Hitchers

by Will McIntosh

  “God?” I joked.

  “Almost as good. A bloke working for FEMA. He filled me in on what they’ve learned.”

  “How did you pull that off?”

  Mick chuckled. “You haven’t been famous long enough, mate. Doors open magically when people recognize your bloody name.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Not over the phone.”

  I almost laughed; it sounded so cloak and dagger. But maybe he had a point. I was torn—I wanted to stay and talk to Summer, and be with Lorena, but I needed to hear what Mick had learned. I arranged to meet Mick at his place in an hour.

  I called to Summer as I pulled on my coat. “Mick has new information that might help us understand what’s happening. I’m going to meet him.”

  She nodded. “Well I’m sure I’ll see you—” she paused, raised her finger to her lips and considered. “Would you mind if I came along? It’s okay if it’s not, it’s just—”

  “No,” I interrupted, “that would be great.” I wanted to stay close to Lorena and, now that Summer understood what the voice was, I imagined the thought of being with others like her was comforting.

  Suddenly I had to pee. Maybe the rum was getting to me, or maybe it was this latest jolt. “Can I use your bathroom before we go?”

  Summer motioned toward the open door, then croaked, “Annie called. She met a guy at Cosmic Charlie’s.”

  The bathroom was as old and decrepit as the rest of the apartment, the linoleum stained and peeling up around the toilet. All around the mirror were index cards, each with an ornate, handwritten epithet.

  Walk with the noble. Avoid fools and assholes.

  Never give up. Never ever ever give up.

  There is no hurry. Nowhere else to go. Nothing else to do.

  The cramped space around the sink was jammed with soap, cosmetics, toothpaste, an Elmo toothbrush holder with two toothbrushes in it: a grown-up one with badly frayed bristles and a kid’s toothbrush with a cartoon fairy handle. I felt like I was intruding on a very private place, but I had to go, and this was the only bathroom.

  “Ready?” I asked as I hurried toward the door. Summer was already wearing her coat, her purse dangling against her elbow.

  CHAPTER 20

  “It must be hard to be away from your daughter,” I said as we pulled out, an attempt to make conversation.

  “It’s very hard. Will this be ready by the thirtieth? It’s for my husband’s birthday. Rebecca likes going to her dad’s house, though. He’s the fun one—he swoops in every other weekend, a month in summer, and takes her places I can’t afford.” She’d kept on going after the blurt, not missing a beat.

  “That doesn’t sound fair. Doesn’t he pay child support?” I asked, struggling to carry on the conversation. I resisted the urge to tell Lorena that I knew which birthday she was talking about. I was wearing the engraved watch she’d bought me.

  Summer laughed sardonically. “He was just a poor college student when I had Rebecca. I had to drop out of high school to raise her while he went on to a comfortable if boring and empty life as an insurance salesman.”

  “An.”

  “Are you sure you’d even be happy drawing Toy Shop?”

  Summer pressed her hand over her throat. “This is worse than it’s ever been. Tell her she’s scaring the hell out of me. I can’t sleep. My hair is falling out.”

  “I will,” I said. I braked to avoid a cardboard box lying semi-flattened in the wet road. The rain had mostly stopped. “You just told her yourself, though. Remember, she can hear us.”

  Summer threw her head back. “I’m sorry about the butter! Please, please, leave me alone.”

  “Do you...” I wasn’t sure how to put it. “Would you mind if I talked to her?”

  “Yes. I mean no. Go ahead.”

  I cleared my throat, feeling nervous, like I was on stage. How many imaginary conversations had I had with Lorena since she died? Thousands. I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Hello, Lore,” I began. “I know you can hear me. I miss you. Your sister and mom and dad are doing well. I keep in touch with them a little. They miss you, too.”

  Enough platitudes. What did I want to say? I found myself dropping to a whisper, as if I could speak to Lorena without Summer hearing. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I should have been watching out for you. I’m so sorry.”

