A Courtroom of Ashes

by C. S. Wilde

  “I linked with him. And you.”

  “But how did you get out of the mirror?”

  John shoots me a curious glance. “I didn’t.”

  I run back to the room and there John stands, inside the mirror. He waves and when I look back, his horror-movie self stands behind me. Only he doesn’t have the decomposed face and seaweed anymore; he’s now a perfect copy of the blue man standing behind the mirror.

  I’m inches from him, and although I can’t feel his breath or his warmth, I’m elated and thankful for being haunted by him.

  I smile, stretching my hand to touch his face. “Wow…”

  It passes right through him.

  John’s hologram stops smiling and looks at the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He fakes a smile that breaks my heart. “It’s okay.”

  He lifts his hand and touches my cheek but I feel nothing. John is air and hope and imagination, and he’s not really here.

  The hologram flies back to the mirror, merging with the original. We stand in awkward silence for a moment.

  “John, may I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Given I almost joined you on the other side, does it hurt to die?”

  He seems to consider, his mouth twitching in the cutest way. “It’s different, I guess. In my case, yes and no. As the plane fell, yes. It hurt knowing all I’d fought for and done had come to an end, but physical pain? I can’t recall. I lost an arm, but felt nothing. My last thought was that I had never fallen in love. Then I woke up in the land of the dead.”

  Never fallen in love? That’s hard to believe.

  He seems to read my thoughts again. “I’m serious, Santana. You can’t force love, believe me, I tried.”

  A tiny laugh escapes my lips. I’m discussing love with a dead man. But why?

  There’s this tiny force pulling me to him like a magnet. Has it been here the whole time? Am I seriously attracted to a dead guy? A strikingly beautiful dead guy... I wish I could see him in full color.

  “Hmm, are you blue because you drowned?”

  “Blue?”

  “Yeah, you’re all blue against a black background. Death looks pretty scary, if you ask me.”

  He smirks. “I think I haven’t linked with you properly.”

  The blackness pulses away, opening into a white forest. John has bloomed into a full-color, strapping man on the other side of my high-definition mirror, his hair glowing under the sun. His white shirt, gray suit, and golden hair are slightly wet, as if someone had thrown him fully clothed into a swimming pool a few hours before, and he were on the verge of drying.

  A waterfall cascades not far from him, and when I step closer to the left side of my bedroom, I spot glowing balls of light—green, red, orange, and pink—swimming under transparent waters.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  He looks at the lights and shrugs. “Fish.”

  Fish! Koi fish, glowing faintly under the sunrays that break the whiteness. I wonder what they look like at night.

  The stones around the waterfall are marble white, the ground dark silver, covered by a blanket of pearl-and-white foliage that extends to eternity behind John. The forest looks like a jeweler’s dream come true.

  Tiny balls of light fly from one tree branch to another, like miniature comets. They’re birds! Beautiful plasma birds: blue, orange, and green, leaving a dim trace as they break through the white. I can’t help but gape.

  John smiles at the ground. “I know, pretty neat.”

  “How is this possible?”

  “You mean the forest? Legend says it was made of all the tears of the dead,” John says. “But I don’t think sadness could create such a beautiful place.”

  “Is this what Heaven looks like?”

  “Not Heaven. Purgatory, I’d say.” John shoves his hands in his pockets. “Purgatory isn’t the right word either. It implies suffering at some level, and this place isn’t that bad. We simply call it Death. Neither bad nor good. Just, Death.”

  I’m speechless for a while, admiring the beauty ahead of me. If that’s not Heaven, I don’t know what is.

  Someone calls my name from the living room, identifying themselves as the police. I turn to the living room, but when I glance back at the mirror, John and the forest have disappeared.

  5

  Dad is red as a beetroot. “I can’t believe that monster got past security.”

  “He’s famous,” I say patiently. “But he’s in jail now.”

  “Still!” He slams his fist on the restaurant table. It’s lunch-hour frenzy, so no one notices. Most people are too busy complaining about their jobs and relationships or checking their phones. “I wish you had called me right away. I don’t know what I’d do if he―” his voice vanishes.

