Apparition (16 page)

“Good morning, young lady,” she says, pulling off her gloves. “How was that party last night? I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Well, that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Means I wasn’t singing too loudly when I staggered up the stairs.” I’m hoping Joyce can take a joke this morning. “It was fine.”

She’s making a pot of coffee, spooning the coffee into the basket, and she does that thing where she darts her eyes at you over her glasses without moving her head.

“And how was your gentleman friend? Mr. Dyson? Did he behave himself?”

“Just about,” I say casually. She’ll prefer that to a simple yes, which she’s less likely to believe.

“Hmph,” she says, which roughly translates as “Men,” and not in a good way. “Well, I don’t mind you going out once in a while. In fact, I prefer it to you never going out at all. But he is a little … worldlier than you. That’s my read. There’s something a little too confident about him.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Maybe Joyce is right, but for some reason, even though he’s upset me, I have a desire to defend Kip to her. “He seems to know a lot about a lot of stuff. About the Bible and Greek mythology. Interesting stuff. He’s pretty smart, I think. His parents are big on education. His mother and stepdad are both professors.”

“Ah, Greek mythology. That’ll come in handy.”

Joyce is good at sarcasm. It’s irritating, really. I’m not bad myself but it must have skipped a generation, because I don’t remember my mother ever being sarcastic. I have a flashback of her in the backyard garden, pulling a few small weeds out from around her flowers, running her fingers through the soil. Her head is down and a sun hat covers her brown shoulder-length hair; she’s wearing her cotton gardening vest with the big pockets over a sweater and jeans. Her movements are careful and gentle. She slowly lifts her head, squinting in the sunlight, and smiles. “What a beautiful morning,” she says to me. “Let’s take the boys for a hike in Harrison Park after lunch.”

“Joyce,” I ask, out of nowhere, “how come the first time I told you I saw Mom in the garden, you seemed almost more upset than on the day she died?”

It’s been a couple of years since I mentioned ghosts to Joyce. I don’t know why this question slipped out today, but it’s always angered me. She reacted as if I were telling a horrible lie. Or saying something too frightening to hear.

She’s looking at the coffee dripping into the pot. Did she even hear me? Actually, I hope not. I don’t have the courage to repeat it. Forget it. I’ll finish my cereal and get out of here.

When she finally responds, it catches me by surprise.

“Any particular reason why you’re asking me this now?”

“Uh, no … I don’t know. Why?”

There’s another pause, then she says, “Because I’m not blind, Amelia. Don’t think I didn’t notice something was up the night Jack fell in the barn.”

Now I’m in trouble. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you were worried about Jack, yes, but there was something else too. I saw it in your eyes.”

She doesn’t mean to sound angry. I know that, but I have to keep reminding myself. That’s what Dr. Krantz said; it’s because she cares and she’s worried about me. She’s worried that if I think I’m seeing ghosts, it means I’m not well. That I’m suffering from a mental illness. Some people who are afraid for their kids have a way of sounding angry at them. She never meant to make me suffer on purpose. To practically ruin my life after Mom died.

“Amelia?”

“Yes?”

“Have you been seeing ghosts again?”

I think about Dr. Krantz, the months and months of visits to her office.

“No,” I say. “No, I’m not seeing ghosts. I … I admit I was feeling very spooked that night. But I’m over it. It was just that the shock of losing Matthew sort of unhinged me.” I can’t believe what a good liar I’ve become.

“Well, that’s a relief. You have to remember that you’re probably in a similar emotional state now to the one you were in when your mother died. You’ve suffered another very difficult loss. That’s what death is. It’s losing something. And loss is the biggest challenge we face in life. Nothing lasts forever, including people. That’s a fact.”

Well, she’s right about one thing: I hate the feeling of loss. Or is it the loss of feeling? I feel crushingly depressed listening to this, and I just want her to shut up. But I say nothing.

She walks over and puts a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“I’m okay,” I manage to say in a calm voice. “Don’t worry too much about me.”

I wash my dishes, then climb the stairs back to my bedroom with what feels like a great hole in my chest. I sit on the bed for a while, then change into some warmer clothes: a turtleneck, a pullover, a
thick pair of socks. Fifteen minutes later I’m bundled up and heading out the door.

