Between Seasons Part 2

"Oh, good. Maybe I'm dying." He felt like it, even though he was being sarcastic. His heart felt as though someone squeezed it, the bits not completely broken by the news welling from between phantom fingers.

"It's in great shape."

"My son still mows the lawn, and we've kept up the place."

"They're really... gone?" Patrick's voice overlapped with Mrs. Stout's words. The desolation echoed off his ribs, erupting from his skin. He felt even more alone than in all the years he'd been trapped in this Godforsaken house... which apparently had been damn near forever.

"Thanks again, Mrs. Stout. I don't want to keep you."

Patrick was a terrible judge of age, but this woman a did she own the house now? a didn't look much older than him, maybe in her mid-twenties. She was rail thin and fairly tall.

"No problem at all, Sara. I'm pleased to see a young person in this house. You just let me know if you need anything."

"Sara," he said, trying out the name. There was no reaction from either woman. "My parents are dead." Dis comfort rose the hairs on his arm a he slid his arms out of the sleeves of his shirt and tied them around his waist.

"I will. You and Jim have been wonderful."

Even though Sara was being perfectly polite, there was something strange about her tone. Her voice sounded almost flat, emotionless. Maybe that was just her way. At that moment, Patrick could empathize. He felt empty himself in that instant.

"When are your things arriving?" Mrs. Stout shuffled toward the door and gripped the frame to step down onto the front porch.

The smell of flowers and air overwhelmed him; he hadn't had access to an open door for more than a few seconds in... well, awhile. He hoped this Sara woman liked the windows open. Not that it would help make him feel any better about his parents and... oh , shit .

He should be in his late fifties, at least. Patrick should have been old as dirt, but he'd seen himself just this morning in the dusty bathroom mirror ahe looked exactly the same. Even that stupid dimple on the side of his face was still there, the product of a kindergarten classmate poking him in the cheek with a wire hanger.

"Uh, well, I don't have a lot, but the truck should get here tomorrow morning."

Patrick climbed to his feet and leaned close to Sara. Her skin was so pale he could see the veins beneath, and he followed a large, blue vein out of her v-neck top with the tip of his finger just above her flesh. She looked like she would be soft, even despite the angles of her bones poking at her skin. He wished he could crawl into her arms; he needed some comfort ... not only because of his parents, although that was bad, but because he was set adrift. If they were gone, and he was still here... well, all his theories about God waiting to take him were for shit.

"Well, if you need eggs and such, there's a grocery store four blocks over on Cannondale."

That was new. When his mother had needed eggs, she went to a small shop down the street. He wondered what the grocery store looked like. There'd been an Acme across town when he died. Was it still there?

"Oh, thanks. The electricity won't be turned on until tomorrow. All the utilities are supposed to send people out."

Mrs. Stout smiled, and Patrick tried to see in her face the woman she'd once been. He could just make out her cheekbones, but it was her eyes that were the most recognizable. He still couldn't believe so much time had passed.

"Good luck, dear." She turned and carefully made her way across the lawn.

Sara sighed and closed the door, moving around the living room in erratic circles.

"Hey. I'm home," she called, her breathy voice ringing in the silence. Was there someone else in the house? No, absolutely not. He would have known.

"I'm Patrick," he introduced himself on a whim, wanting to be on good terms with this woman, even though he was... well, haunting the house, he supposed . He really had no idea what he really was, but it seemed as good a description as any.

"This feels so strange." The wistful expression on her face made him wonder what she was thinking about.

"You're telling me."

"I drove here... by myself. I just... I needed it. And you're still here."

Either Patrick was crazy or she was. He knew he was a little off ahis head had to be screwed up from spending decades alone, singing and talking to himself, but at least he realized it was nuts to have full conversations with the squirrel who lived in the tree outside his bedroom window. Sara... whatever her name was... well, he wasn't sure if she understood.

She glanced around the living room and smiled sadly. "I bet a nice family lived here."

Yeah, he supposed they'd had. Once.

Two huge guys carried in a sleek, red couch while Sara directed them to position it against the far wall, almost exactly where Patrick's mother's green couch had been. She was right; she didn't have a lot. There was a small kitchen table with a few chairs, a large mattress and bed frame, a dresser, a coffee table, the most massive television Patrick had ever seen, and a few dozen boxes. Moving in her furniture and boxes took the men less than an hour, and then Sara wandered from room to room after they left , Patrick trailing after her.

