And then, suddenly, peace. I’m so surprised that I fall to the ground, gasping for air like a fish out of water.
Aidan stands over me. I expect him to bend down and offer me some water or a hand, but instead he says, “Interesting.”
“What?” My voice is hoarse.
“That man died from emphysema.”
“I know.” I also know that he left behind a son who begged his father to stop smoking every year on his birthday. I know that every year Miguel tried. And every year he failed.
I press my hand to my chest. I’m happy to breathe clearly again and relieved I never let Vincent Warner talk me into trying cigarettes in eighth grade.
I wince at the fading taste of nicotine on my tongue. This has never happened before. Am I getting stronger? Is it the playground? But before I have time to ask, Aidan says, “Let’s try again.”
By the end of the day I’ve helped four more spirits move on and, in addition to knowing what it feels like to die from emphysema, I know what it feels like to die from sugar (a diabetic woman in Arizona who went into insulin shock), lack of water (a man who got lost in the desert and ran out of supplies), and too much water (a surfer who drowned on the Cortes bank just south of San Diego), and my chest aches like a rock is beating where my heart should be (an elderly woman in Costa Rica whose heart gave out).
“You did well,” Aidan says. “Five spirits on your first try, some of them from great distances.”
I know he’s trying to be reassuring, but it doesn’t feel like I did well. I’m exhausted from experiencing, even for the briefest moment, what it was like to be all those people when they died.
“Does this always happen?” I ask Aidan breathlessly when we finally leave the playground behind.
“No.”
“You mean, over time, as I get stronger, I won’t be so”—I search for the right word—“sensitive?”
Aidan shakes his head. “I mean I’ve never seen a luiseach feel the lives of the spirits she helps move on. It’s as though you’re experiencing their lives—and their deaths—yourself.”
My breath quickens. “This doesn’t happen to anyone else?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
There may not be any spirits close by anymore, but now my heart is pounding for a different reason entirely. “What’s wrong with me?”
“You appear to be particularly sensitive.”
Mom used to say that too. I mean, not about spirits, obviously, but just about life in general. When I was five, I developed a whole plan to help save a homeless man we passed every day on the way to day care. When I was seven, my mom caught me stuffing an envelope full of pocket change. When she asked me what I was doing, I told her I planned to send it to the nice lady on the commercials with all the sad animals. Mom never seemed to think it was a problem, but it looks like Aidan would disagree. “Can you fix it?” I ask finally.
“I can certainly try,” Aidan answers, as he writes a note in a small notepad he’s pulled from his back pocket.
Worn out from my first full day of luiseach work, I shake my head. That doesn’t sound as reassuring as I’d hoped.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Playtime Is Over
Another day, another lesson on the playground. This time Lucio’s with us. As Aidan outlines today’s goals, Lucio plays with his tattoo, runs his hands over his closely cropped hair, and bounces from one foot to the other like he’s preparing to run away. More than once he cocks his head to the side like he’s listening for something.
Maybe for the missing spirit?
“Are you ready to get started, Sunshine?” Aidan asks finally, tucking his notepad and pen in his back pocket.
“Sure,” I answer, not wanting him to know I haven’t actually been paying attention to him so much as I’ve been watching Lucio.
“Lucio is going to demonstrate first.”
It feels like I’ve been in training forever. I’m now an expert at drawing willing spirits close: Aidan taught me to be perfectly still, to sense the nearest spirit—even if it’s miles away. He taught me to control my breathing, flex my muscles, and draw that spirit close so I could help it move on. I’ve sought out spirits from clear across the country, spirits from as far away as El Salvador and Guatemala and even once a strange hermit-like man from all the way up in Vancouver who no one even knew was alive for the past fifty years. His strange, lonely aura made my skin feel icy cold as I helped him. Despite that, each time I helped a spirit move on I felt that same otherworldly sense of peace, as though I was exactly where I was meant to be, even if where I am is on an abandoned campus in the Mexican wilderness, thousands of miles away from the people I love.
If only that were all I felt.