Between Seasons (13 page)

She stretched again, pushing herself off the mattress to stand and reach toward the ceiling, the muscles of her bare back flexing and bunching. Patrick stood, rooted to the floor, feet not budging even as he desperately directed them to walk out of her bedroom. Her slight waist gently curved away at the hip, and a small, round mole in between her shoulder blades drew his attention. He wanted to touch it, circle it with his thumb to feel the texture.

Leave. Go.

Sara turned and grabbed her robe, giving Patrick a view of her nipples. She was small through the chest, even after gaining a few pounds, but her breasts were pert. Even though he and Ginny had gone all the way on more than one occasion, they’d both remained covered for the most part –Ginny had kept her shirt on when they were in the back seat of his car in case they had to make a quick getaway from a nosy cop, and the few times they’d done it in a bed, they’d been under the covers in the dark. He’d never seen a live woman’s body this naked in the light, and the fascination overcame his need to be respectful.

The step he took put him a few feet closer to Sara, and he reached out a hand, intent on feeling the heaviness of her flesh. It wouldn’t feel good, not like really touching her, but he wanted the sensation. Needed it.

Sara turned away from him before he could make contact, breaking him out of the spell.

“What am I doing?” he muttered. He lowered his eyes to the carpet while she put her robe on, feeling like a perv.

She hadn’t bothered to tie the robe closed, the curves of her still visible. Avoiding her bedroom and the bathroom when she first woke up as he had been doing seemed suddenly like both the wisest and worst decision ever. He was a Peeping Tom now, but he couldn’t deny he wanted nothing more than to see her half-naked again… or all the way naked. The hard-on tenting his corduroy pants was a testament to that, but the strange mix of shame and greedy desire ruin ed the moment for him.

Singing a song he’d heard from her speakers a few days ago, she stutter-stepped in his direction, and he scrambled to get out of her way. The disgust he felt over spying on her, trying to touch her like that… she couldn’t know he was here. He couldn’t give her even the slightest indication. She would hate him, and he couldn’t blame her.

She passed by him, still singing. The compulsion to stretch his hand toward her made him scuttle back, his legs moving through a stool. His lips turned down into a grimace. He’d never get used to that feeling, and it somehow seemed worse because he felt like shit in the first place.

The bathroom door stayed open a few inches behind her to reveal the sound of the water stutter ing on, beating on the tile of the shower wall. Patrick stood, hand flush against the door but not touching the wood, eyes staring pointedly, wishing he could see through it just as easily as he could walk, but at the same time feeling grateful he couldn’t.

He imagined Sara stripping off her long, striped socks and wiggling her toes before slipping the underwear down her legs. His hard-on was back, something he couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything about in an attempt to alleviate the desperate need he felt for her. It w ould probably be more frustrating if he tried to jerk-off since he couldn’t really finish – that he know of –and it would make him feel like a creeper to have his dick in his hand outside the door, listening to Sara shower.

It probably wasn’t any worse than standing there while fantasizing what she looked like without underwear, though. This was likely the reason he wasn’t in Heaven –it was probably his perverted mind. Too much jerking off, too many dirty thoughts before he’d taken that header down the stairs . Father Thomas had warned them when he visited the youth group that one time, but everyone had thought it was a big joke. Patrick had used rubbers, too, probably sealing his fate as far as God went . No wonder he was being punished like this.

So far, Catholics were the only religious group he’d found that had real rules about birth control. Well, as far as his book of religion went anyway. There was probably some African tribe somewhere who worshipped rubbers and stuff, some religious sect the writer didn’t know about. Maybe they had their own theories about death, this tribe… about the afterlife. Something cool, like you did your fifty years on Earth after you die and then you win a million dollars and become king of the underworld. He didn’t need a crown, though; he just needed Sara.

He turned away and stomped down the stairs, wondering if it was too late to repent. Maybe he should start moving stuff around the house, floating his records through the air in front of Sara –maybe she’d have a priest over to bless the place. Did it count to confess to a priest if he couldn’t hear the confession? Patrick didn’t have a rosary, but he could still recite a couple of Our Fathers and Hail Marys, right? Maybe it would make a difference. Or maybe the blessing would force his spirit or whatever the Hell he was to move on. Even though Jules’ blessing hadn’t done a thing, maybe a professional would be more successful.

