Wherever You Go

by Heather Davis

  I bit my lower lip. "I'm not p Sp. t prretending," I said.

  "You know what I mean."

  I studied him in the wash of the streetlights as he drove. Noticing his strong chin, his full lips, his eyes fully concentrating on the road ahead. "Why do you keep saying that stuff, Jason? You talk like you see through some kind of act I'm putting on or something."

  "That's because I do." Jason pulled up in front of my building and cut the engine. "And something about you makes me want to tell you that I do."

  "Something about me," I repeated. My skin prickled with little goose bumps. It wasn't fear—it was nervousness.

  "I see you working so hard to be strong. So hard to keep everything together. To not fall apart. But that's not your job."

  My throat tightened. "I have to keep things together," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. If I didn't keep things together, nobody would. That was the truth I didn't want to tell him. "I have to."

  "Not around me," Jason said. "You don't have to be strong around me."

  I closed my eyes, not wanting to hear what he was saying. But then I felt his hand on my cheek, holding the side of my face. I opened my eyes to find him gazing at me, his eyes so sincere. My breathing quickened, and suddenly I felt very warm, like I needed some air. Maybe I was having some kind of a panic attack. Almost everything in me wanted to run. My fingers reached for the door handle, but I didn't pull it open.

  His strong hand still cradled my cheek. I felt my body fighting to relax into it. But I knew that if I let myself fall into him, if I let myself move even a fraction of an inch toward him, I was going to let him hold me. I couldn't let him do that.

  He looked down at my left hand, which was gripping the edge of the seat so tightly, my knuckles were white. I forced my fingers to release their grasp on the seat, and the others on the door handle. He rubbed his thumb across my chin and then moved his hand away.

  My eyes felt wet. "I should get this stuff upstairs," I said, my voice all cloggy. And then I did something that surprised me—and probably Jason. I leaned across the seat and kissed him very gently on the lips.

  When I pulled away, I couldn't look over at him again. I just reached back and grabbed the grocery sack and got out of the car as fast as I could. I tripped my way up the path and punched the apartment number on the call box so my mother could buzz me in.

  I didn't glance back, but I know he waited until he saw me get inside, because I heard the car drive off down the street. Huddled against the row of mailboxes in the lobby, I waited for the stupid, broken-down elevator to hurry up and come. Wiping my tears away on the sleeves of my hoodie. Trying to breathe. I didn't want to be a mess when I got upstairs with the cheese.

  I didn't want anyone to know what I'd done. Or what I'd felt.

  ***

  It's going to be a long day in the afterlife without Aldo to talk to—but the night before really freaked the both of you out. You never thought you'd team up with an old guy to be a crime stopper. For half a second you think maybe that's the reason you're stuck on Earth—to save that clerk's life. But no. There wasn't a blinding light calling you to anywhere else. You're still here enduring another day with the living.

  Today you follow your dad to the office and waste time hanging out while he reviews investment portfolios. It's so boring that you can't blame yourself for never having wanted to go into finance. Next you spend a few hours watching your little sister at her elementary school, where they were rehearsing for the second grade play. She makes a cute butterfly, even if she can't remember the lines. You're pretty sure she has a boyfriend in her class—a tall Korean kid who keeps telling awful jokes from a tattered paperback he carries around in his backpack.

  Curious, you sneak around Harborview Medical Center, where they took the minimart store owner. He's out of intensive care, but he's still hooked to monitors. You sit with him and read the cards attached to the flower arrangements in his room. Some of the bouquets were sent anonymously, from people who read about the robbery and beating in the newspaper or online. The man's name is Marty Rodriguez. Funny, he didn't look like a Marty when you saw him last night. You try to read his medical chart but find out that eavesdropping at the nurses' station is a lot easier. He's got minor brain injuries, a broken nose and jaw. Subdermal hematomas. Whatever those are. You never wanted to go to medical school either.

  Back at your house, your mother is having a hard day. She's been sitting in your room for a long while. You notice that nothing's changed about it since you died. Your books and sports trophies line the shelves. Your laptop is still plugged in on the desk, powering up as if you'd come back any moment to claim it. The same sheets and comforter are on the bed. Your shoes wait near the door for feet that never come.

