To the surprise of no one, our journey back to Canada took longer than we thought it would. There was so secret teleportation path; that was all magic from the movies. (Either that or we were just not powerful or worthy enough.) 'Yeah, that sounds about right.'
Charli and I would have to actually walk. It was a lot of walking from each local gas station, to truck stop making our way into the frozen belly of Hell. This was our punishment, this was what we deserved. (Or maybe we just needed more time to practice with our post-death powers?)
I discovered a great many things about my new spectral form. As a ghost, I no longer required food or sleep. The food part I already knew; I felt no physical pain, and with it no hunger. I could smell the greasy hotdogs and 'fresh' pizza. My mouth was actually watering, but it was more for the nostalgia than anything else. When I walked past the soda fountain, I could taste the rich caramel of a Coke versus and refreshing fake citrus cool of a Sprite. I could remember the qualities of food but the desire was nowhere to be found.
Yet I desired sleep; I wanted to be back in Jay's arms. I wanted to feel his chest, his lungs, his heart. I craved it more than any available gas station junk food. "Charli?" I asked in a meek voice as we walked side by side, following the highway.
"What?" she asked with a groan. My tall elegant dead flight attendant friend was attempting to test her newfound powers. She was able to leap flying like a gymnast or a swan and land on solid objects (such as a highway barrier) without passing through.
"Are you hungry?" I'm not even sure why I thought that was a reasonable question,
"What?" She had to stop to keep from laughing.
"Do you miss food?"
"I can recall food," she replied, giving me a condescending expression. "Maybe I just never liked it as much as you did."
"Are you calling me fat?" I knew she wasn't but I really wanted to change the subject.
"All I know," she started her statement by drawing in power. "Life's a bitch and then you die, so give us a piece of that sweet potato pie." Suddenly she took off running, leaving a trail of flame in her wake.
I walked faster to catch up to Charli. "I take it you know a little bit about revenge?
"Vengence, terrorism, call it what you want."
"You know you killed my friend's wife." The statement was rhetorical. She knew, she just didn't care.
"Oh?" Charli paused, perching on a tree branch like an owl. "Well, did YOU know Jay slipped into a coma less than an hour after you left?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Oh, I thought we were stating the obvious," she said in her best mean-girl impression. "We're not even in Canada yet. If you don't want my help I can leave."
"Your help?" The words did not seem real. "You think I need your-" I choked on the dozens of layers of profanity. "Help?" I coughed despite my lack of functioning lungs. Was anger harmful to ghosts? 'Screw it. If she could run so could I.'
I started to power-walk down the middle of the lane divider. At first, I was moving like a supermodel on the runway. I felt powerful, determined. I wasn't even looking for signage. I figured if I just kept going straight I'd get someplace; Heaven, Hell, maybe Vancouver. I felt strong, empowered. and then I noticed, I could feel the gust of wind wherever a car passed. 'This wasn't fair.'
'Why did I still feel?' Books, movies, and a certain TV show made it seem like death was a, "A what?" I had just answered my own question. The ghosts were rarely just lost spirits, homesick for the world they left behind. The undead villain of the story was always filled with rage. These creatures could feel everything; singer, hate, rage. All the emotions they felt at the moment of their death (which was why they could not cross over.)
My emotions were testing me. If I allowed my anger to rule me, it would go on to destroy me. I could not let that happen. I actually wanted to cross over; to see the light, the end. I slowed my pace, eventually stopping under a large redwood tree. I needed some time to think.
In my nightgown that looked more like a cheap summer dress, I sat with my knees to my chest. Strangely, I was not cold, warm, or even physically tired. I guess that was nice. 'Where the Hell am I?"
Charli, running in the fashionable flats she died in, made a distinct sound. It was like a series of pats; petting the road like a housecat. "Hey," she said as she came to a stop. "I'm sorry."
"No, you're not," I muttered from where I sat. It was mind-numbingly clear that Charli did not have the ability to feel remorse; not for the lives she took, or the people she hurt. For her, the end more than justified the means. (Not that I was any better. I'd never killed anyone, but at that moment, I really wanted to know what it felt like.)
"Tia?" Charli was still standing over me. If she had a solid form she would've blocked out the sunlight. But as a ghost, she looked to be glowing with a heavenly angelic hue. "You didn't let me finish."
"Ok, fine." I tilted my head, motioning for her to take a seat on the ground so we could speak at the same level.
"I admit, 'help' was the wrong word to use," she said. Charli carefully sat cross-legged, her long limbs were slightly more difficult to maneuver. "I know you don't need anyone's help."
"You certainly didn't," I muttered. Someone as strong and powerful as her; someone who could bring down a plane for the sole purpose of making a statement against violence towards First Nation tribes.
