Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  The ot­her ghosts be­gan to gat­her aro­und, lu­red by my pre­sen­ce.

  “Sorry, I got­ta go.” I left Lo­gan’s ex-grand­mot­her to cry alo­ne in the dark.

  Me­gan sto­od in the lobby, han­ding out prog­rams and di­rec­ting pe­op­le li­ke a play­ho­use us­her. Wor­king at her fa­mily’s fu­ne­ral ho­me me­ant that sin­ce tur­ning six­te­en, she’d had an even cre­epi­er job than mi­ne. For an ext­ra char­ge, Mr. or Mrs. McCon­nell wo­uld bring her to a gri­eving fa­mily’s ho­me to see if the de­ce­ased’s ghost ap­pe­ared with any spe­ci­al re­qu­ests, which we­re al­most al­ways we­ird.

  Me­gan’s ha­ir was pul­led back to co­ver the gre­en stre­ak, and her lips­tick was a warm red sha­de ins­te­ad of the usu­al ne­ar black.

  She led an el­derly co­up­le to­ward the clo­sest vi­ewing ro­om, which had a small sign out­si­de: EDITH MAS­TER­SON. The mul­tip­le-hus­band lady, no do­ubt.

  Then Me­gan swept over and ga­ve me a hu­ge hug. “He lo­oks as cu­te as ever,” she whis­pe­red.

  I gu­ess that was sup­po­sed to com­fort me.

  “Lo­gan’s grand­mom is out­si­de,” I told Me­gan.

  “I know,” she sa­id as she hug­ged my aunt. “Dylan was tal­king to her for a long ti­me. Pe­op­le wal­king by kept sta­ring at him.”

  By “pe­op­le,” of co­ur­se, she me­ant pre-Shif­ters.

  A gro­up of six guys wan­de­red in, lo­oking awk­ward in su­its and ti­es. I’d se­en them at the Ke­eley Brot­hers’ gigs. My gut grew he­avy as it hit me that the­re’d ne­ver be anot­her show.

  “Mic­key’s fri­ends. I sho­uld say hi.” Me­gan han­ded us a pa­ir of gre­en prog­rams, then le­aned over and kis­sed my che­ek. “Be strong.”

  My legs felt numb car­rying me down the cor­ri­dor. When we tur­ned in­to the vi­ewing ro­om, I clutc­hed Gi­na’s hand so tight I tho­ught her bo­nes wo­uld crumb­le. But she squ­e­ezed back just as hard. It was the only thing that kept me stan­ding.

  A sea of pe­op­le fil­led the low-lit ro­om, whe­re a long li­ne led bet­we­en rows of cha­irs. Va­gu­ely I re­cal­led the vi­ewings of my gre­at-aunts and gre­at-uncles in Phi­la­delp­hia. We had fi­led past the fa­mily, hug­ged them (li­ke at a wed­ding), kne­eled in front of the open cas­ket for an ap­prop­ri­ate amo­unt of ti­me, then ta­ken our se­ats. Ze­ro dra­ma.

  Except for the hug­ging and kne­eling, this was not­hing li­ke the old pe­op­le’s vi­ewings. Sobs, snif­fles, and a rag­ged cho­rus of “I can’t be­li­eve it” drow­ned out the sup­po­sedly so­ot­hing or­gan mu­sic. Ever­yo­ne le­aned on one anot­her li­ke the pi­eces in a ho­use of cards. I wan­ted to ask Gi­na if my mot­her’s fu­ne­ral had be­en this emo­ti­onal.

  I for­ced myself to bre­at­he. I can do this.

  Sud­denly the li­ne shif­ted as Si­ob­han and Mic­key pus­hed past. Ins­tinc­ti­vely I put out my hands to them.

  Si­ob­han lurc­hed for­ward in­to my arms. “I can’t ta­ke it any­mo­re. Dylan’s al­re­ady lost it, he’s ho­led up in the men’s ro­om.”

  Mic­key had re-dyed his ha­ir, rep­la­cing the blond-stre­aked jet-black with the na­tu­ral Ke­eley nut brown. The sa­me co­lor as Lo­gan’s be­fo­re he’d ble­ac­hed it two ye­ars ago.

  “Ever­yo­ne’s gi­ving us lo­oks.” Mic­key’s up­per lip cur­led to a ne­ar snarl. “Li­ke we don’t fe­el gu­ilty eno­ugh.”