  Your mom slides open the closet door and finds your letterman's jacket from basketball that says DUNWORTHY in big letters across the back. She slips it on for a while and stands in front of the mirror. Tears well in her eyes, but she tries to focus on the jacket. It's big on her; the sleeves hang way down past her fingers.

  You put your arm around her, and in the reflection, it looks real, like you're actually touching. "Don't cry," you say, feeling like your heart is about to crush to dust in your chest.

  She glances behind her, as if she's heard your message, felt your arm around her shoulders. But then she seems to shake off the feeling. She sucks in a breath and then reverently places the jacket back on the hanger. Back in her room, she crawls into bed.

  You don't feel like it's an intrusion to stay and watch over her, so you take a seat in the corner of the room, in the chair where your mom likes to read mystery novels. She sleeps for a couple of hours and then suddenly sits up, realizing it's late afternoon. She bolts from bed, brushing her teeth, wiping away any signs of smeared makeup from cryi Seupes openng, smoothing her long, brown hair into a quick bun.

  Now she's a whirlwind in the kitchen. You perch on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, watching her mash together ingredients for turkey meatloaf and then bake some cookies from frozen dough. She fills the time until Kayla gets home watching some lame talk show, flipping through some decorating magazines. She gets your sister a snack, asks her how her day was. And the Mom you saw, the one that you watched cry, has completely vanished into thin air. This is the Mom you always knew—the Mom who smoothed away the rough edges.

  Your father is late coming home, but your mom puts on a smile and the family sits down to eat. You take your place at the north end of the table.

  Dad takes a bite of the mashed potatoes first. He pauses in chewing, then swallows. "You put roasted garlic in them," he says, wiping his mouth. "You haven't done that in a while."

  "Yeah. I was thinking of Rob," she replies. "He was on my mind all afternoon. When I got to the potatoes, I couldn't help but make his favorite."

  Your dad sets down his fork. "Come on. I can't take this, Karen. Not after the long day I've had."

  "It's only potatoes."

  Kayla takes a long drink of milk. "I miss Rob," she says.

  "I know, honey." Your dad starts eating again, forcing bite after bite until his plate is clean.

  After the table is cleared, you join him in the den, where he's relaxing alone with whisky and an Adam Sandler movie.

  I'm still here, Dad, you whisper as you float down next to him on the couch.

  Your dad cuddles into the fleece blanket around him and clicks the volume up a notch on the movie. His gaze drifts to the wall of family photos. Every Christmas except last year's is recorded in living color and preserved in a perfect gold frame. Looking like he's about to lose it, your dad takes a slug of his drink. He stares down into the brown-tinted ice cubes, rattling the near-empty glass.

  I'm here. Cut it out already!

  Exasperated, you think of Aldo and you're transported to Holly's kitchen.

  Mrs. Mullen is serving up a batch of gooey-looking macaroni and nervously checking her watch. Holly, her eyes red rimmed, is at the head of the tabl
e, doling out peas to Grandpa Aldo and Lena. Instinctively, you walk toward your love, wishing there was something you could do to cure the sadness you see in her face.

  "Roberto," says Aldo, giving you a wave at the other end of the table. "Welcome."

  Mrs. Mullen seems alarmed at Aldo's sudden murmuring.

  "Shhh," you say. "Cool it with the vocals." S th.

  "You know I can't help it," Aldo replies. "I'm glad to see you. Does this mean you want to talk about why you're here?"

  Holly doesn't look at her grandpa. She's pushing mac and cheese around on her plate, mixing the elbows with peas, one by one.

  You swallow back the anger rising inside you. "I can't take this anymore," you say. "I can't take hanging around and seeing everyone I love so miserable."

  "Oh, Roberto," Aldo says. He puts his napkin on the side of the plate and stands up from the table, startling everyone. "Please, come with me."

  "What's wrong?" Holly raises her head. "Grandpa?"

  "You finished, Papa?" asks Mrs. Mullen.

