I felt thoroughly creepy for what had happened, but it had to be done. It made his whole sordid life real to him. By forcing him to think of all those girls as someone’s daughter, like his own daughter, he was compelled to face the truth, the reality, and it had twisted up his psyche and snapped it like a twig. He stood on wobbly legs, a man rising from his grave. He zombie-walked over and picked up the knife and hard drive. He began to wail in pain.
We followed as he walked out of the house. He was wailing and crying openly and didn’t bother getting in his car. Instead, he took his shoes off and walked, his pink feet stepping on rocks and glass, suburban penance. He walked and walked. And cried like a little boy, sobbing in hot, harsh jags. People stared at him, this crying man with the knife in one hand and a hard drive in the other. He marched past the playground where the father was still swinging his daughter. When the father saw Hemming, he pulled his daughter off the swing and held her in his arms so she wouldn’t have to bear witness.
Hemming marched the mile into town and onto Main Street where he tore at his shirt, ripping it open. Using the knife, he made small cuts on his neck and shoulders, drawing blood.
“Yuck, that’s disgusting,” said Lucy.
Hemming kept bawling, his eyes a fountain of tears.
“I think he’s … broken,” said Cameron.
“He’s toast,” said Zipperhead. “Great job, Echo—you completely obliterated him.”
Mark Hemming would never be the same man he was, not even close. He would never go near another girl. I had broken him down and destroyed the evil part of him. I hoped it would never surface again.
By the time he got to the police station, he was weak from the loss of blood and babbling incoherently. He collapsed on the front steps. Kirkland’s finest spotted him and took him into custody in less than a minute.
Watching as all this came down, I felt nothing. You always imagine when the bad guy gets it—especially the bad guy who killed you—that you’d do a victory dance or whoop with joy. But for me that didn’t happen. All I felt was emptiness inside. I was relieved, but my heart was vacant.
DAISIES
Darby, Zipperhead, Lucy, Dougie, Cameron, and Cole and I set sail for Middle House, taking a purposefully meandering, winding route, skimming over the treetops. Dark clouds clotted the sky but soon dissipated, allowing sunshine to warm the landscape. When we got back, we found Middle House back on an even keel now that Miss Torvous had, with a little help from yours truly, exorcised her demons. A more relaxed, almost playful vibe permeated the place now, though the underlying need everyone had for vengeance was still present. I wondered if, now that my killer had been brought to justice, I would move on and join the Afters. How and where would I do it? As usual, Cole had a frustratingly simple, pragmatic answer.
“You’ll know when you know.”
Yeah, I guessed I would. I searched inside, doing a moral inventory, and found that I couldn’t entertain the notion of leaving this existence without attending to a couple of important matters.
* * *
A few days passed. One of the younger boys, with the help of his friends, haunted the sicko who’d abducted and then killed him. The man was so remorseful that he not only turned himself in, but hung himself to death in his jail cell with a wire coat hanger. The authorities couldn’t figure out where the man had gotten the hanger. But we all knew. Justice had been served.
I kept waiting for something to happen to me. I wasn’t beamed magically up into the sky so soon after our haunting like Mick had been. I was going to have to be more patient. I let my mind wander, not trying to force anything. But the same thoughts kept visiting me and I shared them with Cole.
“I have to say good-bye to my parents,” I said.
“I know,” said Cole.
“And to Andy.”
He measured me carefully.
“Not easy tasks. Let me know if you need any help.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll go it alone.”
I went to my old house and found workmen fixing the gutters, replacing a broken window, and applying fresh coats of paint, inside and out. Everything had been moved out of the house. A For Sale sign had been planted in the front yard. My parents wouldn’t be back to this house ever again—I knew that. I said good-bye to my old place, risking a glance over at Andy’s house. I knew I’d have to come back and figure out some kind of closure with him, too. But right now I wanted to see my mom and dad.
