“End up at a tea shop in the middle of nowhere against our will,” Wallace said bitterly.
Hugo sighed. “Let’s try something else. Did you like being alive?”
Taken aback, Wallace said, “Of course I do.” His expression hardened. “Did. Of course I did.” It rang false even to his own ears.
Hugo brushed his hands against his apron as he stood slowly. “What did you like about it?” He continued on down the row of plants.
Against his better judgment, Wallace followed him. “Doesn’t everyone like being alive?”
“Most people, I think,” Hugo said. “I can’t speak for everyone. But you’re not most people, and no one else is here, which is why I’m asking you.”
“What do you like about it?” Wallace asked, flinging the question back at him. He felt skittish, irritation growing.
“Many things,” Hugo said easily. “The plants, for one. The earth beneath my feet. This place. It’s different here, and not just because of what I am or what I do. For a long time, I couldn’t breathe. I felt … stifled. Crushed. Like there was this weight on my shoulders and I didn’t know how to get it off.” He glanced back at Wallace. “Do you know what that feels like?”
He did, but he wasn’t going to admit it here. Not now. Not ever. “You’re not my therapist.”
Hugo shook his head. “No, I’m not. Not exactly qualified for something like that, though I do play the role now and then. It’s all part of the gig.”
“The gig,” Wallace repeated.
“Selling tea,” Hugo said. “People come in, and some of them don’t have any idea what they’re looking for. I try to get to know them, to find out what they’re all about before deciding on what kind of tea would be the best fit. It’s a process of discovery. I usually get it right, though not always.”
“Peppermint,” Wallace said.
“Peppermint,” Hugo agreed. “Did I get that right?”
“You hadn’t even met me.”
He shrugged. “I get a feeling, sometimes.”
“A feeling.” Wallace did nothing to stop the scorn dripping from his words. “You have to know how that sounds.”
“I do. But it’s just tea. Nothing to get so worked up about.”
Wallace felt like screaming. “You got a feeling that told you peppermint.”
“It did.” He stopped in front of another plant, crouching down and picking up dead leaves off the ground. He put them in a pocket on his apron with the utmost care, as if he was worried about crushing them. “Was it wrong?”
“No,” Wallace said begrudgingly. “It wasn’t wrong.” He thought Hugo would ask him to explain, what the peppermint meant.
He didn’t. “Good. I like to think I’m pretty spot-on, but as I said, it doesn’t always work. I try to be careful about it. You don’t want to end up missing the forest for the trees.”
Wallace had no idea what that meant. Everything was topsy-turvy, and the hook in his chest was tugging again. He wanted to tear it out, consequences be damned. “I liked being alive. I want to be alive again.”
“Kübler-Ross.”
“What?”
“There was a woman named Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. Have you ever heard of her?”
“No.”
“She was a psychiatrist—”
“Oh dear god.”
“A psychiatrist who studied death and near-death experiences. You know, you’re rising above your body toward a bright white light, though I expect it’s a little more complicated than that. A lot of it can be difficult to understand.” He rubbed his jaw. “Kübler-Ross talked about stuff like transcendence of ego and spatiotemporal boundaries. It’s complex. And I’m really not.”
“You’re not?” Wallace asked incredulously.
“Careful, Wallace,” Hugo said, lips quirking. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
Hugo ignored him. “She was known for many things, but I think her biggest accomplishment was the Kübler-Ross model. Do you know what that is?”
Wallace shook his head.
“You probably do, though not by that name. And sure, some of the research since then doesn’t agree with her findings, but I think it’s a good place to start. It’s the five stages of grief.”
Wallace wanted to go back inside. Hugo once again rose to his feet, turning to face him. He didn’t come any closer, but Wallace couldn’t move, mouth almost painfully dry. He was a tea plant, rooted in place, not yet mature enough to be harvested. The cable thrummed between them.
Hugo said, “I’ve done this long enough to see how right she was. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. It’s not always in that order, and it’s not always every single step. Take you, for example. You seemed to skip right over denial. You’ve got the anger part down pat with a little bit of bargaining mixed in. Maybe more than a little bit.”
Wallace stiffened. “That doesn’t sound like it’s for the dead. It’s for the people who are left behind. I can’t grieve for myself.”
Hugo shook his head slowly. “Of course you can. We do it all the time, regardless of if we’re alive or not, over the small things and the big things. Everyone is a little bit sad all the time. Yes, Kübler-Ross was talking about the living, but it fits just as well for people like you. Maybe even better. I’ve often wondered what it was like for her, after she passed. If she went through it all herself, or if there were still surprises left to find. What do you think?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Okay,” Hugo said.
“Okay?”
“Sure. Do you like the plants?”
Wallace glared at him. “They’re plants.”
“Hush,” Hugo said. “Don’t let them hear you say that. They’re very sensitive.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I prefer to think of myself as eccentric.” His smile returned. “At least that’s what the people in town think of me. Some even believe this place is haunted.” He laughed to himself. Wallace was never one for noticing how people sounded when they laughed, but there was a first time for everything. It was a full-body thing for Hugo, low and deep.
“That doesn’t bother you?”
Hugo cocked his head. “No. Why would it? It’s true. You’re a ghost. Grandad and Apollo too. And you’re not the first, nor will you be the last. Charon’s Crossing is always haunted, though not like most people think. We don’t have anyone rattling chains or causing a ruckus.” He frowned. “Well, most of the time we don’t. Grandad can get a little ornery when the health inspector comes around, but usually we tend to avoid the trappings of a haunted house. It’d be bad for business.”
“They’re still here,” Wallace said. “Nelson. Apollo.”
Hugo stepped around him, heading back toward the house. He trailed his fingers along the tops of the tallest plants. They bent with his touch before snapping back upright. “They are.”