Nothing but the Ghosts

Chapter 3-3

The thermoses jangle and jostle inside a reusable grocery sack. A small bag of sugar thumps against my thigh. I miss my canvas field kit. I miss my collection of precision-made German thermoses and their matching cups.

Tara lives only a few blocks away. We’ve opted to walk, although now I’m rethinking that decision. Malcolm stops every few feet, adjusts his shoes, tugs at the tuxedo trousers. He’s pulled on the shirt, but it hangs loose and unbuttoned. Despite everything, he’s managed to make the outfit look intentional.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says after the fourth or fifth time. “These weren’t meant for hiking.” His stare turns grim as he considers the shiny black dress shoes and then the expanse of sidewalk ahead of us.

“They’re not,” I agree, “but you are rocking a James Bond thing.”

His expression lights up, and I swear, a bit of a blush stains his cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“But you can run home and change,” I add. “I’ll go on ahead and meet you there.”

“No, no. If this really is a possession, you shouldn’t go in alone.” His gaze flits to Tara. “No one should.”

He’s right. I know he is. Besides, I like having him at my side, even if he’s still squirming like a preschooler.

A block later, he apologizes again.

“Sorry,” he says. “I mean about this morning.”

I’m about to tell him it’s fine, that nothing about this morning is his fault, but his eyes are dark and sad. In this moment, he looks almost lost.

“It’s funny.” He scrubs his face again and then runs his hands through his hair. “I promised myself that the next time I saw my father, I wouldn’t completely shut down. What happens?” He casts me a sidelong glance. “I completely shut down.”

“You were ambushed.”

“We sent the ghost, so I’m not sure why we were both so surprised he’d show up—except we didn’t think he would. We even joked about it.” Malcolm shrugs. “He didn’t come for my graduation from the U of M. He didn’t even respond when I asked for help with Nigel’s addiction. It’s like we send ghosts and expect nothing in return.”

What they found to joke about escapes me, but then maybe it’s easier to joke than to be constantly disappointed.

“How does sending a ghost work?” I ask, in part to change the subject—he looks so miserable—and in part because I’m curious. “I mean, we count on the fact that ghosts aren’t very good at navigating.”

“It’s ... a necromancer thing.” His mouth curves into a half smile.

Ah, yes. A necromancer thing. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Remember when you showed Selena how to find me?”

Yes. Unfortunately.

“It’s like that, only inside.” He taps his head. “A ghost can glean all the information you have on someone. So I knew my father was somewhere in South America or maybe the Falklands. I grew up with him, which provides even more information. The ghost takes all that along with some navigation points and heads off.”

“So sending a ghost to someone in a known location would be much easier.”

“Even then you need a reliable ghost. This isn’t a job for a sprite. I wouldn’t trust a sprite to get a message across the room.”

Tara walks ahead of us, her steps slow enough I can tell she’s eavesdropping. It’s a trick I used when I was her age. I was so often in the company of my grandmother and other adults, working instead of playing, that it became something I did without even thinking.

“Are you interested in ghosts?” I ask her.

She stumbles to a halt before picking up her pace.

“It’s okay to be interested in ghosts.”

Her pace slows. She turns around and takes a few steps backward. “It is?”

“Of course. I’m interested in ghosts.”

“Yes, but you’re...” Tara pauses, brow furrowing as if she can’t find the right word.

I want to say: I’m the girl who catches ghosts, because that’s what I’ve always been. But Tara’s next words take me by surprise.

“You’re a grown up.”

“I am?”

Malcolm snorts a laugh. It isn’t the rich, full-throated laugh that tells me he’s happy. Still, a laugh is a laugh, and the sound reassures me. He nods in my direction and then rolls his eyes at Tara.

“She’s been a grown up for so long she doesn’t even realize it.”

“I don’t feel like a grown up,” I protest.

Tara nods like she understands. “Because your grandmother died.”

At that moment, an eleven-year-old girl speaks the truth and strips everything away. That hollow space opens up inside me, a tender ache like a fresh bruise. I want to resist the urge to touch it, but of course, I can’t.

“Yes,” I say, “because my grandmother died.”

“I miss her,” Tara says.

“I miss her too.”

“She would listen to me about ghosts.”

“She would?”

“When she was out working in her garden or sweeping the sidewalk,” she says. “I would talk to her sometimes on my way home from school.”

“My grandmother had a thing about sweeping the sidewalk,” I tell Malcolm. “It was weird.”

“Maybe she was using it as cover for placing a ward,” he says.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except exasperated air. I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me, twice in a matter of minutes. I grip his arm.

“She was placing wards.” I speak the words and feel the certainty of them. “Right in front of me.”

How many other things—necromancer things—did she do right in front of me? Why didn’t she ever tell me, show me, explain? I have no answers, and Tara is staring at us, wide-eyed. I give myself a mental shake. We have a job to do. Maybe I can’t change the past—in fact, I know I can’t—but I can help this little girl with her present, and possibly her future.

“You can always talk to us about ghosts.” I point to Malcolm and then myself. “We’ll listen.”

“I thought that might cost money.” Tara’s grip on the cat purse tightens.

“Or,” Malcolm says, drawing out the word. “Maybe it pays money.”

Her face brightens. “It does?”

“Well, it has to be good information.”

We fall into step with her and continue down the sidewalk.

“Can you sense ghosts?” I ask.

Tara nods hard enough the cat clips in her braids clack together.

“Can you see them?” Malcolm pitches his voice a bit lower, like this is a serious job interview.

Tara pulls herself up tall. “Sometimes. There’s a shimmery outline.” She waves her hands in the air.

“Have you ever tried to catch one?” I ask.

“With Tupperware,” she says. “My mom got mad because I lost the lid. And I never ended up with a ghost, anyway. I always wanted one, for a friend. But now, now that I see ... I’m sorry I ever even wished...”

One tear, and then another. She stops walking, hangs her head, and I know she doesn’t want us to see her cry—she especially doesn’t want Malcolm to see that. I shoo him away and kneel in front of her.

“You didn’t do this to your parents. Ghosts don’t work that way. They’re not ... smart enough. They only have room inside them for so many thoughts, and those thoughts are about themselves, usually something from before they were ghosts.”

She nods, but her eyes still brim with tears.

“That’s why it’s so hard to catch them. You have to be able to sense them and be a good detective.”

“And coffee,” she says, the words thick with those tears.

“And you need coffee,” I say.

“They really don’t like instant,” she adds.

“Not even sprites like instant,” I confirm. “Have you tried that?”

“That’s why my mom got so mad at me and told me to stop talking about ghosts.” She peers up at me, the tracks of her tears staining her cheeks. “I stained the carpet.”

“I’ve stained lots of carpets,” I say. “Still do. I’ve been catching ghosts since I was five, which means you’re old enough to help. In fact, Malcolm and I will need your help since we don’t know your parents very well. So, will you?”

Tara nods again. The salt remains on her cheeks, but her eyes are filled with determination rather than tears. We start toward her house, a gray two-story with a bright blue door.

After a few steps, her small hand takes mine and we walk the rest of the way together.