I know he’s back,
and I collapse on the
couch in relief.
“I’m sorry for yelling, Jackson.
I didn’t mean it.”
There’s a whisper
inside my head
so soft,
I almost don’t hear the first words.
There are ghost rules, Ava.
I’m not allowed to answer your questions.
I don’t want to keep you from your friends.
I’m sorry I got mad before.
More than anything,
I want you to be happy.
I love you, Ava.
Be happy.
Road Trip
A few days before
the Fourth of July holiday,
they don’t ask me,
they just do it.
Mom and Dad
whisk me away
to the place of
sand and sea,
with the never-ending sound
of waves
thrashing,
lashing,
crashing.
I love that sound.
I love the beach.
I’ve packed my windbreaker,
my sun visor,
my flip-flops
and tank tops.
What I couldn’t pack
was my ghost of a boyfriend,
Jackson.
We’re about to leave
when I say,
“Wait! I forgot something!”
I grab my key
from my purse,
run inside the house
and up the stairs.
“I’ll miss you, Jackson,” I say
to the still, quiet air
around me
as I walk toward
the bookcase in my room.
“I’ll be back soon.
I promise.”
I return to the car
with a stuffed
yellow snake
stuck in the pocket
of my hoody.
Let’s Dance
I walk barefoot next to my mom.
The seagulls dance
across the sand
as the waves crash
on the shore.
The seagull waltz.
I dance around my mother’s
topic of conversation.
“You don’t talk about him.
Are you sure you’re doing okay?”
“Yes.”
“Ava, I’ll just say it.
I’m worried about you.
It seemed like you were doing fine.
But lately, I don’t know.”
“I am fine, Mom.”
She grabs my hand.
Squeezes it.
“I think it might be good for you to talk to someone.”
“A shrink?”
“A grief counselor.”
I stop walking
and let my eyes rest
on the blueness of the ocean,
thinking of Jackson,
wondering if he’s sipping my lemonade
or drinking my cocoa
or frolicking around
in my panty drawer.
“Isn’t it just so amazing, Mom?”
I put my arm around her
and put my head
on her shoulder.
“Sometimes, I think I smell him,” she whispers.
I don’t say anything.
The mother-daughter waltz.
Ghostly Tales
It’s hard
to fall asleep
in a room
that isn’t mine.
In the kite room
of the beach house,
kites are on every wall.
Blue ones,
red ones,
yellow ones,
and even one
shaped like a bird.
I quietly get up
and move over
to the computer.
I turn it on.
I Google “ghosts.”
I click and read
click and read
click and read.
A website claiming to be
“The Number One Resource on Ghosts”
says that if a person dies with “unresolved issues”
or “emotional baggage,”
he can’t move on
to “the higher plane.”
Does Jackson have unresolved issues?
Or emotional baggage?
Do I want to know if he does?
I find a message board
on another site
where people share their experiences
and ask questions.
It seems like each ghost is different.
Some only appear once a year.
Some only appear in dreams.
Some only haunt houses.
Some only show up in mirrors.
Jackson seems to be
a do-anything
kind of ghost.
That makes sense
because he was pretty much
a do-anything
kind of guy.
Lost
The walls are thin.
My parents are talking.
Talking about me.
I tiptoe back to my bed.
Dad says, “The three girls and Nick
have been checking in with her, right?”
“Yes. But she still just sits at home most of the time.”
“She needs to talk to someone.”
“How do we get her to see she does?” Mom asks
“She doesn’t have to see it.
She just has to do it.
We have to make her do it.”
Oh. My. God.
My parents.
My friends.
They all
must think
I’m mental.
And Nick,
was he hitting on me
only because
he felt sorry for me?
I turn over
and cry into my pillow.
Jackson,
why aren’t you here?
I need you!
If I sleep,
will you visit me?
Can you find me?
Please.
Find me.
Flying Alone
The kites
lift me up
and take me away
to a place where I sleep.
I sleep without dreams.
Without Jackson.
Finally,
I rest.
Good Morning
Sunday morning
I wake up early
for the first time
in a long time,
feeling refreshed.
I head to the beach, where
I want to run barefoot
on the sand,
feel the sea breeze
on my skin,
hear the ocean sounds
in my head.
Maybe it will help
me forget
all the mixed-up stuff
going on
in my life.
But I’m not the only one
who is up early.
A black Lab
runs over to me.
I bend down to pet him.
He drops a stick
at my feet.
“Sorry.
He loves to play fetch,”
says the tan guy
with short, blonde hair.
I laugh and say, “Okay.”
Then I throw the stick into the ocean
and watch the dog
chase the stick
with everything
he’s got.
Like if he loses that stick,
his life will never be the same.
The waves cover him
for a second,
but he bobs to the top
with the stick in his mouth.
And soon he is
at my feet,
ready to play again.
“Good boy,” I tell him.
His owner moves closer to me and says,
“His name is Bo.”
“Good Bo.” We laugh.
“And I’m Lyric.”
“Lyric?
That’s a cool name.
Do you sing?”
He breaks out
into an opera-style
rendition of
You Are My Sunshine.
I laugh and applaud.
He takes a bow.
“Wow.
So you’re not shy,” I tell him.
“Not shy at all,” he says
as he sits
on a piece of driftwood
and pulls on my arm
so I’m sitting
right next to him.
Silly Nothingness
We people-watch
and talk
and laugh
about silly things,
like the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders
(he likes football)
and how he thinks that’s the easiest job in the world
and how I think, no way can that be even close to easy!
