Signs of You (16 page)

“So the whole sentence is
nos omnes sumus portae ad caelum,
” Noah says as he taps away again at his cell screen. As I wait, I feel like angry hummingbirds have swarmed my stomach. They f lutter madly, pecking at my insides.

“Does it mean anything?”

Noah looks at me. A breeze tickles my skin. “Yes.”

The cemetery, the pond—it all feels unsettled around me, like I'm a dogwood branch being lifted by the wind. I try to calm down and pay attention to the twitter of a few distant birds and to my own breath. In and out, in and out.

“What is it?” Kate says, kneeling beside me now.

“I think it means . . .” Noah stops. He looks away, and I can see his thoughts coming together like he's gluing down the last piece of some elaborate model rocket. He looks in my eyes, checking to see if I'm ready. I nod. “I think it means that there's only one way to heaven. And it's through
you
.”

“What?” I put the book down on the damp soil. Scoot back. “
Me
?
That makes no sense, I—”

“No,” Noah says gently. “The pronoun form that Saint Ignatius uses is
nos—
which means
we.
All of us. Everyone.
Portae ad caelum
: doorways to heaven. We're all doorways. To the other side. That's what the dead are trying to do. To cross
through us.
The living. That's why they mess with us and try to inf luence us. That's why it's so important to discern what they want. Because if they get us to do something we're meant to do, then . . .”

I can't hear him anymore because the swarm of hummingbirds has left my stomach. Now they're all around me, enveloping me, swooping around my head. And I feel like I'm trying to catch them all with my hands, but they're slipping through, their green feathers slick and shiny. “So in the store, I saw my mom's spirit inside
a living person because she was—” I stop.

I think I've caught a bird.

“Yeah,” Noah says slowly, f inishing my sentence for me because he knows I can't. “You saw your mom while she was trying to get to heaven.”

Chapter 17

Missing Out

I think back to the night my mom died. A spirit was inside me. It racked me with chills. It made a desperate attempt to communicate with me, to get me to stop my mom, to save her. And if I had, the spirit inside me would've crossed over. Through me. After we die, we don't get a second chance to right our wrongs, we get a second chance to right
living
people's wrongs, to inf luence the
living
and get them to do the next right thing. That's how the dead atone. That's how they move on. If only we'll listen.

And the evil ones? If they get us to do the wrong thing, if they toy with us and get us off track, maybe they cross over to—purgatory? Hell? Or do they just linger, tormenting the living for an eternity? I shake my head, trying to shed the thought. Maybe it's not so black and white. Maybe evil spirits have given up on getting people to do the right thing. Maybe that's it. Maybe it's too hard for some. The evil ones aren't really evil; they've just . . . quit.

I think about seeing Mom in the grocery store. Was she trying to get that living woman to buy a gift—bubble bath—for someone? To make amends? To reach out to someone she hadn't spoken to in years? To take better care of her child? Who knows?

Right then, I feel like I pluck another slippery hummingbird from the angry f lock. I don't know exactly what Mom was up to in the store, but I suddenly know something else.
She didn't cross over that day.
Whatever my mother was trying to get that woman to do; I don't think it worked. Because I interrupted her. She must have gone back to . . .

“But where
are
they?” I ask Noah. “When they try to cross over through living people and fail? While they're waiting to try again and inhabit another person? In their graves?”

“No,” Noah says. “I know that much. That's why the prof lives here. But I don't know how we f ind them.”

We walk back toward
the parking lot where Noah left his car. No one talks. Birds chirp and f lit around the gravestones; leaves shuff le in the soft breeze. We make our way over the hill, around the main chapel and head for Noah's Honda.

But that's when we see something . . . or someone. By the car, kind of lingering at the driver's side door. At f irst, I think someone is trying to break into it. But who does that? Who breaks into a car that's parked at a cemetery while its owner is likely out grieving at a gravesite? It's wrong on so many levels. But then I wonder if maybe it's a priest or something. Maybe a few of them patrol the cemetery, looking for people to comfort. Kate, Noah, and I immediately stop, but Jay takes a few steps farther.

“My god,” he whispers. We tiptoe up next to him.

“Is it a priest?” I ask, gripping Jay's arm.

“No,” he says. “It's my dad.”

And then Jay starts going toward him—fast. We follow. My throat catches when I see that he's right. There, leaning against the Honda, is Jay's alcoholic, famous professor father, holding a rosary in one hand and pouring some sort of oil on the roof rack with the other.

“Dad?” Jay asks. “Is that you?” But when he asks it, he sounds so angry. Angrier than I've ever heard him. The man turns and looks at him, at us. And it's not Jay's dad; it's the madman from the cemetery house with the bushy beard.

