Ghosted (6 page)

His daughter watches him die.

She turns and smiles up at me.

My head aches from the sounds of the gunfire
and I put my hand to my head. Dizziness pitches me forward as I
hear Caroline scream my name, and the police come up the
stairs.

8

I wake again, but the pipe dripping water
above me is gone. No rain drops on my cheeks. No gray
sky.

I see a gray ceiling. A tile ceiling, like the
one I installed in Chloe's loft.

Someone is in the room with me. It's Chloe.
Apparently…I am alive.

Hernandez comes to see me a few days after I
come out of the coma. A boy and his dog found me in a ditch several
miles from where my car was found. They got to me just in time.
Several surgeries and I will be good as new…except for a
limp.

From what the detective could piece together,
Mr. Jones followed me and rammed my car. He forced me off the road,
got out of his car. He fired his gun into the closed driver's
window, but the bullet grazed my skull, the glass deflecting it.
With the amount of blood, Hernandez believes Mr. Jones assumed I
would die.

He dumped me into the ditch—a five foot drop
over the side. The impact broke my hip, my leg, and several ribs,
as well as adding injury to my head.

But I lived.

I don't know why or how I became a ghost, a
walking spirit. I didn't tell my dad or my mom because I didn't
want the guys in white coats.

I celebrate my birthday in the hospital. Chloe
takes pictures of me, my family, her family, and my friends at
work. All of us crowd together in the physical therapy room. We eat
cake as I open presents and I feel loved. I'm no longer
invisible.

* * *

I go home today. The sky is the same color as
the day Caroline died. My things rest in several suitcases near the
door of my room. My bed is unmade. I wear jeans, sneakers, a
sweater and coat. Everything is new. Birthday presents. I stand at
the window and watch the rain run down the glass in
rivulets.

Someone knocks at the door so I turn and
smile. "Hey Chloe."

"Hey Danny." She steps in. She looks the same
as always. Long, baggy pants, waterproof shoes, layers of sweaters
and a bag big enough to accommodate her tablet and notebooks. Her
hair is short and hugs her neck and the sides of her face. "Are you
ready?"

"Yeah…but I need to tell you something." I
turn to face her and slip my hands into my pockets. "It's the
reason I asked you to take me home and not my parents." I wouldn't
be going back to Chloe's just yet. Maybe not for another few months
because my therapy wasn't over.

"Okay." She approaches me and stands by the
window. "What is it?"

"I need you to listen to what I'm about to
tell you…and I don't want you to judge me. And you can't say
anything to anyone else."

Chloe's expression shifts from curiosity to
worry. "Is it bad?"

"No…just…unbelievable." I begin from the
beginning. I tell her about seeing Caroline step out from the club
and of her walk. The attack in the alley…and I don't stop. Nor do I
leave anything out. I talk until my throat is dry and I have to
drink water from a bottle. Half an hour passes as I tell her the
truth and the rain comes and goes.

When I finish I'm shaking and I have to sit
down on the edge of the bed that'd been my home for months. I feel
emptied and exhausted. But I feel light. A weight no longer presses
down on my shoulders.

Chloe watches me and her expression is
puzzling. It's not one of disbelief, but more of… resignation.
Acceptance? Maybe. I've never been good at reading anything but a
book.

She sets her purse on the bed beside me and
fishes a manilla envelope from inside. She hands it to me and I
notice the rings on her fingers. "Dan…it all makes sense to me now.
And I can't tell you how glad I am you told me this."

I take the envelope and frown at her. "So…you
don't think I'm crazy?"

"Oh heavens no. I think you're the sanest
person I know. It's just that…I travel everywhere and I blog. And
blogs need not only content, but images. So I take a lot of
pictures. I secretly decided I was going to document your
recovery—you have a fan club out there, you know? The quiet, shy
guy who brought down a billionaire murderer."

"I didn't—"

She puts up her hand. "Just take it and move
on. So when I started taking pictures of you—some candid, some
during therapy, and some while you were still in bad shape—there
was something a little extra in some shots."

Unsure what she means I open the envelope and
remove the stack of eight by tens. They are color, glossy, and high
definition. I cringe when I see myself in the ICU…and then I see
someone by the door. The image is soft and blurry but it's there.
As I go through them I continue to see the same…person. In some
pictures she's shaper than others. In some, only a movement, or a
hint of something.

But in the last photo we're at my birthday
weeks ago. It's a group shot, the one picture I remember because I
felt something touch my shoulder.

And she…was there.

It is the clearest impression of her, standing
beside me, smiling at the camera. No one stands behind her. My mom
carries a similar picture because a nurse a shot of the pose and
gave it to her. She and dad remark often on the space between mom
and I.

Caroline fills it.

"When did you stop seeing her?"

I sniff as my eyes burn. I touch the image
with a trembling hand. "Uh…I ah…" I sniff again. I do not want to
cry but my eyes have other plans. "It wasn't long after I woke. I
would notice her in the room. She would talk but I couldn't hear
her. And then…she just wasn't there anymore."

"Oh yes she is." Chloe puts her hand on my
shoulder. "I think Caroline's always with you, watching you,
protecting you."

"And…I can't see her because I'm no longer
close to death."

"Death lifts the veil, Danny." Chloe rubs my
back. "But now I know who she is, and why she's there. I chose not
to put these on the blog—"

"No," I say a bit more forcefully than I mean.
I wipe my eyes before I try to correct my outburst. "What I mean
is…no, don't abandon it. Do it. Post it by date and put the
pictures of Caroline up. Point her out. Don't let her be forgotten
as just another rich heiress killed by greed. Show…" I shift on the
bed, my excitement growing. "Show the world what a beautiful and
loving person she was. Please Chloe. For me?"

Chloe smiles. "I'll start tomorrow. And I'll
show the posts to you first. Agreed?"

"Yeah…agreed."

She stands and hugs me and I stand to gather
my cane. It is time to leave. I'm tired and I want out of the
hospital. She disappears for a while as I watch the window. There
are some things the veil cannot hide.

Two orderlies come in to take my things and I
make sure everything's gone. I'm the last one to leave the room and
as I open the door I stop and look back at the window.

A single word is visible, written by hand in
the condensation.

A one word declaration. For me.

From Caroline.

LIVE

about the
author

Phaedra Weldon is a writer and mother of one.
Born in Pensacola, Florida, Phaedra was raised in the lush, green
southern tropic of Georgia. She grew up on southern ghost stories
told while eating marshmallows around campfires, or on the back of
pick-up trucks in the middle of cornfields on chilly October
nights. She worked as a Graphic Artist for over twenty years in the
publishing and sign industries until she became a full time writer
in 2009. Phaedra currently lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her
husband and daughter.

This work and everything in it is the sole
property of Phaedra Weldon. Any copying or reprinting will be
prosecuted to the furthest extent of the law.

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