  “It’s our fa­ult,” Si­ob­han cri­ed. “We we­re sup­po­sed to ta­ke ca­re of everyt­hing. We ne­ver sho­uld’ve had that party.”

  “Stop it, Si­ob­han.” Mic­key ra­ked a hand thro­ugh his ha­ir, which now fell in short, soft wa­ves ins­te­ad of gel­led-up spi­kes. “Let’s get you so­me wa­ter and so­me air.”

  The li­ne had mo­ved on wit­ho­ut me, and Gi­na ga­ve me a small wa­ve a few fe­et ahe­ad. I jo­ined her. The cas­ket was vi­sib­le now aga­inst the far wall. A light sho­ne down from abo­ve, li­ke a spot­light from he­aven. But Lo­gan’s body was bloc­ked by the pe­op­le kne­eling in front of the cas­ket.

  I can do this. I had to ke­ep it to­get­her for Lo­gan’s pa­rents.

  “Oh, go­od Lord.” Gi­na clic­ked her ton­gue. “That po­or wo­man lo­oks tranq’d to the gills. I don’t bla­me her. I’d be co­ma­to­se if anyt­hing ever hap­pe­ned to you.”

  In her black dress and hat, Mrs. Ke­eley sta­red past each gre­eter with dis­tant, clo­uded eyes, nod­ding bri­efly at the­ir words of com­fort. She lo­oked twi­ce as sto­ned as I’d felt on Sa­tur­day af­ter the Va­li­um. Mr. Ke­eley se­emed to be fe­eling the pa­in for both of them-his fa­ce was red, damp, and twis­ted with gri­ef.

  The li­ne mo­ved aga­in, and the­re was Lo­gan.

  A chill spre­ad up my body un­til I co­uldn’t mo­ve or even blink.

  His ha­ir had be­en dyed back to brown. In his dark blue su­it and red tie, he lo­oked ol­der and yo­un­ger at the sa­me ti­me. Li­ke a stockb­ro­ker or a kid pla­ying dress-up.

  This. Wasn’t. Lo­gan.

  “No…” My eyes be­gan to burn. “Why co­uldn’t they-why did they ha­ve to-”

  Thro­ugh the flo­od of te­ars, I saw a blur of Gi­na’s blond ha­ir as she pul­led me clo­se, then pres­sed my fa­ce aga­inst her neck. Her per­fu­me al­most ma­de me gag, but I didn’t mo­ve away.

  “Swe­etie, I’m so, so sorry.” Her own vo­ice cho­ked. “This sho­uld not hap­pen. This sho­uld not ever hap­pen.”

  Then she ste­ered me away from the cas­ket to­ward Lo­gan’s pa­rents. Mrs. Ke­eley ga­zed past me and Gi­na as we gre­eted her, sa­ying not­hing but “Thank you so much for co­ming.” I tur­ned to Lo­gan’s fat­her.

  “Aura, hon.” Mr. Ke­eley wrap­ped me up in a be­ar hug, so tight I co­uldn’t bre­at­he. “You po­or girl. I can’t even ima­gi­ne…”

  I gras­ped his back, sca­red he wo­uld col­lap­se. He was the clo­sest thing I’d ever had to a fat­her. I co­uldn’t lo­se him, too.

  When Mr. Ke­eley fi­nal­ly let go, the fu­ne­ral di­rec­tor to­uc­hed his arm and whis­pe­red a qu­es­ti­on abo­ut the ce­re­mony. Gi­na held on to Mrs. Ke­eley’s hand, mur­mu­ring and sha­king her he­ad.

  Le­aving me alo­ne with Lo­gan.

  As I ap­pro­ac­hed his cas­ket, the ro­om be­hind me hus­hed. By now ever­yo­ne knew I’d be­en the last to see him ali­ve.

  I drop­ped to my kne­es be­si­de him. His skin had a rosy, un­na­tu­ral­ly he­althy hue. His lips we­re pink and full, li­ke af­ter we’d be­en ma­king out for ho­urs. I co­uldn’t stop sta­ring at them, re­mem­be­ring how they’d felt aga­inst mi­ne.

  But it was all so wrong. This wasn’t Lo­gan, and I don’t me­an be­ca­use his spi­rit was in a bet­ter pla­ce. I me­an it was wrong. Be­ca­use tho­se lips we­re just the­re, do­ing not­hing. Not kis­sing, not sin­ging, not smi­ling.

