Chapter 11
@tryingsomethingnew: Hey salt girl. You still up?
@salt&seagirl: Yeah? What’s up? You want to send me some more whale songs so that I can cry or something?
@tryingsomethingnew: Did the whale’s song really make you cry?
@salt&seagirl: Yeah. I was at work so I couldn’t bawl or anything.
@tryingsomethingnew: Ngl, it made me tear up too.
@salt&seagirl: So you’re not one of those tough guys, then?
@tryingsomethingnew: I’m not tough at all. I’m very soft and gooey, in fact.
@salt&seagirl: like a half-baked cinnamon roll?
@tryingsomethingnew: With extra icing, even.
@tryingsomethingnew: If you were a dessert, what would you be?
@salt&seagirl: Hmm. Hmm. Let me think…. A tomato pie!
@tryingsomethingnew: Tomato pie is definitely not dessert haha.
@salt&seagirl: Exactly. People kind of find me surprising, or weird, and no one chooses me for dessert
@tryingsomethingnew: I’ve kind of had the opposite problem, to be honest. Too many folks trying to choose me.
@salt&seagirl: Too many hands taking the poor cinnamon rolls.
@tryingsomethingnew: Exactly. And now I feel kind of empty. Like I need to whip up some new dough and make myself all over again.
@salt&seagirl: So now you’re…drumroll…trying something new?
@tryingsomethingnew: Now I’m trying something new
The next morning, I awaken to birdsong. I keep my eyes closed as I identify the sources: Carolina wrens.
Cardinals. A distant American bluebird, chirping to nothing more than the joyful return of light.
It’s strange to think about sometimes, how we humans, and most other animals, must sleep regularly.
We become vulnerable by necessity. We visit the World of Dreams, which Nadia says is a gateway to all the other worlds that exist.
The World of Dreams feels an awful lot like being a ghost to me, so sometimes I awaken frightened that I can’t touch anything.
That no one but Sage can hear me. I hate it when that happens.
Right now, I place my hand upon my chest, where my heart drums slowly, rhythmically.
I once read that the first sound we know is of the heartbeat of our mother.
This is true for any creature with a heart, I think.
I could not feel my own heart when I was a ghost, and so the pulse of it beneath my palm is a small comfort.
I am still firmly a part of the Land of the Living.
I’m sure someone would say my occasional need to touch things, to go through objects or feel the warmth of my own skin in a panic, is some kind of trauma response.
But I just don’t foresee a mental health professional truly understanding that I really was a ghost—and that it wasn’t some elaborate delusion or hallucination.
So for now, I’ve got to just deal with the fact that sometimes I freak out and need to determine that I’m actually alive.
After washing my face, I pick up my phone and see texts from my sisters. Hey, how are you doing? Wanna get lunch sometime next week? Teal asks. I was wondering if you’d like to see Oak…maybe we could go to a park? writes Sage.
I roll my eyes. It’s obvious they had some kind of “Let’s Make Ourselves Feel Better by Discussing Sky” meeting.
There’s no other reason they’d both text me at once, when I’ve been trying to get them to write me regularly, at least something more than the brief hi, what’s up, let’s do something, oh okay, let me know when you’re free every three weeks.
I think about @tryingsomethingnew. We’d chatted till well past midnight last night, and I’m already starting to get warm fuzzies just from thinking about him.
Which, I know, I know. I’m not stupid. It’s only been one day, and he may well be a ninety-year-old man typing from the shared desktop in his assisted living community.
But it’s just been so long since someone has wanted to get to know me.
Without all this Eight Years of Sleep in an Oak Tree baggage in the way.
Even when I readjusted to the World of the Living and got closer with my sisters two years ago, everything that came from them was through an obvious veil of concern.
They used what they thought were sneaky questions to make sure I was doing things like eating and going to bed at a normal hour and not spending too much time in the woods.
They also kept checking in on my mental health, knowing how the town always treated me.
Which I appreciate. I do. And I understand completely that they have good intentions.
But the problem is, their well-meant concern kept getting in the way of genuine connection between us.
And that’s how I became a burden to them, rather than their third sister they could just hang out with.
If you can’t be with someone without trying to figure out if they are on the verge of a crisis of some kind, then it’s stressful to be around them.