It wasn’t hard finding them. I simply waited for my mom to finish work at the dental clinic where she had her practice and followed her home. They’d rented a cute one-bedroom condo in Kirkland with a view of the lake. Mom brought groceries in from her car and prepped a simple dinner of pasta and seafood. She opened a bottle of wine. She sipped it and looked around the place. They’d already unpacked all the boxes except for one on the foyer table, and she went to it.
I watched as she lifted the lid off the box. There were three framed pictures of me inside. Mom stared at them a long time, fighting back tears. I wanted her to take them out and hold them, hug them, kiss them. When she put the lid back on the box, I began to cry. I couldn’t bear to be put in storage and forgotten.
When she went back into the kitchen, I gave the box a push. It toppled, the pictures spilling out. Mom was startled, her eyes darting around the empty house. She went to the box and kneeled.
“Oh, Echo … baby … I’m so sorry…”
She picked up all three pictures and cradled them in her arms.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” I said.
I wrapped my arms around her—I could tell she sensed me—and we cried together for many minutes. It was hard letting go.
When she’d cried herself out, I released her. She seemed to have gathered strength from our encounter. She looked at the pictures. I thought she would put them back in the box. But she didn’t. She retrieved a hammer and some small nails from Dad’s toolbox and carefully hung them on the wall. I was gone, but I would never be forgotten.
Dad came in and looked beat, like he’d been working his ass off, diving in deep, trying to escape the trauma that had battered him and Mom so profoundly. As he approached Mom, he saw the pictures and hesitated.
“I thought you couldn’t…”
“I changed my mind. She was here. She spoke to me.”
“Oh, honey…”
He gave Mom a long hug. They both had such grief in their eyes.
“In that case, I got a little something…”
Dad went out and came back in with something he’d left in the car. A small bouquet of daisies, my favorite flower. He handed them to my mom and they held each other.
I could hardly bear it. How could I possibly leave this world knowing they were in such pain? But then Mom reached up and turned Dad’s mouth to hers and kissed him gently on the lips. I thought it must have been the first time they’d kissed since I’d been murdered, but maybe I was just assuming that. The good thing is that the kiss evolved into a deeper, longer, lingering kiss. Their skin flushed and then my father swept my mother up into his arms and carried her up the stairs. I lingered as they went into their new bedroom. As soon as I heard my mother’s breath hasten, I whispered words I knew that they couldn’t hear but hoped they would feel.
“Good-bye, Mommy and Daddy. I love you both so much.”
I flew down the stairs and out the door and high up into the sky, buoyed by the feeling that they would be okay. They were young enough. Maybe they’d even have another kid someday. If they did, I hoped it was a girl.
* * *
I flew for hours, letting the wind carry me along whenever I got physically taxed, which honestly ghosts don’t often do. The whole lack-of-a-corporeal-entity thing paves the way for limitless amounts of mobility and energy. Only our psyches become overwhelmed to the point where we must sleep. I wanted to sleep now, in the clouds, if only to avoid what was coming next. My last date with Andy.
ANDY
Andy
and I used to play on the neighbor’s swing set when we were kids. It had rusted and was in disrepair but still stood. I sat on the remaining workable swing and swayed gently back and forth, looking at Andy’s house, remembering times gone by. Barbecues and water balloon fights; sneaking out at night to meet and kiss; whispering long, heartfelt proclamations of love. We meant every word.
The chain squeaked softly. Leaves tumbled across the grass. Anyone seeing the swing would conclude it was the wind blowing it back and forth.
Andy. My Andy. The first time we’d met, we’d had a brawl. A couple of four-year-olds pushing and shoving in a heated contest over a toy elephant. Andy was a chubby little beast and as soon as I picked up “his” blue elephant, he bull-rushed me and shoved me over onto my butt. I remembered my ears getting hot as I jumped up and pushed him right back. His little eyes went wide with shock and he fell backward and dropped the elephant. I grabbed it and ran home as he wailed until his mother—who hadn’t died yet—came and soothed his bruised ego. Our initial encounter was brutal. Clearly love at first sight.
