“I wish I could remember more about Mom,” I say.
“Well, I’m here to fill in the blanks,” he says.
I reach for Alex’s hand and give it a tight squeeze, but he doesn’t return the gesture. I look up at him. His face is serious as he stares into the distance.
“Isn’t it beautiful here?” I say to him.
“Sure is,” he says. Then he adds, in a slightly louder voice, so my dad can hear, “It’s a good thing they stopped all the logging, or we wouldn’t have much of a view.”
“Alex.” In trying to be quiet, my voice comes out as a hiss, and I drop his hand. I don’t want to fight with him in front of my dad, so I give him a look that says, What’s wrong with you?
But he continues. “Mr. Healy, what are you doing for work now that you’re here?”
“Funny you should ask, Alex,” he says. “I just got a job offer this morning.”
“Really?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me?” A part of me doesn’t even believe him: My father, the perennial deadbeat and unemployment office regular, with a job?
“Yep. It’s just part-time, working construction on some new homes.”
“It seems like every year the hills of this town get carpeted with a few more homes,” Alex says. “Before long, there won’t be any trees up here—just floor-to-ceiling windows.”
“Alex,” I warn.
He shrugs. “I’m just saying. We should enjoy it while we can.”
I try to ignore his sarcastic tone. It’s not that I don’t understand it, given the developer he’s planning to protest—but that construction has been halted for months now, and it has nothing to do with my father. For all Alex knows, my dad could be working for Habitat for Humanity, so he should keep his mouth shut.
“Congratulations, Dad,” I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can.
“So you must have a lot of experience in construction,” Alex says.
“He does,” I say quickly. “That’s why we moved to Houston.”
“Absolutely,” Dad says. “I built hundreds of homes down there.”
“Still, even with all your experience,” Alex says, “it’s hard to find jobs around here. Especially being new in town, a little older than the average construction worker.”
“Alex!” I nudge him hard in the ribs.
I worry that my dad will get angry, but he only catches my eye and winks at me. “I’m not offended, Scooter. I know I’m old. I guess they really need people. Or maybe I’m just lucky.”
“Maybe,” Alex says.
I glare at Alex, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. I try to understand where he’s coming from—I don’t want to see any more hills lose their trees for housing developments either—but why is he being so rude? And what was he implying about my father’s job?
I follow Alex’s gaze out over the top of Mount Lithia. I listen for the sound of the wind in the trees and try to forget what I’ve just learned: that I will need to keep these two men in my life far, far apart.
Eight
This evening, I’ve decided to run alone. In other words, without Alex. There are two reasons—one sane and one insane.
The sane reason first: He and I have been arguing a lot lately. Since that hike with my dad a few days ago, we’ve both been on edge. After the hike, we got into a huge argument as he walked me back to my cottage. I accused him of ruining our afternoon, and he said that my dad is part of the environmental problems the world is having. He also asked me a lot of questions about what my dad is doing here, and he didn’t seem to believe that he’s here to get to know me. I hated being treated like some naïve little girl who can’t look out for herself—and besides, it isn’t at all like Alex to do that. I finally asked, What is going on, Alex? He said he was stressed about organizing the protest, gave me a quick kiss, and left.
The second reason I’m jogging alone, the insane reason: I’m hoping to see the ghost again. Alex would absolutely not approve of this little adventure. But that’s just it. It’s my adventure, not his, and I have a feeling that I can only see this ghost if I’m alone.
As I enter the Lost Mine Trail and the light is dimmed by tree cover, I think about a term I used to hear back when I ran track in high school: ghost runner.
A ghost runner is someone who is always right behind you, pushing you, always about to pass you. Or so you think. Sometimes there is no runner. Sometimes it’s just a ghost of a runner, the idea of a runner right behind you, that keeps you at your pace.
When I trained for cross country in high school, I used to tell myself that there was someone right behind me, just about to catch me. Sometimes I imagined another runner. Sometimes, when I was really exhausted and near total collapse, I pictured a monster of some kind. A Frankenstein-type monster in running shorts. Or Freddy Krueger in a tank top. Silly, sure, but also scary. There’s nothing like your life hanging in the balance to help you set a new personal best.
And it worked. There were girls on the team who thought it odd that I ran alone, as they always ran in packs. But for me running wasn’t social; I was competitive, even if I was only competing with myself. And every weekend I would trounce them in our heats and qualifiers and, eventually, the state championship. My ghost runner served me well back then.
Now I’m searching for a real ghost runner.
And maybe that’s not as insane here in Lithia as it would be anywhere else. I keep discovering, the hard way usually, that Lithia is not like any other place on earth. These hills are haunted. As Roman once said: filled with spirits. When I ran Cloudline, I’d encountered a ghost—some sort of otherworldly spirit that chased me back into the race, helping me win. So the fact that there is a ghost on this trail doesn’t feel all that unusual. After all, I’ve met her before. I just never expected to see her again.
