Intersections

  That’s what this current scene reminded me of, minus the beer and perspiration. Dozens of spirits filled the street, gathered on porches, and strolled down the sidewalk. Several waved to me and smiled. They all had the same inky grey auras—like the ticklish old woman at the funeral home or Jonathan Heck.

  Next door to Mom’s, three ghosts stood on Mr. Rodgers’ porch—an old white lady dressed in her Sunday best, a young black man wearing only swimming trunks, and a twenty-something guy wearing a suit with the back cut out. If he was aware that his ass was hanging out, he didn’t acknowledge it. Once my leg healed, I limped over. He introduced himself as George. The other two were Pidge and Gary.

  All three of them had solid black eyeballs, the cornea and iris as completely eclipsed as the old woman at the funeral home. I tried not to stare but they didn’t seem to notice.

  “Why is everyone out here?” I asked George.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” he said. “No clouds. So many stars.”

  He was right. I looked up, and the only thing clouding the sky was the Light, all washed out by the hundreds of thousands of souls waiting to stuff themselves inside. The sight reminded me of maggots on a corpse. I shivered. A half moon hung to the east.

  “Are you cold?” George said.

  Not waiting for an answer, he stepped in and pulled me close. His arm draped over my shoulder. He wasn’t warm, but where we touched, a tingle rippled through me. It was not unlike the sensation I felt when the ghost at the funeral home grabbed me only this time I needed this touch—to be held, reassured. Except the way he held me, my left arm had no choice but to cradle his exposed back. The flesh of his muscular butt nudged my wrist. I decided to roll with it. After all, you only live once so it followed that you only died once, too.

  I introduced myself and asked him, “So where was everyone earlier, during the day?”

  “Oh, we all lay low when the sun’s up. Sometimes we rest at The Gorge.” That was one of the local bars.

  “I’m new to this.”

  “Welcome to the party,” he said, pulling me even closer. Tingles.

  “This reminds me of college, chilling on the porch.”

  He smiled, and I bet those teeth were gleaming white when he was alive. “Once when I was in college, I road-skied on the back of a pickup truck in the snow while wearing only a scarf and holding a beer.”

  By the end of the story, he had me laughing so hard I worried that something in my phantom insides might’ve ruptured. We settled into easy conversation and I lost all track of time. Nothing seemed to matter. Our auras merged into a patina-speckled glow. His eyes unnerved me, but I could ignore them if I stared only at his mouth. More than once, I imagined what his lips would feel like on my nipples. I wondered if ghosts could even have sex. Was it possible for male ghosts to get an erection? If not, it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d had to improvise with a less-than-stiffy.

  I’d only been with a few men after the divorce. I’d done the usual post-marriage parade of debauchery until I had my interlude with Frank. Since then, I couldn’t bring myself to connect again with another human being. I’d vowed to myself that I’d never again experience such pain again.

  My time with George was perfect, though. He seemed genuinely interested in me and yet conversely totally distant. We talked about the weather and the houses around us, and old memories about the town. He referred to himself as a “well to-do businessman” which apparently translated into car salesman. Twice I asked him about the clogged Light in the sky, and both times, he brushed off the question.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “That reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time I road-skied naked in the snow on the back of a pickup truck while drinking a beer?”

  He treated me to this story multiple times, and somehow it never got old. Fuck it, though. We were ghosts. We were never getting any older, so why should our stories?

  George was yammering about how he used to make out with his neighbor in a tree house when I heard someone vaguely calling my name. A hand gripped my arm and spun me around. Shannon stared at me like I was the asshole who’d just interrupted a perfectly good conversation.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “I remember trying to talk to you, and you very clearly stating that you didn’t want to have—” And here I air quoted. “—a tender ghost girl power moment in the fucking road.” End air quote.

  “Haven’t you noticed anything strange about all these ghosts?” she said.

  I shrugged. “I struggle to conjure any one thing that isn’t strange about today.”

  “Look into my eyes.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “No, look. What do you see?”

  I barely glanced at her face. “Um, hatred and bitchiness?”

  “Look closer. At my eyes.”

  So I did. I leaned in, close enough that I could’ve kissed her. For a moment, I wondered what that’d be like. Sure, she was a terrible little wench, but I couldn’t help feeling a pull toward her. As if my aura longed to merge with hers. Because of my time with Jeremy, I’d never had any bi-curious experimentation in college, though I’d often fantasized about it.

  I squinted at her eyes. Her pupils had eclipsed her irises and were now wiggling tendrils of darkness nibbling away at the whites of her eyes.

  “It’s worse than before, isn’t it?” she said.

  I nodded. “That’s gross.”

  “Well your eyes look worse, too. Whatever’s happened to these idiots is also happening to us.”

  I jerked back and pointed at George, who was already chatting and laughing with four other spooks on the crowded porch. If he heard her insult, he didn’t show it.

  “That’s my friend you’re talking about,” I said. “Don’t be a dick.”

  “He’s not your friend. He’s cattle. They all are. Can’t you see that?”

  I pointed my finger between her perky high schooler tits. “No, you know what I see? I see a bratty little girl who wants to make herself feel big by making everyone else feel small.”

