Chloe
Before I go upstairs, I give Dad a shoulder bump, afraid three hugs in a night might be too much. Then I grab a handful of cookies and head upstairs. Once I'm at the landing, I turn and look to see if she's followed me.
She hasn't. But Pumpkin has.
The woman will find me sooner or later. They always do.
It started happening about a year and a half ago, right before we moved from Dallas. At first it freaked me out. Like really freaked me out. But then I realized not one ghost had done anything to hurt me. I'm not sure they could.
Or maybe I just want to believe that.
Most of them just want to talk. Some of them need something. A favor. But that's okay, because I always ask a favor of them too.
So far, none of them have been able to help me. But I still help them. And it's not always easy, either.
Like the favor for Bessie.
She'd bought life insurance six months ago, but neglected to tell her daughter.
I couldn't go up and just tell the family that Bessie had insurance. So I copied and pasted the insurance logo from their website so it'd look legit. I printed a label, addressed the letter to Bessie, put the policy number at the top.
I wrote the letter as if it was a reminder to her that they were still waiting for her to pick up a copy of the policy.
I was going to just mail it, but since I'd stolen the logo I feared sending it through the US Postal Service might make it a federal offense. Instead, I spent an hour last night drawing a postmaster seal to make it look like it had been mailed. Then I spent another thirty minutes forging the company president's signature which I'd found on the website.
I thought it looked quite convincing. It's one thing I'm good at: drawing, copying things. Not usually forging signatures. But now I realize that if anyone questions it, Hannah might be able to point a finger at me, since she'd seen me outside the house.
Great! Something else to worry about.
I get to my bedroom door and leave it open.
Returning to my bed, I sit. Wait.
I'm barely situated when she appears. She looks pretty in the dress. Her hair is blond, hanging in a nice neat wave. Confusion mars her lovely face. I'd had a spirit, an elderly man, last year that hadn't realized he was dead. Giving that bit of news was loads of fun. Not.
I'm hoping this won't be a repeat of that case.
"You can see me, can't you?" she asks.
I nod. When it first started happening, I tried pretending I didn't. But something always gave me away. They'd move. I'd jump. They'd talk. I'd listen.
I discovered it's easier to just deal with them, to get them to pass over. That's the best part. Seeing them go. They are all different.
Bessie was that falling star. Some of them become a bolt of color. I can't really explain the feeling, but when I see them cross over, there's this sensation like . . . I did something really good.
Like I've just checked off one item on Destiny's to-do list.
Truthfully, this isn't anything I would have chosen. But that's kind of the point. I didn't choose it. It chose me. And for that reason, it feels like fate. As if turning away from it will screw up some underlying purpose for my life. This doesn't stop me from sometimes resenting it.
The woman gets tears in her eyes. She's young, but older than me. Maybe in her twenties.
"Is he your father?" she asks.
I nod.
"He's a nice man."
They all tell me that. That he respects them when he drains their blood, and when he fills them back up with embalming fluid. They say when he gets them ready for the funeral he takes his time.
Looks at photos of them and tries to get it right. They tell me he even talks to them, but he never answers them when they talk back.
I get up to close the door, so Dad won't notice me talking, but then I hear it. The sound. That little noise.
My chest fills with a heaviness. I lean against the doorframe and fight the tears stinging all the way up my sinuses.
Who knew the sound of ice filling a glass could be so sad? Sad because I know he's pouring himself a drink. Probably the first of many tonight.
This morning I had to wake him up before I went to school. Normally, he beats the sun up. He looked as if the sun had already beaten him up, but at least he went to work. Would he tomorrow? Is he going to mess up and lose this job, too?
He's a good man. He's the only family I have. I love him, but I'm pretty sure he's an alcoholic. And I don't know what to do.
He's so proud that he's hiding it from me. He's so afraid to let me down. And he is. He's letting himself down too.
Anger stirs my gut. I'm tempted to storm downstairs and rip open his secret, try to stop him, but I'm afraid he'll just drink more then. At least if he's hiding it from me, he's not drinking all the time.
I shut the door and turn to face the ghost, but she's gone.
That's fine. I'm not really up to talking right now. I need to figure out how the hell I'm going to help my dad.