Prelude to THE PASSENGER

East Boston, Massachusetts, April 1945

"Beth..."

The echo of a man’s familiar voice muted the ocean’s rolling surf.

Was he truly behind her? Or had she imagined it?

Elizabeth Reilly held her breath blocking out the scent of the awakening earth and salt water, then focused on the haunting call of the gulls that circled overhead in the stark, cloudless sky.

"Can you hear me?" he asked.

A chill, that had nothing to do with the emergent spring, climbed up Elizabeth's spine. She trembled with both distress and anticipation. Nervous energy caused her to shift on the patchwork quilt and the beach's sand moved beneath her bottom. Closing her eyes tight, she grabbed a fistful of cloth the way she'd done as a child at night in bed. Long before she had learned to mitigate the visits. Rarely did she see the ghosts. Most times, they came to Elizabeth with the smell of their skin, a brush of a hand on her shoulder, or a gust of air when they walked past her unseen. But there were always those few who reached out to her. The individual souls who appeared before her--lifelike--and even now, Elizabeth was afraid of what she would see.

"I've missed you," he whispered.

He was there and he wasn't just any spirit.

Elizabeth smiled anxiously. For the first time in her life, she'd yearned for a visit from the dead and for the closure she so desperately needed.

Her hollow heart thudded and she forced her eyes open. Still fear kept Elizabeth from facing him.

"Pat..." She struggled to breathe and stumbled to her feet. "Is that you, Patrick?"

"Yes." He sounded hopeful. "It's me."

Tears built up behind her eyes, but she blinked them back. She hadn't heard his voice in four years and had forgotten the sweet timbre of it. Hearing him and having him so near was a shock to her already fragile system.

It had been a long wait.

Elizabeth had spent two years, on tenterhooks, praying for any word regarding her missing husband. After he'd disappeared in action, she retreated to her childhood home--and watched the front door--hoping to see him pass through it. Then finally, just a month before today, a telegram arrived informing everyone who loved Patrick that his remains had been uncovered in a patch of barren earth. But she already knew. Just prior to the message's arrival, her blood had begun to hum with the foreknowledge that a dead soul was on its way. Visions sometimes preceded the ethereal visits and they did in this case. Reliving the moment of his death had nearly destroyed her. Her heart broke with want. It shattered with the unattainable need to rescue him.

Now Patrick's presence served as a reminder. She could do nothing to help him.

Elizabeth wrapped trembling arms over her chest, fighting the urgent, detestable desire to flee. "How do you look?"

"Not great. You might not want to turn around."

How could she not turn around? Even in boyhood, Patrick had stuck by her when others whispered, none too quietly, behind her back. She knew he'd come back to her if he had any way of doing so...even if only to say goodbye. That's who the man was. He'd been a sweet and gentle husband, but most importantly, he'd been her best friend.

She took a deep cleansing breath and choked on the scent of decaying flesh and the iron tang of blood. With several arduous steps, she rounded to face him. Patrick stood, as if alive, before her. She looked first at his mud-caked boots and gasped, not wanting to believe what she saw. Her eyes scanned up. A rip in his dirty tan trousers revealed torn skin covered in dried blood.

Her gaze continued the slow ascent of his body and stopped at the gaping hole in his side. Fighting a wave of nausea, she closed her eyes and turned away, her heart and mind numb. "Can you still feel that?"

"No. Not anymore."

"You can't...." Elizabeth gulped, the tingling sensation of panic swelled through her body. "I...I'm glad," she whispered and bit her lip, fighting to keep the vision of his death at bay.

He eased down on the blanket a foot away from her. With an exhausted sigh, he removed his dented helmet, placed it on the blanket beside him. Dirty matted curls clung to his head. He looked up at her with his sea blue eyes. "I'm tired. Very, very tired."

She bit her quivering lip. "I wanted to be there for you Pat. If only I c--could..."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to scare you. Lord, Beth, I want to hold you."

Elizabeth shook her head. "I can't. I can't--just yet."

"I know." He examined his wounds then his eyes met her. "I'm not in any condition. Perhaps I shouldn't have come."

She dropped to her knees in the sand. "Why would you think that, Patrick?"

"I don't know. I just don't want this to be the way you remember me." His voice betrayed a tone of sorrow. Then his mouth spread into a cheek-dimpling smile that warmed her heart.