“I feel terrible,” the man says, moving around the car. “But maybe this will help. This is holy oil. A priest gave it to me once. Said it would help with . . . what I was seeing.”

“What are you talking about? Wait. Dad, I saw you. It's me—it's—”

The man stops with the oil. He's staring directly at Jay now. He approaches and I tense. His pale, bony knees protrude through the holes in his stained jeans. He looks into Jay's eyes. “Are you . . . ? My God. Howard's son? Howard Bell?”

Jay nods.

“You—you look just like him.” There's a sad twist of a smile under his beard. He glances at the rest of us. “And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ignored you all at the front door. I should have let you in. And explained. I just didn't want Noah digging it up. Or f iguring anything else out. I just . . . I don't want to know any more than I already do. But anyway, I'm sorry.”

And that's when I see it. A heartbeat after he says the words
I'm sorry
—I see a f lash, like a passing shadow, a shadow I recognize.

“I'd shake your hand but . . .” The man holds up the glass jar of oil and the rosary. “Hands are a little oily. I'm Peter Broomf ield. Worked with your dad.” His eyes grow rheumy, like he's suddenly drowning in a f lood of unwanted memories. He shakes his head softly and then goes back to work on the car, pouring the oil across the top and in a thin line down the back, over the trunk. Some oozes over Noah's NASA bumper stickers.

“He helped your dad f ind the cross,” Noah says.

Peter mumbles something with his back still to us, his voice trailing off as he keeps coating the car. I can barely hear what he's saying. It's something about the oil helping him sleep. How he can't imagine “seeing them” at our age, how it's hard enough at his.

“That should do it,” he says, surveying the greasy sheen that now coats Noah's Honda. He glances back toward his house.

“Wait,” Jay says. “Don't go—”

“Like I said before,” he interrupts. The oil starts dripping down Noah's windshield. “Sorry I was so rude.” His gravelly voice sounds as if it might break. He looks at Jay again. “Really sorry . . .”

And with that, a glimpse of Jay's father f lashes bright within Peter. As always, I am petrif ied by the sight of it; I can't imagine ever getting used to it. Peter Broomfield is living proof of that. But I know we all see it now. Maybe even Noah, too, if he tried on the necklace . . .

“Stop talking about this,” Jay says, almost frantic. “I don't care about that. What I care about is how I found you in a puddle of blood. When I was
ten,
Dad. Ten. Why'd you have to drink like that?
Why?
”

For a moment, it's just Jay and his dad, standing side-by-side. His dad is so clear, so present, I almost forget what I'm seeing. I tell myself it's his spirit.
Just his spirit
. Then I see only Peter again.

And it hits me. Peter isn't talking about being rude. He's not talking about ignoring us at the door earlier or throwing Noah out of his house.

Peter extends his hand, waiting for a handshake. “I'm sorry,” he says again, this time with more determination.

I know what this is. Jay's dad is trying to cross
.
He's inside Peter, trying to get him to do the right thing, to apologize for losing his temper, for throwing Noah out, for not answering the door, for not helping us. To ask forgiveness. And at the same time, Jay's dad is using Peter to apologize to his son. Jay's father is asking for forgiveness, too, and for so much more.

He waits for a response. Jay stares back, and I see a f lash of someone in Jay's place, a glimpse of someone I don't recognize.

“Jay,” I say. “A spirit is with you. Listen—”

“Never,” Jay snaps, cutting me off. “I'll never forgive what you did.” His voice is icy and f lat. His dad's head falls, and then he's gone. Peter is all that's left. His eyes are mistier than before, as if he's about to cry. He turns and walks away toward his little cemetery house, rounding the main building. Jay stares after him, as if he looks hard enough he'll see his father walking back this way.

Kate is the f irst
one brave enough to speak. I can tell she doesn't have a clue what to say. So she speaks in questions. “I think there's paper towels in Noah's trunk? I'll start wiping off the oil that got on the windshield? Think I'll be cursed if I throw holy-oil-covered paper towels in a trash can?”

None of us answer her and she heads for the car. I don't like what I see in Jay's eyes, or rather what I
don't
see. It's like he's a bird that's f lown away and all I'm looking at is the empty nest left behind.

“Jay?” I ask, slowly approaching. “You all right?”

He doesn't respond.

“We'll get you home, okay?” Noah tries next. “Let's get in the car. Let's just go. Get some food. Clear our—”

“Dad was with him,” Jay says. His forehead is tightly creased. He's talking something through, not to us, but to himself. “It's like I forgot. I forgot how all this works. I thought I was just talking to my dad, you know? Just for a second, I thought he was . . .”

