Sherry Ficklin: Losing Logan

“Let’s do it.” He says, clapping his hands together.

I pucker my lips. “Yeah, well, I have to get dressed first so you should, you know, turn around. Or go outside. Or something.”

He slaps his hand over his eyes. I put a balled up fist on my hip. “Nice try Casper.”

With a frustrated sigh he vanishes and I hear him calling from my kitchen. “Prude.”

“Perv,” I call back, slipping into my jeans.

Once I’m fully dressed, I grab my car keys and head out. It’s a good thing Mom is working a double shift. She’d kill me if she knew I was heading out to the cemetery in the middle of the night. And if I tried to explain why, she’d have me committed.

“What are you thinking about?” Logan asks as we drive slowly up to the front gate of Stone Hill Cemetery.

I lean over the dash, looking at the towering wrought iron gate and the thick chains binding it closed. “You really want to talk about my feelings, Logan?”

He slides through the door without opening it and stands in front of my head lights. “Pathetic as it is, talking to you has kind of been the highlight of my week. So, yeah.”

I kill the lights and slam the door of my old yellow VW Beetle closed. “Aw, that’s kinda sweet. You know, in a not really sort of way.”

He rolls his eyes. In three long strides he steps toward the black iron bars and runs right into them. Stepping back, he looks stunned. In my mind something clicks into place.

“Ghosts can’t pass through iron,” I say, feeling smug. He turns and stares at me. I shrug. “I saw it on TV.”

He reaches for the bar and wraps his hand around it. As soon as he does his hand begins to smoke like its burning. He yelps, pulls his hand back and rubs it.

“I guess I can feel some things.”

I nod and walk up beside him. “Yeah, iron is like ghost kryptonite. Hey, we should dig up your body, then pour salt on it and light it on fire.”

He stares at me, his nose crinkled up. “Why?”

“To release your spirit.”

“I’m pretty released, thanks.”

“Still.”

“We are not desecrating my corpse based on something you saw on TV.”

I frown. “You have no sense of whimsy, you know that?”

He rolls his eyes and points to a stone wall. “There, we can get in over there. You’ll have to climb it.”

Of course I will. I run back to the car and grab a flashlight off the floorboard, tucking it into my back pocket. As I watch, he steps through the wall.

“All clear,” he whispers.

“You don’t have to whisper, no one can hear you.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.”

I shake my head. This has got to be the absolute top of the list of the stupidest things I’ve ever done. As a matter of fact, this might actually be the list. Clinging carefully to each stone, I climb up. Luckily it’s not very high, but my arms still feel like lead weights when I jump over the other side and land gingerly on my feet.

“Like a ninja,” I whisper as Logan smiles. It’s a warm, sincere smile, something I haven’t seen him wear in a long time—which is a shame because it looks really good on him.

“Where to now?” I ask, dusting off my hands on my jeans.

He shrugs and starts walking. Not sure what else to do, I follow him. We wander past the old, battered headstones toward the newer part of the cemetery which is in the very back. The paths are all old cobblestone, giant obelisks and weeping angels looking down on us as we walk. We pass by a small crypt and I shine the flashlight on the entrance. Over the gate, carved in stone is the phrase, Verum non est in morte .

“What does it say?” Logan asks from behind me.

I know the translation, not because I can read Latin, but because I’d asked my mother the same question as we were leaving my father’s funeral.

“It says, In death there is truth .”

Lowering my light, I shine it around, over the headstones. “Do you see anything?”

He shakes his head. “No. Nothing.”

I sigh, defeated. We walk on until we see a big yellow back hoe parked next to a fresh grave. Logan freezes but I walk closer, shining the light on the name etched into the stone.

Logan Wayne Cooper.

I turn, shining the light on Logan. “Wayne, really?”

He looks away, “My dad likes old westerns.”

“Huh.” I step around the grave, careful not to disturb the freshly mounded dirt or the stacks of fresh flowers. “I hear they take these flowers and give them to the old people at the nursing home,” I say, desperate to break the silence. He doesn’t answer. When I glance up his back is to me. The moonlight is hitting him at an odd angle, making him almost glow. It’s so beautiful that for a moment I’m transfixed by it. He looks over his shoulder at me and all I can think is how beautiful he is. Like an angel.

Then he opens his mouth.

“What are you staring at?”

I roll my eyes. “Just wondering if you’re going to do something or just stand there sparkling like an idiot.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, throwing his hands in the air.

I inhale slowly. “You said you thought of me, and then you were just there, in my room, right?”

“Yeah.” He turns, walking toward me.

I shift from one foot to the other. “Well, maybe you should think of…I dunno…heaven. Or whatever.”

“Heaven?” He snorts.

“Don’t get an attitude with me, there buddy. I’m standing in a cemetery at five in the morning next to a fresh grave talking to a dead guy. My tolerance has its limits.”

“Fine.” He grumbles. He closes his eyes takes a deep breath and…

Nothing.

He opens one eye. Then his face falls. “This was a stupid idea.”

“Your face is stupid.”

He stomps away, tugging on his hair. Then he spins back, pointing at me. “You know, you are such a joy to be around. I can’t imagine why you don’t have any friends.”

That hurts. “I have friends,” I whisper.

“Oh, I forgot. Gay Carlos tolerates you. That doesn’t make you his friend. It makes you his hag.”

The pain from his words is so quick and so sharp it feels like he slapped me in the face. I recover quickly, the pain feeding my already growing anger.

“Listen up you pompous ass waffle. Number one, don’t you ever talk about Carlos that way again. He’s worth ten of you. And two, you can take your afterlife drama and shove it. Don’t come to my house, don’t ever bother me again. I mean it. You are on your own.” Turning my back on him I march out of the cemetery, scale the wall, and drive home, fighting back tears of rage the whole way.

By the time I’m settling into bed the sun is rising, casting a red-orange glow into my room. I grab the curtains and pull them closed, falling into bed still in my clothes. A knock at my door wakes me.

“Hey Zoe Bowie. You up yet?”

I glance at the alarm. 8:46 Am. Son of a—

“Come on in Carlos.”

He pokes his head around the door, his eyes covered by his hand. “You decent?”

I shrug, “As decent as I ever am.”

He laughs and walks in. He’s holding a drink carrier with two tall Starbucks cups and has a bag of croissants tucked under his arm.

“I brought fuel.” He hands me the cup. I can tell from the smell its Earl Grey tea with honey and cream.

“Bless you, kind sir.” I murmur and take a sip. It’s hot enough to burn the tip of my tongue a little—just how I like it.

“Oh honey, what did you get up to last night?”

I arch an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

He waves his hand over me, “Well, you look like you’ve been held in a basement for three days and you have bags under your eyes the size of cantaloupes.”

“Yeah, I didn’t sleep much.” I play with the lid on my drink, unsure what to say. No way in hell am I going to admit that I’ve been seeing Logan. As much as I love Carlos, it just feels too crazy to admit out loud. Still, I kind of need to talk to someone about it.