Hitchers

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I didn’t want Lorena out of her, not if it meant losing Lorena again. It was spectacularly unfair of me to feel that way—I knew that, and I knew how badly I wanted Grandpa out of me.

“I was sure I was developing schizophrenia,” Summer said. It took me a moment to realize she was changing the subject. “I have an aunt who’s schizophrenic. She hears voices that aren’t there. This seemed close.” She drew her purse into her lap, fished out a pack of gum. “Then I saw the reports on TV, about how it’s a type of multiple personality disorder.” She held out the pack, offering me a piece.

I pulled a stick out the pack, nodding thanks. “Did you see a doctor?”

Summer shook her head. “No health insurance. If I’m calling a doctor, I’m standing in a puddle of my own blood.”

I laughed out loud. “Here we are.” I pulled into the private parking lot under Mick’s building on Peachtree Street. The attendant motioned me to roll down my window.

“Afternoon, Mister Darby,” he said, leaning in the window. “Ma’am.” He nodded to Summer before turning back to me. “You still owe me a Wolfie.” He mimicked sketching.

“I’ll have it for you when I come down. What’s your daughter’s name again?”

“Alison. Allie.” He thanked me, patted my shoulder. I rolled up the window, feeling the warmth of celebrity roll through me.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Summer said. “Toy Shop seems to be everywhere. Wolfie’s like the new Snoopy.”

I chuckled, wondering if Grandpa was getting this.

Mick’s apartment was one giant room, a converted warehouse with exposed steel beams and huge windows. It was a mess. Large swaths of the hardwood floor were barely visible under layers of designer clothes, paper, pizza boxes, musical instruments, and dust bunnies.

Mick looked as if he’d been getting about as much sleep as I had. To my surprise he immediately recognized Summer. He reached out, hugged her with one hand (he had an open beer in the other). “Another kindred spirit. Or maybe that’s kindred with a spirit, eh?”

Summer pressed her head to Mick’s shoulder. “It’s nice to see you again.”

We talked about what it might mean that Summer and Lorena had met the day Lorena died, then Mick turned to me, eyebrows raised.

“So tell me now: ‘All for a kiss.’ What’s that about? You knew it was her just from that?”

I felt embarrassed to tell the story, but I could see that Mick wanted to know.

“When I was in tenth grade, the drama teacher came to my Social Studies class begging the boys to try out for the lead in the drama club’s production of Bye Bye Birdie. I had absolutely no interest in acting. In fact the idea of standing in front of an audience—of being looked at by rows and rows of people—was about the most horrible thing I could imagine. But then the drama teacher mentioned that Lorena Soto was playing the female lead.”

Summer turned, wandered toward the windows. I lowered my voice, suspecting that she’d moved because she didn’t want to hear the story.

“After class I went to the library and read the script, until I found what I was looking for: there was a kiss in the play. Without giving myself time to think about it I went to Ms. Camasso and told her I wanted to try out.

“I was no actor, but I acted my heart out. I wasn’t a singer, but I warbled out the songs with my heart hammering, all for the chance to kiss Lorena. I got the part, and I got to kiss Lorena. Three times, actually: during the dress rehearsal, and during the two performances.”

Grinning, Mick lifted his hand to my face and patted my cheek. “You’re a true romantic. The genuine article.”

Blushing, I steered the conversation toward what Mick had found out.

“They’re baffled,” Mick began as Summer sidled back into the conversation. “My friend at FEMA said they recruited a few hundred volunteers who’ve got the voices, and one experiencing the full Monty like you—”

“Then it’s not just me?” I interrupted. Why hadn’t Mick flung open the door and shouted this the moment we arrived?

Mick nodded morosely. “That’s right. It looks like we’re all headed that way. Anyway, they’re trying everything to drive out the bloody ghosts: drugs, radiation, noises, electroshock, and—get this—exorcists.”

“Catholic exorcists? Guys in black robes carrying valises of holy water?” Summer asked.

“That’s what the gent said.” Mick took a long swig from his beer. I gaped in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding. Are they all completely nuts?”

“How about a few witch doctors and Wiccan priestesses?” Summer said. “If they’re going to get religious, a little diversity wouldn’t kill them.”

It was good to hear they were doing something, but exorcists? It sounded like they were as lost about what was going on as we were.

“So they know this is more than mental illness?” I asked.

“Some do. Most still buy the multiple personality/post-traumatic stress angle, but they’re working all the angles.”

Summer and I digested this news.

Mick had a framed poster hung on the pitted concrete wall that I hadn’t noticed before—The Beatles’ Let It Be. I wandered over to admire it. “An original?”

“Absolutely,” Mick said.

“One of my favorite movies,” I said, admiring the portraits of the Fab Four in their later, long hair phase. “Right up there with Planet of the Apes.”

“The last scene in the film, the rooftop concert, was the last time they ever played together,” Summer said. She was at my elbow, looking at the poster.

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

“Adds a darker edge, don’t it?” Mick said.

I turned away from the poster. Summer followed.

“So, did your friend tell you anything else?” I asked Mick.

Mick nodded. “Seems it’s one ghost to a customer. He said the voice is always one distinct person.”

That made sense. “If there’s one ghost to a customer, and a bunch of ghosts went to possess the living all at once, it would be like a game of musical chairs, wouldn’t it?” I said. I tapped the notes Mick was holding. “Even if the ghosts are drawn to people they had some business with, or connection to, the most likely suspects might be taken, and they’d have to find someone else.”

“Mick, do you even know who yours is?” Summer asked.

Mick blew air through pursed lips, making a fart sound. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.”

No one pointed out that he might find out soon enough.

I was still thinking about how our ghosts were brought to us. I pictured it almost as a scent the ghosts we were linked to could smell on us. I wondered if the intensity of the conflict increased the likelihood that a particular ghost would find you, or if being close to the spot where they died was a bigger factor. Lorena’s tiff with Summer had been superficial, but Lorena had died in a place where she knew very few people. That may have made distance more of a factor.

“How many of these bloody things are we talking about?” Mick pointed at me. “You were able to find your wife. One single solitary person out of the countless masses who’ve died. Does that mean everyone is back? Everyone who ever died around here?”

We considered.

“That doesn’t seem possible,” I finally said. “Six hundred thousand people died in the anthrax attack. Add all the people who’ve lived and died in Atlanta, even just in the past twenty years, and you’re talking about millions. There aren’t that many cases. Unless there are a lot more to come.”

“No,” Mick said. “My insider says no one has developed a brand new case in a couple of weeks. The existing ones are just getting progressively worse, so they’re getting noticed.”

“So why would some people come back, but not others?” Summer asked.

We looked at each other. What did Lorena, Grandpa, and untold thousands of other dead people have in common? None of us had any idea.