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.It had started long ago on the evening of Sam’s funeral after Mom and the other mourners had gone home.As the sun set, Charlie had stayed alone by the grave.And then, incredibly, impossibly, Sam had appeared from the woods, his body banged up from the crash, still holding his mitt and ball.Oscar was there too.“What now, big bro?” he had said.“C’mon, let’s play catch.” The moment had rendered Charlie so distraught—so inconsolable—that doctors gave him powerful drugs to ward off the visions.At first the experts called them dreams, then delusions.The diagnosis: post-traumatic stress disorder.They sent him to a shrink.They gave him Xanax for anxiety, Prozac for depression, and Halcion for sleep.They never believed what he could see.But see he could, and they were not illusions or hallucinations.He had been dead and was shocked back to life.He had crossed over and come back.He had made a promise to Sam and was given the power to keep it.A few months later when yet another grown-up refused to believe what he could see, Charlie pretended it was over.He professed the apparitions were gone.So the doctors pronounced him healthy and took him off the medicine.Charlie swore he would never tell another soul about Sam.They’d only call him crazy.They’d never understand.It would be his secret forever.A secret that would govern his days and nights.A secret he would conceal beneath a carefully constructed carapace of charm.From that day forward, Charlie and Sam played ball each and every evening.Their game at dusk, Charlie believed, was the key to his gift, and he feared that if he missed a single night it would be gone.So he kept careful watch on the angles of the sun.He printed out charts from the Weather Service and tracked the differences between civil, nautical, and astronomical twilight.As long as they threw the ball every night, he could see Sam, and Sam could see him.Their time together was confined to the Waterside grounds, for Charlie swiftly realized his gift did not extend beyond its walls or gates.So in the mornings, they goofed around on the dock before anyone else was there, and in the evenings, they hung out in the cottage and watched ESPN or James Bond movies.It had worked this way for thirteen years—more than 4,700 nights—and Charlie knew there was no point taking risks.Over time, he realized his gift had grown, as he began to notice other spirits passing through the cemetery on their way to the next level.They came in all shapes and for every reason—a crotchety lobsterman who drowned in a squall, a college football linebacker felled by sunstroke, a frazzled hairdresser who slipped on some hair clippings and snapped her neck—but they each shared one telltale trait: they shimmered with an aura of warmth and light.Helping these glowing souls with their transition, he came to think, was his purpose and his punishment.“So?” Sam said.“How was work today?”“Pretty good,” Charlie said.“Remember Mrs.Phipps? Ruthless Ruth?”“Yeah, your English teacher?”“Exactly,” Charlie said, floating a knuckleball.“Saw her today.”“Where?”“Hanging around her grave.”“No way!” Sam said, firing a fastball.Strike one.“What happened to her?”“Heart attack.I think she died while she was getting her teeth cleaned.”“Figures,” Sam said.“It was only a matter of time before Dr.Honig killed someone with his stinky breath.” His throw sailed high and Charlie leaped to catch it.Ball one.For his next pitch, Sam kicked his leg up and zinged a fastball.Strike two.“So how’s Mrs.Phipps doing?” he said.“She’s taking it hard.She’s flabbergasted by what happened.”“Flabbergast, verb,” Sam said, cracking a smile.“Freaking out over how much weight you’ve gained.” Charlie couldn’t help laughing.His kid brother was always playing with words.“So was Mrs.Phipps’s makeup all over the place?” Sam asked.“Yeah.”“Yuck, the new mortician uses too much face junk.He makes everyone look like a clown.” Curveball, low and outside.Ball two.“When is Mrs.Phipps crossing over?”“Not sure.Her husband, Walter, is on the other side.Remember him? The man with no big toe?”“Oh my God,” Sam said.“Yeah, a bluefish bit it off in the bottom of his boat.Remember that stub sticking out of his sandals? It was freaky.”Fastball in the dirt, ball three.Full count.Two blue jays shot across the field in little loops.The wind from the ocean rushed up the hill, zigzagged through the tombstones, and swept across the playground.“C’mon, Sam,” Charlie said, smacking his mitt.“It’s three and two, a full count.Give me your out pitch.”“Here goes!” He reared up, kicked, and threw a screwball that danced through the air and, in a signature move, actually froze in mid-flight, hovering motionless as if time stopped.Sam snapped his fingers, and the ball blasted off again, making a perfect loop-de-loop before sailing home.“Steeeeee-rike three,” Charlie yelled.They played ball until it was almost too dark to see, telling each other stories about their day [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]