  Aldo shuffles off down the hall, motioning for you to follow.

  And you think, just maybe, you've found your spirit guide at last.

  <%">

  Chapter Eight

  Aldo perches on the edge of the bed and waves his hand toward the empty seat at the desk. "Please, my friend," he says. "Make yourself at home."

  You move into the space of the chair. It's wire, with a pink cushion, part of a two-piece set Holly had probably picked up at a yard sale. You remember how uncomfortable it is, even if you can't feel it now. Above the desk is a bulletin board, painted pink, but now stripped of all Holly's photos.

  "You seem very upset," Aldo says. He runs a hand over his stubbly chin and studies you. His eyes are the color of the Mediterranean, blue-blue like Holly's. "What's happened?"

  Your frustration threatens to boil over, so you first take a deep breath. "It's everything," you say. "My mom. Dad. Holly. I don't think I can take this anymore. I mean, what is the point of being dead if I'm stuck here with all of these people."

  Aldo chuckles. "Most people would want to see their famiglia," he said.

  "No, I mean, I want to see them," you reply. "It's just that they're hurting and there's nothing I can do. And I'm pretty sure I'm part of the reason they're hurting..."

  The old guy lets out a low whistle. It's clear sounding in your mind, but physically, he's barely able to purse his lips. "Losing a kid would do that."

  "I thought," you say, "that when you die it all goes away, you know? That you float off into a blissful place."

  "Oh, rainbows and ice cream sundaes for everyone?" Aldo's eyes crinkle in the corners as he smiles. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

  "I guess I was saying I expected heaven."< Vight=/font>

  "You believe in heaven?" Aldo asks. "I didn't know that you young ones did anymore. Not that I did when I was your age—well, except maybe at confession. Aside from that, we didn't think about heaven, we just hoped we didn't end up in the other place." He manages a sloppy wink.

  You can't bring yourself to smile. "All I know is that there's no freaking light, Aldo. All of these days of mine go by and no light is anywhere. There's no end in sight."

  "No angel descending in a chariot to pick you up, Roberto?"

  "Exactly." You fold your arms.

  "Then, perhaps you have work to do. Isn't that the common wisdom? You're a ghost, and ghosts have unfinished business."

  You chew your bottom lip. "Yeah. You said that the other night..."

  There's a knock on the door. "Papa? I'm leaving for work now," Holly's mom, Julia, says, coming in.

  "Good night," he mumbles.

  She walks over to the edge of the bed and kisses her father on the head. "I'm going to make an appointment with Dr. Wells this week. I want you to get a check-up."

  "All right." Aldo manages a weak smile, which she repays by looking away, her eyes full of tears. She moves to the door and closes it behind her.

  And it hits you—as much as you need Aldo's help, he's not even fully able to speak for himself. Sometimes, when he zones out, he can't talk to his family any more than you can.

  He gives you a pained look, reading your thoughts again. "I'm sorry, where were we?"

  "Uh ... we were talking about unfinished stuff. How I'm going to cross over?"

  "To the land of rainbows and ice cream sundaes?"

  "Yeah."

  "Hey! That's a first," Aldo says, lifting a shaky finger to point at your quirked mouth. "It's nice to see you do that."

  "I've smiled before," you protest.

  "Not at me, kid. You've been so glum since you arrived, you're lucky I didn't think you were an evil spirit."

  "Ha, like I'd ever be evil."

  "Really," he says, waving off your skepticism. "People where I grew up still believe in them. Family curses, the Evil Eye—we call it the malocchio. Ghosts. We've got them all."

  "Well, you're right to believe in ghosts. I am a guy that just died."

  "You're just a boy," says Aldo, raising his eyebrows.

  "A man. I would have turned eighteen in December."

  Aldo shrugs. "Too young, anyway."

  Neither of you says anything for a moment, both absorbed by the thought. You are too young. You know that. And probably to Aldo, it seems a waste to die so young. Was it? You're not sure.

  Aldo's eyes close, as if he's on the edge of drifting off. His breathing steadies.

  "So, what do you think?" you ask. "Could you help me?"

