Authors: Walker,Melissa
Dust to Dust
UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Advance Reader's e-proof
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UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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For Barbara Walker, my favorite niece
UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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MY FATHER SAYS THAT people in comas experience all kinds of visionsâneurons fire, new pathways open in the brain. I don't know the science behind all that, but I've been concentrating very hard on staying in the present, and only seeing the things that are right before my eyes. Now that I'm finally at home, that's getting easier.
The wooden swing on our wraparound porch goes back and forth, back and forth without a creak. To the left, I see our manicured front lawn, all flush with emerald-green grass and violet larkspurs, and to the right there's the bend in the Ashley River that has always been my backyard. My father installed this swing with his perfectionist's touch, and I know he did it just for me. I can picture him out here toiling with hammer and nails in the hot July sun. He kept his mind on solid wood and hard work instead of me,
his only daughter, lying comatose in the hospital.
As my toe touches the ground to keep the swing moving, I wince at the sight of the long, jagged scar on my leg. My meds are wearing off and I'm starting to feel that familiar tingle that signals the edge of pain throughout my body. I take a white pill from the pocket of my shorts and place it under my tongue before swallowing it with a sip of lemonade.
I've been home from the county hospital for two weeks, and I've spent most of that time in this porch swing, surrounded by yellow-and-white-striped pillows. There's something about this swing, its motion, that's familiar. Like I'm being held and rocked by something. Or someone.
I remember his soft blond hair, the way it curled around his ears. I remember the blue of his eyes, the tiny scar on his chin. I remember the way his gaze never wandered from mine, the slightly crooked smile.
Shaking my head, I clear the “memories” that I've created in some deep, coma-induced fiction-loving part of my brain.
I look down at the white-painted planks of my porch. What I should focus on is all the living I have to do, the little things that make life worth missing. Like the gentle relief of the wind that touches my skin as the ceiling fan turns the hot Charleston air, the sound of sprinklers in our yard as Dad tries to keep the grass from browning in this sweltering heat, the slow rumble of Mrs. Nute's car as she drives by and gives me a wave and a thumbs-up.
I smile and wave back, my arm completely healed from its break.
Everyone's giving me a thumbs-up these days. Callie McPhee, the girl who came back from the dead.
Except I wasn't dead.
When I crashed my shiny new BMW into a truck on Route 52 in June, I almost lost my life. What I understand is that I was in a coma, alive but unresponsive for weeks. That gave my body time to heal.
I get what happened to my body. It's what happened in my head that I can't understand.
I think my synapses worked overtime, because I remember so many things: the sound of his voice, like velvet; the shadow of stubble around his chin; the way one blond lock of hair fell onto his forehead when he leaned close to me. And his name:
Thatcher
.
He was my ally. He protected me, kept me from something dark and sinister that I can't quite place. The world I was in, the Prism, wasn't all light and happinessâit wasn't Heavenâbut the moments with Thatcher . . . they were. I have the urge to call for him, to lean my face into the sun and search for him in the invisible heat of summer.
I turn my head toward the river and watch its placid surface shimmer in the sunlight. I took the pill but I still feel some phantom sensations inside my body, echoes of the brokenness, I guess. I wonder if I'll ever feel whole again.
A Carolina wren lands on the porch railing in front of me and looks into my face, cocking its head. For a moment it seems like its eyes, deep and blue and familiar, are trying to tell me something, like they know me.
“Thatcher?” I whisper.
The bird flies away quickly, up into a tree and out of view.
I lean back against the back of the swing and laugh out loud.
What am I doing?
Talking to a bird? Imagining that it's this ghost boy who doesn't even exist?
“Callie? Can I bring you a blanket?”
My father's voice booms from the front door, which he's opened up a crack.
“Daddy, it's like one hundred degrees,” I say. “Do you think I'm one of those crazy old ladies who needs a blanket no matter what?”
He smiles. “I just thought that with the fan onâ”
“With the fan on it's
almost
bearable out here,” I tell him. Then I tap the swing. “Come sit.”
He does.
We're silent for a couple of minutes, and I can feel him tensing up. My retired-navy father, who never used to have time for anything impromptu, who lived his life with military precision and a schedule that was as airtight as a submarine, is having trouble sitting without looking at his watch.
“Pretty day,” I say, hoping to help him relax.
“Gorgeous. Makes you appreciate things.” He looks at me then, and I know what he means by “things.” Being alive, being together. He may not be able to express it quite yet, but I can tell that he's trying to do things differently now that his daughter has faced death.
