An Ill-Fated Seance

A Resurrectionists Story

“I didn’t mean to kill him!”

The voice shook, and the young man slapped a hand over his mouth. The move could not pull back the cry that had just escaped, nor keep in the exclamations from the others around the table. 

Rebecca Conley dropped the hands she was holding as though scalded. It felt for a moment as if she had been burned by someone in the room. By something in the room. She looked around at the shocked faces illuminated by flickering candlelight. 

Four pairs of wide eyes met hers, confusion and fear matching her own. All of them were university students, holding a seance for a laugh and way to decompress after sitting for exams. Rebecca peered at each of them in turn, trying desperately to take in whatever clue she could.

Edward Pinkerton. He had blond hair and a square jaw, as well as an easy confidence that bordered on arrogance. He was the clear leader of the group. He had been the one to contact her, and she saw at once how the others deferred to his whims. 

Whitney Ashton. Slight. Pale. Hunched over, as though afraid to be noticed. When she had first walked into the room, Rebecca had wondered how Edward put up with such a mealy sort of fellow. Even in this moment, when his gaze shifted to Edward, it shone with something akin to worship. That must be why.

Benjamin Richardson and his brother, Gerald. Both had dark swaths of hair across their foreheads and darker eyes. Rebecca would put money on Benjamin being the elder of the two, though Gerald carried a haggardness that aged him. 

Poor, haggard Gerald, who had cried out in the seance, stared at his hands. His usually olive skin was now pale, throwing the circles under his eyes into sharp relief. 

Now, the four took in the sight of their friend, Patrick Jones, slumped on the table with a knife in his back. 

“What? How did you kill him, Gerald?” Rebecca demanded. “You never left the table!”

“What?” His eyes were glassy now as he took in the still form of his friend. “What?” he asked again, pushing back from the table. “No, not - WHAT?” He looked around, his eyes wild. “I didn’t… It wasn’t - not Patrick.” He jumped away from the body with a yelp, panic making his eyes wild. 

Benjamin stood up and clapped his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You’re done up from the shock, Ger. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Rebecca tried to take in what was happening. The brothers were backing away from the table, Benjamin guiding his younger brother. Pinkerton and Ashton had jumped back but weren’t looking at their dead friend. Instead they had their eyes trained on Gerald. 

She should never have agreed to this seance. 

Rebecca never closed her eyes during a session. She made certain her clients sat before candles, so she could see their faces, though her own was shrouded in darkness. It allowed her to read the table and see who would be most in need of a spirit calling out to them. It gave her no small amount of control in the room.

Now, though, she sat in complete shock, struggling to take in what was happening. 

The group of university students had bombarded her in her home the day before, eager to hire her services for a night of fun. She had told them she was not in the habit of facilitating seances outside her home, but they insisted, and pressed such an amount of bills into her hand that she felt foolish to resist. Her gut had burned as almost immediately pressure built behind her eyes, but she’d ignored it. She would not be able to deceive the group into believing spirits were sending breezes through the room, nor could she make music play, but she could be a vessel for them to speak through. The boys were not looking for a real experience, either. All they wanted was a spooky night to revel in. 

And so she had said yes. Even though she had known she would be better off saying no. 

This is what happened when a person ignored their senses. For a moment she was overtaken by longing for her cheerful yellow kitchen and a warm cup of tea. That was pointless, though, so she mentally shook herself. She drew a deep breath, imagining it flowing all the way to her toes, and faced those in the room with her. She needed to take stock of the situation. 

Here is what she knew: five university students - friends to each other - had sat for the seance. Now one of them was dead, stabbed in the back. She had not seen anyone move as they sat, nor heard any noises aside from Gerald’s outburst. The doors and window were closed. From her vantage point, she would have seen any intruder or newcomer to the room. 

It was impossible.

Of course, Rebecca had been in impossible positions before. She squared her shoulders and spoke to the boys in the room. “That is quite enough.” 

Her voice interrupted their whisperings. Pinkerton gripped a sagging Gerald by the lapel. Benjamin looked on in disdain, though whether it was at Pinkerton or his brother, Rebecca couldn’t tell. Whitney Ashton simpered at Pinkerton’s side, all but mewling. 

Rebecca strode across the room. “Unhand him,” she demanded. 

“But he killed Patrick. He admitted it.” Pinkerton kept his hold on Gerald. He was clearly unaccustomed to taking directions. 

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. She drew herself to her full height and called on her skills in controlling a seance. “I said to release him.” 

Pinkerton glared at her and for a moment she wondered if he would defy her again. She had no course of action if he did so. Her shoulders almost sagged in relief when at last he shoved the boy away from him. “Very good,” she said with her chin held high. “Now, please direct me to the nearest telephone. We must contact the police.”

*****

Alone in the hall, Rebecca let out the breath she had been holding. She wished once more for her kitchen, though now she desired something stronger than tea. She gave herself thirty seconds to feel sorry for herself, to wish for Chester’s comforting presence and gentle purr beside her, before she picked up the mouthpiece and tapped for the operator. 

It was a frustrating conversation, muffled and crackling. She could not help but believe the police had not taken her seriously, but it wasn’t too long before she hung the speaker back in its space and returned to the room. The boys now kept apart from each other. Pinkerton pouted in an armchair, glaring at Gerald and ignoring Whitney, who sat three feet away wringing his hands and muttering as he darted glances between the other three. Benjamin stood with his back to the room, looking out the only window and clenching his fists. 

Gerald had dropped his head into his hands and now moaned. Rebecca could tell by the way he sniffed that he was crying, and she resisted the urge to comfort him. He had admitted to murder! She could not let this performance trick her. 

“Gentlemen, the police are on the way,” she announced. At least, I hope they are. Three heads swiveled to face her. Gerald did not look up. 

“How long until they arrive?” Benjamin asked. He looked at his brother as he spoke. 

“They provided no specific time frame, but I assume it to be soon. They are aware of the urgency of the situation.”

“This is ridiculous!” Pinkerton burst from his chair and strode toward the door. “I do not have to remain here to be treated like a criminal. I have done nothing wrong!” 

Gerald jumped at that. “No!” He sprinted across the room, and stood in front of the door. The shock of seeing the sudden shift in demeanor was enough to slow Pinkerton, though only for a moment. He shoved past Gerald, who grabbed him around the middle, bringing him to the floor. The others rushed toward the scuffle. 

“If you have done nothing wrong, then why are you so eager to avoid the police?” Rebecca’s quiet voice cut through the noise. All four stopped. Pinkerton, who now sported a bloody nose shoved Gerald off him and climbed to his feet. 

“He is obviously violent! He admitted to murdering Patrick!”

“No!” Gerald heaved to his feet, wiping blood from the side of his mouth. 

