After We've Said Goodbye chapter 7
By Carolyn, Carolyn984@aol.com
A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter out! I wrote this story on my computer at college, and I left it there during spring break, which was this past week, so I couldn't update. At least y'all got "Existence," which I wrote while I was home, right? That's done also, and will be updated soon (I emailed it to myself so I'd have it when I got back to school—I'm not going to make you all wait until I'm home next to see how it ends! I'm not *that* mean. ;-) ). Now I'm back at school, so I figured I'd be nice and give all you patient folks chapter seven. Enjoy!
"Life has a funny way of sneakin' up on you when you think everything's okay and everything's going right. . ." Alanis Morrisette
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I didn't even catch a glimpse of the angry spirit, but I felt it, all right. Almost as much as I felt the searing chilly water about point-six seconds later.
Can I just take a moment to complain? I mean, seriously. What on earth did I do to deserve such foul treatment? I thought for sure I must have done something right, whether in a past life or recently, to have the good karma to bring Jesse back to me, and then I had to go and get shoved off a Northern California pier. I tell you, life is just so unfair. Why do I only get the pissed off ghosts when I'm around Jesse? And why, additionally, do the pissed off ghosts have to interrupt when he's about to lay on me what would have been quite the passionate kiss? I mean, you don't not-kiss someone for over half a year and then just give her a little peck. I was anticipating some serious lip action, and then Mr. Pushy-Hands has to go ruin it all.
Well, let's just say he was lucky that I was somewhat occupied swimming back up to the surface and keeping myself afloat and getting back to shore. Otherwise, I would have canned his sorry ass right then and there. Couldn't he see we were having a *moment*?!
"Susannah!" I heard Jesse call out, panicked. "Susannah, are you all right?"
I spit out an impressive amount of seawater, holding myself afloat, and yelled back, "Um, if you consider cold and wet and really, really ticked off 'all right,' then I guess so. What the hell was that?"
The voice I heard next was one I didn't recognize. I realized a second later, as I was striding back to shore, that it was the schmuck who pushed me in. Oh, he was *so* going to pay for that. Not only did he wreck what was going to be the best moment in my recent life, he destroyed my relatively new designer capris! Not to mention my hair, which I had just washed, and which was about as straight and smooth and frizz-free as I had seen it in weeks.
"What gives you the right?" I barely heard him saying to Jesse as I climbed up onto the sand and made my way back onto the wooden pier. "What gives you the right to be able to be with someone who's still alive? I've tried to touch my girlfriend, comfort her, let her know I'm all right, and she doesn't even notice I'm there!"
Apparently Mr. Pushy-Hands was ticked off, but not nearly to the degree that I was. I was royally pissed, if the way my stomping footsteps echoed in the now-freezing—at least to me, who may I remind you, was now soaked and covered in sand—night air was any indication. I marched right up to my brand new arch-enemy and socked him one right in the face. He stumbled backwards, surprised.
"What gives *you* the right," I demanded, trying to keep my teeth from chattering, "to go pushing people off into the water in the middle of the night, in the middle of a *romantic MOMENT*?!" I seethed. Jesse put his arm around me cautiously, as if to hold me back. And let me tell you, it was probably a good thing he did, because I was this close to knocking Mr. Jealousy into the water himself, just so he could see how it felt.
What's-his-name—I didn't know it, nor did I care to make the attempt, unless it was to know whose grave to step on next time I was in a cemetery—just kind of stared at me, and looked from me, to Jesse, and back to me. "You. . . you can see me?"
I rolled my eyes and let out an impatient puff of breath that sent the shorter pieces of wet hair around my face flying. This jerk just, hello, pushed me into the Pacific, and now he's surprised that I can see him? "Um, ya, and in case you were wondering, I can feel you, too. You didn't seem too reluctant to realize that a couple minutes ago. Or did you think I wanted to go for a swim at that particular moment in my life? Because, just to clarify, I didn't—"
"Why? You. . . I mean, you're alive. You—"
"Hah! Well you know that much. Did you also know that it's just a tad on the rude side to go pushing *live* people into the ocean?"
Jesse looked at the intruder irately. He clasped my arm protectively, much to my delight, although I was still a little on the annoyed side to really appreciate it. "I think you owe Susannah an apology," he demanded, his eyes alight with bridled anger.
Well, at least someone was capable of holding it in. I guess it's a little easier when you're not the one who's freezing and wet, and all that.
Ghost Boy, who was still recovering from the blow I gave him—apparently he was only recently inducted into the Dead Man Walking membership club, or he would have realized that he couldn't really be hurt, what with not having a body and all—looked at me and Jesse. "How can you see both of us? I thought maybe you only see him. . ."