The words hurt. Physically. They're sharp, like a thousand bee stings to the heart. I wince because I know exactly how Jay feels. When I saw my mom in the grocery store, I was given a gift: I got to believe, just for a second, that she was
here.
That she was
alive.
That all of it—the car wreck, the funeral, the days spent wishing for just one more chance—was an extended bad dream. To think that someone is alive again for even a moment . . . it's amazing, it's all you've wanted. The problem is, once it's over, the pain is just as strong as that joy. Maybe even stronger. It teaches you the true meaning of the saying, “Hurts like hell.”

“Peter Broomf ield,” Noah says softly. “I saw his name mentioned in all your dad's articles. So I contacted him. Way back. I asked him for help f iguring this out. Even though they found the cross and the book, they could never f igure out that last part. What we did. And he said he didn't want to know. That what he already knows has ruined him enough.”

Jay doesn't say anything.

“He's been seeing spirits,” Noah continues. “For years. The whole team wore the necklace when they found it. He said it drove most people crazy. Two killed themselves over it. And it's why he lives alone and in a cemetery. Because the spirits aren't with the dead; they're out with the living. He gets the most peace here. He told me everything the team knew. But they didn't f igure out what we did. They tried. They stuffed the manuscript back in the cave, hoping it would stop what they were seeing. They didn't even report f inding it.”

Jay doesn't look at Noah. I'm not sure he's heard a word he's said. “But how did my dad know to be here . . . just now?” he whispers.

Noah takes a few steps closer to Jay. “Ignatius says spirits are drawn to your deepest desires. Your dad must have seen his chance. Peter feels terrible and so did your dad, Jay.”

“Your dad saw his chance,” I add. “To apologize to
you
.”

Jay shakes his head. “This can't be right. Can't be. Does this mean my dad was right about everything? He was a drunk. And . . . I mean, are the
Catholics
right about everything? I mean if they know how people cross and all . . .”

“No,” Noah says f irmly. “That's the one thing I learned from Peter. He told me that there are signs of this hidden everywhere, in every tradition, all over. He said there are quotes from the Buddha about discerning evil spirits. And there's a line in the
Bhagavad Gita
about spirits and knowing what to do and what not to do. It's not a Christian thing; it's a
human
thing. Ignatius was a
mystic
. And that's what mystics are always on about. It's big picture, universal shit.”

Jay's face darkens. “Yeah, well, it doesn't really matter how true it is. My dad's a coward,” he says, kicking some of the gravel. “Couldn't make anything right in life. Had to wait til death.” He steps toward Noah's Honda and climbs in the backseat and slams the door—hard.

“This is not good,” Noah says.

“Yeah,” Kate says, chewing her nails. “I've got nothing but wads of holy-oily paper towels. How do we make this better? The only tool I have is gum. All these crises have been draining my supply. I'm down to two f lavors.”

“Let's just go,” I say to Noah. “Just . . . keep talking to him. Okay? We only have about a thirty-minute car ride home. Kate and I will follow in the Camaro.”

“Wait,” Noah says. “You'll follow in the
what
?”

I scrunch my face in my best non-verbal
I'm sorry
and point down the hill. The Camaro sits under the tree where I left it, perched on the side of the road near a group of gravestones like evidence of a joyride gone very, very wrong.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “We had to follow you. And the Wagon would've given us away.”

“If my best friend weren't freaking out right now, I might stop to f lip out about this. But, you had your reasons. Besides . . .” Noah points at Jay in the Honda; Jay has his head in his hands in the back seat. “We need to go. Just please, with every f iber of my being, I beg of you: do not wreck my dad's car
.
”

I f ire up the
Camaro and wait for Noah to drive past us. Then I make a U-turn in the narrow cemetery road and follow him. Kate doesn't reach for the radio; we just watch the road in the silence. We drive and drive. Part of me wishes we could just drive forever.

But just before we reach I-77, Noah pulls over. We follow and pull up behind him. Jay jumps out and jogs back to the Camaro. I roll down the window, and he leans in close, puts his hands on my door. I swallow. I can see the whites of his eyes around his pupils. He looks disturbed. Mad, like Peter Broomf ield at the cemetery. Like he was lost, and now that he's found, he's crazed.

“You saw a spirit inside me too, didn't you? Back there?” He's talking way too fast, but I nod. “That's what I thought. Because I got chills. And this sinking feeling. And I knew what I was supposed to do.” He pushes away from the car, kicks at the dirt on the side of the road. I get out and reach for him but hesitate at the last second.

“I was supposed to say something like
it's okay, Pops. I forgive you. Blah-blah-blah.
Like the end of a Pixar movie. But I couldn't, Riley. I just couldn't. Okay?” He says it like he's mad . . . like he's mad at
me
.