Violet Ghosts

by Leah Thomas

  “You and me have been fucked for a long time.”

  I knew that, but I couldn’t imagine anything else.

  “I’ll miss you,” I said finally. “I’ll miss you every damn minute.”

  “You might,” she acknowledged. “But you know, minutes all end quickly.”

  “Sarah, promise me you won’t just walk into the sunlight.” It was hard to breathe through my tears. “That you won’t end it without saying goodbye. Don’t exorcise yourself. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “Rightbackatcha.” I could feel her grinning, and then Sarah came and sat right before me, same as she ever was. “With the bar set so low, imagine how many better friendships we’ll have in the future. I’m over being vicarious, you know?”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  She whispered in my ear, “Check under the mailbox.”

  She kissed me once on the head and I wrapped my arms around her, but there was only empty air.

  I was still crying when Seiji appeared. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Oh.” He glared around the backyard. “HELLO, SARAH! YOU HAVE REALLY UPSET US ALL!”

  I tried to breathe. “She’s gone, Seiji.”

  “Gone, gone?” He glared at the darkness, as if it had personally knifed her.

  “Just gone. Taking a permanent vacation, I think.”

  “Oh.” Seiji pondered this and then leaned over. He stared directly into my eyes. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Both, I think. Seiji, have you checked under the mailboxes?”

  “No!” He was ready to sprint away, but I caught his arm.

  “Don’t,” I said, standing, looking at the house we’d gutted.

  Instead, we paid a visit to the pay phone outside the 7-Eleven between our homes, while wearing Santa hats and sunglasses. We called in an anonymous tip to the Rochdale Police Station. Somehow, in a move that felt so damn Rochdale, we got an answering machine. Then again, it was 4:00 a.m., and we were caught in the twilight days between Christmas and New Year’s, when nothing felt quite real. Whatever sad sap was on duty was probably out dealing with roadkill cleanup or something.

  “The remains of Sarah Zielinski, missing since 1976, can be found beneath the mailboxes at 134 Abbot Row,” Seiji said.

  “Some dickhead in her family did it!” I added from under his arm.

  We hung up.

  I watched those hilly shoulders slump. “I could sleep like the dead.”

  “Was that a joke, Seiji Grayson?”

  “I don’t know. I’m too tired to know what a joke is.”

  I looked up at the 7-Eleven sign. Open twenty-four hours, bless them. Open for eternity.

  “Wanna get a Slurpee?”

  MARCH 2003

  DANNY

  ME

  It was astounding, the difference a few letters could make. When I filed for emancipation from my mother in March, I also filed to change my legal name. I looked at my learner’s permit and the official name on it: Daniel Miller.

  The emancipation was actually a group decision. Mom and I started going to group therapy at the Green House, where there was an all-honesty policy. During one of our sessions, I admitted that I wasn’t a lesbian, cool as lesbians are. I was trans and wanted to make some changes. Mom couldn’t ignore what I was saying, not in front of a group of women, several of whom were queer themselves. Maybe to get back at me, or maybe to follow the group’s policy, she then admitted that she had been in contact with Dad, and had seriously considered moving back in with him.

  “And so I think you’re right, Dani,” she summarized, while fear built inside me and I crumpled a Styrofoam cup in my hand. “I can’t seem to get better, not as quickly as you deserve. And if you’re on your own, even if I fail—you’ll be okay.”

  “Mom . . .”

  “I mean it. Go make your own choices. You’ve lived with enough of mine.”

  So we filed the paperwork. When we were submitting it to the courthouse, I told her I’d probably stick around the apartment even once I was emancipated, so long as Dad wasn’t there. We could support each other but also escape each other if we needed to.

  Mom liked the idea, or I think she did. It was hard to tell through the sobbing.

  I didn’t think she would ever have all her shit together, and I likely wouldn’t either, even though I had more time to try. At the very least, we were aware of our shit, and aware we might need counseling or medication. Mostly we were aware that we had to keep trying.

