Dust to Dust

by Melissa Walker

  She wipes away a tear herself, and it leaves a trail of black on her cheek, where her eyeliner runs. I take a deep breath in, almost choking on the emotion that’s rising in my throat.

  “After that, things were great for a few years,” says Wendy. “The cancer never came back, and our family felt normal again. Mom and Dad always went to Thatcher’s games, I got into photography with a camera Thatcher bought me for my ninth birthday . . . everything was normal.”

  I stay still, sensing that the story is about to drop off a cliff.

  “About a week before Thatcher’s senior homecoming dance, I started to feel sick again. It was just a bug, I was sure, but he got worried. He was doting on me, treating me like a little kid with cancer. I was twelve then, and I didn’t like it. I snapped at him, said mean things. . . .” She grimaces at the memory. “I said I wanted him to get out of my face.

  “On the night of the dance, I heard Thatcher tell my mom he didn’t want to go, that he didn’t want to leave me alone while I was sick. Looking back, I know he was only expressing concern, and I should have just reassured him. But at the time, I felt this deep sadness and guilt. I’d made him miss so much of his life already—he couldn’t miss homecoming because of me, too!

  “I told him that he was making me feel sicker by being around me. I told him he had to go. So he did. And then he died.”

  She grows quiet, like she’s done talking.

  “Wendy,” I start, leaning forward, “what did you mean the other day, when you said that he blamed you?”

  “He wasn’t a drinker,” she says, her eyes holding mine. “I know he left the house upset—I saw his face as he closed the door behind him; he looked so hurt. And I made him feel that way. He wouldn’t have had that much to drink if he wasn’t trying to block out what I said. Even at twelve years old, I knew that instantly when we heard how he died.”

  “But you can’t possibly think—” I try again, but Wendy’s steely gaze halts my words.

  “After Thatcher passed, it was like everything in our house was soaked in grief. And it was weird, because I think my parents had come to terms with the possibility that I might die, in a way, but they didn’t even think about losing him. The shock nearly killed my mother. She got really thin. My dad started working late, not coming home. And me? I went a little crazy. Because on the first day after his death that I felt happy again, he came to see me—to show me how much he blamed me.”

  “What do you mean, he came to see you?” I ask.

  “Thatcher visited me in the spring after he died. I was at the beach and he gave me a message.”

  “A message?”

  She smiles, but it’s not the good kind of smile. It’s that cracked, crazy kind that makes people feel really uncomfortable.

  Crash! My mother’s Tiffany lamp, the one on the corner table across the room, topples over and smashes on the floor.

  Wendy and I lock eyes.

  “I guess someone doesn’t want you to hear the rest of what I have to say,” she says, her tone accusing.

  “Callie?” I hear my dad coming out of his bedroom.

  “Hide!” I whisper to Wendy, and she ducks behind the long blue curtain against the wall.

  When my father walks in, I’m picking up jagged pieces of stained glass.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I say. “I was going to read a little and I must have knocked into the lamp when I went to turn it on.”

  “Be careful, you could get cut,” he says, coming over to help me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s only a lamp,” he says. Then he gets the broom and sweeps up the mess. The toes of Wendy’s black combat boots peek out under the curtain, but Dad never looks in her direction. I breathe a sigh of relief when we’re done.

  “Back to bed,” says my father.

  I give him a salute. “Just one more chapter.”

  He nods wearily and heads to his room.

  “All clear,” I whisper to Wendy when I hear his door close behind him.

  She steps out from behind the curtain with her keys in her hand. I can tell she’s not in the mood to finish her story now—her eyes are dark and angry.

  “Wendy, can we just—” I start, but she stalks toward the front door.

  I follow her, mad at Thatcher for interrupting us and disappointed in Wendy for letting him get in the way. But then she reaches into her shirt. “Here,” she says, pulling out the chain that was resting under her black cotton tee. There’s a ring on the end of it, heavy and gold. “This is what I really came to do.”

  Their grandfather’s ring.

