Hitchers

by Will McIntosh

  In the papers and on TV the feds were maintaining that the voices were part of a new mental illness dubbed Post-Traumatic Stress Vocalization, but stories were running on CNN and FOX about people who swore the vocalizations were the voices of dead friends and relatives.

  A story of a missing nine-year-old girl whose body was recovered after twenty-five years was getting a lot of attention. Her mother claimed the daughter’s fourth grade teacher (who died in the anthrax attack) was speaking through her, and told her right where to find the body.

  Mick, sweating profusely and blurting incessantly, looked like a man waiting to be led to the electric chair. He had already put a substantial dent in the bottle of Glenlivet he’d brought.

  “You okay, Mick?” I asked.

  “Mm hm.” He stared at the movie, but I knew he wasn’t seeing it.

  I pulled out my laptop and checked my email. Most of the messages were from people I didn’t know—fans of the new Toy Shop. I got more of them every day, lately more than I could possibly answer.

  Some of the subject lines were amusing:

  Wolfie is my new BFF!

  Please kill Little Joe!

  Looking for an assistant? I’m your guy.

  I came to a message from my Aunt Therese. The subject line was How could you??? I really, really didn’t want to open it, but I knew it would just eat at me until I did.

  Is that lousy comic strip all that matters to you? How could you use Lorena’s death as a punchline? What’s happened to you? I hope you enjoy your fame and success, mister big-shot.

  I really couldn’t blame her. From the outside it looked like I’d used the circumstances of my wife’s tragic death for comic strip fodder. That would be reprehensible, no question about it.

  I considered replying, explaining why I’d run the strip, but it would make me sound insane. If I found Lorena she could call Therese and set the record straight. Of course if Lorena was able to use a phone she could call me. Maybe I would be the only one who would progress that far.

  Another message halfway down my email list caught my eye. The subject line was Are you looking for me???

  I opened it.

  Mr. Darby,

  Is it just coincidence that all sorts of things from yesterday’s strip keep coming out of my mouth? I hope not, because if it is, I will have to question my sanity even more than I am now. Please call.

  Summer Turnbull

  404-878-0320

  I leapt to my feet, stared at the message as if it might disappear if I took my eyes off it. “Oh my God.”

  Mick turned. “What?”

  “Lorena. My wife. I think she’s—”

  I punched the number, pressed the phone to my ear and jammed my finger in the other. The ring sounded so far away. Two rings. Three, and then to voice mail. A woman’s voice—a low, throaty timbre.

  I left a frantic message for Summer to call me back as soon as possible. With Mick standing beside me I Googled Summer Turnbull, hoping to find her address. My heart was drumming. Every moment it took to find this woman was going to be excruciating. Was it possible? Was Lorena back, or at least her voice?

  My phone rang.

  In my eagerness I lost my grip on it, sent it clattering across the floor. By the time I retrieved it, it was on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?”

  Mick sidled up to me and pressed his ear near the phone.

  “Hi. You just called me?”

  “Hi,” I said. “This is Finn Darby.” I didn’t know what to say. “I—. You—.”

  All that for a kiss? Summer croaked.

  All of the strength drained from my legs and I slid to the floor. It was her. I remembered the exact moment she uttered those words. “Lorena?” I whispered into the phone. “Can you hear me?” I knew she could. Just as Grandpa could hear all of this, because now I knew with perfect certainty that this was no delusion, that my grandfather was really and truly possessing me.

  Mick stood over me, his face questioning.

  “It’s Finn,” I whispered to Lorena. I almost expected her to answer, to storm her way out and blurt my name.

  “Who are you talking to? Who’s Lorena?” Summer demanded, her voice shaking.

  “She was my wife. She died two years ago, on the Chattahoochee River.”

  Summer’s breath hitched. “I don’t understand. What are you saying? Are you trying to say I’m possessed? Please tell me you’re not trying to say that.”

