Pieces of Hope by Carolyn Carter

others.”
    Morbid
curiosity set in. Since she had confirmed that I was very much alive, I felt
freer to explore the comings and goings of the beautiful dead people around me.
    “Like
what, for instance?” I took a huge swig of milk, glancing at her over the top
of it, attempting to ignore the throng of stunning souls moving about the
café.  
    “We
quickly forget what it’s like in the physical world. We forget how slowly the
living walk and talk. We also forget to speak our thoughts aloud, mostly
because it isn’t necessary. That’s one of the first changes to occur. If we’re
paying attention—and to tell you the truth, most of the time, we aren’t—we can
hear almost anyone’s thoughts. It does require a bit of practice, though, and
it’s easier if we have some kind of connection . . . a friend or a family
member, or someone we love.”
    This was
both a wonderful and terrible thing. Did I really want perfect strangers—emphasis
on perfect—knowing my every thought? I’d really have to watch myself. But I
didn’t understand why Creesie had said that the
living moved slowly. Gigi was sixty-five and she could hop one-legged in high
heels faster than most of these people could run.
    “You’ve
got to be kidding,” I argued, guessing that Creesie had already heard the words in my head. “These people are so pokey they’re
practically moving in reverse.”
    Creesie pealed with delight. “Trust me. It takes a lot of
effort to move like turtles. At the Station, we practice being human for a
while, eat a little something for the journey, and then head out to visit our
families.”
    “Visit?”
I asked, puzzled. “But why do they need the Station? Can’t they just pop from
one place to the other—materialize or something like that? I mean, they’re all
dead, right?”
    “My dear
Hope,” Creesie said sweetly. “You’ve been watching
too many movies. There’s an order to the universe. The Stations are quite
organized, lots of folks coming and going.”
    I caught
the plural of “Stations,” but suddenly got distracted. One of the very cute
French boys I eavesdropped on moments ago was bidding au revoir to his table, and after waiting
patiently for several travelers to move past, he stood and walked gracefully
out of the café.  
    “When we
visit, it’s usually for a reason,” she continued, doing that head tilt thing
again. “And often because our loved ones are having a hard time with us being
gone. The living seem preoccupied . . . often to their detriment, with needing
to know whether we’re happy or not.”
    A buried
memory was burrowing its way to the surface, but sensing the sadness
surrounding it, I worked at ignoring it. “But if they’re just visiting, how do
they make sure they’re seen?” I asked. “When I was at the hospital, only one
little girl noticed me.”
    Creesie’s head bobbed. “Hmm, yes . . . children and
animals, very sensitive. But it’s not only them. Virtually anyone could see us
if they chose to—most prefer not.”
    Despite
my efforts, the buried memory was gaining ground. With a rising sense of
anxiety, I stammered, “But who—I mean, how do they do it?”
    Shrugging, Creesie said, “The living tend to shut themselves off
from the dead. In fact, you could say they avoid us like the plague.” She
chuckled a little. “Because of their irrational fear of us, we have to wait
until their minds are more receptive, more—open.” It seemed Creesie was waiting for something, maybe a light bulb to go off in my head. If so, I
didn’t feel even a tingle. “And so we wait,” she repeated. “And visit the
living as they dream.”
    The
once-distant memory punched me in the stomach. Tears burned my eyes as I
recalled my mother’s message, “I’m not really dead.” It had been real! The
sensations, her touch, the way her perfume had lingered afterwards. I hadn’t
imagined her. I hadn’t made her up. My mother was there! She’d heard my
wish!