  I look up at her in surprise.

  “You said you needed it,” she says. “Maybe it’s better to get rid of this piece of him and try to forget.”

  My eyes fill up. “No,” I say quietly, but she shushes me as she unclasps the necklace and slides the ring down the chain until it drops into my open, waiting palm. I grip it immediately, feeling its coolness, wondering at the power Thatcher says that it holds.

  I stare at it for a moment, and then I open the front door. When she steps into the warm, humid darkness, I call after her. “Wendy?”

  She turns, and in the soft glow of our porch light her features are softened, her harsh makeup faded, and she looks almost angelic, like a fragile, lovely ghost herself.

  “Promise me one thing,” I say. “Promise that when you do find peace—and you will—that you’ll accept it. It’s real. And it’s coming from Thatcher.”

  She tilts her head like she doesn’t quite understand. And that makes sense, because what I’ve said is so New Agey and vague that I hardly understand it myself. But it has to do with what I know about haunting the right way. All of which her brother taught me.

  “No thanks,” she says, and then she looks around the entryway, almost like she’s talking to someone else. “I’m done expecting anything from the brother who tried to kill me.”

  And then she’s gone, back into the night.

  Thirteen

  WHEN I WAKE UP in the morning, I open one eye and reach for the ring. I kept it under my pillow last night, and I tossed and turned, hardly sleeping. Wendy’s parting words shook me. I know she was angry, and I’m sure she was lashing out because she felt her brother was trying to stop her from telling me the whole story. She really believes that Thatcher blames her for his death. Maybe he did blame her, at first. It isn’t easy to be in the Prism, if you remember what life was like. But what she said . . . that Thatcher tried to kill her.

  It can’t be true.

  But what if it is? What if that’s why he interrupted our conversation with the stupid lamp shattering?

  I shake my head—no. I know him. He isn’t capable of that.

  I turn the ring over in my hand, watching it shine in the early sunlight, wondering how it works, if it’ll heat up or glow or something if I use it to call to Thatcher. I squeeze the ring again, and its energy makes me feel ill at ease. Am I just imagining that?

  It’s for emergencies only. Thatcher’s voice echoes in my head.

  I roll over and press my face into the sheets, wondering if Dad will mind if I stay in bed a little longer.

  But then I hear my father’s voice loud and clear, and inflexible: “Callie May! Church in twenty minutes!”

  Among the sanctuary’s dark wooden pews and bright stained glass windows, I hear the whispers about me: “Praise be.” “Blessing.” “Miracle.”

  When we sit down, my father bows his head and closes his eyes.

  Since I’ve healed enough to get to church, we’ve been coming here every Sunday. We used to attend services with Mama, but after she died, Daddy lost some of his faith, I think. We only got here on holidays.

  But now, today, I watch his open eyes and the way he sits—chest forward, head up, eyes trained on the pulpit. I can feel his faith next to me like it’s a living being.

  Mr. and Mrs. Yates, an older couple I’ve known since childhood, come by to say hello, and she takes my hands in hers.
“You’re a walking wonder, honey, that’s what you are,” she says. I smile politely at her, and the others who say similar things to me as they pass. I’ve realized that to them, I’m a beacon of hope, a soul brought back from the brink, proof of . . . of what?

  The truth is that I feel uncomfortable in church now, like people can see just by looking at me that I know something they don’t about life and death and Heaven and God.

  But when I focus on the candles at the front of the church and watch the way their flames flicker, suddenly I feel this overwhelming sense of safety, like nothing bad could ever touch me here.

  When Pastor Williams calls us to attention, I reach into the pocket of my skirt, where Thatcher’s grandfather’s ring meets my hand, solid and true.

  This gold band feels more real to me than the words being spoken. More powerful than the “Amens” echoing around me as the service proceeds. Stronger than the voices of the choir that sing the hymns to uplift us all.

