Ghosting

  Not knowing if it’s morning or afternoon.

  Not remembering.

  And then I do.

  I stumble out of bed

  to the bathroom.

  Leaning over the toilet,

  I heave

  and heave

  until nothing more

  comes out.

  Mom hears me

  and runs in,

  wrapping her arms

  around me.

  Wiping my hot face

  with a cool washcloth.

  Later

  we’re sitting at

  the breakfast table,

  Mom and Dad and I,

  and they tell me what

  they know

  so far.

  That Emma is in

  critical condition,

  but expected to

  survive.

  That the last they heard,

  Faith was still in surgery.

  And it didn’t

  look good.

  That nobody seems to know

  about Brendan.

  They think

  he’s at another hospital,

  in Chicago.

  And Felix? I ask, my heart pounding.

  And that’s when

  they tell me.

  That Felix survived.

  He came through

  surgery,

  but he lost

  his right eye

  (like an eye was something

  you could carelessly lose).

  And now,

  he

  is in

  a

  coma.

  Brain trauma

  is a tricky thing,

  they say.

  He may never wake up,

  they say.

  And if he does wake up,

  he may never be

  the same.

  Or he could be

  fine.

  At least as

  fine

  as you can be

  with only

  one

  eye.

  POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD

  His name is Walter Smith.

  Nineteen years of age.

  Five foot seven inches,

  barely 130 pounds,

  brown hair.

  He was born at 6 a.m.

  on a Sunday morning,

  January 16.

  No father listed

  on the birth certificate.

  Mabel Smith

  is listed as the mother.

  No known address

  for a Mabel Smith,

  though she has a record:

  several arrests

  for drug possession,

  public intoxication,

  and disturbing the peace,

  but that was all

  twenty years ago.

  Walter Smith was

  raised by his grandmother,

  Adeline Smith,

  the woman he calls

  Mother.

  She’s homeschooled him since

  the age of eleven,

  in the house she inherited

  from her sister.

  The two,

  Walter and Adeline Smith,

  have always kept to themselves.

  But according to neighbors

  there have been escalating

  signs of dementia

  in the grandmother:

  -sitting on the front stoop, arguing loudly with her dead sister

  -wearing a winter down parka as she gardens in the hot summer sun

  -dancing in her nightgown in the tangled undergrowth of the neglected property.

  Numerous complaints

  by neighbors

  about the deteriorating house and yard.

  Numerous complaints

  by the grandmother

  about being harassed

  by neighborhood kids.

  And even though I didn’t know

  it was called the “ghost house”

  and that neighborhood kids

  used it to scare themselves,

  I can’t say I wasn’t aware

  of the house, of these people.

  I was.

  But I confess I thought

  they were harmless.

  Eccentric.

  And that the people around them

  should just

  live and let live.

  God’s truth,

  I was blind.

  Well, that’s something

  I’m going to have to

  live with until the day

  I die.

  Sunday, August 29, 8:00 p.m.

  MAXIE

  Word spreads fast

  about what happened

  at the

  ghost house.

  And Sunday night,

  the night after it happened,

  there is a vigil

  at the school.

  For Brendan,

  for Emma and Faith,

  and for Felix.

  Hundreds of kids

  fill the

  football field.

  I hadn’t wanted

  to go–

  not at first.

  But Mom and Dad

  said they’d go with me.

  Wanted to go with me.

  And so I said

  okay.

  There are news trucks

  and camera crews,

  which Mom and

  Dad hurry me past.

  I sit in the bleachers

  with Mom on one side

  and Dad on the other

  and hope no one will

  recognize me.

  And because I am

  the new/old girl,

  they don’t.

  The whole thing is overwhelming,

  but somehow beautiful, too,

  all these people

  gathered together,

  shaken to the core,

  mourning,

  and frightened.

  And then they start

  lighting

  candles.

  First one,

  then a few,

  then more and more.

  Till the field is

  filled with

  flickering candles.

  I don’t have

  my camera (still confiscated),

  but Dad has loaned me his,

  and Mom smiles

  when I click a photo

  of that

  winking,

  sparkling

  sea of light.

  Dad takes my hand

  and that’s when

  I burst into tears.

  Again.

  I spot Chloe’s

  blonde hair

  across the field.

  She’s surrounded by friends.

  But no sign of

  Anil.

  And for some reason,

  out of the blue,

  I suddenly remember

  Anil’s story about the comet

  and the

  two telescopes,

  and

  his smile,

  and then,

  miraculously,

  my tears stop.

  ANIL

  1. My parents don’t want me

  to go to the vigil,

  which is okay

  because I don’t want to go.

  The only reason would’ve

  been to see if Maxie was there.

  Except what would

  I say to her?

  2. I watch TV and go on the Internet,

  scrolling from one story to

  another about the tragic

  shooting in Wilmette.

