When They Fade (5 page)

And Claudette loved a challenge.

“Don't you think this is a bad idea?” Tatum asked. “What if you get caught? Teachers aren't supposed to date students.”

“What's the worst that could happen?” Claudette said. “It's not like they'd ever expel me or anything. All I'd have to do is tell them that Barry forced himself on me. Said I'd get a failing grade if I didn't do it.” She widened her eyes and a hint of panic flashed across her face, making her look innocent and frightened at the same time. Not surprisingly, it worked. Tatum's heart actually skipped a beat.

“But Bar—I mean, Mr. Paracini could lose his job.”

“That's only if we get caught,” Claudette said with a grin. “And I don't plan on getting caught. It's all about the game. I've never gone all secret-agent with a guy before. I'm loving the whole idea. Oooh, maybe I could start wearing wigs.” She grabbed one of her pillows off the bed and tossed it at Tatum. “Don't give me that look. I know what you're thinking. You need to lighten up. I'm going on a date with him! That's like everyone's fantasy. It's never going to lead to anything. Come on, Tatum. Even you can't deny his hotness.”

Tatum agreed. She couldn't deny it. A good part of her was still weirded out; everything about it screamed wrong. But instead of criticizing, she smiled at Claudette and asked her what she was planning on wearing.

“Something really hot. And sexy. Oh man, we need to go shopping. Tonight! Text your mom and tell her you're staying for dinner.” Claudette pulled her phone out and started pressing buttons. “I'll tell Mom I'm studying with you all night. Come on, if we leave now, we can hit Seattle with a few hours to find me a dress!”

That was the defining moment when Tatum stopped liking Claudette. She didn't know it at the time, but a small seed must have started in her brain. The weeks passed, and her anger grew as Claudette and Mr. Paracini continued to run around behind everyone's backs. And they were clever. Even in a small town, they still managed to pull it off without anyone knowing.

Anyone except Tatum.

She was the secret keeper. The excuse maker when Claudette's mom called. Tatum had no idea what lies Mr. Paracini was feeding his wife, but from what Claudette said about it, it sounded like the two of them didn't ever talk to each other.

“They're just married for the children,” Claudette said. “She's apparently sleeping around on him, too. She thinks he doesn't notice, but Barry knows. He's putting together the divorce papers as soon as he can.”

A web of lies.

After the proverbial crap hit the fan and all the ugly lies and blame had been shifted over to Tatum, she ran into Mrs. Paracini in the checkout line at Target. The older woman looked tired and disheveled, pushing around a red cart with two little children tossed in. If Tatum had seen her coming, she would have hidden longer in the stationery aisle. But instead she got in line right after her, not recognizing her from behind. It wasn't until Mrs. Paracini started tossing items on the counter that she turned and found herself face to face with Tatum.

At first she didn't say anything. She gave Tatum the iciest glare possibly known to mankind and slammed her shampoo bottle down hard enough to make it bounce. Tatum actually flinched, wondering how bad it would look if she turned around and ran. But there was already a bunch of people behind her; if she tried to leave, she'd really have to push her way through the crowd.

I'm not guilty,
she wanted to say.
It wasn't me. Claudette made the whole thing up. I'm sorry.
So many words running around her mind.

She remembers everything Claudette said afterward, twisting the blame so no one would ever believe Tatum.

Tatum's been after him all year. She sent him love letters and asked him out on countless dates. I feel really bad 'cause she showed them to me. I should have told a teacher, but I didn't want to get her into trouble. She's got serious mental problems. She even told me she went to class early one day to surprise him. She took off all her clothes and sat on his desk. Mr. Paracini handled it well. He told her to get dressed and to stop it. He said if she continued her bad behavior, he'd have to report her.

Anything else, Claudette?

She told me that she wants to marry him. That the two of them were destined to be together. She went to a fortune-teller or something like that, and apparently that's what they told her. She's really unhinged. I can't begin to tell you how much I've been dying to get this off my chest. It's horrible. I just want Tatum to get some help.

Tatum remembers staring at the magazines. Then at the candy. Anything to avoid looking Mrs. Paracini in the eyes. All she wanted was for that moment to be over so she could go home and hide in her bedroom till the end of the world.

The cashier ran Mrs. Paracini's items through without a problem. When it was over, the teacher's wife turned to leave. She pushed the cart about a foot and then stopped. She turned around and walked right over. Tatum stepped backward, bumping into the customer behind her.

