Pulse

Chapter 6

Lucie

I tugged my beanie back on as I approached my house, sighing into the slowly cooling air. Wind rustled the trees leaning over the steep roads, the sun casting a long shadow at my feet. In the distance, the sun was setting over the Bay Bridge, painting the sky in oranges and pinks and yellows. Despite myself, I thought about Vinny, about Cian. How had they ended up were they were? How had Cian once been human, when had Vinny seen his last sunset?

I shook my head. I was not thinking about them; neither of them were important, as they'd leave me alone anyway and I wasn't going to see either of them again.

Nevertheless, Vinny's words were playing over and over again in my head as I climbed my front stoop, the yellow paint of the stairs flaking off, the porch slightly uneven and therefore slanted a bit too far to the right. I'm not haunting you, I'm saving you. You're just too stupid to notice. How did a ghost have the capacity to make me feel like a piece of crap, like I somehow owed him something? It all made my head hurt.

Placing the key in the lock, I stepped inside and shoved the door closed. I hung my backpack up on the foyer wall, flicking the light on. "Mom?" I called, because she was always home when I was, unlike my dad, who was still at work. "I'm back."

I got no reply, so I waltzed through the front hall. Paintings Dempsey and I had done as kids were accents against the deep violet walls, as well as family portraits and some of Mom's old maternity photos.

Our kitchen was small, but it didn't bother me. In fact, I was fond of this kitchen, of its dated white-tiled floors and vintage appliances that were now dirtied with evidence of Dempsey's and my old messes. I was fond of the little round table our family ate at every night, descriptions of our days washing between us like waves. I liked how the color of the walls abruptly switched from violet to yellow, liked the scent of Mom's favorite cinnamon candle wafting about the room.

One thing I didn't like, however, was the look on Mom's face.

Or the lack thereof.

She seemed like an expressionless and distant version of the woman I thought I knew, sitting there with a cold cup of coffee beside her. Her knuckles tapped rhythmically against the dining table's wood, creating an eerie beat. Her eyes seemed sunken in, skin feverishly flushed but her lips pale, her hair in a messy braid down her shoulder. A few dark curls had escaped the style and hung in her eyes instead.

It took Mom a minute to notice me, and she forced a smile when she did. "Oh, hey, Lulu," she said. "Everything go okay at school today?"

You're just too stupid to notice. "Uh, yeah. Fine."

"You must be having trouble this week, what with Dempsey..." she cut off with a sputter, shaking her head. Her eyes dropped from mine, and everything about her seemed to relax, as if it had been an arduous task to maintain eye contact. "Have you thought about speaking with your school counselor?"

I leaned against our counter, next to the home phone. I noticed its light steadily blinking, signaling a new voicemail. Looking at the strangely mesmerizing red light rather than at my mother, I said, "I'm fine, Mom. I don't need a counselor. I mean, Jiya's been a great help."

"Jiya, Jiya, Jiya. Such a sweet girl."

"Yeah, I'd say so...are you okay, Mom? You seem...out of it."

She still didn't look up; her eyes watched the floor as if waiting for something, but for what? For her son to return? It wouldn't happen. Even I wished Dempsey would come through that front door and sweep me up in a hug, but he wouldn't. He was gone, and no one was convincing me otherwise, not even Vinny and not even Cian. "Me? Out of it? I've never been better."

Her voice was vacant, like it wasn't hers at all, but an audio recording. That's what my life was right now: prerecorded, unauthentic, empty and strange without Dempsey in it. I wanted things to go back to the way they were. I wanted my house to feel like a home again.

Such was the human tragedy, however. We always wanted things we couldn't have.

I wandered to the fridge with a sigh, tossing it open. There was a blank space where the milk usually was, and actually, this was a good thing. It was an excuse to get out of this house.

Sighing, I grabbed my car keys and went back to the foyer, calling out: "I'm going to the grocery store. Don't miss me too much."