Violet Ghosts

by Leah Thomas

  “You’re such a pretty girl,” Dad said, combing my hair with his fingers.

  I was neither. I was a boy and I had a lazy, lazy eye.

  I wanted to be sick.

  The horrid thing was, I still loved my father. It had never occurred to me not to. I watched a thousand movies on his giant television screen in that tiny room—he’d always spend money on cars or bikes or televisions, but not on clothes or food or school trips. After all, it was his money and he earned it, goddamnit. In the movies we watched, fathers loved their daughters, and daughters loved their fathers. My father had two eyes and a nose and a balding hairline and strong arms, and he sometimes laughed or took me for ice cream, or kissed Mom and told her that he loved her.

  And if he did the same to me, was that really so bad?

  His hand kept stroking my hair, and rested on my shoulder, too. He pulled me close against his arm and kissed me on the forehead.

  “You’re growing up, baby girl.” I could taste the whiskey on his tongue as he pushed his lips against mine. I kept my eyes open and stared at the television over his shoulder. Commercials advertised GigaPets and G.I. Joes, a thousand toys other kids might get for Christmas.

  It wasn’t the first kiss, but it was the last. Something inspired Dad to put his hand up my shirt, and that invasion, his hand inching toward my chest and its two parts of me I wished didn’t exist, was too much. I bit his tongue as hard as I could, until I tasted his blood. He shoved me away, crying out and cursing as he spat.

  “You fucking bitch!”

  I made it to the living room, where Mom asked, “What’s wrong?” before he grabbed me around the middle and threw me against the kitchen counter. Mom screamed and I saw galaxies when he smashed my head against the cupboard.

  I woke up in the hospital. Mom was there and so were some police officers. Mom had a cast on her arm. She looked guilty, but she’d also saved me. Even if I couldn’t love her anymore, I couldn’t hate her, either. She reached for my hand.

  “We’re moving. And Dad’s staying here.”

  But part of him came with us.

  ———

  After I spoke, the cold really set in. The memory of that night seemed to double in size.

  Patricia stayed beside me, close as she was able.

  “God, I was so afraid to be out here. I thought he took the night from me.” She grimaced, wiping away her tears. “But the moonlight on the snow is still lovely, when you’re not alone in it.”

  “Patricia,” I said, “I’m so sorry, Patricia. I’m a liar. I should have told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  “I didn’t save Addy. She’s not out here in the woods.”

  “I see. So where is she?”

  I saw no hatred in her face.

  “Still in the motel, with her killer. She told me to leave without her. I—I didn’t save her.”

  “But you tried, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She nodded curtly. “So you can try again.”

  “I was so scared. I . . . ran away.”

  “By god, if you’re ever in trouble, run and keep a blade close at hand and fuck the rest. Don’t ever stay. Run and run and run. Understand?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  “Dani. Two tragedies are worse than one. It’s simple math. Understood?”

  She waited for me to find my feet, and we walked home together through the snow.

  SWISS ARMY KNIFE

  I came through the front door long after midnight, haggard and spent. I was relieved to see Mom still awake, until I noticed that she was on the phone.

  “Yeah, I hope we’ll see you soon.” She hung up and looked at me sheepishly. “Oh, honey. What are you—I thought you were in bed!”

  “Who was that?” I already knew.

  “We were just catching up, taking care of some financial stuff,” she said, defensive. “He asked how you were doing.”

  I shook my head so hard I thought it might roll off. “No. No. He doesn’t get to know how I’m doing. Not ever.”

  “It’s not that simple, Dani. He’s still your father. He has rights.”

  “He molested me, Mom. Those rights are totally the fuck gone.”

  She closed her eyes. “He was drunk.”

  “He was always drunk!” There was nothing for me to throw, so I could only shout. “He called me his little angel, and then he put his hands in my pants.”

  “Daniela! Stop it.”

