In the late Christmas afternoon I was in my room, sitting in a chair, hugging my knees and feeling glad to be clean and warm, when I heard two women talking outside. It sounded like friendly banter, but it never stopped or let up. I figured that the two were walking slowly, but they never seemed to move on. And they didn't quit jabbering for an instant. Finally, out of curiosity, I looked out the window.

The next day was Sunday, and the day after that was Christmas. It didn't snow. All we had for snow was the same old dirty snow that had been on the ground since my arrival. I didn't mind. I'd never seen snow on Christmas, so even if it was off-white, vanilla-and-chocolate, it was still the whitest Christmas I'd ever had.

We opened presents and had the big midday meal. Mom wouldn't let me help for some reason, but she wanted me to sit in the kitchen so she could see me. Not to be left out, Dad sat next to me at the kitchen table, and the two of us watched my mother bustle around. Occasionally she gave us little tastes of one thing and another. When all the dishes were happily cooking, the three of us set the dining room table.

I know the word nice is way overused. I use it too much, I'm sure, but that was how it was. The three of us, at home, fully and finally settled in our new house in our new town. We'd gotten through two major holidays here in Flickerbridge and so many changes. It was nice... yes, nice to take a breather.
 

In the late Christmas afternoon I was in my room, sitting in a chair, hugging my knees and feeling glad to be clean and warm, when I heard two women talking outside. It sounded like friendly banter, but it never stopped or let up. I figured that the two were walking slowly, but they never seemed to move on. And they didn't quit jabbering for an instant. Finally, out of curiosity, I looked out the window.

Mrs. Wix and Ms. Overmore were standing in front of my house. Together! There couldn't have been a less likely couple. The moment I recognized them, they looked up and saw my face in the window. My brow wrinkled in confusion at their apparent friendliness, and my mouth hung stupidly open. They both smiled and waved. I waved back, a bit confused, and ran downstairs when they started up the steps to my front door.

As I barreled down the stairs, I yelled to my mother, "Mom! Mzwixenovermore are here!"

My mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands and saying, "Marcie, slow down. Where's the fire? The way you pounded down the stairs, I almost thought you'd fallen and rolled all the way down. And gracious, I didn't understand a *word* of what you said. Oh! Is someone at the door?"

I opened it to find Ms. Overmore smiling quietly and Mrs. Wix positively beaming.

And they were so different... changed. It wasn't just that they were glad or happy, something was *gone*... something had left them. Something bad and heavy, and their faces looked soft, relaxed, and most of all, relieved.

Transfigured is too strong a word, but it was something like that, particularly for Mrs. Wix. I had never realized how hangdog she usually looked: so dowdy, so down, so... crushed, plain, and sad. Now she looked ten years younger, and her face was almost... beautiful. For the first time ever, she looked like Misty. I knew they were identical twins, but now Mrs. Wix finally looked the part.

After Christmas greetings were exchanged, and Mom asked "Won't you come in?" I took their coats, and the four of us sat around the dining-room table. I don't know where Dad was, and I don't know why we were sitting at the table. It seemed like a meeting. It felt like a meeting. I half expected Mrs. Wix to begin things by saying, "I guess you're wondering why I called you all here."

Instead, Mom offered tea.

Mrs. Wix glanced at Ms. Overmore, then replied, "That would be nice, but could we talk a little first?"

Then she pushed an elegantly wrapped package across the table to me. It was obviously a book, but the wrapping paper and ribbon were the most beautiful and elaborate I'd ever seen. The paper was gold-colored and heavy, and had a soft marbling in different shades of gold. It was lightly embossed with curved designs that felt like a smooth secret under my fingertips. The ribbon was a heavy, stiff material, and there was wire in the edges to make it keep its shape. The ribbon was nearly transparent, and the colors were dark burgundy edged with gold. As I carefully undid the wrapping, Mrs. Wix said, "It's from Misty."

"Misty?" I repeated cautiously, trying to not catch my mother's glance.

"Yes, my sister Misty," Mrs. Wix replied. She spoke with a bold self-assurance. "We know that she spoke to both of you, and she said she was with you when you were kidnapped. It's true, isn't it?"

The two women looked expectantly at Mom and me, so I nodded. They smiled knowingly, and Mrs. Wix gestured to my gift, urging me to open it more quickly.

I didn't want to spoil the wrapping, though! Making an effort not to rush, I lifted the taped edges as carefully as I could, to avoid tearing the paper. When I finally got it open, I said, "Wow! Cool!"

And it was cool. It was a beautiful leather-bound copy of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

"A little hokey," Mrs. Wix admitted, "but she thought it was appropriate. You know, Christmas miracles and all."

I opened the inside cover, and saw the inscription "To Marcie Donner, Thanks! From Misty Sabatino, Christmas 2006" written in large, awkward letters.

