I push the paper way, not wanting to see the image anymore.
“So what do you think about all this insanity?” I ask.
“Don’t totally freak out. We get landslides and mudslides every rainy season around here.”
“I mean about my nightmare right before the slide. What about that?”
Lexi sips her hot chocolate. “You’ve been having nonstop nightmares since you came back from the dead. Every time you take a nap you’re getting locked in a coffin or chased by your shadow. Sure, if I were you I’d be paranoid too. I just don’t know if you can blame a dream for a natural disaster.”
“Maybe. But what about the skull? That was real. No dream.”
“Yeah. But like your dad said, they’ve discovered Indian burial grounds around Edgewood before. Remember when they were building the new mall and had to delay construction after digging up those old native bones?”
“So you don’t think my shadow had anything to do with making the slide happen?”
“How is that possible?”
“How is any of this—my whole history—possible?”
I start to hyperventilate, and Lexi reaches over to squeeze my hand.
“Breathe, Jane. Just breathe.”
It takes me a minute to get a grip and slow my heart down.
“And besides,” she says. “You ditched that shadow thing back in the Great Beyond, right?”
I nod. I have to believe that. Need it to be true.
“Why me?” It’s the question I’ve been asking since I was little.
Lexi shrugs. “Who knows? You’re like a paranormal perfect storm. A magnet for bad luck.”
“Thanks. They can add that to my school yearbook profile.” I glance over at the newspaper. In the picture’s caption I’m identified as “the constable’s daughter.” “How’s this for a headline—Psycho Jane Strikes Again?”
Lexi checks out the photo.
“That’s a great shot of you, really cinematic.” She sees everything with a moviemaker’s eye. “You could be the next great horror movie scream queen.”
I shake my head. “I get enough scares just being me.”
“I hate to say it. But by tomorrow, this whole thing is going to go viral.”
I groan, burying my head in my hands. “They should just use that for my yearbook photo. It’s how everybody’s going to remember me anyway. The spookiest chick in town.”
I gaze out the window, watching the world drown. Rain. Rain. Rain.
Two days after the landslide, I’m back at the Blushing Rose. Mom’s out making deliveries. That used to be my job after school and on weekends, but my brain injury means I’m not allowed to drive right now.
Mom thought I might want to stay home from work and school, after the trauma of the slide and seeing those remains, and all that’s gone wrong lately. But I need this everyday normalness. Gotta keep busy.
School today was surreal. With that photo of me and the skull showing up everywhere, I thought the smart-ass remarks and general harassment were going to get worse. But no, everybody’s avoiding me, as if I’ve got some kind of infectious supernatural virus. Good thing I’ve got my Creep Sister to keep me company.
I take a seat behind the counter. Outside, the world is all shades of gray. But in here it’s an explosion of color.
There’s a lot of family history in this shop. Mom inherited it from her mother. Both of us spent our childhoods helping out here, doing homework in the back, where it’s like a pocket-sized jungle crowded with plants. And this is where Mom and Dad first met.
He says it was a beauty-and-the-beast kind of thing.
They went to the same schools growing up. But they were on completely different planets. She was the smart shy girl, pretty but not in a showy way. He was the hell-raising son of the old head constable, the town’s top cop. Dad was on the football, rugby, wrestling and boxing teams. Anywhere you got to lay down some hits and get hit. He says it was his way of fighting back against living under the constable’s laws at home and everywhere else. In one of his school yearbooks he was named most likely to go out in a blaze of glory. He was living in fast-forward, like there was no tomorrow.
But that all ended when the constable had a heart attack writing a speeding ticket and died out on the highway.
Leaving behind a huge black hole in Dad, with nothing left to fight.
When Dad showed up at the Blushing Rose to pick up the wreaths for the funeral, Mom was watching the shop, like I am now.
She says he gave her a scare when she looked up and saw him standing there. He was wearing a suit, but his face was all bruised, with a split lip and a fresh black eye. Looking like he had just stumbled in off a battlefield, he had that shell-shocked stare. Didn’t say a word, but she knew who he was and brought out the wreaths.
“Sorry about your father,” she said.
“What do I do now?” he asked.
Mom wasn’t sure what he meant, so she told him it was already paid for by the town council.
“What do I do?” he kept saying.
She could only shake her head. He was the most lost thing she’d ever seen.
He gave her another scare when he started crying, leaning on the counter. Mom never saw anyone cry so hard without making a sound. And this wasn’t just anybody, but the legendary local thug. The Bulldog. So now she was asking herself, What do I do?
And what she did was a small brave gesture. Mom reached over and patted his hand, with its swollen knuckles and scabbed fingers. Like petting a strange dog when you don’t know if it’s going to lick your hand or bite it. Her touch was just a little thing, but it changed everything.
When he finally ran out of tears, Dad caught his reflection in the glass doors of the coolers. Eyes puffy and bloodshot. “I can’t let them see me like this.”
“It’s your father’s funeral. They’ll understand.”
“No. Can’t let them see me.”
So Mom ended up lending him her sunglasses.