“Psycho bitch.”

Mrs. Paracini turned and walked off, her head held high, the red shopping cart squeaking.

It felt like the entire store had gone quiet. When the cashier finally broke the silence by asking Tatum if she wanted paper or plastic, Tatum fell apart. Instead of answering, she ran for the exit, ignoring the smirking checkout girl and the whispers and angry mumbles of the people waiting in line behind her.

She'd barely made it to her car when the tears came. Tatum sat there for a long time, bawling, thankful it was too dark for anyone to fully see what she was doing. Her hands felt like they would never stop shaking.

Tatum sits on her bed now, trying hard not to think about everything. She got home about fifteen minutes ago. She actually forgot to go to the coffee shop and buy the mocha she claimed she wanted in the first place.

She has her computer turned on, and her fingers hover over the keyboard. She's got Google open, but she's not sure what to type. She doesn't even know how to begin. The fact that she wants to do this is only making her feel even more foolish. Although she can't think of a single reason how, she's still positive she's the brunt of some stupid joke. But another voice nags inside her brain, louder now that she's alone, telling her that the whole thing goes far more mystical than that.

She types the words
ghost
and
Molly
and of course gets nothing. Lots of information on the movie
Ghost.
She's never seen it, but according to IMDb, it's good.

She adds to the search. She types in the proper name for Frog Road. She erases the name
Molly
.

She doesn't get anything on the first page. Wikipedia offers a list of famous ghosts throughout history. Who knew there were so many? The second hit is “how to tell if your place is being haunted.” The third is a site full of people who claim to be victims of possession. The rest are listings for popular television shows and movies. Pictures of famous ghosts. The Brown Lady. The Headless Nun. Fun stories to scare your kids.

She moves her cursor across the results, reading each one, her inner voice laughing at her, calling her crazy for even trying this.

On the second page, she finds something. A forum set up to discuss current and past hauntings. She finds something under “American Hauntings—Share Your Stories.”

GorgeousGus
wrote: My friend saw a ghost in Washington State. He lives east of Seattle and often drives down this back road to get home. One night, he picked up a hitchhiker (yeah, I know, how freaking original). But he said that this girl, she called herself Molly, rode with him for about five miles. A total throwback from the sixties, massive hippie type. Totally outdated. Everything was fine until she started talking. She told him that his mother was going to die and that he should get her to show him where the will was. Then she disappeared right out of his passenger seat. He laughed the whole thing off, thinking he probably dozed off behind the wheel for a minute—until his mother keeled over of a stroke a month later. I kid you not! And he never found the will. They have no idea what happened to it, and now all the kids are fighting over the money. He should have listened! I've known this guy for years. He's not the type to make up these things. It took him three years before he even told me!

DumbEatingDonuts
wrote: That ain't no ghost. Just those kids getting stoned on the medicinal marijuana.

MixMasterMic
wrote: Oh man, I've heard this story. I grew up in that area. A young girl was murdered out there back in the late sixties I think. I remember my neighbor saying he picked her up one night. Almost gave him a heart attack. He's never driven down that road since. Goes miles out of his way just to avoid it. Why hasn't this been documented? This could be the real thing.

Oh. My. God.

That's her. That has to be her.
Instant relief flushes over her body. If other people have seen Molly, that means she's not a figment of Tatum's imagination. She's not some sort of weird illusion designed by Tatum's brain because she's having a meltdown at school.

Molly is real.

And that means Tatum just saw a ghost.

A surprised yelp escapes her lips. No, this can't be real. She checks the dates on the forums, and the discussion occurred about two years ago. Tatum knows these things can be faked. It could still be some sort of joke being played on her. But why? She can't imagine what Claudette would hope to gain by making Tatum believe in ghost stories. They've known each other since they were in kindergarten. Claudette knows that she doesn't scare easily. If there's a logical reason behind this, Tatum can't think of it.

She needs to find out more. The Seattle library should have all the newspapers on the computer. But it could take a long time to go through them. Tatum only has a first name. She doesn't even have a date. The guy on the forum mentioned the murder happening in the late sixties. How many local murders could there be from that time period? Of course, it can't be that simple.

She wants to start looking tonight, but she can hear her parents coming up the stairs. If she gets going now, Tatum knows she'll be up all night. Yawning, Tatum decides that all the information will still be there tomorrow. After school, she'll head over to Bellevue and find a coffee shop to work at.