"You took it all," she yelled into the quiet stillness of his parents' room, bitterness in her voice. A single tear marred her cheek, which she wiped away impatiently.

Patrick shook his head at her weirdness and touched a strand of her hair. He wondered if this was what was in fashion, this short hair. Dark blonde spikes seemed to defy gravity, although fringey bangs la y sedately across her forehead, leading him to notice how dark her eyes were aalmost black.

"I'm taking it back," she whispered, seeming determined now. "This is my house now."

"Hope you don't mind sharing it," Patrick remarked, following her back downstairs.

The news of his parents' death still had him reeling, but he was trying to deal with it as calm as he could. If he'd been alone, he might have thrown his books around for the satisfaction of hitting the walls. He didn't want to chase Sara away, though ahe doubted she'd be as excited about having to live here with a phantom .

"You know, maybe I've been kidnapped by aliens." Patrick studied the back of Sara's head as she moved. "Maybe you're an alien. I'm not really dead a it was just this big scene the aliens concocted so they could study me. And now you're here as part of the experiment." That sounded far-fetched even to Patrick. Granted, it would explain why Sara talked to herself, but it wouldn't explain why some things were solid to him and some things weren't. Well, at least he didn't think so. Maybe aliens had the ability to make stuff like that happen.

"Okay, first things first. This place needs to be cleaned. Spring cleaning, I guess. I should call Julie first , though ." Sara wrinkled her nose , and Patrick noticed just the smallest amount of defeat in her tone .

Sara dug a small rectangle out of her purse and poked at some buttons, little beeps sounding. Maybe his alien theory wasn't so strange after all. She put it to the side of her head and waited.

"Hey, Jules."

"Talking to your imaginary friend again? Or your alien overlords?" Patrick asked , laughing at his own joke. "You really are crazier than I am."

"Yeah, they came this morning... it didn't take long. Yeah? Well, that's good, I suppose."

Wait. Did sound actually come out of that thing? Patrick moved closer, putting his ear close to her head.

"You do? Huh. Well, what about woa? Oh, okay... yeah. Next month is fine." The defeat was back in her voice , and he didn't like it.

Patrick heard a deep, feminine voice answer. "Good! I'll check my schedule and book a flight."

Holy crap. What was that? A transistor radio? A walkie talkie?

A beep sounded, and Sara pulled the thing away from her ear, Patrick wincing as her hand and the... whatever it was... moved through the side of his face, leaving a he avy sensation. She didn't react .

"Oh, hey, I need to go. My phone's about to die, and the electricity hasn't been turned on yet."

Jesus. That was a telephone? Maybe flying cars really did exist, and he just hadn't seen one yet. Where was the cord? She said goodbye and set the phone down. Patrick poked at it, not liking the way his fingertip sunk through , that familiar feeling of quick sand . He wanted to really touch it, see how it worked. Not that he would likely be able to figure it out - he learned his lesson with the wind up clock, and this... phone... had to be more complicated than anything he'd ever seen. The height of technology in 1970 had been the remote control for his dad's Zenith color TV.

Sara opened a few boxes, obviously searching for something.

"You always liked this cleaner," she said, barely smiling as she pulled out a large, blue bucket filled with sponges and a bottle of something purple. "Thank God I thought to pack a few rolls of paper towels."

"So, you're really going to clean, huh? It's been a while." Patrick circled her, reaching out to touch her shirt now and then. It was odd ahe didn't like the sensation of his fingers sinking into anything , and yet he couldn't help himself. It had been so long since he'd had someone's company for more than a few minutes. He wanted to touch her. Really touch her. Sure, she was pretty and probably close to his age, but it was more. He felt less lonely with her in his house. He liked her presence. It made being forgotten about by God seem less unfair. Maybe it wasn't God or the aliens... maybe it was something else. Someone else.

"I think I'll start upstairs. Maybe take care of the bathroom first, so I can take a shower." She rummaged through another box, pulling out a bag full of silver metal and a large square of folded, clear plastic. He shrugged and followed her up the stairs , considering that maybe getting to Heaven was something more complicated . Maybe he was supposed to be on a quest he didn't know about, or maybe there really was nothing more .

"This carpet has got to go. Shag carpeting went out in the seventies. Geez, that color looks like vomit."

Patrick's surprised laugh bruised his chest. He hadn't laughed... really laughed... in a while. Maybe years. Or at least he hadn't laughed at anything new. He wanted Sara to turn to him and tell him a joke so he could do it again, but he doubted she was nuts enough to randomly start sprouting punch lines.

