Page 82 of Ghosted
I breathe out the breath that was held hostage in my chest and relay what he said to Misha.
“Then, why did you shut down after I told you?” Misha asks in a small voice. I take his warm hand in mine, hoping to give him an anchor point.
Ivan rakes his hand through his thinning gray hair. “I didn’t know how to respond! I wasn’t angry about it, but I also didn’t know what you wanted from me. I fucked up just about everything as your parent. Every single thing. I didn’t want to fuck this up too.” Against my will, I feel a little empathy for Ivan taking root.
After I repeat what he said, Misha responds, “All you needed to say was that you were happy for me. That you accepted me. When you went silent, I couldn’t help but think the worst.”
“And see? I fucked it up anyway,” Ivan says. For the first time, I start to consider that all his raging around is just a front. It’s not an excuse for being an asshole, but it does offer an explanation. “Of course I still accepted you. I was just glad you told me. When you left at seventeen, I thought that was it for us.” He stares off, eyes locked on my peeling wallpaper. “I’m sorry I didn’t make the effort. I was the adult. I should have reached out. Instead, like a coward, I waited for you to do it. And once I finally had you back, I was too worried about messing things up again.”
Misha listens, eyes getting a sheen to them as I convey Ivan’s message. “I forgive you, Ivan.”
“I forgive you, too, kid. I deserved to be called an asshole and told where I could stick it. I’m not proud of who I am, but I am proud of how you turned out despite all my best efforts,” Ivan says with a self-deprecating snort. “All I want is for you to be happier than I was.”
“He is,” I say, squeezing Misha’s hand. “He’s such a great person, and he makes the best hot chocolate.” Ivan smiles at that, and he suddenly looks decades younger.
I tell Misha what Ivan said, and he responds, “I wish we had more time. Until I met Felix, I was totally alone. I regretted what I said every day. I always worried that our fight contributed to your heart attack.”
Ivan shakes his head. “You always did want to make everything your fault. No kid, my heart attack was courtesy of the bottom of too many bottles and an endless chain of cigarettes.” He sighs, rubbing his fingers together as if he’s searching for his next fix. “And before I go, I want you to know how much I love you. How much I respect you. And how glad I was to raise you, even if I did screw up a lot. I didn’t tell you that enough when I was alive.”
When I tell Misha what he said, he starts crying in earnest, the tears he was holding back flooding over his lashes. “I love you, too, Uncle Ivan. Thank you for coming back so we could talk.”
I reach out to Ivan, and when he looks at my hand like it might bite him, I sigh. “Go on, if you’re touching me, you can touch him. You both look like you could use a hug,” I say. I hope this works with more than just Dean.
Ivan takes my hand, his large, calloused one swallowing mine. Misha and I stand, and Ivan pulls Misha in for a hug against his broad chest with his free arm. Misha’s eyes widenand then scrunch closed as he hugs Ivan back, hard. After a while, Ivan gives Misha a few manly thumps on the back and then lets go.
He steps back, and focuses on something not even I can see. “I think it’s time for me to go,” he says distantly before disappearing in a shower of light.
I sigh, glad that death had finally made Ivan see a little more clearly and that today didn’t end in a screaming match. “He’s gone,” I say quietly.
And then I hold Misha while he cries and tells me all the ways his uncle hurt him and healed him growing up. How Misha screamed and shouted in equal measure. How he left, and they finally found themselves on fragile ground. How much regret he’s carried since their last fight. We even laugh at a memory of Ivan screaming at Misha’s high school soccer coach for benching him. “To be honest, I was terrible at soccer, but it was nice to have him on my side anyway,” Misha says with a small smile as he wipes a stray tear from his cheek.
I’m struck by how much I love this and how at ease I feel. The last couple of months, while I’ve been helping people communicate with the dead, there was always this undercurrent of fear. I was so scared I’d be found out. Now that it’s out there, I feel that little piece of myself click into place. I’ve always helped the dead, but this is the first time I’ve felt like maybe I can help the living, too. Maybe I don’t need to hide behind a curtain. Maybe I can just be me.
FORTY-FOUR
It’s beena few days since Ivan moved on, and I’m badgering Wren into making me a fancy coffee at Brewed. She must be tired because she gives in, willing to add both toasted marshmallowandbrown sugar to my latte in a for-here mug.
When she sets it down in front of me, I quirk a brow. “Wow, you’re getting good at that,” I say, gesturing to the foam middle finger gracing the top of my latte.
“Lots of practice lately,” she replies casually. “Mish, I’m taking my ten,” she calls over her shoulder to Misha, who is cleaning the bar. He waves in acknowledgement, and Wren sits next to me on the plush couch facing the floor-to-ceiling windows so we can people watch.
“What’re you looking at?” she asks, peering over my shoulder at my laptop.
“I’m going over our profit and trying to see how this could work. If Aunt C would go to a retirement home closer to us, we’d probably be able to make it because they’re cheaperaround here, but she’s dead set on this Florida place.” I rub my neck where I feel a tension headache brewing.
“Have you talked to her about it?” Wren asks.
“Yeah. She’s insisting. If we can’t make it work, she’s willing to sell the store. She’s gotten a few offers that have been hard to refuse, but she’s been hanging onto it for me.” I take a sip of my latte, displacing the middle finger so it looks more blobby than crude.
Wren scowls. “That’s bullshit, Rae. You’ve put a ton of work into that store, and helped it grow so much in the last five years. Aunt C is being really selfish.”
I shrug and reply, “Maybe, but there’s not much I can do to stop her. I don’t have any rights to the store.”
“Have you thought about getting a business loan? I know you were planning on buying it from her eventually.”
“I have a decent amount saved up, but I couldn’t afford to pay back a loan and keep the store afloat with the rent increase in January,” I say with a tired sigh. Dean’s proposition that I move into his house hits me, and I shake my head against the thought. There’s no way I can do that.
“What did you just think about? You got all weird,” she flutters her fingers around me, referring to my aura.