  Mick handed me a glass filled to the brim with scotch. I nodded my thanks and took a lavish gulp. Nothing would ever be the same. I felt like I’d been pulled inside-out. “I’m sorry. That’s what I’m saying. The same thing is happening to me, and to all those people on the news. I’m pretty sure we’re all possessed.”

  She tried to speak, but couldn’t. I waited patiently while she got hold of herself. “Well, can you please tell your wife to get the hell out of me?” Her nose was badly plugged. She sounded so lost, so desperate.

  It was hard to think of Lorena terrifying someone, even when she sounded like she was speaking from the bottom of a swamp. But I knew what it was like to have the voice. It had scared the hell out of me, too.

  “I’m sorry. I know what you’re going through.” I felt guilty, because I wasn’t sorry—I was elated. I’d found Lorena. Maybe I’d be able to speak to her eventually. There were so many things I wanted to say. “Look, can we meet? I know how hard this is for you, but...” I left it hanging there.

  “I’ve still got it in me. I’m sure of that much, ” Mick blurted.

  “What was that?” Summer asked.

  “A fellow sufferer. Friend of mine,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  I waited, hoping Lorena would say something else. Summer was probably a week or two behind us, like most of the afflicted, so Lorena probably didn’t speak often. Yet.

  “Look, can we meet?” I repeated.

  She seemed hesitant. “Will you help me? Will you try to get her to leave me alone?”

  “I’ll try. But she’s just echoing things she said when she was alive. I can’t have a conversation with her.” Not yet, at least.

  “But if I meet with you, you’ll try? That’s all I’m asking.”

  I said I would. What else could I say? I’d been focused on the possibility of talking to Lorena; I hadn’t considered how the person she was haunting would feel.

  Mick wanted to come along, but I told him I needed to do this myself.

  “How do you know it’s her? What was that she said? ‘All that for a kiss?’”

  “I’ll explain when I get back,” I said as I swept up my keys.

  I was in my car, MapQuest directions to Summer’s apartment in hand, when I saw that Summer’s apartment was up near the Chattahoochee River where Lorena had died. It might be coincidence, but maybe the dead ended up inside people who were near the spot where they died. If it was all about location, though, how did I end up with my grandfather haunting me? There was more to it, but maybe proximity was one piece.

  It was dark, and raining, and I drove too fast. I pounded the steering wheel at red lights, which stayed red for eternities. I thought about what I wanted to say to Lorena. I’m sorry? I’ve never stopped loving you? I took your advice on Toy Shop, and now I’m a big-time cartoonist? All of that, but mostly I just wanted to be near her. If and when she could speak, would she have things to tell me, about the other side? The thought terrified me. Maybe there was no other side. Maybe her last memory was the lightning.

  I jerked along Paces Ferry, watching for the turn into Summer’s apartment complex. When I spotted the faded, pockmarked sign for Park Place Apartments I flew into the parking lot, bouncing through potholes. It was an immense complex, all concrete and blacktop. The unit two doors down from Summer’s was boarded up, the steps to the front door missing. I parked next to a dumpster that had a warped mattress and box springs leaning up against it.

  Summer opened the door before I knocked.

  We stared
at each other for a long, frozen moment, each of us trying to make sense of what couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

  It was the waitress from the Blue Boy. My pounding heart found a higher gear.

  “You,” she whispered. “You’re the cartoonist?” The circles under her eyes were so dark it looked like she had smeared her mascara. Fear and exhaustion looked as if they had taken up permanent residence on her face since we’d last met. “What the hell is going on? You—” she closed her eyes, squeezed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, trying to pull herself together. “The last time I saw you, you told me it wasn’t contagious, but now I have it. Whatever it is.”

  I waved my hands. “Hold on. I didn’t give it to you.”

  Summer laughed, a little hysterically. “But it’s your wife who’s inside me. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “I know. I can’t explain that, but this isn’t like a virus where you can sneeze and pass it on.”

  Summer studied me for a minute, then turned, drawing the door open to let me in. There were tattoos behind her ears—Chinese characters.

