Keep the Ghost

1. Lacuna

The dead don't die. Death is something a living person suffers through, once the dead are gone from here. The departed don't know anything about dread, or longing, or the inevitable. They leave that to the survivors.

Kayla wants to give everyone her death, and I'm supposed to help. 

A damp wind blows in from the gulf, and I catch the storm front in my teeth. The world is dark blue, in the tones of a sunrise swathed in wet clouds. 

"You don't have to do this," I remind her. "A lot of people are going to miss you." 

"Yeah, well, I'm not one of them." Kayla's mouth moves independent of the rest of her, which is otherwise focused on a cell phone. She clutches it with both hands, pale face squinting into its blue glow. 

She stands on a long arc of South Texas coast that stretches into the oblivion of low light. Salt-born spears of tough gulf shrubs rise behind her, clawing at the sky. The land is half swamp, half shell-covered sand, a primal place defying any postcard expectation of what a beach should be. 

The phone tips down, and she glares over it. "If you would mind your own business, you wouldn't be worrying about me now." 

This is true. Still, I found a duffel bag full of money in Kayla's room—how could I not ask her about that? 

"You need to allow for human curiosity," I explain. "And hide your shit better."

Gray waves roll over the tops of her pink water shoes, depositing sand between the laces. While her thumbs twitch over the keys, she speaks: "Just help me siphon the gas." Then she looks beyond the phone again, eyes meeting mine for a moment. "Please."

I walk to the trailer and climb on it, using the jet ski's handlebar as leverage. Once up, I crouch, so that my face is even with the little watercraft's tank. Waves tug at my legs, sucking the sandals from my feet, draining out between my toes. Cold. 

When the clear plastic tubing drops into the tank, I blow on the other end. My breath hits resistance, bubbles to the surface. I suck hard on the tube then pull my mouth away, and gasoline spills into the Gulf of Mexico below. The little cloud of rainbow pollution is drained away by the falling tide. 

Gradually, the stream slows to a trickle. The jet ski is empty, or close to it. I pull out the tube and toss it into the bay.

"You know what to do, right?" she asks. The phone is gone, and instead she holds her waist-length brown braid. The eyeliner streaks down her cheeks, black tears for a dark day. 

"I know," I reply. I almost tell her not to go again, but then reconsider. I've told her a dozen times, begged her to think about it, about her parents, about what I'll have to do. But, here I am. Things will only be worse if I don't help. "Be careful. Make sure and call me."

Kayla pulls a neon blue life jacket across her chest, buckling the lowest of three straps first, then working upward. "I'll be fine," she says with a quaking voice. "I just need to kill my shadow."

"It's still dark," I remind her. "It's all shadow."

The last clasp snaps shut. "This is when they talk."

"I don't think you understand how light works," I say.

"It's a metaphor, dumbass. Use your brain." Kayla turns her head to watch a pelican as it takes flight from a fern-shrouded pond, beating big wings against the sky before gliding over the bay. 

She pulls a dark gray duffel bag from the dry part of the beach and dusts small shells from the bottom while peering inside. Stacks of twenty dollar bills, bundled with rubber bands and stuffed inside plastic bags. In goes the cell phone she's been using—a cheap, disposable thing I've never seen her with before. Her smart phone is in the truck, where it will stay. That can't follow her across the gulf. 

Kayla rifles through her satchel, ensuring the seals are tight on the waterproof bags. Satisfied, she zips it up, then swings the duffel bag over her shoulder.

With one hand on the grip, she lifts a leg over the jet ski's seat. She twists the key and pushes the start button. 

Kayla is really going through with this. 

But, nothing happens. She tries again, and again, nothing. And then Kayla is staring at me, this panic in her eyes, and I'm a stupid boy doing the same thing I always do when a girl looks at me that way—I help her. The key isn't all the way in, so I jam it down with my palm. I twist, then push the starter. The jet ski rumbles to life, and I step down. 

I turn the crank on the trailer, and the watercraft lowers into the bay until it floats, and is lifted gently clear by a wave.

"Now you can go kill yourself," I say, trying to smile. 

A seizured curve grips her lips—she's also trying to smile. It doesn't work. 

"You guys are going to miss me so much. See you at my funeral." 

Kayla revs the motor, running the jet ski on what little fuel is left in the lines and at the bottom of the tank. She rides away, bouncing over the white-foamed tips of the chop. I watch until she disappears into the gulf. 

*

Staring at my phone doesn't make it ring. Neither does holding it in both hands, squeezing it, or shaking it. Kayla is supposed to call, to let me know she's made it to the other side. 

Except she's not calling, and I'm losing my mind. We didn't plan for this. It's been four hours. Four hours of pacing the beach and staring at the horizon for any sign of her. Four hours of almost calling the police, or her parents. 

I stare out at the bay one last time, hoping to catch some glimpse of her on the water, hoping maybe she'll change her mind and come back. Hoping I can avoid the next step. 

But it's not happening. It's been too long; she could be in trouble, trapped between worlds.

I turn back to her red truck, let myself in. I sit on the seat with the door open, my foot propping it up.

I came to America to find myself, but this is what I've got—a girl who believes that if everyone thinks she's dead, she'll finally get to live.

It's time to break protocol. I call Kayla's parents.

Deep breaths, and then I get ready to lie. Lie because if I don't, things will be even worse. That's what I tell myself, anyway. 

The thoroughly pleasant woman who has been hosting me for the past year answers the phone.

I talk: "Mrs. McPherson? I'm at the beach. Kayla wanted to take the jet ski out early, before it gets crowded. But, something went wrong. She hasn't come back."

I pull the phone back as a flurry of worried expressions explode from the tiny speaker. My pulse pounds so hard I can't listen. I did it: I set Kayla's death loose on the world. 

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