Free Between Seasons by Aida Brassington Page B

had broken up, so he simply said, “Everything is good, Mom. She says h ell o.”
    Another memory jerked behind his eyes, the image of him screaming at a petite, blonde woman. She’d been crying as he shook her by the shoulders, slamming her against the wall in a small apartment. It had happened just days earlier. He could tell something was very wrong, but the man he dreamed didn’t feel anything at all.
    Patrick woke with a start in the darkness, the air in the room close and stale . The house was quiet, only the humming of the street lamps outside to break the silence. He climbed to his feet and stared out the window, watching a lone car drive down the street, its lights casting a dim glow on the black road.
    The house seemed to hold its breath as Patrick walked from room to room, first checking all the locks on the windows and doors –not that it would do him any good to find one that was unlocked. Really, what was he going to do about it? It wouldn’t matter if a whole battalion of burglars broke into the house. All he would be able to do was stand there and watch or maybe throw a book. It pissed him off, but the futility of the exercise didn’t stop him from making his rounds.
    Jules sprawled out on the sofa bed, her snores echoing through the living room. She sounded like the loud, grating engine of the ‘66 Mustang engine he’d been working on just before he died. He didn’t know how the owner had managed to screw up the torque induction starter, but he’d had to put shims in to pull it away from the block. Patrick was sure shims wouldn’t work for Jules’ snoring. Not even a pillow over her face would help muffle the snorting wheezes coming from the woman. He was surprised he hadn’t been able to hear it upstairs in his room.
    The last stop on his walk through the house was Sara’s room. She’d kicked off her covers, and she shivered in her sleep. He reached for her comforter, cursing this whole ghost business as his fists sank through. He wanted to wrap her back up to stop her from being cold; he couldn’t even do that for his new roommate, and it frustrated him.
    Before leaving her, he put a fingertip to the air just above her cheekbone, wishing he could feel the fine hairs on the surface of her skin. She shivered, burrowing into her pillow, and murmured, “Soft.”
    * * * * *
     

CHAPTER FOUR
    Patrick tested out the idea that Sara could pick up on his thoughts as often as possible. The first time he’d chosen something simple to think about –his first kiss. He figured maybe because he had such a perfect memory of it, she’d have no trouble seeing it if he concentrated hard enough. Nothing had worked over the last two weeks… not since the time in her bedroom .
    Sara had settled into the armchair in his bedroom the next time he’d tried , crossing her legs under her after opening the window in the room as wide as the sash would allow. With her typewriter gadget situated on her lap, she stared at the blank space in front of her.
    Patrick crouched next to the chair, fingers just centimeters from her arm. He closed his eyes and imagined Brenda Harper’s red braids and freckles. He concentrated on the rainy day that fall in the sixth grade, the musty, damp scent of wet wool and vinyl rain slicker in his nose, and how much trouble he’d gotten in for not coming right home after school.
    Maybe he wasn’t concentrating enough. Or maybe he was doing something wrong. Whatever it was, Sara ended up writing about a dog. She wrinkled her nose after twenty-five minutes and put aside her typewriter, rubbing her eyes with her fists.
    “God, that sucks. I clearly don’t have any mojo today. You must be laughing your ass off.”
    Patrick sighed. “Why can’t I figure this out? Do you need a photo? I don’t have any pictures of Brenda.”
    He threw up his hands. Of course he couldn’t get it right. He hadn’t been able to come up with the answers to much of anything when it came to being dead. He had