Chapter 5 #2
Morgan softens. She returns her sandwich to her plate.
“Look, I know you believe hauntings are like a metaphysical representation of grief, but I’m sorry to say you’re wrong,” she says.
“Honestly, it should reassure you. Kennedy isn’t fading away because you’ve stopped grieving her or something.
It’s not your pain that’s holding her here,” Morgan says, “and it’s not your healing that’s cutting her loose. ”
Startled, I meet her eyes. Morgan isn’t just haunted, I realize.
She understands haunting—on a much deeper level than I expected.
She has, impossibly, described exactly what I’ve subconsciously feared for months.
That I was failing Kennedy somehow. Wasn’t grieving enough. Wasn’t holding on hard enough.
I couldn’t even put it into words the way Morgan just did. “You’re sure?” I venture, aware I’m exposing exactly what I was trying to hide from her, letting her peek over my walled-off pain. “You feel nothing for Zach?”
“Nothing,” Morgan says. “And he can’t even remember his life except for the shitty date we went on, and that he wishes he could forget.”
I finish my final fry and realize I’m a little mournful there aren’t more. “What a bleak way to go out,” I remark.
Morgan laughs. “A date so mediocre, it’ll haunt you forever,” she says. “Maybe I should add it to my dating bios.”
I feel myself smile. “You could spin it,” I offer. “No matter what, you’ll remember this date until after your dying day.”
“Or please ghost me. Literally,” Morgan suggests.
I laugh.
Morgan seems startled, then eyes me in sly satisfaction. “Finally. Proof of life,” she says. “Guess the EMF reader was right.”
I look down, self-conscious, still smiling. Honestly, I don’t know how I’m feeling. None of today has gone the way I expected, including this ridiculous bar. I feel guilty in a way I can’t explain. “I should go,” I say.
“Wait,” Morgan exclaims. “I need your help. We have two unexplained phenomena—Kennedy fading away and Zach haunting me, someone who has no emotional attachment to him.”
The light flickers overhead.
Other patrons murmur excitedly.
The proprietor from the support group looks giddy behind the bar. “Don’t worry, folks! Just regular paranormal activity at this haunted bar!” he crows.
Wisely, Morgan drops her voice. “It seems to me,” she continues, “like they might have the same answer if we could just figure it out. They need something from us. Something specific.”
I hesitate. I want to wait for Kennedy’s reappearances, dwelling in the desperation I’ve convinced myself is hope.
But despite myself, Morgan has halfway convinced me. I haven’t failed Kennedy in not grieving well enough. But I could fail her in other ways. I could withdraw from whatever nameless dissatisfaction she’s struggling with. When I promised I only wanted her happiness, I meant it.
“I don’t know what it is,” I reply.
“But Kennedy wanted you to come to this meeting,” Morgan insists. “Why? If she’d wanted you to make friends, she would have told you to go to a book club or something. She sent you to a haunting support group. She needs help.”
She needs help. The words cut deep into me. It’s one thing to hear them in my head, doubtful whispers following every drawn look in Kennedy’s eyes. It’s something else to hear them out loud. I can’t handle it.
“I’m probably just picking up on nothing,” I declare. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
Morgan’s bag flies off the table.
The contents spill out everywhere on the floor. One woman in the corner shrieks out in shock.
“Jeez, Zach!” Morgan exclaims in frustration. “Cut it out!”
Dutifully, I start helping Morgan return her possessions to their rightful places. While I’m collecting loose change, however, Morgan hisses. “Ow. Fuck.” She drops what she was holding. “It’s burning hot,” she explains. “I don’t know why he’s so mad—”
I notice what Morgan has dropped. A small packet of garden seeds.
Comforting cold shivers up my arms.
“It’s not Zach,” I say, reaching for the packet. Its temperature is perfectly normal when I pick it up. “Why do you have these?”
“I’m a landscaper,” Morgan replies. “It’s what I do for work.”
My thoughts race. My heart follows. I hold on to the seeds while we retake our seats—the seeds Kennedy wanted me to find. “Like…a gardener,” I say.
Morgan nods.
While I’m reckoning with what’s happening here, the Serving Spirits proprietor exuberantly comes over to where we’re seated.
He’s holding two plates with identical desserts, chocolate miniature bundt cakes with marshmallow glaze descending unevenly down the sides.
On the dark chocolate, the white goo leaves the cake looking cartoon-ghost-shaped.
Kennedy would cringe. My stomach grumbles.
“You two are welcome back here anytime. Our signature dessert is on the house. You have to try it because, after all—”
Delightedly, he points to the poster on the wall next to the front door, which depicts the dessert.
Unfinished Business, the confection is called.
“—you can’t leave until you’ve finished your Unfinished Business,” the proprietor proclaims.
Morgan reaches for her fork.
I don’t.
I never imagined revelation would be found in a novelty chocolate cake. Today truly has defied every expectation.
“I know what the ghosts want,” I say.