  The living room was scattered with kids’ toys—a stuffed dog, big Tinkertoys, a plastic train big enough for a toddler to ride. In the corner two sagging particleboard book shelves were crammed with books of every shape and size. It was mostly New Age stuff—The Tibetan Book of the Dead; Living Zen; The Gnostic Gospels. The apartment was small and cramped, the carpet dingy and worn. Summer had done everything she could to make it cheery, hanging colorful rugs on the walls and lining the kitchenette’s counter with McDonald’s happy meal toys, but still, if I had to live there I’d stick my head in its 1970s-era oven and turn on the gas.

  I gestured at the room. “You have children?”

  Summer nodded. “A daughter.” She lifted a scruffy brown teddy bear from the couch, set it aside, and sat down. She seemed to be all knees and elbows. “When the voices started I sent her off to stay with her father in Savannah. She’s only four; I don’t want to scare her.”

  “I understand.”

  Summer stared at the teddy, contemplating it as if it held some terrible secret.

  “So when did it start?” I asked.

  She looked up at me. “A week ago.” She was so thin the ribs in her upper chest were visible above the hem of a wide-necked Janis Joplin t-shirt, looking like rows of extra collar bones. “I was waiting a table. It was horrible.” She swept her hair back. “Do you know who’s inside you?”

  “Yeah, I know who mine is,” I said. “My grandfather.”

  She considered for a moment. “So, assuming this thing really isn’t contagious, there must be another explanation. I met your wife before. Your own grandfather’s inside you. It can’t be coincidence.”

  She was right, of course. The hauntings couldn’t possibly be random.

  “Maybe she’s still mad at me about the butter.” Summer blew a loose strand of hair out of her face. “I’m being possessed by a woman who was mad at me about her pancakes.” The look of disbelief on her face was priceless.

  It hadn’t been about the pancakes, it just upset Lorena that nobody seemed able to pay attention to details any more. Lorena’s dad was in the Chilean military—a high-ranking officer—and Lorena had adopted his love of efficiency.

  “I had an argument with my Grandfather the day he died. Maybe it has something to do with anger.”

  Summer smiled, sort of. It was more of an ironic squiggle. “I meant it as a joke. Surely this isn’t about me serving her unwanted dairy products.”

  I shrugged. “It was on Lorena’s mind right before she died. She was worried that you might get fired.” I was eager to ask about Lorena, but I felt awkward, a bit like a ghoul.

  “Have you by any chance written down the things you’ve been saying?” I ventured.

  Summer cast about, yanked a sheet of paper from under a pair of books on a cluttered end table and handed it across to me.

  I scanned the list, nodding. “Fatima is Lorena’s sister. Lorena was an attorney who worked in youth civil defense, so some of these are references to cases.” I paused, chuckled. “Notting Hill was her favorite movie.”

  Summer didn’t smile. “When I first saw that strip, I lost it. I thought the words were appearing there just for me, that everyone else who read it was seeing different words.”

  “Sometimes I wish I was delusional,” I said. “At least then I’d know what to do.”

  Summer inhaled, about to say something, but instead she croaked, “If one more person assumes I’m Mexican... ”

  I’d forgotten that Lorena was here with us, right now. I leaned forward. “I’m here, Lore.” I desperately wanted to talk to her, to reach in and pull her out and take her with me, but she was merged with this other person, this stranger. I felt an irrational surge of propriety, that Summer had no right to be carrying her around, keeping her in a strange place.

  “It’s disconcerting when you do that,” Summer said.

  “Do what?”

  “Talk to me like that, like I’m her.”

  “Sorry.”

  Summer waved it off. She was fidgety sitting, looking like she wanted to pace. “She wasn’t Mexican, I’m assuming?”

  I nodded. “Chilean. It bugged her that people assumed if she was Latino, she must be Mexican.”

  “Mm.”

  Why this woman, I wondered. Why was Lorena inside this stranger? Could it really be the argument they’d had?

