Hitchers

Summer stared at the teddy, contemplating it as if it held some terrible secret.

“So when did it start?” I asked.

She looked up at me. “A week ago.” She was so thin the ribs in her upper chest were visible above the hem of a wide-necked Janis Joplin t-shirt, looking like rows of extra collar bones. “I was waiting a table. It was horrible.” She swept her hair back. “Do you know who’s inside you?”

“Yeah, I know who mine is,” I said. “My grandfather.”

She considered for a moment. “So, assuming this thing really isn’t contagious, there must be another explanation. I met your wife before. Your own grandfather’s inside you. It can’t be coincidence.”

She was right, of course. The hauntings couldn’t possibly be random.

“Maybe she’s still mad at me about the butter.” Summer blew a loose strand of hair out of her face. “I’m being possessed by a woman who was mad at me about her pancakes.” The look of disbelief on her face was priceless.

It hadn’t been about the pancakes, it just upset Lorena that nobody seemed able to pay attention to details any more. Lorena’s dad was in the Chilean military—a high-ranking officer—and Lorena had adopted his love of efficiency.

“I had an argument with my Grandfather the day he died. Maybe it has something to do with anger.”

Summer smiled, sort of. It was more of an ironic squiggle. “I meant it as a joke. Surely this isn’t about me serving her unwanted dairy products.”

I shrugged. “It was on Lorena’s mind right before she died. She was worried that you might get fired.” I was eager to ask about Lorena, but I felt awkward, a bit like a ghoul.

“Have you by any chance written down the things you’ve been saying?” I ventured.

Summer cast about, yanked a sheet of paper from under a pair of books on a cluttered end table and handed it across to me.

I scanned the list, nodding. “Fatima is Lorena’s sister. Lorena was an attorney who worked in youth civil defense, so some of these are references to cases.” I paused, chuckled. “Notting Hill was her favorite movie.”

Summer didn’t smile. “When I first saw that strip, I lost it. I thought the words were appearing there just for me, that everyone else who read it was seeing different words.”

“Sometimes I wish I was delusional,” I said. “At least then I’d know what to do.”

Summer inhaled, about to say something, but instead she croaked, “If one more person assumes I’m Mexican… ”

I’d forgotten that Lorena was here with us, right now. I leaned forward. “I’m here, Lore.” I desperately wanted to talk to her, to reach in and pull her out and take her with me, but she was merged with this other person, this stranger. I felt an irrational surge of propriety, that Summer had no right to be carrying her around, keeping her in a strange place.

“It’s disconcerting when you do that,” Summer said.

“Do what?”

“Talk to me like that, like I’m her.”

“Sorry.”

Summer waved it off. She was fidgety sitting, looking like she wanted to pace. “She wasn’t Mexican, I’m assuming?”

I nodded. “Chilean. It bugged her that people assumed if she was Latino, she must be Mexican.”

“Mm.”

Why this woman, I wondered. Why was Lorena inside this stranger? Could it really be the argument they’d had?

“She was a wonderful person. She had a good heart,” I said.

Summer ran her hand through her bangs, which fell across her forehead like a veil. “I’m sure she was very nice.” She didn’t look at all sure. “To be honest, though, that’s sort of beside the point, you know?” She gave me an imploring look, broke into a half smile. “You know?”

I smiled wanly, nodded. “I know.”

“I mean,” she laughed, “I guess it’s better to be possessed by a nice dead person than a mean dead person, but still…”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Do you really think she can hear you? That she can hear what we’re saying, right now?” Summer looked mortified by the notion.

I leaned back on the couch, crossed my leg, then uncrossed it. It would upset Summer to hear what had been happening to me, but there was no getting around it. She looked exhausted, like she was hanging by a thread. I leaned forward, folded my hands.

Summer’s eyes went vacant, the thousand-yard stare that was becoming so familiar, and added, “Can I say something that’s kind of sneaky?”

I felt a stab of recognition. I could see from Summer’s face that I hadn’t masked my reaction very well.

“Lorena said that just before she died,” I explained.

Summer swallowed thickly, touched her throat. “I just can’t get a grip on what’s going on. Do you know what’s going on?” There was a pleading look in her eyes.

“I’ll tell you what I know,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I was one of the first who got the voice. I think that’s because of an accident I had on the first night of the anthrax outbreak. I was clinically dead for ten minutes, and while I was dead I was inside someone else, in the same way my wife is inside you.”

Summer opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, so I went on.

“The voice got worse and worse—”

“Hold on,” Summer interrupted. “I haven’t heard your voice once. If you’re ahead of me—”

“I know. Mine stopped—”

She leapt out of the chair, her face bright with hope. “It stopped?” I shook off her enthusiasm. “It’s not a good thing, believe me.” I motioned toward the couch. “You might want to sit.”

Summer sat.

“The ghost doesn’t go away. It starts taking over your entire body, a few minutes at a time.”

She froze, and stayed perfectly still, like I’d just told her there was a huge spider on her head. “What do you mean?”

I told her about Grandpa. When I finished, Summer closed her eyes, steepled her hands under her chin for a moment. Then she stood. “I’m going to drink now. Do you want one?”

“Whatever you’ve got. Thanks.”

On her way back she made a detour to her bookshelf, came back with two glasses half-filled with caramel- colored liquid in her hands and a book tucked under her arm. “Rum and Coke?” I guessed.

“Rum and rum. Dark rum.”

“Ah.” I took a swig, as Summer flipped through the book, felt the rum burn a trail down my throat and hit my belly in a warm rush. Grandpa was probably doing a jig inside. I took a second swig, set the glass back on the coffee table. “What’s that?”

She held up the book so I could see. The title was Seth Speaks, by Jane Roberts. “Seth was very big in New Age circles forty years ago. Jane Roberts claimed that Seth spoke through her—it’s called Channeling.”

I motioned toward her bookshelf. “I noticed you were interested in the occult.”

Summer waggled her head. “Well, Eastern mysticism. I’m less interested in Western stuff.”

I had no idea what the difference was, but nodded anyway. Summer pulled up clips on YouTube of Jane Roberts channeling Seth. There were similarities between Seth and what was happening to me—he took Jane over completely, spoke in a somewhat different voice from her—but Seth didn’t sound like something half-human and half-frog.

We speculated about what might cause thousands of people to suddenly start channeling the dead, but neither of us had any good answers. Then we chatted for a while about other things, mostly catching each other up on who we were, what our lives were like—a tacit acknowledgment that we would be seeing more of each other.