Indelible

  “I saw an unusual ghost yesterday,” I began without prelude. The atmosphere in the room suddenly turned. Elation came from one half and alarm radiated from the other. Brent and I were caught in the middle. He shifted forward in his seat, his eyes watching the reactions around him.

  “You saw another ghost?” Mom asked, her spoon pausing in the pan of rice she was frying. “Please tell me it wasn’t at school.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Thank goodness.” Mom sighed. “I don’t think I could handle knowing you were in danger again. Wait. Please tell me it wasn’t an angry, murdered spirit.”

  I squirmed uneasily as I intently studied the countertop.

  Mom’s face paled, her wooden spoon raised to her chest. “Is it an angry, murdered spirit?”

  I quickly added, “I don’t know for sure that she was murdered.”

  “Oh, Yara!”

  I ignored her and continued on. “She fell down a flight of stairs. But, rumor has it she was pushed. That’s where I saw her, by the stairs at the alumni house. She’s been guarding something for almost hundred years and had it hidden in a safe place. I found it.”

  “What was it?” Mom raised her hand to her mouth and leaned forward like she was watching an exciting scene in a movie. I shared an amused look with Brent—who was still watching us carefully— and found Vovó at the edge of her chair watching me too.

  “I don’t know.” They both frowned like I had paused the movie in the middle of the most exciting scene. “By the time I got to the compartment again it had disappeared.”

  “Got to the compartment again?” Vovó asked, picking up on the key word.

  “Yeah. When I first found it, I was preoccupied.” I paused for a moment. “I knew that you would want me to help her, so I went back to the compartment and looked.”

  Vovó smiled. “And?”

  “And that’s when I saw that whatever had been there the first time had disappeared. After that, I was too busy getting my butt kicked by the ghost to help her,” I said.

  “What?” Mom asked.

  I cleared my throat, talking more to Vovó than mom now. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ll be going back there.”

  Vovó frowned. I had known it was coming but I still didn’t like to see it. “Yara, this is part of your gift. You can’t turn away when they need you.”

  Mom resumed her stirring of the rice with renewed enthusiasm muttering something under her breath. I thought back to all of the ghosts I had ignored in the airport and decided I was better off never mentioning them. My vovó would probably make me go back and clear out the entire airport.

  Mom pressed her lips together in a firm line. “Ilma, speaking to ghosts and helping them is not the same thing as putting herself in a situation where her life is in danger.”

  “Her life wasn’t in danger,” Vovó countered. “The Silva women have never let a ghost down before, and they will not do so now. It sounds as though this ghost has been guarding her secret for decades. I’m sure she’s tired and could use some rest. It’s Yara’s job to help her.”

  Yep. Definitely not telling her about the ghosts in the airport. Then again, she had probably seen them for herself. Perhaps she had already cleaned them out. The thought eased a bit of my Waker-guilt.

  “The ghost didn’t seem to want my help. Not at all.”

  Vovó got the plates down from the cabinet and began setting the table. “Some ghosts have forgotten the value of peace. Her anger will fade once you’ve helped her.”

  I cleared my throat nervously. We had come to the part I really needed advice about. “I don’t know about that. When I say she was angry, I mean really angry.” I looked over at Brent who nodded his encouragement. “In fact, she left me with this.”

  I pulled up my bracelets that been covering my bruise and held it out. Vovó leaned in to look closer, then muttered something in Portuguese under her breath. She put on her reading glasses and examined the bruises again.

  “A ghost did this? É mesmo?” She picked up my hand and held it closer for examination. A tingling sensation shot through my hand and wrist, the same kind that happened whenever my foot fell asleep. I flexed and unflexed my fingers, trying to get the circulation working better.

  “Yes. Really. A ghost did this,” I confirmed dully. “It freaked me out. Ghosts aren’t supposed to be able to touch us.”

  Vovó’s usual calm expression appeared troubled, the wrinkles on her face deeper. She didn’t look up, but kept staring at the handprint burned into my arm. Her fingers felt warm over the iciness of the wound. “Were you wearing your necklace?”