“You did, Ger,” Benjamin stepped in. He put an arm around his brother and led him away from the group. “But you didn’t know what you were saying.” He turned Gerald to face him and looked intently into his eyes. “You didn’t know what you were saying.”

Gerald nodded. “I … I didn’t know,” he said weakly. 

“You said it!” Pinkerton bellowed. He shoved Whitney, who was hovering around and trying to dab at the blood on his face. 

Rebecca stepped in. “Sit down, Mr. Pinkerton, and let your friend help with your nose.” 

Pinkerton glared at her again before stalking to a chair in the corner of the room. Dark fury rolled off him and Rebecca’s mind stuttered to a terrifying realization. 

She was in a room with a murderer. 

*****

The young men in the room were restless. Pinkerton kept jumping up from his chair to pace a few steps, only to wave Whitney Ashton away and drop back into the chair. He now sat with a leg slung over the arm, his light features heavy in a glare. Whitney hovered around him, flittering like an anxious moth. Benjamin sat in a chair near his brother, his head in his hands. His leg jiggled, and he stood in an attempt to make it stop. 

Only Gerald sat still. He stared blankly at a spot on the floor, barely blinking. Slumped shoulders barely rose and fell with his breath. 

Rebecca took a hesitant step toward him. His eyes flicked to her, then back to the floor. Nothing else moved. 

When would the police arrive? It had already been an age. Rebecca pointedly turned her back to the gruesome figure of Patrick Jones, who still slumped over the table. She looked back to Gerald and took another, more decisive step toward him.

This was madness. He was an admitted murderer! It did not matter one bit. Rebecca was moving to where he sat. “May I join you?” she asked. She took his silence as acquiescence and took a seat beside him. She kept her voice a low murmur and infused kindness into it. “Gerald, earlier, when you called out … what did you mean?”

“Obviously he meant that he had killed Jones!” Pinkerton’s voice hollered over Gerald’s response. So much for being quiet. 

“Mr. Pinkerton! For someone who has done no wrong you are certainly trying hard to prevent your friend from speaking. If you have something you would like to share, please come right out and say it.”

Pinkerton stalked toward her and glowered. “That’s twice now you’ve implied I am lying about having done nothing.” He took a step closer. “Are you accusing me of something?” 

Rebecca stood to her full height. It was probably not wise to poke at a raging boar, but she had been in worse situations before - had faced a more maniacal killer. “There is a disconnect between your words and your actions.” 

Rebecca braced as Pinkerton opened his mouth, but the voice that spoke was not his.

“There was this kid,” Gerald mumbled. 

“Ger,” Benjamin warned from his corner. 

“He wasn’t really a kid, though.” Gerald continued as though his brother had not spoken. “A year behind us, and so eager to join in.” 

“Gerald.” Pinkerton’s voice was a whip crack. “That’s enough.” 

“He didn’t do nothin’ wrong.” A shrug. “He jus’ wanted to be a part a things.” The studied cadence in his voice dropped as his agitation rose. 

“I said enough,” Pinkerton demanded. Whitney whimpered.

“It isn’t enough!” Gerald jumped to his feet, alarming everyone in the room. “He didn’t deserve it, and you know it!”

“Deserve what, Gerald?” Rebecca asked in the silence that followed his words. 

“Don’t -” Pinkerton began. 

“Don’t what? Tell the psychic what happened? She probably knows anyway.” 

“She isn’t a real psychic,” Whitney Ashton whined. Rebecca ignored him.

“I don’t see the specifics, but Gerald, it is clear you have a heavy conscience.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Confession would ease the burden.” 

Whitney whimpered again and Pinkerton hissed, but Gerald paid them no mind. He turned away from his brother’s tense expression and began to tell his tale.

“There was this kid, like I said. He was a year behind us.” Rebecca waited in the silence. After what felt like an age, Gerald continued. “He wasn’t a bad kid. Just eager.”

“Too eager.” Whitney’s voice held venom that surprised Rebecca. 

“What do you mean by that?”

“He followed Ed around. It was embarrassing. Ed hated it.” 

Rebecca resisted the urge to point out the hypocrisy of his statement and turned to Pinkerton. “Did you hate it?” 

He shrugged. “It wasn’t so horrible. James was a nice kid. Funny, too.”

Whitney’s expression darkened. “I didn’t find him humorous.” 

Pinkerton’s brow lowered in response. “Yeah, well, you don’t really get along with anyone.” 

“I get along with you,” Whitney simpered. 

Benjamin rolled his eyes, then took up the story. “James was a good, funny - to most - kid who followed us around. There was this one day when we were going to the boathouse, to spend some time at Stow Lake. James came along.” He fell silent. 

Rebecca took a deep breath, waiting and watching each of the young men. Pinkerton’s expression was shuttered, a stark contrast to the despair on Gerald’s face. “What happened?” she prompted. 

“We took a couple of boats out and spent the day on the water,” Gerald croaked. “We stopped somewhere along the loop. We were going to eat, drink. Have some fun. It was my turn to tie us to the rocks. Had to keep us tethered.” His voice was a harsh whisper and Rebecca strained to hear. “The rope must’ve gotten caught around his ankle.” His wrecked expression rocked her back on her heels. “I don’t know how it happened.”

“It was an accident, Gerald.” Whitney’s voice was flat. “He got caught up. You weren’t looking, but he was an adult. He could have noticed.” He took up the story. “When Gerald stepped out and pulled the rope taut the kid flipped out of the boat. Bashed his head in.”

“Jesus, Whitney. Have a little respect.” Pinkerton scrubbed a hand over his face. He skulked back to his corner.  

“I didn’t mean to kill him.” 

“Of course you didn’t.” Rebecca put a reassuring hand on his arm. “How long ago did this happen?” 

“A month?” Tortured eyes begged her for relief. His voice dipped quieter. “I haven’t slept since it happened. I don’t know how they can all just go on. Except for Pat. Pat started makin’ noise about goin’ to the police. He said it wasn’t right that we just left him.” His voice broke and he stopped. 

“Ed decided we should leave him.” Rebecca jumped at Benjamin’s quiet interjection. “Said there was nothing we could do about it, and tied a rock to his middle. He said it wasn’t worth ruining Gerald’s life over it.” 

Gerald gave a harsh laugh. 

“Gentlemen,” Rebecca whispered. “I think you need to speak to the police about this. An accidental death is nothing compared to concealing this.” She took in Gerald and his wretched figure. “I stand by my earlier statement. Confession would ease this burden.” 

She looked over to where Pinkerton sulked in a chair and wondered at what kind of person could be so coldhearted to leave a fellow in the water like that. Would that sort of person kill his friend to keep it quiet? She thought so. 

