Haunt Me

by Liz Kessler

  “It’s not that,” she says, lowering her voice. “I just don’t want to be a gossip.”

  I shrug and keep walking. To be honest, I’m not even that interested. Tragic to a guy like that probably means that he forgot to put his hair gel on that morning, or he didn’t get picked to be captain of the soccer team. I know his sort. I’ve met way too many of them before now.

  My lack of interest clearly wasn’t the response Nia wanted. “I mean, I feel a bit bad about saying it out loud,” she says. Which I interpret as I know I shouldn’t, but actually I really, really want to tell you, and I will probably spill the beans completely if you ask me one more time.

  I relent. “Tell me. What’s the big tragedy?” I say, stopping just before we get to English class.

  Nia bites her lip. Her eyes actually moisten, and I realize I might have sounded too sarcastic.

  “I mean — if you want to tell me, if you think it’s OK.”

  She pauses, then says, “He lost his brother.”

  I stare at her. My mouth has gone dry. “Lost?” I ask, just to make sure I’ve got it right.

  Nia nods. “His brother died earlier this year.”

  “What was his name?” I croak, the words struggling to get past the crumbling dry rubble of my throat. As if I don’t know what she’s going to say.

  Nia takes a breath, glances down the corridor, then looks back at me.

  “Joe,” she replies, and the floor tilts away from me.

  “Are you OK?”

  Nia is looking at me, her brows frowning with concern. Why is she asking if I’m OK? Is it obvious? Can she tell?

  I realize I’m gripping the door handle. There’s a group of students behind us, waiting to go in. I look at my hand, wrapped around the handle so tightly that my skin is almost translucent. If I let go, I think I’ll probably fall. But if I keep standing here like this, then I might as well make myself a sign that says I AM AN UTTER FOOL AND A CRAZY PERSON. PLEASE AVOID ME AT ALL COSTS.

  I slowly unclasp my hand from the handle, force my breath to go in and out of my mouth, and finally put every bit of mental energy I’ve got into telling the corners of my mouth to point upward. I hope I look as though I’m smiling, although I think I probably look more like I’m eating the sourest lemon in the world while also being punched in the stomach.

  That gives me an idea.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Stomach cramps.” I give her a knowing look, one that will hopefully bring our conversation to a close. “You know. Time of the month. I get it really bad.”

  Nia’s face is sympathy and relief all rolled into one. “Oh, me too!” she says. “I get terrible cramps. Poor you.”

  I manage another smile. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be OK in a minute.”

  As we head into English, I try not to think about the fact that I just got cold-shouldered by Joe’s brother in front of a corridor full of students, or the fact that Nia and I now seem to have bonded over our periods.

  I fall back on my tried and trusted defense: I bury my head in my work, and except when absolutely necessary, I don’t look up from my books, my bag, or my desk for the rest of the day.

  She’s home. The day has been like an eternity. Well, my whole existence is one big fat eternity going nowhere, but today has been like a mini-eternity lost somewhere in the midst of that whole other, bigger eternity.

  Either way, it’s over now. She’s home, and right now I’d swap everything I can think of for her being able to see me again. She’s literally all I’ve got; I can’t lose her.

  I watch her walk up the driveway. She looks different. I’ve gotten used to seeing her hurry home and come straight up to see me. Today she’s dragging her heels. Her head is down. Just please come straight upstairs. Please be able to see me again. I need to talk to you. I need to explain.

  I count to twenty, then fifty, then a hundred.

  And then she’s here.

  “Erin!” I’m standing by the window. I don’t want to crowd her out. Please see me, please!

  She looks across the room. Looks into my eyes. And smiles.

  I smile back and whisper my thanks. Who to, exactly, I’m not sure. I haven’t had some kind of spiritual awakening since I died. If anything, it’s the opposite. I’m not sure there are any religions that describe the afterlife like this.

  Either way, I feel like I can relax at last.

  “You’re back,” she says simply.

  “I never went anywhere,” I say. I take a step closer to her. I know what I want to say to her. I’ve been rehearsing it all day. Except now she’s here, the words don’t come quite as smoothly as they did when I only had myself to practice them on.