  Summer glanced at me, then out the window, then down at the floor mat. It was strange: I was talking to Summer, or at Summer, but she was only in the way. She didn’t know what to do to get out of the way.

  “I don’t know what’s happening, how you’ve gotten inside this woman. Summer. But we’ll sort it out. I’ll stay close so we can figure it out.”

  Summer’s head was bowed, like she was in prayer. “I’m done for now,” I said to her.

  She nodded, lifted her head. We drove in silence for a few minutes, swishing through puddles.

  “I don’t think I would want to talk to the loved ones I’ve lost,” Summer said, her voice soft.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  She pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them. “It’s hard to put into words.” She bit her fingernail, thought for a moment. “There’s an order to things. We love people while they’re alive. When they die, we mourn them and move on. They’re part of the past, and we’re not.” She shook her head. “I know that sounds like something out of Chicken Soup for the Soul.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. If I disagreed she might think I was arguing that it was okay for Lorena to be inside her. I didn’t agree with her, though. She didn’t understand because she hadn’t lost someone like Lorena.

  “What does it feel like when they take over? Does it hurt?” Summer asked.

  You’ll never be the same, I might have said. You’ll never recover from it. “It doesn’t hurt, exactly.” I said instead. “But it feels bad, almost like there are snakes under your skin.”

  Summer gaped at me.

  “Just for a second,” I added quickly. “Then you don’t feel anything; you’re numb.”

  “Numb is good. Better than snakes under my skin.” She rubbed her thighs, as if warding off the prospect of snakes. “Your wife keeps talking about snakes.”

  “She was afraid of snakes. Terrified.” I considered telling Summer how Lorena’s fear of snakes had been instrumental in her death, but decided it was too personal.

  I studied Summer out of the corner of my eye. She was wearing red Keds high-tops, one foot propped on the dash. Lorena was in there. Some essence of her was right beside me, inside this woman. Incredible. Maybe part of the reason Lorena had been drawn to Summer was that, despite their differences, they seemed to have some similarities. Both were high-energy, self-assured. Maybe it went even deeper than that, though. There was something about Summer—an appealing something that she radiated.

  “I’m not sure how much I want to know about her,” Summer said. “If she becomes a person to me I might feel sorry for her.”

  “Maybe you’ll also feel less scared of her,” I suggested. “You might sleep better.”

  “I don’t want to sleep better, I want her out of me.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. I didn’t want Lorena out of her, not if it meant losing Lorena again. It was spectacularly unfair of me to feel that way—I knew that, and I knew how badly I wanted Grandpa out of me.

  “I was sure I was developing schizophrenia,” Summer said. It took me a moment to realize she was changing the subject. “I have an aunt who’s schizophrenic. She hears voices that aren’t there. This seemed close.” She drew her purse into her lap, fished out a pack of gum. “Then I saw the reports on TV, about how it’s a type of multiple personality disorder.” She held out the pack, offering me a piece.

  I pulled a stick out the pack, nodding thanks. “Did you see a doctor?”

  Summer shook her head. “No health insurance. If I’m calling a doctor, I’m standing in a puddle of my own blood.”


  I laughed out loud. “Here we are.” I pulled into the private parking lot under Mick’s building on Peachtree Street. The attendant motioned me to roll down my window.

  “Afternoon, Mister Darby,” he said, leaning in the window. “Ma’am.” He nodded to Summer before turning back to me. “You still owe me a Wolfie.” He mimicked sketching.

  “I’ll have it for you when I come down. What’s your daughter’s name again?”

  “Alison. Allie.” He thanked me, patted my shoulder. I rolled up the window, feeling the warmth of celebrity roll through me.

  “Congratulations, by the way,” Summer said. “Toy Shop seems to be everywhere. Wolfie’s like the new Snoopy.”

  I chuckled, wondering if Grandpa was getting this.

  Mick’s apartment was one giant room, a converted warehouse with exposed steel beams and huge windows. It was a mess. Large swaths of the hardwood floor were barely visible under layers of designer clothes, paper, pizza boxes, musical instruments, and dust bunnies.