I wonder if he knows
I’m not capable
of anything more
than this.
I wonder
if he would care?
In the Moment
I am
talking,
and laughing,
and listening,
and talking some more.
Lyric is totally flirting with me,
which feels so weird
but flattering,
I guess.
He tells me a story
about a crazy friend of his
who’s trying to beat
the pogo stick
world record,
and the way he talks about
bounce bounce
bouncing
on that pogo stick
makes me laugh
hysterically.
And for the first time
in a long,
long
time,
I feel
ALIVE!
So Long, Farewell
Then I remember.
I remember him.
The one I will love forever
and the one who loves me so much
he can’t leave me behind.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Can I get your number?” he asks.
“I can’t.
It’s complicated.”
I turn and walk away.
I don’t want to say good-bye.
So I won’t say anything.
Bo barks.
He says it for all of us.
“Drop me an e-mail,” he calls out.
“It’s Lyric@remstat.com.”
I know he wants me to turn around
to say “okay”
or give a thumbs-up.
Something.
Anything.
I should turn and say,
I have a boyfriend.
I belong with him.
But the words refuse to come.
“I’ll see you in my dreams, Ava,” he calls to me.
I stop.
I get goose bumps.
I turn to make sure it’s really Lyric,
and not
Jackson.
He waves,
and I wonder who I’ll see
in my dreams
tonight.
Independence Day
I watch
the festivities
from the window.
Kids running,
waving sparklers.
Dads lighting
firecrackers.
Moms pulling kids back,
saying, “Don’t stand too close.”
The sky
fills with
red,
white,
and blue.
Into the darkness comes
light,
joy,
and freedom.
Tomorrow I go home
to Jackson.
I consider
what freedom
really means.
And I realize
maybe I’m not so free
after all.
It Doesn’t Make Sense
As the car moves
toward home,
my thoughts
don’t seem
to want to go there
just yet.
I didn’t
want
to leave
the place of
salty air
and kite rooms
and lyrical boys.
Not only
did I survive
the days
which I didn’t think
I could,
they refreshed me,
revitalized me,
reminded me
of what I’ve been
missing.
What does that mean
exactly?
My thoughts
don’t seem
to want to go there
just yet
either.
Back Home
It’s late
when we get home.
I feel my pulse
quicken
as I think
about Jackson,
hoping he won’t be too upset.
The house is quiet.
Dark.
Normal.
Mom and Dad go to bed.
I make a PB&J sandwich.
I wait for movement
or music
or mind messages.
But there’s nothing.
I eat,
then go to my room.
My room is quiet.
Dark.
Normal.
I go to the bathroom, where
I stand at the mirror
long after I’m done
brushing and washing.
Finally, I go to bed,
wondering if he’ll find me
in my dreams,
and sort of praying
he won’t.
Light the Way
I wake up
in the middle of the night
to candles
lit up
in the darkness.
“Jackson,” I whisper,
“that’s sweet,
but you can’t do things like that.
What if my mom or dad walks in?”
A gust of wind
blows across the room
and in an instant
the room
turns
black.
Sorry.
“No, Jackson.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry this is so hard.”
And I wonder when I’ll finally
stop having things
to feel sorry about.
What’s Going On?
No one called
while we were away.
No one calls
after we return.
I spend time
watching TV,
playing solitaire
on the computer,
and reading magazines.
Jackson hangs around
some of the time.
But I still wish
someone
would
pick up the
phone
and
talk
to
me.
To Go or Not to Go
Days go by
and I finally
call Cali.
Why have I been
such a bad friend?
What happened to the good friend
who’d pick a bouquet of daisies for Cali
or make peanut butter cookies for Jessa
or burn a CD of songs for Zoe?
I miss flowers
/> and cookies
and music.
I want to feel
like a friend again.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Uh, I’m getting ready to head out,” she says.
“Gotta hot date?”
“Sort of.”
“Really?
With who?”
“A bunch of people are going to-”
She stops.
I wait.
She doesn’t finish.
“Oh no,” I say.
“Not there.”
“Ava, it’s time.
It’s not an evil place, you know.
Kids are hanging out there as a tribute to him.
It’s like you can feel his spirit there.
Really.
There’s even been talk of changing the name.
You know, to Jackson’s Hideaway.”
“But Cali, he died there.
How can people have fun at the place where he died?”
“I’m going,” she says.
“You could come too.
It might be good for you, actually.”
“Cali, I called because I need to talk to you.
Please?
Can we go have a mocha?
And I’ll think about going.
I will.”
Well,
Cali never could
turn down a mocha.
No Secrets
We sip on our mochas
at Starbucks,
where we’ve
spent hours upon hours
talking
and giggling
like girls do.
My heart tells me
it’s time to spill my guts.
After all,
I used to tell her
everything.
I told her about the time
I snuck out one night
to meet Jackson
down the corner
so we could make out
on the back porch
of the vacant house.
I even told her about the time
I kissed Nick
at midnight
on New Year’s Eve
when I was still going with Jackson
but he was out of town
and I was lonely.
And now I tell her about how
Jackson is in my house
and how he turns the CD player on
and how he appears in mirrors
and how he sends me messages
in his own little ways
and visits me in my dreams.
“Are you saying he’s a ghost?” she asks.
“Basically. Yeah.”
And then she gives me
the look.
That look
that says,
“Girlfriend,
you have totally
gone off the
d
e
e
p
e
n
d.”
Stop It!
She rolls up
the corner of her napkin.
She fiddles with the
packets of sugar.
She looks around,
like she wants to escape,
but doesn’t know how.