My whispered response shocked me, mostly because it was true.

“Yes. I do.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Chapter

Fifteen

Joshua guessed it would take us at least twenty minutes to drive from the school to the first address he’d written down on a scrap of notebook paper. After we’d begun driving, Joshua pulled out a tiny phone. (I’d seen cell phones while alive, I was sure, but none of them could fit in the palm of your hand like this one.) From this practically invisible device, he called his mother to let her know he’d be home late. With that responsibility handled, Joshua fell quiet as he drove, casting the occasional, worried glance in my direction. I’m sure he could tell I was too lost in my own thoughts to carry on a conversation.

But, to be fair, the things in my head weren’t exactly thoughts. They were remembered images and sounds, accompaniments to the hazy, long-buried memories of my family. People who had all but vanished from my mind, until the past hour. People whom I would see, for the first time in more than a decade, in just a few minutes.

First, and most disconcertingly, I saw my father’s face. A strange haze clouded most of the memory, obscuring the setting and the other people in the scene. But there, clear and unmistakable in the center of the image, was my father. His green eyes crinkled at the corners as he ran one hand through his thinning blond hair. Then, in a blur, the image cut over to a woman. My mother. She was sitting on a threadbare recliner, the one in our living room maybe, and looking up at my father. No, not at my father. At the small, amber-colored drink in his hand. Dad liked to drink at Christmas, and my mother didn’t approve.

Soon these remembered images blurred with the scenery flying outside the car windows. The effect started to make me dizzy and, in turn, nauseated. This was an odd feeling, considering ghosts couldn’t get sick. I leaned over slightly, placing my elbows on my knees and rubbing my temples with my fingertips.

“Amelia? You okay?”

Without taking my head from my hands, I peeked at Joshua from between my fingers. While trying to watch the road, he was also sneaking as many worried, sidelong glances at me as he could without driving into a ditch.

I sighed and leaned back against the seat.

“No, I’m not okay,” I answered with a wan smile. “I just keep . . . remembering things. People, actually. My family. So, naturally, I’m terrified.”

“Yeah, me too, kind of.”

I frowned. This afternoon Joshua had been absolutely confident—confident that, in discovering my name and my family, we’d made the right choice. Now his confidence seemed shaken.

“Why should you be scared, Joshua?”

“Well, I guess I’m mostly nervous,” he said. “For you.”

I nodded, laughing quietly. “Would you be mad if I said I’m glad to hear it?”

Joshua laughed too. “Not at all. We’re kind of in this together, right?”

“I guess so,” I said with a faint smile.

“So,” Joshua went on, “do you want to talk, to distract ourselves? We can still talk about the serious stuff, if you want.”

I thought about his suggestion. Actually, a distraction from my memories sounded nice. Even if we had to talk about the memories themselves. At least then I wouldn’t be alone with them in my own head.

“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Joshua nodded. He gave me a quick, worried glance, the kind he gave when he wanted to ask something tough but wasn’t sure if the question would offend me.

“Something on your mind, Mr. Mayhew?” I forced the playful note into my voice, pressing it past my tension and nerves.

“Well, I was just thinking it kind of sucks.”

“What sucks?” I asked with a smile.

“That you died on your birthday.”

My smile faded. “Oh. That.”

Joshua didn’t respond with anything but a raised eyebrow. I could tell from his expression that he wasn’t trying to push me for more answers. He just didn’t know what to say next.

“Apparently,” I said, not waiting for Joshua to find his response.

“Apparently?”

“Apparently I died on my birthday. I don’t actually remember my death.”

“But you’re starting to remember other stuff? Like your family?”

“Yeah, sort of. But not my death. Well, nothing except the actual dying part. I can’t remember why, or how, I was in the water when I drowned.” I shuddered a little and went on. “Maybe that’s just part of being a ghost. Not remembering most of the death stuff.”

“Do you even want to know about the rest of it?”

“You know, I’m not sure. Let’s see. . . .” I searched for the most apt analogy but could only find a weak one. “The closest thing I can compare it to is being in a car accident, or breaking your leg or something, and not wanting to look because it will make you sick, but really wanting to at the same time.”

Joshua fell silent for a moment. He frowned heavily, just before shooting me a wary look.

“Do you think the problem is psychological maybe?” he asked. “Instead of supernatural?”

“Huh?” I frowned too, and tilted my head to one side.

“Well, maybe you’re subconsciously blocking those memories. I mean, if other memories are coming back to you but not those.”

I twisted my mouth, pondering this suggestion. After a few seconds I nodded. “It’s possible, yeah.”

He glanced at me again, worry still in his eyes. When he spoke, he did so with hesitation. “So did you . . . um . . . kill yourself, you think?”

I lowered my head. Of course he’d have to ask this question.

Aloud I said, “You know, I kind of always thought I did. My death seemed pretty depressing, so it wasn’t too big a stretch to think my life must have been too. But lately, since I met you, I’m not so sure. I know I fell off the bridge. Now I’m just not sure I jumped.”

Joshua surprised me by taking my hand from my lap and lacing his fingers through mine. “Maybe you didn’t. In fact . . . I’d bet you didn’t. That’s just not like you. Not at all.”

My head flew up, and I gave him a small but widening smile. The ache in my chest radiated outward in deliciously warm arcs, mimicking the heat I now felt in my hand.

So maybe Joshua was wrong. So what? Maybe I had killed myself, maybe I hadn’t. Likely, we would never know. But Joshua didn’t believe I had. He believed I was better than that, in life and now. His belief touched something inside me, something that insisted that maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t done anything to deserve this death.

Before I could tell Joshua as much, he suddenly glanced out my window and frowned. He slowed down before turning the car onto a side road.

Realizing what was happening, I stared at Joshua with a renewed sense of terror. I refused to look outside the car for even a second and kept my eyes locked on his grim expression. For the briefest moment I willed myself to go back into the fog. Just for some peace, some quiet preparation for what was about to follow. Joshua’s voice, however, forced me to focus.

“We’re here.”

To my surprise, his eyes mirrored my own panic. I gulped, clenching his hand even harder. He squeezed back to let me know that he didn’t mind if we sat like this for the entire afternoon, staring at each other instead of at the house behind us.

But we couldn’t stay like this forever.

With painful, near-creaking slowness, I let go of Joshua’s hand and turned in my seat until I faced out the passenger side window.

Across a postage-stamp lawn was a tiny clapboard house, no more than a thousand square feet in size and no less than fifty years old. The exterior’s white paint had started to peel a long time ago, and the roof sagged under the remembered weight of a half century of snow. Behind the building, overgrown grass spread out until it met the thick woods that bordered the backyard.