  I lo­we­red my chin to pray, sort of. Sorry, God and the Po­pe, but this open cas­ket thing is re­tar­ded. I didn’t want to re­mem­ber Lo­gan this way. I tri­ed to re­call my last ima­ge of him. His ghost had lo­oked li­ke he did when we we­re in bed to­get­her, his shirt open and his ha­ir to­us­led by my hands.

  I tri­ed to go back to the full-co­lor ver­si­on, and fo­und that the vi­olet had blot­ted out my me­mory. But Lo­gan the Ghost was a mil­li­on ti­mes bet­ter than Lo­gan the Corp­se.

  “Whe­re­ver you are,” I whis­pe­red, “I ho­pe you’re smi­ling.”

  I felt my aunt kne­el next to me, he­ard the rat­tle of her pur­se’s zip­per as she cros­sed her­self. I knew she was pra­ying si­lently, fer­vently, for Lo­gan’s so­ul to pass on and ne­ver co­me back.

  I can’t do this.

  I ran.

  It was a mi­rac­le I got out of the crow­ded ro­om wit­ho­ut step­ping on an­yo­ne or bre­a
king my leg. Me­gan cal­led my na­me as I swept past her in the lobby, but I didn’t slow down.

  Grand­ma Ke­eley was wa­iting on the bench out­si­de the front do­or. I sat be­si­de her, and we cri­ed to­get­her, whi­le the ghosts of stran­gers held the­ir own si­lent vi­gils.

  La­ter that night the Ke­eleys had a gat­he­ring at the­ir ho­use, just for fa­mily and a hund­red clo­se fri­ends. Bri­an Knox ca­me but didn’t spe­ak to me, even when he li­te­ral­ly bum­ped in­to me at the buf­fet tab­le, spil­ling my punch all over my mi­ni ham sand­wich. He mur­mu­red an apo­logy and left the ro­om. It se­emed Bri­an, Na­di­ne, and Emily didn’t stay long on­ce they re­ali­zed the adults we­re en­for­cing the drin­king age.

  Away from the som­ber fu­ne­ral ho­me, I held it to­get­her okay and ma­na­ged to carry on a nor­mal-ish con­ver­sa­ti­on with Con­nor and a co­up­le of Ke­eley co­usins. But whi­le part of my bra­in was lis­te­ning (and even cont­ri­bu­ting a tho­ught or two) to the­ir dis­cus­si­on of the up­co­ming Ra­vens ga­me, the rest of me was lo­oking for a chan­ce to run up to Lo­gan’s bed­ro­om and crawl un­der his co­vers. I won­de­red if his pil­low­ca­se still smel­led li­ke his ha­ir. If I fol­ded it re­al­ly tight, it wo­uld fit in­si­de my jac­ket wit­ho­ut le­aving a bul­ge.

  When the front fo­yer was empty, I mo­ved to­ward the steps, pre­ten­ding I was on my way to the bath­ro­om.

  A shri­ek ca­me from the dar­ke­ned ups­ta­irs. Child­ren la­ug­hing. Not gig­gling or snic­ke­ring. Howls of la­ugh­ter.

  I hur­ri­ed up to find out what was go­ing on. A lit­tle girl in a dark gre­en vel­vet dress stre­aked down the dim hal­lway, her pa­tent le­at­her sho­es slap­ping the car­pet. Her la­ugh­ter ma­de her sway back and forth.

  A boy her age po­ked his he­ad out of the mas­ter bed­ro­om and wa­ved fran­ti­cal­ly. “He’s in he­re now! Go back!”

  The lit­tle girl slid to a stop, fal­ling on her butt. The boy do­ub­led over and po­in­ted at her. A slightly ol­der girl I re­cog­ni­zed as Lo­gan’s co­usin Ele­na ap­pe­ared be­hind him.

  “Danny, mo­ve! I al­most got him.” Ele­na pus­hed back a dark blond strand of ha­ir that had fal­len out of her but­terfly bar­ret­te. “He’s co­ming thro­ugh the-”

  “Ow!” ca­me a vo­ice from in­si­de the wall.

  My bre­ath stop­ped.

  Lo­gan step­ped in­to the hal­lway, rub­bing his vi­olet no­se. “Man, I for­got the bath­ro­om was Black­Bo­xed. You guys win this-”

  He stop­ped short when he saw me. I ut­te­red his na­me in the ba­rest of whis­pers, af­ra­id to wa­ke myself from this new dre­am.