Hah, I wish. That would surely make my life a whole heck of a lot easier.
"Nope," I snorted. "Tall ones, short ones, old ones, young ones. . . pushy ones who need to learn to keep their hands to themselves," he recoiled a bit, remembering the wrath of my fist from a moment before. "You name 'em, I see 'em."
"Oh," he said meekly. He was an average-looking kid—no Brad Pitt, and surely, no Jesse—with short, sandy blonde hair and hazel eyes, maybe about five-nine or so. He seemed like a decent kid, maybe, back when he was alive and not shoving girls off of piers.
But then again, who knows. Maybe that's why he was dead. Maybe someone didn't take too kindly to getting pushed into the pool or something and decided to teach him a lesson. I could so understand that rationale.
"I'm sorry," he continued. The guy actually had the tact to sound remorseful. "I just. . . well, it hasn't been easy. No one can see me. I keep trying to talk to them, to let them know I'm still here, but they just walk right through me like I don't even exist."
I sighed. This so figures. Wish for a romantic evening, get a mediation. I swear my life is just one colossal joke to some greater power. It must be really entertaining. Better than the WB.
"That's because," I explained, I'm sorry to say, rather impatiently, "to them, you don't. They don't have this little ability I have to see dead people. Some call it a gift. . . I call it a curse." Then I stopped, glanced at Jesse briefly, and amended, more to myself than to anyone else, "Well, most of the time."
Looking at Jesse, who in turn was looking at me, only made me realize even more that our quixotic getaway was not going to hold up to my fairy-tale standards. This, coincidentally, only served to irritate me. I mean, hello, I would like some time alone with him, considering I haven't seen him in (have I mentioned this?) six months. I was totally not appreciating the intrusion by Mr. Pier-Pusher.
Although I guess that, since it didn't look like he was leaving any time soon, it would probably make my job easier if I knew his name.
I sighed. Looks like I should've asked Jesse for that rain check after all.
As it turns out, Anthony Tonelli, previously known as Mr. Pushy Hands, was a sophomore at Northern California State, and was involved in a drunk- driving accident just a few weeks ago, over Christmas break. This just goes to prove my theory that no matter how cool some people think it is, drinking just makes everything about a thousand times worse. I'm sure Anthony would agree with me.
And, it seems that he does.
"I just want Jessica to know that, you know, it's not her fault. I don't blame her for getting into that accident. If it were me who was driving, it would've been me instead. I've only seen her a few times since, but there's no way I can tell her."
Ugh. Why does it seem like my work never ends? Honestly. All I wanted was a walk on the beach. I never asked for a charity case. I groaned inwardly, and not just because I kept thinking about how agonizingly close Jesse's lips were to mine. Now, it was because I was getting really cold, too.
"Look," I said, "you want me to tell her? Because I will. Just not now, okay? Right now, the only thing on my mind is a hot shower and dry clothes," and a certain nineteenth century ghost, I added silently.
Anthony looked at me with what could only be described as mild contempt, as if he was appalled that I would even consider placing my own health and well-being over doing my birth-given duty. Obviously he didn't know me too well.
For the first time in a few minutes, Jesse spoke up. "And who is this girl we must find?"
Hmm, I thought. We? Looks like someone wants to get back into business. I guess I couldn't really blame him. It must have been just a little boring roaming around purgatory, or whatever, for half a year. I'll have to make a mental note to ask him about that later.
"Jessica Winters," he said, as if we should have known. Like it was written out in the clear blue sky, or something.
I swear, some ghosts are so self-centered. Like, they think that just because they're dead and you have the good fortune to not be, you have to just drop everything to help their poor souls. Not in my world, pal.
I sighed. "Well, okay then. I'll look for her around campus tomorrow, or something," I hurried him along, hoping to salvage the original intent of my evening, which did not include him in the least. "We'll be in touch, bye-bye now."
Tonelli *rolled his eyes*--I'm not even kidding—and snorted. "She doesn't *go* to NoCal. She's still in high school. A senior. The Junipero Serra Mission Academy, in Carmel."
Huh. My initial thought was to call him a cradle robber, but then I realized that I wasn't really in a position to talk. After all, I met Jesse when I was still sixteen, and he was oh, let's see, twenty going on one hundred and seventy. I didn't really have the upper hand in that debate.
So instead, I focused on the other portion of his disclosure. My high school. Back home in Carmel.
And that's why, about an hour later, I found myself—wet clothes and all—sitting across the desk from a weary-looking snowy-haired priest.
"Well hello, Susannah," Father Dominic said. "It's been a while."
-------------------------------
Chapter 8 coming soon!