Charli sucked on her upper lip, like a small child, while looking up at the sun. "That's not entirely true."
"Really?" Or was she just being modest?
My friend stretched her back, looking up at the "I had a guide, a friend." Her voice drifted off as she spoke. "Henry, he was a First Nation man; a husband, father."
"So, a junkie who overdosed?" That unfortunately described the majority of First Nation men.
"No," Charli said with a sense of longing. "A murder victim," there was a strange pause before she continued, "I think."
"You think?" I asked with an ill-timed giggle. "What does that mean?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Her expression was one of joy, not sadness or confusion.
Now I really wanted to know the full story. "Was his body kept somewhere? Like some kind of black magic ritual?"
"You're actually kind of close. He was a brain in a computer. And after a series of horrifying events, he became a brain in a cyborg leader of the cartel."
"The Mexican cartel?"
"I never checked. To me, he was always just Henry in another form."
"So, we're talking about an actual robot?" I had a sick feeling I was mistaken.
"No, he was mostly human," she replied, speaking as if that was the most common thing ever.
"He probably had a family. And if your friend's soul was inside his body wouldn't that mean his actual soul was dead?"
Charli looked at me, scrunching her mouth in a questionable scowl. "I assume he was representing whatever central or South American mafia warlord would have the money to buy cosmetic procedures that made him look like a broken-down supervillain."
"Oh, like the movie Terminator?" I asked with the comical enthusiasm of a teenage boy. I had to admit, Charli's logic made sense; not all human lives are expendable, but being a rich mafia king with money to burn. Yeah, that could push someone into the 'expendable human garbage' category.
Charli nodded, parting her lips in a moment of realization. "Hasta-la vista, baby." She started to laugh. "He was Hispanic! That makes so much sense!"
Her smile was contagious, as was her joy. I felt light, filled with a sense of child-like happiness. I rolled my eyes, giving my best mean-girl impression. "God, you are such a nerd."
"Takes one to know one."
We walked along the highway, making our way through the deserts of Utah, (maybe Idaho.) After a little trial and error, we found that we could hitch a ride on any car parked long enough for me or Charli to form a connection.
This consisted of both of us making our way in the direction of the local gas station. There we would find, MAYBE three cars. (This wasn't exactly road trip season.) This resulted in us being stuck inside of various trucks for a few hours; California to Idaho, Idaho to Montana (I think. It wasn't exactly easy to watch for signage while going down the highway.)
The first truck was a semi hauling Pepsi. That was an easy one for me. The sight of the blue and red brought back memories of pure happiness. I could remember the first time I had a Pepsi; my dad had bought one, and I was a tiny little toddler just begging for a sip. He had to have known that I would spit up into his only can, but he let me anyway. That was love.
My lightness, my joy seemed to pull me inside, towards the saran wrapped pallets of wonder. I was already fully within the truck when I heard Charli shouting for me to let her in. I somehow managed to grip the lock of the door. I could have (possibly) opened the back, but then I had no idea if I would be able to close it. The last thing I wanted was to cause a tidal wave of destruction when one or more of the massive pallets fell over, dumping thousands of bottles and cans onto the open road. 'Is that how those viral accidents happen?' Was it just innocent ghosts trying to hitch a ride, with no means of closing the backdoor?
Instead, I took a step out of the truck, while still holding one hand inside the vehicle. "Let's try this." I reached for her hand. "Are you able to take a step?" I asked, referring to the large stair-like protrusion on the bumper. (I assumed this shape was to make docking easier.)
Charli attempted to climb, but her foot kept phasing through the material. "Just pull me," she suggested. "I can't feel physical pain, so worst-case scenario I fall through the floor."
She was correct and I knew it. I gave her arm a hard tug and she fell into my embrace just as the truck's engine roared to life. We laughed at our amazing luck. I wasn't sure if it was completely safe to let go of Charli, so I just held her close. Her eyes locked on mine; were they blue or green? Maybe both.
And then we kissed. Once then twice. I could feel her skin, her breath. She swallowed the lump in her throat, smiling her big, sweet sexy smile. She adjusted her hands, moving them to my shoulders, down my chest. "Am I hurting you?"
"No, not at all." I held her hand, lacing her long elegant fingers through mine. That was when I noticed her beauty; she no longer looked like a flight attendant who walked away from a fiery plane crash.
Now, her fire was all her own. Charli giggled as she let her hair down, caressing my face with a softness that felt downright heavenly. There was no light source in the cabin, but I could see her beauty clear as anything. The more she touched me, the more I could feel. Her hands explored my body, down my ribs to my stomach. She kissed me again, her eyes asking for permission as she stroked my inner thigh.
"Yes, please."
