Won't Let Go (6 page)

When everything is squared away, I brush down the wrinkles in my shirt and say, “I’m ready.”

The closet door slowly opens. Oakley steps through and into the small amount of light streaming from Betty Boop.

Awkwardly, I stare, breathing him in. “You changed your shirt,” I say, matter of factly. His new one is teal blue. Somehow it makes his eyes
pop
just that much more.

Oakley looks down, touching the hem with his fingers. “Yeah.” He nods.

 “How’d you do that? I mean, do you have a stash of clothes somewhere?”

He continues fidgeting with his shirt. I swear I see his fingers
touching
the delicate fabric as he pulls at the threads. He’s a ghost. Wouldn’t his fingers
pass
right through? “No stash. It’s—It’s something I can just...do.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Show me?”

There’s a small quirk of a smile, barely visible. “What’s your favorite color?”

Raising my finger to my chin, I think. He’s already wearing blue. That’d be my top choice. I’ve never been much of a girly-girl, covering myself from head to toe in pinks and purples, pastels or otherwise. But hey, why not have some fun. “Pink,” I say.

Oakley closes his eyes, hiding their beautiful blue. His features shift, a crease along his forehead becomes prominent, like he’s concentrating really hard. The color from his shirt drains like a tipped over glass emptying, until slowly, it’s righted. And the liquid—or in this case color—fills back up until his shirt, no longer blue, is pink. It’s so bright I want to shield my eyes or look away because it might burn my retinas.

A giggle escapes my lips. Quickly, I cover my mouth with my hand. “That is so cool. Do it again?” I ask.

“Okay, what do you want now?”

I don’t know why, but just in that moment I want to know what he’d look like totally dressed to the nines. I want a shirt, a tie, a jacket, Hell, maybe even a cummerbund but that’s not what I say. That’s taking it a little far. Instead I say, “Green.” That’s my second favorite color.

His eyes fall closed again. “Okay, here we go.” His lips tug at the corners into a hint of a grin.

This time, the transition is quicker. Within seconds the pink shirt fades to gray then is replaced with green. I swear if I were standing right next to him, my eyes level with the shirt, they’d be the same color, just like the blades of grass in the backyard.

“I like green on you. How’d you learn to do that?” I ask, curiosity running through my veins.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just learned it somehow. I close my eyes, think about what I want and it happens.” His voice is soft, even softer than this morning.

I want to keep playing, learn more about him—or what he knows about himself—but I remember I wanted him here for a reason.

That I had to tell him something.

I take a few steps towards my bed and as I get closer to it, and to Oakley, the temperature in the room drops a few degrees. He brings with him such cold air, it pricks my arms with goose-bumps, and I’m sure, if I were any closer to him, I’d be able to see my breath.

Once back at my bed and away from Oakley, the space warms up slightly, but that doesn’t stop me from crawling under the covers.

“Maybe I should go?” Oakley looks to the closet door, then finds my eyes.

“No, no, I’m just getting comfortable,” I say. I gather the covers around me, pulling them close and prop my head up with pillows. “Why don’t you sit down?”

He scans the room. His eyes fall on me and maybe the leftover space on the bed, then however, they notice the chair at my desk. His steps are quiet, a whisper of tip-taps. When he reaches the chair, he sits down, and the leather squishes and scrunches.
Weird
. Sometimes it’s as though he walks on air, making not a single peep. Other times, I forget he’s a ghost. His actions are so human-like, the tip-tap of his feet, the ability to open doors. And now how his body forms to the chair, it’s as though he’s really sitting in it.

I have to adjust my position to get a better view of him, and as I do, part of me wants to know where he was all day, wants to interrogate him. I wonder if he’s annoyed I’m the person forced to help him. If that’s
why
he’d been gone all day. Instead, I just come straight out with it, what I’d been waiting all day to tell him. “So I was thinking,” I pause.

Oakley instantly shifts forward. He rests his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Through the dim lighting of the room, he looks pretty eager to hear what I have to say, which makes me that much more nervous to say it.

