Ashes to Ashes by Melissa Walker Read Free Book Online Page A

small crooked smile, one side tipping up higher than the other, and locks of his blond hair fall over his forehead. I have a strange urge to reach up and comb them back. His face is like something out of an old painting—soft but serious, with strong angles and sharp lines. His eyes aren’t like the others’, though; they’re not dulled at all—they’re vibrant and . . . well, alive.
    What must it be like to have to deal with the newly deceased all the time? In the beginning, does anyone truly accept this new reality?
    A little white Westie comes bounding over, its purple leash trailing along behind it. It stops near our feet and starts sniffing around. Thatcher bends down and passes his fingers through its fur, over and over. But the fur doesn’t move.
    â€œCan it see us?” I ask.
    â€œNo, but she can sense us. Animals are much more attuned to the unconscious mind than humans are. We tend to drown out our instincts with too much thought.”
    I wonder about his instincts.
    â€œDuchess, get over here!” A young woman rushes over and scoops the dog into her arms, continuing to scold her as she walks away.
    Thatcher straightens, and for a just a moment he appears to be mourning.
    â€œCould you feel her fur?”
    He shakes his head. “Old habit.” His hand is clenched on his thigh.
    â€œHow long have you been here?” How long have you been without sensations?
    He narrows his eyes. “A while.”
    â€œDid you have a dog?”
    He nods. “But he wasn’t a sissy dog like that. Griz was a black Lab. Got him when he was a pup. I miss him sometimes, the softness of his fur, the stink of his breath, the roughness of his tongue.” He releases a deep sigh, probably another habit, one of those muscle memories that you do without thinking and that I was told would fade in time. It’s a little comforting to realize he hasn’t totally let go.
    He looks away, maybe embarrassed that he revealed all that. I can see him, roughhousing with a dog, tossing Frisbees for him to catch. I’m suddenly thinking of everything we can’t experience. I need the familiar.
    â€œCan you take me to my father?” I ask. “We live at Two thirty-six Blossom Drive on the Ashley River.”
    â€œWe don’t need an address,” he says, relief reflected in his voice because I’m back on task. Maybe he needs the distraction from his momentary lapse, too. “The portals know where to go. They’ll take us where we’re needed—to the people who need you—and I’m sure your father will be on the list.”
    My chin starts to tremble as the sadness engulfs me again. Imagining my father alone is unbearable. Without me, without . . .
    â€œWhere is my mother?” I can’t believe Mama wasn’t my first thought once I realized where I was. Why didn’t she greet me? If I can connect with her, maybe some of this awful emptiness consuming me will go away.
    Thatcher clears his throat and narrows his eyes like he’s having a hard time reading the answer written on a blackboard somewhere.
    â€œWhat’s the matter? Wasn’t this question covered in Ghost Guiding One-oh-one?” I ask.
    He snaps his head around to glare at me. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
    â€œI think you have serious pretty well covered for both of us.”
    â€œCallie—”
    â€œLook, I just want to see my mom.”
    â€œShe’s not in the Prism anymore.”
    I don’t know if I should be assured or worried.
    â€œWhere is she?” I ask. “Where did she go?”
    â€œShe moved on.”
    â€œTo where?”
    â€œBeyond the Prism is a realm that’s something like what you probably imagine Heaven to be,” he says.
    â€œHeaven.” I sigh. “So she’s happy? She’s okay.”
    â€œShe’s more than that,” says Thatcher, and when I give him