Soon our Pepsi pondered carriage stopped at a rest area, surrounded by other vehicles going every possible direction.
Charli got to pick the next one. Her spirit was drawn to a Walmart truck. I didn't ask why. I just assumed she had positive experiences with the legendary American megastore. Turnes out it was a supply truck that made drops and pickups all along the Pacific Northwest. Needless to say, the view (if only from the unintended rust holes in the metal walls) was to die for.
Since the sun was out, I watched for signs, to get some kind of idea of where we were going. As usual, seeing the 'next exit here' signs were not in my visual range, but the various colorful billboards were perfectly visible. We appeared to be heading in the direction of Yellowstone National Park.
"Have you ever been to Yellowstone?" I asked.
"I don't believe so," Charli replied from behind me. She was holding my waist. "Isn't it just glorified camping?"
"Glorified camping?" I asked with a laugh, leaning into her touch. The topic had come up; the question of what would happen if we separated, some might say we were too afraid to find out. Charli and I giggled, as we knew the truth. It had been so long since either of us felt something this 'real.'
She had her hand on my bare stomach, tracing delicate lines down my hips. "You know the old joke; camping is just live-action role play for homelessness." Her hand slipped between my legs. I didn't even know what kind of anatomy I had (as a ghost,) but there was something there and Charli's perfect hands with her perfect fingers played me like a cello. "You know, we probably won't get to do this if we hitch a ride in Yellowstone."
Unfortunately, she was correct.
Yellowstone National Park was overrun with tourists from all over the country (and the world.) We followed the path, watching the tourists attempting in vain to snag a picture from the safety of their cars.
Charli ran a few steps ahead, searching for a sign. "There's a hotel here, right?"
"I assume so. Or at least a gas station, right?" In truth, I was not sure. Clearly, there were hundreds of cars that pass through this place on a daily basis. There had to, at least, be a public bathroom someplace.
It didn't take us long to find Canyon Lodge, the massive, official hotel of Yellowstone. Here we found vehicles from all over; cars, vans, motorcycles, and delivery vehicles. All we had to do was locate a Canadian license plate.
This was easier said than done. The first dozen vehicles were headed in the wrong direction; Louisiana, Alabama, Texas, even Mexico. Charli sighed. "I'll go right, you go left and we'll meet up at the loading dock.
"Sounds good." I walked towards the food court area. There were so many families on vacation from their perfect lives. Maybe the parents worked for a factory or a powerplant, or any number of honorable, legal blue-collar jobs. For them, a vacation to Yellowstone was on par with Paris, or Rome. This was a chance to learn, to appreciate nature; all while bonding as a family, it was sweet enough to give anyone a toothache.
I passed a half-dozen motorcycles, some were big and bulky like something out of the show, 'American Chopper.' Others were small, slim Japanese-style bikes meant for racing maneuvers. The license plates ranged from Texas to California, with a few from Indiana. I knew these were not an option, but if one had been going to Canada I would have been tempted to leave Charli behind.
Turning a corner, I found what appeared to be an old model, world-weary, mini-van. The dusty white Toyota had Canadian plates, so I knew it would at least get Charli and me across the border.
I figured the family was staying at the local hotel. In the car, there were books and DVDs (consisting primarily of Disney titles.) I chuckled. If I was a detective I would be inclined to assume this was a family with small children. But what if it wasn't?
What if this was an abnormally strict, possibly religious family, and this was all that their teenage children were allowed to watch? The idea was so funny, part of me hoped it was true. There were a few coloring books and dolls thrown on the floor (filthy and unloved.) "The junk pile of happy children," I muttered, picking up a coloring book inspired by the beauty and the beast movie from the 90s. On the cover was a small, rectangle price sticker, '0.25.' That sounded about right. "I bet all the good stuff's in the hotel room." Ipad, Nintendo DS, and other things I never had as a kid. (Or not; the parents could be the type who obsess over the amount of 'screentime' their children are 'exposed to.')
Reclining my spectral form, across the backseat, I made myself comfortable, staring up at the ceiling. There was an elaborate display of glow-in-the-dark star stickers, creating a whole separate world within the confines of the family vehicle. For the children, I'm sure it was a means of keeping quiet, focused, and maybe even relaxed on long road trips.
To me, the stars symbolized hope. I had always wanted a set of these stickers as a kid. They were a nightlight that could never lose power, never leave me.
I felt a warmth envelope my being, like the universe giving me a hug. "Charli?"
"Yes." My fire-haired siren sank through the door, taking her place by my side.
"What do you think? Is this our ride?"
Charli reclined, letting her hair frame her iconic face. "No matter how many times a soul is reborn, we will always find comfort and wisdom in looking at the stars." She turned her head, looking at me with a pout. "But we really won't be able to do anything fun."