"The bathroom isn't too bad. I miss the tub in our house." She set the plastic and bag of metal on the toilet lid before turning on the water in the bathtub , the tone of her voice hollow and distant . The pail clunked in the bottom as she positioned it under the spigot and poured something in , dunking a sponge into the water. "Chilly."

Maybe someone close to her had died, and that's who she pretended to talk to. He looked around, wondering if maybe there was another ghost in the house he didn't know about. After all this time, he still had very little idea how any of this worked. One of his books had a plot involving alternate universes and overlapping worlds; there could be another ghost in the house living on a different plane of existence. Or maybe Sara was another ghost, alth ough that wouldn't explain why she was currently scrubbing at the tiles in the shower, solid as anything. Unless maybe she was a different kind of ghost. Could there be different types? No, she had to be human... alive. She had to be.

"This isn't bad at all... just a lot of dust."

"Be happy I'm dead. My mom used to say my dad and I could make a bathroom dirty just by looking at it."

"You used to leave your socks behind the bathroom door. It was one of the few things we fought about before..." Sara trailed off and then swore, wringing out the sponge in the tub. "Whatever. I don't care... it's over."

The doorbell rang, jolting her. "I hope that's the electric company. Oh, crap... what if it's the cable people ?" She sighed and coiled her mouth into a grimace , mutte ring, "I want to watch the news tonight, but they can't hook it up if the electric's not on."

Patrick wondered if the war was over, although he felt stupid for thinking it. No war lasted over thirty years, but it probably had gone on for at least a few more. And Patrick probably knew guys who ended up being drafted, guys who died. And what about his friends? Andy. Ginny. He was strangely apprehensive but still interested in watching the news; he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know exactly what had been going on since he died. He knew the world hadn't ended... or at least he thought he did.

There had been something in that book about religion that mentioned limbo being a place of each person's making, and he'd given it enough thought over the years. It was entirely possible this house was just limbo. He didn't think a little premarital sex before he died rated eternity trapped in the house, but there was no guarantee the world hadn't stopped. Maybe World War III had erupted and wiped out the east coast. Or, Hell , maybe the Russians had finally dropped nukes on the country.

Sara was at the front door greeting some old guy in a blue uniform when Patrick caught up to her.

"Yeah, the meter is around back, I think."

The man smiled and headed to the left of the porch.

"Okay," she muttered with a faint smile. "Electricity it is. That means hot water. Nice."

"Oh, man." Patrick rubbed at his hair, careful not to disturb the perfect feathering a not that it mattered, since his hair always snapped back . "I miss showers."

One of the benefits of being a ghost was not ever sweating or getting dirty, but the feel of steamy water on his back on a cold day was something he couldn't ever forget. Of course, he also thought about Sara in the shower now, wondering what she looked like naked. He immediately tried to force the image out of his head ain the interest of being a good roommate , it seem like the smart thing to avoid pervy thoughts about her . Still, it was nice to know some thing s hadn't changed. He still felt like at typical nineteen year old, and the stirring in his pants proved it .

She padded into the kitchen, grinning when the refrigerator hummed to life moments later.

"Maybe I'll be able to make dinner tonight. You loved my bread salad, so I won't be making that."

Patrick eyed the way her cheekbones poked at her pale skin. "Whatever you make, I think you need to put some meat on your bones. You're skinny. But hey, no pancakes, okay?" He hated the smell of pancakes. If he never smelled them again, it would be too soon.

"I don't weigh enough," she seemed to agree, running a palm over her ribs. "I couldn't eat, you know? I woke up, and you were just gone. Everything was." She hummed a song Patrick didn't recognize while pawing through another box on the kitchen floor, pulling out a black wire with obvious triumph.

Grappling with the cord, she plugged one end into the socket and connected it to her tiny telephone. "I'll call Mom and Dad later to let them know I'm here. Jules probably told them, but Mom still worries. She wanted to ruin you for everything that happened ... Jules just wanted to ruin me."

Patrick didn't know what to make of Sara. He didn't understand anything she was saying, but it was nice just to have someone around he could pretend was talking to him. He liked her company. She was weird, sure, but she seemed nice.

The doorbell rang again, and Sara dropped the telephone on the counter before rushing back out to the door. Patrick glanced out the window above the sink, watching the breeze blow the laundry on the line in the neighbor's backyard. The sun shined brightly, glinting of f the metal poles at either end .

"... nice of you." Sara walked back into the kitchen holding a plate of something, a short woman padding after her. Her skin was exactly the color of the caramel candies Patrick's dad had been so crazy about.