  “Whatevs,” she said. “I was trying to help you—to help both of us. Enjoy grazing with the other sheep.”

  She stomped off and I fought the urge to give her the finger. Instead, I stepped back onto the porch next to George and slid my hand onto his bare waist, cupping the upper edge of his butt cheek. The bluish patina glow snuggled back into our merged auras. His black gaze turned toward me, and he smiled.

  “My name’s George,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  My heart winced but somehow I managed to say, “Hi, George. I’m Molly.”

  “Welcome to the party, Molly.”

  I looked around the loose circle of ghosts, all of them smiling and nodding, and occasionally talking over each other. Shannon was right. They were cattle. Oblivious. I tried to gaze at my reflection in the front window—to see if my eyes looked as infected as Shannon’s—but of course ghosts had no reflection. I supposed we were a bit like vampires with our sun allergy and mirror difficulties.

  It pained me to leave George’s embrace, but I knew I couldn’t stay here. The false companionship was all too enticing. If I lingered any longer, I feared I’d lose myself.

  I drifted off the porch and onto the sidewalk. Shannon was already turning the next corner, and I had to run to catch up with her. My feet barely skimmed the asphalt as if I were running on water, on the verge of flying. Little did I know.

  “Hey,” I said when I finally caught up to her.

  “What happened to your boytoy?” she said as I settled into pace beside her.

  “Chicks before dicks, Shannon.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I have no use for dicks.”

  I frowned. “Clearly you haven’t found the right one.”

  She said nothing to this except for, “Hmm.”

  We strode through an awkward pause, past porch after porch of chatting and laughing spirits. In the sky, a smattering of hopeful spirits
drifted upward toward the bloated Light. Somehow, the squirming mass of souls looked even bigger and badder than it had yesterday. I couldn’t believe I’d wasted three whole days up there. Then again, I’d wasted years of my life in a marriage that clearly wasn’t working, so I supposed it was no surprise.

  “So what happened?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, something happened to you. Why the sudden urge to have a team-up? A few hours ago, you wanted nothing to do with me.”

  “I . . . I met a girl.”

  8

  Turned out, Shannon’s girl was actually a woman. Her name was Jennie Adams and she’d died the day before our accident. I vaguely remembered seeing something about her passing on the Davis High School Memorial Facebook page. She’d been only a few years older than me. After a month in hospice, ovarian cancer had taken her life.

  “I found her in the woods by the cemetery after my funeral,” Shannon said. “At first, I thought she was . . . I don’t know, in a coma or something. She was all curled up in a ball under a bush. I almost didn’t see her. I called to her but she wouldn’t wake up. She was so beautiful, like something that’d been sculpted out of ancient clay. I sat beside her, just gazing at her. She wore a satin chemise that hugged all her curves. Her aura glowed a dull grey. She was like something out of a fairytale. I tried everything to wake her—even a kiss. Okay, several kisses.”

  Suddenly some of the tension between her and her friend Tara of the Glasses made more sense.

  “She woke up when the sun went down. Her eyes were entirely black, but her smile. Wow. I introduced myself. She said her name was Jennie. We started talking and walking. She was so friendly, so perfect.”

  As Shannon talked, her face softened. The blackness festering in her eyes sparkled. We passed under streetlights, which shined through her—lighting her up from within. I surprised myself by wanting to reach out and caress her cheek.

  “Before long, we sat on a gravestone and made out. I realized then that she was the reason I’d died—so I didn’t have to hide who I was anymore. So I could meet her. I could finally be myself. Except then some other ghosts showed up. They all started talking. All I wanted was to have Jennie to myself, but Jennie and the ghosts kept droning on and on. After awhile, I asked Jennie if she wanted to leave so we could be alone, and you know what she said?”

  “What?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

  “She said, ‘What’s your name?’ And that’s when I really started putting it all together. She died the day before we did. Now her eyes are black. Our eyes are almost black. This . . .” She pointed at her blackening eyes. “It’s some kind of . . . ghost disease. It’s like Alzheimer’s for spirits.”

  I remembered something the chubby ghost had said at the funeral home. Only three nights together. Then came the dreadful dawn.

  “I met a ghost of my own earlier—at Lamb Funeral Home,” I said. “Except he was a very old ghost. Well, he was young when he died, but that was a long time ago.” I pointed upward at the clogged Light. “He said he died before the sky broke. He waited decades for his wife to die. When she did, they had only three nights together. Then came the dreadful dawn.”

  “Why isn’t he like the others?”

  “I think because he was already a ghost before the Light got blocked. I don’t know.”

  “Fuck,” Shannon said. “Three nights. This is our third. I can’t end up like these . . . automatons.”

  “Well, good luck figuring out how to keep the sun from coming up. Because as far as I can tell, being a ghost means we’re pretty fucking helpless.”

  We walked along in silence. Throughout the neighborhood, ghost voices droned and chuckled and droned some more. Otherwise, the roads remained empty. Davis wasn’t exactly a hot bed of nocturnal activity. I rubbed my eyes, imagining that I could feel the darkness gnawing at me. Consuming me. I wondered what it’d be like to be one of those shadow ghosts.

