Page 24 of Ghosted
“So… She wants you to get paid for something you already do?”
“I guess,” I say with a shrug.
“Why would you be on the fence about that? It’s like getting paid to sleep for normal people,” she says. I dutifully ignore the implication that I’mnotnormal.
“Because I don’t announce my abilities to the living. I’ll help pretty much any spirit who comes to me in need, but I’ve never looked for a specific person and called them forward, let alone accepted money for it.”
“Why not? I mean, I get that you help ghosts and whatever, but why not help the living too?” Rebecca asks, leaning back against the arm of the couch. I’m impressed by her ability to stick around for so long. Her overachieving nature obviously helps her in more ways than one.
I sigh and tilt my head back and forth, looking for a way to explain it. Finally, I settle on, “When I was younger, and much less discerning about who I shared information with, I told some close online friends about what I could do. There were a few different reactions. Either they were terrified of me and thought that I was a freak, they didn’t believe me, or they wanted to exploit it and use me for their gain. I stopped being a person no matter what.
And don’t even get me started on romantic relationships and how hard it is to date when you frequently talk to peopleno one else can see. I don’t want to be known as the local ghost girl. And anyway, accepting money for something that feels almost like a duty seems wrong.”
“I’m sorry you were shamed for something that was out of your control,” she says, reaching out and setting her hand on my wrist. The static feeling of it isn’t exactly unpleasant, but it does raise the hairs on my arm. She can’t quite make contact, but there’s an awareness over where she’s touching.
Rebecca removes her hand and I watch as she rubs her fingertips together, absorbing the new sensation of touching someone this way. “But you know, if there was a way for you to do this anonymously, there’s nothing wrong with taking money for it. Just because you feel it’s an obligation doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to get paid for it. Think of people in the military. They’re literally duty-bound to do their jobs, but they still get paid for them.”
I’ve never thought of it that way. “Maybe you’re right. But to be honest, I don’t even know if I could do it—call someone out of the ether and draw them to me. Especially if I don’t have a connection to them.” I think of Dean and the fact that I popped him out of the in-between without trying, but wedefinitelyhave a connection. Speaking of which, I probably shouldn’t be thinking of him too hard, lest he barge in unannounced.
“There’s no harm in trying. It might be kind of fun to play the mysterious medium behind the curtain or whatever. It also would be cool to help people find closure,” she points out.
“But what if I end up calling someone who doesn’t want to be found?” I ask, thinking of the way she was so frustrated by me at first, even though she’s the one who came looking for me.
“Then, they’ll probably be annoyed and leave. So what? Ibet you most people would be happy to be connected to a loved one again. It’s hard to explain what it’s like over here, but it can be really difficult to find specific people or places. The only reason I easily found my old apartment is because I was killed so close to it. My place of death was like… A homing beacon. It’s a lot of work to even stay here, but being around you makes it easier. It feels like you’re charging me up or something. When I’m not focused in and concentrating on staying in one place, I just sort of disappear. I have some awareness of time passing, vague impressions of the world, but it feels like living in a dream with no clear borders. It’s a relief to get pulled out of that. Or in my case, drag your ass out of it yourself.” I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up at that.
“Thanks for that. It makes me feel better about trying at least.”
“No problem. But I thought you were supposed to be helping me,” she jokes.
I snort and say, “Have at it,” gesturing to my knitting needles that she abandoned. “You’ll be on your way to scaring the shit out of… What’s his name?”
“Kyle,” she reluctantly offers.
I snort. “Fucking,Kyle? Oh, come on, Rebecca. You deserved better than a Kyle.”
She heaves a long-suffering sigh. “I know. But I’m going to make him pay. And then I’m going to go rest in peace or whatever,” she says with a delicate wrinkle of her nose.
“Sounds like you’re really looking forward to your eternal rest,” I quip.
“Might just torment my ex a little first,” she says with a wicked grin. Suddenly I feel a teensie bit bad for Kyle.
FIFTEEN
A few days later,I finally decide to give Aunt Clarissa’s idea a try. I close the shop down for lunch and evaluate the space, trying to figure out where to install the “Medium’s Meeting Room.” I came up with the name last night. Anxiety had kept me awake most of the night anyway. Once the sun dusted the sky in periwinkle dawn, I gave up on sleep and got moving.
I skip my eyes over the library corner, chock full of books, the shelves holding all sorts of oddities from taxidermied bugs to rune stones. Then I scan the small antique section, filled with clothing, herbs, and crystals from local artisans. For the first time, I truly see just how stuffed to the brim this store is.
“Well, shit,” I say aloud. I need a spot that can offer a bit of privacy.
My gaze catches on the smaller supply closet where we keep all the cleaning junk. I tilt my head and stride over to it, instinctively hopping over the curled edges of the antique rugat the center of the store. I pull open the door and assess the space. It’s probably about six-feet deep and five-feet wide. It would be a little tight, but if I took out the shelves lining the walls, it would feel bigger. I flick on the overhead light and step inside, trying to envision the space fully cleaned out and outfitted to look mystical, matching the rest of the shop. “What are you doing in the closet?” Dean asks from behind me.
The only sign that he surprised me is a slight inhale through my nose. Other than that, I try to avoid giving him the satisfaction of making me jump. I don’t want to encourage that; I’ve had a few too many ghosts make a habit of startling me. “I’m going to start helping people talk to their dead loved ones, but I want some anonymity. I was checking out the closet as a potential space for it,” I explain, turning toward him, keeping my tone even.
“Are you going to wear a veil? That could be very sexy. Like one of those birdcage ones, but in black? Ohhh, or maybe a mask. Have you seen the masked dudes online? I bet there’s a niche for masked women, too,” he says, staring intently at the contours of my face as though he’s going to place a custom order for me.
“Um, probably not,” I say, marveling at the way his brain goes off in a million unexpected directions with the smallest push.
His shoulders sag with disappointment. “Oh.”
