Hisbeard-framed lips lifted in a smile. “Don't worry about it. But, hey, rememberwhat I said. Let shit go. You deserve to be happy, too.”
Gooseturned off the kitchen light and headed to bed, leaving me in the soft glow ofa single lamp in the living room. Alone again, I studied the perfect circleindented into the wall. It was a minor incident, not a big deal in the longrun, but that spot on the wall spoke volumes.
Dr.Travetti had said it before but now I saw it, too, clear as the streetlightsfrom Goose's living room window. I was damaged. Ever since that one lifealtering moment, when my mother ignored my tears and shut the door on herresponsibilities as a parent. I'd been on a path of destruction ever since, andI had known it all along. Truthfully, I'd been aware of my toxicity for a longtime.
Butthere was one thing I had overlooked.
Damageddoes not equate unworthy.
Iwas hurt and rough around the edges. But I also wasn't doomed to be a prisonerof the past if I didn't want to be, and I was so tired of being locked up.
Istood from the couch and headed into the kitchen. I found the garbage can andpulled the letter from my pocket. With one final look at my mother'shandwriting, I dropped it in and went to bed.
Tomorrowwas a new day, I would face the morning as a free man, with determination andstrength. Because Andy was absolutely worth fighting for. And with thatknowledge, I knew that I was nothing like my mother, and thank God for that.
CHAPTERFORTY-ONE
ANDREA
“Thankyou so much for having me. You have no idea how much I appreciate it,” I said,desperately trying not to lay it on too thick.
Dressedin a floor-length, gauzy, blue dress, Tracey smiled graciously and outstretchedher arms to me. “Don't thank me, Andrea. I'm just glad you're finally ready toaccept the gift that's been given to you.”
Iwalked into her embrace and welcomed the soul-soothing hug. She smelled offlowers and earth, like springtime in the rain. It was the scent of a newbeginning, and I thought,how fitting.
Ithad taken weeks of soul-searching, therapy, and NA meetings to finally decidewhat I really wanted to do with my life at this point in time. It was funnywhen I really thought about it. Because, it turned out what I wanted to do, wasthe very thing I'd been running from my entire life.
Iwanted to give people closure and ensure that the spirits of their loved oneswere granted safe passage to whatever comes next. So, I dug around the internetuntil I found the contact information for Tracey's manager. A few phone callslater, I had found myself at a coffee shop on Long Island, plotting my debutwith the woman I'd run from months ago.
“So,you're gonna go out for twenty minutes. That should give you the chance to reada couple people. And I think you'll find that, the more you work your ability,the quieter it'll be when you're not using it. Think of yourself as a bucket—”
Iinterrupted with a laugh. “I'm sorry, that's just ridiculous.”
Traceyrolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Hear me out! You're a bucket, Spirit is thetap, and your ability is the water. The tap is always running, always spillingwater into the bucket, and if you don't drink, it'll overflow. The more you useyour ability, the more satisfied Spirit is, and the easier it is to stay incontrol.”
Itmade sense, that in order to relieve the pressure inside of me, I had to letsome out every now and then.
Now,I took a deep breath, as I waited for my turn on stage. I found I was terrifiedand riddled with nerves. What if, for the first time since I was a child, thespirits decided not to communicate? What if they had stage fright? But therewasn't time to tuck my tail between my legs and back out. Tracey's managercalled to me that it was time, and I walked on unsteady feet to thestage.
Thetheater was small with a capacity of only seven hundred, but standing on thestage beneath the bright spotlight, it might as well have been a stadium fullof thousands. I couldn't see beyond the first few rows of faces, but the staticvolume was deafening. I came to stand before the microphone and the figures ofthe dead came into focus. They pleaded with their eyes, staring intently at mefrom the audience. They were too loud, too distracting, and I couldn't find aslice of free attention to introduce myself. Grabbing the mic in a firm grip, Ipulled it from its stand, and walked to the edge of the stage, to face a womanand the ghost of her sister.
“Itwasn't your fault you weren't there,” I said, crouching at the edge of thestage. “She's relieved you didn't see her at the end. She was so sick; shedidn't want you to remember her that way.”
Thewoman opened her mouth and lifted a trembling hand to her lips. “O-Oh, God ...Is she, is she h-here?”
Inodded. “She's beside you, in the aisle. She wanted to tell you your parentsare fine. She's with them all the time. And the baby, the one named after her... she's honored.”
“Oh,thank God. I thought she'd think it's weird.”
“Sheloves it. She watches her often. When you hear that song, the Elton John onethat makes you always think of her, she wants you to know that that's her,saying hi.”
Thewoman's eyes spilled over as she nodded. “I-I thought so, but I wasn't sure.”
Icould've read her for hours, but there wasn't time. The tug of a young boy,dragging me toward his father, was too great. I cut myself from the woman andher grateful sister and let the static lure me instead of shutting it out.Smiling as I knelt before the withered man, I faced the little boy, who was nomore than five years old. He was too young, too sweet, and he reminded me ofJamie.
“Hewas so glad to finally let go,” I said gently. “He always knew he wouldn't bein this world for long and he was just so enthralled with the time he had. Buthe needs you to live. Give your wife another baby.”
Theman laid a hand over his shadowed eyes and released a quiet sob. “I can'treplace him,” he whispered, and the man beside him laid a hand over hisshoulder.