“Christopher, what’s it like to come back from the dead?”
“Did they catch the serial killer? Is he still on the loose?”
I’m not sure where Mrs. Davenport is, but I assume she’s close behind us, because I hear questions directed at her as well.
“Louisa, what’s it like to have your son back after believing he was dead?”
“Is seeing your son like seeing a ghost?”
“What do you think about the ghost of Hallelujah Junction walking hand in hand with your son?”
I’m reminded of the desert thunderstorms of Hallelujah Junction. Ninety-mile-per-hour winds, lightning, thunder, and the smell of impending destruction. This is what I’m walking through.
Complete mayhem and chaos.
The purpose to break down our fragile walls as the weather would try to do to the old structures of the ghost town.
I can see the limo in the distance, and the driver is trying to make a path for us as we approach.
It’s then that Christopher surprises me when he finally answers all the questions. “It’s good to be home,” he says with a smile and a wave.
It’s the one and only thing spoken as we both duck into the limo, followed by a calm and composed Mrs. Davenport. Both Christopher and his mother seem nearly relaxed, as if they hadn’t just marched through a tornado. I, on the other hand, can barely breathe. The air of the limo seems thick and weighs heavy on my lungs.
“I left a message for Jason,” his mother says as we begin to drive through the crowd of reporters. “He’ll know what our next step needs to be.”
“Our next step is getting home, getting showered, and trying to forget everything about Hallelujah Junction,” he says as he leans his head back and closes his eyes.
He’s not holding my hand anymore, and I realize I need it. I need it more than I’ve ever needed anything. Knowing I would earn another glare from his mother, I resist the urge to reach for it but instead clasp my fingers together in my lap.
I look out the window at the passing scenery and think about home. I think about Papa Rich and wonder if he’s truly alive and hiding with Scarecrow. I think about when things were simpler, with my books and my cat, Pine Cone. I don’t want to forget like Christopher does. If I forget, it will be as if I never existed. Hallelujah Junction might be Christopher’s nightmare, but it’s all I had. It’s me.
I’m a walking nightmare Christopher brought along as a constant reminder.
Tears well in my eyes, but I blink them away.
How can I forget?
How can I move on?
What does moving on even look like?
So far, all I’ve seen are bright lights and shouting faces.
I’m nothing but the ghost of Hallelujah Junction stuck in a different kind of purgatory.
4
Christopher
I’m not surprised to see more media waiting outside the front of my mother’s Upper East Side townhome. This circus isn’t going away anytime soon, and I can’t say I blame any of the reporters. Hell, if it weren’t me being the object of fascination, I might be one of the photographers on the street myself in hopes of capturing the perfect picture for Rolling Stone Magazine. I understand their need to follow the story—it’s a fucking unbelievable story—but I still hate seeing them flock around our shelter like vultures.
Luckily, the walk to the front door isn’t far, and we can just usher right past them as fast as we can. An iron fence around the stoop is more welcomed now than ever before. It will offer us some protection from the masses.
I’m proud of Ember. I worried when we landed that seeing all the reporters all at once would cause her to have a panic attack of some sort and make a scene. I wouldn’t have blamed her one bit, but instead, she remained steadfast and focused on just walking with her head held high and her shoulders back. Regardless how ridiculous we look in our hand-me-down outfits, the woman still appears stunning in my eyes. I am pretty sure there isn’t a single picture that was captured that caught her in a bad light. She truly reminds me of an angel, and no doubt her essence will be seen by all who see these pictures.
“Ms. Evans is waiting for us. I told her to open the door the minute we approach,” my mother says as she reads the texts on her phone. She hasn’t looked away from the screen for even a second since getting in the limo. I am pretty sure every person she knows is texting her and wanting to get the scoop on her son being back from the dead before anyone else. In a sick way, I’m pretty sure my mother is loving every minute of it. Attention whore is a job description of a socialite.