“I’m sorry,” I tell his ghost. My words are barely a whisper, my breath caught in my grief at how I failed him, how I didn’t see what was happening, what he was being drawn into, and that I did nothing to get him away from it.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, angel,” Valdemar says.
Glaring at him, heat rising up my neck, I’m about to tell him to go fuck himself when he continues.
“Ed’s words, not mine.”
Mouth parted, I stare at Valdemar. “What do you mean, Ed’s words?”
“I may not be able to see him, but I can hear him,” he says, his expression sincere, as if he’s almost sorry about this.
Searching my brother’s face, I squint to see if his cracked lips are moving, but they remain tightly closed, seemingly unable to open.
I look back at Valdemar. “He can talk to you?” I ask.
He nods.
“Why can’t he talk to me?” Bypassing Valdemar, I look at my brother. “Why can’t you talk tome?”
“It’s through the Blood Oath that I’m able to hear him,” Valdemar explains.
Shaking my head, I sit back in my chair, unable to believe what Valdemar is saying, yet annoyed that it all makes sense. I have never been able to converse with my mother. She’s never spoken to me in all the years she’s visited me. There were countless times when I would have given anything to hear her voice, to know what it sounded like, to hear her words of advice or just simply that she loves me.
And Ed.
What I would give to talk to him one last time.
Turning back to Valdemar, I say, “I want to speak to him.” I place my hands flat on the table as if we’re about to conduct a séance.
“Go ahead,” Valdemar says.
“How can I trust your answers? You could tell me anything.”
His eyes narrow. “What would I have to gain by lying to you?”
“I don’t know. To hide the truth,” I suggest.
“I’ve told you what happened.” Each word is said slowly, clearly, almost robotic.
“So you say.” I hold his gaze, trying to see what he’s holding back, because my journalist instinct is telling me that I’m missing something—I’m just not sure what.
“Why don’t you ask him something only he would know,” Valdemar says.
I stare at Ed as I sift through my memories, conscious of the ticking clock on the wall and the hour that’s almost up.
“Okay. That day in the park when we were kids. You saw something, and then it happened. What did you see?” I ask Ed.
Valdemar’s mouth creases into a faint smile as if he’s seeing the memory for himself.
“He said he saw you fall off the swing. You were going crazy high, and then your shoe flew off and you along with it. You sprained your ankle and couldn’t play dodgeball for at least a week. You got him to wait on you, bringing you drinks and snacks, and even tried to get him to do your homework for you, but he drew the line at that,” Valdemar says.
My lip wobbles, so I bite it. Holding Ed’s lifeless gaze, I imagine these words coming out of his mouth, the soft hush to his voice that wasn’t unlike the whispering of the wind through your hair.
“He said he loves you, and he’s sorry for what happened. But it was inevitable. He’d already seen it and knew there was no other way. He said he misses you, and he’s sorry he was so distant in those last few years. He hopes you’ve learned how to make pancakes and aren’t relying on shop-bought ones,” he continues.
Stifling a half cry, half laugh, I press my hand to my mouth. “He used to make the most amazing pancakes. He would make a whole stack and then drizzle them with maple syrup and chopped bananas. We survived on those pancakes when our dad was working long hours and we couldn’t be bothered heating the microwave dinners he’d left for us.” My eyes meet Ed’s. “I haven’t eaten a pancake since the day you died.”
Valdemar shakes his head. “I’m not telling her that.”