He tried them on. It was hard getting the glasses to sit right and keep from slipping down the busted bridge of his nose. “Can you still tell? How do I look?”
Mom told him what he wanted to hear.
“Like the Terminator.”
And he laughed. A small miracle on a very bad day.
Beauty meets the beast.
I never get tired of hearing that story. Where they started out. Right here, in this spot.
I smile, and it turns into a yawn so massive and wide I hear my jaws pop.
Haven’t had a customer in half an hour. The white noise of the rain tapping on the front window blends in with the hum of the refrigerators behind me keeping the flowers cool and fresh.
Since the shock of the landslide I’m getting maybe three hours of sleep a night. I keep jumping awake, from nightmares I can’t remember.
I catch myself nodding off, my head bobbing up with a snort. I blink my eyes wide.
Maybe I should crank up some music, something loud to—
Thump!
I flinch at the sound behind me. Spinning around in the chair, I look for what made it. Maybe something fell over in one of the fridges. The glass doors are fogged from the humidity, so I get up and open them.
Cold air blows over me as I lean in. No vases toppled over, no mess.
I take a peek in the back room but can’t spot anything wrong there either. The noise could have been coming from the back alley. Maybe they’re picking up the garbage.
I head back to my chair.
Thump!
Louder. I face the fridges. Definitely seems to be coming from there. Maybe the motor on the cooler is acting up.
I step closer to the fogged doors.
Thump! Thump!
What is that? Can’t be good.
THUMP!
I jump as something hits the glass. And I see—
No!
There’s a hand pressed against the inside of the door. I back up into the counter. Can’t be. But a palm
is flattened on the glass. It pulls away, leaving a cleared patch in the condensation, and a smear of red. Blood?
It smacks the glass harder.
I gasp, stunned. I just looked in there. Nowhere to hide. No way. My eyes are lying to me.
But something wants out of there.
I move away as it starts pounding with both hands, leaving more bloody streaks. The glass is going to crack under the beating.
No! No way!
One more hit knocks the door open a few inches.
Chilled air drifts from the gap like a breath of mist. In the sudden silence, I stand shaking, staring at the smeared bloody palm prints.
The escaping mist carries a sound with it. A whisper.
Jane.
No. I’m not hearing that!
Jane.
I want to kick the door shut. To run. Get away, before whatever’s connected to those hands steps out.
But I can’t move. Can’t even—
Oh, God! What’s that? Something’s moving.
Fingers, stained red, curl around the door’s edge.
No. No. No!
I reach behind me blindly for anything to fight with. Scissors. Before I can grab them something touches my hand. I whip my head around. Ready to scream.
Mom’s standing there.
“You okay?” she asks. “Didn’t you hear me?”
I can’t speak. I glance back at the fridge.
And see nothing. No fingers. No blood. No streaks in the condensation. The cooler door is shut tight.
“Jane?” Mom’s giving me a worried frown.
I find my voice. “S-sorry. Sorry. I don’t know what …”
“You look flushed. Any fever?”
She puts the back of her hand against my forehead.
“No, Mom.”
“Any headache?”
“Nothing. Really. I just … I thought I heard something in the coolers. Something wrong.”
Mom goes to open the door that was dripping with blood a moment ago.
Don’t! I want to shout. Something’s in there.
She pokes her head inside. I hold my breath, waiting for her scream. She checks the thermometer. Looking over her shoulder, I see only the flowers and arrangements. Nothing more.
“Seems fine.” She closes the door.
I fake a normal face real quick. “Good. That’s good. Um … if you don’t need me, I’m gonna take off now.”
She starts filing away her delivery slips. “You want to wait around an hour and I’ll drive you home?”
“That’s okay.” I reach for my coat. “I could use some air.”
“Well, call and let me know when you get home, then.”
I nod, grabbing an umbrella on my way out.
The rain’s coming down hard, turning the street into a shallow stream. Even with the umbrella I’m going to get soaked, but I don’t care. I need to get away from here.
I’m too shaky and wired to go home, can’t be alone right now. I need somebody to talk me down.
So I go see my Creep Sister.
Lexi reads my face as soon as she opens her door.
“That bad?”
I shiver a nod, and she lets me in out of the rain. Warming up over a mug of coffee in her room above the garage, I replay what just happened.
“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?” she says. “You said you were nodding off right before.”
“I don’t know. It felt so real, Lexi.”
“Yeah. But the past few days … I mean, you’re getting no sleep, that nail’s screwing with your wiring, you just cheated death by landslide, and you’re superstressed.”
Now that I’ve put a little distance between me and what happened in the shop, my own doubts are starting to creep in.
“I feel like I’m losing it.”
“You’re safe now. Just breathe, Jane.”
I let out a shaky sigh, trying to get my speeding heart to slow down. The rain patters on the roof, soft and hushing.
“There’s this thing I read about,” Lexi says. “Sort of a sleep disorder. Hypnagogia.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like having waking dreams. When you’re half-asleep, and the line between conscious and unconscious gets blurred. It can happen if you’re stressed and sleep deprived, or it can be a side effect of some medications.”
