Violet Ghosts

by Leah Thomas

Next time. I shuddered. “Sarah, I’m not sure we should keep this up.”

  She ignored that. “How did you get out on that messed-up ankle?”

  “I don’t know. Adrenaline, I guess.”

  “Sure. I read once that mothers lift cars off their kids sometimes.” She hesitated. “Did you . . . um . . . that kitten?”

  In answer, I pulled down the collar of my nightgown, revealing a few scratches on my collarbone. “She’s fine. She got out, too.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  I clung to the cat rescue, my only truth. “Aha. You like her.”

  “No.”

  “You do.” I inched closer. “You’re becoming a crazy cat lady in your old age.”

  “Hush.”

  And wow, the meds must have been kicking in again, because I felt a little loopy. I was almost dozing against Sarah’s shoulder when she spoke, very quietly. “Next time, I’ll be there with you. Next time, I—I won’t leave you there alone.”

  I nestled my head under her faint, warm chin. “Okay, Sarah.”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t exist without you, you know.”

  “Rightbackatcha.”

  “I’m serious.” There was nothing to buffer the hollows in her expression, and a massive grief weighed her words, which was something my garbled mind couldn’t parse. “I have to look after you, for my own sake. What do people say in movies? ‘Don’t go dyin’ on me.’ ”

  I laughed, teary with the pain in my ribs.

  “Whoa there.”

  Breathing could stop at any moment, at the hands of almost anyone or no one.

  Sarah looked at me with a pained expression I didn’t quite understand. Then suddenly, the world flipped over, and everything I thought I knew went sideways.

  Sarah pressed her lips against mine.

  It was like being kissed by a feather. I was so surprised I didn’t pull away, and then she was kissing me with her spectral fingers pulling me against her. She wasn’t breathing, but I was. I was downright gasping. Her touch enveloped the pain that spanned my entire body, wiping out everything but her presence. Her sudden realness, terrifying and undeniable.

  And then it ended. Sarah pulled away and dissipated slightly, blurry as a fogged window. I felt my strength leave almost every particle of my body, as if she’d sucked my soul from my mouth.

  I stared. “Sarah. What . . . I mean, Sarah, what—”

  “Shit,” she said. “Shit. No. This is such a bad idea.”

  “Sarah, I—”

  She vanished, leaving me alone with the bleeping machines and all my twisted thoughts.

  NOVEMBER 2002

  STELLA

  SPRITE

  I spent a night in the hospital before Mom bundled me up, wheeled me to the truck, and promised me cocoa and bed rest on the couch, movies, and whatever snacks I wanted. My ankle and my bruises laid me up for the next week, so I missed the remainder of school before Thanksgiving.

  To my dismay and confusion, Mom seemed reinvigorated with motherly instinct after my accident, or maybe she was responding to my accusations. I didn’t know how to feel about her sudden devotion to me. She took the week off work to keep an eye on me, and fed me Sprite as if I had the flu again. I still hadn’t given her (or the social workers or doctors or anyone else) any explanation for my injuries. I knew something of what Mom must have felt, seeing lies work when they really shouldn’t have.

  Mom’s unending presence at my side meant that I hadn’t seen Sarah since she kissed me in the hospital. I ran a dozen excuses for her behavior through my mind. Maybe Sarah was scared, or maybe she was trying to make me feel better, or maybe it was a misunderstanding.

  But the truth? The truth was she had kissed me, not like a sister, but as though she loved me, and I had no idea what to do with that knowledge. I knew we needed each other, but I had never needed Sarah like that, and I had no idea what I could possibly say when I saw her again.

  I tried not to think if I saw her again, tried not to think of the blood that had poured from her mouth before she vanished in that motel room, the fear in her face when she said, “I wouldn’t exist without you.”

  I was grateful for my windowless room, grateful I couldn’t see the blackened shell of apartment 7 even though I could sometimes smell the ash from it, taste it in the tap water.

  ———

  The first ghost to visit me in the days after I got home was Patricia, making a rare appearance outside the lobby. Mom was dozing on the couch while an infomercial advertised cleaning products. Suddenly Patricia was there between us.