  “Of course. I learned a few things last year.”

  Vovó’s eyebrows rose a bit and she pushed her spectacles further up her nose.

  “I—” Brent started.

  “You need to stay away from that ghost,” mom interrupted. She stood next to the stove, frozen like a statue, her eyes glued to my wrist.

  “Staying away won’t help. There will be ghosts her whole life. This is Yara’s calling.” Vovó let go of my arm and continued setting the table. “She needs to find a way to help this ghost, if it’s not beyond help.”

  Mom glared at her. “Are you forgetting that she died last year because of a ghost?”

  “No!” My grandma slammed down the blue dinner plate in front of Brent. “I remember. If I had been more diligent in training her that might never have happened. I don’t want history to repeat. I’m not sure, but I think her death is the reason the ghost was able to do this to her.” She gestured toward my bruise.

  “What?” I glanced at my wrist with renewed interest.

  “You returned from death, and I’m afraid it’s left its mark upon you. You’re closer to the spirit world than most Wakers, even me. You will be the strongest of us. Who knows what else you can do now. It is an honor to have such a powerful granddaughter. ” Her eyes didn’t look proud though, they looked concerned and a tiny bit guilty. “I guessed last year might change things for you, but I had no idea it would put you in danger.”

  I sounded liked some sort of genetic mutant. “Are you saying that the reason the ghost was able to touch me is because I died last year?”

  The spoon fell from my mom’s hands and clattered to the ground, spreading rice all over the floor. Brent leaned down, picked up the spoon, and placed it back in mom’s still trembling hand. “That settles it. You stay away from them, Yara,” she said, shooting my vovó a severe look that would’ve caused a lesser woman to quail. “I don’t want you dying again.”

  “She won’t be dying again. This year is different. This year she has me.” Vovó looked at me over the edge of her glasses. “I will do some research and see if I can learn more about other Wakers who have returned. I’ve heard legends, but nothing concrete. We’ll find some way to keep the ghost from touching you again. But still wear your necklace or she could jerk you out of your body and take it for herself.”

  “I thought only black licorice could force your spirit from the body.” Black licorice was dangerous to people who could project, or had the potential to. It had caused me nothing but problems last year. I hate that stuff!

  “Not for you,” Vovó said. “If she can touch your spirit, she might be able to pull it from your body, too.”

  I couldn’t speak. My tongue felt numb and heavy. Sophia could have stolen my body? My eyes searched for Brent and found him looking pale, no doubt remembering what it felt like to have his body stolen.

  Vovó’s features softened. “I know it’s scary and you are right to be cautious. This ghost sounds troubled. I will go with you to visit her and teach you how to control that type of spirit and keep you safe.” She patted me on the head. “Your safety is the most important thing to me.”

  “The first day of classes haven’t started yet and she’s already been injured by a ghost.” Mom put the lid on the pan with a loud clank before turning to my grandma.

  “I know but this is how the rest of her life is going to be.
She has to learn how to keep herself safe while I’m still around to help.”

  An old western standoff had nothing on the looks that my mom and grandma were exchanging. A tumbleweed could have rolled through the kitchen and neither would have noticed.

  “Hello, Queridinha,” my father said, strolling into the kitchen. “Is dinner almost ready?” He smiled and rubbed his hands together in enthusiastic anticipation.

  “Dad!” I ran into his open arms. His familiar scent of peppermint washed over me. He held me at arms length, studying me, and gave my nose a quick tweak.

  “You’re getting too thin.”

  “Dad, you just saw me yesterday.”

  “Did you bring that boy with you?” He snapped his head up, glancing around the kitchen, and finally picked up on the standoff between his wife and mother. “Uh-oh. What is it this time? Do I even want to know?”

  I shook my head. “Waker stuff. I’ll tell you later,” I whispered.