  “And I don’t plan to go anywhere, either,” I mumble. “Look, I know it’s impossible, stupid. I know I can’t offer you much . . . but I want to be with you. Simple as that. I’m not going to push you or pressure you. I know it’s a lot to ask of you, and if you don’t feel the same way, then just say, and I will leave you alone. But if you want to be with me, I want to be with you, too, and I’ll do everything I can to figure out some way to make it work.”

  She keeps looking at me, her face dark, like a door hiding her thoughts. Damn, I’ve done it again. Come on too strong. I’ve probably freaked her out and scared her off again. I’m trying to figure out a way of clawing back everything I’ve just said, when something changes in her face. A slow hint of a smile touches her eyes. And then . . .

  “I want to be with you, too,” she says.

  The relief is like an explosion inside me. She wants to be with me, too! I want to run around the house, whooping and yelling, I want to jump onto the roof, shout it out for all the world to hear.

  As I don’t really have the option of doing any of those things, I settle for the only thing I can give her.

  “I remembered where there’s another one,” I say.

  She tilts her head in a question.

  “Another poem.” I beckon her back toward the window and point to the wall that I used to lean against, out of view unless you were sitting just where I used to sit, where she sits.

  “It was there,” I say, feeling suddenly like a fool. I’m pointing to a sheet of wallpaper. But I can’t help thinking there might be some remnant of it somewhere. I can’t remember the words, but I remember the experience: sitting on the seat, hunched over as I scribbled my words on the wall.

  Erin follows me to the window and looks at the wall. The seam of paper runs along the edge of the window frame. She fiddles with the bottom of it, picking at it till there is a loose edge. Then she stops and looks at me. “Shall I . . . ?” she asks.

  I nod.

  So, very carefully, gently, and achingly slowly, she pulls at the wallpaper, lifting it bit by bit from the wall, until it exposes what is below it. Exposes me.

  We read it together.

  WHILE I BUMP SHOULDERS, TRY TO SPEAK UP AND STUTTER,

  HE CUTS THROUGH A CROWD LIKE A HOT KNIFE THROUGH BUTTER.

  WHILE I’M LOST, IN THE WAY, HER HAIR GRAZES HER CHEEK,

  HE’S ALREADY MADE A DATE FOR NEXT WEEK.

  I SPEND HOURS WRITING SONGS WHERE NO ONE WILL FIND THEM;

  HE HATES ALL THAT STUFF, KEEPS HIS FEELINGS INSIDE HIM.

  I’M FUMBLING AND AWKWARD; MY VOICE DOESN’T FIT ME.

  HE SHRUGS WHEN HE LAUGHS; HIS SMILE’S WARM AND EASY.

  SOCCER BALL IN ONE HAND, HIS PHONE IN THE OTHER —

  THAT’S LIFE FOR MY EASY-COME, EASY-GO BROTHER.

  HE STRUTS AROUND SCHOOL LIKE A HOMECOMING KING —

  AND YET STILL HE’S THE ONE I CAN TELL ANYTHING.

  DAD TELLS ME TO CHEER UP. I WISH HE UNDERSTOOD:

  IF I COULD SWAP BODIES AND BE OLLY — I WOULD.

  I stare at the words. My face is hot.

  If I’d known it was going to reveal to Erin what a completely inadequate loser I was, I’m not quite so sure I’d have shown her the poem. Actually, that’s not true. I’d have shown it to her anyway. I don’t want to p
ut on an act for her, and I don’t want to be someone I’m not. Erin gets me — and seems to like me — for who I am, not who I think I need to pretend to be.

  She’s looking intensely at me. “I love it,” she says, and I know she means it.

  I make a face. “You don’t think I’m just a pathetic loser, then?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I get it. Reminds me of me and Phoebe in a way. I mean, it’s completely different — but that thing about how easy life feels for them, and how it’s such a struggle for us.”

  “Yeah. And it’s even harder when you’re dead,” I say with half a smile.