  We lived together without bickering too much, for once. I wore my binder and told her when school was horrible, and Mom told me whenever she felt tempted to reach out to Dad. Maybe our peace was temporary, but that didn’t make it matter less. Maybe the opposite, even.

  But not all of me was Mom’s business. Mom didn’t need to know that I had emailed Corina’s aunt Jo about hormone therapy. She didn’t need to know I’d be doing my own research on testosterone and packing and my identity. Some things were mine.

  I asked Coach Ma if I could return to cross-country on the boys’ team the following year. She said, “Sure. We’ll need new blood on the JV team. We’re booting Charley for harassing his teammates.”

  I tried not to grin, but I didn’t try very hard. I knew it was unkind to gloat, but if you can’t gloat at the expense of assholes, what good is victory?

  ———

  “You could have chosen anything,” Seiji remarked, when I showed him my learner’s permit. We were at the flower shop’s café, sipping on hot Assam tea. Aunt Lavonne was around, and she moved like she was constantly apologizing to Seiji, which was awkward, but I suspected they were trying, just like Mom and me. Most people are always trying. “You could have had any name.”

  “What, like Chestnut or Santa or Jerry the Iguana?”

  “I’m glad you’re still Danny, though.”

  I snorted. “Why? Easy to remember?”

  “You’ve been you all along.” He shrugged. “Makes sense to stay the same.”

  “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

  “It is.” This fucking guy. “Hey. About my dad?”

  “Yeah?” The ghost in question was sitting behind us, crying onto his table.

  “What if I don’t want to do anything about him?” Seiji asked, stirring his tea.

  “Oh. Um, I guess that’s your choice.”

  He rested his chin in one hand. “I can’t make decisions for him. Whether he goes or stays, I’m his son and I’m sad. But making decisions for him is not my job.”

  Imagine if Seiji had been my friend for years. Imagine if I’d learned long ago that people could put distance between themselves and trauma. Maybe Sarah and I would have done better with a friend like Seiji.

  Mr. Nakamura-Grayson stood up and walked into Stella’s Garden with the rope in his arms.

  Seiji and I both ignored the sound of the breaking pot.

  ———

  The discovery of human remains in Rochdale didn’t make national news. Why would it have? How many girls went missing every year? How many had gone missing since Sarah Zielinski vanished in 1976?

  Still, Sarah was all the townies could talk about.

  It was certainly big news in the lobby at the motel, where we all gathered around to listen to Seiji read the headline and subsequent article. I listened cross-legged on the floor while Addy’s floating knitting needles click-clacked beside me.

  Patricia shushed some of the children, who didn’t understand what the fuss was about. Since the lobby had expanded again, she was happy more often—Alphonse had gone back to the farm to collect any ghosts who were still wandering lost. He brought them back with his sweetness and his nudging.

  In addition to two more children found wandering at the petting zoo, there were also some Victorian ladies and gentlemen who were terribly grumpy about the evils of electricity but otherwise seemed kind enough.

  Many of the O’Connor ghosts were apologetic, and when
asked whether they were murderers, we took them at their word when they denied it. We set up the men in an empty room of the motel, and the women occupied half the mailboxes in the lobby. Sometimes we held gatherings and group therapy sessions; one of the dead women had been an actual psychiatrist in the 1990s. Sometimes the ghosts came and went or had nothing to do with one another.

  But given the auspicious news of the day, Patricia and Alphonse had darted around the property until every able ghost was gathered in the lobby. There were fifteen of them living with us now, and many had shrunk down to make way for Seiji, who’d wandered heedless through the crowd to sit atop the check-in counter.

  He cleared his throat. “MURDERED, NOT MISSING: Uncovered Body of Teen Girl Missing Since the ’70s Implicates Brother.”

  “God, that’s abysmal writing,” Patricia said, groaning. “Curse the Rochdale Herald!”

  “The body of Sarah Jean Zielinski of Rochdale was discovered some weeks ago in the yard of her former family home. Zielinski, 16, had been declared missing in 1976, two weeks after she stopped attending school. The teen, who enjoyed chess—”

  “Wait, seriously?” I said, failing to picture it.

