She pauses, then adds quietly, “In effect, they’ll be damned.”
I don’t want to be the cause of any random spirit being damned, so even though I don’t believe any of this and am probably dreaming this entire conversation, I say solemnly, “I promise I won’t tell them they’re dead.”
“Good.”
She gives me a reassuring smile and rises from the table, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my figurative and literal ghosts.
Then I walk into my office, take the letter I wrote to Dante out of the drawer, and grab an umbrella from the stand next to the front door. I go outside in the rain, headed to the mailbox.
If I’m being haunted by the spirits of a happy little boy and a hostile dude in a trench coat, I might as well commit to having a pen pal in prison.
At least he’s alive.
It’s not until I’m raising the red metal flag on the mailbox that something Fiona said comes back to me like a slap across the face.
“When a person dies tragically or violently, their spirit often can’t move on.”
My heart pounding, I whisper, “Michael.”
As if in response, a crackling burst of lightning rips jagged claws of brilliant white through the dark and stormy sky.
23
Dear Kayla,
I had this cat when I was a kid. Orange tabby, skinny thing, hated everybody. Except me. That cat loved me. I loved him, too, though I didn’t know it until he got hit by a car. Before that, I thought OJ was a menace. （That was his name, OJ. After orange juice. Not very creative, I know, but I was eight.）
Once the cat died and he wasn’t around anymore, I realized how much I loved him. That stupid cat had been my best friend, but I only realized it in hindsight.
Funny thing, isn’t it, hindsight? It’s memory, but with new understanding tacked on, so that the past means something different than it did before.
And the only way to find that meaning is to look for it.
Look to the past.
Dig up those graves.
Examine the bones you find there.
I’ve been doing my fair share of that lately. I’ve got so much time on my hands in this place, thinking about the past has become the main way I spend my days.
You asked what I did to land myself here. The simple answer is that I loved someone too much.
You see, I learned a lesson from OJ’s death. I learned that love means nothing unless it’s acted upon. Love isn’t real without intent. It’s a verb. It isn’t passive.
But most of all, love means sacrifice.
Whatever love asks of you must be given, no matter the price.
And I’d gladly give what love asked of me a thousand times over. Even if I had to do it every day until the end of eternity, I’d slice open my own veins with a razor blade and happily bleed myself dry.
Dante
24
It’s Saturday. The rain has fallen steadily day and night this week, tapering to drizzle only to gather strength and pound the saturated ground once again.
I sit in my office with Dante’s letter in my hands as I gaze out the window into the dreary afternoon. The Sound is a murky iron gray, its waters uneasy, whipped to white peaks by gusty winds. The house exhales an occasional wistful sigh, but otherwise is silent.
It’s been that way since my talk with Fiona last Monday. Eerily silent, as if it’s holding its breath.
It’s not the only one.
I’ve barely slept all week. I walk around on eggshells, my nerves screaming at every gust of wind or tree branch scraping a windowpane. But nothing out of the ordinary has happened. There have been no more sightings of the little boy or the man in the trench coat, no unexplained smells or flickering lights.
Out at the end of the dock, the Eurydice bobs restlessly in the choppy water. Drawn by some irresistible force, my gaze returns to it again and again.
I know it’s only my frazzled nerves that make it seem like the boat watches me back.
I work through the remainder of the day with Dante’s letter simmering on the backburner of my mind until a text comes through on my phone.
You win. Call me.
It’s Aidan. We haven’t spoken in six days. I’m not feeling particularly cooperative, so I send him a text back instead of calling.
What did I win?
I can almost feel his irritation that I disobeyed his order to call him in the three bouncing dots as he types his reply.
You were supposed to contact me first.
Frowning, I type back.
I didn’t realize it was a competition.
The phone rings. As soon as I pick up and say, “Hello?” Aidan’s displeased voice is in my ear.