Page 195 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
“Tell her I love her,” she murmured. “And I always will love her, no matter what. And tell her to keep living her life, or I’ll find a way to come back and haunt her ass.”
I barked a hysterical laugh before relaying the words to Rachel, whose chin wobbled as she toyed with the hem of her shirt.
“I love you, my Liv,” Rachel said, her voice almost reverent. “You saved the lives of more than one person that night, and the weight of that gift will follow you into whatever comes next. I’m so proud that you’re my daughter.”
Ellis cried softly beside me, her hand pressed to her chest, and I swallowed hard as I looked to Liv.
“Flip a card for me, Dove?” Liv whispered. “One last card, just to see?”
My chest tightened, but I nodded, scooping up the deck and shuffling the cards through my fingers. I drew in a deep breath, choking back emotion, before my trembling hands pulled the top card and set it down on the table, upright.
The World.
My breath caught as I turned it over, the faded image staring back at me—the figure encircled in a wreath, its arms outstretched and whole.
“The World,” Rachel breathed, gazing down at it.
We all stared at the card.
“It means fulfillment,” I said thickly, my eyes tracing the worn lines. “The ending of a cycle and the start of something new. It’s wholeness in its entirety, and it means freedom—finishing the journey and preparing for the next one.”
A breathless laugh slipped from my lips as I looked up, then blinked, glancing around. A soft gasp left Ellis. Rachel lifted her head, her eyes blinking as she stared back down at the card on the table.
“She’s gone,” Rachel said simply—the words final, yet spoken with calm. “I can feel it now.”
“Oh God, I felt it,” Ellis whispered. “Right here.” She pressed a hand to the center of her chest with a hiccupped cry. “Warm.”
Rachel’s trembling hands drifted to her lap as she lowered herself into her seat, slowly exhaling. Her shoulders softened, as though she had been carrying her daughter’s ghost—and all the things that had been left unsaid—inside her, and had now finally let them go.
“She’s at peace,” Rachel murmured. “And so am I.”
I looked at her—the exhaustion and relief etched into the lines of her face—and thought about how unfair it was that grief and love so often came braided together.
My gaze dropped to the tarot deck, the frayed and worn edges of Margaret’s cards. My pulse thrummed as I stared at Liv’s final card, pressing my hand over it, Margaret’s words ringing in my ears. Presence over performance, Dovey. And then Liv’s, You’re not Margaret, but you’re notnotMargaret.
Maybe my gift was never about making predictions or communing with the dead the way Margaret had. Maybe it wasabout standing in the fire and agony of someone else’s truth, and holding steady while I spoke it for them.
Ellis leaned against me, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. I slipped my arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss into the side of her head.
The room may have felt emptier, but it somehow felt fuller too, as if Liv hadn’t just left us but had spread herself into every corner of the space. Into Ellis’s chest. Into Rachel’s trembling hands. Deep into the marrow of my bones.
Yes, Liv was gone. But she would always be here.
ELLIS
Tip #33: If your therapist is surprised by your progress, you’re doing something right and wrong at the same time.
The gentle hum through the air vent of Dr. Mason’s office was comfortingly familiar as I sat in the same chair I had occupied weeks ago. It creaked as I shifted, crossing my legs beneath me. The faint scent of peppermint tea drifted up my nostrils as I stared down at my mug, remembering how it had felt to sit here last time—counting down the seconds until I could leave, convinced she couldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know about myself.
“So,” Dr. Mason began, pen poised in the exact same way she always held it, “you’ve been on a bit of an adventure.”
I smiled faintly, a gentle laugh escaping my lips. “It was…a lot. It came out of nowhere. My friend’s grandmother passed, and she wanted to scatter the ashes in Santa Monica. My grandfather gave me a car, and it just seemed like…fate.”
I had rewritten the story for digestible telling. I couldn’t exactly prance around saying I had helped get a dead girl across the country and carried on full, lucid conversations with her. Sothere was no mention of Liv, or of ghosts, or of the heart I had inside me with its unfinished business. It wasn’t because I was ashamed but because it belonged to me and Dove—and to those directly impacted.
Those who understood.
It wasn’t important for the rest of the world to know.