  I feel guilty, believing in this token more than I do the religion I was brought up with, especially when I look over at my father and I see that his face is changing as the pastor speaks. Where the lines were hard and angles were square, they are softened and eased in this moment. Almost like someone is taking a hurt that is deep inside of him and drawing it out. Almost like something is healing him.

  Turning back to the stained glass at the front of the church, I exhale. Maybe the specifics of religion don’t matter. Maybe it’s the feeling, that comfort, that sense of peace, that is true. Because that was a goal of the Prism, too.

  When the service lets out, Dad and I are standing on the steps and talking to other parishioners and well-wishers when I see Carson shouting and waving at me from across the parking lot.

  “Hey! Callie!”

  When I look back at my dad, he’s grinning. “Go ahead,” he says, ushering me away from the people around us.

  “Really?”

  “Really. You’ve done your time this week. But be home for dinner.”

  I give him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek before bounding off to Carson’s VW.

  When I get into the warm car and almost burn my legs on the vinyl seats, I smile at the sensation. It’s a Sunday in the sun and I’m here in Carson’s car and she’s turning the radio up and putting the top down and saying, “Let’s do something fun today! Celebrate freedom and all that.”

  This morning while I ran around getting ready for church, I called Carson to tell her that Wendy gave me the ring. She’s pretty confident that Reena and Leo won’t be visiting us again, and while I feel very secure having it with me, I’m a little less inclined to believe that the poltergeists will just give up. Not when they have so much to lose.

  I want to be cautious, like Thatcher would be. I want to be alert and mindful about everything around me. But doing “something fun” and being free is all I longed for when I was in the Prism—I wanted my life back, and now I have it. When I close my eyes and feel the wind rush over my face, my heart is torn.

  Why can’t I have all of this life and Thatcher, too?

  My phone buzzes with a text and Carson leans over to look at the screen.

  Nick: Upper Wando at noon—picnic! Please come.

  “Oh cool,” says Carson. “Let’s go!”

  I’ve been to a dozen picnics on the upper Wando—there’s a perfect little beach with a small dock you can swim out to. Still my heart jumps into my throat. Not because this is the first time that Nick has reached out to me in a few days, but because Thatcher took his dying breath in that water.

  Carson turns left toward our neighborhood. “I’ll stop to get our bathing suits.” When she pulls up to my house, she says, “Why are you being so weird? We have the ring. If something happens, we’ll use it, okay? Run in and change. I’ll meet you in my driveway in ten minutes. Oh, and can you bring that good face sunscreen you have?”

  “Carson, I don’t know if we can go,” I say.

  “Of course we can.”

  When I don’t move or respond, she places her hand on my arm. “Is this about Nick? Do you not want to see him right now? I know things are weird, but maybe facing him and talking it out is what you both need, you know?”

  “It’s not that.” I look into her eyes and bite my lip. “The upper Wando is where Thatcher died. He drowned there.”

  Carson’s mouth falls open in shock and she stares back at me for a moment. But then, to my surprise, her eyes light up and she smiles.

  “Callie, this is it,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I saw something about this on Hallowed Hauntings last year—the death spot is a very powerful place. If you want to really connect with Thatcher, that’s where it would be most likely to happen! It’s the perfect place to try the ring and see if it’s as strong as we think it is.”

  My pulse quickens. She’s right. I know that the location where someone died holds a lot of energy. I feel the weight of the ring between my fingers. “I don’t know . . . Thatcher said not to use it unless there was an emergency. And the poltergeists haven’t tried anything since that day in the car.”

  “But you should test it, right? What if you’re in a bad situation? It’s good to be sure first.”

  I nod. What she’s saying makes sense but . . .

  Carson narrows her eyes at me. “Do it for me, okay, Cal? I know I’ve been acting all brave and everything, but that stoplight thing really freaked me out. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. The idea of something bad happening to you again, even knowing what I know about the other side, I just . . . please. Make sure the ring can protect you.”

  I reach over and hug her tightly, silently asking Thatcher to forgive me in my mind. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  At the picnic spot, Nick throws a Frisbee back to Eli and jogs over to meet us. “Hey,” he says, knocking me on the arm awkwardly.

