Chapter 20
Dani doesn’t try to speak with the ghost in the back of her mind again. She doesn’t feel the need to do so. Their last conversation had been so abrupt and so uncomfortable and so horrible and so unsettling that she doesn’t want to go back. Whatever it is that makes things so dead silent on the ghost’s side of the wall is enough to make her stay far away. She doesn’t want to deal with that silence again. She doesn’t like it. And she’s certainly not going to invite the ghost to her side.
It doesn’t even cross her mind that she has started referring to her as a ghost instead of a creature. If it did, she would likely flinch. Whatever the case, the visit did exactly what Jamie and Viola hoped it would – it made Viola more human to her host, even if Dani refuses to think about it.
Outside, the snow is beginning to melt. There are still great clumps of it on the sides of the roads where the plows have pushed it, and while what little snow is left in their yard is still a bright, bright white, those big melting mounds are grey and black and just look more like ash left behind in a fireplace than they do like actual snow. The worst is walking down the sidewalk on the way to the flower shop and having a car zoom by through the puddles left by the melting snow and splattering the greasy gunk all over her. It hasn’t happened too often, but it has happened often enough that she prefers to wait until there are less cars around to walk to the shop.
Today, Dani waits a little longer than normal, debating whether she should even go at all. There hasn’t been much for her to do around the shop; with Valentine’s over, the most they’ve had is people starting to prepare for May weddings or a few people looking into what they might want to do for prom. Most boys don’t start getting prepared for prom that early (Dani is certain that Eddie never did, but she doesn’t like to think about that), and most of what they’ve seen are a few girls who talk to them in soft, uncertain tones, as though wary of being found out or overheard. Dani is certain the girls have come to them because what they are is apparent to those who pay attention without being blatant, which lets them know that they can come talk with them without fear of judgment. She understands. She felt the same way, growing up, and sometimes, she still feels the same way now.
But with little to do at the shop, sometime it feels as though she shouldn’t be there at all. Jamie usually wants her around, just to keep each other company, but….
They’re introverts. That’s the word for it. And together, it’s nice because they can sit in each other’s company without overwhelming each other, but as much as they love each other, they do occasionally need time apart. It isn’t a bad thing. It is just the way they are.
Today feels, perhaps, like a good day to be apart.
This perhaps seems like the antithesis of everything that has been going on, considering their fight, considering her attempt to speak with the ghost in the back of her mind – but it is all of those things together which make today feel like a good day to stay alone and recharge. Or, at least, as alone as Dani can be, given the situation.
Still, the ghost has never quite intruded on her alone time. Sometimes it has stitched itself beneath her skin to read as she does, but it usually has not tucked her away. Even when it has read with her, it hasn’t been….
It has been a lot of things. It would be wrong to say that Dani enjoyed it or even that she was okay with it. She isn’t. That stretch beneath her skin is uncomfortable, like wearing a shoe that is a size too small rubbing blisters on her heels and pinching her toes as she walked – just under her skin instead of over it. And how does one deal with blisters under the skin?
Not well, is the answer to that. Not well.
Dani stares at the mugs for a few minutes, debating. Coffee today, she thinks. Hot chocolate is good, but she has had enough of it over the past few months. And tea…. Well, it’s hard to get herself to really want to make a cup of tea when apparently the ghost who sometimes tucks her away makes a better cup than she does. It never tastes bad to her. How could the ghost be—
No. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about the ghost at all. Making herself a cup of coffee and curling up on the couch for some time to herself. That is the plan. No point in making it worse – or more tense – by thinking about the ghost.
And yet there is still that same, small pressure that builds at the back of her skull, just between the muscles holding it to the top of her spine, as Dani leans against the counter and watches the coffee drip into the pot. She presses her cold fingertips to the spot, but the pressure moves as soon as she does, as though trying to avoid her touch. It moves across the top of her head and rests just between her eyes.
Dani resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. If the ghost wants to be a pain, then let it be a pain. She isn’t going to talk to it again.
The coffee continues to drip into its pot, and when it is done, Dani pulls the pot away. She looks for sugar and creamer – Jamie likes to use Bailey’s, but Dani doesn’t particularly want any sort of alcohol in her drink this early in the day (it may be five o’clock somewhere, but that somewhere is not here) – and on finding the gingerbread creamer that is almost empty (she’d been saving the last of it for a special occasion, and after everything, this should count as a special occasion), she prepares to doctor the pot.
No.
Dani feels something pull on her skin, and she hesitates. A voice echoes in her mind, but it fades almost as soon as she hears it. She shakes her head and prepares to fix her pot again.
STOP.
Her hand freezes in midair. She flinches her fingers. They still work. She’s still here.
But Dani recognizes the voice now. “I know how to make coffee.”
For you, maybe, the ghost murmurs, and Dani can feel the weight of its stare on her. You forget that not everyone has your particular taste deficiencies.
“They’re not deficiencies. I just happen to like my coffee sweeter than—”
Quit trying to mix everything into the pot. The ghost’s voice is a small, fading thing, like a warm spring breeze just brushing against the tree leaves outside. You fix what you have in your cup. You do not prepare the entire pot to your taste.
Dani’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t ask you for advice. I don’t want your advice. Why don’t you go back where you came from, and—”
I expect your Jamie would appreciate it if you left some of the coffee for her, the ghost muses, a whisper inside her mind. She would appreciate it more if she can prepare her own mug to her taste.
