He drove off into the night. Then I got in my car and did the same. I drove north for about forty-five minutes before pulling up to an Edwardian style urban mansion. I left my car in the circle drive and rang the doorbell. The maid answered, led me to the parlor and announced me. My aunt was sitting down in her chair reading a book. When she heard my name, she put it down and smiled.

Aunt Bea was a stunning woman. Her eyes, her hair, her clothes, the way she moved – everything about her was designed by God and stylists to lure, charm and seduce. She stood up and opened her arms. I walked into them and took comfort as they laced themselves around me.

She wasn’t really my aunt. Not in any biological or legal sense, anyway. My dad died in an industrial accident when I was a baby. Beatrice made her money from sexual vice. In addition to being a madam (that’s a lady pimp, in case you don’t know) she also owned a bunch of porn stores and strip clubs throughout the city. My mom managed one of the strip clubs until she died of cancer. I was ten. Beatrice took me in. She raised me. Loved me. She taught me to be smart, strong and self-reliant. The Queen of Whores, people called her. She made me a princess, showed me how to forge my own kingdom and let me loose on the world. I owed her everything. So, no, she wasn’t a relative but she was the only family I had left.

She gave me a kiss and let me go. “Can I get you anything, darling?” she walked over to the drink cart.

“No thanks.”

She poured herself a drink and we sat down. “So, dear, what brings you all this way?”

“I was bored. I’d spent all day inside and just had to get out. Staring at those walls was starting to drive me nuts.”

She gave me a look. “Honey, I may look like I’m just a pretty face but I’ve been doing this a long time. I know a half truth when I hear one. So do you want to try that again?”

I should have known that wouldn’t fly. But I hate trying to explain this kind of thing to people. I never really knew how to put it. I took a moment to think before I said anything else, though. Aunt Bea wouldn’t stand for anything less. “I think I’m in mourning.”

“You think you’re in mourning?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you lose someone?”

“One of my neighbors died a couple months ago. Sweet old lady. I liked her and all but we weren’t really all that close.”

“And you don’t think it’s her you’re grieving over.”

I shook my head. “No. I saw her off to the Other Side just before I came here. I was happy for her. The feeling doesn’t fit. I haven’t felt this bad since Dennis died.” I scratched my forehead and rubbed my eyes to hide the tears that managed to force their way out. I knew she would see right through it but it just made me feel better to try to hide it.

She didn’t say anything but thoughtful creases appeared in her brow as she nodded her head. Dennis was my best friend when I was a kid. The son of one of Bea’s girls. A fall from a six story window left him comatose. That was when I started seeing sprits. Dennis hung around for a year. We talked and played together like nothing was wrong. No one believed me, of course. Who would? It was just a way for a twelve year old girl to keep a hold of her best friend. But one day I couldn’t find him anymore. He was just gone. His body finally gave out and he moved on. I didn’t take it well. I imagine Beatrice remembers it pretty vividly. I won’t bore you with the details but when it was over she didn’t doubt me anymore. She couldn’t.

Most people would have been too scared to keep a kid like that but all Aunt Bea saw was a hurting little girl that needed her help. “I don’t claim to understand the things you can do,” she said. “But if you’ve got a feeling something’s wrong, my sense is you should follow it.”

“But how?”

“Well, honey, I’m no detective but I’m very experienced when it comes to grief. And nothing brings back the memory of a departed loved on like going someplace that meant something to both of you.”

She was right. I never miss mom more than when I go into Old Town. She used to take me there sometimes when we needed a day to ourselves. To this day the sight of those old brick streets, the sound of St. Augustine’s bells and the smell of the super greasy burgers at Beeson’s turns me back into a happy eight year old for a while. You go someplace you shared with someone and it’s like you’re surrounded by them. “I guess I could go by a few of my haunts and see what it drums up.”

“Tomorrow.” She got up and went back over to the drink cart. “Right now, there’s something else you need to do.”

“There is?” I asked as she poured two vodkas neat.

“There sure is.” She sat back down and handed me one of the glasses. “You’re grieving, sweetheart. And our culture is very clear about how this sort of thing is supposed to be handled. Now, that sweet old lady you sent off earlier tonight. What was her name?”

“Jacqueline Hannigan.”

