Parallel Spirits

  I swallow the yogurt with a loud gulp. “Famished,” I reply.

  Famished? I have never used the word famished.

  He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair off my forehead to get a better look at my injury. I can’t feel him touching me. This is a swoon-worthy moment and I can’t swoon.

  “This will make a nice story for our grandkids,” I say, and he smiles.

  “Or your mom when you get home,” he replies.

  Oh, no. What am I going to tell my mom?

  The whole reason I didn’t want Conor to pick me up at my house was because I didn’t want my mom to know about our date—in case it didn’t work out. I didn’t want to get the whole the-right-guy-will-come-along-someday speech; or worse, the you’ll-figure-it-out-someday speech. I don’t need a speech from my mom to figure out something I’m already excruciatingly aware of.

  “The truth has never failed me,” I say as I lick another dollop of yogurt off my spoon. He watches me with rapt curiosity as I savor my frozen treat. “Your yogurt’s melting,” I say. “You need some help with that?”

  I dip my spoon into the swirled mound of yogurt in his bowl and bring the spoonful to his lips. He smiles before he takes it into his mouth.

  “There’s something about you,” he says with a curious expression. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  Yeah, I’m possessed. So sexy, isn’t it?

  “There’s definitely something about you,” I reply. “How is that catholic schoolboy thing working out for you?”

  He chuckles but his expression hardens a little as if I’ve hit a sore spot. “Not all it’s cracked up to be,” he replies. “Let’s just say that St. Demetrius wasn’t my idea.”

  “Hmm…. Let’s go for a walk,” I say as I grab our half-empty bowls and make my way toward the exit.

  I toss the Styrofoam bowls into the trash and glance behind me. Conor walks toward me with a shy expression on his face. I want to ask him if something’s wrong, but I’m not me. I have no control over this conversation—and I’m beginning to think that’s a good thing.

  Listen

  We get to know each other more as we walk the three blocks to the beach. Conor has one older sister. His Cuban mother and French father are devout Catholics who attend church at least once a week and his cousin who was shipped to Japan was also his best friend. He’s graduating from St. Demetrius in two weeks, a couple of days before Frankie and I graduate, and he still hasn’t chosen among the four colleges he was accepted into.

  We cross the beach parking lot and my eyes are locked on the sunset. The orange melts into red and pink and purple until my eyes reach the point right above my head where it all turns a dusky blue. We trample through the warm sand toward the water as I focus on pushing aside thoughts of the last time I went to the beach with Frankie. We pass a few sunbathers attempting to catch the last rays of sunlight. I wonder if the atmosphere of the beach at night will always make me sad.

  Everything suddenly looks different—crisper. Like my brain just acquired high-definition technology.

  I’m me again.

  “It’s beautiful,” Conor says when we reach the water’s edge.

  Tossing my sandals behind me, I swallow my trepidation and wade into the water until it’s lapping at the edge of my skirt. The water slides back as the wave retreats toward the sunset, pulling me with it. I take a few steps back to escape the inevitable force of the next wave and close my eyes as I lean my head back.

  Tomorrow will be just a little bit easier.

  I open my eyes and look over my shoulder, nodding toward the water for Conor to join me. He’s wearing jeans and a short-sleeve button-up shirt he probably got at one of the half-dozen surf shops sprinkled around Payne Bay. He hesitates for a moment before he kicks off his sneakers and wades in after me.

  He takes my hand in his and I can feel the warm softness of his skin. I can smell the briny ocean as the mist seeps into my nostrils and stings my eyes. The water is cool and full of grit that scratches the skin on my ankles as the waves sway back and forth in an endless waltz.

  I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything. We stand in silence watching the sun bid Payne Bay a vibrant farewell. When the last ray of sunlight disappears behind the horizon, I begin to sense Conor staring at me.

  That crawling sensation returns to my stomach as I turn to face him. He has that look in his eyes as he leans toward me. He glances at my lips then slowly closes his eyes. I close my eyes and wait.

  He plants a soft kiss on my cheekbone and a warm urge to wrap my arms around him bellows inside me. I open my eyes and his face is inches from mine. The way the outer corners of his eyes turn down slightly when he smiles makes him look so innocent. Maybe I’m just prejudging him because he goes to Catholic school, but I have a strange feeling that Conor isn’t as experienced as most guys his age.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  He shoots me a half-smile before he turns to face the ocean again. “I’ve seen you before we met in the park. I’ve seen you walking home from school almost every day since March.”

  “You have?”

  “I didn’t tell you earlier because I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you or something,” he says, and he hangs his head as a shy grin spreads across his face. “It’s weird, but, for the past few months every time I drive home from school it’s like my eyes are pulled toward the side of the road at exactly the same moment I’m passing you.”

  He turns to me, taking in the confused expression on my face. I flash him a quick smile and he appears dissatisfied with my reaction. Then his face changes. His eyes widen slightly and his back straightens out.

  “It’s kind of hard not to notice you,” he says, his voice soft yet confident. “You’re stunning.”

  Stunning?

  My skin breaks out in a sweat that trickles down the small of my back.

  “Did you know I was going to the dog park?” I ask.