  “It’s the truth, Mom.” My head kept shaking; saying it once meant I could say it a thousand more times. Like Patricia, I was done running. “I can’t decide what’s worse. Either you don’t believe me, or you do believe me, and you just don’t fucking care.”

  Mom was close to tears, shivering in her stained work apron. “Look, I’m trying to be understanding, Dani. I’m trying to be better for you. Give me a damn chance.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “I am! Do you know what my father would have done to me if I’d told him I wanted to date girls?”

  I blinked at her. “You think he would have molested you? Gee, what would that be like?”

  “Damn it, Dani! Do you know what I told your father? I told him to stop contacting us, and that we didn’t want his child support. I told him we’re getting by without him!”

  “I want to believe you. But I can’t.”

  How could she be both at once? How could she be a good mother and a horrid one, too? A victim and a hero, damaged and healed? Was everyone in the world just a tragic mess of gray?

  “You’re not listening,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

  I couldn’t believe I lived in a world where men like my father were allowed to make phone calls and touch their daughters and keep on living just fine, and where people hardly worse than him ended the stories of good people like Patricia.

  “If he shows up here, I’m gone,” I told her. “I’m gone for good.”

  “Daniela—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  ———

  I paused to breathe against my bedroom door, then pulled the omnipresent Game Boy from my pocket.

  “Seiji’s truck didn’t steer itself back onto the road, Sarah. You came with us to the hospital, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.” Her usual nightgowned self came into focus before me. “If I’m mad at anyone, it’s not Patricia.”

  “Were you out there with us in the woods, too? Listening?”

  She looked away. “No.”

  I didn’t know whether to believe her.

  “Okay.”

  “I was busy,” she added. “Getting the exorcism kit ready.”

  I slumped over, exhausted. “The exorcism kit. For what, Sarah?”

  For once, a chill emanated from her, more winter than summer. “Tell me the truth—what happened to Adelaide?”

  “I told you,” I said numbly, but Sarah shook her head.

  “You told me a lie. If Adelaide and her killer are taken care of, why do I still feel sick when I pass that room? Why do I hear her screaming after dark? And why, Dani, why can’t you look me in the fucking eye when I mention her?”

  We locked gazes, seeing each other for the first time in weeks. I felt like I was tiptoeing along a dangerous thread. Even though Patricia and I had walked home together, I couldn’t unsee the vision of her jogging a path she’d already jogged too many times, I couldn’t see how I was any different.

  “Addy’s still there, isn’t she? You left her. Didn’t you?”

  “She asked me to.”

  “Oh? Well, I’m sure that makes you feel better.”

  “Like keeping secrets from Patricia made you feel better?”

  “You still think I was wrong? You think she’s okay after all you’ve put her through?”

  “Maybe not, but the truth is better than a lie.” I stared at her hard. It astounded me that we could stare at the same image and see something so different—a hero or a victim, a boy you want to ba
ng or a boy you want to be, a favor or a fault.

  Sarah’s eyes were probably as dead as mine. “What do you think Patricia will say once she realizes? Once she realizes you left Addy in there?”

  “I’ve already told her.”

  Her face dissipated, even as she tried to hide her hurt. “Oh, because you’re buddy-buddy with Patricia now. Right.”

  “She took it better than you are.”

  “Gee, how nice for you. Meanwhile, Addy’s being tortured four doors down. You could help her, in the way I can’t—and you won’t. Okay.”

  “Sarah,” I said, drained, ashamed. “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want.”

  I could think of two responses—neither I could face.

  “You heard what Patricia said. About her killer?”

  “He’s still out there.” I breathed in slowly. “He visited her every winter, on the path in the woods.”

  “It’s winter now. We could go take care of him. Tonight.”

  “Sarah . . . I’m so tired.”

  “You don’t even know what tired means,” she spat.

  “I’m tired of you pretending that you’re some selfless ghost-rescuing hero, and I’m a mess and a liar, when really you’re just scared, Sarah!”

