Michael drags me to the edge of the stern and rolls me off.
The water is a cold black shock, cutting through my stupor like a blade. I go under for a moment before starting to kick and flail. I break the surface, sputtering and gasping, disoriented and panicking, fear as sharp as a knife shoved between my ribs.
I cough and scream. The boat’s engines hum and rumble. Michael looms over me on the step, laughing maniacally now, his lips peeled back from his teeth.
I flail at the step, missing it by inches. Michael drops to his knees and reaches out. I grasp his hand, thinking he’s offering help, but quickly discover he’s not.
He grabs me by the throat and squeezes.
He pushes me down and holds me under.
Even underwater, I can hear his crazy laugh.
Something slips out of his shirt pocket. It splashes into the water and tumbles past my face, small and round, silver and glinting.
It’s his lucky 1937 buffalo nickel, the one he never left home without.
I kick and struggle. My heart hammers against my ribcage. Salt water stings my eyes and burns my lungs. Fireworks illuminate the surface of the water in a shimmering kaleidoscope of colors.
I can’t get his fingers off my neck. I claw at his hands, thrashing and coughing, smelling diesel fuel and gunpowder, smoke and sea and blood.
Aidan.
Aidan.
Aidan, I love you. I love you.
My body is heavy. The churning water above me stills. I drift, my hair floating around my head, my eyes turned toward the surface, my hand outstretched for help that doesn’t come.
A brilliant bloom of color suffuses the sea above me in shades of red, green, and gold, then the fireworks fade, and everything goes black.
My heart throbs one final time before stopping for good.
III
Paradiso
Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.
—— Rabindranath Tagore
41
Kayla
What we call memory is the intersection between imagination and fact. Memories are the stories we tell ourselves about the important events in our lives. In the telling, some details get lost, others embellished, until truth is closer to fiction.
It’s like Fiona said. Each of us make our own truths, even ghosts.
I suppose I should’ve figured it out the day she came in the house and disarmed the security alarm without me having told her the code. That was the same day she said she thought something was troubling me and that ghosts need closure. By that time, she’d been working for the Wainwrights for more than a month. They kept her on when they bought the house, never knowing just how helpful she’d turn out to be.
She isn’t quite as gifted as her sister, Claire, but the gift does run in the family.
It took months of me sifting through memories and reliving my past to understand what happened. I lived two parallel lives, one past and one present, removed from reality but believing myself in it, utterly blind to the truth.
Everything that happened with Aidan was real. So was everything that happened after New Year’s. But it got all jumbled together and mixed up, because being dead and not realizing it is very fucking confusing.
Past. Present. Fact. Memory. Everything interconnected and part of a whole, like individual pages in a book before it’s bound.
But now my binding is set. My story is told. The book of my life has been written to its final chapter.
All that’s left is to close the cover and put it away.
When I open my eyes, nothing looks the same. The walls are painted a different color. The carpet has been replaced by wood. The furnishings are unfamiliar, as are the people in the framed photographs on the walls.
The house is very different from when I lived in it. Different but familiar, like the face of a friend you haven’t seen in many years. I never noticed the changes before, but the blinds have been lifted from my eyes now. My vision is finally clear.
The storm outside has ceased raging. Everything is still. Beyond the living room windows, dawn spreads glimmering light over the yard and faraway hills. I hear birds chirping, smell springtime in the air, and marvel at the beauty of it all.
The doorbell rings.
I move toward the front door, compelled by a force as elemental as gravity, as unstoppable as time. I turn the knob, pull the door open, and find Aidan standing on the porch.
He’s drenched in golden sunlight, smiling at me as if I’m the first sunrise he’s ever seen.
“Hey, bunny,” he says softly, his eyes shining with adoration. “Did you miss me?”
I fall into his arms. His embrace is sweeter than a thousand kisses, better than a million wishes, more perfect than any dream could ever be.