Remember—reviews make happy authors and happy authors write faster stories. ;-)
2004 by Carolyn
By Carolyn, Carolyn984@aol.com
A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter out! I wrote this story on my computer at college, and I left it there during spring break, which was this past week, so I couldn't update. At least y'all got "Existence," which I wrote while I was home, right? That's done also, and will be updated soon (I emailed it to myself so I'd have it when I got back to school—I'm not going to make you all wait until I'm home next to see how it ends! I'm not *that* mean. ;-) ). Now I'm back at school, so I figured I'd be nice and give all you patient folks chapter seven. Enjoy!
"Life has a funny way of sneakin' up on you when you think everything's okay and everything's going right. . ." Alanis Morrisette
--------------------------------------------
I didn't even catch a glimpse of the angry spirit, but I felt it, all right. Almost as much as I felt the searing chilly water about point-six seconds later.
Can I just take a moment to complain? I mean, seriously. What on earth did I do to deserve such foul treatment? I thought for sure I must have done something right, whether in a past life or recently, to have the good karma to bring Jesse back to me, and then I had to go and get shoved off a Northern California pier. I tell you, life is just so unfair. Why do I only get the pissed off ghosts when I'm around Jesse? And why, additionally, do the pissed off ghosts have to interrupt when he's about to lay on me what would have been quite the passionate kiss? I mean, you don't not-kiss someone for over half a year and then just give her a little peck. I was anticipating some serious lip action, and then Mr. Pushy-Hands has to go ruin it all.
Well, let's just say he was lucky that I was somewhat occupied swimming back up to the surface and keeping myself afloat and getting back to shore. Otherwise, I would have canned his sorry ass right then and there. Couldn't he see we were having a *moment*?!
"Susannah!" I heard Jesse call out, panicked. "Susannah, are you all right?"
I spit out an impressive amount of seawater, holding myself afloat, and yelled back, "Um, if you consider cold and wet and really, really ticked off 'all right,' then I guess so. What the hell was that?"
The voice I heard next was one I didn't recognize. I realized a second later, as I was striding back to shore, that it was the schmuck who pushed me in. Oh, he was *so* going to pay for that. Not only did he wreck what was going to be the best moment in my recent life, he destroyed my relatively new designer capris! Not to mention my hair, which I had just washed, and which was about as straight and smooth and frizz-free as I had seen it in weeks.
"What gives you the right?" I barely heard him saying to Jesse as I climbed up onto the sand and made my way back onto the wooden pier. "What gives you the right to be able to be with someone who's still alive? I've tried to touch my girlfriend, comfort her, let her know I'm all right, and she doesn't even notice I'm there!"
Apparently Mr. Pushy-Hands was ticked off, but not nearly to the degree that I was. I was royally pissed, if the way my stomping footsteps echoed in the now-freezing—at least to me, who may I remind you, was now soaked and covered in sand—night air was any indication. I marched right up to my brand new arch-enemy and socked him one right in the face. He stumbled backwards, surprised.
"What gives *you* the right," I demanded, trying to keep my teeth from chattering, "to go pushing people off into the water in the middle of the night, in the middle of a *romantic MOMENT*?!" I seethed. Jesse put his arm around me cautiously, as if to hold me back. And let me tell you, it was probably a good thing he did, because I was this close to knocking Mr. Jealousy into the water himself, just so he could see how it felt.
What's-his-name—I didn't know it, nor did I care to make the attempt, unless it was to know whose grave to step on next time I was in a cemetery—just kind of stared at me, and looked from me, to Jesse, and back to me. "You. . . you can see me?"
I rolled my eyes and let out an impatient puff of breath that sent the shorter pieces of wet hair around my face flying. This jerk just, hello, pushed me into the Pacific, and now he's surprised that I can see him? "Um, ya, and in case you were wondering, I can feel you, too. You didn't seem too reluctant to realize that a couple minutes ago. Or did you think I wanted to go for a swim at that particular moment in my life? Because, just to clarify, I didn't—"
"Why? You. . . I mean, you're alive. You—"
"Hah! Well you know that much. Did you also know that it's just a tad on the rude side to go pushing *live* people into the ocean?"
Jesse looked at the intruder irately. He clasped my arm protectively, much to my delight, although I was still a little on the annoyed side to really appreciate it. "I think you owe Susannah an apology," he demanded, his eyes alight with bridled anger.
Well, at least someone was capable of holding it in. I guess it's a little easier when you're not the one who's freezing and wet, and all that.
Ghost Boy, who was still recovering from the blow I gave him—apparently he was only recently inducted into the Dead Man Walking membership club, or he would have realized that he couldn't really be hurt, what with not having a body and all—looked at me and Jesse. "How can you see both of us? I thought maybe you only see him. . ."
