Echo Moon (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 3)

by Laura Spinella

  Pete kept moving, taking out his phone and connecting to Uber. A blip of positive news—a driver was two minutes away. With the duffel bag over his good shoulder, the camera bag strap dug hard into his injured one. Good. It mirrored the pressure to get the hell out of their lives. He pounded down the stairs. The argument upstairs reignited, long enough for Pete to spy the photo album on the coffee table and his mother’s box of ghost gifts. It seemed in everyone’s best interest that, along with himself, Pete remove the eerie chattels. He tucked the single ghost gift and photos into his duffel bag.

  Hearing Levi follow, Pete darted out the front door. “Pete, don’t listen to this.” Levi was steps behind. “She’s not thinking straight—neither of you are. This is not the answer!”

  From the porch, Pete whipped around to face his father. “Do you have a better one?” Murky mist covered the predawn, making for dull, poignant light. He’d never seen fear in his father’s face, and his swollen jaw trembled. He’d never seen him cry—that wasn’t his father, but it’s what their family had come to. His eyes were wet, dark lashes batting at Pete.

  “Don’t do this.” His mouth gaped—an O of vagueness posing for a lack of argument. Then he came up with a truth that cut Levi so deep, his always self-possessed father could barely find words. “I lost my brother. When Brody . . . died . . .” Levi never could say it, that Brody had taken his own life—his father’s hero, his lifeguard and mentor. He started again. “Since you left home, I’ve lived with the fear of losing you to a battlefield. There,” he said, pointing to the physical world, “or to the places in your mind. I can’t lose you this way, Pete. Not because the ghosts chased you away. Please.”

  Pete wavered, but he couldn’t see any alternative. “I . . . I’m sorry this happened to you, Pa. I’m sorry this is what you ended up with. You didn’t deserve to lose a brother the way you did. You don’t deserve to have ended up with me for a son.”

  “You know that’s not how I feel.”

  “No. It’s how I feel.”

  In the tightest embrace, Levi gripped his son. Pete buried his nose in Levi’s undershirt. It smelled of love and family history—the frightened little boy who’d traveled endless violent journeys. The father who held him, just like this, willing him home. It wasn’t to be. It occurred to Pete that he hadn’t said goodbye to his mother. He couldn’t do it. Mercifully, a horn honked. “I have to go.” He glanced at the house. “For all our sakes.” Pete stepped back, both their faces veiled in tears. Pete swiped at his. “Know you’re the best father a son could ask for.”

  “Pete . . .”

  He shifted his aching shoulder. “After that, there’d be too much to say, so I’ll only say goodbye.”

  The Uber driver double-checked the destination. Pete winced at his throbbing shoulder and wanted to say, “Well, I’m already on the road to hell. What happens if we make a right at the end of the street?” Without thinking, he confirmed Grace’s address.

  It wasn’t quite seven a.m. when he knocked on Grace’s front door. For a second, Pete really lost touch, picturing a half-asleep Grace cracking open the door, one eye squinting at him, bloodshot and mascara smudged. No such thing. She swung the door wide, wearing a chipper blue dress and disposition, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand, every hair in place. “Pete! What in the world are you doing here?”

  And Pete didn’t have a clue, other than his sudden state of homelessness. “I, uh . . . I just came to say goodbye. I’m heading out.”

  “To where?” She put the cup on a table and opened the door wider. He didn’t go in. “When we texted last night, you said your managing editor didn’t have an assignment for you yet.”

  Damn. He’d forgotten the autopilot texts he’d traded with Grace while the trivial rom-com had played. “Last-minute change in plans. Listen, I wanted to ask you something, a favor.”

  Her blue eyes beamed—emotion filled. “Anything, Pete. I mean, okay, so it wasn’t the most pleasant parting yesterday. I overreacted. But I’m here for you—always. You know that, right?”