  Sound bites have already formed:

  multiple shooting victims near cemetery

  tragedy at so-called “ghost house”

  homeschooled boy shoots rifle at trespassing teens

  teenage prank gone wrong

  thrill-seeking, ghost-hunting teens

  But no word on
:

  Felix

  Faith

  Emma

  or Brendan.

  Nothing specific anyway.

  Just “multiple victims” in critical condition.

  That’s all.

  Mom turns off the TV

  but I turn it back on.

  She looks at me,

  then sits beside me,

  putting her arm

  around my shoulders.

  One news program shows

  clusters of reporters

  from different TV stations

  around the country,

  camped in front of the hospital.

  3. And then,

  while we’re watching TV,

  a knock on our own door.

  Reporters.

  My father turns them away,

  tight-lipped, furious.

  EMMA

  Dad is sitting by my bed.

  The machines around me are whirring,

  tubes, wires, dials sprouting from them.

  The tubes are filled with bubbling liquids that are

  being pumped into me, to help me heal,

  to help control the pain.

  Dad is telling me about the vigil at the

  football field tonight. How everyone is

  praying for me, for Faith, for all of us.

  The hospital room is filled with cards and

  flowers and balloons. Almost too bright,

  too much, and I don’t deserve any of it.

  Faith? I keep asking. And they keep

  telling me they don’t know. That she’s

  still fighting, still alive.

  Then the door opens, abruptly,

  making Dad jump.

  A nurse stands there.

  You’re to come, right now, she says.

  Her voice is urgent,

  her eyes unreadable,

  but she is not smiling.

  Dad jumps up.

  I can see fear

  in his eyes.

  I’ll be right back, Emma, he says.

  Just as the door closes behind them I hear

  the words minister or priest? clear and distinct.

  My blood turns to ice.

  Faith, I shout.

  Monday, August 30

  MAXIE

  On Monday instead of going

  to school

  I go to

  the hospital.

  Mom and I get flowers

  from the grocery store

  to take to

  Emma,

  Faith,

  and Felix

  Faith’s room is the closest

  so we go there

  first.

  The door is

  closed.

  I hear the sound of a woman

  sobbing

  and my brain goes blank.

  I drop the flowers and

  don’t even realize it.

  Suddenly the door

  opens

  and Emma’s dad is

  standing there.

  He stares at me

  and all the flowers

  scattered at my feet.

  Then

  he smiles.

  I look past him into the room

  and see Faith and Emma’s mom

  sitting by the bed,

  and she’s not sobbing,

  she’s laughing,

  though

  tears are running

  down her cheeks.

  And even more wonderful,

  I can see Faith, lying in the bed,

  her

  eyes

  open.

  Emma’s dad bends down and

  helps me pick up

  the flowers.

  We almost lost Faith last night, he says, handing me black-eyed Susans and asters, but she came back to us.

  FAITH

  They say

  I nearly

  died.

  Twice.

  Once in

  surgery,

  and again

  last night.

  And I know

  it’s true.

  Because of

  the birds,

  and because

  of the voices

  calling me

  back.

  Especially

  Emma’s.

  Her voice

  was the

  loudest.

  And it

  makes sense,

  because

  after all,

  I’ve

  never been

  able to

  say

  no

  to

  Emma.

  Tuesday, September 7

  MAXIE

  For everyone else

  school started

  a week ago,

  but I finally go to school

  ten days after

  that night.

  I don’t want to

  but Mom keeps saying it’s best

  to try to stick to a routine,

  to keep things

  the way they were

  before

  it happened.

  As if that was even

  possible.

  And it sucks.

  The minute I walk through the doors,

  I know I can’t be

  there.

  It was already going

  to be weird,

  as new/old girl.

  But because of

  what happened

  it is like I have this

  giant RED letter

  pinned

  to my chest.

  Except I don’t know

  what letter

  it is.

  No one does.

  So I either get these

  sad,

  pitying looks,

  or else eyes that

  dart away.

  Like looking at me

  might get them

  shot, too.

  Emma, and Faith,

  and Felix

  are all still in

  the hospital.

  And, weirdly, the silence about

  Brendan

  continues.

  No one knows what happened

  to him, even

  where he is.

  It’s like he’s surrounded

  by this

  cloud of secrecy.

  Even all those reporters

  can’t find out the truth.

  Chloe and Anil

  have friends

  who circle them

  protectively

  like wagon trains

  in the

  Old West.

  I see Anil once,

  coming out of math.

  He calls out,

  but I run,

  in the other direction.

  Pathetic.

  Cowardly.

  I can’t talk to Anil.

  If I did,

  if I looked into his eyes,

  the tears

  would start up again

  and

  not

  stop.

  Hiding behind my

  locker door, I overhear Chloe,

  pale, foot in a boot,

  leaning on crutches,

  talking to her friends.

  No, I wasn’t shot, she says. I just tripped and cut my foot. You guys know what a klutz I am.

  Her friends laugh

  and hug her.

  And I start to feel sorry for myself

  because I am the new/old girl,