Dust to Dust (5 page)

My fingers fly across the keys as I try to find out who he was, and why I feel like I know him so intimately, so completely.

He died ten years ago. He doesn't have an online profile the way everyone today does, but I click on links that appear lower and lower on the search page, and I piece together that he was a decent cornerback, but not the full-scholarship kind; he was a Boy Scout for about two years; and he once had a photo in a local art show. I click on another link and see a picture of a black Lab, tongue lolling and eyes full of mischief. I smile, and a memory washes over me.

Thatcher is telling me that he once had a dog named Griz. The dog in the photo. We were walking through White Point Gardens; we shared moments as if we were alive. But he was dead. And I was . . . well, I'm not sure what I was.

I stare at the picture of Griz, imagining Thatcher on the other side of the camera. Photography feels right for him. He was always watching me as if through a lens, removed in one sense but also more intense and up-close than the way normal people look at you. Like he saw the details. My details.

I swallow, and I remember something else about the Prism—I couldn't feel any physical parts of myself. No sunshine on my face, no ground under my feet, no breath in my lungs. But though those things were missing, there was also a deeper aspect to the Prism—the kinetic connection of Thatcher's being with mine. The way I felt when he was near.

When I let myself click on a link about the accident, the night he died, two other names appear. And though they're not really in bold, they leap out from my screen.

A small ache begins at the base of my skull as the names connect with the voices I heard in my dream the other night—and the tight pressure I felt around my neck before I woke up. The more I let their names float in my mind, the colder I feel, so I refocus on reading the news articles attached to the link.

TRAGIC ACCIDENT CLAIMS THREE YOUNG CHARLESTONIANS

DEADLY TEEN BOATING INCIDENT INVOLVED ALCOHOL

HOMECOMING NIGHTMARE
:
TRIO DROWNS IN UPPER WANDO

The three of them all died together after a homecoming dance,
drowning when their rowboat tipped over in the upper Wando River. How terrifying that must have been. Another girl who was with them, Hayley Krzysiek, survived. Thatcher told me this story, as we got closer. I remember listening patiently, quietly, as he struggled to tell me everything that happened.

I check out another article and it mentions that there's a memorial bench in the downtown cemetery where Thatcher is buried that honors the three of them. I email the location to myself before I move on with my research.

Now I look up each of their names, one at a time. The calm stillness of the night feels almost reverent as I click the keyboard.

Reena Bell, a star cheerleader for West Ashley, beloved daughter of Lydia Bell and Sergeant Harris Bell; older sister to Trenton Bell.

An army kid. I think I knew that.

Even in the black-and-white newspaper photo that's online, you can tell that Reena was beautiful—glossy raven-colored hair, smooth dark skin, doll-like brown eyes. Her smile almost pulses with joy. In the recesses of my mind, I think I can hear her laugh, and it's tinged with this sarcastic edge that seems both harmless and menacing all at the same time.

She said we were friends. But if that were true, why does my stomach churn when I look at that crack in my window?

When I turn to links about Leo Cutler, I find a ton of local news coverage about his football career. Apparently he was a defensive tackle for West Ashley, the kind of athlete who goes on to play in college. His photo, too, shows a buoyant, infectious grin, and his
eyes hint at mischief—the good kind. But there's something about the planes of his face, his deep-set eyes, and close-cropped white-blond hair that gives me the chills.

By the time I've learned that Reena was a member of the 4-H Club and Leo used to assistant-coach a peewee football team, my eyes are glossing over. It's close to two in the morning. I need to sleep. I click one last link on a search of Thatcher's name, and I find a small, personal page run on one of those easy-blog sites. It has a few photos from his memorial and it lists the program: a reading by an uncle, donations to United Way of South Carolina in lieu of flowers, and a link to “When You Say Nothing at All” by Alison Krauss, “a song for Thatcher.”

I make a mental note to look up this song, and then I let my head fall back onto the pillow, my eyes starting to close, weighed down with the heaviness of the brutal reality.

The more I learn about Thatcher, the more alive he seems.

When I wake up in the morning, I feel two things: energetic and annoyed. I realize that in order to do what I need to do today, I have to text Carson. I'm still mad about her giving my number to that reporter, but the anger will have to wait.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THATCHER LARSON, AGE EIGHTEEN, is buried in a small cemetery in northern Charleston.

This knowledge stirs within me as the breeze musses my hair. Carson's got the top down on her convertible VW Bug, and she's following my navigation instructions excitedly.

“Are we going to see Nick at his Habitat site?”

“No.”

“Too bad. You know how I love sweaty, shirtless boys.”

Carson's trying to make me smile, but I keep my mouth still, eyes on the road. She's undeterred by my silence. “Are we driving across town to check out the new J.Crew? I hear it's
huge.
”

“No.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slump. “Wait. Are we really going grocery shopping for my mom like you told your dad?”

“Stop guessing. Please.”

At a red light, I feel my best friend turn to look at me. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“You
are
,” she says, surprised. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” I say, almost wishing I'd called for a taxi this morning. I couldn't very well ask my father to take me to a cemetery without an explanation, but I need some time to absorb what I've learned in the past twelve hours.

“Seriously, Callie, you're mad,” she says, turning back to the road as the light turns green. “I can tell, and I don't know what I did but I wish you'd just say it.”

“Remember when we were little and we used to play the trust game?” I ask her.

It was this thing we did where one of us would blindfold the other and then lead her to a secret location, usually under a tree in Carson's backyard or by the riverbank in mine. Then the blindfolded person had to touch, taste, and smell something and try to guess what it was. Often it was a cattail or a magnolia—harmless. But it's surprisingly hard to guess what something is when sight is taken out of the equation. And we had to trust that we wouldn't lead each other somewhere dangerous, or make each other taste something really gross.