My heart speeds up a beat or two. I clear my throat and start again, “I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, you know this house. That a part of you remembers it.” He nods, so I continue, “Either this is where you died, or, and I’m hoping this more than anything, you remember this house because it’s where you grew up.”

“Makes sense.”

Gah! I want to yell at him and his stupid monotone one-liners and head nods. I ignore his sign of blah-ness and say, “So tomorrow I am going to go to the library, maybe see if I can dig something up.”

He’s dead, this isn’t a huge town, I’m sure I can solve this case lickity split by looking through the obituaries. How many teenage kids could have possibly kicked the bucket in town? Then my mind wanders back to the stuffed cemetery we drove past to get here, how it seemed to bulge at the seams of the fenced perimeter. I shake it off. I still think I can have this case broken wide open in no time.

And dammit, he nods
again
. “Sounds good.”

I let out a humph, which is muffled by a yawn.

“You’re tired,” he says matter of factly, getting up from the chair. The small wheels on the bottom squeal as it rolls towards the desk. He’s already at the closet door before I realize he’s actually leaving. “From now on I’ll knock,” he says. And as if my expression—though I don’t think it does—shows him I don’t understand, his knuckles tap the door as his other hand pulls it open.

He doesn’t say good-bye and neither do I, but I watch him disappear through the door and it annoys me. He does it so human-ish. As if instead of vanishing on the other side he’s just leaving through the door, or window, like some normal guy would.

Once he’s gone, I slide down the pillows and curl up, wrapping my arms around the duvet, curious if Oakley’s head nods and one-liners are a sign of how he acted when he was alive. If he was as quiet and reserved as he seems now, or if death changed him—made him...a little
boring.
Either way, he still needs my help and I’m determined to give it.

I wake up from another unusually fitful night. When my eyes flutter open, bringing in the morning, my duvet is tangled between my legs. I’m wrapped up so tightly in the covers, I could be a mummy, or a burrito, as Mom used to say when she tucked me in super tight. Untangling myself from the confines of my duvet, I slide off the bed.

In the bathroom, I splash cool water on my face, waking myself up even further. Then taking my brush I work out the matt that has developed at the back of my head, another thing that tells me I tossed and turned a lot.
But why?
I can’t really pinpoint what I was thinking, what crept into my dreams, making me uncomfortable enough to try and strangle myself with a down filled duvet.

While working through the knots, I realize something. I stink. And not in a putrid, bag lady from the streets way, but in a worked out hard during gym class way. After stripping off my clothes, I turn on the taps of the porcelain tub. It’s old, or one of those new ones that’s meant to look old. You know, bringing out the old
charm.
The back is high. The tub itself is deep. And holding it up, off the ground, are four golden clawed feet. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it before. Then again, I suppose I’ve had other, more exciting things on my mind.

Oakley.

The water is hot, steaming up the bathroom. I tilt my head back and let the spray from the shower rain droplets all over my body. It’s nice. It’s quiet, and with each passing second I feel cleansed, both on the inside and outside. The water washes away everything, taking away my troubles, pooling them in the tub before they swirl down the drain. But like the swing did yesterday, it’s only temporary. Once I turn off the water, dry my skin and leave the bathroom, everything will come rushing back.

I think I’ll only truly be relaxed when Oakley’s mystery is solved.

After Oakley left last night, I thought about him, and not just about his personality. The fact that he's totally hot is hard to ignore. I don’t know much about ghosts, but I think if I—we—can figure out what happened to him, he’ll be free to move on. Maybe that’s why he’s still here. And as for me, I don’t think I can ever feel like this is my room or my own space until he’s gone. 

I toss on another pair of worn in, distressed jeans, cute socks with frogs on them and a faded Metallica concert T-shirt that I paid four-ninety-nine for at a thrift store in Hollywood.

With my Converses in hand, I head towards the door, but pause, looking back at the closet and the fact that Oakley never showed up this morning. There’s a small pang in my stomach I quickly push down. He’s a ghost. He comes and goes as he pleases, and it shouldn’t matter to me what he’s doing or where he’s doing it.

But it does.

I’m curious, and as sad as it is, I’ve realized, so far he’s the only person I’ve—and I say this loosely—befriended here.