  Erin claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean —”

  “It’s fine,” I interrupt her. “I was joking. Kind of. ’Cause in a way, it isn’t harder. It’s almost easier, in fact. Some of it is, anyway. Like this, us. I’ve never found anyone as easy to talk to and be with as you, never mind any girl. So actually, whatever this is, whatever I am right now — you make all of it better, and I wouldn’t swap it for anything.”

  I watch her face transform as a smile spreads slowly across it. A smile just for me. I can’t help smiling back at her, and as I do, I reach a hand out for her. She does the same.

  Our hands meet. More strongly than ever before. It’s hard to explain how it’s different. It’s as if I’ve touched only the outside of her skin before now. This time I feel as if we’re connecting on a deeper level. A more solid meeting place.

  I know she can feel it, too, because she holds my hand more firmly and takes a step closer to me.

  Every corny thing I’ve ever heard in my life, every oversentimental poem I’ve written, every song I’ve composed about wanting to find love . . . all of them, they’re in here with us, right now, in this moment. We’re wrapped in them.

  I’m lost, and there’s nothing I want more than to stay here with her and never be found.

  I take her other hand and move even closer. There are millimeters between us now. Her face is so close I could . . .

  I could kiss her.

  Is that the ultimate act of madness? Or is it just plain selfish? I’m dead. She’s got a whole life to live. Look at what happened the first time we touched. The electricity was so powerful, it threw her across the room. What if kissing is like that, only worse?

  But then, what if a kiss is all it would take to make this more real? What if a kiss would make me more real? And yeah, I know I’m telling myself a fairy tale — but what if it’s true? What if kissing her could bring me back to life?

  I’m debating all of this in my head in fast motion. I don’t want the moment to pass. I might miss the opportunity and never get another one. But I don’t want to freak her out. I need to be so careful.

  Her eyes meet mine. Her lips are slightly parted. Does she feel the same way? Have I got this right?

  I move a tiny bit closer, tilt my head toward her. Her eyes start to close.

  And . . .

  “Erin!”

  Her mum, from downstairs.

  I step back. Erin pulls me closer. “Ignore her,” she whispers.

  I think that’s good advice. Try again. Move in. Try to be smooth. Try to act like the cool guy that this beautiful girl seems to think I am, rather than the clumsy, ink-stained, head-in-the-clouds loser I really am.

  Really was, that is.

  This is it. I’m going to do it. I’m — “Erin!”

  Her mum again — only she’s closer now. Sounds like she’s on the landing.

  Erin turns her head toward the door. “I’m busy, Mum!” she calls. Then she turns back to me and smiles. “Where were we?” she asks softly.

  I’m about to answer — and not with words — when there’s a knock on the door.

  “Erin, I need to speak to you!”

  A moment later, the door is open, her mum’s head is poking around it — and the magical, wondrous moment has well and truly passed.

  I jump back. I don’t want to, but I can’t do this. Standing here holding Erin’s hand, about to kiss her, with her mum right there in the doorway!

  I try to let go of Erin’s hand, but she won’t let me. She grips my hand even more firmly.

  “Mum!” Erin’s voice is sharp. I haven’t heard her speak like that before. “You can’t just barge in here like this!”

  Her mum looks around the room. Her eyes skim past my face without her even realizing it. She looks right through me as if I’m not there, as if I’m not important, as if I don’t exist. Something about it flips a switch inside me, mingling with everything else I’m feeling. It feels like a cauldron is starting to bubble in my gut. I can’t deal with this semi-existence anymore.

  “I didn’t just barge in,” she says. “I called you twice.”

  “What is it?” Erin asks.

  “I just wondered if you wanted to come with us. We’re going for a walk around the harbor once your dad’s finished watching the match.”

  “I’m busy,” Erin says quickly.

  Her mum laughs.

  Don’t laugh at me. Don’t laugh at us!

  Something’s starting to overflow inside me. My feelings for Erin, how near to me she was standing a moment ago, so close I felt her breath on my cheek. How close I was to kissing her. All of it. It’s building like a storm, like a tornado spinning around and around inside me, more and more fiercely.

  “Busy doing what?” Erin’s mum is asking, somewhere outside the cloudy fog of my swirling emotions. “Come on, Erin. It’ll be nice. It’s not right, you cooping yourself up in your room all the time.”