  He’s facing me now. “I didn’t, but when you sat next to me I knew it had to be fate… or something,” he says.

  “Or something?” I repeat his words.

  “Do you believe in fate?” he asks, and his boyish grin returns.

  The lamps that line the pier cast a golden glow across his cheeks and forehead.

  I can’t help but smile at this clichéd question. “I don’t know what I believe in.”

  Chapter 6

  Conor’s car pulls up next to the curb in front of my house and he kills the engine. We sit in silence as I stare at the house windows searching for a sign of movement. The last thing I need is for my mom to come outside and introduce herself to Conor on our first date. Without a sound, he reaches across the chasm of silence and brushes my hair aside.

  “Is your mom going to think I slugged you on our first date?” he asks.

  Words whoosh through my mind as I try to conjure a clever response. “Yeah… I mean, no. No, of course not. I’ll tell her the truth and… and I’m sure she’ll believe me. I mean, I trip and bump into doors all the time.”

  “You do?”

  “Well… yeah… sometimes I….” Conor’s face blurs and I continue. “Only when I’m flustered, like right now.”

  “I make you feel flustered?”

  “You make me feel a lot of things.”

  His lips curve into a gorgeous smile as he leans toward me. I can’t feel his lips on mine. I can’t smell him or feel his warmth. I try to fight this force inside me that has taken over my senses. I try to pull away, open my eyes, scream. This isn’t me! But Conor can’t hear the real me trapped inside this clever imposter. The other me.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he whispers in my ear.

  The other me plants a soft kiss on his cheek before she hops out of the car. The blades of grass and the leaves on the shrubs sharpen as my world switches to high definition. I race toward the front door and slam the door behind me. I dash past the living room
, through the hallway, and across the kitchen. Bursting through the back door, I race across the green grass in the back yard toward the tool shed where my mom keeps her gardening supplies. Where my dad used to keep our old lawnmower, which my mother donated after she hired a professional lawnmower named Pedro.

  I enter the dark shed and slam the door behind me. A fragmented ray of yellow light from the streetlamp shines through the small window in the shed. I turn in circles hoping for some kind of sign to explain what has just happened. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I know I wasn’t alone tonight. Someone—or something—else was there with Conor and me.

  “Who are you?” I whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

  The dirt encrusted on my mother’s spade is silent. The green apron dangling from a rusty nail on the wall hangs quietly. The silver watering can swallows the hushed darkness.

  “Please tell me I’m not going crazy,” I say louder. “Please answer me.”

  I close my eyes and my dad’s crinkled smile appears. We’re washing his truck in the driveway and we both laugh as he lifts me into the air so I can wash the top of the truck.

  “Is it you, Dad?”

  I open my eyes and my mom is standing in the doorway of the shed. She wipes the tears from my cheeks and pulls me into her arms.

  Lying back in my bed, I stare at the ceiling and sigh. I don’t feel like I’m going crazy, but something is definitely going on inside me. Something I can’t control.

  “Are you here?” I whisper to the darkness. “If you’re here, please show me something or give me some kind of sign that I’m not going totally insane.”

  The heavy silence is broken by a faint, humming noise, like a hundred cicadas buzzing beneath my pillow. A cool breeze washes over my face. I sit up, clutching the blanket to my chest, and she’s standing at the foot of my bed.

  Chapter 7

  Connecticut, 1705

  Listen

  I want to see Samuel’s spirit standing before me in its original form. But neither one of us can show our true spirits. We’re locked inside these human forms until we die and become flame spirits: the flickering energy remnants of a human death. Flame spirits only live until their energy has been spent. Once we become flame spirits, we won’t remember each other.

  “When you were an Indian princess, did you have servants?” Samuel asks as we stroll through a brilliant meadow that looks as if it were painted with broad feathery brushstrokes in the brightest greens, yellows, and violets. “Were you pampered, Mara?”

  Samuel and I have begun calling each other by our spirit names in private. No one else knows our secret. To everyone else we’re just Lily and Samuel, two young lovers who refuse to be kept apart.

  “Yes, we had servants,” I reply as I snap the stem off a dandelion. “But I never treated them poorly.”

  “Ah….” Samuel replies with a knowing smirk. “So Mara is used to the finer things in life? Then I shall provide that for you. That is my promise.”

  “I don’t require fine things,” I reply as I stare at the frothy dandelion seeds, draw in a deep breath, and blow the seeds into the wind. “I only want the luxury of choosing my fate.”

  “My darling, you cannot choose your fate. That is why it is called fate. It is already written.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You don’t believe in fate?” Samuel replies.

  The incredulity in his tone makes me feel judged. Staring into his eyes, I brush a strand of dirty blonde hair off his forehead. He leans his face into my hand and kisses my palm. He grasps my arm and plants a feather-soft kiss on the inside of my wrist, then another on my forearm. He kisses a trail up to my shoulder before I yank my arm back.

  “Stop,” I say, turning my face away before he can kiss me.

  “Why? This is our fate, my love,” he whispers in my ear. “I have known this for far longer than you have existed.”

