by Sarah Dalton
So why am I not happy?
“Where are they again?” Lacey asks. She’s sat on the Maynard’s sofa with her legs tucked underneath her. There’s no dent in the sofa, no trace of her existence, but she is visible to us all—even Jack—at the moment.
“Peru, studying a tribe,” Willa answers. “They sent us a selfie.” I expect Willa to take out her mobile phone, but instead she reaches across to the coffee table and picks up an envelope. Inside, she pulls out a Polaroid picture of a statuesque grey haired woman, and a thickset, smiling man. The woman is leaning across, with her head pressed close to the man’s, her arm blocking part of the photograph, as though she’s holding the camera from afar. In the background I can just make out the shadow of mountains, and the glare of a hot sun. “They haven’t quite got the hang of it yet.”
“They posted you a Polaroid selfie from Peru?” Lacey says. “That’s adorable.”
The Maynards are anthropologists who travel the world. They saved Jack and Willa from a doomsday cult and adopted them both when they were twelve. Now that Jack and Willa are almost seventeen, they’ve started working abroad for weeks at a time. But they leave quite a bit of cash, and have a housekeeper stop by and check on them every day. This is my third or fourth visit to their house in the last few weeks. It’s a lovely place, filled with unusual knick-knacks, tall bookshelves, and colourful textiles. It’s the kind of home that any bookworm would love. It reminds me of the Weasley’s house in Harry Potter, but without the noise and the chaos.
“I can’t make any sense of this essay question. Mary what do you think?”
“Hmm?” It’s only when Willa interrupts my thoughts that I realise I’ve been staring at my hands for a few minutes. My beer is barely touched. “Oh, I’ve not read it yet, sorry.” I take a swig of my beer and am aware of Jack standing silently on my right. Willa and Lacey are on the sofa. I’m in a tall armchair with my textbook on my knee. But Jack hovers over by the door that leads into the kitchen, flicking the top of his beer bottle with his fingernail. I look across at him to find his dark eyes examining me.
“That’s okay.” Willa’s voice is as cheery as always. She didn’t complain even once during her hospital stay after Travis’s party. She’s like that: a trooper. Someone who looks for a solution instead of a way to wallow. Jack, however, is a thinker. Maybe I am, too. Maybe that’s the problem. “We should have a break. What about a film? Jack, would you sit down? You look like an idiot hovering over there.”
“I’m fine where I am,” he growls.
I can’t help but smile. I kind of like the way Jack grumbles and grunts. I like his social awkwardness and rough vulnerability. It wasn’t long ago that I wrote him off as some sort of manwhore. Instead, I discovered his softer side. The part of him that looks out for others, even taking drunk girls home safely after messy nights out.
“A film might be cool,” I say, both trying to pull myself back into the room—away from my thoughts—and direct the attention from Jack—who I can tell just wants to be left alone. “What do you want to watch?”
“Is it crazy to watch a horror?” Willa asks with flashing eyes.
“Um, yes?” Lacey replies, but she’s smiling at Willa. When Willa is around, Lacey is always smiling. It makes me both uneasy and happy. Uneasily happy. Is that a thing?
“With our lives?” I say. “Yeah, it’s quite crazy. Nothing in the film can be as weird as what we’ve already seen in real life though.”
“So is that a yes?” Willa asks. She already has the TV on the Netflix app and is scrolling through the horror section.
“Whatever you want, sis,” Jack says.
I flash him a sideways glance, the kind that says: you’re too soft. What a lot of people don’t realise is that Willa and Jack are actually related. They have completely different skin tones, and both were adopted by the Maynards. But on the commune they came from, nearly all the children were fathered by one man: Father Merciful. I don’t know much about Jack and Willa’s upbringing, but I know that Jack hates his father, and I know Willa—who is usually happy to talk about anything—can close up when it comes to her childhood.
“I promise I won’t pick ghosts. How about zombies?” she asks. “Omigod, Shaun of the Dead! A rom-zom-com? Okay, we have to see this!”
