Save your energy. I’ve heard that before. From him.
A chill works its way up my spine, and although I don’t feel pain, I do feel something. The hairs on my arm prick up, and I have that sense again of being . . . not alone. I cast a glance around the four corners of my room. Not an item out of place, not a shadow that moves. And still . . . something, or someone, is here.
Bzzzt.
My phone lights up with a text from a number I don’t recognize.
Callie, call me.
My breath quickens as I wonder if it’s possible; if he were able to contact me this way . . . would he?
My fingers are hitting Call before my brain catches up to them, and it’s ringing, ringing . . . click.
“Thatcher?”
“Um, no.” A man clears his throat. “Callie, this is Pete Green from the Post and Courier. Your friend Carson said that you might be open to talking about—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Green,” I say, cutting him off. “But I’ve already told someone at your paper that I’m not interested in doing a story.”
“But if we could just—” he tries again.
“I’m afraid I can’t talk,” I tell him. “Please don’t contact me again. Good-bye.”
I end the call abruptly and throw the phone down on my bed. Carson!
I head to the bathroom. I’m so angry with my best friend that I could scream. How can she think I’m ready to talk to the media about any of this? I can’t even get my own head straight.
And there’s another reason that I was so rude to the reporter on the phone. I thought the text might have been from Thatcher, and I’m shaking with anxiety.
I turn on the hot water, deciding that a shower will clear my head. As the room fills with steam, I look into the mirror. My eyes are watery and threatening to spill over with tears. The mirror is fogging up slowly, masking my sad face.
Suddenly, as if someone is holding a finger up to the glass, a message begins to appear.
N . . . o . . . m . . . o . . . r . . . e . . . p . . . i . . . l . . . l . . . s.
“No more pills,” I whisper aloud. And something inside me, some tuning fork in my soul, knows that Thatcher is here, right now, writing these words with his own hand. He’s using energy to connect, like he taught me. But ghosts aren’t supposed to communicate with the living this way. He’s breaking the rules for me.
I feel a surge of happiness inside—he’s here.
As the message continues, I put my own hand up to the mirror, trying to feel the energy from his soul. I trace each letter as it’s spelled out, hoping I can touch something, some part of him.
I . . . n . . . e . . . e . . . d . . . y . . . o . . . u . . .
I gasp. But then the letters continue.
t . . . o . . . b . . . e . . . a . . . w . . . a . . . r . . . e.
I need you to be aware.
“Thatcher?” I whisper.
And then, without hesitation, comes the next word:
Y . . . e . . . s.
An audible gasp escapes my lips and I lean on the edge of the sink to keep my balance.
“Where are you? Can I see you?”
I’m filled with questions but now that the message has been received, there are no more answers from the other side. He doesn’t write another letter. I take a few deep breaths and close my eyes. When I open them, his words are still readable. Who am I to ignore them?
I grab the bottle of pills and pour them all into the toilet, flushing it before I can think twice.
I turn off the shower and step back into my room, where it’s as if everything is under water. I shake my head, trying to knock loose the memory I have of this room—this very room—in another universe. It was my sanctuary, my resting place, my haven, and a space where I was safe from . . . from what? I open my eyes quickly, suddenly afraid of what I’ll see. I haven’t had a pill since last night, and now the visions are coming faster and faster.
This is what I remember: Misty surroundings, quiet awe, a need for peace and order. Thatcher’s stormy blue eyes looking at me intensely, questioning my strong emotions as I came to terms with my presumed death, as I tried to understand all the things he told me in his soothing voice. It was soothing, wasn’t it? Even though at first it was . . . distant. Thatcher was my Guide, tasked with teaching me to haunt my loved ones and help them move on from my “death” through a connection that transcended both our worlds. He was patient with me, closed off at first but opening up little by little, until . . .
A rush of heat hits my face as I remember a kiss. The kiss. The one that did more than take my breath away—it took my soul somewhere.
