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Women like Judy were as common on California beaches as surfers and sand. They lived for the party and to be seen at the latest trendy club in the most recent fashion fad. Shallow women who used everyone around them to raise their social standing higher. If they didn’t use other means to begin with.
Jay might be more complex but in the end, he was just as shallow, all about the business. No friends that weren’t through work. It’s why no one could see him out of his work clothes. All business, all the time, all others be damned.
Mel felt genuine but that’s as far as she got with him. Even as a ghost he felt more real than his friends did.
“I’ll help you,” she blurted without further thought.
“You will?”
“You have to be somewhat good or the Gatekeeper would have taken you at the park.”
“So, now what?”
“We wait for the cops to leave.”
Melcouldn’tdecideifhe felt happy or ignored.
He and Anastacia busied themselves around the French Quarter, mere blocks from where his body was found in an empty alleyway. Everyone went on with their normal lives. People opened their curios and art shops up and down the Quarter, welcoming tourists as they gaped at sights and skipped from building to building in wonder. It’s true, he didn’t know any of them personally, and now, they never would come to know him either. It was all so mundane and as much as he hated the idea of normal, he missed it. He hadn’t even been dead for a day and he missed life. The world had gone on without him, leaving only one living soul who knew he was still there.
At least he was in the one place in the world that had someone who could see him. That it was his favorite place added a little comfort to the entire ordeal. It wasn’t just the amazing architecture of the French Quarter that he loved, though the mix of French and Spanish influences changing from one street to the next was a big part of it. The Quarter was the kind of place that was old in a way he could tell every brick had a story, every cobblestone a tale. Maybe one day a ghost tour would stop at the end of the alleyway where his life was stolen and they would read his story from the blood on the bricks. The poor man who was murdered and he didn’t even know why. As long as he was remembered, since there was nothing else in his unremarkable life that would be shared for generations to come.
Snapping out of his reverie as one of his favorite bars came into sight, he turned to his hesitant charge to spout out some facts. She had stopped yards behind him and was staring at the building to her side. Her eyes followed the swirls of the iron railing on the second story, letting the structure lead her gaze to the natural vines crawling up the side of the windows, the curling tendrils mirroring the ironwork. A small smile lifted the edge of her lips, hints of dimples showing on her cheeks. She didn’t look so lonely when she smiled.
She drank in the building’s details, took a deep breath, and turned to him.
“What?” she asked. His intense stare had caught her off guard.
He poked at his own cheeks with a small grin. “I didn’t know you knew how to smile is all.”
“I know how when there’s something to smile about.”
She would have bumped his shoulder if he was in any way solid. Instead, she walked right through him as if he wasn’t there.
Mel quickly patted himself down to make sure she didn’t walk off with a piece of his soul. Satisfied he was all there, he followed her as they made their way to Jackson Square.
“What was so smile-inducing about the building?”
“I liked the way it looked. More of the French influence and the ironwork is beautiful. I would love to have a place like it one day.”
“Maybe you will.” He watched her pass through the crowd of living people just as he would expect a ghost would; unnoticed and unfazed by those around her.
Anastacia was moving with such innate grace, Mel hung a step behind just to watch her weave through the crowd, not taking the time to acknowledge anyone. The only time she paused was with a man too entranced with his phone to notice he blocked the door, even then she scooted around him and into the shop.
Once in the dusty place packed with herbs in labeled jars and bits of tumbled and raw crystals laid out in trays, she greeted the employee behind the counter warmly before making a circuit of the store, stopping to scan a bookcase of mass market titles promising to connect people to their spiritual selves or awaken their sixth sense. Mel’s eyes rolled and he appreciated that the action no longer made him dizzy. Bonus point for being a ghost. Without ceremony, she finished her perusal and flung an equally friendly, “Thanks!” toward the shopkeep. She had manners. That was a nice discovery.
“So what do I call you? You never told me your name.”
“Anastacia.”
“Okay, Stacia. Where to next?”
“It’sAnastacia. Don’t try with the cutesy nicknames. You’re practically blackmailing me into helping you.”
She ducked into another tight building with dozens of paintings along the walls. He waited outside to prevent walking through too many bodies. The sensation of floating through another person’s digestive system didn’t hold any fascination for him. At least not now that he had done it half a dozen times.
“You aren’t social, are you?” he asked when she came out of the crowded art exhibition.
“I have enough voices talking to me. I don’t need to add more unless necessary.”
