Beyond the Grave (14 page)

Bliss was waiting for me outside the Yerian Building the next day, her eyes wide with urgency. “I need to talk to you.”

“Can it wait? Class starts in five minutes.” Not that I truly cared. I was exhausted, and after the previous day's events, being late for class would be the least—and most normal—of my problems.

“Have you seen Noah recently?”

I looked at her. She was wearing a light green dress that reminded me of spring leaves, a bright contrast against the gray September sky above us.

“I haven't seen him in two days,” I told her. It didn't sound like much, but it was the longest we'd gone without contact since we had begun dating. My phone showed that he had called several times the night before, but the calls had come after I'd gone to bed and he hadn't left a message.

Despite my need to talk to him, I refused to reach out. He had messed up. It was his responsibility to contact me. That's what I told myself, anyway. I couldn't decide if I was more angry or hurt.

Or scared.

Because the Noah I knew would never have lied to me or stayed away for two days. My Noah made sure my birthday was celebrated with a thoughtful piece of jewelry. He tried to defend me when we were being attacked and stood beside me when things got rough. The person I was in love with would not betray me this way. So why had he? The answer was too terrible to think about.

“I need to talk to him,” Bliss said. “It's important.”

“What's going on?” Bliss barely knew Noah. The three of us had shared AV class together in high school, but that was it. What could she possibly want to talk about with my boyfriend?

Or maybe, I thought miserably, my future ex-boyfriend.

“It's hard to explain.” Bliss bit her lower lip. “I kind of need you to trust me on this one.”

“Okay.” I took out my phone. “Let me give you his number.”

She seemed surprised. “Really? Just like that?”

“Right now, you're one of the few people I actually trust.” I took her phone and typed in Noah's number. “If you need something, it's yours.” I finished programming the number and handed back the phone. “You'll tell me later, right?”

“Of course.” Bliss smiled. “Thank you, Charlotte. This helps more than you know.”

“He's acting weird right now,” I admitted. “If you find out what's going on with him, will you let me know?”

She bit her lip again. “I promise.”

I watched as Bliss hurried away. She wasn't going to class, I realized. She was rushing in the opposite direction, toward the parking lot. I shifted my backpack from one shoulder to the other. I had no desire to go to class. I also did not want to go home and face Shane, who was working on the DVD.
There had to be someplace where I could retreat, some quiet, peaceful space that would accept me for a little while.

An hour later, I was listening to ocean waves as they cascaded through Potion's speakers. Beth was helping a customer select a calming scent of incense, but she acknowledged me with a solemn tip of her head. I ignored the selection of candles and multicolored scarves and walked directly to the back room. Then I found the door hidden between bookshelves and pushed it open.

Outside, the secret garden tucked between alleyways was alive with color and noise. Birds hopped from tree branch to tree branch while a stone fountain murmured in the corner. I sat on the bench in the center of the space and closed my eyes. I breathed in the scent of jasmine and listened to the sounds around me, allowing them to soothe my frazzled nerves.

I don't know how long I sat there. An hour, maybe less. I was aware of Beth's presence when she sat down next to me, but I was so relaxed that I didn't feel the need to say anything.

“I'm glad you're here,” Beth said after a few silent minutes. “I was hoping you'd come to see me.”

I took a deep breath. I had never meditated, but I could understand why so many people swore by it. A few quiet moments by yourself with a clear mind could do wonders. I felt strong and sure and ready for anything. Or almost anything.

“Michael told me about your visit to see your mom yesterday,” Beth continued. “I'm so glad you went.”

“Me, too.”

“He said you were feeling better, stronger.”

I
was
feeling stronger, but not better, exactly. My life was still a mess. You could be strong and still have crazy, unpredictable relationships. I didn't understand everything that was going on, but at least I understood myself. And what I understood was that I was a fighter, the kind of fighter who would
not allow her opponent to scare her into doing nothing. I had already spent time cowering in the corner. It hadn't solved anything.

Beth took my hand in hers. Her grasp was warm and reassuring. I held on to her tightly, imagining that she was my mom.

“What do you believe?” Beth asked. “Do you believe your mother will pull through this?”

“I believe it's possible.”

So many things were possible. Doctors relied on science and research, and that made sense to me. They had to be able to provide percentages and not offer false hope. But was any hope truly false? There were always exceptions. Couldn't Mom be one of those?

“What else do you believe, Charlotte?”

I allowed myself to really think about Beth's question. I knew she wasn't trying to rush me, and I could take my time. It was time for me to start thinking about it. Until now, my parents had answered everything for me. They had shaped my world and decided what was real. Now it was time to figure out some of the answers for myself.

“I believe that my mom can get better,” I said. “She might not be exactly the way she was, but she doesn't have to remain the way she is now.”