  With visible effort, he refrained from asking any more questions. He loved having another Waker in the family almost as much as Vovó, but he knew better than to ask anything that might put himself in the middle of the fight. He frowned as he noticed Brent. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your boyfriend?”

  Brent jumped to attention and stuck his hand out.

  I smiled. “Dad, this is Brent. Brent, my dad, Leonardo.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Brent said politely as he shook my dad’s hand.

  “So, Brent,” my dad said, his voice overly casual. “Do you like swords?” Brent blinked at the unexpected question but nodded. “Come on, let me show you my collection.”

  “No, Dad he doesn’t want to see it.” I spun toward Brent. “You don’t. Trust me.” I grabbed Brent’s arm and stopped him. “He doesn’t like swords, Dad.”

  Brent laughed nervously and patted my hand that rested on the crook of his elbow. “It’s fine, Yara. Of course I want to see his collection.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I mumbled as he followed my dad. I couldn’t help it; I went with them. Like a witness to a train wreck, I couldn’t make myself look away.

  My dad led Brent into his study like a lamb to the slaughter, where behind his locked glass display cabinets sat his collections of swords. He had everything from a Lord of the Rings replica, to a samurai-style Katana sword and even a plastic lightsaber my brother Kevin had given him as a joke one Christmas. Brent let out an appreciative whistle.

  “Impressive.”

  “Thank you. I’ve spent many years putting together this collection.”

  “I can tell.” Brent sounded genuinely impressed. He walked the length of the room, taking them all in.

  “So, which one is your favorite?” my dad asked. Brent leaned forward, squinting as he examined them closely.

  “That one,” Brent said pointing toward a silver sword with a ruby-eyed dragon hilt.

  “Ah, nice one. Beautiful,” Dad agreed. “It’s very sharp. It could slice through a man with only the slightest pressure.” He unlocked the cabinet, removed the sword, and pointed it at Brent, his demeanor now serious and intimidating. Brent swallowed and took a step backward.

  “And this sword, boy, is the one I’ll come after you with if you disrespect or hurt my little girl.”

  Brent let out a strangled laugh. “I would never do anything to harm Yara or to . . . disrespect her.”

  Dad waited for a moment before he dropped the sword and slapped Brent on the back like they were best friends. “I know. And as long as it stays that way, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “I tried to warn you,” I called from the doorway. Brent shot me a panicked look before being stuffed into a leather chair by my father, who wasn’t done toying with him yet.

  “Yara, why don’t you go see if you can put an end to the battle that’s going on in the kitchen?”

  Brent shook his head, clearly begging me not to leave him alone.

  “I’m not leaving you with Brent, Dad.”

  “You worry too much,” Dad said, coming around his desk to sit in his leather chair. “I’m just teasing.”

  Brent gave my dad a weak smile and tried to look like he was completely comfortable.

  “It isn’t funny, Dad. It never has been.”

  “It is from where I’m standing,” Dad said with a chuckle. “Oh, calm down, filha. At least I didn’t threaten him with castration like I did to all of Melanie’s boyfriends.”

  Brent let out a gagging sound and Dad chuckled wildly, slapping his hands together.

  Finally, he looked up at me and sighed, relenting. “Here, have a snack before dinner,” Dad said, holding out a bowl of peanuts towards Brent. “A little peace offering.”

  Brent took a few and studied the family picture sitting on my dad’s desk. It was the last one we had taken before Kevin died.

  He looked up at me and back to the picture. “You look so young here.”

  “I was.”

  “That’s your brother Kevin, right?” Brent took another handful of peanuts and sifted them into his mouth.

  “Right.”

  “I–” Brent coughed and thumped his chest lightly with his fist. “I–” He cut off again with another dry cough. “Water,” he managed.

  “I’ll get it,” Dad said. He patted me on the shoulder as he sauntered toward the kitchen.

  I rubbed Brent’s back and waited for my dad to return. “Are you okay?” I asked a red-faced Brent.