"It took her forever to write. She said you'd understand how much effort it took," Mrs. Wix said. "I thought she was going to bite her tongue off." She imitated the way Misty stuck her tongue from the corner of her mouth to help her concentrate, and she and Ms. Overmore giggled. "She inscribed one for Susan as well. The two of you have matching gifts, just so you know."

"Thanks so much," I said. "But where is Misty?"

"She moved on," both women said together, and they laughed again. I wouldn't have been surprised if they shouted "Jinx!" but they didn't.

"What happened," Ms. Overmore told me, "is that after the police came and you were safe, Misty realized that it was wrong of her to hang around. I don't mean there at the cabin, but here... among the living." She hesitated a moment. "She realized it was wrong of her to hope that you would be..." – she hesitated again – "another teenage ghost she could be friends with."

Ms. Overmore glanced at me and Mom to see what effect this had on us, but I'd already told Mom the whole story. "I know she wanted that," I offered. "She's been alone for thirteen years." The two women shifted uncomfortably.

Then Ms. Overmore picked up the story again: "When you told Misty that you might not be a ghost when you died, she knew that you were right, and she began to wonder why. From the time she died, she never met another ghost. Not even one. So many people that she knew and didn't know had passed on, and none of them became ghosts.

"And so she thought, something must be keeping me here, and immediately she knew what it was. There was a piece of unresolved business that Misty needed to fix. It wasn't Misty's problem, really, but... See, when Misty died, so many people — myself included — thought she'd committed suicide. The nuns, of course, with the help of the police, immediately tried to cover it up–"

I couldn't help but interrupt. "But why? Why did they do that?"

Ms. Overmore replied, "There's a lot of shame associated with... that sort of death, and for Catholics, it's a mortal sin. And, ah" — she glanced at Mrs. Wix for a moment, then said, "The Sabatino family had given a lot of money to the school, and I guess Sister Honoraria felt that she owed them. You see, if Misty was a suicide, she couldn't have a Christian burial."

Mrs. Wix's mouth twitched, but she looked down and didn't say anything. Ms. Overmore touched her friend's arm and said, "Sorry."

Mrs. Wix roused herself, lifted her head, and said, "It's okay. Go on."

"Misty didn't know any of that. I guess she was still in shock from having died and discovering she was now a ghost. And so, even if she'd known that she was here for a reason, she had no way of finding out what that reason was. Until Susan gave her that letter." Ms. Overmore cleared her throat. "In fact, I was wondering how in the world she found that letter. Misty didn't know. Can you tell me?"

"What letter?" Mom asked.

I told my mother and the two teachers about the yearbook, the librarian's lie, and Susan's research.

Ms. Overmore bit her lip as she listened. After I finished talking, she said, "I knew that Susan was bright, but that was an amazing piece of deduction, especially for someone her age."

"She's brilliant," Mrs. Wix commented.

"And she was exactly right," Ms. Overmore added. Then she picked up the story. "I was so angry at the lies, at the face that everyone put on it." She sighed loudly and paused for a moment. "I *did* write that letter. I worked very hard on it, and no one in thirteen years ever knew that it was me who wrote it. Yes, Susan was right about everything: I *did* blame Maisie – my Maisie" (she gestured to Mrs. Wix) "for Misty's death, for exactly the reasons that Susan said."

Mrs. Wix took up the story. "Misty went to Yvette's house – you know I mean Ms. Overmore – and talked to her."

Ms. Overmore said, "It was three days before she convinced me that I wasn't losing my mind and that I'd been wrong about her death." She smiled at me. "You should have seen me at school. I was a total wreck. In any case, once Misty managed to show me that she was real, she was finally able to tell me how she died. She had a sensitivity to the weight-loss pills. She died from side effects, not from an overdose."

"And then she came to me," Mrs. Wix said, picking up the story, "and got me to call Yvette. She had an idea from something that Susan had done, she said. Susan sent you some sort of message through Misty? Anyway, Misty figured that if I called Yvette and told her certain things, then she would know for sure that Misty had really talked to her." Tears came to her eyes, but she didn't cry. She said, "Yvette came to my house, and Misty sat down with us. The three of us talked the entire night. It was such a shock when the sun came up."

"Once the two of us talked, once that wall of resentment and blame and guilt came down," Ms. Overmore said, "Misty was able to move on."

"What was it like?" I asked.

"When she moved on?" Mrs. Wix asked. "Oh," she said, blinking back some tears. "It was like when someone says goodbye and leaves. She was there with us, talking. When we finished, she said goodbye and she was gone."
 

We were silent for a few moments, then Mrs. Wix smiled at me and said, "She asked me to tell you that she won't have to wear those stupid workout clothes any more."

"Oh, good," I replied, with a laugh. "But I'll miss her! She was a good friend. She was like an older sister to me."

"Well, we miss her too!" Mrs. Wix said with a sob, and soon the four of us were bawling our eyes out. Of course, Dad picked exactly that moment to walk back in, and the look of confusion on his face was priceless. We four women looked up at his helpless bewilderment, and soon we were laughing harder than we'd been crying the moment before.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way