“Okay, Charlotte. Do you have some dry clothes to bring with you?”
“In the truck.” She jogs ahead of me and opens her back driver’s side door, climbing in. Moments later she comes out with a backpack and a small duffel bag. After turning off her headlights, she shuts the door as the rain begins to come down hard again. She looks up to the sky, letting the rain pelt her face roughly. Her free hand comes up, and she jabs her middle finger up to the dark abyss, and I chuckle. I want to cover her, carry her bags, but . . . I can’t.
With a huff, she passes by me, and I quickly join her. “I’m sorry I can’t help you carry those.”
She snickers softly. “I’m sorry you can’t either.” She pauses for a beat before adding, “I mean, I’m sorry you can’t carry them because you’re not alive.” Her words hang heavily in the air as the rain beats down on us. “How’d you go?”
I shove my hands in my pockets and sigh. “IED. Afghanistan.”
“Shit,” she sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, if I was going to go . . .” My sentence trails off, and she gives me a nod of understanding. Death sucks. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. But at least I died a noble death. There are worse ways to go.
“So, where are you taking me?”
“You don’t know where you are?” I feign disbelief.
She smiles timidly. “I didn’t care where I was going. I planned to drive until my SUV ran out of gas and . . . well . . . you foiled the rest of it.”
“Can’t say I’m sorry about that,” I answer honestly. “Is it really that bad?”
The rain abruptly stops again, as if God himself flipped an off switch, and we both stop and look up. After a moment, she starts walking again and I follow, the sounds of her boots making squishing noises to break the quiet. “Every day of my life for the last six years has been spent with the dead. I have no friends—the ones I had all think I went crazy, my parents didn’t know what to do with me, so they just pretended like I wasn’t there, and forget about a boyfriend. So you see, I have nothing but death. My life is settling the dead’s business so they can crossover, and dammit, I’m tired.”
She looks it, too. Her pale face and sunken eyes tell a story of a hard life. “We can help each other, Charlotte. This is a good place. You’ll like it here.”
“And where is here?”
“This is Warm Springs. It’s a little town inside Bath County.”
“Warm Springs?”
“Yeah. Where one goes to rejuvenate,” I say in my best radio announcer voice. “Jefferson Pools? Never heard of them?”
“Nope,” she answers.
“They’re special springs . . . they stay warm all year round. General Robert E. Lee and Thomas Jefferson frequented them.”
“Is that so?” she asks dryly, clearly unimpressed.
“Anyway,” I continue. “You’re in a good place.”
“Am I still in Virginia?”
“Yes.”
“And how exactly do you think you can help me?”
“You need a place to rest. You need a job. I can help you with that.”
“How so? You’re dead.” She points out the obvious.
I stop in my tracks. “I am? Are you serious?” I feign shock and she rolls her eyes, the ghost of a smile playing on the corners of her lips. We start walking again, and I answer her question. “I know the people of this town. What they like and dislike. I can help you make nice with them.”
“And what would you like in return?”
George flashes through my mind, and I feel that weight settle on my chest. “I have a brother who’s having a hard time.”
“Unfinished business,” she mutters and lets out an audible sigh.
“Look, I know you’re tired of helping people like me, but I’m different. I want to help you, too. If I can help you, will you help me?”
“I guess I don’t have a choice,” she mumbles and shrugs, adjusting her bags to get a better hold. “You have a deal.”
It’s funny how your plans can change so drastically within the span of minutes. My life was ending forty minutes ago. I was certain of it. But then Ike shows up and derails my plans. I suppose his words are what brought me back.
“Listen, I don’t know you or what you’ve been through, but I know I’d give anything to still be alive right now, no matter what.”
Suicide is selfish. It’s a complete slap in the face to anyone who has died and wanted to live. So with great trepidation, the tall built man brought me back to my senses. Now, I’m standing just outside Mercer’s Stop and Go with him by my side. The store is aged, the lit signs looking as if they were made decades ago.
“It looks like Mr. Mercer is working tonight. He’s real friendly. Just go in, and tell him you broke down. He’ll help you out.” He gives me a crooked smile; I gather that’s his way of encouraging me. He’s handsome, very broad and muscular, and maybe six feet tall, but his smile is his best feature.