  “—and journalism—”

  “That’s more like it,” Patricia said, as we exchanged grins.

  “—was first presumed to be a runaway. Now the time for presumption has ended: Sarah Zielinski is in fact dead, and her older brother—”

  “Wait,” I cried, and Seiji paused.

  “Don’t bother saying his name!” called Addy.

  “Deny him the satisfaction,” agreed Valencia, one of the prim older ghosts.

  I relayed the message. Seiji nodded. “I’ll call him Fuckhead instead.”

  No one seemed to mind his substitution. One of the old gents said, “Hear, hear!”

  Seiji continued, “Fuckhead, now 57, then 19, is suspected to be the primary perpetrator of the crime. According to Zielinski’s sister, Ellen Waters, 53, Fuckhead tormented and molested both sisters for years. Waters claims Fuckhead, who was abused himself, became enraged when Zielinski rejected his advances and throttled her in her bed. Waters, then 12, shared a room with her sister and had hid in the closet when she heard their brother approaching. Waters then witnessed the atrocity, but was too frightened to come forward until police contacted her about the body last month. She has since revealed that Fuckhead disposed of his sister with the help of his father and uncle.”

  Nobody was grinning anymore. The air smelled of empathy and rage. Seiji paused, either sensing this or coping with his own thoughts.

  “Zielinski’s skeletal remains were discovered upon receiving an anonymous tip. Subsequent DNA evidence, combined with Ellen Waters’s testimony, have led to the arrest of family man and meteorologist Fuckhead Fuckington. Neighbors and friends of Fuckhead expressed shock at the news.

  “ ‘He’s the nicest man ever,’ claimed Pam Kletter, his neighbor of five years. He’s always waved hello at everyone.”

  “Neighbors are the absolute worst,” observed the elderly ghost of Tina Robins, rolling her eyes. “Busybodies and know-nothings all.”

  I laughed and relayed this to Seiji.

  “I wish I could hear you all,” he said wistfully. “And see you too.”

  “They say they just like to see you smile.” That was more what I wanted.

  “Don’t tell people to smile.” But I saw his lips curl behind his fist. I wondered what this must look like to him. I saw a crowd, but he saw only me.

  Seiji didn’t hesitate, didn’t doubt me anymore. I thought his confidence in people like me was as tragic as it was beautiful, his greatest strength and weakness.

  “Fuckhead has denied the accusations. He is expected to stand trial this August.”

  “You know,” said Krissie. I didn’t know her well yet, but it was hard to miss her dangle earrings and eighties shoulder pads. “I’ve always been an autumn, myself, but I’m eager to bust out my summer palette.”

  “Well, there you have it, folks,” I said. “Sarah’s been solved.”

  “Well, she hasn’t,” Patricia corrected, “but her murder has.”

  “People aren’t solvable,” Krissie said, popping her gum. “But it’s a nice idea.”

  “I have learned how to solve division equations, however!” Alphonse declared, beaming. I had no idea how he already took after Seiji. One of the other faceless O’Connor ghosts ruffled his hair. Finally the dead began to depart, heading back to their private rooms, their cubbies and projects and dreams and unlives.

  Addy hung back. “It’s going well, now.”

  “Yeah, somehow.”

  “We should invite more people here, if they’d like to come. Expand the congregation.”

  “Addy, please, I know what you mean and I know you’re super into churches, but I don’t like that word. It’s too culty.”

  “Hear, hear,” said a faceless woman before she popped away.

  “How you can still be so devout, I don’t understand,” remarked Tina.

  “Because I choose to be,” Addy said fiercely, “and no one can tell this girl not to be whatever she wants to be. Not anymore.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Seiji asked, listening to yet another one-sided conversation.

  “Addy. She thinks we should gather more souls.”

  “Without exorcising anyone,” she added.

  “Without exorcising anyone,” I echoed.