I keep forgetting that Jack and Willa missed out on a lot of popular culture while they were living on the commune. Every now and then they come across something that they’ve never seen before and get really excited about it.
“That’s actually a good choice,” I say, relieved they aren’t picking something with a lot of suspense, I’m not sure I could handle it right now.
While Willa and Lacey are busy joking around and getting the film set up, Jack moves closer to my chair and leans his hip against the arm. I end up having to crane my neck to meet his gaze. As a tall guy anyway, he’s even more towering than usual. The lights frame his sharp cheekbones and lighten his dark-bronze skin. A tingle shoots up my spine. I’m not sure how I feel about Jack, or what to make of the feelings I have. He’s attractive, I can’t deny it. Every time I look at him something physiological changes inside me. My heart speeds up, or I catch my breath, or I get goose pimples. And yet, I’m holding back. I want to spend time with him, but I hold back from it, shy away from him.
The stupidest thing of all is that being around him relaxes me. I don’t know whether it’s because he’s so quiet, which—after Lacey’s constant chatter—can be a nice reprieve. Or perhaps it’s his presence. He’s protective and kind, even though he hides it away. During all the stuff with Tasha, I spent a bit of time with him driving me to school or to Tasha’s parents’ house. I got used to his company. But what is that? Is it enough for anything to happen?
“Is there anything on your mind?” he asks.
“No, why do you ask?” I pull on the sleeves of my top, hunching my shoulders, squirming away from the question. I don’t want to talk about ghosts right now. I don’t want to think about anything.
But Lacey must have overhead. “Is that suicide girl bothering you again?”
“What suicide girl?” Willa asks.
I sigh. I guess I will have to talk about it. “The girl featured in Ashforth Gazette. She jumped off the bridge over the ring road and died.”
“What about her?” Jack asks. He squeezes the arm of the chair with his large hand. Talking about death and ghosts makes Jack nervous. As the only one in our foursome who’s remotely normal, I can imagine why.
“She haunted me. But then something pulled her away, like they snatched her and took her somewhere. It was weird.”
Lacey turns even whiter than usual, and the skin under her eyes darkens. It’s a weird ghost thing, but when she’s upset or stressed, she looks even more dead. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“No one’s going to snatch you away, Lace,” Willa says with a bright smile. “We’ll make sure of that. Won’t we.”
“’Course we will,” I add, trying to force positivity into my voice. “Let’s just watch the film. I don’t want to think about suicide girl and whatever weirdness is out there.” I wave my hand, dismissing it all as though it’s nothing.
“Okay, but only if Jack sits down,” Willa says. “For God’s sake, brother.”
Jack frowns as he stomps into the kitchen and pulls one of the dining chairs into the living room. He places it between my armchair and the sofa. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Jack likes to be close to me. And since everything happened with Tasha and Travis, he’s not been dating other girls, either. I think he likes me. I just wish I wasn’t so confused about it all.
Luckily, the movie starts, and I can switch off my thoughts, or at least try to. I settle into my chair, finally letting myself relax. It’s so warm and comfortable that my eyes begin to close. I find myself drifting into sleep. But as soon as my eyes close, I see the girl again. I force myself awake and watch the film. It’s the bit where Simon Pegg and Nick Frost are choosing records to throw at
the zombie girl. This part always makes me laugh, or at least it usually does. Zombie girl is different this time. He eyes and her hair. They’re so dark, like Tasha MacIntosh, or Little Amy, or… Mum, when she was possessed.
I shake my head, trying to force the image out of my mind. I can’t think about any of that right now. Jack offers me popcorn and I take a handful, eating it as though nothing is going on in my mind. But my forehead is sweaty, and I sense Jack frowning at to me. Lacey and Willa are happily laughing along with the film, but I’m struggling to swallow this popcorn, and the room is fading away, taking me back to that night at Travis’s house where I saw the bodies hanging from the ceiling. What was that? Am I going insane?
When I lift another piece of popcorn to my mouth, I notice that my hand is shaking. The room spins. I blink, trying to regain focus, as sweat trickles down my temple. I can’t breathe. The popcorn drops to the carpet, and then people are around me, their voices distant and their eyes wide.