  It was the second time I’d ever seen her leave the lobby.

  “Patricia!” I threw my arms around her. She shrank slightly, but seemed grateful for the hug. “Thanks for coming to see me.”

  “I had to see how you were doing, after everything.”

  “Everything.”

  “You did a brave thing, helping Adelaide.”

  “She goes by Addy,” I said, looking away.

  “Addy, next door all along.”

  Patricia had a preternatural teacher-based ability to read the lies in my voice, so I simply nodded. “Did Sarah tell you about it? About Adelaide leaving?”

  “I’m a little fuzzy on the details. Did she really just walk out into the woods?”

  “I was pretty confused. But yeah, I think she did.” Maybe if I retold the lie enough times, I’d believe it. Maybe I’d stop seeing, on endless looping repeat, Addy’s expression as she closed the door, as she told me to leave her alone.

  Patricia pursed her lips. “The woods are no place to be. I wish she’d stayed with us, at least a little while.”

  Patricia pointedly did not ask about the exorcism, and I pointedly didn’t say a word about it. Somewhere out there, her own killer might be lingering on the path.

  “But you know Sarah’s been cagey about all of it; she’s been spending a lot of time in that basement. Did you two have a spat?”

  I had never wanted to change a subject so badly.

  I spoke over Mom’s snoring. “She may have . . . ​um. She kissed me.”

  “She what?”

  “She, um . . . kissed me?”

  “I see. And how do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t know.” My face flushed. “It was sort of a shock. Sarah’s like my sister. Obviously I love her, but not . . . and she gets that, I think she does, because she says she wouldn’t exist without me. I mean, she’s like another part of me.”

  “No one is part of anyone else,” Patricia said sharply. “But if Sarah feels that way, or if she feels you belong to her, or . . . ​oh, what an absolute mess.”

  “I don’t care if she’s gay!” I couldn’t seem to make a single thought coherent, and I couldn’t seem to stop talking, either. “I mean, I don’t know what things were like in the seventies, but obviously I don’t care if she’s a lesbian, I just don’t love her like that, and—”

  “That’s not the messy part, Dani.”

  “What? Or do you think because I’m trans I should like girls, because I’m not sure I do like girls, I’m not sure I like people romantically, and—”

  “No, Dani. It’s not that, either! Believe it or not, not everything that happens is about whether or not you’re queer. It’s—sometimes you forget, don’t you,” Patricia whispered, with this strange, sympathetic smile. “You forget what we are.”

  Blood warmed my face. “I don’t forget.”

  “You do forget. And honestly? That’s nice. Around you, Sarah and I, we’re just people, Dani, and not necessarily even dead. The fact is, as complicated as your identity is—can you imagine how difficult things would be if you also had to face the reality of your own demise on top of the rest of it?”

  I shook my head. “Of course I can’t. How could I ever?”

  “I’m glad you can’t.” Patricia stared at her fingers. “Sometimes I don’t feel real. I feel like less than the wind, and I wonder whether I’m myself or just some echo of Patricia-who
-was. I wouldn’t wish that sort of doubt upon anyone, and I suspect—no, I know—­Sarah doesn’t want to share that sensation with you. But still, she kissed you. She did something a living girl would do. She forgot herself.”

  I thought of Sarah’s confession, her admission of her fragile existence. Maybe she hadn’t meant it romantically, but literally. Maybe she only meant that without me, she’d still be haunting the underside of a bed.

  Like Addy, haunting the bedroom.

  I felt sick in every way.

  “Just keep that in mind, Dani. I’ll talk to Sarah. I’m not sure exorcisms are the way to go about solving anyone’s problems. Look at what this did to you both.”

  “Has Sarah . . . ​I mean, has anything happened with the hotel room?”

  Patricia shook her head. “I haven’t . . . ​you know I haven’t gone there, and Sarah hasn’t either. There’s still caution tape all around it; I don’t think the tenants have even been let back in. Maybe they’ll condemn this old place, and we’ll have to move.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told her, sensing what she wasn’t saying. “Nobody bothers condemning anything in towns like this.”