  Seiji nodded. “Well, it’s not as unsafe as it was before.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, even if I can’t see them—aren’t there like a dozen women here who’ll kick murderer butt if they come knocking?”

  “It’s not a dozen women.” My heart felt full as our gazes locked. He often wore his hair back now, and didn’t hide his ruddy cheeks. “Let me walk you home, Seiji.”

  ———

  “Do you think Sarah will come back, now that she’s been avenged?” Seiji asked.

  “Kind of avenged,” I amended. “Hopefully, after the trial, she’ll actually be avenged.”

  “Do you think Sarah will come back, now that she’s been kind of avenged?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess that’s up to her, not me.”

  The snow was finally melting, leaving sad piles of mud behind. It was too dark to be certain, but I thought grass might be poking through the cracks in the sidewalk as we trudged toward Murphy’s Flowers. “Maybe she will, but I don’t know that this changes anything. I mean, she’s still dead, and we still had a really toxic relationship. Sarah doesn’t get my being trans. I think she’s trying, but she doesn’t understand. I’m going to start testosterone soon. If she comes back, she can’t pretend it’s not happening.”

  Seiji nodded. “Oh.”

  “What does that mean?” I demanded, raising an eyebrow.

  “It’s just, what’s not to get?” he asked without guile. “Some people are born with bad eyes, so they wear glasses. Some people are born with funny legs, so they wear splints. And some people are born with, um, endowed torsos, so they wear binders.”

  I snorted, stepping around a puddle. “God, Seiji, that’s such a simple way of looking at it.”

  “Life is too complicated. I don’t want to add to that.”

  I’d complicated his life, and he’d complicated mine.

  “That’s true,” I admitted. “When you mix everything together, you get gray.”

  “Or shit brown,” he said wisely.

  “Speaking of shit.” We were outside the shop. Behind the glass, a thousand flowers bloomed. “Are you and your aunt okay now?”

  “Not quite.” He shrugged. “It’s another gray area.”

  “Right.” But maybe, I thought, maybe, gray got a bad rap. Maybe gray was beautiful because it was gray, because a lot of lives ended in it, tombstones or ashes. Gray was real, and gray was everywhere and it was ignored like death, but it didn’t have to be a bad thing, not if you took ownership of it.

  Seiji’
s eyes were black, not gray, and his lips were pink, but when I leaned up to kiss him, that didn’t matter. When he kissed me back, cupping my chin in his hands, I saw every color but mostly violet. Violet and gray were almost the same.

  I pulled away, blushing more than he was for once, if our reflections in the window were anything to go by. Two boys kissing and blushing, one searching for the other’s eyes, the other staring sheepishly at his feet. “I don’t know why I did that.”

  “Because you like me,” Seiji said, still seeking my gaze.

  “Damn it, Seiji! But I’m a guy!”

  He shrugged. “I mean, I’m a guy, too. I like guys.”

  “I mean, I’m the kind of guy that probably likes girls!”

  “Maybe you like boys, too. Maybe it’s another gray area.”

  “Maybe it is,” I agreed, breathing against his neck. “I don’t know. I think it’s gonna take a long time to figure out. Maybe I won’t figure it out.”

  “Well, what’s the rush?” Seiji grinned wide. “Not like we’re dying.”

  I punched him on the shoulder, and he laughed, booming, his face alive. If I kissed him again, and then again, no one but the dead saw me do it.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  If you are feeling scared or alone or in need of immediate support, the following lifelines are here to help you.

  Trans Lifeline: Staffed by trans people, for trans people. 1-877-565-8860

  TrevorLifeline: 24/7 support for LGBTQ+ youth in crisis or in need of connection.

  1-866-488-7386

  National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

  1-800-273-8255

  National Domestic Violence Hotline

  1-800-799-SAFE

  BLOOMSBURY YA

  Bloomsbury Publishing Inc., part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018

  This electronic edition published in 2021 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  First published in the United States of America in June 2021 by Bloomsbury YA

  Text copyright © 2021 by Leah Thomas

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.