  Mick looked as if he’d been getting about as much sleep as I had. To my surprise he immediately recognized Summer. He reached out, hugged her with one hand (he had an open beer in the other). “Another kindred spirit. Or maybe that’s kindred with a spirit, eh?”

  Summer pressed her head to Mick’s shoulder. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  We talked about what it might mean that Summer and Lorena had met the day Lorena died, then Mick turned to me, eyebrows raised.

  “So tell me now: ‘All for a kiss.’ What’s that about? You knew it was her just from that?”

  I felt embarrassed to tell the story, but I could see that Mick wanted to know.

  “When I was in tenth grade, the drama teacher came to my Social Studies class begging the boys to try out for the lead in the drama club’s production of Bye Bye Birdie. I had absolutely no interest in acting. In fact the idea of standing in front of an audience—of being looked at by rows and rows of people—was about the most horrible thing I could imagine. But then the drama teacher mentioned that Lorena Soto was playing the female lead.”

  Summer turned, wandered toward the windows. I lowered my voice, suspecting that she’d moved because she didn’t want to hear the story.

  “After class I went to the library and read the script, until I found what I was looking for: there was a kiss in the play. Without giving myself time to think about it I went to Ms. Camasso and told her I wanted to try out.

  “I was no actor, but I acted my heart out. I wasn’t a singer, but I warbled out the songs with my heart hammering, all for the chance to kiss Lorena. I got the part, and I got to kiss Lorena. Three times, actually: during the dress rehearsal, and during the two performances.”

  Grinning, Mick lifted his hand to my face and patted my cheek. “You’re a true romantic. The genuine article.”

  Blushing, I steered the conversation toward what Mick had found out.

  “They’re baffled,” Mick began as Summer sidled back into the conversation. “My friend at FEMA said they recruited a few hundred volunteers who’ve got the voices, and one experiencing the full Monty like you—”

  “Then it’s not just me?” I interrupted. Why hadn’t Mick flung open the door and shouted this the moment we arrived?

  Mick nodded morosely. “That’s right. It looks like we’re all headed that way. Anyway, they’re trying everything to drive out the bloody ghosts: drugs, radiation, noises, electroshock, and—get this—exorcists.”

  “Catholic exorcists? Guys in black robes carrying valises of holy water?” Summer asked.

  “That’s what the gent said.” Mick took a long swig from his beer. I gaped in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding. Are they all completely nuts?”

  “How about a few witch doctors and Wiccan priestesses?” Summer said. “If they’re going to get religious, a little diversity wouldn’t kill them.”

  It was good to hear they were doing something, but exorcists? It sounded like they were as lost about what was going on as we were.

  “So they know this is more than mental illness?” I asked.

  “Some do. Most still buy the multiple personality/post-traumatic stress angle, but they’re working all the angles.”

  Summer and I digested this news.

  Mick had a framed poster hung on the pitted concrete wall that I hadn’t noticed before—The Beatles’ Let It Be. I wandered over to admire it. “An original?”

  “Absolutely,” Mick said.

  “One of my favorite movies,” I said, admiring the portraits of the Fab Four in their later, long hair phase. “Right up there with Planet of the Apes.”

  “The last scene in the film, the rooftop concert, was the last time they ever played together,” Summer said. She was at my elbow, looking at the poster.

  “I didn’t know that,” I said.

  “Adds a darker edge, don’t it?” Mick said.

  I turned away from the poster. Summer followed.

  “So, did your friend tell you anything else?” I asked Mick.

  Mick nodded. “Seems it’s one ghost to a customer. He said the voice is always one distinct person.”

  That made sense. “If there’s one ghost to a customer, and a bunch of ghosts went to possess the living all at once, it would be like a game of musical chairs, wouldn’t it?” I said. I tapped the notes Mick was holding. “Even if the ghosts are drawn to people they had some business with, or connection to, the most likely suspects might be taken, and they’d have to find someone else.”