Now I had some heavy lifting to do. I had to say good-bye to my soul mate. I wanted to let him know he could have the blue elephant, forever. I stepped off the swing and floated over and into his house. He was at the kitchen table. His father was old-fashioned and still had the actual newspaper delivered. Andy had cut out various articles about Hemming and had them spread on the tabletop.
His eyes were red and he looked like crap. Apparently Hemming’s confession and subsequent incarceration hadn’t brought to Andy the same sense of closure it had to me. In fact, Andy looked more miserable than ever. His father, Hank, entered the kitchen, went to put a hand on his son’s shoulder but thought better of it, taking a swig of OJ from the fridge.
“Have a good day, son,” he said.
Hank waited for a response, got none, didn’t press. He went out and got in his car and departed, leaving Andy alone with his misery.
“I’m sorry, Andy,” I said. “I really messed things up.”
He was shaking his head, his hands balled into fists. I didn’t want to leave him like this. In fact, there was only one persistent thought that found its origin in my heart and reached up into my brain. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to leave him. Ever.
But I knew I had to. I was stuck. Maybe this would be my purgatory, forever next to him, unable to consummate any kind of earthly love.
When Andy’s phone rang and Dani’s avatar appeared, he looked conflicted. He reached for his phone, then withdrew his fingers like it was too hot to touch. The ringing stopped and the message icon appeared. Andy didn’t listen to it. He picked up his phone and opened the photo app and looked at old pictures of me instead. The tears that fell from his eyes might as well have been falling from mine. His phone rang. It was Dani again. I knew what I had to do.
I moved over and as he was pondering whether or not to answer the phone, I opened the window, and warmth from outside tumbled in on a breeze. Andy picked up his phone and answered.
“Hey, Dani.” Smooth. All charm.
He listened. She wanted them to meet for dinner. He didn’t seem thrilled with the idea but at the same time must have known that he couldn’t wallow in pity forever, so he said okay. Eight o’clock at Jonathan’s Home Port. She had a Groupon. I knew I had a mission. I had to become Cupid.
I flew into the nearby woods and sat on a branch, contemplating my afterlife and doing my best to gather enough courage to do what needed to be done. Later, I flew over to Dani’s place. She lived in a sandstone house with a tile roof on a cul-de-sac in a project near Totem Lake. Her parents had money. Her car, a late-model Bimmer, sat in the driveway, pink dice hanging from the rearview mirror. I went inside and found her primping in her room.
I shook my head back and forth like a judgmental schoolmarm. She was doing everything wrong!
“Jesus, Dani, will you please get your shit together here?” I said.
She sniffed like I’d just farted. I measured her carefully. I’d have to do an almost complete makeover. She had her hair piled up in a princess bun, which Andy hated. Like almost all boys, he loved my hair flowing down around my face and onto my shoulders. She was wearing a hideous burgundy top and yoga pants. This would not do. Andy hated burgundy and liked to see me in skirts, liked to see my legs. He loved it when I wore black knee-high stockings, too. And she’d gone way overboard with the makeup and mascara! It was like she thought she was auditioning for a Disney movie starring a raccoon.
I pulled the clip from her hair. She jerked her hand and tried to catch it but watched in the mirror as her hair fell down.
“Hmmm,” she said.
She shook her fingers through it, making it fuller, and thankfully decided it would look better down. She ran a quick brush through it and put on lipstick. I had to get creative here and so I guided her hand so she smeared her cheek. I blew powder at her and she sneezed, which allowed me to toss even more of it onto her mug. She looked like a clown and decided to start over. She went into the bathroom and washed and dried her face.
When she came back to her makeup station, I’d removed and hidden most of the offending makeup choices.
“What the hell? This is sooo stupid! Mom!”
She looked around, yanking open and slamming drawers, then checked the time on her phone. She couldn’t dick around. She had to kick into gear. So she applied only a modicum of makeup. Just the way Andy liked it. Less is always so much more. Her unfortunate wardrobe choices were easy to rectify—a spilled liquid here, a pulled thread there—and after a few minutes of manipulation, I was able to guide her into a brown blouse and skirt with black stockings and ankle boots. She took a look at herself in the mirror.