  And if he felt shitty twenty minutes ago, he felt worse now. Technically. No. Quite literally, he was using Grace. He reasoned it out: maybe the thing he wanted justified the means. “It’s important.” She nodded dutifully, and Pete was surprised Grace didn’t grab a pen and paper to take notes. “My departure from home wasn’t good. I’ll let my mother fill in the details if she wants . . . if she needs to. I’m not sure how much communication there’s going to be between Levi and her in the near future. I don’t want her to be alone . . . emotionally.” Pete tightened his fingers around the strap of the duffel bag, a strangling hold. As he’d grown into adulthood, it occurred to Pete that if anything were to come between his parents, it would probably be him. Prophecy fulfilled. “Would you mind checking in on my mother? Could you stop by in a week or so, maybe see if she’s done reading that paperback? You know, keep it casual.”

  “Of course. But whatever’s happened, surely it’ll blow over. You’ll be talking to one of them in—”

  “No. I won’t. Could you do that for me?” She nodded solemnly. He looked at his leather-banded watch like he had somewhere to be. “Thanks, Grace. I appreciate it.” Pete turned to leave but pivoted back around. “And this might sound really strange, but I don’t want to know anything, what you talk about or how they are.”

  “Pete, that’s crazy.”

  “You’re catching on.” He sucked in stagnant morning air. “Can you please do that? Nothing. I don’t want to know anything, unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you get to a point where you think you might not see one of them again. It’s my mother I’m particularly concerned about.” She blinked at him. Her curiosity was evident, but so was the fact that she’d hit a wall when it came to Pete being forthcoming. It didn’t matter. Knowing Grace, surely she was ten steps ahead, already determining how and when she’d approach Aubrey. “Thanks again. You’re a good person, Grace. Don’t ever think otherwise, not for a second.”

  “Uh, who are you and what have you done with Peter St John? Come on, Pete. I can live with the cryptic request, but why a compliment like I’m never going to see you . . .” He turned and walked down the front steps. “Pete!”

  He kept moving; he’d call for another Uber ride from around the corner. But in true Grace fashion, she couldn’t let him go. Not without a last word. Her light steps came up fast behind him. “Here.” He stopped and pivoted. “Since clearly I’m being cut off, at least take this. I did the homework. It might be of interest.”

  She shoved a white envelope at him, the preprinted return address noting “Town of Surrey.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Some research I did on your house. Nothing stuck out to me, but I thought maybe you’d want it.”

  Because he didn’t want to prolong the moment or chide Grace for doing the opposite of what he’d asked, Pete accepted the envelope. “Thanks. I guess.”

  She stood on the sidewalk, hands tucked behind her back, looking disappointed when he only shoved it into his camera bag.

  “I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a . . .” He couldn’t think.

  “Plane to catch?”

  “Sure.” He turned and headed for the corner.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Plane, train, automobile, slow boat to China . . . Throw a dart at a map. Pete chose automobile, asking the Uber driver to take him to the nearest car rental agency. Once there, he filled out paperwork and selected a modest sedan. Pete threw his duffel and camera bags into the back seat and slid into the already sweltering front. In seconds his hands were reduced to a slippery grip around the steering wheel. In moments, the car was suffocating. Yet Pete sat, the black interior closing in around him. He didn’t possess the wherewithal to move.

  He’d flirted with heatstroke in any number of Middle East countries, a common hazard. A person’s mind would cloud as neurological dysfunction set in, nausea, disorien
tation, followed by delirium and seizures—Jesus, it sounded remarkably similar to his everyday life. None of this motivated Pete to move, not to turn on the air-conditioning or even roll down a window. If he stayed this way, dehydration and electrolyte abnormalities would follow, the latter sparking a cardiac arrhythmia. He sucked in air so hot it was like kissing a lit oven. Pete remained frozen in the melting car rental lot, parked on the edge of desperation.

  A knock on the car window startled him, a clerk making a fast “roll down the window” motion with his hand. Pete complied.

  “Hey, man, you okay?”

  The rush of humid July air felt like a sea breeze. A beach and a jetty flashed through Pete’s head—crystal clear. He associated it with the young man in front of him, who gripped a clipboard, wearing a white T-shirt and red shorts. Pete blinked at him—his blond buzz cut and mirrored sunglasses, in which Pete saw his own image. Chances were Pete was as crazy as his reflection looked: unshaven, sweat-soaked—lost. He could even make out his blotchy red face. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” The young man cocked a chin at the car’s console. “Complimentary bottle of water there. I’m sure the AC works. Why don’t you give it a try—along with the engine?”