  “Scared?” Her tone was icy.

  “Yes! Let’s face it; you’re fixated on exorcising these random killers because you can’t face your own! But you know what, it’s not that easy. You can’t wish monsters away! It doesn’t undo what they did. You’ll still be dead, won’t you?”

  Sarah flushed, furious as a flame. “One confession about how your daddy touched you and suddenly you’re an expert on fear?”

  Sarah had been in the woods, she had been listening, and now her face was twisted with hurt.

  “Right. We’ve established you think I’m terrible. We’ve outed some of my lies. So answer me this time. One more time. Tell me why you kissed me.”

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “Why did you kiss me, Sarah?”

  “Help me exorcise that murderer,” she said, standing tall, “and maybe I’ll tell you.”

  BLACK CAT

  The cold didn’t matter so much as the sheer amount of snow. I pulled on my running shoes as well as my coat. Sarah and I walked together to the other side of town and Holland Park.

  “How’s your ankle?” Sarah floated above the snow that clung to my feet.

  “It’s fine,” I lied. I readjusted the exorcism bag. It was no longer a fanny pack, but a backpack. Sarah assured me we were better prepared this time.

  I should have been afraid. I stumbled on the ice. I was only annoyed at the slush gathering between my toes. Sarah’s insubstantial form illuminated the path—she remained to some extent my moon and stars. You can’t pick your stars, they’ve been there so long.

  “Should have worn my Docs,” I muttered.

  “Those big black boots? We had those when I was a kid, but people literally used them for working in mines and whatnot. Who was Doctor Marten, even?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s just the name of the brand.”

  “Huh.” Sarah waited for me to rise and even offered me a hand as I yanked one foot free of the snow. “Does it ever seem strange to you, Dani? The way we all remember the names of random things—boots and toys and TV shows and fictional cookbook writers—but we forget people’s names all the damn time. I mean, all the time. It’s like real people matter less to us.”

  “I guess I haven’t thought about it,” I huffed.

  “I have,” Sarah said. “I’ve thought about it a whole lot.”

  ———

  I didn’t recognize Patricia’s tree right away, but Sarah did.

  “She was right here,” she said, “at the base of that pine.”

  I could barely see the path anymore, so I had to take her word for it. Suddenly it felt foolish to be out there, the two of us alone in the forest, hoping a killer would walk up to us and into our trap. It felt foolish, that is, until Sarah clutched her stomach and hissed through her teeth. The light of her skin dimmed. “Something’s coming. Something really rotten.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded. “Sure as sugar. Get out the salt bomb and a firecracker.”

  “Salt bomb?” From the backpack I retrieved a cylindrical Black Cat firework and what looked like a huge wine bottle, filled to the brim with road salt. “How did you fill this up on your own?”

  She skirted the question. “Levitation and such.”

  I could only imagine what sort of measured wrath would have allowed a ghost to levitate grains of salt, one by one, into a bottle. If anyone could do that, it was Sarah, whose anger ran in a constant buzz beneath her skin. Maybe I’d gotten that from her, not from my father.

  We didn’t wait long. Finding him seemed too easy. These monsters were cocksure and accomplished in violence. They probably felt certain they’d wander around unhindered for eternity, as they’d been so often unhindered in life.

  Why would they ever question that?

  He materialized on the path like a puddle spreading. He wore a green vest and a turtleneck. Just as the hotel rapist had been faceless, so was he. A similar black tar ran like a fountain from the trunk of his neck, splattering the snow, staining the white an inky black as he walked toward us. He carried a walking stick, but I suspected it wasn’t really used for walking.

  Patricia had suffered blunt force trauma to her skull and face before she was throttled.

  Sarah and I put our hurried plan into motion. I darted behind Patricia’s pine tree as Sarah stepped into the path. His pace slowed when he saw her.

