Notes from Ghost Town by Kate Ellison

freckles I hadn’t noticed before, when I still saw in color, a little bit of hair around his flat, dark, penny-sized nipples. He moves a little bit closer, all six foot two of him, suddenly towering over me.
    “Look.” He says, and his perfect face grows perfect-serious. “I wanted to apologize for ditching you the other night…. I was way more drunk than I thought.” He grins. “It’s not every day a girl can outdrink me.”
    I look away. The way he’s staring at me makes mybody feel hot. “Yeah, okay,” I mumble. “I was pretty drunk, too.”
    “Well, hey.” His voice drops: “Nothing to get your purple panties in a bunch about.” Ugh. So he does remember. Everything. I bite hard into my bottom lip. A lick of wind sweeps more ripples across the face of the pool.
    I check my phone for missed calls or text messages that don’t exist, and announce in a tight voice: “Shit. My best friend’s having a crisis. I gotta go.” I drop the cell phone back into my purse and wave him an awkward good-bye, walking as quickly as possible to the back gate to let myself out.
    “Hey, Red,” Austin calls out, right before I unlatch the little wedge of wrought iron from its resting place. I turn, cringing at the nickname. Not the most original, but better than Fire Crotch, which was the name I heard practically every day in seventh grade. He beckons me back. I hesitate for a second by the gate, hand still on the latch. “Come here for a second. Just a second.”
    I walk slowly back over to him. “What?” I ask, annoyed now.
    He leans close, pressing his lips almost directly to my ear. “I just wanted you to know,” he whispers, “purple is my favorite color.”
    I don’t even want to know what color my face must be right now.

eight
    I call Carol Kohl first thing before work Friday morning, but all I get is the drone of her voice on the machine.
This is the office of Carol Kohl. Attorney at Law. Office hours are Monday through Friday, nine AM until five PM; please leave a detailed message with your number and the time you called and we’ll get back to you shortly. Thank you
.
    Seven days
. The number lodges into me, an uncomfortable knot in my throat.
    A long beep. My words tumble out: “Hi. My name’s, um, