Intrinsical - Lani Woodland [84]
I stepped in front of her, hoping she could see or sense me. She stopped short and for a moment I thought it was because she knew I was there. I smiled hopefully, but her head turned away from me and searched for the window of our old room. With new determination, she began walking again.
Brent was still where I had left him, watching the whole scene. “Why can’t she see me? Or at least sense me?” I asked.
“I think she’s in a place emotionally where no one can reach her. It’s like there’s a black cloud surrounding her. She isn’t doing well.”
“How can I help her?”
Brent sadly shook his head. “I . . . don’t know.”
Turning quickly, I followed after my friend until she entered the pool house where I had died. “What’s she doing here?”
“Confronting her ghosts?” Brent guessed, catching up to me.
Cherie sat down on a pool chair and leaned her elbows on her knees. I sat down next to her, wishing I could hold her or offer her comfort of some sort.
She began speaking aloud. “My whole life, Yara, I’ve dreamed about ghosts and adventure. I’ve believed we could make contact with those who have died. And now that I really need to believe it, I can’t.” Cherie looked all around the room and bit her trembling bottom lip. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she didn’t bother wiping them away. “What good does all this belief in ghosts do for me if I’m unable to have enough faith to try to make contact with you? But what if—” She choked back a chest-rattling sob. “—if I try, and I find out you aren’t here. What if you’re gone forever?” Cherie pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. “It will take away my last hope. I can’t live without hope, but I can’t live like this either.”
She sat up straight and took a deep cleansing breath, as if ridding herself of doubt. She stood suddenly, trying to keep her newfound composure, and walked to where they had pulled out my body, her face drawn. Minutes passed as she stared at it before bending down and placing three candles on the spot. After lighting them, she stayed crouched down. The candles were scented: lavender, chamomile, and another I didn’t recognize. As I inhaled their fragrance, I felt myself relaxing, these were the same candles Vovó used when speaking with ghosts.
Cherie pulled something from her pocket, a small bottle of liquid. She poured it around her in a large circle. Then swiftly she smashed the vial onto the concrete, shattering it with a loud crash. Tiny pieces of glass flew everywhere. One shard cut her hand and blood oozed from it, but she didn’t seem to notice.
In a loud commanding voice she called. “Yara Silva, if you’re there, will you come and speak with me. Please.”
She knelt down and blew across the wet circles she had made. Her breath combined with the smoke from the candles, creating a shimmering, sparkly mist that slowly wound itself together into hair-fine threads of light, which twisted into a glistening rope. It glowed a faint blue as it lengthened itself, swaying from side to side. It was beautifully hypnotic as it slithered, searching for something: Me.
I could feel it calling for me. I wanted to answer it, but found I had no words. I had little sense of who I was or where I was going. All I cared about was that the rope was coming for me. I tried to move toward it, but was frozen in place with no control of my limbs. I was eager for it to reach me, to possess me, because I knew it was meant for me, at the other end of the rope, someone who loved me was waiting.
From somewhere far away I could hear a man calling my name. He pulled on my arm and tried to turn my head toward him, but unsuccessfully. All