  His breath on my ear makes the air in my chest stutter with pleasure. I want to kiss him, but what if it leads to more. We’re not yet married.

  He takes my hand and plants a gentle kiss on my knuckles. “You will know our fate soon enough. Until then, I will do as you wish. I will wait for you—forever.”

  Chapter 8

  Payne Bay, Present Day

  A shadow of a human; ethereal darkness glimmering around the edges with silver light. That’s how I would describe the girl standing at the foot of my bed.

  Her long hair flutters behind her with an invisible breeze as she stares at me with a pained expression on her face. A glowing jewel pulses in the center of a band that circles her head like some sort of crown or headdress. Her shimmering dress falls like tentacles around her knees.

  I want to ask who she is, but the words are caught in my throat. I’m hallucinating. No, I’m having a nightmare.

  “I’m Mara,” the girl says in a voice so delicate and distant it sounds like the tinny recording of a muffled voice.

  My pulse is thumping in my neck and shoulders. I’m having a heart attack.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she says. “I’m not here to harm you.”

  “What…?” I whisper. “What are you here for?”

  My mind fills with visions of exorcisms and spinning heads and burning crosses and blood pouring down walls.

  Mara’s almond eyes glance downward before she responds. “I’m a carrier spirit.”

  She speaks the words with such shame, as if she’s admitting to stealing shoes from an orphan. I have a sudden urge to reach out and touch her and before I can stop myself I’m crawling toward the foot of the bed. I stand on my knees and I’m almost a full head taller than she is. She’s tiny yet her presence fills the whole room.

  “Are you…? Have you been… inside of me?” I ask and she gives a slight nod as she looks me in the eye. “Why?”

  There it is again: the shame. It’s just a flash across her round features, but I can feel it in my bones.

  “I’ve been watching you,” she begins. “I’ve been looking for a carrier. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve done for three hundred years since I lost… since I lost my body.”

  “Lost your body?” I mutter as if repeating her words will somehow force them to make sense. “How long have you been watching me?”

  “Two months.”

  “Two months!” I cry, then I clap my hand over my mouth and listen carefully for any sound of my mom stirring. “Have you been inside me all this time?”

  Mara shakes her head emphatically. “No. I didn’t enter your body until you gave your presentation the other day.”

  “The presentation?”

  “When you fell down in class.”

  I think back to the moment I tripped and Jared Wilkins joked about breaking my colon. And the next morning… the dream about the clever comeback. Then Jesse Nova passed me his phone number. It wasn’t a dream. Mara saved me from total humiliation.

  The dog park.

  “That was you at the dog park? You got me the date with Conor?” I whisper, and I feel the half-digested remnants of my mom’s lasagna swirling inside my belly.

  Mara must see my discomfort. “I just wanted to help you,” she attempts to reassure me. “You’re so alone… like me.”

  Great. I’m so pathetic I now have spirits trying to fix me up on dates.

  “I’m not alone,” I reply, but I stop myself from saying the words I have Frankie.

  “I don’t mean it as an insult. Your heart is broken. My heart was also broken.”

  “Is that why you’re alone?” I ask, attempting to divert the conversation away from how pitiful I am.

  Mara stretches her full lips into a tight smile. “I’m a carrier spirit. No one can see me,” she says. “Except those I allow to see me.”

  I sink down onto the mattress and dangle my legs over the foot of the bed, biting the corner of my lip as I try to process this. I’ve never believed in ghosts or angels or spirits. If there’s not a scientific explanation for it, then it’s
just someone’s way of trying to make money. But this…. Carrier spirits? There has to be some kind of logical explanation; something that doesn’t involve me being put into an insane asylum.

  Why am I even talking to this… spirit? Why am I indulging this fantasy? It can’t be real. But if Mara’s not real, then what happened when I blacked out in class and what happened at the dog park with Conor? Those things really happened. I can’t deny that.

  I close my eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath. Just for tonight, I will indulge this illusion because I need answers. Tomorrow, I’ll ask my mom to call a therapist.

  “So… how did you become a carrier spirit?” I ask, unsure if I’m overstepping my boundaries with this question. Then again, Mara did sort of overstep her boundaries when she possessed my body without my permission.

  “Carrier spirits are born from the most tragic circumstances,” she replies, and her dark eyes never blink as she continues. “The first time I became a carrier spirit, I watched the man I was betrothed to murder the man I loved. My spirit was ripped from my body and I leaped off a cliff before my spirit could rejoin my body.”

  “The first time you became a carrier spirit?”

  “I roamed the Earth for fifty years as a carrier spirit, learning the rules, until I earned my body back and my spirit was inserted into the body of a newborn baby,” she says with a smile. “I was Lily for eighteen years…. I was going to die as Lily, until he broke everything…. He broke my heart and I took their lives.”

  A chill passes through me and I lower my gaze. “You killed someone?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” she says abruptly. “I was angry and I didn’t know how to control my power then. It was too new. That was three hundred years ago.”

  I feel as if someone has poured icy water down my neck. I rub my arms as goose bumps sprout over my skin. In the last few minutes, I’ve been plunged into the world of a spirit who admits to committing suicide, murder, stalking, magic powers, and matchmaking.