The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [160]
The boy looked up, saw her, and smiled.
I’ve been waiting for you, he said, as he had before.
“I know.”
She was a car length away but couldn’t get closer.
I’m Oliver.
“I know.”
He went back to his trucks and cars and his parents remained unaware of her presence, speaking softly in words she couldn’t quite make out. The three of them were happy and content, impervious to everything outside the canopy.
Please help me.
“I’m trying. You have to tell me exactly what you want me to do. I’ve never done this before. Be specific. Tell me what to do.”
Free me.
“Oh, for God’s—”
All three of them turned to look expectantly at the house. Oliver jumped up and ran to the top of the stairs to watch an older boy, a young teen, leave the colorless house and cross the neat, dark lawn toward them—a fishing pole over his shoulder, tackle box in hand. The blatant adoration on the youngster’s face was heart-cracking.
They all smiled down on the newcomer when he stopped a few feet away. He grinned and Ivy recognized him immediately, though his face was still midtransition to the man she knew. He spoke to his family, the sound of his words coming from such a distance that she could only grasp the intent—no plan to join them at the moment, he was going fishing.
That’s when Oliver turned his head to look at her directly and fill her head with his voice.
Tell him.
Though his lips hadn’t moved and the moment was brief, his brother caught his temporary distraction and followed his gaze to her.
“Ivy?” The young Craig knew her, was shocked and confused.
“Craig?”
After a moment’s hesitation, he made the jerking gestures of several false starts: run to her, point her out to his parents, run to her, drop his gear, or return to the house.... Finally, he stood as he was, staring through the open sides of the gazebo at her. Helpless.
And as was the mystery and trickery of dreams, she would have gone to him but remained annoyingly stationary. “Are you here? I mean, are you just part of my dream or . . . what’s happening?”
“This is your dream?”
“I think so. Have you had this dream before?”
He looked at his family, the bright white gazebo, and shook his head.
“I have. This is the one I told you about. This is how I knew he called her Ginger Cookie because of the color of her hair. I can’t make out most of what they’re saying to one another but I knew that . . . like I knew the other stuff.”
No, I knew the o ther stuff.
“You knew . . .” She looked back at Oliver, who seemed completely oblivious to her.
You feel as I feel. Know as I know.
“Yeah? Then maybe now’s the time to ask how and why me?”
You let me. I let you.
“What? Is this what all dead people do? Talk in riddles? You’re driving me crazy. Think maybe this is how ghosts got a bad reputation? Because I’m sick of it.” Her attention was diverted back to the boy, the uncolored Craig, as he beat at the air with his pole and box at the bottom of the canopy steps. His parents and joyful younger brother continued to smile down on him, seeming not to notice his frantic attempt to join them.
“Craig.” She spoke softly, with a calm she was far from feeling. The fear and anger and pain in the boy’s face were unlike any she’d seen before. She longed to touch him, to ease his torment, but she didn’t know how. In her heart she stretched out to embrace him, but it was Oliver she begged to help him.
Tell him was his reply.
“Craig. Look at me.”
His thrashing slowed gradually, reluctantly, and eventually he gave up and looked her way. “Why won’t they talk to me like they’re talking to you? Why won’t they let me in?”
“Only Oliver’s talking to me . . . if you want to call it talking.”
“Then tell him to let me in. Tell him I need to talk to him. Tell him it’s important.” He let loose a defeated sigh. “Tell him I’m sorry I let him down.”
Tell him. Tell him!
“He can’t let you in. It’s not your time. You need to go ahead and go fishing. They’re fine and they’ll be waiting for you when it’s time for you to join them.” Wearily, she added, “And don