Page 63 of Cackle

“Maybe not for a swim,” I say.

Her smile is bright as a firework. “Really?”

“And I don’t want to sleep in that room,” I say. “There’s a ghost in there.”

“Is there really?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry, pet. Truly, I am.”

“It’s okay.” I’m not capable of staying mad at anyone. I don’t have the stamina.

She carries me to the conservatory. It’s basically a fancy greenhouse, a giant glass room brimming with plants. It’s balmy and smells incredible. There’s a gorgeous array of colors from all of the flowers. There are rows and rows of herbs. Vines hang from the ceiling.

I’m reminded.

“Hey,” I ask her, “did you put up a plant in my stairway?”

“Hmm?” She sets me down on a stool in a corner, next to a workbench. She wastes no time busying herself, grinding away with a stone and pestle.

“I noticed there was a plant hanging above the stairs up to my apartment,” I say. I gesture to the room around us. “Wondering if maybe you had something to do with that.”

“Hm . . . oh, yes,” she says. “Mistletoe. It’s often misunderstood and absurdly misused. It brings peace. When we met, I sensed you were in need of peace.”

“Oh. Okay.” I’m not sure how I feel about her sneaking into my stairway to hang a plant, but I know her well enough by now to know that her intentions were good.

“Is that weird?” she asks me after a minute of silence. “Was that a strange thing to do? Be honest with me, please.”

“Kind of, yeah,” I say.

“It’s been so long since I . . .” She sighs. “I don’t know how to be any other way. I suppose I’m out of touch. Terribly uncool.”

“Are you about to heal my foot with magic?” I ask her. “Because that’s pretty fucking cool.”

She giggles. Her cheeks go pink and she hides them with her hands.

“I am!” she says. “I am about to do exactly that! Close your eyes.”

I do. There’s a moment of pain as she covers my foot in some kind of cold, wet paste. I hear her walking away from me, and when she returns, I hear the sound of running water and feel the spray of liquid passing gently across my foot.

“All done,” she says. “You can open your eyes now.”

My toes are straight; there’s no blood, no swelling. And more than that, there’s no more dead skin or calluses. It’s like I just got a pedicure.

“Wow,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says. “I feel too guilty to be thanked. You’re not still mad, are you?”

“No,” I say. “But honestly, I don’t think I’ve really accepted what just happened.”

I don’t think I’m digesting any of this information. About Sophie, about the town, about the fact that I was just almost drowned by a ghost that could somehow manifest in physical form. My brain doesn’t know what to do with any of this. It’s like being a doctor stumped on a diagnosis. It’s probably fine. Monitor the symptoms.

“I can walk you home if you like,” she says.

I shrug. “I don’t have anything to do at home.”

At least here, I have Sophie. I have company. I don’t want to be alone, sad and thinking about Sam, about why he texted me this morning.