  I understand how Dad feels. He almost lost his only daughter yesterday, and he has lost enough in his life. We both have. I still can’t believe my life hung on a thread…it puts things in perspective. We all figure we’re invincible, when the truth is we’re all vulnerable and powerless. But I was lucky. I’m here, alive, and that’s what matters.

  “I’m fine, Dad.” I rest my hand on his. “Don’t think about what might have happened, okay?”

  He nods and focuses on eating his ratatouille, barely any eye contact. Dad always does that when he wants to conceal what he’s thinking, but it’s obvious he’s hanging on to the what-ifs. So I change the subject.

  “You’re into ghost stuff, right?”

  He takes a quick, recomposing breath. “‘Ghost stuff’ is not something to be liked or disliked, Santana.” Knowing my dad, this might turn into a small lecture. “The supernatural exists and that’s a fact. I saw your mom, didn’t I?”

  I roll my eyes. “You saw a blur in a dark room at a cheap psychic’s, three months after Mother died.”

  Dad saw nothing other than his imagination that day. Mother would never contact us. She never cared enough, dead or alive.

  “It was her, Santana. Apparitions are real.”

  “That I can agree with.”

  “Why is it so hard for you to—” He stops, realizing I agreed with him. “Wait. What did you say?”

  “I’ve recently acquired more…faith in the matter.”

  His eyes glisten. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I think I’m kind of haunted. I talked to a ghost in my mirror.”

  “Oh, okay.” He peers at me for a while, checking if I’m joking. When he notices I’m not, he leans over, excitement shining in his eyes. “Was it Barbie?”

  He doesn’t consider the possibility that I might be losing my mind. It’s reassuring somehow. “No... Not Barbie.”

  “Then who?”

  I know that deep down, he’s hoping for Mother.

  “John Braver,” I say, pulling off the Band-Aid.

  Dad’s expression is made of disappointment, but it’s soon replaced by incredulity. “As in America’s sweetheart?”

  I nod.

  “Honest John? In your mirror.”

  I nod again.

  “That’s…wow. Are you sure it was him?”

  “Yes.”

  Now I know how Dad felt after he told me he had seen Mother’s ghost. Karma can be such a bitch. But it doesn’t take him long to let the idea sink in.

  “Hmm,” Dad taps his chin, brows furrowed. “Was John okay or did he look like something out of a horror movie? You know, fish-eaten skin, eyeballs dropping out?”

  “How on earth do you—”

  Dad raises his hand. “I know a lovely lady who saw her brother, but he had been killed in a car crash. She told me it was pretty scary.”

  “Well, John did look nasty when he spooked Chase.” Which was remarkable if you ask me. ‘Nasty’ and ‘John Braver’ don’t go in the same sentence.

  Dad smiles. “So Chase ran away because John scared him?”

  “Yup.”

  “Say thanks for me.” Dad shoves a forkful of vegetables in hi
s mouth and continues. “Seeing the dead can be scary, especially for a nonbeliever. How you holding up?”

  “I’m fine. When I saw John I felt relieved, actually.” I take a sip from my Coke. “Not scared at all.”

  Now that I think of it, horror-movie John must look similar to John’s actual body soon after he died. There’s probably nothing left of him now, and the thought sends shivers down my spine. I wonder what Mother would look like. Wet, white nightgown tainted with red, blood dripping from her wrists, black, messy hair glued to her face, hiding parts of her mad smile.

  “You sure you’re okay, sweetheart?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I suck in a deep breath, forcing Mother out of my mind. “So, what’s this lady’s name?”

  “Which lady?”

  “The one who saw her brother.”

  He stares steadily at his orange juice. “Lauren. Why?”

  I lift one amused eyebrow. “It’s the first time you’ve addressed a lady as ‘lovely’ since, well, forever.”

  “That obvious, huh?” Dad smirks at the table. “Lauren and I have been going out for two months now.”