He took the week off from his job at the Citadel. He teaches physical science during the year, and he usually goes into the office all summerâresearch and writing and all that professorial stuff.
Since I've been home from the hospital, though, he's been hovering, tending to my needs (both real and imagined, like the blanket).
“How're you feeling?” he asks.
“Good,” I say, patting my pocket. “Just took a pill.”
“Still having visions?”
My face goes red at the mortifying thought of my stoic father seeing me talk to a bird. When I was in the hospital and kind of out of it, I told him that I'd seen another world called the Prism. I wish I hadn't, but he doesn't seem to judge me for it. He, of all people, knows it was just the pain meds talking.
“Less and less,” I tell him. The truth is that when I take a pill, I feel more at ease, and not just physically. My mind relaxes, too. The Prism is a lovely name for a place that doesn't exist. And Thatcher? He's not real.
But the guy pulling into my driveway is.
“Hey, hey.” Nick gets out of his beat-up sedan and strides up to the porch with a bouquet of sunflowers under his arm. My dad stands up to shake his hand.
“Captain McPhee,” says Nick with a nod.
“Mr. Fisher.”
Relations between my father and my boyfriend used to be chilly, but since the accident there's been a slight thaw. Before, my dad wanted a lot of things for me: a perfect GPA, the right college, a proper career path. Of course, he still wants those things, but first and foremost, he wants me to be happy.
And when I can shake the visions from my head, I am.
I look into Nick's soulful brown eyes as he bends down to hand
over the flowers and give me a kiss on the cheek, and I can't help but feel like a lucky girl. The pill is workingâmy soreness is gone for the moment.
“Ahem.” Dad coughs into his fist.
Nick's face reddens and he looks at me, his eyes a little panicky. I realize he's wondering if my dad found out that he's been sneaking into my room at night through the upstairs window.
“Daddy, hush,” I say, swatting his arm playfully. “Don't embarrass Nick.”
I give Nick a smile to let him know that our secret is safe, and he visibly exhales. Dad stares at him for a moment. My father may be attempting to show a softer side to me since the accident, but he's still Captain McPhee with everyone else.
When I start to stand, both Dad and Nick put their hands out to help steady me, but I shoo them away.
“Y'all, I'm not an invalid,” I say, though I do need to hold on to the porch rail to get up. I've been doing physical therapy every day and I feel stronger and strongerâI can see muscle tone returning to my legs, and the therapist said it's good for me to walk around and stand on my own. What I really want is for everyone to back off and treat me normally.
“Nick, do you want a lemonade?” I ask, stepping slowly toward the front door.
“I'll get it,” he says, but I push my hand into the center of his chest in a
Stop
motion. As an added bonus, I get to touch his tight muscles.
“No,
I
will get it,” I tell him with a flirty grin. Then I turn my head. “Daddy?”
My father is looking at me like I'm a withered flower that's been crushed under a cow's foot. “Let me, honey,” he says.
“Good gracious, will everyone just relax?” I say, shaking the sunflowers at them for emphasis. “I am capable of pouring two glasses of lemonade.”
“Make that three, Callie!” says a bright voice from behind me. I turn to see Carson, my neighbor and best friend, making her way up the porch steps with a big picnic basket under her arm.
She raises her heart-shaped sunglasses onto her head and winks at me. I give her a grateful smileâCarson is the only one who treats me like I'm an able-bodied person these days. She grabs the sunflowers from me and says, “Hurry up now! The potato salad's getting warm.”
As I set up the tray with three glasses, ice, and a pitcher of lemonade, I feel extra glad that I haven't told Carson about my visions. Not because she'd think I was nuts, but because she'd want to hear every single detail. Carson's really into “the other side” and all of Charleston's ghost lore. She's been dying for me to remember things about when I was in the coma, but I've told her it's all a blank. I feel bad lying to my best friend, but I don't want to make the illusions I created in my head feel more real by discussing them with Carson. Only my dad knows, and he's already dismissed everything as coma-induced brain misfires. Just like I have. Mostly.
I carry out the tray and exit through the back door to meet
Carson at the wooden table by the water. Our housekeeper, Carla, comes three times a week, and she set up the patio umbrella this morning when I told her we were going to have a picnic tonight. It'll guard us from the evening sun, and I swear it's ten degrees cooler in the shade. Carson is setting up the deviled eggs, and she already has Nick's flowers in a mason jar she brought with her and filled with river water.
