The Boy Who Loved Ghosts

He shrugged. “I was sixteen once too.” He followed me through the door into a vestibule of hushed quiet. One sign made visitors aware of the reliquary at the altar, notifying them of the times the patron saint’s relics could be viewed. I’d heard about those things, possessions of and just as often, pieces of, saints considered blessed. I didn’t want to judge but I couldn’t imagine wanting to stare at some ancient teeth and hair.

More signs led us past the open inner doors giving onto the sanctuary itself. Heavy wooden pews and ornate columns drew one’s eye to the altar that held the relics, its centerpiece atop a giant marble block, a large freestanding cross portraying Jesus’ tortured body stretched and nailed to it. A stained glass window of angels backlit by the sunlight filtering through acted as a backdrop to the altar scene. I looked at Ito-kun. “A touch of theater, I’d say,” I told him.

A dry chuckle. “Yeah.”

More signs led to a set of descending stairs. Light glowed upward and murmuring voices carried. My stomach tightened as I reached the bottom. I stood there, bracing myself. It seemed innocent enough, the circle of folding chairs in the center, institutional fluorescent ceiling lights. A folding banquet table stood along the far wall, laden with disposable plates of cookies and brownies, a cut crystal punchbowl full of red liquid and a ladle. Guys and girls milled, some chatting quietly in pairs. Others already sat, quietly looking at their hands, shoulders drooping. Still a few other held plates with small piles of the baked things, as well as cups of punch. My stomach and throat were too tight so I chose not to take any.

Behind one girl, on the far wall was a corkboard. A seemingly innocuous item, plastered with pushpinned flyers and business cards connecting people to things they needed, but which had served for Petersen’s evil deeds. My throat tightened. Please, Michael, don’t become someone who refuses care.

Ito-kun appeared close beside me. “Hey,” he said and indicated the circle of chairs. “Maybe just go sit down? It’ll start soon.”

A few more people my age had come in since I’d been standing there and now most of the twelve seats were occupied. Everyone had that same look on their face and in their eyes I had come to recognize in myself: loss. Though I didn’t take anything to eat or drink, I went to the offered nametags and scribbled my name in marker on one of them. I peeled off the back, pasted the sticker on my t-shirt, just under my right collarbone, then took a seat.

Only one of us didn’t come and sit down. She and I locked eyes. Her eyebrows went up and her mouth opened slightly, as if she recognized me and couldn’t believe I was here. I waved at her, so as not to be unfriendly. If she was in a grief group, she was also going through hell. Maybe that’s why she’d chosen to dress like Marcia Brady from The Brady Bunch, right down to her center-parted long blonde hair, orange ribbed short-sleeved turtle neck, miniskirt that barely reached mid-thigh and Mary-Jane style shoes with pump heels. Grief, I was finding, did weird things to the mind.

She looked away from me, then back, as if checking that I was still here. Then she outright stared at me, her gaze flicking back and forth from Ito-kun behind my chair and me. Wait, was she seeing him? My stomach tightened. Her gaze had returned to me.

That’s when it hit me. The Marcia Brady clothes. Not a grief thing. It was how she was dressed… had been dressed. When she was alive. She was a ghost.