  Lo­gan bro­ke in­to the wi­dest smi­le ever. “Aura!” He stre­aked for­ward, and by ref­lex I ra­ised my arms for him to hug me. Vi­olet fil­led my vi­si­on, sur­ro­un­ding me, ab­sor­bing me.

  But when I clo­sed my eyes, I felt not­hing.

  Lo­gan jum­ped back. “Sorry, I for­got. God, it’s gre­at to see you.”

  My he­art crump­led at the sight of him li­ke this, but I smi­led so hard my chap­ped lips crac­ked. “Whe­re ha­ve you be­en? I tho­ught you’d mo­ved on.”

  “No way,” he sa­id, li­ke I’d sug­ges­ted he spend the eve­ning at the bal­let. “Too much he­re for me.” He to­ok a step to­ward me, his ga­ze as in­ten­se as ever. “Espe­ci­al­ly you.”

  “But whe­re ha­ve you be­en? Why didn’t you, you know-”

  “Ha­unt you?” Lo­gan fid­ge­ted with the ta­ils of his open shirt, lo­oking she­epish. “I knew you guys we­re mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad, I’m-” I cur­led my fin­gers ne­ar my fa­ce, as if I co­uld sign-lan­gu­age the depth of my pa­in.

  “Aura, ple­ase don’t cry. I can’t stand it, you know that.”

  I wi­ped my fa­ce. I hadn’t even no­ti­ced the te­ars-the­se last few days, the­ir pre­sen­ce se­emed mo­re nor­mal than the­ir ab­sen­ce. “So whe­re we­re you?”

  “Everyw­he­re I’ve ever be­en. Du­de, this is so ama­zing. Watch.”

  He di­sap­pe­ared. I grab­bed the ba­nis­ter in my shock. The kids gig­gled.

  “Lo­gan?” I fo­ught back pa­nic.

  He pop­ped in­to vi­ew aga­in. “Gu­ess what? Just now I was back in Dub­lin.” He spre­ad his arms li­ke a ma­gi­ci­an af­ter a trick. “How co­ol is that?”

  “Wow,” I sa­id, at a loss for ot­her words.

  “I mis­sed you. A lot.”

  Lo­gan was clo­se eno­ugh for me to to­uch, to smell, to fe­el his bre­ath on my fo­re­he­ad. Clo­se eno­ugh to kiss. If only he we­re ali­ve.

  “I mis­sed you, too.” I still miss you. My legs felt wa­tery as I bac­ked away. How co­uld it hurt so much to find him aga­in? “It’s be­en hell. Why didn’t you co­me see me?”

  “I’m sorry.” He fis­ted his hands in his spiky blond ha­ir. “Ugh, I was such an idi­ot. I’ll ma­ke it up to you, I swe­ar.”

  The kids we­re sta­ring at us and fid­ge­ting.

  “Can we talk alo­ne?” I whis­pe­red to Lo­gan.

  “Go­od idea.” He brus­hed past me (mi­nus the ac­tu­al brus­hing) and mo­ved to­ward his ro­om. “See you guys la­ter.”

  Ele­na twis­ted the la­ce on the front of her dress. “Pro­mi­se you’ll co­me back?”

  “Of co­ur­se I pro­mi­se,” Lo­gan sa­id with a wink. “You’ll see me aga­in.”

  She ga­ve a qu­ick knee-bend bo­un­ce. “Yay.”

  I mo­ved past Lo­gan to­ward his ro­om, but just as I to­uc­hed the do­ork­nob, I he­ard the crash of shat­te­red glass.

  A vo­ice be­hind us sho­uted, “Lo­gan!”

  We tur­ned to see Dylan ta­king the sta­irs three at a ti­me. In the fo­yer be­low, a bro­ken glass lay next to a spre­ading pud­dle of so­da.

  Fe­ar flit­ted ac­ross Lo­gan’s fa­ce, un­til he saw his brot­her was smi­ling.

  “Whe­re’ve you be­en?” Dylan exc­la­imed as he ap­pro­ac­hed. “We all ga­ve up on you.”

  “I’m sorry. I was gi­ving you spa­ce.”

  “Fuck spa­ce.” Dylan’s grin lo­oked li­ke it wo­uld split his jaw. “I’d rat­her ha­ve my brot­her back.”

  But he’s not re­al­ly back, I tho­ught. Or is he?