Quietly, Rebecca left Gerald and Benjamin and walked back toward the table. It was really too much. If the police would not arrive, then she would figure it out for them. She stood and paced the back wall. She went over it in her mind again. 

Patrick killed, Gerald exclaiming. Then, chaos. Her phone call. The restless wait. 

Patrick killed, Gerald’s exclamation. 

Patrick killed … 

Unless … 

The thought landed with a thud in her mind. 

Unless he hadn’t been killed before the exclamation. 

Rebecca walked over to the body, swallowing against the bile that arose in her throat. There was the knife. It was conceivable that it had hit something that would have killed him quickly, while they were distracted by Gerald’s outburst. His heart, perhaps, or maybe his lungs. She looked at where it was in his back and laid her hand on her chest, wondering which organ had been hit. 

Yes, it was possible. But how could she have missed it?

Who had been sitting beside him? Rebecca went over the order in her mind. Pinkerton had been on one side of her, his smug expression mingled with amusement as he’d made a show about closing his eyes for the spirits. On her other side had been Benjamin, also amused, if a bit more reserved about it. Gerald had been sandwiched between his brother and Patrick. And between Patrick and Pinkerton, staring at his friend in adoration, had been - 

The blow came from nowhere, with force enough knock her off her balance. White light exploded in her mind and she stumbled forward, trying to steady her feet. 

“What are you doing, man?” She did not know who called out. She did not care to know. Her focus was pinned on the person who was attacking her.

“Get away from me!” she yelled. Aware now, she dodged the wild punch thrown by Whitney Ashton. 

“No!” Spittle flew from his mouth. His eyes were wide and wild, unfocused as he screamed at her. “You’re ruining things!” He lunged at her again, and this time made contact. Her elbow hit the table with a painful crack! and she flailed to find something - anything - to fight him off. “You should have just talked to your spirits!” Whitney sneered. His face was close to hers. She smelled his rank breath and felt the spit land on her cheek. He hissed at her. “But you had to get nosey. You aren’t the first person I have dispatched of.” His hand was around her neck, choking her. She clawed at his hands and tried to pull them off of her. “You bitch!” 

Gerald flew across the room and slammed into them. The collision loosened Whitney’s grip and Rebecca slipped from his grasp, coughing and gasping for air. She tried to compose herself. “Enough!” she croaked. The young men grappling on the ground gave no sign of hearing her. Rebecca looked around, desperate for help. Pinkerton stood slack jawed on the other side of the room. Benjamin, too, looked rooted in shock. 

There was a lamp on a table nearby. Rebecca ran to it and prayed that her timing would be right. When Ashton had his back to her she slammed it down on his back. Glass shattered over him. Gerald took advantage and put the shocked Ashton into a wrestling hold. 

“What is the meaning of this?” 

The voice bellowed from the doorway as a young officer ran into the room. He looked around, took in the intensity of situation, then took a breath. “I presume you are the one who made the call?” he asked Rebecca. 

“Yes, Officer.” Her eyes widened in recognition as his narrowed. She dropped the base of the lamp and smoothed out her hair. “This man accosted me.” She pointed to Whitney Ashton, who wriggled, trying to escape from Gerald. 

Officer Nazaret wasted no time in subduing Ashton. From the ground, as Gerald rose and gingerly shook the glass shards off him, Nazaret asked, “Now will someone please tell me what is going on?” 

Rebecca took a breath and opened her mouth. 

“There’s been a murder, Officer.” Edward Pinkerton spoke across her. 

“I can speak for myself, Mr. Pinkerton.” Rebecca strode to where Nazaret was. As she drew near Ashton thrashed on the ground. 

“I had to!” he screamed. Rebecca took a step back. “He was going to ruin everything! I couldn’t let him ruin it all.” 

Nazaret redoubled his efforts to restrain Ashton. Rebecca’s jaw dropped open. “It wasn’t Gerald who killed that boy at all!” 

“Of course not! Gerald would never have the stomach for it. Look at him. He’s been falling apart thinking he accidentally killed the kid. It didn’t take much to wrap the rope around his ankle.”

“I would stop talking if I were you, Ashton.” Benjamin’s voice was deep and serious. Pinkerton turned to him, aghast. 

“You knew about this?” he demanded. 

Whitney went on before Benjamin could respond. “It was for you!” he wailed at Pinkerton. “I had to get rid of him. He would have take you from me!” Then he quieted. “It was all for you. You didn’t want him around, not really. He addled your mind!” The young man broke down into sobs, his words all but incoherent. “I just wanted you back. It was all for you.” 

Nazaret pulled out his manacles and put them on the now weeping Ashton. Gauging his chances, he stood and faced Gerald. “It seems like we have a lot to talk about.” He turned to face Rebecca. “Miss, would you please give me just one moment? I am going to need more officers to join me.” Without waiting for an answer, he strode into the hallway. 

Rebecca looked around. Gerald stood, slumped but less defeated over the prone Ashton. Benjamin huddled in a corner, his arms tightly crossed. Pinkerton stood in the same place he had been, his mouth open and all bravado gone. He seemed shocked, too shocked to move. Rebecca gathered her candles from the table. Exhaustion swamped her and longing for home rose with it. 

By the time Nazaret returned to the room she was packed and ready to leave. She turned to him and announced, “I will come to the police station tomorrow to provide my statement. For now, though, I must be heading home.” 

Nazaret stood for a long moment before nodding. “That will be fine.” He stepped aside. “Oh, and Miss Conley?” Rebecca turned to face him. 

“Yes, Officer?” 

“Please do give Miss Chase my regards.” 

Rebecca nodded, a wry smile on her face. Then, with thoughts of Chester and her warm kitchen, she headed out the door into the night. 

Givvup, the Ghost: A Bine-Hairy Situation

Good news, people of the ether!  I've met someone!

I know, I know...It's unlikely, to say the least! After all, I spend all my time in a burnt out house on the edge of town. And I'm a ghost, so how would I ever meet someone?

Gosh. I'm a ghost. No one can see me. Talk about being doused by a bucket of ice water. Wow.

It's true, though, so I suppose saying, "I met someone" is a little bit of a stretch. But I did!

Here's what happened:

I was just hanging around, minding my own business, when I heard someone. Let me repeat that:

I HEARD SOMEONE.

A human being! Do you know how long it's been since I have heard - or seen - another human? Ages! After being all by myself for so long it actually scared me! I jumped so high I went through the ceiling and found myself looking at the carpet in the second floor hallway. I hate that thing - it's charred and brown and rats have claimed parts of it for their nests. It probably smells. In fact, I know it smells, because HE said so.

