Chapter Eight

Gerald Harper came to his senses in the middle of the street, the shine of policemen's flashlights in his face. They were checking his pulse, asking him questions, but he was too dazed to understand. He struggled to sit up, the flash of sirens disorienting him further. He had the vague sensation that his jeans were soaked. His hands felt sticky.

Looking around, he tried to make sense of the situation. There was a truck stopped in the middle of the road; several police cars were beginning to block off the road. Then he saw it: the crushed body of a young woman. His jeans were soaked in blood. Her blood. He was fortunately still too dazed to see the gory details, but it was still too much, and he vomited, causing the police to turn on him even more furiously with their lights and loud voices.

He was questioned at the scene by two different cops; when he said he couldn't remember, they'd had to bring him back to the station for drug testing. They took blood, urine, and hair, which he gave without much concern; he had no clue what they were testing for and just wanted to go home.

Instead, he had to spend the night at the station, trying to remember how he'd ended up in the middle of the street on the other side of town. The test results all came back negative the next morning, so the station nurse gave him a medical evaluation. Nothing was wrong—no fever, no concussion, nothing—the only problem was his temporary memory loss.

Because he really knew nothing, he was free to go, on the condition that if his memory returned, he would call the station immediately. For now, though, he was innocent.

Jack picked him up, took him home, and was wise enough not to ask questions. As soon as Gerald got back, he took a shower and collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

In the Neitherworld, Beetlejuice was inconsolable. Jacques had tried to come over and talk to him, but Beetlejuice refused to even answer the door. Donny and his mother even came to check on him; their presence was only tolerated because they cooked without trying to make conversation and kept others away.

"He doesn't want to see anyone right now," Mrs. Juice said when a visitor showed up one day.

"Do you think he could make an exception?" said Charles. "I really would like to speak with him."

Much to the shock of his family, Beetlejuice agreed to meet with him.

"Guess you've figured out who I am by now, Chuckie," he said.

"Indeed," Charles replied. "And now that I've had a chance to get used to it here, I'm so much calmer than when I was alive."

"Good to hear…" Beetlejuice was still not in a conversational mood. "So why'd you come see me?"

"It's about my daughter," Charles began. "You were her best friend… Anyway, you've been here for quite some time; how does the process work?"

"Process?"

"When will Lydia be here? I really would like to see her again."

Beetlejuice gave him a strange look; the thought had occurred to him before, especially when he was freshly dead and wondering when some of his friends would be joining him, but he'd never actually gone and figured out the intricacies of the afterlife.

"Well, it's different for everybody, Chuckie; she might go somewhere else."

Charles looked worried.

"Somewhere else? Where would she go?"

"No idea," Beetlejuice shrugged. "Most people come through the Neitherworld, but not everyone stays. I don't know where they go…never thought to find out for myself. Sometimes, people die and take years to show up here; they want to get their 'unfinished business' handled first.

"But some people never come here at all…I've checked the records, Chuckie. Lydia ain't here yet, and for all we know, she won't ever come here."

Delia thought she'd been through enough heartache after losing her husband, but losing Lydia was too much to bear. She'd been stoic while identifying the body, strong and unwavering while making funeral arrangements, but once she was in Lydia's apartment boxing her things, she fell apart. She longed for a diary, a journal, anything that would bring her closer to her daughter.

Then she found the camera.

There were three rolls of film including one still in the camera. The hour she waited for the pictures to develop was torture; when she came back sixty minutes later and found out there'd been a slight delay, she nearly smashed the countertop.

When they were finally done, she went to her car and sat inside, tears streaming was she looked at the last photographs her daughter had taken.

As she went through the last pack of pictures, she finally came to a picture of Lydia, smiling and beautiful. Delia's heart stopped; she hadn't seen her daughter looking that happy in years. The next picture, however, confused her. It was of a young man she didn't recognize. Turning the picture over, she saw it was dated the day before Lydia had died.

Delia uneasily pulled out her cell phone and dialed the police station.

Gerald had writer's block. He'd been staring at his notebook for ages, waiting for inspiration to strike, but somehow he couldn't get excited about the latest charity event at the Met.

The phone rang, but he ignored it; Jack would get it.

"John Roberts speaking," Jack said professionally. "Yes, he does. Just a moment."

"Gerry, it's for you," he murmured as he passed him the phone. "And I think it's serious."

He'd had to go back in for questioning, but he still couldn't answer anything. When he left the questioning room, a woman with red hair approached him.

"It's you," she said, as if she couldn't quite believe it. "From the picture."

"What picture?" Gerald asked, bewildered.

"Please…if you know anything, can tell me anything about my daughter…please…" She broke down in tears.

"May I see them?"

He looked through the photos in silence, Delia sitting wordlessly beside him. When he reached the picture of himself, he paused, then checked the date on the back.

"I…I haven't been to Central Park in months," he said, his voice shaking. "There's no way I could have…"

The next picture caught his eye.

"This…this is your daughter?"

Delia inhaled sharply. "Yes."

Gerald stared at the picture; he had absolutely no recollection of her.

September 9, 1999.

"That was a Thursday," he said.

"I love this picture," Delia began. "She hasn't…hadn't smiled for a picture in years. She had such big dreams. Every week, when she'd call home, she'd tell me about the different magazines she'd shown her work to…always trying to get her work published."

Gerald froze.

"Did she ever try for The City?"

"She mentioned that one," Delia said, staring hard at him. "She didn't think she was good enough, but right before she…I told her to try."

"I work for The City!" Gerald said, thunderstruck. "I was handing in a piece that morning." He cradled his head in his hands. "I remember her."

"Y-you do?"

"In the waiting room. She was nervous, so I wished her luck…after that, though…I can't remember."

"She tried," Delia said, suddenly smiling. "Did she make it?"

"I don't know. But I could find out."

Author's Notes: Thanks for all the wonderful reviews; I'm glad you're all enjoying this so far! Only one chapter left (unless I write an epilogue or something), and it just needs some editing and should be up soon!