I knew any possible recovery wouldn't be the kind I had seen on soap operas. There would be no fluttering of eyelids, followed by a sleepy smile and a lame joke about how long she had been out. Instead, there would be a slow return to normal brain functions, and time spent in a wheelchair that we would push to rehab. It would be enough to have her look at me and know that she was actually seeing me and could register my presence.

“I also believe that I am connected to Michael somehow. But I can't figure it out.” I turned to Beth. “Do you know?”

“Yes,” she said. “But it's up to him to tell you.”

“He's not my long-lost brother, is he?”

She laughed. “No, I can promise you that.”

“But sometimes he feels like it.”

“That's a good thing, Charlotte. It's your instincts telling you that he's trustworthy.”

Again, there was that issue of trust. An image of the Pink Rose flashed in my mind. I could almost hear Mom's voice telling me that I could always trust family, that trust was a choice we make. I knew I could trust Beth. And Bliss and Avery and Michael.

But not Noah.

Beth pulled me in for a sideways hug. The gesture reminded me of Mom, and I dissolved into tears.

“Let it out,” she murmured. “It's okay.”

Except nothing was okay, and all the tears in the world would not wash away the problems that had stained my life.

After I had finished a marathon session of crying and assured Beth a hundred times that I was fine, I drove home. It was past rush hour, and traffic was sparse. I was grateful—crowded highways made me clench the steering wheel and sit up so straight that my back hurt. But the hour-long drive gave me time to think, and by the time I parked in our driveway, I determined that I needed two things: to attempt another EVP session and to see Noah in person. Both required action.

And trust.

Because despite everything, I still trusted that Noah loved me. If the Watcher was trying to take him, I would fight, just as I had the last time. When Marcus had died, I had seen his eyes. His last words were that he had tried to fight it, which
meant to me that Noah would also fight being taken over. There was still time to save him. There had to be.

There also had to be time to save Mom. The whispering female voice I had captured on my EVPs was not threatening. Beth said that I had good instincts. Well, my instincts told me that the entity I had contacted meant me no harm.

Dad was reading a book at the kitchen table when I walked in. “You're home late,” he said. “Did you already have dinner? Because there's leftovers in the fridge.”

“I'm good.”

He shut his book. “I wanted to let you know that Trisha's bringing over some of her wedding stuff tomorrow.”

“Wedding stuff?”

Dad shrugged. “That's as specific as she would be. Apparently, she's run out of room in her apartment.”

“Great. Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

I began to make my way toward the stairs, but Dad stopped me. “Are you okay with all of this? The wedding, I mean.”

I leaned against the wall. “I'm not thrilled, but it's okay. I promise to be on my best behavior and smile for all the pictures.”

“I'm going to hold you to that.”

I wanted to go upstairs to my room, but Dad seemed like he was in a good mood and we rarely had a chance to talk. I pulled out a chair and sat across from him at the table.

“What was your wedding like?”

I had flipped through their tiny album commemorating the event, but it consisted of formal pictures taken in a courthouse and gave few clues about the day itself.

He shook his head. “It was a total disaster. Everything went wrong.”

I smiled. “Tell me.”

It was a story I had only heard in bits and pieces. My par
ents had decided to get married on New Year's Eve at a small church in Maine, where they had been living for six months. They hadn't counted on a vicious storm front that stranded their relatives in the Midwest and crippled the entire Northeast.

“The church lost power and we had to go downtown. We were lucky to find a judge to marry us,” Dad said. “We had no guests, no cake, no music.”

“Why didn't you postpone it?” I wanted to know.

“We talked about it. In the end, all we wanted was to get married. Most of the details involved the reception, and that wasn't as important to us. We threw a big party a few months later, and it was great.”

“A wedding with no cake? That's my favorite part.”

“We improvised.” He said that they found a bakery and feasted on cupcakes. Then, on the ride home through the snowy streets, Mom's favorite song came on the radio. It was one she had wanted to hear during the reception, and as soon as it came on, Dad turned up the volume, parked on the shoulder of the road, and pulled Mom close. They listened to their song as the headlights illuminated fat snowflakes that fell from the night sky.

Dad was lost in memories, but at least they weren't the painful kind. His face revealed a content happiness I hadn't seen in a long time. I listened to him for a while, letting myself be pulled into those memories. By the time he was done reminiscing, it was late.

And I still had work to do.

The ritual was working. As soon as I sat down on my bedroom floor and arranged my equipment in front of me, I saw results. The lights on the EMF reader flashed in an instant rainbow of color. My digital recorder was already running, and I didn't hesitate to ask my usual questions.

“Is someone here with me?”

The steady lights were all the proof I needed that something was there, but I followed my standard procedure regardless.

“Can you help me? Can you help my mom?”

I waited. “What am I supposed to do?”