“Mary, can you hear me?” It’s Jack. He has his hands on my shoulders. I open my mouth to speak but all I can do is let out a raspy breath.
He’s holding me up, because all strength has left my upper body. As he talks, I try to focus on his face, but it keeps changing. His skin morphs into the green tinge of the first Thing I ever saw. I remember it writing on the blackboard. No, no, no. That was ages ago. Focus, Mary. Stop this.
“I’m taking you home,” Jack says. He hooks his hands underneath mine and pulls me to my feet. “It’s okay, Willa, I’ve only had half my beer.”
“I’m okay,” I say, forcing myself to stand up straight. “It was just… I was a little faint, that’s all.” I pull away from Jack and manage to maintain my position, although I do wobble a little. “But I think I should go home. I think I’m just tired or… something.”
“Are you being haunted?” Lacey asks. She’s pale again, concerned.
“No, no one was here. I guess I’m still a bit on edge after everything that happened with Tasha.”
Willa pulls me into a hug. “You need to take care of yourself. From tomorrow, no alcohol, and I’m feeding you oranges every day. Look at you, you’re too skinny.”
She’s right, I have lost weight. My jeans are loose and I can feel bones when I wrap my arms around my body. I’ve always been a little on the lean side, but I’ve never been skinny. An image of Tasha’s emaciated ghost form flashes in my mind and I shudder.
“Come on, let’s go.” Jack wraps an arm around my waist and a tingle works its way up my spine. He seems to notice, because he turns his head towards me, and for a brief moment our eyes meet. A ripple of tension passes along his jawline as though he’s clenching his teeth. Jesus. I don’t know what’s harder to deal with, ghost anxiety attacks, or unresolved sexual tension with Jack.
But despite the sexual tension, when we get in the car I start to relax. Jack puts a Smiths CD into the player and the music soothes me. My muscles unclench, my heart calms. We don’t talk all the way there, but the silence is one that I find comforting. Then, all too soon, we’re at my house.
“Thank you for the ride.” I unclip my seatbelt and reach for the door handle.
“Wait.” Jack places a hand on my arm. I turn around to face him. “What’s going on? You don’t seem yourself.”
“I’m okay.” I swallow, hoping that my voice doesn’t betray me.
“You’re not. I think you’re traumatised after everything that has happened to you. Do you think you could be suffering with PTSD?”
I can’t help it, I laugh. But then I stop when I see the way his eyes flash with annoyance. “I’m okay, really. Look, even if I did have PTSD, what can I say to the doctor? That I see ghosts everywhere? They’d just send be back to the psychiatric ward.” I can’t let that happen. I need to be at home where there are people who accept me for who I am. Not where doctors want to medicate me and ridicule what I see. I can’t cope with that.
“Trust me, okay. If you leave these issues, they’ll just get worse. You should see someone,” he insists.
But I shake my head and open the car door. “Thanks for bringing me home. I’m fine, I just didn’t eat enough to day. I’ll see you at school, okay?”
I plan to walk all the way to the door and not look back, but I can’t help myself. I make it halfway before turning to look at him.
Chapter Three
LACEY
Do I feel guilty about spending less time with Mary? Of course I do. But, I know we need some time apart. She’s still my bestie. Still my sister from another mister. But we’ve been suffocating each other and I only realised it after meeting Willa. Mary has been the only person I could talk to, aside from other ghosts—but they are seriously creepy, and deranged most of the time—so I’ve been with Mary all the time, giving her no privacy and no time to herself. I’ve made it hard for her to make friends, to spend time with her family. She’s not complained once. That’s pretty decent, but I think she deserves some space.
