Chapter 7: The Long Walk to Maple Heights

I had never left home before, and after dying at nine, I never went to school again.

The world outside my roadside grave was big and strange. I watched cars whiz by, listening to country radio stations and the chirp of cicadas.

Luckily, I could read all the road signs along the way.

I’d float over street corners, sounding out names—Maple Avenue, Pine Grove, Elm Street—piecing together the puzzle that would lead me to Mom.

I asked many ghosts for directions—some pointed me the right way, others led me toward churches on purpose.

Most were friendly, but some tricked me. I’d end up standing on the steps of a white clapboard church, my skin sizzling as the bells tolled.

Some churches could harm ghosts within hundreds of feet.

The closer I got, the more it hurt. I learned to steer clear of big crosses and steeples, hugging the shadows of abandoned lots.

I got hurt many times.

Sometimes I’d collapse behind dumpsters, waiting for the burning to fade. I’d count stars in the night sky, dreaming of home.

I really wanted to tell Mom how much pain I was in after seeing her.

My chest ached with longing. I imagined curling up in her lap, letting her smooth my hair like she used to.

But she would definitely cry her heart out.

I didn’t want to break her again. She’d cried enough for a hundred lifetimes.

Forget it. I was about to disappear anyway—no need to make Mom cry again.

I pictured her smile, the way she laughed when Jamie did something silly. I wanted that to last forever.

So, after seeing her, I’d just tell her how much I missed her.

I practiced the words in my head, over and over. “I love you, Mom. Don’t worry about me.”

I’d have to persuade her to move on and not think of me anymore.

Maybe if I said it enough times, she’d believe it. Maybe I would, too.

By then, I’d lie and say I was going to heaven.

I pictured a place with endless lollipops and sunlight, where I could finally rest.

In the next life, I’d be very happy.

I held on to that hope, even as I drifted farther from home.

Thinking about what to say made me even more determined.

I pushed forward, step by painful step, carried by nothing but memory and love.

Even though my whole body hurt, nothing could stop my longing to see Mom.

Not even the ache in my bones or the burn on my skin. Love was stronger than all of it.

Mom had moved very far away.

Miles of highway stretched between us—fields of corn, endless strip malls, the world blurring by in a rush of color and sound.

So far that it took me half a year to reach Maple Heights.

I counted every sunrise, every full moon, the months slipping away like sand through my fingers.

Maple Heights was just as Miss Janine said—beautiful trees, breathtaking scenery.

The streets were lined with maple trees that blazed red and gold in the fall. The air was crisp, the sky a deeper blue than I’d ever seen. Pumpkins lined the porches, and the air smelled like cinnamon and cut grass. It was the kind of neighborhood where everyone waved, even to strangers.

Mom had come to a wonderful place.

Her new house sat on a quiet cul-de-sac, surrounded by flowers and laughter. It looked like the kind of place where dreams came true.

Maple Heights was big, and it took me a long time to find her.

I wandered through winding streets and parks, peeking through windows, searching for the face I’d missed for so long.

I was foolish—after so many years of practice, the only ability I had was to send dreams.

I’d slip into their dreams like the scent of clean sheets and warm bread—gentle, inescapable, impossible to forget.

Unlike those powerful ghosts who could teleport and find people in an instant.

I envied them sometimes. But I kept going, one step at a time.

But after searching Maple Heights for a month, I finally found Mom.

I saw her standing in the front yard, sunlight glinting off her hair. My heart leapt, even though it no longer beat.