  “Hallelujah! When do I get to meet her?”

  “When we’re both ready.” He’s got a bright, wide smile, one I haven’t seen in a long time.

  I couldn’t be happier for Dad. He deserves the joy Mother stole from him.

  “Ready for what?” I tap him on the arm. “Come on, introduce her to me.”

  His happiness vanishes in a finger snap, and I know what’s coming.

  Pressing my fingers against the bridge of my nose, I say, “Dad, you’ve got to stop looking for Mother, I mean Mom.” Dad hates it when I refer to her as ‘Mother.’ He says it seems cold and distant, but that’s what Mother means to me.

  “I’m not…” he begins, then sighs. “I need to know why, sweetheart. Lauren understands and supports me. She says we all need closure and trusts I’ll find mine when I’m ready.”

  “Wow, she understands that? The woman is a freaking saint.”

  His happy grin returns. “She’s been through a rough patch as well.”

  “I’m glad you found each other, but please focus on the future. Pleeease?” I make my best puppy-dog face.

  He laughs. “So, about your mirror?”

  I guess we’re done talking about his love life.

  “I don’t know, Dad. I don’t want ghosts visiting me, but I wish I could see Barbie one last time.” I remember the bony hand and the knife caressing her neck, and a grim vibe rips through my stomach, the same sensation of crossing a road while a car closes in at high speed.

  “I’d like to have a word with Honest John,” he says “Especially after what he’s done for my girl.”

  Yeah, sure, and then he’ll ask John about Mother.

  “Not a chance, Dad.”

  He exhales. “Fine, then.” He reaches for his pocket and pulls out a card that says:

  Mamma Na Se, spiritual advisor

  15 West 46th Street

  212.587.6542

  “Lauren and I met in one of her talks. I think she’ll be able to help you.”

  Normally I’d be wary of psychics, but considering my current situation, what’s the harm?

  I start to stuff the card in my purse but Dad grabs my hand. “Tell her you might have a black mirror.”

  ***

  Mamma Na Se is a chubby, middle-aged woman who smells like burned mint. Her chocolate skin is wrapped in a tacky flowered dress, and big shell-shaped earrings dangle from her earlobes, brushing her shoulders. She looks like a total sham, but I wait to see where this goes.

  She stands in front of the mirror for a while, running her hands over it with closed eyes.

  John doesn’t appear.

  “Dis’a remarkable window to the world of the dead, chil’,” she says in her carried patois. “Mon watch ‘em and they watch mon, but there ain’t no crossing.”

  This woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about. John kind of crossed when he saved me from Chase. What was the word John used? Linking. It’s how the dead reach the living.

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  She stops moving and I notice a smile in her reflection. “Linking ain’t the same as crossing, chil’.”

  Okay, maybe she knows more than I thought.

  Mamma Na Se continues scanning the mirror with her hands. She finally opens her eyes and turns to me. “Chil’, me search a black mirror like dis me whole life. There’s a lot to learn here. Did you have many encounters?”

  “One direct contact I’d say.”

  “Not only one, chil’.”

  Can this woman read minds?

  “I had a dream as well.”

  “’bout?”

  “My reflection was running around the other side of the mirror, but it wasn’t really me.”

  “Was it someone departed, chil?”

  Talking about Barbie is hard. I have no idea if she’s okay or not, so I just nod.

  “Dis talking to the dead is a serious thing. Some consider it a gift, others a curse. Which you’ll choose, I cannot say.” She peers at me for a while. “Would you mind if I visit you from time to time?”

  “Huh?”

  “To help you adjust to dis new”—she nods toward the mirror—“gadget. Make sure you got it under control.”

  Mamma Na Se seems to know what she’s doing. She makes my haunted mirror feel like business as usual. Maybe, if she comes here often enough, she’ll be able to track Barbie.

  “Sure, you can come as often as you’d like. But…could you help me find someone in there?” I nod to the mirror.

  “Chil’, the dead come to us. Not the other way ‘round.”