After about two miles I slow down to a walk, then stop. I’m near the spot where I last saw her. I still don’t know why I think of the spirit as female, but somehow I know I’m not wrong about that.
Except for the birds calling to one another in the twilight, everything is quiet. I consider calling out to the ghost. But that’s ridiculous.
Still, I’m all alone out here. So I say it, just like that: “Hello!”
Only the birds answer me. So I call out again, a bit louder, hoping there isn’t a real, living, breathing person on the trail to witness this act of insanity. I wonder who this spirit is—someone who died in the mountains, killed by one of the vampires? A real runner who just likes to revisit her favorite trails?
And then I hear the sound.
Footsteps in the distance.
I try to locate them—are they uphill or downhill? Human or otherwise? I’m clueless, and the footsteps are getting louder, the pace advancing. And then I see it: the ghost, heading uphill, right toward me. It is definitely a ghost, translucent and blurry around the edges.
My heart is racing, but I stand my ground, and the ghost passes me, brushing my shoulder again, though this time I’m ready, standing firm, and she doesn’t knock me over as she did before.
But as I spin around, I see her fading as she continues on the trail. Here I am, ready for a confrontation, and she’s disappearing. Even though it is supposed to be the ghost chasing me, I begin to run after her.
I’m only ten yards behind but unable to gain ground. I keep my eyes on her, and I can see that I was right—even blurred, she’s clearly female: the slender shoulders, the wider hips, an arc of light around her head that I think is a ponytail.
And she’s fast. A strong runner.
I haven’t run against someone like this in a long time, real or imagined.
Then it hits me, and I feel my lungs convulse at the thought, bringing me to a skidding halt.
Stacey.
I force myself to keep running, to keep chasing her. This is crazy, a voice inside my head screams out. But I don’t care. I’m not afraid.
I flash back again to Cloudline, when I fell down the side of a hill. I remember the ghost I saw�
��the ghost that frightened me back onto my feet and up that trail, with my scratched and bleeding leg, within seconds. And I remember silently thanking that ghost for giving me the jolt I needed.
But I can’t maintain this pace; my legs tire out, and I have to walk again. When I stop, all I can hear is my own heavy breathing. Soon I begin to doubt myself. Maybe it wasn’t a ghost but just a cloud. The clouds tend to sink down into these trails, low and wispy, clinging to the hills and getting whisked around by the wind. A light cloud and a rush of wind through the trees can easily look like a ghost. Especially to someone who has an active imagination and who misses her friend.
I shake off the doubt and stand there, looking around, hoping to see the ghost again.
But there is nothing. Just silence. I stand patiently, looking up at the birds, the branches swaying above.
Even as I head back down the trail, I’m filled with hope. Hope that this really might be the ghost of Stacey. It would make so much sense—the runner, the female spirit—and we’re not far from where her horrible murder happened. I want to see her again, to ask for forgiveness for leaving her alone on the trail that fateful day.
I think the hills of Lithia just might grant me that wish.
~
The next day, Alex and I have a picnic dinner in Manzanita Park. It was his idea; I think he wants to make up for our arguing over my dad. He brings a blanket and food from the co-op, and we sit near the creek and listen to the water rush past. Dribble is more like it, since there is not much water in the creek these days. I watch as two ducks huddle together in a shallow pond. A deer stands by the water’s edge, having a drink.
I can’t help thinking about what Lindquist said in class today. Someone was talking about all the deer in town, how they had become a nuisance. And Lindquist said, That’s your point of view. But look at it from their perspective. They were here first. We are just as much of a nuisance to them as they are to us.
I think about the water, or lack of it, and what would happen if a fire did start up on the hills. This park is like a long driveway, extending from the deep forest right into the heart of Lithia. A fire would travel like a high-speed car down that driveway and into downtown.
We aren’t saying much, Alex and I, but it’s not exactly an uncomfortable silence. There’s something about being out in nature that soothes all my wounds, and Alex seems to feel the same way.
But finally he speaks. “I’m sorry about being so hard on your father. I’m just trying to look out for you.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But I wish you’d give the guy a break.”
“I know, I know. Just because he stands for everything that’s wrong in the world today doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Come on, seriously, Alex. I’ve never had much of a family, and I’m just trying to meet him halfway. I know he’s not perfect. But nobody is, right?”
“True,” Alex says. “But be careful, Kat. It just seems odd that he’d show up all of a sudden and want to be your best friend.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I am being careful. Look, if anyone should understand second chances, it should be you. People can change, can’t they? Like you did?”
He nods thoughtfully. “You’re right. I’m in no position to judge. I guess I’m a little protective of you, that’s all.” He leans over to give me a kiss. “I can’t help that I’m crazy about you, Kat.” He twirls a lock of my hair around his finger. “Or should I say ‘Scooter’?”
I see him grinning and punch him lightly on the shoulder. “You were never supposed to hear that. And you may not call me Scooter.”
He laughs and pretends to massage his injured shoulder. “Agreed.”
“You know, I’m impressed, actually. That he got that job.”