She raised her glass. “To Jacqueline Hannigan! A good woman! A good neighbor!”

I raised my glass. “And a good mother.” We drank. My head floated a bit and I felt better. So I had another drink. And another. And another. And another.

When I woke up the next day, I wasn’t just in mourning, I was in pain. The marching band in my head and the death metal band in my stomach were competing aggressively over which one of them got to kill me. I looked at the clock on my cell phone, saw the letters A.M., and decided that this wake up was a practice run. A few hours later, the bands gave way to a soft orchestra. It wasn’t perfect but I decided to take it. I sat up. I was still at Aunt Bea’s house in my old bedroom. A glass of water and two pills sat on my nightstand along with a note that read “Had to go out. Make yourself at home. – B.” I swallowed the pills, took a shower and raided the kitchen cabinets for a few cans of chicken noodle soup. Medicated, cleaned, hydrated and fed, I finally felt confident that I could drive without posing a danger to myself or others.

Taking one step out into the summer heat, I was tempted to turn around and go right back into Aunt Bea’s house where I would be comfortably cooled by a working air conditioner but I pressed forward. I put gas in my tank, caffeine in my body and drove around with my windows down to keep cool.

I started out at the Firehouse, the strip club where my mom used to work. Liddy Holland had been managing it since mom got sick. Liddy was always a blast to talk to. Basically an overgrown kid. Definitely a girly-girl, though. A strangely classy fixture at a strip club. I stopped in, gave her the whole “just in the neighborhood” speech and was gone a half hour later. I dropped by the dojo/gym where I got my black belt and kept myself in relatively good shape. Master Peacock was a really nice guy who always had a kind word and a bit of advice for people but he had students to teach so I didn’t keep him. I went by the shooting range to renew my membership and fended off the advances of Pete the Perve. I made it to the Showman Theater just in time to catch Duvall’s new courtroom drama. I dipped down into Old Town and had dinner at Beeson’s – the best burger in the state, potato wedges fried in sin and a chocolate sundae so good it must have been violating some law of nature. But in all this, I didn’t feel anything. Well, nothing out of the ordinary anyway. Not until I went to the park.

I used to come to Hallowell Park with my mom when I was little. I had expected it to drum up a bit of an ache but alongside that was a pang of emotion that I just couldn’t place. I took a deep, shaking breath and jabbed my teeth into my lower lip to stop myself from breaking into sobs of phantom grief. Someone was gone. Someone was gone and it was killing me to live without them. I just didn’t know who it was or how I’d lost them.

I was just about to break down when something caught my eye. It was a kid. A chubby, dark-skinned Hispanic boy sitting on the grass staring at something. He was a handsome, well-kempt young man in a pair of khakis and a polo shirt. No older than sixteen. His eyes were locked on a matronly woman leaving flowers under the park bridge.

I composed myself and went over to him. “Penny for your thoughts?”

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t cock his head. Didn’t seem to notice I was there at all. He just kept looking at the woman. After a few seconds, he turned toward me. “Are you talking to me?” He was understandably surprised.

“Yep.”

He stared at me for a while, a bit incredulously. “You can see me?”

“Yep,” I repeated.

“But you’re not…”

“Not yet.”

He thought about this for a moment. “That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

“A little,” I said sitting down next to him. I looked at the woman. “Your mom?”

He nodded.

“It’s a terrible thing to lose a child.”

“It’s a terrible thing to be lost.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is. How’d it happen?”

“I was murdered,” he answered sullenly.

I looked back at the bridge. She collapsed onto her knees sobbing. “It happened over there?”

He nodded again.

“How long ago?”

“Four years.” His chin quivered and his eyes glossed over until a dam broke inside him and a stream burst free from his eyes. Nowhere else to go, he leaned into me. I took hold of him. He was trembling and, of course, cold to the touch. I let him cry. After a few minutes, he finally pulled away from me. “It’s not fair!” he shouted. “I was going to be a doctor. I was going to make her proud. Now she just hurts all the time and it’s all my fault!”

Just what Mrs. Hannigan said, right? Don’t be surprised. The lingering dead almost always think it’s all their fault. It’s part of what keeps them here. “Don’t say that,” I told him.