That’s how someone becomes a burden. That’s how I became a burden.
I can’t take care of you and my child at the same time.
Even just reading these texts alone, I can tell they don’t want to actually hang out with me.
These are just obligatory check-ins. Guilty offers to hang out.
If I took either of them up on it, I would feel awkward the whole time, wondering if they were counting the minutes till they could get to the more important stuff in their lives—their work.
Their families. I would rather take a nap in the woods with Coffee the fox.
Instead of telling them no, which will just cause more upheaval than I currently have the energy to deal with, I decide to casually text with them back and forth, acting like I’m settling on a date for each of their propositions.
When Sage suggests next Thursday, I write, “Oh no, I’m supposed to be getting lunch with Teal that day.”
When Teal suggests next Sunday, I write, “Oh, I’m going to the park with Sage and Oak that day.”
And then I tell them both that I have to get ready for work, and I will text them back later, to finalize the plans.
I light a candle on my dresser, one I made myself from Teal’s old candle-making supplies she gave me. It’s nothing special. I melted the golden beeswax and poured it in a mason jar after fixing a wick inside it.
But with the flame undulating with my breath, I ask its smoke to take my prayer to the old gods.
I apologize for lying to my sisters but explain that I need time without people limiting me with their ideas on who I am and what I should be doing.
I ask the old gods to keep my sisters confused for just a little while.
I know I need to tell them, eventually, all the ways they’ve been hurting me, but I’m not ready yet.
This is another way I feel unlike everyone else—I need so much time to process things, it feels like the events are ancient history by the time I figure out how I even feel about them in the first place!
I allow the candle to burn as long as possible, blowing it out only just before I leave for work. I watch the smoke form into what appears to be a woman with the head of a bird before dissipating into the morning light coming through the little windows like poured honey.
@tryingsomethingnew: What are you doing, Salt Sea Girl? Are you in the ocean right now?
@salt&seagirl: I sure am. Swimming with the whales as we speak. What’s up?
@tryingsomethingnew: Just wondering where you are in the Northeast. Not that you have to tell me, of course. I’m just curious how far away you are.
@salt&seagirl: Oh, this little seaside town in Virginia. *really* little, haha.
@tryingsomethingnew: Oh wow. Same, actually
@salt&seagirl: You live in a small seaside town in Virginia?
@tryingsomethingnew: Yeah, I do. I’m sure you haven’t heard of it. Well, maybe you have, considering your proximity. But it’s a little town called Cranberry.
@salt&seagirl: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME
@salt&seagirl: I LIVE IN CRANBERRY!
@tryingsomethingnew: You’re kidding
@salt&seagirl: I’m totally, totally not. I swear over the ancestors I’m not.
@tryingsomethingnew: That’s…wow. Quite the coincidence.
@tryingsomethingnew: I guess that makes us meeting sometime easier. Whenever you’re ready for that, if ever.
@salt&seagirl: Well, I’m not ready now, but who knows? You know?
@tryingsomethingnew: I know
Finding out that @tryingsomethingnew also lives in Cranberry was a bit exciting at first, but after taking some time to process the information, I realize it’s not such a great development after all.
The chances of him knowing Sky Flores, and thinking she’s a freak, have officially skyrocketed.
This all means he definitely cannot know who I am now.
Between that and the whole annoying texting shenanigans that went down with my sisters, my mood is impossibly sour for the rest of the day.
As a treat, I allow myself one hour to investigate the potential creepy Cranberry witch cult, even though it means going into the new library building and navigating stares and whispers so I can get my hands on various history books about the town.
I can only relax once I’m alone in my dungeon, the newly checked-out book pile in front of me on my beloved stolen desk. I breathe out a sigh of relief as I sit, open my secret drawer, pull out my journal and a handful of chocolates, and begin to read.
After about thirty minutes, it’s becoming clear to me that there’s something weird about the church. St. Theresa’s Catholic Church for Wanderers and Pilgrims, to be specific.
It’s the place I, Teal, and Sage were basically raised in.
Half my childhood memories are connected with that spot, from attending Mass multiple times a week, to being forced to attend Bible studies and confirmation classes.
We baked for the bake sales and put together Thanksgiving dinners for the unhoused and sang in the choir.