  “If only we’d been able to give Adelaide a coat, or something. Or . . . anything. I’d have liked to meet her.”

  “Patricia . . . can I ask you something? Something personal?”

  Her nod warmed me. “Always.”

  “When we found you, in the woods.” I thought of Adelaide’s expression, her certainty as she shut me out. “Why didn’t you . . . ​ why had you stayed? Why couldn’t you have left the trail on your own ages ago?”

  “It’s hard to undo what’s already been done, and hard to break even the worst of habits. I think you know that. Sometimes there’s comfort in the horrific.”

  I thought of Dad, of Mom, of words that could not be overwritten.

  “Do you think you’d have stayed there forever, if we hadn’t come?”

  “Forever?” Patricia lifted her hands, as if she could hold mine. “I laid on that path for a decade, you know. I never considered there were any other options. Maybe exorcisms can’t work, because they only impact the monsters and not the victims. Being dead is a lot like being alive. There are no simple solutions. Yes, I’m haunted, and Addy will always be haunted. Like, I suspect, you will be, too.”

  I closed my eyes. “So rescuing ghosts might be pointless.”

  “Dani. Listen.” When I open my eyes, Patricia’s looking at me with so much warmth and kindness. “I thought my life, my unlife, my everything, was done. But do you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I read an amazing book the other day. I’ve got a home, and a new family, and a roof that keeps me dry. Haunted or not, I’m here. That’s not pointless.” She smiled gently. “It’s not pointless in the least.”

  I nodded, wordless, and she kissed the air above my forehead, and I thought of Sarah and all the things she would not say, the secret spirits that plagued her.

  I couldn’t know what it felt like to be an echo. No matter what, I still had a future, while my friends were already things of the past. While Mom dozed beside me, talking in her sleep, I felt like Patricia’s point was a little unfair, even hypocritical.

  The future could seem so impossibly pointless, and lonely, too.

  But it could also, maybe, be the opposite, populated by as many good ghosts as bad ones.

  BUTTERBALL

  On Thanksgiving morning there was a knock at the door. Mom got up from the couch and answered in her robe. A woman’s voice cut through the morning air.

  “Happy Thanksgiving!”

  Mom shied away from the sheer enthusiasm. “You here to complain about the fire damage? Because the insurance company is on it, and—hold on. Are you even a tenant?”

  “No, ma’am!”

  I craned forward on the couch cushions and recognized the visitor’s bright face. It was Sophie, the woman I’d met at reception at the Green House. She wore a lurid penguin-patterned holiday sweater and reindeer antlers. Sophie beamed when she spotted me.

  “I’m Sophie Alldridge. I work at the Green House, the local women’s shelter.”

  “I’m familiar.” Mom’s posture remained stiff. “Is this about what happened to Daniela?”

  Sophie shook her head. “Not exactly. Someone told us about the fire and her accident. We wanted to invite you and any interested tenants to our annual turkey dinner at the Knights of Columbus hall. We’ll have all-you-can eat stuffing and mac-cheese, no charge.”

  Mom hesitated, glancing at me. “I dunno . . .”

  “Will Seiji be there?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he’ll be working the line, serving up pumpkin pie.” Sophie winked knowingly again. She had it wrong, but not entirely wrong. I did want to see him, and I’d been couch-bound and stinking for days.

  “We’ll think about it,” Mom said.

  “Neat! If you decide you’re interested, come on by at 1:00 p.m., and bring these tickets.” She pushed two slips of red paper into Mom’s hand. “I’ll keep door-knocking, if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay—”

  “Wait!” Sophie turned, and Mom looked downright apprehensive. “I forgot to mention—there’ll be karaoke!”

  “Sounds great!” I said loudly. “We’ll be there for sure!”

  Mom whipped her head back at me, then wished Sophie goodbye before closing the door and sitting on the arm of the couch. “Say-gee? Is that a boy’s name?”

  “Mom. Believe me—Seiji has nothing to do with my damn bruises, okay?”

  Mom played with the loose threads on the sofa. “I guess we can go. I’ve only got a mediocre lasagna in the fridge.”

