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“Neither did I.”
Our fingers brushed up the higher notes on the faux keyboard, and then our fingers twirled next to each other. I watched my movements in amazement, a spectator. Then, still to the beat of the music, my hands moved over to the pasta and began to open the package.
“A lot of things work by thought once you’re beyond the physical world,” he said. “You can will things to happen just by moving the energy using your mind. It’s a much more effective way of doing thingsandcommunicating. There’s no hiding in the spirit world, Jemma. The people closest to you know how you’re feeling.”
“This is… incredible.” Okay, so not the part about my feelings being out in the open. But my hands! My mouth remained opened in awe of this entire process. If I’d been with anyone else, I might’ve been screaming bloody murder, watching my arms and hands move on their own. But this wasn’t anyone else.
Somewhere in my gut, I knew I could trust what was happening.
My hands—and, yes, in my mind my hands were now their own character—moved over to the tomatoes and began to pluck each one from the vine.
“So, what happens now?” I asked. “I’ve never actually made homemade sauce.”
“Well, we’re going to need… to use that knife.”
My hands reached for the knife and a tomato. I watched as my hands cored the tomato and chopped the fruit into little cubes. After “I’d” sliced up six of the tomatoes this way, my hands tossed them into the smaller pan along with the tomato paste.
“Let’s put in a little bit of water,” Jamie said. My hands complied, putting the emptied tomato paste jar under the faucet and filling it to the brim. A shot of energy bounced around my arms as they moved back to the pan and dumped its contents.
“Alright, I got the next part,” I said, turning on the pan. The gas stove clicked and ignited as I turned the knob.
“We could cook the pasta now, too,” Jamie said. Without another word, my hands reached for the box of noodles and emptied them into the deep, stainless steel pot.
“Easy enough,” I said. “I guess I didn’t realize making your own pasta was this simple.”
“Not bad for an Irishman,” Jamie said, winking.
“Uh, yeah. Except, not to burst your bubble or anything… I’m sure in Italy it would be a sacrilege to use tomato paste. This knowledge is coming from my quarter Italian self.” I let out a little laugh. “Can I have my hands back now?”
His eyes smiled at the corners. “Yup. All yours.”
Instantly, the pulsing energy surrounding my arms and hands dropped away like anoffbutton had been pressed.
I tapped my fingers against the counter, almost as if I needed to feel myself being me again, feel myself being in control. For some odd reason, I thought of the Zombie Fungus Ants I’d once looked up for research on a book. “Did you know, there’s a parasitic fungus that manipulates certain types of ants? The fungus takes over the ant’s brain, then makes it climb up a tree before completely killing the insect.”
“Book research, huh? God, I hate bugs.” Jamie made a face. “Are you saying that I’m like a fungus who took over your brain?” He started chuckling, leaning his back against the counter on the other side of the stove with his arms crossed.
“Uh, no. But just so we’re clear… you wouldn’t ever do that without asking me, right?”
“No way in hell.”
“Good. Because then I would literally have to kill you.”
“Good thing I’m already dead.” He glanced over at the pot of sauce as he said the next words, quite obviously trying to change the conversation to something a bit less morbid. “Pretty neat thing I can do, huh?”
“What’s so special about sauce?” I joked.
“Here I thought I was the comedian.” He dipped his nose over the pot. “It already smells good.”
“Yeah.”
Silence consumed us then. As we waited for the sauce to boil, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Like now that we were back in a calm place, I had the opportunity to analyze what had happened earlier. Had a chance to link the exploding scene of lanterns crashing down from the sky with the internal chaos inside Jamie’s mind.
He let out a slow sigh, then gazed back at me. His eyes stared quizzically, then we both turned away. My face burned a deep red.
“When did it start for you?” I asked meekly, hoping after what we’d been through back there, he’d be a little more likely to open up. “I mean, the depression.”
“Fourteen,” Jamie said without hesitation. “About a year or so before we became friends.”