Oh, can I tell you about HIM? He's a genius, I'm sure of it. He's tall - maybe six feet? - with brown hair that won't lie flat, no matter how many times he tries to smooth it (which really isn't all that much) and glasses.

So dreamy.

Anyway *ahem* - where was I? Oh yes, I was sitting in the room, wondering if the air vents would be a good way to travel, when I heard footsteps and a deep voice muttering. I told you already that it startled me straight through the roof.

Who on earth could be in my house?

I slowly slunk down the side of the room and to the hole in the wall - you know, the one people walk through? - and I saw him.  He was in my food room - not that I ever use it - and was digging through the drawers, talking to himself.

"I know I left it here," he said. "I know it's in one of these drawers."

I moved closer. Well?  Wouldn't you want to know why someone had put something in your kitchen? He stopped what he was doing and slowly turned. He looked right at me! Or rather, right at the place I stood. He took a step toward me.

"Hello?" he asked (could he really see me?). "Is anyone there?" His eyes looked through me, toward the door behind me, and then shifted away. He must have been satisfied that no one was in the house because he went back to searching the kitchen - albeit a little more quietly, and more than once throwing glances over his shoulder.

I was crushed.

How would you feel if you thought for a moment that someone would see you, but then realized that wasn't going to happen?

Yeah, exactly. Pretty crummy.

I didn't have long to feel sad because the guy yelled, "Gotcha!" and put his hand up in the air - VICTORY! His other hand held a small, green square covered in silver dots and with a couple wires attached to it. He put the little, green board in a backpack, slug that over his shoulder, slammed the drawer shut and turned to go.

What else could I do but follow him?

It was easy, obviously. Even with his hood pulled up over his head and the sudden cuts he made that resulted in him taking an odd, zig-zagging path through the city, following him to the brick apartment building was no challenge.

He opened a poorly painted beige door halfway down the hallway on the third floor. He shook the hood off his head and pulled off his backpack. After retrieving the little circuit board he tossed the pack into a corner of the small, one-bedroom apartment.

"Okay, my little beauty," he said, and I was suddenly jealous of that small square. "Let's see if you'll work."

He pulled a plastic chair to the messy desk that sat against one wall and opened the black case that had been resting there. I inched closer to see what was inside.

It was a computer - I was pretty sure of that. It was certainly crudely built - pieced together like a computer version of Frankenstein's monster - but it had a screen and a keyboard.

The guy, himself, suddenly looked a little like a mad scientist. He sat hunched over the desk, holding the small circuit board and looked at it with a mix of relief and excitement. He carefully turned the computer over so it made an awkward triangle with the desk's surface, exposing wires and some more of that green stuff he was so reverent of. In the middle was an empty space, square-shaped and about the size of the piece he held so carefully.  He picked up a small screwdriver and a pair of tweezers and, with hands as steady as a surgeon's, inserted the newest piece of the computer. After attaching the wires he gently turned the whole thing over so that it sat upright, at attention, ready for business.

"He we go" the guy said, and he pressed the primitively attached power button. The machine turned on with a quiet whir, and the guy smiled to himself. "Brian Nazaret," he said to the empty room. "You are one seriously cool dude." He sneezed then, which upset his glasses, and he sniffed as he used his forefinger to push them back up to the bridge of his nose. He scrubbed a hand under his nose and shook his head in disgust. "Darn dust."

The computer, in the meantime, had settles on a black screen, and a white cursor was blinking, waiting to be told what to do.

"Alright," Brian Nazaret (that cool dude) said. "Let's do this." He set his fingers on the keyboard and as he typed the most bizarre thing happened.

I WAS PULLED INTO THE COMPUTER.

You wouldn't believe what a power suck computers are. Seriously.

Also, I want you to imagine that you're stuck behind a pane of glass - you know, like those things you look out of? - but that you're right up against it. And the giant on the other side (because I had somehow shrunk to fit inside the screen), that giant can't see you.

I pounded on the glass. I yelled.

Nothing.

So frustrating, let me tell you.

With all that I figured I would settle in. What else was I going to do? I looked at him (so cute with his eyebrows drawn together in concentration) as he started typing. I heard the tapping of the keys, and in the next instant I felt myself being drawn back, away from the screen. Symbols appeared, letters and numbers falling in columns beside me with loud crashes and bangs. I pivoted sharply to avoid being crushed and sprinted to the side. I ran full speed toward the screen, hoping I could break out of the computer.

I fell to the ground with a crash that rattled my brain.

Then Brian spoke, muttering, I'm sure, but in a voice too loud for my small size. I slapped my hands over my ears with a yelp. "Alright, boo. Let's build a little something. Maybe a game, just to see if you're working."

The column of letters and digits lined up and stacked with more intention. I ran toward the screen again and whirled around, trying to read what he was typing:

while feeling_brave:

    ghost_door= radiant(1, 3)

    print ('Three doors ahead...')

What on earth was he doing?

I had no time to consider because the letters shifted and sorted and fell into a new formation: zeros and ones now surrounded me.

"What is going on?" I asked. My voice echoed in the silence. "What is happening?"

And then I shrieked, because out of the rows and columns rose a door. It was made up of tiny squares, like something out of the old video games my brother used to play, but it was clearly —
Just a minute.  

Wait.

I need a minute.

I had a brother? Was he at my funeral? Why wasn't he with the crying lady?

Why can't I remember him?

Sorry. Where was I? Oh, right, the pixelated door that rose out of the floor. It opened and I ran through it, slamming it shut behind me.

Brian of the loud voice yelled and then jumped back from the chair. I squinted up at him through my side of the screen. His head shook and his mouth hung open. Fear, and possibly excitement, showed on his face.

"That's not what I typed,” he said in that magnified murmur. I wished he would have quieted even that to a whisper. "I typed, 'print ('A ghost is behind one.')' Ghost. Not....

Annie."

He pulled his chair close to the desk again and bent over the computer once more. "Annie?" he bellowed. (Well, it sounded like a bellow to my ears, at least.)  "Why would you replace 'ghost' with 'Annie'?"

My world turned upside down as he flipped the machine over. "No!" I yelled, suddenly terrified that he would pull that green board out, the green board that had allowed the computer to start. "No!" I yelled again. My terror grew as Brian disappeared completely from my sight. "Not okay!" I screamed.

I felt myself grow - I willed myself to grow - and the strangest sensation filled my body. I grew warm - hot - and my fingertips zapped with electricity. I felt the computer tumble; Brian must have dropped it. With a final burst of energy I exploded from the computer, leaving it smoldering on the desktop.

I didn't even spare a glance for Brian as I fled from the room. Home, that's all I was thinking about.

And I made it. I'm not going to lie: I was a little nervous to start up the GhostWriter tonight. What would have happened if he had cut the power while I was still inside? I don't even want to think about it.