In the next second she was at my side. “Can you help me?” she asked. “I think I may be dead.”

~~~

Just then a guy wearing a priest’s collar came in. In blue jeans and running shoes, he gave off an air of cool young priest you can be comfortable with. He actually looked about Ito-kun’s age except he had that lean, slightly hunch-shoulder posture of marathon runner that went along with the shoes. “Hi guys,” he said, “I guess we can start.” He took a seat and briefly raked through his short auburn hair. “Welcome, everyone.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, in a way that seemed practiced, a technique to put people at ease.

The Marcia Brady girl ghost was staring at him too. Her sad eyes brimmed with longing. Ghost, staring at guy who’s alive. Who would have been the age she still was back when her outfit was in style. Late 1960s. I glanced at Ito-kun who gave me a brief nod. A mutual acknowledgement of: there’s a story here, and not one with a happy ending. I didn’t know what I could possibly do to help her, but I also couldn’t begin a conversation with her right here and now. I gave her a please wait tick of an index finger as subtly as I could. Her little nod indicated she’d understood.

“I see a couple of new faces tonight, so I’ll just run through the usual preliminaries before we start. There are stickers with a marker if you want to make a name tag, but you should do what you’re comfortable with and also help yourself to the refreshments. You’ll be glad you did. Sister Elizabeth is an amazing baker.” He smiled.

When no one responded, he cleared his throat. “So, for those of you who are new, I’m Father Andy. I’m here to help you. Always feel free to ask me anything. After the meeting I’ll leave my card on the table and you can take one if you’d like so you can contact me.”

I nodded along with a couple other people, but otherwise, the room of teenagers remained subdued.

Father Andy gestured, hands outward. “This group is a safe space where people can simply be. If you need to speak, feel free to express what’s real for you in the moment. No matter what it is. The only rule here is to limit any responses you may have strictly to gentle support of each other. People are at different places. There is no formula to the grieving process. When I was your age, I lost someone very special to me. I grieved for a very long time.”

The Marcia Brady girl gasped softly. “Andy, stop telling people that!” she called out. “You think I left you. Don’t tell people you’re mourning! It’s misleading! Why do you think I left you?”

Since I was the only one who heard her, she gestured to him, looking at me. “He’s lying to them! He thinks I left but he never looked for me.” She huffed. “There was no funeral. He keeps telling these poor kids he understands what they’re going through.” She crossed her arms, her lip curled as if Andy were an intransigent husband.

“It was one of the hardest things I ever went through,” Father Andy went on, “but I made it to the other side, and I can tell you, things do get better. You will grow and heal. Give yourselves time. All the time you need, and no one else can tell you what’s right for you. Each person grieves differently and in their own special way. So, we should‒″

The sudden rush of a latecomer paused him.

I followed Father Andy’s gaze to a chair a couple seats down from me and glanced up. As my gaze moved, that thing happened— when time slows way down and my mind gathers details like a net sweeping up everything in its path. The chair scraped as the late kid sat quickly. He bowed from the waist several times quickly. “Sorry, sorry,” he said with a thick accent and sat up, lanky-limbed, head down, wide shoulders quaking.

At first I thought he was an adult who’d come to the wrong group. No other teenager sitting in this circle wore shiny, expensive-looking loafers, perfectly tailored pleated dark slacks and a white button down dress shirt as if he’d rushed out of the office without time to change. The only thing that seemed young about him was his black Members Only jacket. Even his haircut was that of an older guy. Short, utilitarian, no concession to any current trends. The fluorescent ceiling light glinted off the black short peaks.

Fear radiated off him in what were for me, palpable waves. I knew that fear, its smell, its life-raking urgency, because I’d been through it mere weeks earlier. The smell of someone who’s seen someone they love murdered, knew who’d done it and knew that same person was after them too.

I also knew from the way he bowed and apologized, he was from Japan and didn’t speak much English. He had come to this meeting to hide.

“Hello,” Father Andy said to him. “Welcome.”

“Thank you.” He bowed again quickly. He must have felt my gaze on him for he turned, still caught in the slowing wave of time. As if he felt it too.

My breath left me. His face was tortured beauty, chiseled and angular, perfect clear skin pulled tight by anxiety, torment in his dark eyes. “It’s okay,” I said to him in Japanese, understanding now my prescient need to perfect my fluency in the wake of Stevie’s funeral. “You’re safe here.”

I sensed a shock wave shudder through him. His eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’m Michael.”

“Welcome, Michael,” Father Andy said. His voice made my time warp funnel out. The beautiful tormented boy and I were back in the room with everyone else.

The spell had broken for him too and fear once again saturated his face. “Did my uncle send you here to spy on me?”

My gaze flew to the as-of-yet-unnamed guy. “What? Your uncle? I don’t know him. I promise.”

“What’s he saying?” Father Andy asked me, concerned. “Can you translate? Is he hurt?” The priest was leaning forward in his chair.

“I don’t think he’s hurt,” I told him. “He thinks I’m spying on him.” I turned to the frightened guy. “I promise I don’t know your uncle. My brother died a few weeks ago. He was… killed. That’s why I’m here.”

He stared at me, still trembling. Bit by bit, my words filtered in. “Ohhh, I’m so sorry. I’m ashamed now.” He bowed again, his nose practically touching his thighs before he sat up straight again. “I’m so panicked I’m not thinking straight. He couldn’t have known I was coming here. I read the Japanese newspaper he left on the table, but he didn’t see me reading it. You couldn’t be spying. That was a terrible thing for me to say.”

“It’s okay.” We stared at each other again. I was sorry our conversation excluded everyone else in the room but I had to get him calmed down.

He’d perched on the edge of his seat in a ready-to-take-off-at any second posture.

“Do you know any English?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “Just what I learned in school. Not very much.”

I glanced at Ito-kun who nodded. “Why don’t you come back to my house after the meeting? You’ll be safe there,” I said. “We’ll talk with my grandfather. He can help. Okay?” I wasn’t really sure what Jiji could do but he was had a wide community of resources at his fingertips, some of them… odd and mysterious. So if anyone could figure out something, it was him.

Emotions churned through the guy’s eyes. A vein tightened and stood out in the middle of his forehead, a testament to the pressure he was under. He nodded and bowed again. “Yes, thank you.”