Turning off her laptop, Tatum can't help but grin. This is exactly what she needed. A mystery to keep her occupied. Something to make her forget that every other moment in her life is hell.

If what happened tonight is real, and she did see a ghost, this is something good that she can do. Molly's body must be out there somewhere along Frog Road. 'Cause everyone knows that's why ghosts haunt: they have unfinished business. She's probably buried somewhere in the fields around Frog Road. If Tatum can find her, she can help the girl reach the afterlife. How amazing would that be?

Just think of the possibilities! If Tatum died, she'd want her parents to have her body so they could put her to rest. Molly probably has family out there somewhere. Are they still waiting around the house, a small flicker of hope rushing through them every time the phone rings or someone knocks on the door? Is it possible they've been waiting over forty years for news of their wayward daughter? If Tatum can solve the mystery, she'll be a hero in their eyes.

And what about Molly's killer? What if there's evidence on the body that could bring him or her to justice? What kind of cool-ass justice could that end up being?

Crawling under the covers, she smiles to herself as she turns out the light. She's already forgotten the warning that the ghost gave her; the words
You're going to die
have escaped her memory.

That's her first big mistake.

No. Oh, no.

Please, God, no.

I can't get the images out of my mind. Even though I'm no longer in the car, no longer touching the girl's skin, the vision refuses to let go. It's gotten inside me, twisting and turning things around until I can't actually tell if it's happening to me personally.

It's like being tortured all over again.

I'm on the ground. There are multiple pairs of legs surrounding me. Some kick at me, sending me crawling around the circle in which I'm trapped. No matter which way I scramble, someone reaches out to push me back toward the middle. I feel something wet in my hair. A boy with a large nose and beady eyes hocks up another loogie and lets it fly. It lands on my cheek and I cry out, frantically trying to wipe it away.

Why are you doing this to me? Why do you hate me so much? I told the truth. Claudette's the liar. She should be here, not me. Her! Go after her!

These are not my thoughts.

From behind, someone grabs my arms and pulls them back. I struggle, but I can't get free. I don't know who is behind me, but their breath smells heavily of spearmint. They're breathing heavily too. Air rushes in and out of my ear canal, making my skin wet from the saliva. My stomach churns, food threatening to escape. I can't help it. The smell is too overpowering. The hot breath. Someone puts a hand across my eyes, yanking my head up in a painful jerking manner. I bring my fingers up to try and free myself, but I'm slapped away. Now it's my turn to gasp for air. I wonder what my breath smells like. Crazy. I'm going crazy.

When they finally release me, the tendons in my neck groan in protest.

Why am I feeling this? I'm not alive. I'm not her.

I can hear girls laughing.

“Aww. Is the poor baby going to cry? Go ahead. No one here to help you.”

“I warned you. This is what we do to snitch bitches.”

I won't cry. No. I refuse. I bite down on my lip and look up at the black sky, refusing to let the burning in my eyes spread across my face. Someone steps on my fingers, grinding them down with their shoes. I hear it, the exact moment when my finger cracks.

Funny. I cried with Walter. I bawled my eyes out. Begging.

But I won't beg this time.

Because it's not me. I'm the girl in the car. Tatum. This is her future.

The reality brings me back. Closing my eyes, I remember who I am.

I am Molly.

When I open my eyes, I'm back at the lake. Parker is waiting for me. Or maybe he's just sitting still. It's hard to tell. He doesn't say anything as I reappear. He's studying the woods to the right. He spends a lot of time looking at the trees and the way they never move. He says sometimes he thinks all the answers are hidden in the valley and we just need to discover them. I'm often glad I don't have Parker's mind. He spends far too much time inside it.

I search around for Mary and spot her on the other side of the lake. She's chatting with the guy from South Africa. Throat slit open in his bed because he witnessed a murder. Now he haunts the dump where the landlord unceremoniously tossed his furniture after no one came to claim it.

“Something bad happened,” I say.

Parker turns to look at me. “What do you mean?”

I tell him all the gory details. This is the first time I've ever foreseen someone's death. I even tell him how I slipped from my reality into hers, sharing her pain and torment. I give exact details to Parker until his steady resolve falters. His eyes grow smaller and smaller until he rubs his forehead with his long fingers. Mary comes by halfway through, and I'm forced to start from the beginning. Every time I relive this, part of me slips out of control. I'm wasting time sitting here. I need to get back to the real world. I need to save that girl.