  The black tar around his mouth parted and revealed a human face beneath, complete with a friendly smile and a grandfatherly beard. “Excuse me, ma’am, can you help me? I’m a little lost.”

  “He’s pretending to ask for directions?” It was so simple and so fucking cruel. Most people stop to help the lost. Patricia would have done so, without question. She loved helping people and sharing all kinds of knowledge.

  “What a dick,” Sarah said under her breath, and then replied in her bubbly voice. “Sure, we can help you. We can help you find your way.”

  “Really?” He pulled a map from his pocket. The tar closed around his head and dripped onto the paper. He beckoned us closer.

  “Ken oo halp meh?” he murmured through the sludge that filled his expanding mouth. He coughed black taffy, then showed his grainy teeth. “I’m looking for Holland Park.”

  I gripped the wine bottle full of salt. Sarah grimaced and held her stomach, leaning against the other side of the tree. He approached her calmly. I watched him shift his grip on the walking stick, until he held it like a bat.

  I shifted my grip, too, ready to strike.

  “I’ll give you directions,” Sarah said, as he lifted the stick. “Now!”

  I threw the bottle as hard as I could against the trunk of the tree. Sarah vanished in time to avoid the scalding salt, but Patricia’s killer did not. As the glass shattered, he was showered in pink salt crystals. The tar burst from him in splatters and spikes, like he was some sick hybrid of a blister and a puffer fish. One black spike scraped my wrist, leaving a dark welt.

  Sarah was already floating high above us, large and vivid.

  “The firework!” she shouted. “Before he puts his head back on!”

  “Matches?” I cried. It was lumpy, wrapped in duct tape and newspaper.

  “There’s an electric lighter taped to it! Just toss it and get back!”

  I threw the hackneyed bomb at the writhing man.

  Sarah snapped her fingers.

  ———

  It was as easy for us to end him as it had been for him to end Patricia, or maybe even easier. I couldn’t tell if that was more infuriating or revelatory.

  Sarah whooped and screeched as the firework went off in a shower of lights and sizzling flame. The firework sprayed green and then red and finally purple sparks as the news
paper caught fire and swallowed him in its blaze.

  It took only a few seconds for him to shrink to black ash and then nothing, as though he were made of tissue paper.

  Then there was only the smell of gunpowder and absence.

  Sarah touched down, face jubilant and alive. “That’s all it took, Dani. Just like that, he’s fucking gone.”

  “Is he?” I gasped, eyes streaming. “He is, isn’t he?”

  “Pink salt and a firework. That’s all it took.”

  “Yeah. Sarah?”

  “Dani?”

  “Why did you kiss me?”

  Sarah looked at me, eyes glittering and alive. “Duh. Because I love you.”

  I couldn’t tell if that confession was hideous or beautiful, a truth or a lie, right or wrong, sickening or justified. I could not tell, and I could not think of how to stop her when she leaned in again.

  What if she left me for good?

  So I just fell still and let her kiss me again, laughing through her open mouth as some part of my soul left me.

  DECEMBER 2002

  SEIJI

  DUPLO

  That week at school I slept through most of my classes, and in the wake of a new self-inflicted haircut and clothes, I began to hear the word “lesbo” on the regular. Given everything else was going crooked, who cared what some breathers said?

  Seiji sat with me at lunch and in the hallways. He asked me if I wanted to come over again, whether I wanted to check on Chestnut, the angry calico sprite.

  “She’s getting fat,” he told me. “It’s fantastic.”

  I nodded and did not accept his offer.

  He also offered to visit the ghosts and said he could help out in the lobby. He could deliver flowers: poinsettias, violets for decoration. Whatever we wanted.

  I nodded and said, “Maybe.”

  Every time I spoke to him, I thought of everything I wasn’t saying. I thought of his father dead in his greenhouse, and my father in the trailer, and the way that telling the truth changed things between people, for better or worse.

  Patricia was better, but Sarah was worse. Addy cried in the walls every night.