Either reality is trying to be helpful, or I've somehow pissed it off, and this is how it punishes me. I've barely been walking for an hour when the tugging becomes strong enough to yank me clean off the ghostroads, and I find myself standing on the wide green lawn in front of a blocky white building. It takes a moment for me to get my bearings. This part of Buckley didn't exist in the 1940s. It's part of the endless expansion of the township, the slow encroachment on the forest that used to keep us from the world. Sparrow Hill Senior Facility says the sign mounted near the small, businesslike front door. That explains the feel of the place, like the whole thing is holding its breath, waiting to see who'll win—life, death, or none of the above.
I take a breath I don't really need, changing my clothes as I start walking toward the door. The basic nurses' uniform hasn't changed much since I died. Wear basic white and sensible shoes, and people will almost always assume you know what you're doing.
There's no one to notice as I walk through the wood of the front door and into the entry hall. The place is practically deserted, nothing but the night shift skeleton crew and the inmates locked in their individual cells. I walk a little quicker, following the feeling of being pulled. I'm rarely glad to have died. I can't really say I miss the chance to get old enough for a place like this one.
I don't really know who I've been called here to escort. All the relatives close enough to call me back died years ago, and I didn't have that many friends. I wasn't exactly a social butterfly; coming from the poor side of town was bad enough, but my unladylike ways and fascination with cars really put the nails in my reputation's coffin. Not many people cared enough to look past the judgments and make their own decisions about what kind of girl I was. That was fine, because for the most part, I didn't want them to.
I had my dreams and my cars and my brothers. I had my shot at a better life. I had Gary.
The tugging leads me to a specific door, in a specific hall. I hesitate for a moment, unable to shake the feeling that I'm missing something—something I'll be sorry about later. I can't figure out what it is, and so I step through the wood, just one more ghost in a building that should be dripping with them.
The man in the bed in front of me is so old and worn that he's practically a ghost himself, barely anchored by the prison of his own skin. But his eyes are open, and his smile is warm as he watches me slip into the room. I should know him. He's the one who called me here, with his need and his dying, and I should know him.
The framed picture on the nightstand next to his pillow is of me, junior year, lemon-bleached hair rendered gray by the black and white film, forever young, forever a shadow of a shade. There's only one man who'd still be displaying that picture like this. There's only one man who loved me enough to care.
"Hello, Rose," says Gary. "It's been a long time."
***
She came. Oh, God, she actually came. It wasn't just a story. I wasn't out of my mind. She still looks as young as she did the night she died. I've missed her so much. I wonder if she even remembers who I am.
I can't believe she actually came.
***
I freeze in place, too stunned to speak, too stunned to do anything but stare at this worn-out mockery of the only boy I ever fell in love with, the only boy I ever kissed with living lips. I've kissed a lot of boys since the summer that I turned sweet sixteen, but his was always and forever the only kiss that counted. Now that I'm looking, really looking, my eyes refuse to lie me; this is Gary Daniels, this is the boy who picked me up when I was newly dead and shivering by the side of the road on Sparrow Hill. This is the last man on earth with the power to call me back to Buckley. This is Gary.
This is Gary, and he's dying.
Even the smile on his face looks like it pains him, like the joy of seeing me again is too heavy for his aged shoulders to support. "You look...God, Rose, you look amazing." Confusion flickers in his eyes—his eyes. I should have known him the second I saw him, if only by his eyes. "What have you done to your hair?"
The question is so completely, perfectly wrong that it crosses the line into completely, perfectly right. I laugh out loud, shaking my head. "That's the first thing you have to say to me, after sixty years? 'Hello, you look great, what have you done to your hair'? Gee, Gary, you'd think you might start out with 'it's nice to see you,' or even a 'how've you been'."
"I've missed you so damn much, Rosie." Gary settles deeper into his nest of pillows, joy mellowing into something sweeter: pure contentment. "I was hoping you'd come for me, when the time got close, but I couldn't really be sure. It's gotten so you can't tell the real routewitches from the charlatans, and it's not like I could go comparison shopping."