallel universe. I’m not dreaming.

  I am, however, scared. And I’m confused.

  What was it that Keith had told me? Now you see me, now you don’t. Fun. Go with the flow. They’re taking care of you. How could he be so cool about this?

  Maybe because he isn’t so bad off.

  I move around the bed and stand opposite my parents. I look hard at the battered face of the girl they worry over, push my nose down close to her forehead, and sniff. Antiseptic. Blood. Metal. Plastic.

  I run my nose down along the cheekbone. My breath—her breath—reeks. I put my hand in my pocket, an automatic response, and find a couple of breath mints stuck together. I pry them apart with a fingernail and push one between her, I mean my, teeth. A little laugh escapes my lips as I hope I don’t choke on it.

  My parents’ heads are still bowed.

  I put my forehead back down against the darkest bruise, close my eyes, feel the blackness, know there are no thoughts in that head. Is it hopeless? Am I going to die?

  “Are you trying to get back into your body?” Keith stands behind my dad and laughs. “You can’t force it.”

  “How do you know so much?” I straighten up and fling my hands around. I don’t know what to do with them other than to try to move the sheet up higher on my other neck. I fuss at the hem, manage to smooth a curled white edge up and over the wires. Is my body naked underneath? I flush at the thought and glance at Keith. “How do I get back?”

  “Do you really want to get back in your body? Why not enjoy this experience? You can listen in on people�
�s conversations, get in their heads, make them think stuff. It’s like being invisible and . . . it’s like you’re God.”

  That makes me shiver. Isn’t there something evil about trying to be God?

  “Watch,” Keith says. He shakes out his hands, cracks his neck, and his whole body shudders. It reminds me of an Olympic swimmer warming up on the starting block. Then he places both hands on my dad’s head and presses his own cheek against Dad’s bald spot.

  A second passes. Then two. Then five. My father lifts his head, pats my mom’s knee, and says, “I’m going to go check on the Mullins boy. Be right back.” He stands and pushes his chair rearward.

  Keith steps back and lets my father’s chair pin him in the corner. “I did that,” he brags. “I made him think of me.” His face shines with pride then falls in pain. “Oh, my leg!” And he’s gone. Just like that.

  I stand frozen. Uncertain what to do next.

  Uncertain.

  My phone rings then. It plays the most amazing ringtone—the one I’d assigned to Michael Hoffman’s number, should he ever in a million years happen to call me. I stick my hands in both my pockets. Nothing. No phone. But the ringing persists and my mother opens her left hand and looks at the display on the phone she’s guarding. I lean across the bed and read the message upside down. A text from Michael.

  An apology.

  What could he be sorry for? I wonder if he is still in the hospital. I duck around the curtain and check every cubicle. I race out into the waiting room, the lobby, and swish through the revolving doors as someone enters.

  Three people are heading toward a car. Michael is unmistakable. Tall and blonde and handsome and strong.

  “Michael!” I run. I reach the car as his dad opens the back passenger door for Michael and I slip in without hesitation. Keith’s words swirl in my mind. I am tempted to play God.