  “Mick, do you even know who yours is?” Summer asked.

  Mick blew air through pursed lips, making a fart sound. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.”

  No one pointed out that he might find out soon enough.

  I was still thinking about how our ghosts were brought to us. I pictured it almost as a scent the ghosts we were linked to could smell on us. I wondered if the intensity of the conflict increased the likelihood that a particular ghost would find you, or if being close to the spot where they died was a bigger factor. Lorena’s tiff with Summer had been superficial, but Lorena had died in a place where she knew very few people. That may have made distance more of a factor.

  “How many of these bloody things are we talking about?” Mick pointed at me. “You were able to find your wife. One single solitary person out of the countless masses who’ve died. Does that mean everyone is back? Everyone who ever died around here?”

  We considered.

  “That doesn’t seem possible,” I finally said. “Six hundred thousand people died in the anthrax attack. Add all the people who’ve lived and died in Atlanta, even just in the past twenty years, and you’re talking about millions. There aren’t that many cases. Unless there are a lot more to come.”

  “No,” Mick said. “My insider says no one has developed a brand new case in a couple of weeks. The existing ones are just getting progressively worse, so they’re getting noticed.”

  “So why would some people come back, but not others?” Summer asked.

  We looked at each other. What did Lorena, Grandpa, and untold thousands of other dead people have in common? None of us had any idea.

  “There’s one other thing I keep wondering,” I said, breaking the silence. “If we can’t stop this, what’s going to happen to us?”

  Nobody spoke, but I think we were all thinking the same thing. The pattern was clear: the dead were stealing a little more of us each day.

  As soon as the car door slammed and Summer turned toward her apartment, I let Grandpa have it.

  “So what do you think of that, old man?” I said as I pulled out of the parking lot. “My ‘spic wife’ is back, too. Maybe the four of us can go to dinner sometime.”

  I hated the thought of being away from Lorena for a moment, let alone the rest of the day and evening, but I couldn’t expect Summer to sleep at my place, or invite me to spend the night at hers. I’d see her tomorrow; that would have to be good enough.

  “You know what
?” I continued. “My treat. I’ll take us all to the best restaurant in Atlanta. With all the money that’s pouring in from Wolfie’s popularity, I can certainly afford it.”

  It had been almost forty-eight hours since Grandpa last took over. A faint hope was beginning to flicker inside me that I was shouting into an empty car. God, I hoped so. If not, the old man would visit soon, and I’d be banished to that numb twilight place.

  I flicked on the stereo, shoved in an Abney Park CD because I knew Grandpa would despise it, and cranked up the volume until my ears crackled.

  CHAPTER 21

  Thanks to Mick and Grandpa, I was spending a lot more time in bars than usual. Mick’s taste was substantially more upscale than Grandpa’s: The Regis had an authentic art deco-period bar, original oil paintings, plush chairs, and a grand piano. Mick and I sat at the bar watching the news, transfixed. The momentum on the news had clearly shifted; so many people were turning up with the blurt-like-a-zombie disease that it was supplanting the anthrax attack as the top story. The disorder was still being described as a post-traumatic stress response. That it was extreme and unprecedented only reflected the extreme and unprecedented nature of the anthrax attack itself, according to psychiatrists and people at the Center for Disease Control.

  “If they think this is extreme, wait till they get a look at act two,” I muttered to Mick just as Summer appeared in the doorway. She scanned the bar, looking for us.

  When she spotted me she hurried over, holding up a beat-up brown book missing its dust jacket. “Wait till you see what I found.” I gave her my barstool and stood behind her as she thumbed through pages. “When we were talking last night, I had this niggling feeling that all of this was somehow familiar. When I got home I remembered. This mystic, J. Krishnapuma, comes awfully close to describing our situation.” She flattened the book on the bar, ran her finger under a line of heavily underlined text. “He said that consciousness persists after death, and that consciousness had what he called ‘osmotic properties’—under the right conditions the dead could get sucked in and out between the world of the dead and the world of the living.”