  “Right.” Pete started the car. “Sorry. I, uh . . . I couldn’t figure out my direction.”

  “I know. It’s why I’m here.” He made a humming noise, like he encountered desperate travelers and lost souls on a daily basis. Regardless of the heat, his white T-shirt was smooth and pristine. He looked like a fitness freak, taut muscles, not an ounce of fat. His haircut read as more military than trendy. And the red shorts, not exactly standard car rental clerk attire. He pulled the sunglasses off his face and Pete blinked into eyes the color of fallen sky. The man smiled—a deep dimple on one side. It was a trait that, to Pete, read as both uncanny and familiar. The young man pointed with his sunglasses. “That way’s 95 north, if that’s the direction you want to go.” He paused. “Is it?”

  Pete didn’t respond. The man pivoted on what seemed like an airy glide. Pete brushed an arm across his brow, an attempt to wipe away the heat, which was clearly getting to him.

  “’Course, that way is south, straight shot into Connecticut. You’ll hit the beach if you follow it to the coast. After that, keep going. You’ll end up in New York City. Big city. A person never knows what a place like that might unearth.”

  The way he spoke, it sounded more like instructions than directions. Either way, Pete nodded as if he’d never been outside Surrey. “Sure. The beach. Maybe the city.”

  “The beach is a start. Can help clear your head, put things in perspective. More so than a suffocating car. I always loved the beach.” As he talked, a gold chain glinted from around his neck. A cross dangled from it—fatter, not necessarily a religious symbol.

  Pete recognized it. “You’re a lifeguard.”

  “Used to be. Still am, some days.” He slapped his hand on the edge of the open car window. “You take care now, Pete.” The lifeguard stepped back. “Tell your old man I said hello. Tell him I watch him all the time.”

  Pete took his last words to mean Ink on Air, seeing Levi on his television newsmagazine program. He blinked at the lifeguard-turned-car-attendant. Pete proceeded to move without further instruction. He turned on the air and put the car in drive, stepping on the gas. The vehicle moved forward, but Pete’s gaze darted to the side mirror as the young man in red shorts grew ever distant. At the gate, he glanced in his rearview mirror. The lifeguard was gone. He hit the brakes hard and sucked in a breath of cooler manufactured air. “No way.” He twisted around, looking through the car’s back window. “That couldn’t have been . . .”

  Another man’s muffled voice cut in. At the exit was a car rental agent, this one dressed in khaki pants, a green polo, black nametag, and visor—clearly the Enterprise uniform. He urged him on. “Keep it moving, please.”

  The attendant pointed to the exit; the car behind him honked. “I’ll be a son of a . . .”

  Pete drove for miles without a clear destination, taking 95 south, more or less following the lifeguard’s direction. He prodded himself to pay attention to the traffic, his concentration eclipsed by his wonky mood. He wasn’t sure if he’d just encountered his dead uncle, or if he’d sat so long in a sweltering car that his mind had dipped into more mainstream mirages. Taking the exit for Rocky Neck, Pete concluded either option was enough to spirit him out of the car.

  The Connecticut beach was the only setting where Levi spoke openly or easily about his brother. It was all in the context of good memories. Not the uncle who’d taken his own life.

  A jetty of rocks stretched out to the ocean. Pete headed for it, passing by a sign that warned visitors to stay back. The tide was high and the rocks slippery, as cautioned. It was a cagey balancing act. Pete teetered on the jetty point, a rough ocean before him with a view both boundless and finite.

  Beneath his Nikes, the earth was slick, and the shadowy thoughts in Pete’s head slithered toward even darker ones. He had nowhere to go, no place to be. Salt water washed over his sneakers, the pain he’d caused washing over his mind. The plain truth was that if Pete had never existed, a childless Aubrey and Levi would have lived far easier lives. They surely wouldn’t be at each other’s throats, which was where he’d left them. Well, clearly there was no turning back that clock.

  The sea rose up, distracting him, presenting an alternative option. If Pete walked past one more rock, he’d be out of land. Dropped into the sound. He wouldn’t swim long before exhaustion won out. Hell. His shoulder hurt so much he wasn’t sure he could produce a stroke to save himself. There was nothing in front of him, and now not even his parents. Pete closed his eyes, imagining which would be less painful: to exile the son they loved or simply have no son at all.