There's a lot I don't want to think about.

And on that cheerful note, I'm signing off. I'll catch you on the flipside....when you get here. Wink emoticon.

Ugh. I'm going to have to work on that.  

Till next time, then.

Heeeeeere's Annie!

Okay.  Let's see here.  How to get this thing to work....

Is it on?  It sounds like it's on, but the screen is black.  Maybe the monitor is off?

Turn on.

Turn on, monitor.

What - How - How does it turn on?  Hmmm...let's see...What if I try this?

Oh!  It worked.  Cool.  Alright.  It's on.  So now to delete all that.  So...delete.

Delete.

No, delete.  DELETE.

Delete.  Delete all.

Ugh.

Now that's not even a real word, so why would it type that?

Hmm...Maybe if I think more clearly?

D E L E T E   A L L.

Oh, for crying out loud!

I'll just go from here, I guess.  Sheesh.

Alright, people of the ether - prepare yourself for this:

My name is Annie Givvup and I am dead.

Oh gosh, that's a bit abrupt, isn't it?  Well, there's no going back now, I guess.  Okay, moving on: I don't remember what happened, at least, not all of it.  But I can tell you what I DO remember.

I was walking home from school - work?  No, school...I think?  I was walking home from somewhere when everything went dark.  Not dark like I got knocked unconscious or anything.  No, one second there was sunlight and trees and those things that fly and then the next second there was nothing, like I somehow walked into a pitch-black tunnel.  It didn't matter how wide I opened my eyes; I couldn't see anything.  There was nothing to see!

And I was stuck there.  FOREVER.

Well, it felt like forever.  I don't actually know how long I was in there.  Regardless, not only was it dark, but there was a loud humming noise.  This was not a pleasant humming, though.  No, there something really strange about its frequency.  It gave me a stomachache, and THE WORST headache.

Do you know what that's like?  Being stuck in the pitch black with aching ears, nausea, a migraine, and the worst possible noise you could imagine??

Well, let me tell you.  IT'S HORRIBLE.

It makes me cranky just thinking about -
Whoa.  I need to calm down, maybe take a deep breath.

Oh, that's right.  I don't need to take a breath because I'm DEAD.  Remember that part?

I do.

Anyway, back to my story.  There I was, in the land of the humming nothing, feeling pretty darn terrified and in pain when it all suddenly stopped.  There was sunlight again, and birds, and those tall, wood things with the leaves on them.  Trees - that's it.  And trees.

All that was there - and so much more.  Cars and people and loud noises.  And, strangest of all, I kept hearing my name.  It was faint, but someone definitely said it over and over.

So I followed.  I kept at it until I stood before an odd looking building.  It was almost as though someone had taken a tall but narrow triangle and just stuck it in the ground.  The roof was bleached from the sun, and the building - protected by the extreme overhang- starkly contrasted the roof in its too-dark brown paint.

It was certainly not a welcoming building, but I walked through the open doors anyway.

It was a church, I think.  Wooden pews lined either side of an uncomfortably narrow aisle, and there was a pulpit or stage of some sort at the front of the room.  Nothing in the building signified a particular religion, though.  There were no crosses, no symbols of any sort.  It was depressing and stark.  Barren.

On the stage was a shiny black coffin.  Mine, of course, although I didn't know it at the time.  Next to the coffin stood a woman.  She was attempting to say something, but it wasn't clear because she was crying too hard.  I stared at her, willing her to stop crying for one second so she could speak the word that was stuck in her throat.  She drew a deep breath and then she did.  She said one word:

"Annie."

My name.  I turned sharply and looked at the photos displayed next to the coffin.  All of them featured the same girl with curly blonde hair and brown eyes that squinted when she smiled.  Me.  

Let me take a moment here to ask you a question.  Have you ever attended your own funeral?  Do you know how bizarre that is?  Take my word for it - "bizarre" doesn't even begin to cover it.  Let me put it this way: if I was still breathing I would have hyperventilated.  No doubt.

But I wasn't breathing.  And no one noticed me.  That should have clued me in, but I don't think my brain was working too well because I had somehow missed the fact that when I walked down the aisle at a funeral (in a T-shirt and jeans, no less) NO ONE noticed.

Well, my brain caught up and did so suddenly.  I got so overwhelmed and freaked out that I turned to go, but people started moving.  They must have been coming down the center aisle for their final goodbyes or something, because they were moving toward the casket.

Okay, I know they could have gone through me, that no one would have accidentally crashed into me, but old habits die hard.  (HA - dead person joke)

I turned and ran toward the coffin.  There was nowhere to go - I swear, there was nowhere to go!  They were a stampede in slow motion.  I turned to face them, took a step back and realized I was standing IN THE COFFIN.

There was no time to move, because the crying lady who now led the stampede - was she my mom? - reached out a hand to touch the coffin.  I didn't want her to touch me, although I can't say why.  Cut me some slack, okay?  Anyway, I didn't want her to touch me and so I ducked into the coffin.

I wasn't thinking!!  I didn't even consider what I might find in there, or how it might affect me!  But I don't think anything could have prepared me for what I saw.

The coffin was empty.  EMPTY!!

I wasn't there!

Well, needless to say I freaked out and screamed.  I don't think anyone heard the scream, although a few light bulbs burst so then they freaked out and their stampede went from slow motion to full speed in the opposite direction.

Only the crying lady was left.

I felt a little guilty leaving her, but what else could I do?

I wandered around for a bit until I came to an abandoned house on the edge of town.  I'm not sure what happened here, but it looks like it was ransacked and burned out and like no one has been near it in ages.  I've been bumming around on my own, quite possibly going mad, but I made an amazing discovery:

I found this GhostWriter word processing program!  You know, the programs you speak into and they type for you?  This particular edition is the Catalog of Registered Personal Spoken Expression and so far, so good.

Maybe pretending someone will read this will keep me sane.

A girl can hope.

Alright then, world.  I'm out.

Okay, post.  Post?  Sheesh, how do I post it?  Oh!  Maybe this will work...Okay then, till next time, I guess.  Catch you on the other side.

ICEES in the Rain

We used to drink ICEEs in the rain.  We never had them when it was sunny out – Matt wouldn’t let us.  He would tell his story about the time he went to Magic Mountain and it was about one hundred and ten degrees out.  He bought a red ICEE to cool down, and then went on The Viper.  “Seriously, Meg,” he would say to me.  “Red ICEE barf went everywhere.”

“Then why drink them at all?” I would ask.

“Because they are just so freakin’ good,” he would reply as his face slowly stretched into a smug grin.

It was like following a script.  I don’t even remember how many times we had the same conversation.  It was a pointless conversation at that, as I had heard the story so many times before.  But it didn’t matter; that was the reason we never had ICEEs when it was sunny out. 