“Where are you off to so early?” Mom eyes the sneakers dangling from my hand as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

She’s still wearing her fuzzy pink bathrobe and slippers. Her eyes are glossed and she’s not fully awake, but that’s what the cup of coffee cradled in her hands is for.

“I’m going to explore the town,” I say.

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Right now? It’s a little early isn’t it? Besides, I thought we could go pick out paint colors today.” Hope fills her tone, and it’s all over her face.

“I want to get the lay of the land. I mean I only have a few more days until school starts up.” It’s a lame excuse, I know.

She releases one hand from her coffee filled mug and gestures to the kitchen. “At least have some coffee first? Maybe some Apple O's?”

I relent and walk towards the kitchen, Mom close on my heels. If this will get her off my back, it’s the least I can do. A morning at the hardware store perusing paint chips is not my idea of fun, at all.

Mom grabs another mug from the cupboard next to the sink. It’s one of those photo mugs. You know, put your silly family picture on it and give it to someone as a gift. The idea always seemed tacky to me. However, one year for Father’s Day Mom dragged me to the mall, stuck me into one of those photo booths, and together we took some pretty funny pictures just so we could have mugs made for Dad. Of course, he loved them. Forever I am imprinted on a mug with Mom giving me bunny-ears, or my tongue lolling out of my mouth like a dog.

The coffee mug she sets down in front of me is actually a nice one. Mom and I are smiling at the camera. I was twelve, and it was before my friends took over my life. I have a huge gap in my teeth—an awkward phase every kid seems to endure.

I press my lip to the rim of the ceramic and blow lightly. It creates a wave of ripples, pushing the steam away. “Would you like one of those muffins you bought yesterday? They are delicious.”

“Okay,” I say. She opens the plastic container and puts a muffin on a paper towel she’s torn off the roll. Setting it down, she sits on the stool next to mine. I feel her eyes on me. “What?”

She takes a sip of her coffee. It’s an ochre color because she’s smothered the flavor with cream. “I just thought we could have a girl’s day is all.”

Girl’s day. If Mom had it her way, she and I would spend every day giggling over chick-flicks, gossip magazines, or getting pampered at the spa. Sometimes I think I’ve been a bit of a disappointment to her. Being the only child, I think she assumed we’d always be close, I’d always think she was the greatest person in the world, and
like
everything she does. I still love her, but that’s just not me. I don’t like getting pampered. The odd manicure here and there is enough. Besides, I can paint my toenails just as good as anyone else can. I’m just not the girly-girl she’d hoped I’d be. I’m also not sure I’m ready for a whole day commitment. We’ve strayed over the years, and though I’m working on closing up the rift, patching the holes and making it so we can float again together, I’m not quite there yet. I can’t handle being a disappointment because I haven’t been the best daughter, and I don’t like the same things she does. But soon. Soon, I tell myself. We’ll get there.

I pick at the muffin. It crumbles onto the paper towel and stains my fingers purple. “Maybe some other time,” I sigh. Taking a final sip of coffee, I push the mug away. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Okay, have fun.”

As I get up from the island and head to the door, she doesn’t even look up. A twinge of guilt hits me in the stomach.
My stomach’s getting quite the work out these days.
I sigh.

I park the Mustang in a random spot on Main Street. It’s the first I saw, so I took it. In L.A. that’s what you did. Parking is a hot commodity. But now, as I make my way down the street, it’s apparent that this really isn’t LA. I pass by dozens of empty spots.
A good walk never killed anyone.
Besides, I have no idea where the library is. I assume Willard Grove has one, and I assume it’s somewhere in the vicinity.
I can’t wait until the cable and Internet gets hooked up.
Google Maps would have made this endeavor much easier.

I turn onto another street, walk by the donut shop I noticed the other day, a thrift store I make note to come back to later and an appliance store. At the end of the street, lo and behold, a tall, almost church like building—complete with a steeple but no cross—grabs my attention like a beacon. In thick blue lettering
Community Library
hangs on a sign just above the entrance. I wonder how I missed that earlier.