  He shook his head and tugged at the collar of his shirt, as his gasping cough continued. His deep breaths sounded like they were being sucked through a straw and his face seemed to swell. Brent’s strained breathing suddenly stopped. Desperate croaks for air escaped his swollen lips. His hands went around his throat before he doubled over, collapsing to floor on his knees.

  “Brent? Brent!” I screamed. I ran into the hallway. “Dad! Vovó! I need help!”

  Dad pushed past me, setting down the cup as he took in the scene. He reached down and lifted Brent to his feet. Wrapping his arms around Brent’s stomach, he tried performing the Heimlich, but Brent frantically waved him off. Apparently Brent wasn’t choking, but he was still having trouble breathing. Dad obeyed, but kept his arms around Brent, who sagged back against him.

  A gust of wind sent my hair in motion, swirling around my face. A small cyclone formed in the center of the room, the papers on the desk were swept into the air, and the glass of the display cases shivered. Brent’s distress brought on the storm. His elemental powers always increased during times of heightened emotions. Brent could barely gasp and I grabbed his hand. It was an eerie flashback to the first day I met him. That day, I could see the evil spirit choking him as it tried to possess him, but right now I had no idea what was wrong.

  I squeezed his fingers. “Brent, please hang in there.”

  His eyes stared into mine. My mom and grandma rushed in from the kitchen and Vovó instantly began checking him over.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. We were just sitting here talking and eating some peanuts—”

  “Peanuts? Is he allergic?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Mom grabbed the phone and called 911. She left the room, talking frantically to the person on the other end, and Vovó turned her trained eyes onto Brent.

  “Does he have an EpiPen?” dad asked as he lowered Brent carefully to the floor. The gusts of wind danced more fiercely around the room and the windows started to rattle. My parents knew of his powers and didn’t seem too surprised by the storm in their home.

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I didn’t know he had allergies.”

  Dad checked Brent’s pockets, but found nothing.

  “Calm him down,” Vovó instructed as a strand of her hair plastered itself across her face.

  I leaned down, murmuring loving words to Brent and the wind stopped. Relief blossomed inside of me but withered when my ears heard nothing. No storm, no gasps of air, no inst
ructions. Something was wrong. I glanced up—or rather, I tried to glance up, but I couldn’t move. I felt trapped, like my body had been encased in cement. Had some wire between my brain and my body short-circuited? Fear tingled in my fingers and toes, the sensation traveling up my limbs toward my heart, the feeling growing stronger, vibrating. My spirit was going to astral project without my permission. I couldn’t stop it, and my spirit burst free. I stood up, but my body still knelt beside Brent, holding him in my arms.

  “Yara?” Brent asked from across the room. I spun around, my heart almost stopping in terror.

  “NO!” My hand covered my mouth. “You can’t be dead!”

  He rushed forward, his hands on my shoulders to keep me from collapsing. “It’s okay. I’m projecting.”

  Relief crashed over me so hard, my knees felt like they’d turned to Jell-O. I wobbled on my feet, feeling light headed. I glanced around the room. Paper hung suspended in the air, my family stood like wax statues, concern etched in their faces. That’s why I hadn’t been able to move, my body had been frozen when Brent projected. But since I could project, unlike my family, I was aware of what was happening.

  “Brent, get back in your body! I know you’re scared and in pain but get back in there, now.”

  “I’m not sure I can. I didn’t mean to project, it just happened. What’s going on?”

  “You’re having an allergic reaction.”

  “I don’t have any allergies.” Brent’s forehead wrinkled. “I mean, my family has some, but I’ve never had a problem with it before.”

  “Can we talk about this later? The ambulance is on its way, but it’ll never get here as long as you’re projecting, creating a little time freezing bubble.”

  “I know. Just give me a minute.” He concentrated hard and then reconnected his spirit and body. I did the same and time snapped back to normal. Cold shivers racked my whole body—the price I paid every time my spirit left. I winced at the renewed sound of Brent’s futile gasps.