“Are you sure?” Parker asks.

“Of course I'm sure,” I say.

“It could have been a memory. One of the girl's, perhaps. It might not even be real. It could be something she read in a book or saw in the motion pictures. We don't know if all your visions are real. There's no way we can test that theory either. I don't doubt what you saw, but it may not be true. Maybe you've just incorporated from your own death? Made things worse?”

“I didn't make this up,” I snap.

“Never said you did,” Parker says.

“And I can't think that way,” I say. “These visions I get are real. They tell me things that are happening. I know things that these people have never told me. Secrets. I see the looks on their faces when I tell them.”

“How could that girl's death be happening if she was in the car with you?”

“Because it hasn't happened yet!” I whip around in frustration, glancing back at the crowd of dead people on the beach. They're all quietly watching. Anger flares through me, although I know only I'm to blame. How can they not stare? The way I'm carrying on, they'd be hard-pressed to ignore me.

I want to scream at them. Run across the beach, hurling words, kicking up sand, and upsetting everyone out of their silence. Can't they see what's wrong here? Not just with the girl, but with the system. What good is being a ghost if there's no purpose? If there's no way to help the living? I want to knock over the wrought-iron tables and those stupid parasols that never change. Tear down the paper lanterns and toss them in the lake. I want people to speak up, sing songs, get drunk, and argue among themselves. I want them to feel things. What good is being dead if we can't be alive?

“But that's not the way your visions usually work,” Parker says, his voice calmer and far more quiet than mine. He's sitting on his log, his forehead wrinkled and thoughtful. If he's noticed the fire under my skin, he's pretending it doesn't exist. “Why are you now experiencing something different?”

“Someone changed the rules.”

“That doesn't happen.”

“There's always a first time.”

I can't understand why he's arguing with me. Why can't he nod and pull me close, try and calm my anger and fear? If there were ever a time to be touched and soothed, now would be it. Just like my father used to pull me onto his lap when I was a little girl. He'd hold me tight, letting me smell his aftershave and sweat. In his arms, I could allow myself to calm down. Relax. But here, no such things exist. Touching is only something we used to do. We've forgotten. Instead Parker can only be logical. Why must he make me doubt myself?

“That's not really true now, is it?” Mary says. Her eyes are gleaming. I can always depend on her for a bit of drama. “Molly's foreseen the deaths of loved ones before.”

“Yes!” I say. “Yes, I've done that!”

“I'm not saying it's not possible,” Parker says. “I'm just saying it's different. Telling someone their elderly mother is passing is not the same as telling a young girl she's about to be beaten and killed. It's something we need to discuss. It won't do you any good to get worked up.” He waves his hand around. “It's not like we can do anything. We're stuck. You don't even have a date. And time moves differently here. For all we know, it could have already happened.”

“No,” I say. “I refuse to believe that.”

“I wonder why,” Parker says. He pauses, staring off at the water. Thirty seconds go by, and I start to think he's simply lost the words he meant to speak. “That many people against a young lady. Whatever might possess them to behave that way? How many did you say again?”

“I don't know for sure,” I say. “About ten, at least. More. I could hear voices even if I couldn't see them all.”

“All those people against a wee girl?” Mary says. “That's why I'm glad I'm dead. Stupid mentality of men. Cowards. They need to group together to attack. Don't have the tallywags to go at it themselves. Why, back in me day there was this young bloke. Nicked some bread. You should have seen the way they hunted him down. Disgusting.” She spits on the dirt, and the saliva instantly disappears. “Absolute cowards.”

“That's not really the point,” I say. “How can I stop this from happening? How could God show that to me and not allow me a way to help?”

“I'm pretty sure God has nothing to do with this place,” Mary snaps. “If he did, he'd see how bloody boring it is and give us some jollies.”

“There is a plan to everything,” Parker says.

“Prove it,” Mary says. “Find me the plan in this place. Sure, Molly's got that fancy little gift. But the rest of us just scare innocents every bloody full moon. There's no reason for all this. No purpose. We sit here every damn day and do nothing but stare at a bunch of water. What kind of afterlife is that? Where's our paradise? Where's my eternal rest? Instead I'm stuck here, occasionally showing my deathly knickers to a bunch of alley cats. And they don't care in the slightest. Have you ever tried scaring a cat? Bloody impossible.”