  The old guy opens his eyes and studies you. "Eh ... sure, but what am I supposed to do?"

  "I have no idea."

  "You are a very honest boy," Aldo says, and you feel your heart constrict a little. Honest? You know in your soul that's not quite true.

  Aldo scoots up so he can sit against the headboard of the bed, swinging his legs up onto the covers. He unbuttons the lower buttons of his cardigan sweater, letting his belly kind of pooch out. "Roberto. Roberto, the ghost," he says, as if he's thinking it over.

  "So, how do we get started? What do we do first?"

  "I have no idea, kid," Aldo says. "Let's talk some more and maybe we'll figure it out together."

  Yeah, it's not like you have any better ideas. And you have this feeling that you were meant to find each other—that he really is the key to helping you get out of this living hell on Earth. You can't lean back in your chair, but you let your ghostly posture slump, relax a little.

  "So, you grew up in Italy, huh?"

  Aldo nods, and pleasure takes over his voice as he unwinds a story and the minutes tick-tick away.

  ***

  One of the things I hated the most about my school was that they were always trying to figure out your future. Pin down your plans in black and white. The counselors were nice, but I often got the feeling that it wasn't really about the kids—that maybe it was so the listing they do when you graduate would have a higher number of kids moving on to higher education, more than those going into the military or who have no plans at all or who dropped out to have a baby or because they've gone to rehab.

  I hadn't been in the counseling center, as they called it, in months, but apparently that Wednesday my number was up. It was time to put me under the microscope. Maybe about college. Maybe about how I had quit the grief support group. I sure wasn't thinking about any of that. I was just reliving that awkward kiss in Jason's car over and over in my head like it was a video clip and I was seeing it outside of myself, from a distance.

  [e.

  "I'm just so surprised that you have no college plans mapped out, Holly. It's late in the year," Mr. Croft, the youngest of the three school counselors, said while flipping through the manila folder on his desk. HOLIDAY MULLEN was typed on a round-edged white label that'd been pasted over someone else's name, someone long gone. Maybe a few someones, judging by the thickness of the layers of labels.

  "Hmm ... you haven't applied anywhere..." It was a question and yet n
ot a question the way he said it. Behind his round glasses, his eyes were steady on me, his expression concerned.

  I didn't get how people could just put that on—just care in an instant like that about some kid like me who they barely knew. Since he'd been hired this school year, I'd only met with him twice. Once after the accident. Once to have him tell me that I should sign up for the grief group.

  "You want to go to college, don't you?" This time it really was a question. He smiled gently, the first smile he'd given me since I'd come into the office. "According to your file, that seems to be your plan, based on the classes you've taken the last few years."

  I wanted to tell him that I'd do anything to get out of town, to go to some esteemed college on the East Coast, maybe somewhere Ivy League. But there was no way. No way to afford it, no way to leave everyone at home. And what would I do there, anyway?

  "Your grades had been good," Mr. Croft continued. "At the end of last year you were in the top ten percent of your class."

  "I know." I looked at Mr. Croft's clean hand clutching his silver pen. His nails were short, clipped, and his watch was silver. For a school employee, he seemed like he was doing pretty well. "Where did you go to college?" I asked.

  He cleared his throat. "I went to Stanford."

  And you're working here, at a high school? I finished the thought for the both of us silently. "You know, Mr. Croft—realistically, I'm going to have to work for a while between high school and college," I said. "Maybe get a few classes out of the way at the community college. I probably should have been taking some of those through the advanced program this year."

  "I don't see how you could have managed those, Holly." He didn't have to explain why he thought that. I knew. The accident had happened in September, after one of the first football games. A month recovering had left me behind in my classes. I'd missed Homecoming. Not that I would have tried to go without Rob. I hadn't wanted to do anything, even go to school, until December. My life had been hollowed out like a pumpkin scraped of all its seeds and guts.

  He cleared his throat. "So, there are a few need-based scholarships available. A student with your grades still has a great chance. You just need to apply." His eyes were kind, and I felt bad for a second. If you didn't give a counselor something to counsel you with, what were they there for?