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

a doubtful glance he adds, “Yes, she’s absolutely fine.”
    The conviction reflected in his eyes assures me that he believes his words, and his certainty is a relief. A weight lifts from my shoulders, one that I didn’t even know was there. Mama is okay .
    â€œBut I can’t see her?” I ask, just to be sure.
    â€œNo,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œHmm, you’d think one perk of dying would be reuniting with people you love, right? Isn’t that what all the movies show?”
    â€œIt isn’t like in the movies, Callie,” says Thatcher, with the hint of a smile, a kindness in his face that eases some of the anxiety I’m feeling.
    I study the slatted wood of the dock under my feet. The evening shadows are starting to fall now—the sky’s golden glow is giving way to a blue twilight, and the Living are heading back to their cars. I see the ghosts shuffling among them, too, slowly, calmly. “Did you know her?” I ask.
    â€œYour mother?”
    I nod.
    His mouth sets in a tight line, like he’s trying to decide what to tell me. “She left just after I . . . arrived,” he says.
    â€œSo you met her,” I say.
    â€œBriefly.”
    â€œAnd then she left because . . .”
    â€œGhosts move on when they’ve completed their haunting,” he says.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I ask.
    â€œLet me show you. Walk with me.”
    We head to the end of the pier, moving quietly side by side. I watch people pass us—mostly Living, but ghosts, too—sharing space and interacting with each other. A few of the glowing beings even nod at me and Thatcher, and I politely wave back. I’m confused, sad, maybe in shock. But I don’t feel like my life is over. It can’t be. And there was Ella with her family—sailing with them just as if she were alive.
    â€œEveryone is so peaceful,” I say, thinking back on each scene I just witnessed and the ghosts I see now. “It’s not at all like the stories I’ve heard—the moaning and wailing and terrorizing that ghosts do.”
    â€œGhosts are peaceful beings,” says Thatcher. He furrows his brow like he’s thinking about what he just said. Then he adds, “For the most part.”

Five
    THATCHER TRACES A PORTAL in front of us, using his hand to cut an opening through what was—only moments before—empty air. Hundreds of tiny points of light blaze into a glow like sunspots framing the portal. We walk through together. This time, I sense him with me in the space, traveling at a smooth speed almost like we’re two bullets lined up inside the chamber of a gun. I wonder what this would feel like if I were still alive, if my body were really here and hurtling through dimensions like this. I bet it would be the ultimate rush, but as a ghost, the motion feels natural and almost calm. It’s silent and effortless, and in some ways it seems instant, but I don’t trust my notion of time.
    When we get to the other side, I take in a sharp breath.
    It’s my bedroom, just as I left it. My middle dresser drawer is open, and a blue tank top hangs over its edge. Something inside me starts to crack. I’d considered bringing the tank top as part of my day-after-with-Nick outfit, but I went with a plain white T instead. Half a glass of lemonade rests on the nightstand—Carson’s, left behind after she helped me get ready for my night with Nick—and my pajama shorts are balled up next to my pillow. The bed, as always, is unmade.
    This is my room, these are my things, this is what’s left from my life. But I’m absent. None of these objects means anything, really, but seeing them in this moment, they mean everything .
    Thatcher is watching me carefully. He must read the heartbreak in my face, because he comes closer to me and says softly, “Tell me about them.” He points to the photos over my