“I don’t know exactly.” Mindy looked up from playing with the bedspread. “But I feel more real when I’m around her. Like I’m not fading. It helps to be with people who remember you, and who still think about you.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering why Mom had never mentioned her. I was also curious about how Mindy had died, but it seemed rude to ask.
“Then you got born!” Mindy said happily. “When you got to be my age, I used to pretend we were best friends.”
My reaction must have shown on my face.
“Sorry to be creepy,” she said, staring down at the bedspread again. “I never lived in your closet, only hers.”
“Right. And that’s not at all creepy.” I was way too claustrophobic to have ever hidden in a closet when I was little.
Mindy shrugged. “It’s just, I don’t have any friends like me.”
“You mean dead people?”
“Yeah. Ghosts are scary. And mostly kind of weird.”
She paused for a moment, like someone who’s just said they hate their new haircut and you’re supposed to disagree. And it was true that Mindy didn’t scare me. Somehow it wasn’t creepy sitting here and talking to her. She’d been around my whole life, so I’d gotten used to her without realizing it.
But all I said was, “It must suck, being dead.”
“I guess. But now that you can see me, we can be real friends, right?” She looked up with a timid smile.
I didn’t know how to answer that. Maybe my mom had been close to Mindy, but it’s not like I was looking for an eleven-year-old invisible best friend.
Then I realized something. “When you walked in here you knew I’d be able to see you.”
“Of course.” Mindy’s stare softened, as if she were looking through me. “When you came in, you had that shiny look, like pomps have. That’s why I hid at first, because I thought you were one of them.” She smiled. “But then I realized that it was just you, Lizzie, and that you’d never do anything bad to me.”
“Okay. But why are you afraid of . . . pomps?”
“They come looking for ghosts sometimes,” Mindy said. “They take them away. But I always hide.”
“Do they take them someplace bad?”
“I think so.” Mindy stared down at the pattern of the quilt again. “I met a boy once, who’d gone down to the underworld. But he ran away because he didn’t like it. He said it was better to stay up here and fade away.”
My skin was crawling with questions now. I’d assumed that Yamaraj was telling the truth, that he and Yami were taking all those people to safety. But what did I really know? All I had to go on was his pretty face.
“What happened to you, Lizzie?” Mindy said, reaching out to run her hand down my na**d arm. Though I could hardly feel her touch, goose pimples sprang up beneath her fingertips. “How’d you get so shiny?”
I pulled the towel tighter. The cloth was still damp, though my skin had dried. I didn’t feel like telling Mindy about the airport—I wasn’t ready to tell anybody about that yet—and I didn’t want to mention Yamaraj either. She might tell me not to trust him, and he was the only thing I had to hang on to.
“I should get dressed.” When I stood up and went to my dresser, Mindy didn’t look away. “Um, do you mind?”
She only laughed. “Lizzie! I’ve seen you naked, like, a zillion times. Since you were a little baby!”
“Yeah, that’s awesome. But it’s kind of different now that I can see you.”
“Pfft,” she said, but turned around.
I dressed quickly, in a T-shirt and cargo pants that were both dark gray, the closest thing I had to black. If my trip to the afterworld had changed me, I could at least look the part.
Was this what my life would be like from now on? Having ghosts watch my every move? I hadn’t seen any on the trip home, at least not that I’d recognized. But Mindy looked pretty normal except for wearing out-of-date clothes and walking through solid doors. Maybe I’d passed hundreds of wandering spirits and hadn’t even noticed.
“So how many of you ghosts are there? I mean, is the whole world haunted?”
Mindy shrugged. “Most places, not so much. In this suburb I’m mostly alone, because no one remembers their neighbors. But little towns . . .” Her voice dropped a little. “They’re crawling with whispers.”
A knock came at the door, and I jumped a little.
“It’s just Anna,” Mindy said.
I tried to keep my voice steady. “Yeah, Mom?”
She opened the door, her eyes scanning the room. “Um, were you talking to someone?”
“I wish. No phone.” I tried not to look at Mindy. “I was just singing along with something.”
Mom looked at my laptop, which was shut. Other than my phone, it was the only thing I ever played music on.
“Something in my head,” I clarified, pushing wet hair behind my ears.
“Okay.” She gave me a nervous look. “I thought we might make pasta tonight. From scratch, with squid ink. I’ve got the island all cleaned off so we can make a mess.”
“Perfect time to make a mess. I just took a shower.”
My mother hesitated, so I smiled again to show I was kidding, still managing not to look at Mindy. After what I’d been through, it wouldn’t take much to convince my mom that I was going crazy.
“Great! I’ll go start the sauce,” she said, and shut the door.
“Mmmm . . . spaghetti,” Mindy said.
I looked at her. “Ghosts can eat?”
“We can smell,” she said.
“Oh, right.” I was whispering now, convinced that my mother was outside with her ear pressed against the door. “But you have to stay in here while we cook. I’m not used to this invisible friend thing yet, and I don’t want to look insane in front of Mom.”
Mindy pouted, running a palm across the bedspread as if she were smoothing it out. But the wrinkles stayed. It had to be frustrating, being shut off from the world of objects and people, unable to connect.
“That’s not very nice of you,” she said. “Now that you’re a pomp, we should be friends.”
“But Mom’s going to want to talk about stuff. She always gets deep and meaningful when we cook. And I won’t be able to concentrate if you’re hanging around. So please?”