I sat silent for minute, hoping that my recorder was picking up answers. It was past midnight, Dad was asleep, and the only light in my room came from my tiny desk lamp. It was like all the other times I had done this, and there was something comfortable about it.

As I asked my questions, I realized there was one answer I needed desperately: the Watcher's real name. After asking it out loud, I noticed that the lights blinked wildly. I let the recorder run for another minute. Then the EMF lights went off, and I knew the session was over.

Grabbing my notebook and pen, I prepared to write down every syllable I could decipher from the recording.

My voice posed the familiar questions. A few seconds later, the soft female voice responded. Her answers were muffled, as if she was whispering from far away. I pulled out my earbuds so I could turn up the volume and not wake Dad.

“Can you help me? Can you help my mom?”

The answer was yes, but the voice was so weak it sounded more like
“ess.”

“Can you help Noah?”

The reply was slightly stronger this time, but hearing it made my heart sink. No. The word came out like a hoarse whisper, but the determination behind it was clear. I couldn't tell if the woman speaking was young or old. Definitely not a child, I thought.

“What am I supposed to do?”

At first, the voice began talking fast, a rush of words I could not untangle no matter how high I turned up the volume. Then it slowed down and became breathier, as if the entity was losing her energy.

I came to the question that mattered most. “Can you tell me the real name of the Watcher?”

Again, there was a rush of whispered words. I picked up on “us,” but it was surrounded by other, less clear words.

Confused, I went back to the beginning of the recording. An answer was here, I knew it. I sat hunched over on my bedroom floor, scribbling down any word or part of a word that stood out. I was so engrossed in my work that I didn't register the fact that someone else was in the room with me—until I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I yelped in fear and surprise. My first thought was that I had been discovered by Dad and would have a lot of uncomfortable explaining to do. But when I turned my head slightly, a
hand clamped down on my mouth. Dad would never do that. The terror that instantly flooded my senses thrust me onto the verge of a massive panic attack. I ripped out the earbuds and tried to lurch to the side, away from the intruder.

“Shh. Charlotte, please don't scream. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“Noah?” My panic was only slightly diminished.

He crouched in front of me. “I'm so sorry. I tried calling, but your phone was off. I wasn't trying to scare you.”

My heart was pounding, my nerves frazzled. Something wasn't right. “How did you get in here?”

“I have a spare key, remember?” He held it out as proof. I stared at the silver object in his hand as if it could explain everything to me. I had given him the key months ago, but this was the first time he'd ever used it.

I kept my teary eyes on the key. “Why are you here, Noah?”

He shifted from his crouching position so that he was sitting across from me. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wiped at a single tear that ran down my cheek. Part of me wanted to look at him, really look at him. I wanted to know that his eyes were the same, that maybe the bruise on his neck had finally faded. But I held back. What if the eyes looking back at me were not really his?

“I'm here because I haven't seen you for almost three days,” he said, taking my hand in his. “I was getting worried. Are you mad at me or something?”

Now I looked at him. His green eyes were wide with concern but also appeared sunken, as if he was sleep deprived. His brown hair stood out in unwashed spikes, and the tag on his navy-blue T-shirt peeked out below his neck. It was on backward. This was not my boyfriend. This was a stressed
out shadow of my boyfriend. The betrayal I'd felt growing over the past 48 hours gave way to something else.

“Are you okay?” I reached out to touch his cheek, but he pulled away. My anger instantly resurfaced. “You lied to me.” I watched his face as I made my accusation. All I saw was confusion as his brow wrinkled.

“Lied to you? About what?”

“I stopped by the school. Morley told me you dropped his class last month. So what have you been doing every time you say you're filming football games?”

Noah shook his head. “What are you talking about? I never dropped Morley's class.”

He sounded incredulous, as if I'd just told him I had been abducted by purple aliens. There was something in his voice that was so genuinely confused that I hesitated, almost doubting myself. But I had spoken to Morley. And there was no reason for my former teacher to lie to me.

“I was at the school,” I said again. “I spoke to Morley. He said you were no longer a student in his class.”

“I was there editing footage yesterday, Charlotte. There's been a mistake.” He ran a hand through his hair, creating more jagged angles. I wondered when he had last taken a shower.

“It's a mistake,” he mumbled. “I would never lie to you.” He took both my hands in his. “I would
never
lie to you. Not ever.”

The heart is a dependable gauge of sincerity. And my heart believed him.

It was my head that couldn't make sense of the situation.

The nightstand clock showed that it was nearly two in the morning. I was tired. I wanted to return to my EVP session. I wanted to curl under my comforter and go to sleep.

I also wanted everything to make sense between me and
Noah. The list of all the things I wanted was too long to contemplate. I had to deal with what was in front of me, and what was in front of me was my boyfriend, a person I once trusted more than any other. My heart begged me to believe him, that it was all a weird mistake, but my head warned me that Noah's story did not make sense.