“This is so weird!” she muttered to herself, and I thought, Kiddo, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
DANI
Jonathan’s Home Port was an upscale restaurant on the shore of Lake Washington in downtown Kirkland. Dani drove nervously and fast, running two stop signs, and got there early. That was never a smart move, according to Cosmo. A girl should always let the guy wait for her so he can see her enter. I had to cause a slight makeup malfunction—a minor smear—to buy some time. Dani spent ten minutes in the little girls’ room (I managed to jam the lock on her stall), which gave Andy enough time to arrive and be seated first. I sat down next to him and watched him carefully. His clothes didn’t seem to fit right. His jacket was too tight and he kept digging at the heel of his shoe. The plain truth was he didn’t want to be here with her. He wanted to be here with me.
“I miss you so much.”
“I miss you so much.”
My body shivered. We’d both said the same thing at the same time. It was like an echo. How ironic. All I wanted was to crawl onto his lap and have him hold me. Emotions were welling up inside me, my wants and desires overpowering. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was on a date with my boyfriend, my childhood playmate, the man I planned on having children with and spending the rest of my life with. It was inspiring, uplifting, and, owing to the fact that I was dead, ultimately soul crushing.
Dani emerged from the bathroom. You know those shots of people walking right at the camera in slow motion looking all cool, like they’re being watched by everyone on the planet? That’s how Dani looked now. I had to give it to her. She had a great figure and all the parts were moving together in perfect sync. She was killing it. Andy’s eyes took her in and he stirred in his seat. He may have still been thinking about me but he liked the way she looked.
My heart was in rough shape, but behind that feeling, in the part of my being where reason and logic dwelled, I was hopeful. It was best for Andy to move on. To forget all about me and evolve, to put the past behind him and forge a new life with a new girl. The concept hurt. But I knew what was best. When she approached the table, he stood and pulled out her chair for her.
“Why, thank you—how gallant,” she said.
“You look … nice,” he said, still stunned.
“Thanks. So do you. I like your shirt.”
Andy looked down at his shirt as though seeing it for the first time. It was a terrific shirt, blue to match his eyes, with thin white stripes.
As they engaged in small talk, I studied them. Andy was clearly trying to stay interested in what she was saying, which was plenty, her nervous chatter coming out like flocks of tiny birds from her mouth. I wanted this to be over with. My goal was to get them to kiss, to get him to put his hands on her, and then, that seed planted, I could hopefully retreat into the night, alone forever.
But little Miss Chatterbox was talking too much. All the how-to blogs said you should get the guy to open up about himself and act as interested as possible. I read all that stuff but never had to worry about it because Andy had always been over the moon about me. Now it was up to Dani. But after her initial smoking-hot entrance, she was fading.
Dani did all the stupid stuff: tried to play footsie with him under the table, held his hand too long, glomming onto it and not letting go, giggling too loud at the things he said, and batting her eyelashes like freakin’ Bambi.
She talked on and on. Deep down, she was a good person, and actually mustered a few intelligent and relevant things to discuss, but she was sloppy due to nerves. When she moved over and sat next to him after the main course, I knew she was busting a move to get him to kiss her. She touched his lips with her fingernails and licked her own lips. Though it pained me, this was it. This was the make-it-or-break-it moment. I practically willed their heads together and then their lips met.
My heart ached, but the pain was a good one because I had hope—hope that I was doing the right thing for the boy I loved. For a brief moment, I flashed on the times that Cole had kissed me, but the images blew away like specks of dust. All I could see was Andy kissing Dani. It was over for me and I didn’t like it; in fact, I hated it.
They broke apart. Dani was smiling. Andy wasn’t. She tried to kiss him again. He wouldn’t let her. She tried a third.
Bad Girl Gone Page 20