Matt and I grew up across the street from each other.  As we were the only two kids on the street our age we learned early on that we had to stick together.  While the elderly couples that occupied our quiet cul-de-sac were kind and always had a treat for us, we needed each other for playmates.  For as long as I can remember we would run across the street – Matt from his picturesque white house with the baby blue trim and me from my slightly off the wall yellow house with the green trim – and we played for hours. 

From our first day in Mr. Rodriquez’s kindergarten class we walked to and from school together.  It was never a question.  We met in the middle of the street and took off from there. 

Everyday, rain or shine, we made our way through our quiet neighborhood, past the plum trees, around the driving range, and finally into our elementary school.  It was an adventure everyday.  We ate the plums once they ripened, even though it usually resulted in an intense stomach-ache that lasted for hours.  We laughed when the driving range flooded and ducks used the new ponds as their homes. 

It was sixth grade when we started what my mom called our “ICEE ritual.”  One day the rain was coming down so hard that kids were talking about school closing due to flooding.  Matt walked over to my desk where I was trying to get my math homework out of the way.  “Meg,” he said.  “How about we stop at Sev on our way home?”

“Why?”  I put my pencil down and stared at him with raised eyebrows.  All I could think about was getting home as fast as possible, as I hated the cement-like quality that jeans somehow take on when wet.  I had no desire to stop at 7-11 and increase the agony of plastered-on pants.

“I want an ICEE,” was all he said.  I waited a few seconds for any kind of explanation.  After finding no answer in his brown eyes, I gave up.

“You want to tell me why you want an ICEE on a day like today?”  The rain was pouring down in sheets, with tiny little hailstones thrown into the mix.  I heard the teacher mentioning thunderstorms to a parent-helper.  And even though the kids in my class talked about school closing due to flooding almost every time it rained, it seemed really possible that time.  I was thinking more along the lines of hot cocoa, or even those instant Cappuccinos that my mom let me drink sometimes. 

“I don’t really know,” he laughed, flashing his lopsided grin.  “I just do.”

I looked at him for a second or two more, and then shrugged.  “Okay,” I said, looking back down at my math.  “Sounds good.”  And the rest is, as they say, history.  From that day on Matt and I stopped at 7-11 every time it rained.  We would plunk down one dollar and twenty-nine cents (sometimes in only coins) and fill our cups to the top.  Matt never chose the red ICEEs.  Instead he went back and forth between the Blue Raspberry and Coca-Cola flavors.  I went with Red Cherry every time. 

After we filled our cups we would say goodbye to Paul, the clerk, and walk around the corner to go home.  Somehow Matt was always finished with his by the time we got to our meeting point in the middle of the street.  I usually had about an inch left in the cup, and that was mostly melted ice and syrup.

We carried our routine through high school.  During tenth grade we shared our seventh period.  When it rained we would look at each other and smile as we dug through our backpacks for loose change.  There was something comforting in knowing that we had a set routine.  It was a tradition that was never put off.  During football season I waited on campus until he finished practice, and when we were in the middle of a play production he waited for me.  It was nice just knowing that we had that.

Leaving for college was the hardest thing I ever had to do.  I remember thinking that there was no way LA could be nearly as wonderful as my little Goleta.  I remember thinking there was no way I could function without my family, and wishfully thinking there was no way they could function without me.  My mom dashed that hope my first day at school.  She looked me in the eyes while we were standing in the doorway of my dorm room and said, “Now honey, you know I love you.  But you can’t come home for at least a month.”  I stared at her. 

“What? Why?”  I could hear my voice move higher in pitch.

“You need to get set in a routine.  Coming home every weekend will only hurt your chances for getting involved in anything.”  I stared at her, silently hoping she would take those words back.  She leaned in, kissed my cheek and said, “Call me anytime.  I love you.”

My dad wrapped me up in a hug and whispered, “I’ll miss you, Sweet Pea.”  I gave a weak laugh at his use of his pet name for me.  As I pulled back he grabbed my hand and slid some bills into it.  I clutched the money tightly in my fist as I stared at their retreating backs. 

When they were gone from sight I left the hallway and stepped back into my room.  I sat down on my unmade bed.  “Now what?”  I asked the empty room.  My roommate had yet to show up, and I was terrified that when she did we would not get along.  Just as I was about to let myself cry I heard my phone ring.  I stared at it on the desk and debated picking it up.  Just before the last ring I stood up and grabbed it.  

“Hello?” I asked. 

“Moving in sucks, doesn’t it?”  The familiar voice on the other end of the line made me smile.

“Matt!”  He was my lifeline.  “You have no idea how much I needed to hear your voice right now.  How is San Diego?”

“Oh, you know.  Bright, beautiful, and sunny.  How is LA?” 

I could picture him lounging against the wall on his bed, one leg propped up, tossing his pillow up into the air with one hand.  “Oh, you know.  Smoggy and disgusting.”  He laughed.  “No, it’s really okay here.  How’s the roommate?”

“Oh, you know.”  I could almost hear the grin in his voice.  “Smoggy and disgusting.”  I laughed this time.  “No, really, he’s pretty cool.  And yours?”

“Non-existent at the moment.” 

We talked for about an hour as I began the task of putting my things together.  Somehow it was less overwhelming with my friend on the phone.  It was almost as if we were hanging out at home together while I cleaned my room.  I almost expected to see him sitting at my desk with a baseball cap turned backwards over his brown hair.  Finally, though, he said, “Listen, Meg, I gotta go.  Now you get your ass out of that room and meet some people.”  I smiled as I hung up my phone and did just was he told me to.  He never knew how much he helped me that first day.

Just as my mom said, I settled into a routine.  By the third week classes somehow miraculously seemed less foreign to me.  I had a core group of friends I had met at a pizza dinner that first night in the dorms.  I had learned the hard way which foods to avoid in the dining commons.  Even better, I had found an ICEE vending machine there.  My favorite time, though, was every Friday night at about 7:45, when Matt would call. 

Every week we talked for about two hours.  We gave each other the highs and lows of the week.  I listened about his new rugby league he was a part of and he listened as I cried about the roommate from hell.  I am sure he wondered why I was making a big deal out of things, but he never said so.  He just listened.  “Aw, Meg,” he said in his lazy way.  “That sucks.”  He then always tried to give me some advice about the best way to deal with her.  He did not quite understand that I was not looking for answers; I was just venting. 

