Chapter Five

Ghosts didn’t dream. Whether or not they could, or it was a night-by-night case, I wasn’t sure. But all I knew was that I hadn’t gone a single night of my life without a dream, and the first night I slept after I died, I didn’t. It was odd, sleeping when dead. It almost felt the entire time that I was awake within myself, if that even made sense. Like while I was sleeping, I was aware that I was sleeping.

So it was with unease and a false feeling of exhaustion that I got back on the highway. I walked until the sun was high in the sky, and until I was bored out of my mind. Cars had become fewer and fewer, the farther away I walked from San Diego. I didn’t mind; I couldn’t find any amusement or joy from them.

The scenery I did enjoy, however. The hills reminded me of a large blanket slug over a mattress, with many rumples and wrinkles. Birds dotted the sky on occasion, and I bent back my neck and watched them without looking at the road. What did I have to fear? A car couldn’t hurt me—I was already dead.

My journey was as uneventful as algebra class. But if I had to choose between the two, I would definitely pick the road. It didn’t smell bad and a teacher wasn’t screaming in my ear.

In death, I developed a routine. At night, if a hotel or anything else were available, I would sleep there. Some nights I went into random houses and watched the lives of the families I found there. But eventually I stopped doing that, and slept on the road instead, because I found that the habit pained me. They were living in a world that I couldn’t any longer. They were doing things, saying things, going places that I couldn’t relate to anymore, because I was different than them.

I began to feel like an alien, or some disdained species of animal that no one wanted around, despite the fact that no one had said or done anything particular to make me feel that way. They just couldn’t see me.

But I was a person who hated feeling any kind of negative emotions, and I finally found a solid way to entertain myself as I traveled.

I thought about all the things that were good about being dead.

And there were quite a few. The first items on my list were obvious: I couldn’t be hurt. I couldn’t be kidnapped or robbed. I couldn’t be laughed at. I could do almost anything I wanted, and go wherever I wanted to go. I had a limitless amount of time.

Then there were other things, things that caused me to feel a mixture of grief and confusion: I couldn’t go to college. I couldn’t marry and have children. I couldn’t go to prom. I couldn’t make new friends. I couldn’t ever fall in love.

I’d always had small dreams of falling in love. When I was small, Mother had watched Titanic with me once, and I’d developed a huge crush on Leonardo DeCaprio. I’d told Mother that when I grew up I wanted to meet and marry him. Mother had told me that mine wasn’t a genuine love, but I would find it in time, with someone real. Leonardo DiCaprio isn’t real? I had asked.

“Hollywood isn’t real, honey,” she had replied.

And my list, stupidly, made me feel even more depressed. Perhaps it was the hot sun. Perhaps it was the daunting prospect of being alone for eternity. But I found that I didn’t want to walk anymore.

And I sat down.

I’d become someone completely different in death, I realized. Someone I didn’t like. My life had been simple. My life had been easy and fun. Why couldn’t I feel positive, or happy, as I had in that life?

The answer was obvious. My family was thousands of miles away. For the first time, I was truly alone. But I didn’t want to be different. Even though I was dead, I hated acting like it. Father had always said that circumstances would change, and how we changed when they did depended on us.

I sat there for perhaps a few hours, ignoring the scalding sun. I worked on finding something positive about the sad items on my list. College… I wouldn’t have to take out student loans. Marriage and children… no bad cake at the reception and no diapers. Prom… who wanted that hassle? New friends… I didn’t need them. And as for love… I couldn’t bring myself to think of anything.

How could this have happened? I was only thirteen!

The sun went down, and the moon came up. And I still remained in my spot on the road that had left San Diego and was leading to home. I stared down at the pavement, legs crossed and no smile anywhere near my face.

Howls sounded in the distance, and I was frightened, but still I did not move. Nothing could move me. I wanted to sit there until I died again, or that tunnel showed up. When the howls seemed to get closer, I began to hum to myself. It was a tune that Mother had taught me, once before bed. It provided little comfort in the dark wilderness, and just caused an ache of loneliness in my stomach.

Suddenly I heard footsteps. Panicking, I jumped up and darted behind a bush off the road. What kind of animal was it? Obviously a night-creature, out for a hunt. It would smell me, and find me cowering, and then eat me. I trembled. The footsteps were on the road, from what I could tell, and were about to pass my bush.

They didn’t stop, and continued on their way. I sagged in relief.

Then I remembered that I was dead.

Idiot! Anger pulsed in me, more at myself than at the animal. My fear had so consumed me that I’d forgotten the unforgettable! Reason, as it was so often doing, left me. I jumped out from my hiding place and glared at the retreating animal. It was a shadow in the dark, and the moonlight did little, so I couldn’t see what kind it was.

“I’m not afraid of you!” I shouted at it. “Come back here!”

I wanted something to hit. In my life I’d been the model of control, of peace, but death had brought me something else entirely. I was a spool of thread unraveling swiftly. I charged at the creature, sobbing and screaming at the same time.

I wanted my life back!

I wanted to speak to people!

I wanted my family!

I threw myself at it, and pounded it with my fists. “I hate you!” I sobbed, weakening. The animal stood quietly and endured my abuse. “You’re nothing,” I sniffled, leaning my forehead against the animal’s chest. “You’re no one.”

I didn’t know how long I cried. I stood there, and the animal stood there. The animal had wrapped its arms around me, and was murmuring comforting sounds in my ear. I buried my face into its sweet-smelling shirt.

Its sweet-smelling shirt?

I jerked back, squinting fearfully in the dark. The animal released me, and there was the sound of something unzipping, and a clunking of some sort.

Then a click, and a flashlight turned on.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked me. Their hands turned the light, so it was on their own face. A boy’s concerned eyes looked back at me. I froze in shock.

And then fainted.