like an idiot and blathering on in baby talk like Sh ell y did at the prom, he’d deal with it simply to be able to genuinely interact with someone. Sh ell y may have had the most annoying voice on the planet, but damned if he wouldn’t happily talk to her for hours right now.
Patrick found Sara in his room, running fingers gently over the marks on the frame of his closet and smiling. His mother used to measure his height there, cutting grooves into the wood with each inch and quarter-inch. The last mark was made just months before he died, which should have made him feel like a mama’s boy but didn’t. He might have been slightly embarrassed when his mother insisted on taking his height on his nineteenth birthday, but it was a tradition he went along with for the fun of it.
Sara positioned her back to the marks, pointing to the position just above her head. She was the same height as Patrick had been when he was fourteen . He smiled and touched the wood, feeling the smooth grain. He still couldn’t figure out why he could touch some things. His belongings –the books and clock and stuff –he could kind of understand, but other things still didn’t make sense. He could physica lly touch the walls of his room, the closet door, and even the kitchen counter downstairs, but the knob of his bedroom door was completely different; his hand continued to s i nk right through it, the heaviness grossing him out every time he tried.
She turned around and peered at the mark where her finger pressed. “March 16, 1963,” she read and then looked up at the last groove . “Wow, you were tall. Six-one. Whoever you were.”
“And you’re short,” Patrick commented, smirking. “Well, kind of. You’re taller than my mom.”
Her forehead wrinkled, and she ducked her head, craning her neck to look at the underside of the shelf in his closet. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure the only thing left in my room now is a dead mouse or something.”
She reached up and brought out a few small pieces of torn, faded paper. Holy crap! He was shocked to see his concert tickets clutched in her hand.
“The Who… May twenty-third, 1969 at The Electric Factory. Nice,” she said, flipping the stub to the bottom of the pile.
He remembered that show with vivid clarity. He’d gone with Andy, and they’d gone for cheesesteaks afterward, whistling at the chicks hanging out. The show had been dynamite.
“The Doors… August fourth, 1968 at The Philadelphia Arena. Wow. Whoever you are, you saw some serious history.”
That had been a weird concert. His dad had insisted on going with him and his buddy Tony because his father didn’t like the looks of “that hippie guy with his hair and his drugs.”
Sara extended her hand, tucking the tickets back in the closet. “I think I’ll just leave those there.” She walked toward the door but turned and looked around the room. “It seems wrong to move them after all this time.” A moment later, she said, “I like you. We’ve got musical tastes in common.”
Patrick grinned, thrilled at being acknowledged, even if it wasn’t real.
Sara walked out humming the chorus of “Hello, I Love You.” Patrick sang his favorite part of the song, trying to make his voice like Jim Morrison’s .
“Her arms are wicked and her legs are long, when she moves my brain screams out this song.”
Sara’s voice carried from the hallway, singing the next line of the song. “Sidewalk crouches at her feet like a dog that begs for something sweet.”
Patrick stopped, mouth open. Wow. Weird .
CHAPTER THREE
“This is great!”
A louder, taller version of Sara with longer hair stalked around the living room, touching the mantle and then the back of the rocking chair. Patrick wasn’t sure if he liked her; she kept nosing around and poking her head into closets. He felt protective of the house, and while he was sad when Sara had torn up the carpet and painted the walls of the
Patrick found Sara in his room, running fingers gently over the marks on the frame of his closet and smiling. His mother used to measure his height there, cutting grooves into the wood with each inch and quarter-inch. The last mark was made just months before he died, which should have made him feel like a mama’s boy but didn’t. He might have been slightly embarrassed when his mother insisted on taking his height on his nineteenth birthday, but it was a tradition he went along with for the fun of it.
Sara positioned her back to the marks, pointing to the position just above her head. She was the same height as Patrick had been when he was fourteen . He smiled and touched the wood, feeling the smooth grain. He still couldn’t figure out why he could touch some things. His belongings –the books and clock and stuff –he could kind of understand, but other things still didn’t make sense. He could physica lly touch the walls of his room, the closet door, and even the kitchen counter downstairs, but the knob of his bedroom door was completely different; his hand continued to s i nk right through it, the heaviness grossing him out every time he tried.
She turned around and peered at the mark where her finger pressed. “March 16, 1963,” she read and then looked up at the last groove . “Wow, you were tall. Six-one. Whoever you were.”
“And you’re short,” Patrick commented, smirking. “Well, kind of. You’re taller than my mom.”
Her forehead wrinkled, and she ducked her head, craning her neck to look at the underside of the shelf in his closet. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure the only thing left in my room now is a dead mouse or something.”
She reached up and brought out a few small pieces of torn, faded paper. Holy crap! He was shocked to see his concert tickets clutched in her hand.
“The Who… May twenty-third, 1969 at The Electric Factory. Nice,” she said, flipping the stub to the bottom of the pile.
He remembered that show with vivid clarity. He’d gone with Andy, and they’d gone for cheesesteaks afterward, whistling at the chicks hanging out. The show had been dynamite.
“The Doors… August fourth, 1968 at The Philadelphia Arena. Wow. Whoever you are, you saw some serious history.”
That had been a weird concert. His dad had insisted on going with him and his buddy Tony because his father didn’t like the looks of “that hippie guy with his hair and his drugs.”
Sara extended her hand, tucking the tickets back in the closet. “I think I’ll just leave those there.” She walked toward the door but turned and looked around the room. “It seems wrong to move them after all this time.” A moment later, she said, “I like you. We’ve got musical tastes in common.”
Patrick grinned, thrilled at being acknowledged, even if it wasn’t real.
Sara walked out humming the chorus of “Hello, I Love You.” Patrick sang his favorite part of the song, trying to make his voice like Jim Morrison’s .
“Her arms are wicked and her legs are long, when she moves my brain screams out this song.”
Sara’s voice carried from the hallway, singing the next line of the song. “Sidewalk crouches at her feet like a dog that begs for something sweet.”
Patrick stopped, mouth open. Wow. Weird .
CHAPTER THREE
“This is great!”
A louder, taller version of Sara with longer hair stalked around the living room, touching the mantle and then the back of the rocking chair. Patrick wasn’t sure if he liked her; she kept nosing around and poking her head into closets. He felt protective of the house, and while he was sad when Sara had torn up the carpet and painted the walls of the
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