Tears brim in my eyes. I lost him. I lost Thatcher when I came back to life. And all that time I was in the Prism, all that time he knew . . .
I wasn’t really dead. I was alive. I am alive.
I grab my phone and take a photo of the nearly faded message on the bathroom mirror, and then I spray the glass with Windex and wipe it clean with a towel so Dad won’t see. “Thatcher, help me remember,” I whisper into the stillness of my room. But there’s no response, and talking to him out loud makes me feel crazy.
I think of something my first grade teacher told me after Mama died, a technique she taught. “If you can’t speak it, write it down.” I drew picture after picture of Mama, wrote simple words to her about my sadness, about missing her. It did help, a little. Maybe I can use that now.
I take my journal out of its spot in my nightstand, and I curl up on my bed with a green pen, scribbling furiously.
Thatcher,
I’m trying to remember things. The way you were teaching me to haunt. The way you were gentle with me, patient. And also how I could be stubborn, how you could be too. Sometimes you were quiet, other times you were stern. There was so much to you, so many layers for me to peel back. You were a challenge. I am, too. Is that why we were drawn to each other?
I’m afraid. I’m afraid that it was only me, that I wanted to be close to you and that you were just doing your job. But that isn’t true, is it?
Because I also remember your face when you looked at me, really looked at me. It was full of emotion—it glowed. Was it just reflecting my own feelings back at me, like a mirror, or did you feel it too? You must have felt it. Because I also remember how I burned when you touched me, like there was a light inside me that had never been switched on until you came.
My pen stills. Am I saying too much? I lean back in my bed, suddenly exhausted by the emotions that are coursing through me.
I’m alive again; I’ve got a second chance. But living my life means letting go of a world that was starting to become my new everything. Now that my system is getting free of the pills, I’m uncovering the truth: The Prism is real. Thatcher is real. And I think I’m in love with him.
Four
TONIGHT, ALL I WANT to do is stay at home and try to connect with Thatcher again. But instead I’m at the movies with Nick. It’s our first out-of-the-house date since the coma, and while we should both be excited to kill brain cells at the multiplex, like we used to do every Friday in the very beginning, it feels like our minds are anywhere but here.
My eyes keep darting around as we walk into the theater, looking for things that seem out of place, things that could be messages from Thatcher. Nick is kind of quiet and keeps texting on his phone, turning away from me slightly, like he’s worried I might catch a glimpse of what he’s writing—and to whom. It’s only when we reach the ticket booth that we engage in real conversation.
“So what’ll it be? Bloody raw horror? Sappy romantic comedy? Formulaic action movie?” Nick says, gesturing to the list of movie titles appearing on the electronic screen.
I actually have this weird pang of sadness right now. As I read the list, I have no idea what any of the titles mean. It’s like I’ve been missing for a year or something.
“You pick,” I tell Nick, forcing a smile. “I’m up for anything.”
“Personal Invasions is about a guy who
finds out that his girlfriend’s body has an alien inside it. Hunter said it was good.”
I shrug. “Sure.”
When we get inside, Nick starts to order our usual Number 3 combo—large popcorn with two medium drinks and a large candy, all for the bargain price of eighteen dollars. But I stop him. “I think I just want a small soda,” I say. “I ate a big lunch.”
“Oh, okay.” He doesn’t order anything for himself, which is a little strange. Nick has a gigantic appetite and usually I have to fight him for my share of the snacks. I know I’m not exactly acting like myself, given what happened earlier today, but I can’t help but wonder if something happened to Nick too. Something to make his behavior toward me shift a bit.
And then comes the seating situation. In the auditorium, we always sit in the back so we can make out if the mood strikes, but today Nick walks ahead of me and chooses seats right in the middle.
“The best view,” he says.
I nod, but I’m tempted to ask him if anything is wrong.