“I’m going to take my bike for a ride,” I shout to Joyce as I head for the kitchen door.

“Can I come?” I hear Ethan yell after me.

“Maybe next time,” I say, slamming the door behind me. I head round the side of the house to the garage.

When I emerge, Joyce is walking in the opposite direction, heading back out to the paddock, a coffee mug in her gloved hands. She lifts one hand in a small wave. I swing a leg over my bike and settle onto the seat. This is the first time I’ve been on it since we moved. I didn’t ride it much in town either, these last few years. But on these long country roads, a bike makes a lot of sense. Of course, that climb up 12th Line won’t be a breeze. But I could use some exercise.

As it turns out, I have to struggle to get to the top of the hill. It’s windier than it looks. But I stay on the bike until I can see the Telfords’ farm in the distance. That’s when I stop, get off and walk, pushing the bike along beside me. I need time to prepare anyway. Not that I know
how
to prepare for this, but I feel I should try. What’s most important is that I keep my head. Don’t panic. And if in doubt, get the hell out. If there are ghosts in that barn, good or bad, something tells me they won’t come out after me, running down the road behind me.

The barn looks less frightening in the morning sun than it did last night, but I’ve learned from experience that that doesn’t mean it’s empty. There’s a big black bird, a crow, up on the roof, staring down at me. Otherwise, nothing. Just the wind through a line of trees along the fence that divides the property from the neighbour’s fields. The Telford house is unchanged. Curtains drawn and no sign of life. If there’s any action on this property, it’ll be in the barn.

The door is still open a foot or so. For a second the memory of last night comes flying back to me: Kip’s warm breath, his lips. I try to beat that feeling away. How can I be such a pushover? It’s Matthew I love. Kip’s just a pretty face—and a flirt who assumes that every girl he meets wants to kiss him. That’s been his experience, I guess. And obviously my feelings didn’t come into it.

I lean my bike against the barn wall just outside the door and take a deep breath. Okay, so much for preparing. I feel nothing but dread. Why am I putting myself through this again? To see Matthew.
Focus on Matthew
.

I take a few steps toward the opening, lean inside, look up and around. So far, so good. I creep inside.
Matthew, are you there?

Okay, the visibility isn’t bad today. There are still dark corners and shadows, but at least the middle area of the barn is bright. On the other hand, the wind outside is louder than I’ve noticed before, and there’s more creaking and howling high up in the rafters. I decide to walk around the inside walls, starting on the right side. For the first time, I’m trying to take in what I see, doing a kind of inventory.

There’s a raised platform running the length of the wall on my right, at eye level. It’s about ten feet deep, and underneath there are lots of rusted pieces of old farm equipment, still half painted in what used to be bright yellows and greens. I don’t know much about what they are, or what they used to be. There are some things with blades that look like they’d be dragged behind a tractor. Very sharp in their day. Maybe still sharp. And there are some old wooden crates filled with cloudy bottles and rusty cans. I’ve never noticed them before. I guess this was used as a storage space for supplies, farm chemicals maybe. A few rusted metal containers look like they might hold gasoline or some other fuel. There are some hand tools too. Mostly
they’re in pieces, with cracked or missing handles. I guess this is where the pitchfork came from.

I approach the far wall and see the tangled bundle of rope on the ground, coiled like a snake right where it was the last time I was here. That’s when I realize I feel something cold in the air.

“Matthew?” I listen. “Matthew?” I turn and there he is. Again there’s that sharp shock at the sight of him. He’s sitting back on the raised platform, leaning against the barn wall. His legs, slightly bent at the knees, are sprawled out in front of him on the layer of straw. His arms are loosely folded. He wasn’t there a minute ago, or was he?

“Matthew!”

I catch my breath, then walk back toward him, slowly. I’m afraid he may disappear if I’m not careful. I can see his eyes following me as I get closer. He looks perplexed.

“Matthew?” He doesn’t respond. Is there some trick to getting him to talk? And then he speaks.

“What was that about?”

“Uh, what was what about?”

“Last night.”

Oh-oh. “You … you mean me, last night, here?”

“Yes, you and him, here, last night. What was that about?”

It’s hard to read his tone. Not angry. Not curious, exactly. Searching?