“You're not telling me everything.” It was the only thing I could say because it was the only thing I was sure was true.

Noah still held my hands in his, but his grip loosened a little. “I saw my dad.”

“What? When?”

“A few days ago.” Noah described how he was waiting for the bus one morning, listening to his MP3 player and drinking a soda to help him wake up. The bus was turning down the street when Noah looked up—and saw his dad standing across the street.

“I didn't recognize him at first,” he said. “He was just a guy wearing a khaki jacket. But then he held up his hand, like a wave to say hi. And then I knew.”

“What did you do?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. I got on the bus and went to school. I was in shock, I guess.”

“That's understandable. You haven't seen him in over a decade.” I thought of something. “Noah, are you absolutely sure it was him? Maybe it was just a guy who looked like him.”

“Maybe.” He sighed. “Maybe I was dreaming again.”

“Again? Are you still sleepwalking?” I couldn't help the overwhelming urge to comfort him. It was so confusing. For days I had seethed over his betrayal, but seeing him in person changed something inside me. He denied lying and I wanted to believe him. Part of me
did
believe him.

“I get up, I go to school.” Noah was talking as if he was trying to convince himself of something. “I eat the same
grilled cheese sandwich for lunch every day. Same classes, same everything.” He looked down at his clothes. “Exactly the same.”

I didn't know how to respond to his rambling. He began to stand up, but as he did he wobbled and his foot hit the EMF reader, causing it to bump into the side of my bed.

“What is all this stuff?” He picked up the reader and I cringed. My little late night secret had been exposed. I didn't want to lie, but I didn't want to explain, either. I chose a middle option.

“It's my mom's.”

“Oh.” He placed it on my bed. “I should go.”

“Wait.” Everything felt so unfinished. “Please don't leave yet. You need to rest. Why don't you crash on our couch? Even if it's just for a few hours.”

He turned so that we were facing each other. He was so close that I could feel his breath when he exhaled, but all I could think of was that he looked so
sad.

“Do you remember how we first met?” he asked.

“Of course. We met in AV class.” The randomness of his question puzzled me, but I wanted him to keep talking.

“No. We met that morning, in the office.”

I remembered my first day at Lincoln High. Avery and a group of cheerleaders had escorted me to the main office so I could pick up my schedule. It was crowded, and I didn't notice the other students around me.

“I was there because my locker was busted,” he said. “I was waiting around, and suddenly you were there, surrounded by all those girls. But you were the first one I saw. The only one.”

His voice turned husky. He leaned in, but instead of kissing, we simply let our foreheads rest against each other. “I thought, if she would only look at me, I'll be happy. And then, when you walked into class at the end of the day and helped me
with the camera wires, I thought, wow. Gorgeous
and
smart? I was done.”

The memory of that moment made me smile. At the time, I had been struggling through my first day at a new school. That's all I'd thought it was. If only I'd known that it was the day I would meet Noah, the first guy I'd ever completely fallen in love with.

“I wish that a camera had been on so we would have our first conversation together on tape,” I said, my forehead still pressed against his. “I would watch it every day.”

“I would, too. Just to remind myself of how lucky I am.” He placed both his hands on my face and kissed me, softly at first. Then I pulled him in more tightly, wanting to remind him of how much I loved him, how much he meant to me. Words weren't enough—I had to show him. But as I was pulling him toward my bed, he stepped back.

“I have to go.”

“No!” I needed him to stay, needed to know that he was okay and not wandering around in the dark by himself. “You can't leave.”

I wanted us to spend the night curled around each other in my bed, talking about everything from our first dance together on an empty beach to our picnic on campus. I wanted to relive those moments when I'd felt truly happy, because I had the sinking feeling that they were gone forever, erased by an unseen hand.

Noah hugged me, and I hugged him back as firmly as I could. “I'm not leaving you,” he whispered. “Don't worry about that.”

I closed my eyes and he kissed each one of my eyelids, a kiss that was so soft it could have been the flutter of a dragonfly's wing.

“I'll talk to you tomorrow,” he said. And then he left.
I heard him walk down the stairs and out the front door, and it wasn't until a few minutes had passed that I realized I had no idea how he had gotten to my house.

I cried for a while and tried to comprehend what had just happened. It felt important. It felt final. But it couldn't be.

My room was still littered with equipment that needed to be put away, so I busied myself with stashing the gear in its box and sliding it under my bed. The only thing I didn't put back was the digital recorder. My EVP session still needed to be transcribed, but I wasn't in the mood to do it tonight. I stored the recorder in my purse, put everything else back in its place, and went to bed without putting on my pajamas.

It was late, and despite my concern over Noah, my body begged me to let go. As I slipped into sleep, I thought about Noah, and hoped that somehow, he would find his way home.