  I look up at him and force a smile. “Hey.”

  We spread out our towels on the sand and Carson rifles through the cooler that she packed with cold cuts and a pitcher of homemade lemonade that Eli will undoubtedly spike later. “Who wants a sandwich?” she shouts.

  All the guys, plus Jessica Furlow and Gina O’Neill—girls we’ve been hanging out with since preschool, but in a peripheral way—raise their hands and Carson starts getting out the bread and spreading mayonnaise across each piece.

  There are four of Nick’s soccer teammates here, and six girls total, including Holly Whitman, whom I notice is wearing a really cute retro bikini.

  Nick nudges me over on my towel and I let him sit. He brushes his hair out of his eyes and I notice the extra freckles that have formed on his cheeks since I last saw him. He’s obviously been spending some time in the sun, and I instinctively glance again at Holly, checking to see if she has a burn or anything else that might connect them together. It’s a little petty of me, given that I’ve been avoiding Nick for the last few days, but I can’t help myself.

  Even though we’re drifting apart, it’s still weird to think of him with anyone else.

  “It’s good to see you,” he says, bumping my leg. “Sorry I’ve been kind of MIA.”

  “Me, too,” I say, remembering the first time Nick and I touched years ago. It was electric then, sparks flying. But now it feels like sweetness, like friendship.

  It’s hard to admit, but something inside me just aches over it.

  Eli trots over, and I’m thankful for the distraction. “Hey, Callie,” he says, reaching for the cup of lemonade Carson is pouring. “Good to see you out.”

  “Thanks.” My voice is hesitant, because did Eli Winston just make a sincere statement that wasn’t followed by a joke or an insult?

  He turns and jogs back to the Frisbee game.

  “That was unexpected,” I say.

  Nick nods. “Eli’s misunderstood. He’s not a bad guy, you know. He just isn’t as in touch with his feelings as, say, I am.”

  He stretches out his leg and it knocks over
my canvas tote, sending Thatcher’s ring tumbling out onto the sand. I snatch it up before Nick notices and hold it tightly in my hand.

  “My bad.” Nick stands my bag upright again. He didn’t see the ring.

  “It’s okay.” I finger the smooth gold edges. What would I have done if I lost it in the sand? My chest tightens when I allow my mind to consider it. Then a pang of guilt creeps up on me. I’m sitting here with Nick, holding on to a piece of someone else—no, someone dead—wishing for the impossible.

  “Callie?”

  “What?” I look up at Nick, and it’s clear that he was saying something to me. Something I didn’t catch because I was lost in my thoughts.

  His eyes look wounded. “I thought a little time apart might help. But I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

  “Nick!” It’s Holly, her voice high and playful. “You promised you’d show me how to throw better.”

  I drop my sunglasses down over my eyes and pretend like he didn’t just ask me that question. “Go ahead,” I say. And I mean it. He shouldn’t be sitting with me.

  “You sure?” he says, a little surprised.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say gently. “Go help Holly with her Frisbee toss.”

  “Do you want to play, too?” he asks. It’s kind of him to try to include me. He didn’t have to ask me to this picnic. He admitted he was trying to give us some space. It’s just in his nature to care, and I’d never want to take advantage of that.

  And yet I am a little.

  “Nah,” I say. “My skills are too advanced for this crowd.”

  Nick lets out a guffaw that’s almost insulting and then he leans toward Carson. “Save me a sandwich.”

  “If you’re lucky,” she says.

  After he goes back to Frisbee, she whispers, “What was that?”

  “Eavesdropper.”

  “Obviously. I’m right here!”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think we’re kind of letting go. Or becoming friends. Or something.”

  Carson sighs as she places a circle of bologna onto the bread in front of her. “You guys are like the sitcom couple who are best friends and everyone kind of wants to be together, but then there’s a handsome, mysterious stranger who comes in season two and then everyone wants the girl to be with him.”