  “Cool. I’ll have to wash up first.”

  “But!” Mom added. “We’ll only go if you tell me who hurt you.”

  She was as tenacious as I’d ever heard her. I’d finally have to say something.

  “Don’t tell the cops, okay?”

  Mom pinched her lips but nodded.

  For a heartbeat I considered telling her the truth. Who knew? Maybe she’d take the news as easily as Seiji had. Or maybe when she was my age, Mom also saw ghosts. Maybe it wouldn’t sound like madness to her, maybe it would knot us together. But I also knew reality was hard enough for Mom even without paranormal nonsense thrown in.

  “It was a stranger.” I looked down at my lap. “Some guy in the alley between Ace Hardware and the 7-Eleven. I didn’t even see his face. He grabbed me from behind and shoved me against the wall.”

  “And you have no idea who he was? Did you see what he was wearing?”

  My mind flashed back to the horror I’d felt, and bile rose in my throat as I answered truthfully: “Black leather shoes and suit pants.”

  Mom placed a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get ready for the party.”

  “RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER” ™

  The K of C hall was crowded. The crutches weren’t ideal on ice, so Mom insisted I use the wheelchair the hospital had loaned us instead. When we entered the brownish foyer the smell of ham and sugar and the distorted echo of music couldn’t banish the general forlornness of the aging bingo hall. Peeling linoleum covered the floors and the walls were probably built before Sarah was born.

  Staff had draped garlands across the tables and along the ceiling, like it was Christmas, not Thanksgiving. It was weirdly nice, though, watching families and loners all gathered around long foldout tables, bundled up in festive clothes and trying to keep their children seated. A little girl jumped up and down to Christmas music on the makeshift dance floor, a candy cane stuck in her hair.

  I felt self-conscious in that wheelchair, but Mom wouldn’t let me up. Maybe I’d see some classmates here, but even if I did, that’d make them either a volunteer or as poor as we were, so what did it matter? I had a scarf around my neck, but there was no hiding my busted foot.

  Midway down the buffet line, I spied Seiji; he’d pulled his hair back from his face into a short ponytail that exp
osed his high cheekbones and large eyes. To my amazement, he smiled at people as he scooped pie onto their plates, and for once he didn’t look fearsome, though part of that may have been the candy-cane-patterned apron and a bow tie. By the time we got to him, he’d gone through two pies, and was pulling another from a box behind him.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He turned, so red in the cheeks and forehead that, for a moment, I thought he was about to yell. Instead he asked, “Want some pie?”

  “Definitely,” Mom said. “Two slices each. Those are basically slivers.”

  I grimaced. “One slice each is fine, Seiji.”

  “Seiji?” Mom sized him up, frowning at the tattoos on his knuckles and the piercings in his eyebrow. “Huh.”

  Seiji dropped the spatula twice before serving us.

  By the time we made it to a table, I was wishing we hadn’t come.

  “Honestly, he doesn’t look like your type.”

  “He’s not, Mom.”

  “Huh.” She poked at her stuffing and glanced up again. “Aw, hell. There’s Mueller. I gotta go talk to him about the insurance and fire damage. Don’t go anywhere.”

  I sighed in relief as she departed, but almost choked when Seiji took her spot.

  “Your mother doesn’t like me.”

  “She doesn’t trust boys.”

  He raised his eyebrows, and I knew what he wasn’t saying.

  “Yeah, no. She doesn’t know about my situation.”

  “Ghosts or gender?”

  “Both. So maybe don’t mention either?”

  Seiji drew back. “I am not known for being talkative.”

  I snorted over my canned beets. “No kidding. You’re pretty closed off. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen your whole face without your hair in the way.”

  He started pulling his hair over his forehead, skin reddening. “Soph made me tie my hair back. Health code.”

  “You’ve got a good face.” I envied its angles and definition, the lack of soft flesh. “Maybe if you showed it occasionally, or smiled like you were a second ago, people wouldn’t say you were in the yakuza.”

  “They still would.” Blunt as ever. “I’m Japanese and they’re racist. Also, I don’t like my face.”