Melissa Walker - Ashes to Ashes

Peering through the fog, I see nowhere, nothing. An endless sea of gray mist and emptiness. I follow him, moving one foot in front of the other in a hopeless march.

He leads me toward the doorway through which he came earlier, and I see the kaleidoscope of color rippling again.

“This is a portal —it’s a gateway to another dimension,” he explains. His gaze lands on me again, but I don’t react. I have the sense that I’m trapped in a science fiction movie.

“We live in three dimensions on Earth, but the Prism isn’t restricted that way,” he continues, void of emotion, a teacher who has no passion for the lesson. So why did he volunteer to be the one to teach it?

I can’t focus. I’m thinking about the last movie I saw—a 3D horror film with Nick. He tried to be the big strong boyfriend, but when the killer jumped out at a totally unexpected moment, he screamed and spilled our entire bag of popcorn. We both laughed in that silent-shake way that you do when you’re trying to be quiet, and then he reached for my hand. “Never tell anyone about that sound I just made,” he whispered. “I promise,” I said, leaning in to kiss him. I was so happy, so content that day.

“ Callie, are you listening ? ” Thatcher must have kept talking while I was lost in a memory.

I glare at him. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Then pay attention to what I’m telling you.”

“So you’re going to teach me how to escape this place?”

“Not escape , but move beyond it.”

What does that mean?

He disappears through the portal, and I realize that if I don’t go, I might be stuck in this misty no-man’s-land. Alone. Who knows if it’s safe? If it were, would I need someone to watch over me?

The portal looks like a gathering of all the sunspots I saw around us earlier—it twinkles and shifts, and I wonder if the Prism is called that because it’s like one of those multifaceted crystals that you hang in the window to make rainbows. When I walk through, it feels like I’m traveling at the speed of light, like I just stepped onto a moving sidewalk that goes a thousand miles per hour. But I’m not jolted, not pulled, just moved . I don’t see Thatcher—I don’t see anything, really; I just sense pure motion.

And then I’m on the other side, and it’s so familiar that I want to cry.

Home , I think.

IT ISN’T MY HOME, but it’s definitely Earth. The wind hits my face first, and I smell the familiar salty air as an involuntary smile crosses my lips.

The Charleston Harbor . It’s midday, and the sun is high in the sky. I tilt my head back to see the sky and inhale deeply. “Love the way it smells—”

“You’re not really smelling it. Scent is one of the strongest memory enhancers. Just like the smell of pecan pie can bring memories of Thanksgiving with family, so seeing something can cause you to remember a fragrance.”

I glare at him, wanting to prove that I’m not like him, that I’m different, that I’m not really dead. “I am smelling it. I’m feeling the wind—”

I stop. Tall palmettos blow in the breeze, but my hair isn’t whipping around my face. God, he’s right. I’m only imagining these sensations, because past experience has taught me to expect them. “So you can’t tell that I smell like wild strawberries?”

Before he blinks, I see longing reflected in his eyes. He slowly shakes his head.

“Don’t you miss all the different aromas? Sunscreen, hot dogs, decaying fish?”

A corner of his mouth quirks up. “The rotting sea life, not so much. The other . . . I don’t think about it. We’re separate from Earth. Like being in a bubble. You have to realize that your outer shell is an illusion, a security blanket so everything isn’t stripped away, so you have something familiar to anchor you. Don’t focus on what’s missing. Concentrate on what you can see, observe.”

That’s so hard. It’s like all of a sudden, I can only think about the sensations that are absent: the grit of sand caught in a whirlwind blowing across my calves, the tangy aroma of barbecue, the heat of the sun beating down. With a great deal of effort, I put it all aside and focus on what I can see.

Tourists pass by with ice cream cones, women wear big straw hats to protect their skin, and people hold hands, laughing. The scene before me is vivid and sharp—like we’re watching a high-definition show from inside the TV.

I notice a little boy standing off to the side of a mother, father, and baby girl who sit together on a wooden bench with a lunch of pulled pork sandwiches and coleslaw. The boy attracts my gaze the most—he has a glow to him, almost like there’s a subtle spotlight over his head.

Just down from the family, an older woman with tightly permed grandma hair sits next to an old man. She has the same glow as the little boy, and she stares at the man lovingly as he gazes over the water in front of them and into the distance. I drink in the scene, noting how she is so much more vibrant than he is, but he doesn’t even seem to know that she’s there.

I follow the old man’s eyes out over the water, to a sailboat off the harbor with a family of four in the cockpit. As they take down the mainsail, I catch a glimpse of a girl my age—glowing—on the bow. “She’s going to fall in,” I say. “You can’t stand out there when—”

I stop and catch my breath. Or I experience the sensation of catching my breath.

“Ella Hartley,” I whisper.

“Yes,” says Thatcher. “You remember her, too?”

“I need to sit down,” I say to him as I start to realize what he’s showing me and another wave of despair washes over me. I am like Ella Hartley now .

When Carson and I were little, Ella was in our ballet class—I remember she had the most incredible violet-colored eyes. She died last month when her body rejected the kidney she’d been given. It was huge news in town because everyone had been so hopeful when they finally found a donor. But it didn’t take. Her friends decorated her locker with flowers and photos and poetry. Carson even added a sachet that included marjoram because she believes the herb brings serenity to the recently departed. I thought it was pointless to leave tributes for someone after they died—I thought the gestures were more for the Living than the dead.

Now I wonder if Carson will gather funeral herbs for me.

Thatcher and I sit on a bench near the very dock I sped down in my new BMW, and I watch Ella and her family motor in.

The Hartleys tie up their boat and step off, one by one, near where we’re sitting. Ella trails after them with a soft smile on her face, lit up by that singular radiance. They walk right by us, unseeing, but when Ella passes, she gives me a slow nod, like we’re in the hallway at school or something. I wave back, hoping my face isn’t etched with the heartache that consumes me at the sight of her. Her eyes appear hollow, blank—their color muted. As she walks by, her long brown ponytail swings to the side and I see a small, green, half-moon-shaped tattoo on the side of her neck.

Immediately I shift my gaze back to the old woman on the bench. Her tight perm hovers over the same green moon symbol, but hers is a crescent. The little boy has an identical mark. My mind reels as a realization unfolds while I take in the full length of the dock and all the people on it.

In between the families strolling, the couples holding hands, the kids racing up the wooden planks, are some people who seem to be lit from within. They’re in Technicolor—it’s almost like I’m watching a movie where certain stars are in 3D while the others are flat. And the radiant ones . . . they share the moon mark. Their eyes reflect a mirror of placidity, an eerie calm.