Good Spirits by B.K. Borison - 38

I f I knew the afterlife was merely another waiting room with white walls and a bland landscape painting, I wouldn’t have fought so damned hard to get here.

“Am I in hell?” I ask.

Isabella inspects her nails, completely uninterested in my tantrum. “For the fifteenth time, may I reiterate: No. You are not in hell, Nolan.”

“Do you intend to hold me against my will for all of eternity, or only a short period of time?”

“My, you are dramatic lately.”

I cross my arms over my chest, leaning back in the plastic chair I’ve been assigned. It creaks ominously. “You’ve kept me here for weeks without explanation. I believe I’m entitled to my fair share of dramatics.”

She clicks her tongue and a nail file appears out of nowhere. She starts to shape her nails. “There is no such thing as weeks in this place, Nolan. Please do try and control yourself.”

I can’t . I’ve been a mess since I landed in this room—however long ago that was. It certainly feels like weeks.

Weeks of not knowing if Harriet is okay. Weeks of thinking about the look on her face when she told me not to say goodbye. Weeks of feeling the absence of her like a knife in my side.

I was sent to haunt Harriet, but she ended up haunting me .

“I would like to leave,” I say, for perhaps the eighty-sixth time. “No,” Isabella says, moving from one nail to the next. “As I’ve already stressed, we are waiting for an associate to arrive.” Dark eyes flash up at me from beneath thick lashes. “Be patient.”

“My patience is gone.”

She rolls her eyes. “No kidding.”

“I want—”

A knock sounds at the door, light and upbeat. Three quick raps in a row.

Isabella keeps her eyes on me. She snaps her fingers and the nail file disappears. “Can you behave yourself?” she asks.

“Depends.”

Her mouth settles into a line. “I suppose that’s the best I can hope for. Come in,” she calls.

The door squeaks open and a small orange blur darts through. Builín scampers over and sits at my feet patiently, her orange and white tail swishing merrily through the air. I blink at her.

She meows a greeting and hops into my lap, nudging my chest with her cheek and then draping herself dramatically over me. I scratch lightly under her chin, as confused as I’ve ever been.

“Why is my cat here?”

“She’s not your cat,” a familiar voice says, laughing. My attention snaps to the woman standing next to Isabella, a soft smile on her face and her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyebrows fly up when our eyes meet and hold, a slow smile curving across her familiar mouth.

“You recognize me?” she asks.

I nod. Harriet’s aunt Matilda is standing in front of me in a colorful sweater with wide sleeves, her hair the same curly disarray as Harriet’s. It sends a pang of longing so ferocious through the middle of my chest, it’s a wonder I don’t fall out of the chair.

“Good.” She claps her hands together. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“Gathering recently departed spirits from their respective resting places takes time,” Isabella explains. “That’s what the wait was for. There was quite a bit of ”—she and Matilda exchange a loaded look— “red tape.”

Matilda snaps her fingers, and an armchair appears. It’s the same armchair as the one I favored at the antiques shop. The one right by the window, where I’d read my books while Harriet bustled around the front. She collapses into it, a steaming mug of tea at her elbow.

It’s in a Christmas tree mug, because of course it is.

I smile.

“I am of the understanding that we have a mutual acquaintance,” Matilda says. Her face softens. “How’s my girl?”

I lean forward in my seat, my elbows resting on my knees. “She’s a mess,” I answer, voice breaking. “Color everywhere. A laugh that’s just a shade too loud. Painfully addicted to candy canes.” I pause. “As lovely on the inside as she is on the outside.”

I miss her so much.

Matilda laughs and it fills the room, bouncing off the plain white walls. A laugh that’s just a shade too loud.

“Sounds like my Harriet.” Her eyes close and a wistful smile tugs at her cheeks. “I miss her,” Matilda says quietly.

“She misses you,” I reply. “You haven’t … checked in?”

She shakes her head. “Can’t. There are restrictions on timing. If ghosts were able to check in on their loved ones as soon as they departed, I’m not sure anyone would move on.” She smiles sadly, her eyes turning sharp. She nods at Builín, still in my lap. “Though I’ve found my ways to keep tabs.”

“Builín is yours?”

“I prefer Oliver, but yes. She’s mine. She kept Harriet company when I couldn’t.” That sad smile again. “I didn’t want my girl to be alone.”

I drag my hand over Builín’s arched back. Her tail swishes at my chest.

I didn’t want to leave Harriet alone either. I’m sick to my stomach just thinking of it.

“Are you—are you here to guide me to the next place?” I ask. “Because Harriet was the one to move me forward?”

Matilda blinks at me, tea mug frozen halfway to her mouth. “You don’t know?” Her attention snaps to Isabella. “He doesn’t know?”

Isabella shakes her head. “He hasn’t put it together yet.” My face tightens. “What don’t I know?”

They ignore me.

Matilda sets her Christmas tree mug to the side on an end table that appears out of thin air. Another knickknack I’ve seen around the antiques shop.

“Surely he doesn’t think it was all a coincidence.”