Nick takes out his phone again and stares at it before texting more. I look at him and start replaying the other night in my head. When he said things “didn’t feel right,” I kind of suspected he meant more than just hooking up. The feeling gets so much stronger as the lights go down and the previews start. Nick and I usually hold hands as we comment on which movies we’d like to see, and make fun of each other for our different tastes—I like action flicks while he prefers quirky ensemble indie stuff. But tonight, we silently stare straight ahead at the screen, our hands folded in our laps.
Two hours later, the end credits begin to roll and I barely know what I watched. While my body was slouched in this chair next to Nick, my mind was churning with fragments of memories from the Prism and visions of Thatcher that made my skin prickle with heat. I’m anxious to get home, and from the way Nick is glued to his phone once the lights come back up, it seems like he can’t wait to leave either.
In the lobby, we see a bunch of people from school waiting to get into the nine o’clock show. Nick fist-bumps with a buddy of his, Eli Winston, grinning like he’s happy to be blending in with a crowd. I can’t help but feel a little relieved that we suddenly have a distraction from the tension that’s between us.
Then I hear a girl’s voice call out.
“Hey, Nick.”
I turn to see Holly Whitman waving at him, and try to ignore the hopeful, almost giddy tone in her voice. I’m used to girls sort of flirting with my boyfriend a little, but what surprises me is the sad look in her blue eyes when her gaze drifts toward me. Moments later, she leans toward one of her friends and whispers something, and the other girl starts staring at me too. It makes me so uncomfortable that I duck away to the bathroom for a while.
I guess I’m nervous that I’m going to get that reaction from everyone on the first day of school—pity for the girl who was in the coma, and gossip about everything that’s happened to me. As we walk out of the theater and toward Nick’s car, we’re both stealing awkward glimpses of each other and fidgeting with our hands.
“Tired?” asks Nick when I cover my mouth to hide a yawn. I think it’s the first word he’s said to me since the movie started.
“A little bit.”
“Rough day?” He opens the car door for me.
“Yeah. I had my last physical therapy appointment,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat.
Nick walks around and gets behind the wheel. “I bet you’re glad to be done with those.”
“I am. It kind of makes me feel like things can go back to normal now. Know what I mean?”
I look up at his sweet, gentle face, and we stare at each other, like we’re not sure what comes next.
Or if what I just said is actually possible.
He leans in quickly, like he wants to show us both that everything is fine, normal, and just as it was before. But when his lips meet mine, it feels forced, like he’s trying too hard. We both are.
I pull back first, and I can’t help but notice that his cheeks flush. Not with heat and excited energy, but with . . . regret, I think.
“Want me to come over tonight?” he asks, shifting around in his seat and turning the car on.
“Nah,” I say. “I should probably get some rest.”
“Callie McPhee back to almost full strength and . . . resting?” He glances at me and raises an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna go do something crazy like go cliff diving or anything, are you?”
I shake my head with a smile. “That’s the old Callie,” I tell him. “I don’t think I need to do that stuff anymore.”
“You’ve changed,” he says, and he sounds wistful somehow, though he never really approved of my daredevil ways in the past.
“Yeah.” I have. “Is that bad?”
“No,” he says quietly. “Well, I have to work tomorrow anyway so I should get to bed too.”
Nick’s been volunteering all year for Habitat for Humanity, building houses for people in need. I used to love to go to the sites and watch him—all broad shoulders and muscled chest, hammering away in the blazing sun. I’m still attracted to Nick, I realize, looking into his caring brown eyes, but it’s so much different from the way I feel about Thatcher. Now that I’ve stopped taking the pills, my emotions seem stronger, and less like echoes and hints of things I used to know.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re such a good guy. You know that, right?”
He gives me a skeptical look, but before I can say more, he pulls out of the parking lot and we drive home, silence overtaking us again.
When I get back to my room, I sit down at my desk and reach for my phone, pulling up the photo I took this afternoon. The ivory tiles of my bathroom are reflected in the foggy mirror with traces of his fingers on it.
