He holds up his phone, beaming, showing me the number on the screen. “I know you’ll never call me, but just in case,” he says.
I snap back to the present. I dial the number, and it rings, and it rings, and there is no answer, and I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that something is very wrong; something has been broken, and I don’t know why, or how, or whether or not it can be fixed. I set the phone back into the cradle and stare at the wall, willing it to give me the answers that I need.
It doesn’t. It’s just a wall. Eventually, my manager calls my name and I go, good little ghost, to finish out my shift, to go to the helpline, to make it to the diner. Brenda will know what to do.
She has to know.
6: Fit the Living or Fit the Dead
I only earn twenty-one minutes tonight. I have to let several calls go to my fellow volunteers when I realize I don’t have the focus to take them; right now, I’d risk doing more harm than good, and that’s something we can never do. We have a duty when we’re on the phones, and whatever is going on in our own worlds, we owe our full attention to the people who call us for help. So I take what calls I can, and by the end of the night, I have twenty-one minutes I can honestly say the world of the living owes me.
It doesn’t feel like enough. Everyone I work with has caught my discomfort, my distraction; they know I’m off my game. They don’t say anything as I walk for the door, although I catch some of them watching me, concerned. We’ve never discussed what drives us to volunteer. I know suicide has touched us all, one way or another. We lost a volunteer a few years ago, when she could no longer resist the seemingly predestined relationship between razor and wrist. Her ghost flickered through the halls for weeks, never quite showing herself to the living, never quite daring to come inside. The others never knew they’d been haunted, but they knew something was wrong, and they’re wary now. They watch each other—they watch me—in a way they never did before.
I wish I could reassure them, tell them that yes, I lost someone, but I’m not going to do anything to myself; I couldn’t, even if I had felt the urge. The dead can’t die. We can only move on. But truly reassuring them would require telling them what I am, and even if they believed me, they’d never look at me the same way again. Being dead and dwelling among the living comes with certain inalienable truths. “Few people like to be haunted” is one of them.
I walk quickly toward the diner, not looking for people to interact with, not reaching for connection. Tonight, connection is the last thing on my mind. That’s why I don’t notice Sophie before she looms up out of an alley and steps into my path, eyes wild and hands reaching for me.
“You can’t be here,” she hisses, grabbing my shoulders and clamping down, hard enough that it hurts.
I try to pull away. Her grip is too strong, and she’s a witch, she’s a witch, I can’t have her touching me, I just can’t. She’s also my friend. I keep my voice level and ask, “Sophie. What’s going on?”
“You can’t be here, there are no ghosts here and you’re here, so you can’t be here.” She shakes her head, not letting go. “All the ghosts of Manhattan are gone. You’re alone, sweet specter, you’re alone, and you shouldn’t be. You shouldn’t be anything.”
“Let me go.”
“I can’t do that, can’t do that, they used me, you know, they used me like a pit bull, like a pigeon seeking crumbs, seeking, seeking, Sophie in the city, the city speaks to Sophie, follow her and she’ll find you what you need. I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” She grimaces, releasing my shoulders and stepping back. “There are no ghosts left here but you, Jenna, and you were always kind to me. Let me be kind to you now. Run, and don’t look back. Run. This city has anchor enough without you, but your own doesn’t.”
“Sophie, what do you mean?” If Brenda hadn’t already told me Sophie was a witch, I’d know: she’s touched me without time passing between us. More, I can see it. The city’s in her eyes, sidewalks stretching toward Chelsea, neon lights glittering like she’s Broadway-bound. “Where did the other ghosts go?”
“Never give their clothes away if you want the dead to haunt you,” she whispers, and turns, and runs, vanishing back into the maze of alleys. I could follow her, but I’d never catch her; she’s a street witch on her home ground. The city will hide her from me out of love, and never stop to consider that maybe it should love me, too. Disturbed and distressed, I walk faster, until the diner appears, until I see Brenda through the window, her fingers moving on the neck of her guitar.
This time, I don’t approach the counter, even though Marisol is on duty and smiles at the sight of me. I head straight for Brenda, sliding into the booth across from her, and demand, “What the hell is going on?”
“Hello to you, too, Jenna,” says Brenda. Her fingers etch a silent chord on the strings. “I suppose you got my message.”