  “But—”

  “Ah-ah, no more ‘bout this.” She hands me a small bag with white powder in it.

  “What’s this?”

  “Salt. Whenever you’re scared, make circle ‘round yourself with it.”

  “Why?”

  “Salt to spirits like garlic to vampires.” She winks. “If vampires real, that is.”

  I can’t help but grin. “I thought you said spirits couldn’t cross?”

  She shrugs. “They can’t, but better safe than sorry.”

  I remember the bony hands and grasp the bag harder. Strangely, this soothes me. I’m safe as long as I have salt, and yeah, that sounds so ridiculous.

  Mamma Na Se turns around and walks to the door.

  “Wait,” I say. “Can someone die after they’re already dead?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I take a deep breath. “In the dream, I saw my dead friend being murdered. Again.”

  “I see,” she says. “There’s a symbolism in everything, chil’. In the reign of the dead, dis true power.” She taps her forehead. “Death can mean a number of things.”

  Barbie’s second death was a metaphor, of course. It had to be. I’m so relieved, but what on earth could her slashed throat represent?

  Mamma Na Se looks intently at me. “Guilt covers your aura in a gray cloud, chil’.

  That came out of nowhere.

  “My aura?”

  She nods. “Talking to the dead is dangerous when you done things.”

  I frown as if I don’t know what she’s talking about, but frankly, I have an idea. “What sort of things?”

  “Those you no proud of.”

  How on earth does she know? Is my aura telling her all that?

  “There’s nothing I can do about it, Mamma Na Se. It’s part of my job.”

  She broadens a wise smile. “No it ain’t chil’.” She takes a last, long look at the mirror. “Be careful.”

  6

  The white forest replaces my room’s reflection the moment Mamma Na Se leaves.

  “She seems nice,” John says.

  I hold the wish to smile at his sight. I should be scared of a dead guy in my mirror, but we’re past that. He did save my life after all.

  “She told me there’s no danger in being h
aunted by you,” I say.

  “I thought that was obvious?” He sounds genuinely offended, but I don’t think he really is.

  Suddenly, a guy in his early twenties waltzes into the canvas. Round-framed glasses occupy half of his face. He’s shorter and thinner than John, and his black hair contrasts with his pale skin and green eyes.

  Wait. A new ghost? How could John bring someone else without asking? I don’t want dead people peeking at my room all the time! Maybe I should hang a curtain in front of the mirror.

  “Is this yer incarnated?” the man asks John.

  “That is she.”

  The man eyes me for a second. “She looks angry, mate.”

  “Of course I’m angry!” I snap. “You’d be pissed too if a bunch of ghosts invaded your privacy!”

  The man steps back, but John laughs. “Trust me, Irv, she only barks.”

  I think of a thousand ways to kill John, but since he’s already dead, my options are limited.

  “Allow me to say a proper hello, lass.” The man bows like a lord. “Irving Lennox, astrophysicist extraordinaire.”

  I massage my left temple as if trying to heal a headache that’s not really there. This whole ghost situation is getting crazier by the minute. “I’m talking to a dead Scottish astrophysicist and a dead politician. Great.” And in the meantime where is Barbie? The one ghost I need to see in the mirror doesn’t show up.

  He clears his throat. “I graduated with highest honors, lass.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lennox, but that doesn’t help me. You do know this is a private property and that you can’t just barge in, right?”

  “I’m not trespassing.” Irving fixes his glasses. “Yer on yer side and we’re on ours. It’s perfectly legal. Well, it would be if there were any rules to this sort of thing.”

  I analyze him silently. “Highest honors, huh?”

  “Aye.”

  I’m being extremely rude to a man who has done nothing wrong. I should be angry at John for bringing ghosts to my room, not Irving. “Sorry for the hostility, Mr. Lennox.”

  “It’s fine. I’d be freaking out too if I were in yer shoes. Bunch of dead people walking ‘round, heh?”

  That’s right: he’s dead. I was being mean to a guy who obviously passed too soon. Just look at him. He’s younger than me.