The wall felt reassuringly solid behind his back as he slid down and slumped in the corner of the living room and stared out the window. From his vantage point, the second floor of the neighbor’s house was visible. No one was up except maybe the squirrels running across the phone lines. Hell , he’d even be happy to be reincarnated as one of those tree rats. If he remembered correctly, that would still mean he was being punished –didn’t the Hindu thing depend on being rewarded by reincarnation into something better? Then again, almost anything would be an improvement.

He changed his mind immediately the second he saw Sara descend the stairs. Her feet snapped against the wood, her hand pulling at her wet hair. Thank God she’d gotten fully dressed. Her laptop gleamed under one arm.

“Tea and then writing,” she said. “Maybe…” Her mouth twisted, and she lowered her voice. “Don’t be an idiot. Stop flirting with your pretend ghost boyfriend.”

Patrick snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, okay – and I’ll pretend not to
be your ghost boyfriend. Hey, Sara?” He waited a moment, fantasizing that she’d answer, Yes, Patrick?
Of course, there was nothing but the sound of her humming, so he continued. “I’m sorry for being a jerk this morning. You are beautiful, though.”

She turned her back on him and padded into the kitchen.

“I don’t blame you for giving me the silent treatment. I was an ass to check you out like that.” He felt pathetic pretending Sara was pissed off at him simply so he could hang on to any feeling of normalcy he could - her not talking to him on purpose was a nicer thought than his complete invisibility.

The sound of a cabinet door opening and closing filtered through the open doorway, along with the clinking of ceramic against ceramic, a drawer sliding out and back. A few minutes later, there was the sound of a kettle whistling shrilly and more bangs. Sara emerged with cup of tea and a plate of toast, settling them both on the coffee table before sliding onto the couch and crossing her legs under her.

“What’s this?”

The green sea glass on top of his book winked in the light coming through the front window. Sara reached over and picked it up. Patrick l ooked from her hand to her face .

“I left a gift for you. I wanted you to have something of mine… well, something I gave you.”

“That’s so… but where did it come from? Weird.”

“Found it down the shore one day… I’ve had it forever.” Patrick could still feel the smoothness of the glass in his palm, so he could imagine what it felt like for Sara, the warmth of her hand heating the stone as it once did when he had held it. It made him feel closer to her to know they could share the experience.

“Look at that – it’s almost… it’s heart-shaped.”

“You have my heart, Sara,” Patrick said, feeling like an idiot even as the truth of the words coursed through him, “in more ways than one.”

“This is really… but…” She looked toward the stairs and back at the glass. “I’ve never seen this before, so how did it get on top of that book? Kevin sure as Hell didn’t leave it. He would have left a condom or a picture of himself.” She chortled and rubbed her thumb over the surface.

“Goddamn it,” Patrick muttered, pounding his fist into his knee. How was he going to tell her it was from him? Did he want to? She’d only be freaked out. Deep in his heart, he wanted her to know.

She balanced the glass on her knee and seized her laptop, opening it on her legs, the glass staying precariously situated. “I should put you on the table, but you’re so pretty.”

Patrick grinned crazily. Only Sara would talk to a rock and make it seem normal. The tapping sound of her fingertips on the keys lulled him, his eyelids drooping. He didn’t want to sleep, so he moved to the front window, watching Megan pack her daughter into the car, smiling an d talking to her husband as they ducked into the front seat. The car backed out of the driveway and sped off down the street. Jimmy wiped sweat from his forehead while cutting his mother’s grass next door. Patrick still couldn’t get over how old Jimmy looked and wondered, not for the first time, what he’d look like if he’d lived. His dad had grown that balding horseshoe pattern on the top of his head –would he be missing his hair like that by now too ? He thought of Ginny and how her appearance had changed, but there was so much of her that was the same too.