“Again,” Dani says. “I did not ask for your help. I can make coffee just fine—”
The ghost sighs. You make coffee as well as you make tea, don’t you?
Dani grits her teeth together. “Enough.” She glares up at the ceiling, imagining that she is glaring at the ghost within her, although she doubts it does any good. “Who are you to think you can tell me what to do?”
Someone who makes a far better cup of tea than you do.
Dani feels the frustrated growl building in the center of her chest and bubbling through her lips, but by the time any sound comes out, the familiar pressure of the ghost’s existence has vanished. She grits her teeth and stares at the pot of coffee. Her hand still holds the creamer in one hand.
Then she takes a deep breath, pours her mug, and begins to try and doctor it from there.
When you tuck your host away and take control, you find Jamie sitting propped up against the headboard with a mug of coffee in one hand and a book propped open in the other. She takes a sip of her coffee as you sit up, brushing your host’s hair back out of your face, and gives you a smug little grin. “You might want to put a shirt on, ghostie.”
You glance down and shrug. “You act as though I haven’t seen anything like this before.” Your head tilts ever so slightly to one side, and a smile crosses your lips. “I expect she would not like this much, would she? My being here when she is in this state of undress?”
Jamie glances over to you, one eyebrow cocked. “Don’t think she was thinking about that, really.”
“Mm.” You tuck her hair back behind one ear, cross her ankles ever so slightly, and then watch as you wiggle her toes. It brings a smile to your face. Amusement. You’re amused. That’s the word for this feeling. “Do you think she would mind if I bathed? It has been centuries since I took a proper bath, and I would much like to soak with a good book and a cup of tea.”
Jamie continues to look at you. She places her mug of coffee to one side. “Much as I would like to thank you for whatever coffee tips you gave her, I don’t think she’d much like that.” Her lips purse together to one side. “You think she’d tell you different?”
“I have not asked her. I have asked you.”
“Mmhm.” Jamie takes a breath and shakes her head once. “Bit like asking Mom if you can do something just ‘cause you know Dad will say no.” She crosses her arms, both eyebrows raised now. “Gonna have to side with Dad on this one. Answer’s still no.”
You hear her, but your mind is elsewhere. Your brows furrow as you think – no, not think, something almost like remembering but not quite.
A woman.
One who looks almost like you, but softer, smaller.
Wavy hair like yours, but lighter.
No sharp cheekbones.
Eyes the same as yours but darker.
Pert nose.
Bright smile.
Everything about her makes you want to embrace her, and yet
the rage at the center of your chest
the one that has been muted for so long
rears its ugly head at the sight of her.
Yet you do not move.
You stand and see events as they unfold before you.
As much as you can.
The woman comes to you
hands clasped together
smile bright.
“Let’s have a party, you and me.”
Her eyes twinkle merrily.
“C’mon, Viola. Say yes!”
You look at her.
You brush the back of your fingers along her cheek.
You tuck a curl of her wavy, auburn hair back behind one ear.
“Did you ask Father?”
She stares at you,
still bright, still full of life
but the eyes darker than yours darken further.
“I asked you.”
You press your lips together.
“Perdy, you know I can’t say yes if Father hasn’t said so.”
“Father is exhausted.”
Her voice is soft, barely a murmur.
“I know he would say yes if you started one.
He always says yes to you.”
“Because I do not push him to hold a party when he is already exhausted.”
You sigh, and your gaze moves past the woman,
lingers somewhere just beyond.
You do not know what you are staring at.
You must have once, whenever this actually happened.
You do not know now.
“Perhaps you should wait until tomorrow.
Ask him then.
Give him time to recover from—”
“He is exhausted more often than he is not.
You know this.”
The young woman’s hands clench tight.
She pouts.
You feel as though she hates you.
You feel as though she loves you.
You feel as though both are true,
not just in this instance
but in all of them.
“Wait,”
you say.
You flinch.
You imagine the man lying on a bed.
You cannot make out his features.
He seems—
“—exhausted,”
the woman says,
and she looks at you with clear frustration.
“You said he was—”
No,
you do not say.
No, I said nothing of the sort.
You said he was exhausted.
I told you to—
“Ghostie?”
Jamie’s voice calls you back from the edge of wherever you were, and you feel her hand on the bare skin of your back, just along the ridge of your shoulder blade. “You feeling alright?”
She sounds concerned. This surprises you. It is odd, somehow, that your host’s lover should be concerned with what happens to you.
You press your lips together and glance over your shoulder just so you can see her. You reach out and touch her face very gently, but as you do, she flinches away. Of course, she does. You are not hurt by this. It is only right, after all. Still, your brows furrow, and your gaze shifts. “I was remembering,” you say, voice soft. “I didn’t know I could do that. I have tried to do that. Unsuccessfully at best.” You take a deep breath and look back up, meeting her eyes. “I remembered something.”
“Right, then,” Jamie says, staring at you. “What did you remember?”
You press your lips together, going over the memories, and you like your lips once. “I think….” You hesitate, trying to make sure that you have considered every angle, but then you say it anyway, head tilting ever so slightly to one side. “I think I had a sister.” Your brows furrow. “I think I had a sister, and I think she wanted me dead.”