I stand on the front porch, my hand on the doorknob, lungs heaving as I steady myself before I push inside.
From the entryway, I glance into the living room to see my mom getting up from the couch, concern tugging at the corners of her mouth and the crease in her brow. “I’ve been so worried about you—”
“I’m fine.” I cut her off, meaning for my voice to sound certain, but it comes out all wrong, harsh and whiny.
The wooden floors creak as she comes over to me and holds up my cell phone. The screen lights up to show me a series of missed calls and texts. “You left without your phone. I had no way to call you, to find you if something happened.”
I grab it from her and try to move past her to the door leading down to the basement, but as I sidestep, I come face-to-face with a picture on the wall. It’s the two of us from the summer after my dad died, her arms wrapped around me as I give a toothless smile to the camera. Only this time I see something behind her smile. Something I now recognize. Loss.
I take a step back and give her a hug, smelling that familiar perfume she always wears.
When her arms wrap around me, the same arms that held me close that summer, I blink furiously to keep it together.
I pull away and hurry to my room, my breathing coming in uneven gasps, images from the ice cream shop and the movie theater and the moment before the crash all blurring together as the room tilts and I crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.
Everything is the same except in the only way that matters.
But the world can keep going on if it wants to.
I won’t.
5
“Kyle. Wake up.”
It’s Kimberly’s voice. A shooting pain cuts across my forehead and sweat clings to my arms and back and legs. I reach quickly for the lamp and snap the light on. I scan the room to see a shadow disappear up the steps.
Frantically, I throw back the covers and limp as quickly as I can up the stairs to fling open the door. “Kimberly!” I call after her. “Kim.”
I look around, but only silence answers me, the darkness echoing loudly in my ears.
I heard her. Felt the weight of her hand on my arm. She was here. I’m sure of it.
Just as sure as I am that that doesn’t make any sense.
I hobble down the hall, gripping the wall for support as I stumble into the living room and flick on the light to reveal…
Nothing.
The couch is empty. No one’s here.
Like an idiot, I try the front door, twisting the knob right and left, but the lock is firmly in place. It’s only then that I remember Kim never had a key.
I let out a shaky exhale and rest my head against the worn wood, my temples pounding from the sudden jolt out of bed, the adrenaline draining into defeat. I will my breathing to slow down, but when I turn to head back to bed, that hard-fought breath rushes out of me on a loud whoosh.
Kimberly.
She’s sitting on the couch, a fuzzy white blanket draped around her shoulders. She pulls the blanket a little tighter, its blue butterfly pattern moving as if the little insects were alive. Kimberly. Right here in front of me.
It can’t be real. I know it can’t. I know that it can only mean my head is definitely more messed up than the doctors thought.
But I need it to be real.
I rush toward her so quickly that I trip on the rug in the entryway. I reach out to grab the wall before I topple over.
By the time I right myself, she’s gone, leaving only couch cushions, bare and unoccupied.
I make my way to the chair, never taking my eyes from the sofa. I sit down and stare at that empty spot for the rest of the night, waiting for her to come back, my fingers curled around the armrests. Every time I start to drift off, the fact that I actually saw her jolts me awake, like a full can of Red Bull.
I don’t even realize the sun has risen until I hear my mom’s footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Good morning, then,” she says.
I blink and look up to see her in a pair of black pants and a dress shirt, her hair neatly brushed. I force myself to stand, my bad leg aching from sitting in the chair all night, tense and unmoving.
She leans against the banister and raises her eyebrows at me.
“Wanna explain?”
“I, uh,” I start to say, stretching to buy myself some time to think of an excuse. “I couldn’t sleep.”
I can tell she doesn’t buy it, but I slide past her, hobble to the basement door, and duck inside before she can pry any further.
Leaning back against the closed door, I let out a long exhale. For the first time since Kim’s death, I have something to focus on.
I have to see her again.
* * *
For the next three nights after my mom climbs the stairs up to bed, I sit vigil in the living room chair, alert to every flicker of light or creak in the house. But no Kim. No white fuzzy blanket or blue butterflies.
I’m practically holding my eyes open by the time my mom’s alarm goes off each morning, and I have to slink back downstairs before I get slammed by a sunrise edition of twenty questions.
By the fourth night my head is killing me and it’s proving harder and harder to stay awake. I squint at the empty couch cushion, trying to fight the exhaustion. Kim did always like to keep me waiting. It’s the only thing I hang on to. The only thing that keeps me going.
The clock in the entryway is barely ticking past midnight, so I prop my bad leg up on the coffee table in an attempt to get slightly more comfortable.
I doze off for what feels like a fraction of a second, and when I open my eyes, the vacant spot is filled once again.
By my mom.
“Wanna explain now?” she asks as she crosses her arms over her patterned navy-blue pajama shirt.
I know it shouldn’t, but her question pisses me off.
Do I want to explain that I think I’m seeing the ghost of my dead girlfriend? Not really. I already start to feel a little ridiculous just thinking about vocalizing it.