I grimaced at the lie I'd given her to explain Alona's absence and the increase in ghost activity around me. I couldn't tell her that Alona was directly responsible for Lily's amazing “recovery.” My mom had handled the ghost-talker thing fairly well, but Alona's spirit in Lily's body? That was beyond even her most liberal thinking. And she'd never particularly liked Alona to begin with, so I didn't want to make things worse.
“Mom, as much as I appreciate that, there's nothing you can do,” I pointed out, trying to be as careful as I could not to hurt her feelings. “This is something I have to work out on my own.”
“I know that,” she said, with exaggerated patience. “I'm certainly not capable of helping you resolve any of your”—she eyed the basement door, which was open a crack, checking to see that Sam hadn't returned—“issues.” She reached out and took my hand, squeezing it. “But I can at least make sure you have a safe place to be yourself until you figure it out.”
I shook my head, feeling the sting of tears in my eyes and nose. “You shouldn't have to give up your life, not any more than you already have.”
She waved my words away. “Who says I'm giving up anything?” She stood and took her mug to the sink. “That farmhouse of his is a wreck still, especially the kitchen. And in six months or a year”—she shrugged—“his renovations will be done and maybe you'll be ready to be on your own. It's not the end of the world.”
But I could hear the forced note of cheeriness in her voice. Sam had already proposed multiple times, and moving in together was less than what he wanted. How long would he be willing to wait for that? Especially without knowing the truth about what was going on with me.
My mom had decided that she didn't want Sam to feel forced into believing something that most people found pretty far out there. Okay, fine, but without that context, he might think she'd never come around. That we were like those permanently messed-up, codependent mothers and sons. Norman Bates and his mom, or whatever.
“Do me a favor,” I said.
She turned away from the sink and raised an eyebrow at me, her hands already covered in bubbles from scrubbing the tea mug. She always cleans when she's upset, especially when she's not admitting that she's upset. “What's that?” she asked, obviously suspicious that I was going to try to talk her into something.
“Just… don't say no yet.”
She opened her mouth, but I kept going before she could speak. “Give me a couple more weeks. Tell him you need time to think about it, if you have to, but don't tell him no. Please.”
“Nothing is going to change that quickly.” She looked tired suddenly. “I don't want to give him false hope.”
“I'm working on something, okay? I just need a little more time.” If I couldn't at least find a lead by then, it probably wasn't going to happen any time soon. In which case, contingency plans would need to be made. And living at home forever was not one of them.
My mom narrowed her eyes at me. “William, if you're putting yourself in danger—”
“Totally safe, promise.” Which was true… to an extent. Leaving things as they were would be far more dangerous — that much was certain.
She nodded slowly, not quite sure whether to believe me. “All right.”
“Thanks.” I stood, shoved my chair in, and, before leaving the kitchen, took the extra couple of steps to kiss her cheek, startling her. “I got this. Don't worry,” I said, wishing I felt as certain as I sounded.
But first things first. Before I could continue working on a way to get Alona back in spirit form — and consequently, giving my mom her life back — I had to address a more immediate problem. I left my mom at the sink, with the sound of Sam's footsteps coming up the basement stairs, to head back to my bedroom.
Once upon a time, my house had been a ghost-free zone. I had done my best to hide my identity as a ghost-talker, and the few ghosts who'd figured it out had never managed to follow me home.
Ghosts are not omniscient. They don't know anything more than they did when they were alive, other than what they learn by watching, listening, and, well, walking through walls. So my exact address had remained a mystery to them, thankfully.
The trouble was, as soon as my reputation started to spread — thanks in part to Alona's initial desire to make sure everyone knew she was
Unfortunately, the dead look pretty much like the living, unless their clothes are obviously outdated or you catch them passing through a solid object, which they can't do when they're around me anyway. So, checking to make sure the strange guy behind you on the sidewalk is, in fact, breathing and not a ghost trying to stalk you is a little tricky.
