Chapter 5
FIVE
My homework for this week is brutal. I’m sitting at my desk, attempting to solve some math equations that are completely scrambling my brain.
Math is for bitches.
I’m just about to throw my notebook out of my window in frustration when there is a knock on the door.
“Sloany, the Walkers are here. Can you come down?” Nan’s voice is muffled through the wood.
I stand and walk to the door, opening it and trying hard not to sound as annoyed as I am. “Do I have to?”
“We talked about this. You have to learn. Someday, you will do the readings alone,” Nan says, reaching out to push a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I don’t want to do them, you know that,” I mutter, gritting my teeth and looking at the floor.
“You only say that because you are scared. It is our gift, Sloan. There is a reason why our family was chosen to help the spirits cross and their families cope,” she tells me, her voice gentle and reassuring.
I look back up into her eyes, and she gives me a small smile.
“If you give it a chance and learn, you will understand.”
I nod, knowing I won’t get out of this anyway, so I motion for her to lead the way. The chill begins to run down my neck when we reach the stairs.
An older, motherly-looking woman is sitting at our kitchen table. Next to her appears to be her son, a guy in his early twenties. They both look sad, but the mother looks exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes, and she’s even trembling slightly.
Seated to her right is a ghost, an older man with a balding head and kind face. He’s looking at his wife with a mixture of sadness and love.
“Charlotte, Matthew, this is my granddaughter, Sloan.” Nan introduces. “She’s a very strong medium but still learning since she’s only sixteen. But I would like for her to hold the reading while I’m here by her side, of course, and I can intervene or help if needed. Would that be okay?”
The woman named Charlotte gives me a small, appreciative smile. “I would love you to help me, dear.”
I turn my attention to the ghost and ask, “And what’s your name?”
Charlotte’s head snaps to her right, eyes widening in surprise. The ghost huffs a laugh and replies, “My name is David. Nice to meet you, Sloan.”
“Nice to meet you too, David,” I respond politely as I take my seat.
“He’s here?” Matthew, the son, asks with disbelief, his eyes darting between his mother and the empty chair beside her.
“Well, that is the whole reason you guys are in our kitchen, right?” I ask Matthew, a brow raised. It’s not difficult to sense that David is bothering his loved ones—out of love, of course—but one feel of his intense presence and one look at their exhausted state tells it all.
“Sloany, tone down your smart-ass comments. Those people need help,” Nan chides.
“I like the girl.” David laughs, his gaze fixed on his wife, but his happy expression falls when he remembers she can’t hear him.
“I’m sorry, please share what the problem is,” I state, glancing at Nan, and she nods.
Charlotte starts to cry, her tears flowing, so Matthew takes a deep breath before he starts, “My father battled cancer for about two years. My mother and he were very close. He didn’t want to die.
He didn’t want to leave my mother. He fought until his last breath.
He started visiting my mother a few days later, always at night.
She feels him tossing and turning throughout the night.
Sometimes she hears him breathing, but his normal breathing before it was so labored from the cancer.
” I glance over at David, who looks a little sheepish, while Matthew continues, “It happens when she’s in a deep sleep, but also when she’s just lying there awake. ”
Charlotte nods as she speaks, her voice filled with concern.
“I’m scared that he’s restless in the afterlife and thinks he needs to stay to watch over me.
I speak to him to reassure him, but he still visits me every night.
I tell him that I’m not sure what is bothering him.
I hug the air where I think he is,” she says with a watery laugh.
“And as soon as I hug him, it will stop.”
David chimes in, “We never started a day without a hug.”
“You never started a day without a hug,” I recite to Charlotte.
Her eyes widen before a sob breaks out of her, and Matthew puts an arm around her shoulders.
“That is why? Oh my God,” Charlotte exclaims through her tears.
“It mostly happens around four a.m., and I can’t go back to sleep afterward.
I work during the day, and I’m exhausted.
I love that he’s still here and visits me, but I believe in heaven, and I want him to cross over and be happy. ”
“We don’t want to ‘banish’ him. We want him to know Mom’s okay, and he’s okay to cross over and find peace,” Matthew explains, his voice filled with a mix of hope and concern. “It’s been six months.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I offer sincerely, but my eyes are on David as I say it.
I’ve always believed that the one we should truly be sorry for is the person who has lost it all.
Their loved ones and their life. “Soul bonds are a real thing. There are connections that are stronger than life and death,” I continue, my gaze shifting back to Matthew and Charlotte.
“And it seems that you have such a bond with your husband. Which is a beautiful thing. We just have to make it work so it’s not hurting both of you. ”
“And how can we do that? I don’t want to hurt her, but I can’t just leave her here alone. It doesn’t feel right,” David expresses his concern.
“You can still visit if you cross over, David. There is nothing holding you back from watching over her from the afterlife,” I reassure him.
David looks at my Nan, seeking confirmation. She smiles at him and nods. “It is true, your soul will be at peace, but you will never lose sight of them and can choose to visit.”
“Maybe we should just figure out some visiting hours,” I suggest, shrugging.
