Becca
Chapter 38
Becca
62 Days Dead
Instinctually, we clutch the blankets around us, moving quickly as the door pushes open and a man I’ve never seen before follows my parents in.
If it were one of Aiden’s friends, I’d remember him. He’s young, probably around my age, and handsome with strong cheekbones, rich brown eyes, and a comforting yet commanding energy. But with the white streak in his hair and memorable arm tattoos, I know I’d definitely remember him if it was one of Aiden’s friends. I can’t imagine what other reason a random man would have to be here.
My parents hang back as he walks to the center of the room, his eyes scanning the space while he inhales deeply. Nerves coil tightly within me, straining my muscles. A good sixty seconds pass and he doesn’t say anything, running his hand along my wall until he reaches my dresser, where he takes interest in my half-empty perfume bottles and thumbs through my journal.
“Mr. Addams, what is it? Is she here? Do you see her?” My mother’s questions stack on top of each other in a heap of expectations.
“I’ll just need a few minutes to get settled, Mrs. Murphy. Is it possible to have the room to myself?”
“Sure, no problem. Take your time.” My dad palms my mom’s shoulders as he guides her out; his smile is tight as he closes the door behind him.
“Thank you.” He remains completely still, gazing out the window until the door shuts all the way. Several seconds pass, and then his eyes find mine. The rich brown lightens with interest just slightly. “Hello.”
I remain silent, my mind not quite processing what’s happening. Being seen by a living person is jarring after all this time. “Umm…hi?”
“Becca, I presume. And you are?” His attention turns to Stasi but doesn’t linger.
“Stasi.”
He cocks his head, his eyes assessing us. “Hawthorne Addams, but you can just call me Hawthorne.” Pulling out my desk chair, he settles in casually, like we’re old friends. “So, what’s the story here?” His tattooed fingers gesture between us.
“It’s a long one,” Stasi answers shortly as she shifts closer to me.
“Fair. I’ll get down to what’s important, then.” He returns his attention to me. “You seem like a fairly well-adjusted spirit. Are you happy?”
Finding Stasi’s hand, I give it a squeeze, attempting to soothe the protective energy exuding from her as she presses closer to me. “Yes. Very.”
“That’s good.” Hawthorne plays with his ring. “It’s rare, you know? For those who have passed on to find something good and true to hold onto in the afterlife.”
“Do you meet a lot of dead people?” I ask, surprised by his comment.
He laughs and shakes his head. “You have no idea. But yes, I’ve been communing with the dead since I was a kid, albeit it used to be against my will. Now, I’ve made a profession of it.”
I nod. “Are you like a ghost hunter or something?”
“Not quite,” he chuckles. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I have plenty of associates who are in the field, but I prefer the term medium. I typically help people—living and dead—move on.”
“And how do you do that exactly?” Stasi asks suspiciously.
“Sometimes I facilitate communication that can help people handle unfinished business. Other times I might need to use more forceful methods, depending on the circumstances and the spirit.”
“What’s your plan for us then?”
“I’ll admit this is…very different from the majority of cases I take. It’s a pleasant surprise, actually.” Hawthorne’s smile is warm and genuine, relieved. “What is it that you want? Do you want me to tell them you’re here? Would you prefer they believed you passed on? Usually, most spirits cling to the life they had. But you two seem to have moved on in your own way.”
“We have.” The truth of that statement hits me. “I’m ready to let go. It’s what’s best for all of us. I don’t want them to know I’m here.”
“Are you sure?” Hawthorne’s voice isn’t judgmental but measured and considerate. “If I tell them you’re not here, it will be devastating, it’ll take them time to process, but it will also help them move on.”
“Are you saying it’s not the right thing to do?”
“I’m not telling you what’s right or wrong. I’m just saying that you should consider whether you truly want them to grieve and let go of the hope that you’re here. It’s a brutal process. But it can be very healing for everyone involved.” He levels his gaze at me. “Are you ready for that? Are you ready to let go?”
My throat tightens, the words hesitating in the middle of my throat, almost choking me. “Yes.” I exhale a long breath that’s not technically necessary but is centering all the same. “Yes, I’m ready to let go. I want you to tell them that I’m not here anymore. I want my parents to get their lives back.”
“The living have a hard time with grief,” Hawthorne counters, not antagonistically, but thoughtfully.
“I know it won’t be easy for them to let me go. But they have each other, they have Aiden. My restless spirit isn’t going to change the fact that I’m beyond their reach.” My fingers tangle with one another. “I’m done, though. I’m done lingering in this in between.”
I turn to Stasi. “I’m done trying to be things that other people wanted me to be, I’m done making everyone else my priority, and what I need, is to move on. To let go of who I was when I was alive. I’m ready to stop being Becca Murphy, and I’m ready to start just being Becca. I want to discover who I am without the expectations and the limitations. I want to dive head-first into a life where I’m loved exactly as I am.”
“And that isn’t what your parents offered?” His tone is clipped. “You know, you’re very lucky to have parents who care about you, who are invested in your happiness.”
“Is that why you do this? To make families happy?” Stasi questions, challenging the shift in conversation.
“No.” He lightens up at her directness. “I’m in this to help people find closure. A restless spirit is prone to misery—for both the hauntee and the haunted. I’m in this because I believe most people deserve closure and rest. The world runs us weary, tests us, and hurts us. But for some, the afterlife can be a release. And for those who want that —on either side of the veil—I’m happy to lend my…talents.”
“And what are your talents?” Stasi cuts in. “More than communing with the dead I’d bet.”
“You’d bet correctly, but thankfully, those services aren’t needed today.” Hawthorne’s attention turns back to me. “Ready?” With my affirmative nod, he stands and puts the chair back to its rightful position. “I can come back to check in on you, in case you need anything. Might be nice to talk to someone else every once in a while.”
Stasi remains silent, her mistrust clear. But there’s something about him that feels safe, like reassurance. “I’d like that.”
“Great.” He claps his hands. “Let’s finish this then.” Quickly, he sets up a few candles and lets my parents back into the room.
“Becca Murphy, if you’re still here, please come forward. Your parents would like to talk to you.” His voice is powerful and inviting as he speaks his intention. All that’s left for me to do is sit back and see how this unfolds. “Becca, I’m here to help you connect with your family from the other side. If you have anything you’d like to say to them, speak now.”
Scanning every corner, my parents search for some sign that I’m still here. I don’t dare move a muscle, needing this to work. The room collectively holds their breath as they wait and wait, but thankfully, Hawthorne finally puts them out of their misery.
“Is she here with us?” my mom asks eagerly. Matching hope lights in my dad’s eyes, but it’s quickly dulled.
“No, I’m sorry Mr. and Mrs. Murphy, but Becca isn’t here.” Hawthorne turns to them, holding their gazes with the utmost sincerity. “She’s moved on to a better place. I know that’s hard to hear, but you should be happy for her. Becca’s at peace now. And hopefully, you’ll be able to find yours now that you have some closure.”
Hawthorne doesn’t stay for the tears my parents share with one another over the news, but we do. This is part of the grieving process for me, too, and fortunately, Stasi stays by my side through it, her hand holding mine firmly, serving as my anchor. There’s a part of me that wants to run to them, that wishes we could be a happy family again, but that life was cut short by my own hand. That’s a decision I have to make peace with. It’ll take time, but I know I’ll get there.