“I watched her leave with him,” Sara’s voice intoned from behind him. He turned toward her –her forehead wrinkled, her eyes scann ing the laptop. “Everything about the guy was awful –she couldn’t have dated a guy more wrong for her, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

She continued reading what Patrick assumed she’d written, his eyes growing wider with each word. She was recounting what had happened last night after she left with Kevin, describing how he’d dug out his box of collected rocks from under the insulation. Baring the depth of his feelings for her, the longing in his heart. It was mortifying, yet fascinating. How had she come up with it? He hadn’t even been thinking about it… at least not while she was writing. There hadn’t been even a moment when he tried to telegraph his thoughts about giving the piece of glass to her, but she’d somehow picked up on it and exposed every last detail, even subtly getting across the feeling of walking through the attic door.

Her voice faltered at the last word of the scene as she tentatively touched the glass still balanced on her knee.

“Patrick…”

“Sara!” Patrick yelled, hoping like Hell she’d hear him, acknowledge him. “I’m here!”

She didn’t move or make any indication that a ghost was screaming at her. She simply continued rubbing her thumb over the surface of the glass.

“There’s no way,” she whispered. “This is crazy.”

“It’s not,” Patrick murmured, his legs bringing him closer to her without even realizing they were moving. “I’m real.”

Even he had doubts about that.

“No.” She closed her fist around the glass, face screwing into a scowl. Her body exploded off the couch, streaking up the stairs before Patrick could even react. “No!”

“Oh, shit!” Sara was going for the attic. Maybe he should let her find his cigar box. She’d know the truth, although if he was in her position, he didn’t know if he’d ever allow himself to believe something so idiotic. A lovesick ghost was leaving him presents? Yeah, right.
Sure .

He ran after her, catching up to her as she sprinted up the attic stairs. His books were all hidden again –nothing to indicate the location of the cigar box, so maybe she wouldn’t find it? Maybe she’d start at the other end of the attic. It was a big space, and it was unlikely she’d discover the right spot. Even though he wanted her to know he’d really given her the glass, he worried about how she’d react. It was one thing to know a guy died in her house and pretend to talk to a ghost and maybe think she could sense something touching her, but it would be quite another to have evidence of channeling a spirit and knowing for sure he loved her and left the gift.

His sigh of relief when she started peering under insulation in the wrong spot filled the attic, and he sat gingerly on the plywood floor in front of where his box hid, hoping maybe if s he came near he could touch her, send her running. He didn’t want to scare the crap out of her, but the feeling of it being a bad idea to confirm his existence wouldn’t leave him alone.

In the meantime, he enjoyed the view. Sara’s ass waggled while she searched on her hands and knees. She did find other things… his book on religion, for instance, as well as an old notebook he’d stashed. In truth, he’d forgotten about the notebook. He’d used it to keep track of his life –just lists of things he did every day, important dates. That kind of thing.

She gave up after twenty minutes, standing up as straight as the low beams of the attic would allow.

“I must be nuts,” she said, swearing under her breath before stalking down the stairs.

Sara seemed to always have the piece of glass. At night she slept with it on her bedside table, and throughout the day it was in her pocket or sitting on her desk when she worked. He’d dodged a bullet , so to speak, with her in the attic, although she’d gone back up there to search a few more times. He ’d moved the cigar box twice already, hoping she’d eventually forget about it. He’d been tempted to move it to the basement but couldn’t shake the feeling he’d somehow get caught.

"Oh, please, Jules. I’m not an idiot.” Sara pulled the phone away from her ear and stuck her tongue out at it before listening again. “Yeah… yeah… no. Okay, look. All I’m saying is I found a piece of sea glass and then wrote a story about the ghost leaving it for me… yes, I know how that sounds… I don’t know –kinda… yeah, I’ll email it to you.”

Sara opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bunch of stuff, sandwiching the telephone between her shoulder and her head while she sliced up cheese and tomatoes. “No, I’m telling y –.”

It was hot in the house, the humid summer air making everything stale and thick. A bead of sweat ran down the back of Sara’s neck; before he could stop himself, Patrick swiped at it. The phone clattered to the ground.