The first rain of the quarter happened in November.  As I tugged on my pink galoshes I felt a pang of homesickness that I had not felt for weeks.  I pulled out my phone and texted Matt.  Its raining.  I sat through my class in misery, both for the homesickness and for my cement-like jeans.  When I finally checked my phone I started to smile.  Red blue or coke?  I texted him back.  Red of course. you? I walked to the DC and swiped my card as I headed over to the ICEE stand.  Blue today.  The homesickness vanished with the continuance of the ritual.

When the first quarter wound down to finals week we made plans about going home.  As we both had our cars there was no point in his picking me up on the way, but we did settle a meeting time at our spot in the middle of the street.  The reunion was a joyful one, but almost pointless.  With our weekly phone calls, texting, and Facebook messaging I had not felt far from him. 

The next quarter passed in much the same way as the first.  This time, however, we spent more time talking about rugby, classes, and friends than about my lame roommate.  During finals week we again made plans to meet in the middle of our street.

We passed the time this way through the last quarter and spent our summer being lazy.  We went back and forth between our houses, which physically looked the same, although faded.  I had hoped that the fading would improve the look of my house.  It did not.  I still cringed every time I saw it. 

Moving back to school was easier sophomore year.  We fell into the same routine, although this time I had no roommate from hell.  He was a starter on his rugby team, and told me one day that he was quickly moving up in the hierarchy of the team.  “I believe it,” I said.  We met at the same time and place for winter break.  We bought our ICEEs in the rain.  My mom says it was that winter break when it happened.  She’s wrong.  It was spring break when my life changed forever.

 Finals week of winter quarter was the same as it had been the year before.  Matt and I confirmed our meeting and he told me about his final rugby game of the regular season.  “Meg,” he said, excitement coursing through his voice.  “If we win today, we go to the quarters.”

“That’s awesome, Matt.  Have you played them before?”

“Yeah,” his satisfied voice made me smile. 

“I take it that it was an easy win?”

“We slaughtered them.” 

“Well then, it looks like you’re going to the quarters.” 

We hung up and went back to searching through my nutrition textbook for the exact definition of a carbohydrate.  If I had known that things would have changed so much I wouldn’t have hung up.  That thought stuck with me for years. 

I drove home in the rain the next day, excited that it was an ICEE day.  I parked my pathetic looking red Ford Ranger in front of my yellow house and sighed at the color contrast.  “This is disgusting,” I muttered to myself.  “Why my parents picked that color, I will never know.”  I ran inside and yelled for my mom.  “Mom!  Mama!  I’m home!”  I stopped short when I saw her.

She was sitting in the dark in one of our high-backed dining room chairs in her faded apron.  I could smell some chicken burning in the oven.  She had her elbows on the table and her face was buried in her hands.  I heard her take a shaky breath.  “Mom?” I asked quietly as I turned on the light.  “Is everything okay?”  I felt my stomach drop to my toes when she looked up at me.  “Mama? What’s going on?”

“Hey, Baby Doll,” she said, offering a shaky smile.  It never reached her tearful blue eyes.  My eyebrows drew together as I tried to think of what could have made my mom cry like this. 

“Mom,” I said, this time more forcefully.  “What is going on?  Why are you so upset?  Is everyone alright?”  My questions tumbled out as I began to realize that something was seriously wrong. 

“Meg-” her voice caught and she cleared her throat.  “Meg, have a seat.”  I pulled the chair closest to me out from its place tucked under the table and dropped down into it.  “Sweetie, I just had a call…” she avoided my gaze as she trailed off.  I sat silently, waiting for the news.  “Honey,” she tried again, still avoiding my eyes.  “Matt’s mom just called me.  There’s been an accident.”

I felt a weight settle on my chest and I struggled to take a deep breath.  “He’s alright, though,” I said.  “Right?  I mean, people get into accidents all the time.  It was the rain wasn’t it?  He was driving too fast on his way home and lost control on the slick roads.  He always drives too fast.  I keep telling him to slow down, but he never listens.”  My voice climbed higher and faster until I was practically squeaking.  My mom just shook her head. 

“No, Meg.  It wasn’t the rain.  It didn’t even happen today.”  I opened my mouth to ask more questions but she held her hand up.  “Yesterday, at his game, Matt took a bad hit.  His mom said that he got up fine, shook his head, and then started to run off the field to sit out for a while.  They all thought it was a concussion.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Meg, please let me finish.”  I looked at my clammy hands, which were clasped tightly in my lap, and nodded.  “And no, it wasn’t.  He never made it off the field.  He was almost there and he just collapsed, unconscious.” My heart began to pound so loudly that I thought my mom was sure to hear it.  I began shaking my head as I tried to grasp what she was saying. 

“Mom.  What happened?”  I made my voice as clear as possible.

“I’m trying to tell you, Sweetie.  The hit caused a subdural hematoma.”  I stared at her blankly, not understanding.  “It’s a bad head injury, Hon.”

“But he’s going to be okay.  He’s at the hospital and he’s going to be fine.”

“No, Honey.”  I began to feel nauseous as I watched my mom shake her head.  “He never made it to the hospital.  No one knew what was going on.  There was no trainer, no ambulance, there at the game.  It took them too long to figure out that it was more serious than a bad concussion.”  Her voice broke again.  “I’m so sorry, Meghan,” she said as tears began making their way down her cheeks.  “I am so sorry.” 

I could see that her lips were moving, but I could no longer hear the words she was saying.  The blood coursing through my body was too loud.  I felt each pulse in my eardrums and felt my heart slow down.  My mother’s face grew fuzzy and indistinct and I could feel myself pulling away from consciousness.  Maybe, just maybe I could faint.  Then I wouldn’t have to listen to what she was saying.  I wouldn’t have to face the truth.  My best friend was gone. 

I had never fainted before in my life, and no matter how much I wanted to at that moment, I couldn’t.  My mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.  I wanted to say something, anything to make her stop looking at me with the pity in her eyes.  I opened my mouth again.  “No,” I whispered.  “No.”  My mom choked back a sob and stood to put her hand on my shoulder. 

I couldn’t take the touch.  I bolted out of my chair, shook my head and held my hand up to keep her away.  “I think-” my voice caught on the rock that had lodged in my throat.  I tried again.  “I think I am going to go to my room,” I whispered as I turned to make my way out of the kitchen and down the hall.  When I closed my bedroom door behind me I leaned back against it for a moment.  I closed my eyes, waiting for tears.  They didn’t come.  I walked slowly over to my bed and curled up in it, still waiting for the tears.  I listened to the rain and thought about how today should have been an ICEE day.  Still no tears. 