“Of course,” says Carson.

“Well, this is like that,” I tell her. “No questions, Cars, please. Just give me a ride, okay?”

She nods, always up for anything she can think of as a game.

I sit back, relieved, as I direct her to turn in to the cemetery gates.

Carson raises her eyebrows, but doesn't say a word. The trust game is in effect.

The website for the cemetery actually had a feature called “find a grave,” which is creepy but helpful, so I have instructions on how to walk directly to Thatcher's spot. The memorial bench is supposed to be near it, too. I guess it was his family who sponsored it.

Carson follows behind me, uncharacteristically silent. Partly because of the game and partly because of our hallowed location, I'm guessing.

We take a left turn past military headstones dotted with small American flags and I notice a sad stone lamb marker overgrown with moss. We climb up a steep hill in the early morning sunlight, and my walking slows—and not just because of the incline. Carson slows, too, looking at me questioningly, but I turn away from her and keep walking. My legs are holding up; the pain I've been fearing since I've stopped the pills hasn't come. Still, my pace begins to slow, because I'm wondering: What do I hope to see?

As we trudge up to the blinking blue dot on my phone, my rational self is thinking,
He's in a grave. That's where I'll find him.
But now that I'm about to face the place where his physical body rests, my heart begins to ache. Thatcher's body is here, but I know that his soul isn't.

Where is he? He was in my bathroom yesterday afternoon. That I know. Is he here now? I try to sense him but I don't feel his presence. Can I trust my own instincts?

As slowly as we're walking, we do eventually reach the top of the hill, where Thatcher's grave should be. There are a dozen stones, all lined up in a row like straight-backed soldiers. I take a deep breath and begin to finger the amber heart around my neck, working it up and down its chain.

Carson coughs from behind me, and I jump—I'd almost forgotten she was here.

“Can you wait?” I ask her, and she nods and stops walking as I move up one more row.

When I position myself to read the names, it's the first one I see, almost as if my eyes were drawn to it by magnetic force.

Thatcher Larson.

My body stills, my face frozen as my eyes scan the words.

Beloved son and brother.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I let go of the pendant, reaching out my hand to trace the engraved lettering. As I press my fingers into the indentations, sliding over each letter one by one, I feel my lip quivering. I know he's dead, but seeing his name spelled out here in gray stone still seems so shocking to me. Not too long ago, I kissed Thatcher, and I don't think I've ever felt that alive in my life.

I remember a field trip to a Civil War cemetery back in second grade. We made art projects from the graves by placing thin paper on the tombstones and rubbing a piece of black chalk over it so that the words showed up on the paper. But those were people from the past . . . not people I know. Knew.
Know
.

I drop my head to the ground as a tear slips down my cheek.
Thatcher's body, or at least what remains of it, is six feet underneath me now. Has been for more than ten years . . . since the night he died.

I look back at the grave.

I won't let you go.
I say it aloud then, in a quiet whisper, though I can't feel his presence right now. Still, maybe he can hear it: “Thatcher, I'm not letting you leave me.”

Instead of turning my face down to the ground, I lie on my back, over the grass that covers his coffin, and look up into the sky. What if I had really let go of this world? I'd be with him now, with Thatcher in the Prism. My heart pricks at the thought of it—at the horrifying wish I almost have. A wish to have died.

The relentless South Carolina sun is strong even this early in the morning, and it beats down on me. I feel a trickle of sweat make its way from my forehead to the crook of my neck. But I don't close my eyes. I look right into the bright blue.

Carson's shadow breaks my trance.

I sit up, feeling nervous, not ready to explain myself or what's happening, not sure what to say.

She reaches her hand out to help me up, and I take it. She doesn't ask any questions, just glances at the grave and then moves to sit down on a bench under a tree nearby. She pats the space next to her.

We're quiet for a few minutes, but I can feel my best friend getting restless.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “Okay, so I know we're playing the trust game, but does that mean I'm not allowed to talk?”

I feel my anger at her soften. “No, it's okay.”

“Phew, because that was hard.” She looks at me now, her eyes serious. “Does this cemetery have something to do with what you saw on the other side?”

I try to keep my face still, but I realize I can't hide much from Carson when she says, “Callie, I've believed in this stuff my whole life. I've read books about hauntings and theories about good ghosts and bad ghosts and Heaven and Hell. Not that I think you'd know anything about Hell—of course you'd have gotten more close to Heaven—and you probably didn't encounter any demons or deal with scary things like poltergeists or whatever but . . .”

She pauses and looks at me as my mouth drops open.

Poltergeists
. The word makes my heart jump in fear when she says it, opening my mind to a rush of memories I'm not ready for. Images of Reena and Leo . . . and them using me for some kind of sick, twisted game. I take a deep breath. I have to play this off—Carson is sharp and I don't want to give her any reason to keep pressing me when there's so much I have to piece together yet.

“I can't believe you're rambling like this,” I tell her.

“Callie, stop holding out on me! You must have seen something, you must remember what you saw while you were in the coma. What was it like? Please tell me.”

“Why? So you can give a quote to Pete Green from the
Post and Courier
?”

Carson's face looks like I've slapped her, and instantly I regret my harsh tone. But I'm not letting her off the hook.

“You gave him my number.” It's a fact. An accusation.

“I did,” she admits. “But only because he's a friend of my mom's from high school so I know he's a decent person—he could tell your story, Callie; he'd be fair to you.”

“There
is
no story,” I say.

“Oh yeah? Well then why are we here, at the grave of someone who died ten years ago, with you acting more emotional than I've seen since . . . well, ever!”