She urged herself to remember the man she'd clung to and kissed goodbye. Alive and whole, and resplendently handsome, even with the black curls of his hair shaved away.

"I had to come, Beth."

"Don't you worry," she said and scooted through the sand until she was on the blanket beside him. She reached up caressing his bitter cold face. "I'm thankful...for the chance to see you again." A tear slid down her cheek.

"I've tried to come to you before, but I couldn't."

His chin trembled beneath her fingers.

"I thought I'd been deserted. I wandered the woods where I'd fallen," he said softly. "I called for anyone to show me the way to you. I didn't know..." He shook his head. "...I didn't know I was dead. Then the moment my body was uncovered, I knew. I began walking then and passed others like me. There were so many of them--just wandering. I feel sorry for them, you know."

A wave slammed to shore and Elizabeth jumped. She'd almost forgotten where they were. And they were not alone. An old man stood down the beach. He looked out at the water with his back to them.

Patrick tugged at a long curly strand of her mahogany hair and pushed it behind her ear. His fingers brushed against her skin. Her breath caught then a ragged moan escaped her lips.

"The others that I passed don't have someone like you," he said. "A friend who can hear them when they come to say goodbye."

Elizabeth inhaled and reined in the tears she needed to cry. He'd been through so much. He could have been bitter, but he came with nothing but concern and compassion for her. The least she could do was be strong for him in return.

She rose to her knees and wrapped her arms about his shoulders. He felt solid--almost alive--except for the frigid skin.

"I didn’t cross the ocean, but suddenly I was here and there you were." A look of relief washed over his face. "You look so pretty. Exactly how I remembered you."

"Patrick." She didn't feel pretty, just so, so old.

"I'm sorry. I'm not here to torment you." He hitched his head in the old man's direction. "I wish we were alone."

"He can't see you. But if he thinks I'm mad, I couldn't care less. I've been called worse."

"You have, haven't you? But I've never been frightened by your powers." He leaned his head into her and pressed his cheek against her breast.

Five-year-old Elizabeth sat on the bottom step of the staircase leading to the second floor of the Reilly home, trying hard not to make a noise. Ten-year-old Patrick sat beside her, holding her hand. Ian, Elizabeth's older brother, sat several stairs above, beating a tempo on the wooden rail.

The hair rose on the back of her neck and she turned to look over her brother's head. Mrs. Reilly stood on the top landing and smiled. The woman lifted a finger to her lips and descended the stairs. Her long black hair hung to the middle of her back and her cheeks were the color of faded roses. The woman walked past them and out through the closed door.

Young Elizabeth leaned in and whispered, "Pat, your momma's gone."

He looked at her with questioning eyes.

"She's a ghost now, Pat. I just saw her."

Patrick's mother found peace that day and he deserved the same.

She frowned, and released her hold on him. No matter how it felt to have him near, he wasn't there to stay. How selfish would she be to wish to keep him from the rest he needed? She leaned back to sit in the coarse, white sand, hugging her knees to her numb, empty chest.

Patrick straightened. "I have to go," he said.

"What? Right now? Can't we talk for just a while more? I've missed you."

"I'm sorry, Beth. I've no choice. I feel myself being pulled away." He leaned over, grabbed his helmet from where it lay on the blanket, and stood. "I want you to do something for me."

Elizabeth's throat constricted. "Anything."

"Please, don't close yourself off because of me. Living's a journey, Beth. If you walk on the outside, you'll miss it all." He smiled and dimples marked his dirty, bruised cheeks. "Will you promise me you'll make a new life?"

A life without you? Only the Lord knows if I can make it to tomorrow.

Fear clouded his eyes. "Beth?"

What if she said no? She couldn't do that to Patrick. He deserved to pass in peace. Taking a deep breath, she said with a shaking voice, "I...promise."

He nodded and put on the helmet. "I love you," he whispered. His body grew white and transparent, and then he took one rushed step and faded away.

She lunged from the ground, reeled back towards the water, and fought to fend off the tide that rose in her head.

In a jerk, she bent, cradling her abdomen as it cramped with nausea. Elizabeth's heart, no longer numb, stung with pain, and threatened to bleed from her chest.

Please, Patrick, I don’t want to say goodbye.

© 2005-2007 Joie Lesin

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