“You know, I’m embarrassed to say it, but it wasn’t about very much. The truth is, the guy I was with, that’s Kip. He’s the son of the other guy I was with last time, the history writer.”

“Oh. And why did he kiss you?”

“To be honest, I don’t know.”

“Why did you hit him?”

“Because I … well, for a moment I thought he wasn’t himself. That he was … possessed. I panicked. I thought I needed to snap him out of it.”

“Possessed, eh?”

“Possession does happen, right? I mean, that’s what happened to you, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, I guess.” Now he smiles. “Something to think about.”

“I’ve always wondered whether I could have done anything to snap you out of it. Like a slap across the face or a bucket of cold water.”

“Ah.” He shrugs. “Possession. If I can figure out how it’s done, you’ll be the first to know.” He loses the smile. “Amelia, my mom and dad …” He stops there, like he doesn’t remember what he wanted to say.

“Your parents. I saw them at the … at your funeral.” I cringe saying that. I’m not sure how well he understands what’s happened. He doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “They’re pretty devastated. They love you very much.”

“Do they really think I killed myself?”

Maybe he does understand. “Well, I don’t know for sure what they think, but that was what the coroner’s report said. I think that’s what they were told. If it makes you feel any better, they’re convinced you’re in heaven.”

He looks around the barn. “I don’t think this is heaven or anything, but they don’t need to know that.”

“Got it,” I say. His family is so religious it seems unfair that he isn’t in heaven. “Matthew, does this change anything about … your beliefs? Your religious beliefs?”

He holds his hand out in front of his face, fingers open, studying the palm, then turns it over and looks at the back of it.

“You know how people say they know something like the back
of their hand? My dad used to say that. Well, I do know the back of my hand. That’s my hand, all right. But that’s about it right now. I don’t know much more than that.”

That doesn’t sound good, somehow. But I don’t want to dwell on it. Too complicated.

“And what do you remember? What do you remember about your life?”

“Everything.” And then he adds, “Kind of. I remember everything. I just don’t understand what it meant.”

“That sucks.”

“Like, I don’t understand how you meant so much to me and I didn’t do anything about it until it was too late.” He smiles, though his eyes look sad. “Now I can’t even touch you.”

That hits a nerve. I don’t think I ever appreciated how important it is to be able to touch a living person. Involuntarily I think back to the light touch of Kip’s mouth on my neck, then I smack the memory away. I hope Matthew can’t read my mind.

“Tell me you won’t leave me again. Okay?”

“Matthew, it’s not like I can just move into this barn.”

“But we belong together. That hasn’t changed. Please say you’ll stay with me?”

I blink back tears, swallow hard. I’m trying to think. “Can’t you leave this place? If you want to?”

He says he’s not sure. “It’s hard to describe. Have you ever had one of those dreams where you know you’re dreaming? Sometimes you can control the dream, but sometimes your dream controls you.” He looks up into the rafters, as if searching for the right words. “I just feel stuck. Like everything around me is a little unreal and I can’t do anything about it. If you stay here with me, everything will be okay.” His eyes are still up in the rafters, as if raised to heaven. “If I
really am a ghost, there must be a reason why you can see me and talk to me. It must be because we’re meant to be together.”

I shake my head. “Matthew—I’ve been seeing ghosts all my life. I was born this way. I don’t think you were born to be a ghost. I’m afraid that being a ghost means something’s wrong. Beyond being dead, I mean.” I feel like he’s not following me, and it’s making me anxious. He’s always been the smart one. Surely he doesn’t think I can spend the rest of my life hanging out in this old barn? “Things have changed for us, Matthew. I’m still alive and you’re … well, you’re just not.” It makes me feel wretched to say it, but I have to make him understand. “I know it’s not your fault—but if I spend too much time in this barn, believe me, my grandmother will have me carted off to a mental ward.”

“No. It’s his fault.”

He lowers his eyes to meet mine, then looks up again. I follow the direction of his gaze. High above me, directly over my head, are a pair of dangling shoes, men’s work shoes. Above them I see legs and then a body, hanging by the neck from a rope lashed to a beam. A dead face. Eyes shut, jaw hanging open. Stifling a scream, I back away, staggering toward the barn door. My eyes stay on the body. It’s a teenage boy in loose, old-fashioned farm clothes and suspenders.