"Well, believe me a I know what it's like to be the new girl in the neighborhood. My husband and I just moved in next door a few years ago."

Next door? Didn't the Dodds live next door? He supposed he hadn't seen Mr. or Mrs. Dodd lately, but he hadn't really thought anything of it. Maybe this woman had bought their house.

"Have a seat." Sara gestured toward the table in the kitchen. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to offer you. The guy from the electric company was just here, and I haven't had time to unpack or shop."

The woman flapped her hand at Sara and pulled out a chair before sliding into it. "No worries. If I'd been thinking I would have brought you some coffee. I'm a bear when I haven't had a few cups in the morning."

"Would you like a cookie at least?" Sara took the plastic wrap off the plate and held it out. Patrick hovered over the food, fingers twitching into a chocolate chip as he looked on in longing. It had been forever since he'd had a cookie, and he could just imagine how it would crumble in his mouth, the chocolate like silk on his tongue. He groaned and stepped away, wishing he could grab the plate and run away to gorge himself.

"Nope. You'll need something fattening and completely terrible for you after getting your house in order." The neighbor grinned . "I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood and introduce myself."

Sara set the plate on the counter and chuckled. "I'm an ass a I haven't even told you my name. Sara Oswald." She placed her fingers over her chest, drumming them twice against her prominent clavicle.

"I know. Your real estate agent likes to gossip."

Sara chuckled, leaning against the counter. Patrick stood next to her, watching the two women carefully. "Yeah, Dara's nice. Chatty. I already knew everyone's name in the neighborhood before I left Portland." Her lips curl ed up in amusement. "Let's see . I f you're Megan, that means your husband is Roger Lonergan. Some kind of doctor, right?"

The woman a Megan, Patrick assumed a slapped her hand lightly on the table, the sound echoing through the kitchen. "Psychiatrist," she said, grinning. "I was an accountant, but I'm taking some time off to raise our daughter."

Patrick snorted. Sara seemed to need professional mental help, and he sure as Hell could use someone to listen to him. He wondered if Roger Lonergan could tell him how to find Heaven or at least make it onto the sidewalk in front of the house without losing five hours a yes, he counted after the third time it happened. Somehow Patrick assumed if he showed up in the neighbor's office talking about being a ghost and all of that, he'd end up in a mental institution... which Patrick had to admit had a certain draw to it. Not that he could actually get to the office.

He could admit to being a little nuts in the head because of all that he'd dealt with in the last forty years, but it was the idea of finally seeing something new and meeting new people that excited him. Even the idea of hanging out with mental patients seemed pretty cool.

"Oh, you have a daughter? How old is she?"

"Is she the one that's been screaming her head off?" Patrick asked. He seemed to remember hearing a kid yelling and carrying on in the middle of the night a few times. It had woken him out of a deep sleep at least once.

"She's fourteen months now and a total terror. Her name is Stephanie. Do you have any kids? Dara didn't say."

Patrick whipped his head toward Sara. Her face crumpled for a moment before answer ing . "No, no kids for me. I'm single."

"Oh? That's, uh, that's great. And you moved here from Portland?"

"Yeah, I... well, I'm a writer, so I can work anywhere. I just needed a change."

"I hear you on that." Megan smirked and rubbed her cheek.

Patrick could empathize too. He desperately wanted something different, something that wasn't these same walls day after day. Having Sara in his house was the biggest thrill he'd had in forever . Her presence was almost better than seeing Sh ell y Benscoter's boobs after the prom. "So, you're a writer? What do you write?"

"Anything. I have a few regular clients I do press releases and website content for, but I'm hoping to pick up more freelance work locally ."

"That's great!" A moment of uncomfortable silence settled over the kitchen while Patrick tried to understand what the Hell Sara had just said; he had no idea what freelancing was or what a press release or website content was. Megan looked at her wrist, pushing up her sleeve to expose a small watch, and wrinkled her nose as she stood. "Oh, hey, I should go. I have to pick Stephanie up from Roger's mom's in about an hour, and I still have to finish some stuff around the house."

Sara smiled again, touching Megan's shoulder as they moved toward the living room. "Don't let me keep you. Thanks so much for the cookies and the welcome." Patrick followed , not letting Sara out of his sight .

"Seriously, no problem. I'm thrilled to have someone else under the age of sixty on the block. It seems like everyone else has lived here for generations. Come over sometime - we'll have tea or something."