Isabella shrugs. “For such an intelligent man, it appears he is remarkably stupid.”

Matilda makes a thoughtful sound. “I suppose he did die by sailing directly into a storm. Not the brightest bulb in the bunch.”

“You make a fair point.”

“Excuse me. Would someone mind explaining?” I look between them. “Is it Harriet? Has something happened?”

Matilda’s face softens. “Harriet is fine. Or rather, as fine as she can be.” She pauses, tracing her thumb across her bottom lip. I’ve seen Harriet do the same thing a million times, and my heart gives another painful thump in my chest. “What do you think you’re doing here, Nolan?”

“Being tortured.”

Isabella snorts.

“Not that. Why do you think you’ve moved on to this place, Nolan?” asks Matilda. “This”—she gestures at the open space around us—“waiting room.”

“Because—” I glance at Isabella, but she keeps her expression carefully blank. “Because Harriet figured out what my unfinished business was. She found the compass, and it satisfied some decades-long conundrum. I was able to move forward when she set me to rights.”

Isabella pinches her nose with a sigh. Matilda stares at me. “My,” Matilda says. “You are stupid.”

I grind my teeth together. “I’d appreciate an explanation.”

I can’t take another second of this vague discussion. My patience is at its very limit. Every time I close my eyes, I feel Harriet shuddering in my arms. I see her big brown eyes, filled with tears. My goodwill has run dry.

“The compass was never your unfinished business.” Matilda plucks her mug back up from the table. Builín hops from my lap and returns to her, winding between her legs. “Harriet was,” she says.

Everything goes still and tight. Like one of those toys I had as a child, where the string was pulled from the back. My string has been pulled, yet nothing comes out. White noise fills the space between my ears, my throat bone dry.

“What?” I breathe out.

Isabella smooths her hands over her skirt. “Have you ever wondered why you remain a ghost, despite fulfilling every request I’ve ever asked of you?”

I remain quiet.

“You’ve been waiting, Nolan.” Something uncharacteristically tender and soft transforms Isabella’s harsh features. “You’ve been waiting for Harriet. To exist in the same time as her. Your souls were together in the beginning, and so they shall be in the end.”

My hands brace against the edges of my seat, knuckles white. I hardly dare to hope. To breathe.

“How do you—” I exhale. “Are you sure?”

Isabella raises an insolent eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

The compass. That day in the ocean. The way it always felt like I was being pulled incessantly into her orbit. How I spent my lifetime looking . The vibration beneath my skin every time she so much as glanced in my direction. The way I thought I recognized her, that very first night. How much I miss her.

Aye, I’m sure.

“It doesn’t happen for all spirits,” she explains calmly, an old sadness flashing behind her dark eyes. “And sometimes there are … complications … that prevent two souls from finding each other again. You are extraordinarily lucky, Nolan.”

“Lucky,” I repeat, voice dry. Isabella nods.

“ Lucky ,” I say again. I let go of the edge of the chair and press my palms to my knees instead. My hands are trembling, my entire body shaking with the force of this … feeling. “You’re telling me I was forced to exist in another time without the woman I—” I swallow down the word, not willing to say it to anyone who isn’t Harriet first. My hands clench into fists and I try again. “I’ve lived lifetimes, waiting, without reason or warning. I’ve been miserable . And you call me lucky ?”

Isabella fixes me with an impenetrable look. “And now that you know, how many lifetimes more would you wait? For your Harriet?”

My frustration leaves me in a rush. I’m suddenly exhausted. Tired to my very bones.

“As many as it took,” I answer. “However long.”

“Good answer,” Matilda says from her cozy armchair.

“But you couldn’t have mentioned it?” I ask Isabella, dragging a frustrated hand through my hair. “All this talk about consequences, and you couldn’t have just told me that she was meant to be mine ?”

Her face remains impassive. “I couldn’t have.”

“Why?”

“Would you have believed me? Nolan, this isn’t a training exercise. This is your Harriet. Yours. She is made for you, as you are made for her .” She smirks. “You would have laughed in my face.”

I consider that, then begrudgingly accept she has a point. “Perhaps.”

Isabella huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I told you as much as I could. Anything more, and I would have faced consequences of my own. Your trips to the past were meant to speed the process along. Don’t you see? The boat, when she was a child. How you kept singing the Christmas songs she loves best, before you knew her. She even made the same jam that your mother used to serve you as a boy. She’s been waiting for you her entire life, and you’ve been searching for her just as long.”

I think of the memory where Harriet was on her couch, her chin resting on her crossed arms, staring out over the water. Another where I was sitting at the table in my home, doing the same.

Both of us alone.

I drag my hand across my mouth, my throat tight. There’s a pressure behind my eyes I can’t blink away. “Is that it, then? Is that why I’m here? I am to wait more?”

Matilda leans forward. “You’re here because now you need to make a choice.” She snaps her fingers and a candy cane appears in her hand. A grin tugs at her mouth as she unwraps it. “And it better be the right one.”