I'm too restless, so I stand up. I walk over to the edge of the lake and look across the water. I love Mary and her observations and opinions. She's one of the only people here who can make this place seem like fun. But right now, it's not making me feel better. She's right. I can't do anything. I've never appeared to the same person more than once. I'll sit on this log for days or months, until finally I'm summoned back up again to warn someone about his or her wayward spouse. By then it'll be too late.

Being helpless is the worst thing in the world. And that's what I am. So are Parker and Mary and every other person who finds themselves dropped off in our little valley. Parker is right. If there is a universal plan, none of us can see what it is. And when we're stuck here, some of us for centuries, it's hard to imagine what purpose all of this holds.

But this. The ability to foresee Tatum's death. If I could find a way to prevent it, then I'd have meaning. My death wouldn't have been for nothing.

Parker comes over to join me. We stand together, listening to Mary ranting quietly to herself. She's really wound up. It'll take a while before she grows calm. This isn't the first time we've seen her like this.

“Maybe you'll see her again,” Parker says. His shoulder brushes against mine. The thickness of his linen shirt presses against my skin.

“It's never happened before,” I say.

“There's always a first time,” he says. “You said it yourself: This is something different. You've never foreseen a death. Did you get a clue to when it'll happen?”

I think about it for a few minutes. Were there any hints to give away a time and place? “No,” I finally say. “But soon. The weather was the same. Cold, but not winter.”

“Let's wait a bit,” Parker says. “Maybe you will go back. If not, I might be able to help you.”

I look up at him. His brown eyes dart to the right, straight into the forest. “What do you mean?”

“I've been working on something for a while,” he says. “Nothing concrete yet. Just ideas. But I may have found a way out.”

I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, Parker starts to disappear.

Fade.

“My turn,” he says. Then he's gone.

Poof.

One night, a few months after I turned fifteen, I pulled a small suitcase from under my bed and began filling it. I didn't need a lot, just a few things to get me through the next week. My peasant skirt, the love beads that Dad had brought home from a Mardi Gras trip to New Orleans, my two favorite blouses, and whatever else I thought I couldn't live without. I couldn't help but feel worried when I snapped the lock down.

“It's going to be great,” Andrea, my best friend, said. She had her own bag, already in the trunk of her car. She sat at my vanity, rifling through the makeup on the glass stand, trying to find a color she liked.

“It's going to be amazing,” I said. Noticing my hairbrush on my nightstand, I reached over and snagged it. Wouldn't do me any good to accidently leave that behind.

I remember the heat that night. We were in the height of summer, and the humidity wasn't going away without a fight. There was so much moisture in the air that every time I inhaled, I felt as if I were trying to breathe underwater. The sweat stuck to my skin, dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. It pooled in the center of my bra. My clothing was still damp, even though the sun had gone down several hours ago. The window in my little bedroom was open, but there wasn't a breeze in sight.

Andrea and I were heading to Bethel, New York. It was 1969, and we were going to Woodstock.

I was more excited than I could remember. In my fifteen years, I'd never even been across state lines. My father was a trucker, so his idea of a vacation was cracking open a beer and sitting on the couch. The farthest I'd gone was an hour or two away to visit relatives when I was little. This was going to be my big adventure. And it would be better than Disneyland, more alluring than white sand beaches and faraway exotic lands.

Hendrix. Janis Joplin. Arlo Guthrie. Grateful Dead. CCR. The Band.

Andrea and I had spent our entire summer sitting on my porch with the music blasting. Thankfully, I had cool neighbors who often came over to join us instead of complaining about the noise. We stuck extension cords together so I could put my old record player out on the steps. Once the sun set, taking away some of the unbearable heat, we'd dance around the yard, our bare feet trampling the dying grass. People would bring over beers and lemonade. Even my brother would tear himself away from the television to come join us. It was the best summer I could ever remember having.

Andrea and I babysat to raise money for our addiction. We spent days cruising record stores, buying up all the new vinyl we could find. Weekends were memorable: sneaking into bars in neighboring towns and listening to local musicians play their hearts out. I bought a guitar from a pawnshop and began to teach myself a few chords, but I grew disillusioned, because no matter how I stretched my fingers across the fret, no matter how I tried to pluck the strings, I couldn't get the right sounds. I finally gave up and sold the instrument to my neighbor after coming to the conclusion that I didn't have to make beautiful sounds; I just needed to hear them.