One thing I do know, is that Willa and Mary need to figure out what the hell is going on with their “talents”. But right now I’m watching them all move away from the spooky stuff, and go study or hang out. I don’t blame them for a second, but it leaves me hanging. I’ve been trying to figure things out on my own. I need to understand my feelings for Willa. Is it just that I fell in lust with the first sexy girl I could actually talk to as a ghost? Or is there something more? Ghosts don’t sleep. We just get sucked into scary blank dimensions, like limbo or something. When I’m not there, I wander around thinking. Walking the streets at 3am, avoiding the other ghosts, scaring drunk people on their way home. Discovering a surprising amount of people engaging in sexy times out in the open air, and realising that it’s always the ugly couples…
But Willa, well, she’s the one working on keeping me grounded. She acts like she really wants me here. I know how Mary feels. She wants me here, but she’s also worried that I need to move on. Well Willa doesn’t have those fears, she just wants me here. And that feels really good.
“You’re going to enjoy this,” Willa says.
We’re on our way through the cinema carpark. Willa has decided that I need to stay connected with this world and one of the ways she’s going to do this is by forcing me to watch sappy movies. Willa loves to feel. She has to have her emotions tested at least a dozen times a day. I’ve seen her cry at TV adverts, cry and laugh at kitten Youtube videos, and jump for joy when a song she likes comes on the radio. It reminds me a bit of my manic days, but not as crazy.
“Are you sure? I’m not really the Disney kind of girl, you know,” I say.
“This is my favourite film, ever. It made me cry so much.”
“I don’t understand why we can’t just watch it on Netflix. It’s like an hour’s drive back to Ashforth.” Somehow, Willa managed to find some hipster cinema showing Bambi at 6pm on a Thursday night. Yep, Bambi. Her favourite film. And she didn’t even see it as a kid, she watched it for the first time last year.
“I’ve never seen it at the cinema before. Besides, Jack said that if I watched that ‘effing film’ one more time he’d make me sleep outside. So we can’t watch it at ours.”
She pulls her jacket closer around her body. Willa is still somewhat 90s with a biker jacket and grungey t-shirt, but she’s added a slick of 50s red lipstick and curled her hair. It makes me long for the days I could express myself with clothes. I’m stuck with this grey hoody for eternity. Fuck.
Willa’s quiet as we get into the cinema. Like with Mary, she has to pretend I’m not there, and I have to try not to distract her. Except, with Mary I used to play up all the time, doing silly things to make her laugh. I don’t feel like acting that way when I’m around Willa. Maybe I don’t want to embarrass myself or look like an idiot. I never had a date when I was alive. There were… fondles, snogs, alcohol-soaked nights, but never a date. Not that this is a date… Anyway, what I mean is, I presume people try not to behave like a twat when they’re on a date, so I shou
ld try not to as well.
She leads the way to the screen. The guy who tears her ticket smiles a little too widely and grazes her hand with his fingers. I graze my fingers over his arm and the electric shock makes him jerk his arm away and frown. Then I breathe softly across the back of his neck and he spins around, still rubbing his arm. As I’m walking away, I hear him say to a colleague, “I told you this place was bloody haunted” and I can’t help but laugh.
It’s an old cinema, the kind that closed down and then got a make-over and re-opened, then closed down and got another make-over. The décor is still quite tired. The inside space is enclosed. The chairs are lined with red velvet fabric, but they’re narrow, and I imagine that they’re uncomfortable. I can’t smell much as a ghost, but I can imagine the slight scent of dryness: a dustiness that clogs the back of your throat.
Willa is at home here. She settles into the seat and stretches her legs through the gap between two chairs in front of us. I sit next to her, worried that some hormonal kid with spots will insist on sitting right next to her. But luckily, the only people who come into the theatre are a group of middle-aged couples carrying glasses of wine, and two sets of parents with young children. People who want to re-live their childhood, and people who want to pass their childhood onto the next generation. I can somewhat relate.
“I want you to focus on your emotions,” Willa whispers at the adverts run. “This is important. I think it’s key to you existing in this world.”
I nod. My cheeks flush with heat. If only she knew what I was feeling as the glow from the cinema screen highlighted the soft hairs on her skin. If only she knew what went through me when I let my gaze trail along her long, slender legs. I stop there. This isn’t good for me, all this frustration. I’m a ghost. I can’t go on like this, frustrating myself with what I can never, ever, have.