Alex rolls his eyes. “Even if it does mean building up more of Lithia. He’s going all out to win you back, that’s for sure. That’s one thing we have in common, I guess.” Alex gives me another kiss. “So, did he tell you where he’s working?”
“I think he said Highland Hills.”
“Highland Hills?” Alex pulls away, surprised.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Do you know where that is?”
“He didn’t say. Why?”
“Highland Hills is that development near the Lost Mine Trail. By that developer we’re protesting—Ed Jacobs.”
The gravity of the realization grows heavy on my shoulders. I’ve been trying not to think about the fact that my father’s livelihood is in an industry that I abhor—I’m just trying to be grateful that he’s got a job. I didn’t even think about the possibility it could be with Ed Jacobs’s development company. “I thought they shut down construction on that project.”
“Well, that’s what this is all about. They’re gearing up to start everything up again, and they seem to think they will very soon. This is why we need to fight it.”
“I didn’t know.” I have no idea what else to say. I agree with Alex. Ed Jacobs is destroying Lithia, one parcel at a time, and he must be stopped. But I can’t exactly ask my dad to quit out of protest—or can I? I suddenly feel very nervous.
“This isn’t going to come between us, is it?” I ask.
“I hope not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I’m committed to stopping Jacobs. It means that I’ve got a protest planned next week at City Hall because of this whole land grab. Jacobs is trying to get ownership of the Horton property, and if he does, he’ll destroy what’s left of those hills. We have to stop him. You said you’d join me, remember?”
“Just because my dad works for Jacobs doesn’t mean I can’t join you.”
“Really? You mean that?”
“Of course. I’ll be there with you at City Hall. And I’ll invite Dad to come along, too.”
I watch his eyes go wide; then he gets my feeble joke and offers a weak smile. “Very funny,” he says, even though he clearly doesn’t think so.
“Who’s this Horton, anyway?” I ask.
“Horton is an old family name. They were one of the pioneer families that founded Lithia. At one point they owned most of the land around here, but over the years they gradually sliced it up and sold it off. Evelyn Horton was the last in the family line. She died a couple of years ago, and the property is apparently tied up in some sort of blind trust. I haven’t been able to figure out who actually owns it. A law firm is the executor of the will. I called them once, acting like I was interested in buying it, and they told me they were still executing the will, whatever that means.” He pauses. “What an awful word to associate with a will—executing. I mean, the person’s already dead, for crying out loud.”
I smile, glad he’s changed the subject, and I decide to change it even further. “Speaking of the dead,” I say, “you’ll never guess what I saw up on the Lost Mine Trail.”
“What?”
“A ghost.”
Alex’s jaw drops. “When was this?”
“Two times. Most recently, yesterday evening.”
“You ran without me?”
Oops. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“I’m a big girl, Alex. Get over it.”
“Okay, so what happened?”
“At first I thought it was a real person running down the trail, until it came around the corner and I realized I could see right through it. It knocked me off the trail the first time. But yesterday I chased it.”
“You what?”
“I can’t explain, but I felt it was a woman. Maybe even Stacey. I had to find out for sure.”
“Did you?”
“No. She outran me. Just like Stacey would have.”
“That’s probably a good thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know that it’s Stacey. And not all of those spirits are friendly. These forests are, to put it mildly, interesting places. Some of the trees are old growth—haven’t be
en touched in thousands of years. It’s a good place for spirits to live in peace. But not all of them want peace. So be careful.”
“Do you talk to them?”
“Me?”
“You’re a vampire. I figure if anyone can, you can.”
“Sure, we can communicate, if we want. But we avoid them.”
“You? Vampires? Afraid of ghosts?”
“I wouldn’t say afraid. We just keep a respectful distance.”
“Are these ghosts dangerous?”
“They can be. They are people who have died and have unfinished business to attend to. We are people who never die, and they don’t appreciate that. We can’t touch them, but they can sure torture us. They give us nightmares. And sometimes we envy them their death. They’ve attained something we’ll never attain. We’re both in our separate purgatories, I guess you’d say.”
“Do you think Stacey could be up there somewhere?”
“How would I know?” His voice changes, and I can’t detect why. But one thing is clear: He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. So I let it go.
I lean back onto our picnic blanket and let my eyes wander up into the darkening hills above Lithia. I wonder if Stacey is looking down at me right now. I have to go back and try again to find her. If this spirit is Stacey and she has unfinished business, then I, too, have unfinished business.
Nine
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Standing in line with Lucy in the lobby of the Lithia College auditorium. Waiting for my audition.
“What’s the play again?” I ask.
“Rumor has it that it’s Measure for Measure,” Lucy says. “I read it in a class last year. It’s one of Shakespeare’s so-called ‘problem plays.’”
“Problem? What kind of problem?”
“Meaning it’s a comedy, Shakespeare’s last comedy, but it’s also a tragedy. It’s the story of this nun, Isabella, who must rescue her brother from execution. And to do that she has to give up the one thing that’s most important to her—her chastity.”
The Ghost Runner Page 6