Hah, I wish. That would surely make my life a whole heck of a lot easier.
"Nope," I snorted. "Tall ones, short ones, old ones, young ones. . . pushy ones who need to learn to keep their hands to themselves," he recoiled a bit, remembering the wrath of my fist from a moment before. "You name 'em, I see 'em."
"Oh," he said meekly. He was an average-looking kid—no Brad Pitt, and surely, no Jesse—with short, sandy blonde hair and hazel eyes, maybe about five-nine or so. He seemed like a decent kid, maybe, back when he was alive and not shoving girls off of piers.
But then again, who knows. Maybe that's why he was dead. Maybe someone didn't take too kindly to getting pushed into the pool or something and decided to teach him a lesson. I could so understand that rationale.
"I'm sorry," he continued. The guy actually had the tact to sound remorseful. "I just. . . well, it hasn't been easy. No one can see me. I keep trying to talk to them, to let them know I'm still here, but they just walk right through me like I don't even exist."
I sighed. This so figures. Wish for a romantic evening, get a mediation. I swear my life is just one colossal joke to some greater power. It must be really entertaining. Better than the WB.
"That's because," I explained, I'm sorry to say, rather impatiently, "to them, you don't. They don't have this little ability I have to see dead people. Some call it a gift. . . I call it a curse." Then I stopped, glanced at Jesse briefly, and amended, more to myself than to anyone else, "Well, most of the time."
Looking at Jesse, who in turn was looking at me, only made me realize even more that our quixotic getaway was not going to hold up to my fairy-tale standards. This, coincidentally, only served to irritate me. I mean, hello, I would like some time alone with him, considering I haven't seen him in (have I mentioned this?) six months. I was totally not appreciating the intrusion by Mr. Pier-Pusher.
Although I guess that, since it didn't look like he was leaving any time soon, it would probably make my job easier if I knew his name.
I sighed. Looks like I should've asked Jesse for that rain check after all.
As it turns out, Anthony Tonelli, previously known as Mr. Pushy Hands, was a sophomore at Northern California State, and was involved in a drunk- driving accident just a few weeks ago, over Christmas break. This just goes to prove my theory that no matter how cool some people think it is, drinking just makes everything about a thousand times worse. I'm sure Anthony would agree with me.
And, it seems that he does.
"I just want Jessica to know that, you know, it's not her fault. I don't blame her for getting into that accident. If it were me who was driving, it would've been me instead. I've only seen her a few times since, but there's no way I can tell her."
Ugh. Why does it seem like my work never ends? Honestly. All I wanted was a walk on the beach. I never asked for a charity case. I groaned inwardly, and not just because I kept thinking about how agonizingly close Jesse's lips were to mine. Now, it was because I was getting really cold, too.
"Look," I said, "you want me to tell her? Because I will. Just not now, okay? Right now, the only thing on my mind is a hot shower and dry clothes," and a certain nineteenth century ghost, I added silently.
Anthony looked at me with what could only be described as mild contempt, as if he was appalled that I would even consider placing my own health and well-being over doing my birth-given duty. Obviously he didn't know me too well.
For the first time in a few minutes, Jesse spoke up. "And who is this girl we must find?"
Hmm, I thought. We? Looks like someone wants to get back into business. I guess I couldn't really blame him. It must have been just a little boring roaming around purgatory, or whatever, for half a year. I'll have to make a mental note to ask him about that later.
"Jessica Winters," he said, as if we should have known. Like it was written out in the clear blue sky, or something.
I swear, some ghosts are so self-centered. Like, they think that just because they're dead and you have the good fortune to not be, you have to just drop everything to help their poor souls. Not in my world, pal.
I sighed. "Well, okay then. I'll look for her around campus tomorrow, or something," I hurried him along, hoping to salvage the original intent of my evening, which did not include him in the least. "We'll be in touch, bye-bye now."
Tonelli *rolled his eyes*--I'm not even kidding—and snorted. "She doesn't *go* to NoCal. She's still in high school. A senior. The Junipero Serra Mission Academy, in Carmel."
Huh. My initial thought was to call him a cradle robber, but then I realized that I wasn't really in a position to talk. After all, I met Jesse when I was still sixteen, and he was oh, let's see, twenty going on one hundred and seventy. I didn't really have the upper hand in that debate.
So instead, I focused on the other portion of his disclosure. My high school. Back home in Carmel.
And that's why, about an hour later, I found myself—wet clothes and all—sitting across the desk from a weary-looking snowy-haired priest.
"Well hello, Susannah," Father Dominic said. "It's been a while."
-------------------------------
Chapter 8 coming soon!
Remember—reviews make happy authors and happy authors write faster stories. ;-)
2004 by Carolyn