“It’s true. She told me not to cut through the park at night but I didn’t listen!” He looked up at her again. “I just want to see her smile again.”

I took a deep breath. “You can’t,” I said softly. “Not from here.”

He looked up at me confused, angry and hurt.

“She can feel your pain and fear,” I explained. “She’s holding on for you. Honey, I know you’ll miss her but you’ve got to move on so she can.”

He frowned a bit. “It’s not just her,” he said dolefully. “There’s a man who comes by the park sometimes. He’s big and scary and he never smiles. Ever. I see him staring at me and I know that he’s here to take me to Hell.”

I laughed. It just sort of happened before I could stop it. “Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to laugh at you but no. You’re not going to Hell.”

He scowled at me. “How do you know? You don’t even know me.”

“You really think if he was here to take you to Hell, he’d just be standing there staring?” I paused for an answer that didn’t come. “When you’re going to one of the bad places, they’re not patient with you. They don’t wait til you’re ready. They don’t waste any time. They drag you kicking and screaming out of your body the second you die.”

He looked cautiously optimistic. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve seen it.” I shrugged around the unnerving shiver between my shoulders as the dread and terror of the memory worked its way up and down my spine.

“Then how come he’s like that?” he asked. “Why’s he so…?”

“Grim?” I finished for him. “A lot of the Collectors are like that. It’s because they’re alive. They aren’t ghosts or spirits or demons or angels. They’re living, breathing, ordinary folks who deal with death way too intimately. It makes them a little creepy.”

“But they’re not all like that?”

I gave him a smile. “No. In fact, I know one who’s really friendly. You want me to take you to meet him?”

I knew the answer before he did. He took another long look at the bridge. “Not yet,” he said. “I’m not ready.”

“Okay.” I stood up. “When you are, though, you’ll know where to find me.”

“How? I don’t even know your name.”

“You’ll be drawn to me. But my name is Persephone Vargas.”

That got a smile out of him. “Your name is Persephone and you can talk to dead people?”

“Don’t overthink it, kid.”

“Carlos,” he said. “My name is Carlos Aveda. Or, at least, it was.”

I wiped a tear from his icy cheek. “It still is, sweetheart.” I left him to his business in the park. My day had been fun and all but it was time to pack it in. It was dark by the time I got home but it was still hot out. I was more than ready to get home to a shower and air conditioning. Walking into the lobby was like getting a breeze from Heaven. I was emptying my mailbox of bills, coupons and once-in-a-lifetime offers when the Bennetts walked in.

The Bennetts were the people who lived across the hall from me in apartment 808. Scott was a lawyer and he looked like one. Not the cheap, ambulance-chasing kind or the pencily corporate kind. More like the keen, assertive kind you saw on Law and Order or the Practice. He was a clean-cut black man who knew how to say the right things, smile at the right time and wear nice suits. There was a bit of a swagger to him. Scott was a guy who thought just a tad too highly of himself but he was a loving and devoted husband. Which was a good thing because I imagined Barbara required a lot of patience. Not that she was bitch or anything. Not at all. But a crippling depression had taken hold of her a few years ago and it was determined to keep her. She was thin. Rail thin. The sort of thin that made you worry about someone but she’d always been like that. Time was, she filled herself out with a confident, sensual walk. Honestly, she had always been a little homely in the face and body. But there was something about the way she dressed and moved and acted toward people that made her beautiful. Not anymore, though. With her sagging shoulders, listless eyes and stiff walk I barely recognized her as the woman I used to know.

They were dressed up. Him in a nice, charcoal blazer. Her in a dark red dress that should have looked fantastic on her with her auburn hair and pale skin but just hung on her languidly. Scott held the door open for her. “Persephone,” he said through an unconvincing smile. “We haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been?”

“Hot and sweaty. What are you two so dolled up for?”

“I had some vacation time to use so I took the week off. Figured it was a good opportunity to be seen out on the town with the most beautiful woman in the city.”

I unconsciously looked at my watch. It was pretty early to be ending a night out.