"Traveling with a real family could be fun." That was when realized I knew nothing about Charli's family.
"Yeah, I guess that's true." Her reply was sad, forlorn, but thankfully not offended.
We stared transfixed until the light of the morning ushered in the screams of children, accompanied by the defeated sighs of at least three adults.
"I don't wanna go!"
"I'm tired!"
"I'm hungry!"
"I don't wanna go in the car seat!"
The sentences were slammed one atop of another, into a macaroni pile of anger. Charli groaned, burying her face in my hair. "How many kids do you see? Because I swear I hear at least six."
I sat up, placing my weight on the colorful faux leather seats. I looked around, just as a car seat was slammed into place. Surprisingly I felt nothing (in terms of pain, anyway.)
I motioned for Charli to sit up, but she moved too slowly. For a second it looked like she would be pinned down under the children. She sat up, her spirit passing through the boy and girl. Charli then rolled into the foot space, to sit by my side.
"Did you know they're not twins?"
"Really?" The boy and girl seemed to be the same age (or size, anyway) with dark skin, curly hair, and green eyes. I watched as the two small children were strapped into their car seats while an older teenage boy sat in the row in front, next to an elderly woman.
I pulled myself to my feet, locking eyes with the little girl. Reaching out my hand, I could see she was following me with her actual living eyes. But when I tried to do the same with the boy I was met with annoyance. Was there a scientifically proven age when living humans stopped seeing ghosts?
In the driver's seat was a middle-aged man the kind of dad who could fix your bike but not necessarily help with math homework.
"Put on the gaddamned movie already!" The man's angry voice sounded Russian, possibly Ukrainian. This contrasted with his dark complexion and distinctly native eyes.
The teenage boy sighed, kicking his legs up. Using his foot he pulled down a shelf. I soon realized why the car was such a mess. The kid (if I was to guess, he was closer to 13 than 19) seemed to enjoy using his toes to open the dozen or so compartments secured to the ceiling. He allowed the selection of DVD boxes to fall to the floor, mixing with the layer of trash.
"What do you want to watch?" He grumbled before selecting the first DVD in the pile. He seemed to already know that his siblings were too emotionally immature to offer an answer. "We're going with Moana."
The little girl squealed for joy. Moana, was a Disney cartoon about the Maori princess. I always liked that one, it seemed to be the best Disney would ever get to a First Nation princess. (I guess that was why I needed to be the hero of my own life.)
The boy was not as pleased. "No! I want to watch Pokemon! You promised, Trent!"
The older sibling, apparently named Trent, had no fucks to give. He hit play, turning up the volume as the Disney logo appeared.
Charli sat between the two car seats. She made a hand motion, inviting me to sit on her lap. "Maybe you can see what I see."
"Sure, why not." I did as she asked. I could feel myself being absorbed into her. My average legs melted like honey, but they were still there; my 'body' was still mine (if I ever felt the need to get up.)
"Hi," said a tiny voice.
I turned to the little girl looking right at me. "Um, hello."
"You look like Moana."
Even a robot could guess what would happen next. With Charli and I not being visible to anyone except the girl, the boy started to throw a loud, angry tantrum (as he assumed she was referring to him.) "I do not! Mom! Hillary said I look like Moana!"
I coulden't hold back my laughter. Charli joined me and soon our new friend did the same.
"Mom!" the boy shouted again. "Make Katie stop it!" He started to breathe hard, forcing himself to hyperventilate.
For a moment I felt bad. I reached out to touch his cheek. His body trembled with anger, but that anger quickly turned to terror. The boy was four years old, but a picky eater (which made him appear smaller, younger than his sister.)
Katie was only two years old, with the purity and innocence of an old soul. I turned to her and said, a quick, 'Thank you.' She replied with a smile.
Charli leaned back, stroking the little girl's hair. "Such a cute little bad-ass."
"Did you ever want kids?"
"I had a kid, once upon a time," she muttered. Her eyes remained focused on the movie. "In another life, I guess."
"Oh, sorry."
"Don't be," she said in a perky, 'actress' voice. "We don't always get what we want. We get what we need."
"Yeah, I guess."
Charli started to sing the iconic song. "You can't always get what you want, no, you can't always get what you want!"
Little Katie started to clap her hands.
"Come on, everybody!" Charli smiled wide, waving her arms. "You can't always get what you want."
"No, you can't always get what you want," I said with a forced smile.
"But if you try sometimes."
"You might find."
"You get what you need."
Hours later, we arrived in Regina. I heard from the parents that they were almost home, so I made sure to make my exit when the vehicle stopped at a gas station.
I was in Canada, I was home. Now, how the hell was I going to find Randell Fish?