No more pills. I need you to be aware.
And then, the answer to my question: Yes.
The image calms me. It’s there. It’s real.
I unplug my laptop and bring it into bed with me. Then I type “Thatcher” into the search box . . . but I don’t know his last name. Did I once? I close my eyes and try to recall google-able details, but all I see are full lips and stormy blue eyes, a light stubble on his sharp jawline, and the way his shoulders stood—alert and strong, always.
Larson.
His last name enters my mind without warning, and my fingers type it in and hit Enter. The first result is an obituary.
Thatcher Larson, 18, died on Saturday, November 30, the result of a boating accident on the upper Wando River.
Thatcher was a lifelong Charleston resident and a cornerback for the West Ashley Wildcats. He was a lover of nature and animals, a friend to all he met. He was a member of the National Honor Society and president of the Outdoor Club. He spent time volunteering with the library’s Never Too Old to Start Reading literacy program.
Thatcher is survived by his mother and father, Lauren and Joseph Larson; his sister, Wendy Larson; paternal grandmother, Rosie Larson; maternal grandmother, Emma Phanor; and numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins.
After that there are notes about his memorial service, logistics. Seeing it spelled out in black and white is part comforting, part devastating. He’s not a boy I invented in my head, a figment of my imagination that developed after my accident. He’s real. Or he was, once.
I pause for a moment, thinking about a little boy who grew up loving animals, playing ball, helping people learn to read. My eyes fill with tears, but I wipe them away because I don’t want to get caught up in the emotion. I’m on a quest for information.
My fingers fly across the keys as I try to find out who he was, and why I feel like I know him so intimately, so completely.
He died ten years ago. He doesn’t have an online profile the way everyone today does, but I click on links that appear lower and lower on the search page, and I piece together that he was a decent cornerback, but not the full-scholarship kind; he was a Boy Scout for about two years; and he once had a photo in a loca
l art show. I click on another link and see a picture of a black Lab, tongue lolling and eyes full of mischief. I smile, and a memory washes over me.
Thatcher is telling me that he once had a dog named Griz. The dog in the photo. We were walking through White Point Gardens; we shared moments as if we were alive. But he was dead. And I was . . . well, I’m not sure what I was.
I stare at the picture of Griz, imagining Thatcher on the other side of the camera. Photography feels right for him. He was always watching me as if through a lens, removed in one sense but also more intense and up close than the way normal people look at you. Like he saw the details. My details.
I swallow, and I remember something else about the Prism—I couldn’t feel any physical parts of myself. No sunshine on my face, no ground under my feet, no breath in my lungs. But though those things were missing, there was also a deeper aspect to the Prism—the kinetic connection of Thatcher’s being with mine. The way I felt when he was near.
When I let myself click on a link about the accident, the night he died, two other names appear. And though they’re not really in bold, they leap out from my screen.
Reena Bell
Leo Cutler
A small ache begins at the base of my skull as the names connect with the voices I heard in my dream the other night—and the tight pressure I felt around my neck before I woke up. The more I let their names float in my mind, the colder I feel, so I refocus on reading the news articles attached to the link.
TRAGIC ACCIDENT CLAIMS THREE YOUNG CHARLESTONIANS
DEADLY TEEN BOATING INCIDENT INVOLVED ALCOHOL
HOMECOMING NIGHTMARE: TRIO DROWNS IN UPPER WANDO
The three of them all died together after a homecoming dance, drowning when their rowboat tipped over in the upper Wando River. How terrifying that must have been. Another girl who was with them, Hayley Krzysiek, survived. Thatcher told me this story, as we got closer. I remember listening patiently, quietly, as he struggled to tell me everything that happened.
I check out another article and it mentions that there’s a memorial bench in the downtown cemetery where Thatcher is buried that honors the three of them. I email the location to myself before I move on with my research.
Dust to Dust Page 3