Scott must have been reading my mind. He lovingly rubbed his wife’s shoulder. “She’s feeling a bit under the weather.” Barb strained to pull her face into a smile and when she finally succeeded, she looked even sadder than before. Scott pecked her on the cheek. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

I know it seems like Scott spoke for his wife a lot but it’s not out of chauvinism or misogyny. Barb just didn’t talk much anymore. Which was a shame, really. We were friends once. Not close friends but friends. Sometimes when we were both free we would have brunch, get a drink or rent a musical. We would hang out sometimes for an entire afternoon. She always had a lot to say about everything and I loved hearing it all. Now she rarely said anything at all and when she did it was barely above a whisper.

We rode up the elevator in silence. When we finally got to our apartments, Scott gave me a quick, uneasy nod and went to unlock their door. Barb put forth the arduous effort of lifting her head and looking me in the eye. She gave me another one of those weak, painful smiles and said “Good night, Persephone.”

The smile I gave her was a lot more genuine than the one I had just gotten but it didn’t take nearly as much out of me. “You too, Barb.” I reached out to give her hand a gentle squeeze. I flinched when we touched. Her skin was as cold as ice. But this wasn’t just any cold. It was the bitter, lifeless cold of the hereafter.

I cannot stress enough how not dead Barbara Bennett was. She was depressed, yes. Weak. Even broken, I’d say, but still very much alive. Believe me. I know the difference. This wasn’t spirit flesh. It was muscle and bone. Barbara’s lungs were breathing and her heart was beating. She was right there in front of me, live and intact. But for some reason, the chill of the afterworld was clinging to her skin.

I said my goodbyes and went inside, grabbing a beer from the fridge before I dropped down onto my couch. This day had left me unsettled and confused. Maybe it’ll do you some good not to think about it for a while, I thought. I switched the television onto some mindless sitcom and decided to just zone out until I was tired enough to fall asleep.

I was looking forward to passing out on my couch but about an hour into my T.V. binge, my fingers started to itch. It was the kind of itch that artists got when it was time to create something. Their hands would take on minds of their own and reach out to the tools of their craft. A writer’s hand might lead him to a pen, a painter’s to a brush or a photographer’s to a camera. I was a painter and a writer and a photographer. But, apparently, I wasn’t any of those things that night because my hands led me to the box of colored pencils in my desk drawer. I grabbed some paper, dropped back down onto the couch and let my hands do the talking.

With rounded swoops of tan and brown I made a head with wild, curly hair. With vibrant lines and ovals of primary colors a body started to form. I shaded with black and used a mechanical pencil for the detail. I don’t know how long I sat there scratching, toning, coloring, erasing and shading. Painstakingly making sure working to make sure every contour, curve and curl was perfect.

When I was finished, I was left with the picture of a little boy in Superman pajamas. His big, brown eyes were as precious as gold. They shined with happy curiosity. His smile was contagious and punctuated with the cutest little dimples. I had no idea who this boy was but I knew him. I knew him and I missed him. I missed looking into those big, beautiful eyes. I missed his silver laugh and his endless questions. I missed holding his tiny hand and kissing his sweet, little face. This small stranger that I loved so much – he was gone and I wanted him back.

I tried to look away but I couldn’t. That loveable, mischievous smile haunted me. I reached out and lightly touched the picture. The memory of his soft cheek in my hand flooded back to me. That’s when I lost it. No more composure or self-control. I cried openly, clutching the picture to my chest. But it wasn’t right. I couldn’t hear his tiny snore or feel his little heartbeat as he slept. I couldn’t feel his arms around me or brush my hand through his hair.

I laid back sobbing helplessly for God-knows-how-long before I was able to get myself together enough to leave. I didn’t make any phone calls or send any text messages. The elevator was too slow so I ran down the stairs.

The next thirty or forty minutes was a blur. Starting my car, speeding through town, crying the whole way – my memory’s pretty vague. I can’t imagine I obeyed many traffic laws on my way. Zipping through Clover Hill and Factory Park, I went back into Old Town. I parked in front of a Queen Anne Greystone on South Mattheson and practically fell out of my car ready to pound on the door but by the time I hit the porch, it was already open.

Mort Lester looked down at me with that smile of his. “Hiya, kiddo. Come on in. I made you some chamomile tea. It’ll help calm your nerves.” I stood there looking at him until my mind caught up with reality. Then I shuffled my way in. Who was I to say no to chamomile tea?