Keep the Ghost

3. Conscience

The silence in the home of Kayla McPherson is not the absence of sound, but an entity unto its own. It is the stifling byproduct of helpless rage, an anger which consumes itself and leaves this thick quiet in its wake. But I know that if all that energy got a focus, anything to blame, then it would rip the walls down and blast out the ceiling. 

But, there’s nothing to blame, nothing to hope for. So, silence. 

No one even asked if I’d be going to school today, so I’m not. 

At ten, a need for coffee drives me out of the room. On the way to the kitchen, I pass Mr. McPherson. He sits on the recliner, gripping the sides of the chair, staring into a black television. 

There’s still some in the carafe, so I pour it into a mug and place this in the microwave. 

“There’s no cream.” His hollow voice comes unbidden from the living room.

“That’s okay,” I call. 

I start to say something else, to use this as a gateway to some warming conversation. The thought flickers and dies; his silence burns the oxygen from the room.

On the way back to my room, I pass Kayla’s. The walls are bare, but not because her parents don’t try to put things up. She takes it down, stuffs it under her bed. 

I return to my room to find my phone buzzing. It’s been this way for two days—a text message a minute. Everyone I go to school with is asking what happened, if the police found Kayla, if I’m all right. I answer a few, until it’s clear I can’t keep up. 

There’s only one person I want to hear from, anyway, and she hasn’t called. 

A little after noon, there’s a timid knock on my bedroom door. “Sean? You want lunch?”

The voice is dry and thin. The little pleasant inflections are forced, straining the words to their breaking point. Kayla’s mom is the last person on Earth I want to deal with.

“Not really,” I say through the door. “I had a big breakfast.”

She’s coming either way, and so I scramble to prepare. I fumble with the bed sheets, throwing them off, leaning over and tossing my mobile phone into the nightstand drawer. Kayla might call that phone. 

Too dark for this time of day: I stretch to turn on a lamp, nearly knocking over the little four-leaf-clover alarm clock Kayla’s mom gave me when I first got here. Hate that gift shop crap, honestly, but it was sweet of her to think of me. 

The door cracks open. A woman in her early fifties with red eyes, sagging cheeks, and oily hair enters. She holds one clutched fist to her mouth, always an inch away from chewing on a nail—nails that are jagged like splintered boards, some gnawed down to the flesh. 

Her only child has been missing for thirty-six hours. 

Mrs. McPherson takes a few steps forward, fully entering my room, and stands there with one hand on the round, wooden bedpost near my feet. She stares at me, neither of us speaking, her grief a sickly heat. I’m not exactly pleased with the situation myself, and I think she feels my dismay as well. Feedback loop of despair.

“It’s not your fault,” she says. “You’re a good, responsible kid. I know that. It’s Kayla’s jet ski, she knows to check the plugs and gas. I don’t want you to blame yourself.”

Stab me in the heart. “Thank you,” I whisper. “What do you mean, check the plugs?”

“Oh, I talked to the police. The drain plugs were out, that’s why it sank.”

I want to ask her what a drain plug is, but her eyes are wet, and I don’t push. 

Death eats away at Mrs. McPherson—the death I unleashed on Kayla’s behalf. She spread it to the people she should want to protect most.

Stupid, selfish girl. 

Just call me, you stupid, selfish girl. 

Mrs. McPherson takes another step forward, and I see she wants to hug, so I lean up in the bed to make it easier. Her arms reach past, wrap around me; she smells like weak deodorant and strong sweat. My arms are around her, and her head passes mine, sharp chin pressing into my shoulder. 

So frail. A little whimper escapes her, and I feel her body quiver. Hummingbird brittle, shivering wreck of a creature. 

I can see the nightstand out the corner of my eye. Can’t help but think about the cell phone—her daughter could call it any minute. If she did, right now, I swear I’d let Mrs. McPherson answer. Let her know that Kayla is alive. 

If she is. Just call, damnit.