  “I’m not cooping myself up,” Erin replies tightly. She takes a breath, smiles a forced smile at her mum. I run my thumb over the back of her hand.

  I’m here for you. Don’t worry. Don’t worry — we’ll be together when she’s gone.

  Can she hear my thoughts? Can she feel them?

  Erin speaks more gently. “I’m fine, Mum, really. You go.”

  Yes. Go. Leave us to it. Please!

  Her mum is still in the doorway. She looks as though she’s considering something. As though she’s trying to find the words. She’s biting the edge of a fingernail. Erin does that, too, when she’s thinking.

  I look at Erin’s lips now. I’m overwhelmed by how much I want to kiss them. I can’t bear it.

  Somewhere in the distance, her mum is speaking again. “I’m worried about you, Erin. I don’t want you locking yourself away from the world. I thought we’d left all of that in the past. These last few weeks, you’ve been so much happier. I don’t want to see you going backward again.”

  She comes farther into the room.

  Erin sighs. “Mum, honestly, I’m fine. Please leave me alone.”

  Her mum is beside her now. “I only want to look after you,” she says.

  “I know, Mum, but I can look after myself.” Erin smiles. “Honestly. I’m OK. I just want to be on my own.”

  Her words roll around, repeating in my head. She wants to be on her own.

  I know she’s talking to her mum. I know she wants to be with me. But she says it so pointedly, and suddenly I doubt everything. After what happened last night, is she not sure about us? As sure as I am? I’ve got nothing to lose being with her. I’ve literally got nothing except her. But she’s got a whole life that I’m stopping her from living by pulling her back to be with me all the time.

  How selfish. How unfair. What should I do?

  Her mum is coming closer.

  Erin’s holding my hand.

  My mind is . . . my thoughts . . . they’re breaking up. I can’t seem to hold on to my thinking, my beliefs. It’s all a mess. It’s too much for me.

  The ground doesn’t feel firm under my feet anymore. I need to sit down.

  Where . . . ?

  What’s . . . ?

  I feel like I’m going to faint. Erin must sense it, because she grips my hand harder. I focus on her face, on the obstinate strand of hair that always falls in front of her eyes — reach out aut
omatically to smooth it back — and at the same moment, her mum reaches out to do the same. I see her hand — I swear I see it in slow motion — rising into the air, edging forward, both of us reaching out, touching her hair and —

  “AARRRRGGGGHHHH!”

  Erin screams as her mum is thrown backward. She trips, falls against the bed. Luckily, the mattress saves her from a nasty fall.

  Erin drops my hand and runs to her mum. “Mum, are you OK?”

  Her mum’s face has turned so white that for a moment I think we’ve somehow sucked all the blood out of her body.

  Nothing is making sense right now. I don’t know what’s going on. “Erin, is she . . . ? What’s — ?”

  “What — what was that?” Erin’s mum asks at the same moment. Her voice is shaking.

  How is Erin going to answer?

  She turns to me, her eyes pleading, confused, questioning.

  Suddenly I am all panic. Nothing else. Panic at being found out, panic at being lost, at losing Erin, at Erin being taken away from me. Am I slipping away? Is this it? It’s all been a halfway house up to now, and this is death for real?

  I’m not ready.

  The emotion is out of control. It’s like a firework going off inside a bottle. Something has to blow.

  And then it does.

  Big-time.

  Mum is getting up from the bed. Her face is deadly pale. I’m reaching out for her. I don’t know exactly what happened to her, but I felt it, too. It was like that first time when Joe and I reached for the necklace at the same moment.

  Does this mean she can see him now?

  She’s not looking at him. She’s looking at me. Her eyes are wide, scared.

  “What — what was that?” she asks.

  I’ve never heard my mum sound like this before. Even in the middle of my crisis, when I dragged her and Dad to hell and back — even as she sat by my hospital bed, holding a glass up to my face so I could take tiny sips of water through a straw after they’d pumped my stomach out and brought me back from the dead — even then, she never lost control. She was my anchor. She was the person who kept me sane. She never raised her voice, never showed she was upset by what was going on, never panicked. She was just there for me.