The Gift

     Havannah’s brain was numb as she strapped herself into the backseat of her mother’s car. Her head tilted downward, her blurry gaze focusing subconsciously on a speck of dirt on the floor. The voices of her mother, aunt, and older brother flittered in and out of her ears, none of their words fully registering in her brain. Everything around her was white noise, heavy and deafening, and she was too lost in her own head to even care about the tear tracks staining her tired cheeks.

         She didn’t know how long they’d been driving, or how long she’d remained stationed in her seat after the car’s engine had been shut off and the other passengers had stepped out of the vehicle. Her door was opened, and an arm reached across her to unbuckle her seatbelt. She caught sight of her brother within her peripheral vision, but she couldn’t manage a single sound of appreciation as he offered his hand to assist her in stepping down onto the ground. He led her into their house, draping an arm protectively around her shoulders. The scent of brewing tea infiltrated her nostrils, alerting her that her mother had gone into Comforting Mode. She always made tea and baked some sort of pastry when her children were having a hard time – she supposed today was a prime example.

         As much as Havannah wanted to retreat to her room and bury herself under her comforter until she disintegrated into nothing, she knew none of her loved ones would allow such solitary confinement. With a gentle hand on her back, her brother pushed her to sit down in a chair at the kitchen table, before he took a seat beside her. On his other side sat their aunt, and once the pan of brownies was placed into the oven, Havannah’s mother plucked up the whistling tea kettle and carried it to the table. She set it on a hot plate before thumbing through the cupboards to track down four mugs, placing them on the table alongside a container of sugar. Her gaze flickered back to her daughter every now and then as she poured four cups of tea and distributed them amongst her family, taking a seat with her own cup nestled between her hands.

         “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she told Havannah, her brows furrowed sympathetically.

         Havannah stared into her mug as though inhaling its steam would reverse the morning’s events and allow her to be happy again. As it was, she wasn’t sure there was an emotion in the world strong enough to replace the gut-wrenching sorrow shattering her heart.

         “We’re all here for you,” her brother murmured softly, reaching out to gently rub her shoulder. In the back of her mind, she was grateful to have such a loving family during such a dark experience, but it would be quite some time before she regained enough feeling in her body to voice her appreciation.

         “It was a lovely service,” her aunt continued. “I’m sure he saw it from Heaven, and he’s watching over you as he always did.”

         A fresh batch of tears welled up behind Havannah’s eyes, and she made no attempt to prevent their descent upon her face. The trio around her cringed, albeit subtly, and watched as their beloved daughter, sister, and niece fell apart, unable to resist her emotions.

         “I-I,” Havannah struggled, her voice raspy and soft from crying. “I need to-to… be alone.”

         Placing her mug on the table, she rose from her seat, stumbling out of the kitchen and down the hallway. In a far longer amount of time than it would have usually taken, she reached her bedroom and trudged inside, closing the door behind her before collapsing onto her bed. Her cries, though muffled, could be heard from the hallway, and her mother’s heart broke a little more every time she passed Havannah’s room.

         Nearly a week had passed before she willingly set foot outside of her bedroom. Her family was gone for the day, running errands or working their regular jobs. Her mother had been hesitant to leave Havannah home alone, but she’d insisted that she would be fine. She was perfectly capable of cooking and cleaning up after herself, and should anything occur, she had emergency numbers programmed into her phone.

         She stood at the front door, shifting her weight back and forth between her feet. She hadn’t left her house since the funeral, and while the task of checking the mail had earlier seemed miniscule, the reality of it was rather daunting. Inhaling deeply, she steeled her nerves and reached forward, fingers grasping and twisting at the doorknob. The door opened without complaint, and she shuffled out onto the front porch. Closing the door behind her, she padded her way down the walk, shoes scuffling against pavement as she neared the mailbox that sat just outside her yard. Standing in front of it, she pulled it open, reaching in with her other hand to withdraw its contents.

         “Havannah?” came a familiar voice, and the girl in question froze in place. She was certain she’d imagined it; a common side effect of grief, she recalled reading online. It wasn’t until she heard it a second time, followed by a confused, “Babe?” that she turned in the direction of the voice.

         There stood her boyfriend, smiling dreamily at her like he always had. Havannah trembled, the bundle of mail in her hands fluttering to the ground. Her eyes were wide, and fear mingled with confusion to claw at her chest.

         She thought he was dead. No, she knew he was dead. She’d attended his funeral. But there he was, standing right in front of her, smiling at her like no time had passed, like he hadn’t been the victim of a drunken car accident.

         “Slade,” she gasped, unable to tear her eyes away. “H-how?”

         “You have a gift, babe,” Slade grinned proudly. “I always thought so, but I never knew how to bring it up.”

         Havannah felt light-headed. Was this a delusion caused by a lack of proper nutrition and sunlight? Had she driven herself crazy during her week of isolation?

         “What gift?” she managed, rather proud that her voice didn’t shake as badly as her body. “What are you talking about? Aren’t you dead?”

         Slade nodded. “Sure am, babe. But you can still see me, still talk to me.”

         “Because I’m crazy,” Havannah countered. “Or dreaming. Maybe both.”

         “Do you remember when Sherbert died? How you were certain that you saw him around the neighborhood?”

         Havannah frowned. It had taken a long time for her to accept the loss of her childhood cat, thank you very much. “What about it? Lots of people see their animals after they’ve passed away.”

         “But it wasn’t just once,” Slade reminded her. “What about your grandmother?”

         She couldn’t argue that point. A few months after the death of her grandmother, Havannah swore she’d seen the old woman sitting in her rocking chair in her room, relaxing and listening to the wind whistling through her open window. She’d chalked that up to grief-induced hallucinations as well.

         “And when that professor was all over the news after his body was found in the river,” Slade continued. “Didn’t you used to see him walking around town?”

         Havannah’s teeth clamped down on her lower lip. “What’s your point, Slade?”

         He took a step closer to the grieving girl, and Havannah realized for the first time that he was transparent. His figure was mostly an outline – she could distinguish his features, but she could also clearly see the trees and lamp posts lining the street behind him. Slade lifted a hand to place it on her cheek, and she gasped at the sudden cold grazing her skin. No contact was made, his hand only slid through her face like fog, but she could feel his presence as though she’d been slapped.

         “You can communicate with the dead, Havannah,” Slade murmured, holding her gaze.

         Havannah inhaled. One heartbeat. Two. Her eyes closed, and the rest of the world faded away as she collapsed on the pavement, surrounded by scattered mail and a lingering chill in the shape of her dead boyfriend.