  Be­low us, the fo­yer was fil­ling with pe­op­le, gi­ving me a hor­rib­le fe­eling of dйjа vu. The night he di­ed, they’d all gat­he­red and sta­red, just li­ke now.

  “Lo­ok!” so­me kid yel­led. “He’s he­re!”

  I clo­sed my eyes, wan­ting to run, wan­ting to hi­de. Wan­ting to be a ghost.

  Fe­et of all si­zes and we­ights stom­ped on the hard­wo­od flo­or be­low. Vo­ices cri­ed out, so­me in joy, so­me in con­fu­si­on.

  And one in hor­ror.

  Mrs. Ke­eley’s scre­am ri­coc­he­ted off the high ce­iling. It tra­ve­led down my spi­ne, then back up.

  When I ope­ned my eyes, Lo­gan was go­ne.

  Chapter Eight

  Me­gan was la­te to scho­ol the next day, so I didn’t see her un­til lunch. But I knew from her mid­night text mes­sa­ge (THIS SUX) that things hadn’t go­ne well at the Ke­eleys’ ho­use af­ter Mrs. Ke­eley fa­in­ted. Ever­yo­ne had left af­ter that-ever­yo­ne but the McCon­nel­ls, that is, who ne­eded to al­ter the fu­ne­ral ar­ran­ge­ments now that Lo­gan’s ghost was aro­und to gi­ve his in­put.

  “He wants to be cre­ma­ted.” Me­gan nud­ged a to­ma­to off her sa­lad with her fork. “Ha­ve his as­hes scat­te­red at the Hill of Ta­ra in Ire­land. The­re and Molly Ma­lo­ne’s bar in L.A.”

  “Why the­re?”

  “That’s whe­re Flog­ging Molly first pla­yed. But Cat­ho­lics can’t ha­ve the­ir as­hes scat­te­red. Not ever­yo­ne obeys that ru­le, but the Ke­eleys are hard-co­re.”

  “What did Lo­gan say w
hen they told him no?”

  “He fre­aked.” Me­gan set down her fork and sho­ved away her yel­low plas­tic tray. “I swe­ar, if he co­uld’ve ac­tu­al­ly to­uc­hed anyt­hing in that li­ving ro­om, the pla­ce wo­uld be a wreck. The mo­re he tri­ed to throw and kick stuff, the mo­re pis­sed he got.”

  I sip­ped my iced tea thro­ugh the straw, ho­ping it wo­uld set­tle my empty, ac­hing sto­mach. “Did he get, you know…” I al­most didn’t da­re say the word. “Shady?”

  “No way, not­hing that bad.”

  “Re­al­ly? You lo­ok kind of sick.”

  “Just ti­red.” She to­ok a swig from her wa­ter bot­tle. “Plus, I snuck a hu­ge glass of wi­ne whi­le they we­re all ar­gu­ing, so I’m a lit­tle hun­go­ver.”

  Zac­hary en­te­red the ca­fe­te­ria, flan­ked by two girls on each si­de. They watc­hed him spe­ak, the­ir mo­uths open, ton­gu­es prac­ti­cal­ly han­ging out. That ac­cent was de­adly.

  “How we­re Lo­gan’s pa­rents?” I as­ked Me­gan.

  “Mrs. Ke­eley co­uldn’t stop sob­bing. She kept beg­ging Lo­gan to go in­to the light. Bet­we­en her crying and Mr. Ke­eley yel­ling, I co­uldn’t get a word in for Lo­gan.” She slid her hands up in­to her sle­eves and rub­bed her knuck­les to­get­her. “My dad was li­ke, ‘Can we ple­ase stay calm and ma­ke so­me de­ci­si­ons for yo­ur son’s bu­ri­al?’ but they co­uldn’t de­al.”

  “The fu­ne­ral Mass is to­mor­row. They ha­ve to fi­gu­re this stuff out.”

  “I know.” She wi­ped her ble­ary, blo­ods­hot eyes. “Oh, but they’re let­ting Lo­gan pick the mu­sic for the lunc­he­on. He’s pretty sto­ked abo­ut that.”

  “How did he se­em to you?” I spo­ke softly be­ca­use I was af­ra­id of the ans­wer.

  “He se­emed li­ke Lo­gan. You know, cu­te and char­ming un­til he do­esn’t get his way, and then a big-ti­me brat.” She res­ted her chin on her knuck­les, sho­ul­ders sag­ging. “Funny, out of all of us in that ro­om, he se­emed the most nor­mal. And he’s the de­ad one.”