“I’m taking a fistful of meds every day.”
“With all those drugs in your system, maybe you’re having a bad reaction.”
“Real bad.” I drink the last of my coffee, letting it defrost me. “You think that’s what it was? Felt like more than a dream.”
“These hypnagogia things are supposed to seem hyperreal. Where you’re still aware of your actual surroundings, but your subconscious splices a little something extra into the scene.”
“So it’s like a hallucination?”
“Yeah. But that doesn’t make you a lunatic.”
“This stuff ever happen to you?”
“No. I mean, I only get maybe three hours of sleep a night, but I don’t feel deprived. I’m just wired.” She bugs out her eyes at me.
I smile. Lexi’s my real shrink and dream doctor.
I set my empty mug down on her desk. Caffeine probably wasn’t a great idea. Feels like I’m going to jump out of my skin. I try to walk it off, pacing around her room.
Lexi’s been working on a new project, and it covers the wall above her desk. Guess I’m the inspiration for it.
A gallery of images show what the Great Beyond looks like. Lots of glowing doorways, and heavenly cloudscapes with gates opened wide. The phantom souls of the newly dead hovering above their own lifeless bodies. Helpful spirits pointing out the way to the other side.
“So, Lexi, when you were digging all this up, did you find anything that was like my own bad trip?”
“You’re kind of unique when it comes to these near-death things. Some of what you saw fits the usual story. You did the out-of-body stuff, saw the light and went for it. But then you took a wrong turn.”
“Seriously wrong.”
“Most people get life reviews, like a replay of their greatest hits. From their first breath to last.”
“I got one of those, but it wasn’t my life.”
I’ve rerun that vision in my head a thousand times, trying to make sense of it. That little seaside town, the blue house. The woman waiting out front. There was such an overwhelming feeling of loss at the sight of her. Then, upstairs in the guy’s room. That stuff seems easier to understand, memories of a lost life. But then the vision turned dark and strange, with the bald skeleton man. A crow on his shoulder. What does it all mean?
“Where did you find this stuff?” I lean in to study the afterlife images.
“I joined an online support group for the resurrected, pretending to be one of them. They call themselves Second Chancers. I told them your story, saying it was mine. You know, to see if anybody had a similar experience.”
Lexi loves these online encounters where she can be anybody. She uses about a dozen cyber aliases and personalities.
“Did you find any like mine?”
“Well, ninety-nine percent of these visions are positive. Even a few atheists found religion after what they saw. The resurrected come back renewed, and the only regret they have is that they didn’t get to stay in the light. But they find peace knowing it’s there waiting for them when their time finally comes.”
I spot a welcoming spirit in one picture, in the shine from the other side. I remember how that light felt, sweeter than anything ever.
But there were no guiding spirits waiting to show me the way. And no peace now, knowing what else is waiting.
Sanctuary.
I find a quiet spot to sit near the back of St. Mary’s, a cozy little church in the center of Edgewood. One of the oldest places around here, it was built using wood from the ancient forest they cut down to make room for the town. Behind the simple altar there’s a stained-glass scene of Mary in mourn
ing, sitting on a rock and looking out to a stormy sea.
But I’m not really here to claim sanctuary. I’m the floral director for the wedding that’s just about to start.
Mom usually handles this stuff while I watch the shop. But I didn’t want to be left alone there.
I breathe in the smell of incense, roses and burning candles, relaxing for the first time in days. I already set up the arrangements, handed out bouquets to the bridesmaids, tied bundles of white lilies to the pews along the center aisle, decorated the altar with pink carnations and filled the flower girl’s basket with crimson rose petals. Now I hang around for the show. Such a love junkie.
My addiction to romance novels started years back.
Maybe it comes from having a lusty heart, or maybe I crave what I can’t have. I mean, it’s never going to be me at the altar.
I tried making up my own stories, to live out my fantasies that way. I used to be good with words. Writing was my thing. Like Lexi and her movies, words were how I made sense of stuff.
But everything I wrote came out wrong. Where I was trying for romance, passion and desire, everything turned all doom and gloom. So I quit.
Now I just stick to the love library in my closet.
I can’t take any chances. I have to keep my distance from Ryan, and every other guy. No flirting, no messages, nothing. I’m still playing by my shadow’s rules. Because as long as I’ve stayed alone, it’s let me live. I want to believe I got rid of that thing, but I’m not going to risk it.
The priest steps up to the altar. The show’s about to start. Maybe I should confess everything to him, see if he can cure my haunted self. Get him to hose me down with holy water and set me free.
But I know there’s no miracle for me here. Just a moment of peace.
I bolt awake. My heart beating hard.
I stare at the glowing red numbers on my alarm clock. Just past two in the morning.
What woke me? Thought I heard something.
I listen to the stillness of the house. Dad’s off on night patrol, so there’s not even his snoring down the hall to break the quiet.
I wait a few silent heartbeats. I’ve been so hyperalert, jumping at every little creak. Such a wreck.
Beyond Page 7