  He sighed into the sea air. His mother’s plan wasn’t a sufficient means to an end. There was no guarantee it would even work, just more speculation. And if he was being truthful, it was more than that. Pete was tired—so tired of fighting a gift he didn’t want. He didn’t possess the wherewithal to face a future, minus his parents, filled with more uncertainties. What if his violent behavior, along with Esme and other pieces of his past, overtook his present-day life? It appeared to be the exact path he was on. But if Pete were gone, beyond state lines and landlines, the chance of hurting anyone else—emotionally or physically—would be erased. He’d be at peace. He wouldn’t have to get up tomorrow in a place where his sole objective was to remain a decent human being. He wouldn’t have to wage a never-ending battle for normal.

  Pete’s ability to cope had hit bottom. His life and his mind were like a Russian nesting doll, one devastating discovery opening to the next. He inched forward, unsteady but more sure. This was the right option. Another violent spray of salt water shot up, slapping him in the face.

  A slippery slope . . .

  One more step.

  A means to an end . . .

  Out of nowhere, a force batted at him. It was far more than a breeze, beyond a shove. Pete fell inland, onto the rock-filled jetty. “What the hell . . .” He landed on his backside, his bruised shoulder hitting hard. Pete sat up to dizzying stars, seeing nothing but the swelling whitecaps of water. The sky dominated his sight lines, a vivid blue hue. The same color as the eyes of the lifeguard.

  Pete crab-crawled backward. The violent churn of sea slapped his face. He considered the energy it took for a specter to offer a visual presence, never mind take action—a ghost who’d clearly come to intervene. Pete stood, gazing at the choppy sound, his heart picking up on the panic of having almost thrown himself into it. What the fuck was he doing? He feared his past life. He couldn’t fathom his purpose in this one. But if Pete didn’t get the message in the car rental lot, he got it now. His soul would be an unwelcome addition to the place ghosts lived, those born out of a reckless death.

  Pete hurried from the jetty, jumping slippery rocks with a steadier, life-jarring
gait. Keep moving, Soldier . . . The phrase reverberated; it was familiar. Something Levi had said on occasion, an otherworldly echo of the St John family mantra.

  By the time he reached the car, Pete’s acute awareness of the value of life kicked into gear. In the mess of his, he’d nearly dismissed the worth—even if it was totally fucked up. He leaned against the hood, his hands pressed into denim-covered thighs. Esme produced a hollow sense of longing, but she’d also ignited more fear than motivation. It was time for that to stop, and it was up to Pete to figure out how.

  His mother’s conclusion fell beyond tough love, but it also provided Pete with new incentive. If he could figure things out, somehow make peace with his other life, maybe he’d get this one back. It wasn’t a life he loved, but clearly giving up on it was not the answer. Pete heaved a breath at the sound-soaked jetty, slightly surprised his lungs were filled with air, not water. He’d come that close. He was ashamed at having flirted with the idea of putting his parents through that. He needed to find a way to resolve his past and redirect his future—for his own sake. Pete closed his eyes, maybe asking God or time if it would backpedal just a little, erase the past hour. When he opened them, his gaze was stuck on the rocky ledge. No. Pete needed this, to smack hard into the bottom. It was the only way back up.

  The most immediate question: How and where to start? It didn’t seem as if the answer was in a bungalow on Long Island. The bungalow was important, but more like a giant puzzle piece, a place that held nuggets from the past and confirmations. Ultimately, the things found there only widened the breadth of his plight. Of course, he had taken the most telling pieces of information with him. Pete fished the keys from his pocket and unlocked the car. He reached into the camera bag. As much as he didn’t want to look, he needed to see the photos of Esme—the beautiful image of her stretched out like a silent film star on a chaise. The far more disturbing visuals of her bruised face. Turning the photos over, Pete realized the clue—perhaps one he’d left for himself. He read aloud: “‘Esmerelda Moon. One year, five months before her death. August 1917.’” And the others: “‘Esme. Just to show. January 1919.’”