I somehow made it through that night, although I don’t really know how.  I don’t think I slept at all.  There was an awful ache in my chest, and the rock seemed permanently lodged in my throat no matter how many times I swallowed.  And my eyes were the worst of it.  My eyes stayed dry.  Every once in a while I could hear my mom’s feet shuffle to a stop outside my door but she thankfully never came in.  I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her eyes again.  The pity that she held for me was worse than any feeling I had for myself.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I pulled the blanket over my head to shut it out.  I kept hoping that maybe this was all some big misunderstanding, that Matt was going to come pound on my window and demand to know why I hadn’t been at our meeting spot the day before.  My mom knocked softly on my door.  “Meg?” she called quietly.  I ignored her.  I spent the rest of the day in bed, neither eating nor sleeping. 

The next day I felt hunger knowing at my stomach and got out of bed resentfully.  How could the world keep turning without Matt in it?  When I appeared in the living room my mom tried to smile.  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said, lamely.  I stared at her silently, knowing that she knew I had not slept.  “Matt’s funeral is tomorrow,” she stated.  I just nodded and went into the kitchen to pour myself a bowl of cereal. 

His funeral went much the same as the rest of my time at home had.  I still could not cry.  I felt guilty, watching his mom and grandmother sobbing.  Everyone else at the funeral was crying, or sniffling, but I couldn’t.  I wanted to so badly that I tried pinching my hand to see if the pain would make me cry.  Nothing.  I left as soon as the preacher finished talking so that I could avoid the questions and stares.  I was his best friend.  I should have been able to cry. 

Somehow those first few days passed into a week, and the first week passed into a month until summer finally came.  I had taken spring quarter off from school, but by the time summer rolled around I felt like I could handle it again.  Life began to get back on track.  I registered for summer classes and went downtown in search of a summer job.  I actually began to smile and then laugh at the funny things Matt and I used to point out to each other.  I was enjoying life again.

I’ve heard it said that for those who lose a close friend or family member, sunny days are the worst.  I’ve been told that the sun is harsh and mocking for those who are missing someone.  After the first few weeks I didn’t find that to be true.  The sunny days were the best for me.  I could go out and enjoy the sunshine with my friends.  I was able to love the sun – as I always had – and laugh on sunny days.  It was the rainy days that mocked me.  The rain pouring down outside my window and on my roof seemed to be whispering, “You used to love these days.  These days were made for you and Matt.  You used to think these days were special.”  I felt old on rainy days; I was hardly able to get out of bed and my whole body ached.  I hurried to class or work as quickly as I could, and then hurried back even faster.  I spent all my time indoors in the rain, instead of dancing in it like I used to. 

Years passed this way.  I began blocking Matt out of my thoughts so I could avoid the constant ache that I felt.  People began to think that I was okay.  They were no longer afraid to bring his name up in conversation.  I was invited out to parties or movies because people wanted to hang out with me, not because they felt sorry for me.  I began my career, smiling and laughing.  Even I began to believe that I was better. 

And then, one Saturday afternoon I woke up to the sound of a steady downpour.  I don’t know what was so different about that day.  Six years had gone by, and I had not thought of Matt more than a few times after that first year.  For some reason, though, when I woke up I felt that familiar ache in my chest.  I lifted my hand to rub my heart, but it made no difference.  The rocked was back and felt bigger this time than it had before.  I began to feel difficulty breathing.  Panic set in as I failed to draw in a full breath. 

“Okay!” I yelled to the empty room.  “Fine.  I’ll go.”  Immediately I was able to breathe.  I got out of bed and walked over to my dresser, blindly pulling out jeans and a sweatshirt.  I hurried out to my care and drove to the nearest 7-11.  I knew it well, only because I looked away every time I passed it, as if that would make it go away. 

When I walked in I smiled weakly at the clerk, disappointed for some reason that he was not Paul.  I walked to the back corner where the ICEE machine was kept and pulled out two small cups.  I filled one with the red slushee and set it aside.  “What today?” I murmured to myself.  I picked up the second cup and held it for a second or two.  “Blue,” I decided, and I filled the second cup to the rim. 

I walked over to the counter and paid my money, ignoring the quizzical look the clerk gave me.  I realized how silly I must have looked with two ICEEs on a day that was much like the day Matt and I began our ICEE ritual.  “Have a good day,” the clerk said with a lopsided smile.  I stared for a couple seconds before I caught myself and tried to smile back.  I had not seen a lopsided smile since Matt.  “Thanks,” I murmured, too quiet for him to hear, I’m sure. 

Once in my car I put the ICEEs in the cup holders and made my way to the other end of town.  I tried to listen to music, but for some reason I couldn’t stand it.  I jammed my finger into the power button and turned off the noise.  I drove in silence for the rest of the way.  When I saw a sign that said, “Santa Barbara County Cemetery” I pulled into the parking lot.  I sat in my car with the window wipers running, silently debating on whether or not I would get out of the car.  I set my resolve and turned the key in the ignition.  I took a deep breath and opened the car door, taking the ICEEs with me. 

I made my way along the route that had been burned into my mind, although I had only followed it once before.  Stones – light and dark, straight and lopsided, crumbling and pristine – dotted the manicured green lawn.  Small bouquets of flowers, adorned some stones, pictures decorated others.  Most of the stones, however, were empty of gifts, a sign that people had tried to move on with their lives, like I had.  “It won’t work,” I said to the silence.  “It doesn’t work.” 

Finally I found myself at the place I had avoided for so long.  I looked down at the wet, white stone and read the inscription.

Matthew James Michelson

December 8, 1980 – April 2, 2000

Resting now with the Lord.

I tried to imagine what people who had never met Matt would think about him.  It was impossible to think that his life was summed up in a short dash in between two dates. 

I slowly bent and put the blue ICEE down next to the stone.  I stared at my ICEE for a minute, thinking that it was strange to be holding one again after six long years.  I put the red straw in my mouth and shivered when the cold drink hit my tongue.  After the first shock, I settled into the ease of drinking the slushee. 

I ignored the rain that had long soaked through my clothes and was now sending a chill over my skin.  I thought instead about Matt.  For the first time in six years I was able to think about him without the pain that usually accompanied the thoughts.  I thought about our walks to school, the forts we built, the school projects he always talked me into doing.  I thought about our phone conversations in college, and about how much he helped me through those first two years of school.  And then suddenly I realized something.  For the first time in six years I was crying. 

I noticed the contrast of the cool, icy drink sliding down my throat and the one warm, wet tear sliding down my cheek.  The tear hit my lip, and I licked it off, tasting the salt that mixed with the sweet.  That one tear opened the floodgates and I sat down as I began to sob. 

I don’t know how long I stayed there, drinking my ICEE and crying.  All I know is that when I finally finished my drink and the tears finally quieted I felt a relief that I had not felt in years.  I uncrossed my legs and stood up, taking my ICEE cup with me.  I gently touched the white stone that held Matt’s name.  “Next time I won’t stay away so long,” I promised, and I turned to make my way back to my car.