Both Charlotte and Matthew look at me—Charlotte with wide eyes and Matthew with a scrunched-up face. “Does she even take this seriously?” he asks my Nan.
“I take it very seriously since your mother hasn’t slept for months,” I reply firmly. “David, can we agree on a time when you can come and visit that does not affect Charlotte so much?”
David chuckles, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “And how do you think this should work, kid? It’s not exactly like there is still a feeling of time, and I don’t think there will be a watch I could look at in the afterlife.”
“How about your wife gives you a signal? You’ll watch her anyway, so you’ll know when she wishes for your presence,” I suggest, looking at David.
“What kind of signal?” Charlotte asks me, leaning in with interest. Her tears are still flowing, but she’s not actively crying anymore.
“I don’t know, maybe lighting a candle for him?
It will take some time to figure it out, but I’m sure this could be established,” I explain.
“You already told me you can feel him when he’s there.
So you will know if it works, and if it is time for bed, you could end the visit with a hug.
You just turn the ‘never starting a day without a hug’ into ‘never going to sleep without a hug’ until you’re reunited. ”
Charlotte leans back before her lip trembles, and she starts crying once more. The weight of her emotions hangs heavy in the room.
That’s the thing I hate most about readings.
All the crying.
As if I wouldn’t cry enough myself.
Nan says a good medium has to stay neutral during a reading, that we have to close ourselves off from the emotions to be present, to be a good voice for the souls. But ghosts project their feelings onto us when they are close, and I’m always struggling not to cry with their loved ones anyway.
“That’s a very good idea, kid. Thank you, I’m going to try.” David smiles sadly at me, reaching out to hold Charlotte’s hand on the table.
She looks down at her hand, then over to the empty stool, and back at me. I nod, giving her a reassuring smile, even though my own eyes are starting to water. “He thinks it’s worth a try.”
Charlotte nods frantically, brushing away some tears with the back of her hand. “I think so too.”
“He’s only a whisper away, dear,” Nan soothes, reaching out to pat her arm.
A breeze whispers through the window I propped open, rousing me from my nap. I blink my eyes open, greeted by the warm golden sun dipping lower in the sky. It seems I’ve slept for a few hours, and once again, memories haunted my sleep.
I don’t know if it is because the anniversary of Nan’s death was yesterday, but for the last few days, I’ve been thinking and dreaming about a lot of our life together.
Of how it was before I was all alone.
I think of how she raised me, showed me how to use my gift, and used it to connect with those who had passed, guiding them toward the light and comforting those they left behind.
Pushing the covers off, I sit on the edge of my bed, the last remnants of sleep clinging stubbornly to my consciousness.
The memories are vivid, almost as if Nan’s spirit is lingering.
But I know it’s not. She stepped into the light, and no matter how many times I’ve whispered and begged her to guide me or to just visit me, she has never come.
The space is filled with the soft hum of the radio. It’s calm and peaceful. For a moment, I let myself bask in it before getting up and going to the window. The breeze still plays with the edges of the curtains as I close it gently.
The weather has become overcast in the few hours since I left those guys’ home, but it doesn’t change the beautiful view. Maybe it’s the place, but the connection I feel with her is stronger here.
Or maybe I’m just imagining things. You tend to overthink stuff when you have only your thoughts to keep you company.
I think about Saylor’s offer to be friends.
Yeah, hell no.
I’d rather lose my mind from being alone than have people think I’ve lost it because I’m always with a ghost and caught chatting to thin air.
Again.
I know my gift is not just a part of me. It’s a legacy, a responsibility handed down through generations. Nan never shied away from it, and she wouldn’t want me to either. She always said that to help others is to heal oneself.
But she never had to endure what I have because of what we can do.
After stretching, I decide to venture into town. No matter what I’m going to do next, one thing is clear. I need money to do it. Maybe Lubec has something to offer in terms of work. If not, I’ll move on to the next town and the next until I find something.
I slip into my sneakers, throw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, and step out of the van, my feet meeting the worn pavement.
As I head toward the heart of Lubec, I can’t help but marvel at how the town looks frozen in time.
Cute, colorful houses line the streets, their wooden facades weathered by the coastal winds.
The salty scent of the ocean fills the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked goods and seafood.
The wind teases my hair, and I find myself constantly pushing it aside as I stroll along the streets.
It’s clear this town takes pride in its identity. Every few steps, I spot a sign. They’re all the same—dark blue background with a white and red-striped lighthouse in the center, accompanied by the words Welcome to Lubec.
My mind wanders as I continue to explore. Living here would be a dream. I could have my own little house, maybe one of the colorful ones, with garden beds I could grow herbs in. A big kitchen. And a bed that’s not made of wooden boxes.
Stop it, Sloan.
Right now, I don’t need a home. I need a job.
And I need it now.
Up ahead, a sign catches my eye. Shannon’s reads the bold lettering. Below it, a Help Wanted sign hangs in the window of the rustic-looking restaurant.
This could be it.
Taking a deep breath, I push open the door.