Where One Goes(3)

I can’t hear what my mother is saying to George from the other end, but I can hear her muffled cries over the phone. “I know, Ma. I miss him, too.” He covers his eyes with his free hand, a pained expression taking hold of his features.

“Shit, George,” I breathe. I hate seeing him like this.

“I gotta go, Ma. I love you.” He hits end on the screen of his cell and plops down on the sofa. The glass coffee table in front of him is covered with white residue, a bag of coke, his wallet, and empty beer bottles. George leans forward and picks up a framed photo of me in uniform, from the day I graduated from basic training. He stares at the photo for a long moment before setting it down gently. Sliding off the sofa onto his knees, he pulls his license from his wallet. Within seconds, he’s separating a rock of coke into three small lines. After putting his license back in his wallet, he takes a dollar bill out and rolls it tightly, then uses it to snort the first line.

“George!” I yell. “Jesus, man. Why are you doing this to yourself?” But it’s pointless because he can’t hear my words of concern.

I can’t watch anymore. Besides, I know that whore, Misty, is on her way over and seeing him with her disgusts me. My brother is obviously a mess, mourning my loss, and she’s taking full advantage of it, bringing him drugs, snorting them with him as long as he’s paying, and then they f*ck, even though she has a boyfriend who would beat the shit out of George if he ever found out.

I vanish and reappear about half a mile from Anioch Bridge, just outside of town. George and I used to come here when we were kids and we’d fish; those are some of my favorite memories. As I walk toward the bridge in the blackness of the night, I hear the water from the Jackson River raging. The rain has been heavy here the last few days, and the water levels are high. I envy the river. It moves, flows, and keeps going. Unlike me. I’m stuck, trapped by my own need to fix something I can do nothing about.

I died almost ten months ago, and that whole ‘white light’ people talk about is bullshit. At first, I didn’t realize I was dead. Actually, I thought I was dreaming; somehow I was home with my mother and father, but when I tried to speak to them, they didn’t hear me or even respond. It didn’t take long before they received the call notifying them I’d been killed by an IED in Afghanistan.

Shock was all I felt as everyone fell apart with the news. At that point, I thought it was a nightmare; I’d wake up at any moment next to my buddy, Sniper, in our barracks and we’d bullshit about one thing or another. But that never happened. Instead, I’ve been forced to watch my family mourn my passing, unable to offer them any comfort. George has been spiraling out of control since I died, and I can’t bear to see him like this. I know, without a doubt, he’s what’s anchoring me here, keeping me from moving on to whatever lies ahead.

“This is hell,” I mumble to myself. So lost in my own thoughts, I don’t notice the faint light ahead until I’m just about to step onto the bridge.

“I’m sorry, Grandma. I’m sorry, Axel. I’m sorry I’m not stronger.” My thoughts are interrupted when I hear a woman crying. My eyes whip toward the sound of her voice; a thin woman wearing a rain parka that’s way too big, her dark hair plastered to her head as the rain beats down on her. Water drips from the tip of her nose. She’s standing on the railing of the bridge, sobbing loudly. I’m frozen in place, unsure of how to react, but when her sobs suddenly cease and she lifts her head, my breath hitches. Before, her emotion showed her uncertainty about killing herself. Now, her expression is void, as if she’s decided something. She inhales deeply as she comes to terms with her decision and what she’s about to do. And I’m certain she’s going to jump.

“Don’t!” I shout as I run toward her, even though I know she can’t hear me, but I can’t help my reaction. When her head jerks toward me at the sound of my voice, I nearly fall on my ass in shock. Her dark eyes meet mine and she tenses. She heard me.

“Go away!” she shouts back. I stare up at her, my eyes wide and mouth hanging open. She sees me! She can hear me! “Just go away!” she shouts again, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her jacket.

“You can see me?” I shake my head in disbelief.

She clenches her eyes closed and groans. “You’re dead.” It’s not a question, but more of a statement. The rain stops and silence falls between us.

“You can really see me?” I ask again, convinced I’m going mad.

“Dead and stupid,” she mumbles. “Obviously I can see and hear you.”

“But . . . how?”

She turns away from me, and I stare at her profile as she clenches her eyes closed again. “Go away. I can’t help you. I’m done helping the dead. Just leave me alone.” She stares down at the water, her gaze lingering longingly.

Shit. She’s going to jump. “Listen. What’s your name?”

“My name doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” I argue. “My name is Ike. Ike McDermott. Please, just come down. Let’s talk about this.”

“Why?” She laughs hysterically, but it just sounds cryptic. “So I can help you settle your unfinished business so you can crossover? Well, guess what, Ike?” she says, bitterly. “I have nothing. I have one hundred dollars to my name, my vehicle is out of gas, I have no friends or family to help me, and it’s all because of your kind. Because the dead won’t let me be!” Her voice shakes with emotion as angry tears fill her eyes.