  “She was a wonderful person. She had a good heart,” I said.

  Summer ran her hand through her bangs, which fell across her forehead like a veil. “I’m sure she was very nice.” She didn’t look at all sure. “To be honest, though, that’s sort of beside the point, you know?” She gave me an imploring look, broke into a half smile. “You know?”

  I smiled wanly, nodded. “I know.”

  “I mean,” she laughed, “I guess it’s better to be possessed by a nice dead person than a mean dead person, but still...”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you really think she can hear you? That she can hear what we’re saying, right now?” Summer looked mortified by the notion.

  I leaned back on the couch, crossed my leg, then uncrossed it. It would upset Summer to hear what had been happening to me, but there was no getting around it. She looked exhausted, like she was hanging by a thread. I leaned forward, folded my hands.

  Summer’s eyes went vacant, the thousand-yard stare that was becoming so familiar, and added, “Can I say something that’s kind of sneaky?”

  I felt a stab of recognition. I could see from Summer’s face that I hadn’t masked my reaction very well.

  “Lorena said that just before she died,” I explained.

  Summer swallowed thickly, touched her throat. “I just can’t get a grip on what’s going on. Do you know what’s going on?” There was a pleading look in her eyes.

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I was one of the first who got the voice. I think that’s because of an accident I had on the first night of the anthrax outbreak. I was clinically dead for ten minutes, and while I was dead I was inside someone else, in the same way my wife is inside you.”

  Summer opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, so I went on.

  “The voice got worse and worse—”

  “Hold on,” Summer interrupted. “I haven’t heard your voice once. If you’re ahead of me—”

  “I know. Mine stopped—”

  She leapt out of the chair, her face bright with hope. “It stopped?” I shook off her enthusiasm. “It’s not a good thing, believe me.” I motioned toward the couch. “You might want to sit.”

  Summer sat.

  “The ghost doesn’t go away. It starts taking over your entire body, a few minutes at a time.”

  She froze, and stayed perfectly still, like I’d just told her there was a huge spider on her head. “What do you mean?”

  I told her about Grandpa. When
I finished, Summer closed her eyes, steepled her hands under her chin for a moment. Then she stood. “I’m going to drink now. Do you want one?”

  “Whatever you’ve got. Thanks.”

  On her way back she made a detour to her bookshelf, came back with two glasses half-filled with caramel-colored liquid in her hands and a book tucked under her arm. “Rum and Coke?” I guessed.

  “Rum and rum. Dark rum.”

  “Ah.” I took a swig, as Summer flipped through the book, felt the rum burn a trail down my throat and hit my belly in a warm rush. Grandpa was probably doing a jig inside. I took a second swig, set the glass back on the coffee table. “What’s that?”

  She held up the book so I could see. The title was Seth Speaks, by Jane Roberts. “Seth was very big in New Age circles forty years ago. Jane Roberts claimed that Seth spoke through her—it’s called Channeling.”

  I motioned toward her bookshelf. “I noticed you were interested in the occult.”

  Summer waggled her head. “Well, Eastern mysticism. I’m less interested in Western stuff.”

  I had no idea what the difference was, but nodded anyway. Summer pulled up clips on YouTube of Jane Roberts channeling Seth. There were similarities between Seth and what was happening to me—he took Jane over completely, spoke in a somewhat different voice from her—but Seth didn’t sound like something half-human and half-frog.

  We speculated about what might cause thousands of people to suddenly start channeling the dead, but neither of us had any good answers. Then we chatted for a while about other things, mostly catching each other up on who we were, what our lives were like—a tacit acknowledgment that we would be seeing more of each other. The rum relaxed us past the awkwardness, until I felt like I was catching up with a friend.

  My phone interrupted us. It was Mick.

  “It’s Mick,” I whispered to Summer. I felt a stupid rush of pride saying it.

  Summer nodded, pointed, indicating that she’d go into the bedroom to give me some privacy.

  “You’re not going to believe who I just got off the phone with,” Mick said as soon as I answered.