  “Okay,” she said suddenly, making me jump. “I know what we need to do.”

  “What? Find ourselves a bottle of ghost vodka?”

  “No. Fuck that.” Shannon shook her head. “We’re going to fly right into the Light.”

  9

  “You realize this is crazy,” I told Shannon.

  She shook her head. “No, crazy is not doing anything at all and letting ourselves become one of those mindless ghosts.”

  Our destination, the upscale housing development known as Hilltop, loomed over the town—still over a mile away. The one or two times a car passed us by, it didn’t slow or stop long enough for us to climb aboard. We settled into a quick mall-walker’s pace. Each of our steps made no sound. A raccoon rummaging through a recycle bin hissed in our general direction.

  A silver Cutlass Supreme swerved around the corner. It veered into someone’s yard, spraying bits of grass through the air and us. I winced as the tiny blades soared through me. After the car lurched back onto the road, the driver tossed a beer bottle onto the asphalt. Glass exploded. One shard sliced through my shin, and I spilled to the ground.

  “Ow. Drunk asshole.”

  “What a dick,” Shannon said. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, rubbing the wound.

  Beer cans, cigarette butts, fast food trash, plastic bottles, and other litter marred the surrounding landscape. I shook my head at the wastefulness of it all. The disrespect.

  “We just use shit and throw it away,” I told Shannon. “Look at the fucking mess we’ve made of everything. Polluting rivers. Staining the air. Littering.”

  She stared up at the Light. “We’re even leaving our old space junk out among the stars. We learned about it in science class. There’s a whole bunch of old satellites and shit orbiting around the planet.”

  “Yeah, my ex had a whole rant about that very topic,” I said. “Maybe all those souls back there are the same thing—just more litter that we’ve used and tossed aside. Maybe the Earth has become a trash heap for junked spirits.”

  She sighed impatiently. “We need to go. Tara’s dad leaves for work sometime before four a.m. It has to be almost three now.”

  I remembered something the funeral home ghost had said. And then the clock strikes three. And I have to hide.

  A shiver passed through me. Suddenly our plan seemed so foolish. So improbable. I shook my head.

  She knelt beside me. “Look, no matter where we’ve gone all day, the Light has somehow been directly above us, right? Even when we’re apart, right?”

  I nodded.

  “So it follows that if we ride an airplane up into the sky, the Light will stay above us, and we can blast through that fucking crowd of ghosts and get into the Light, right?”

  “Isn’t that like cutting to the front of the line, though?”

  She flailed her arms. “So fucking what? Would you rather become a goddamn mindless drone?”

  I thought about the old woman cackling as her dead husband tickled her. About Jonathan Heck torn to bits by water and light. About fucking George and his stupid stories and his sculpted butt cheeks.

  Earlier, when Shannon had first told me her plan to hitch a plane into the Light, it’d seemed like madness. The closest airport, Dayton International Airport, was miles and miles away. No way could we get there by dawn.

  Except then Shannon had said, “Tara’s dad manages a warehouse out by the airport. He has to leave super early. We could hitch a ride in the back of his pickup. That’d get us to the airport before dawn, right?”

  I’d nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, but how far away is Tara’s?”

  “In my neighborhood on the other side of town. At Hilltop.”

  “Really?”

  “What? Because Tara dresses all Hot Topic, she can’t live on the nicer side of town? Have you shopped at Hot Topic? Do you know how overpriced they are?”

  I’d shrugged. “In my day, if we wanted to dress alternative, we just went to the thrift store.”

  ??
?Yeah, well your day was a long, long time ago.”

  Now, I stared up at Hilltop.

  From down here, the McMansion houses looked like pale tombstones. It seemed even more unattainable in death than it did in life.

  “I used to play there when I was little,” I told her. “The hill was all forest then and we pretended we were Ewoks from Return of the Jedi. Later when construction started, we used to have keg parties in the foundations of the homes.”

  “Sounds pretty cool.”

  “I guess. But when I look back on those days, it’s like there were two versions of me experiencing everything. There was the young woman that I pretended to be—all about having fun and making the most out of life—and then there was a very scared little girl who was using that young woman to keep the shadys away.”

  “The shadys?”

  “That’s what my dad used to call them—the shadys. Those dark thoughts and feelings that sometimes seem to circle my brain like wolves, ready to pounce at any sign of weakness. One of the last conversations I had with him, I was sad because I was having troubles with friends at school. He told me that the shadys never stop coming. He said that you can feed them darkness and make them stronger, or you can fill your head with light and watch them run away.”

  “What happened to him? Your dad?”

  “He died of a heart attack when I was seven.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He’d taken me up to the playground to play our favorite game—monster tag. It was basically regular tag, except whoever was ‘it’ had to pretend to be a monster.”

  “Cool,” she said.

  “It was overcast and drizzling—a hot, humid summer day. We had the playground to ourselves. He was wearing one of his white V-neck shirts. I was playing as a zombie, hissing and moaning and chasing him up the slide when he fell, clutching his chest. While my father breathed his last breaths, I kneeled over him pretending to eat his brain.”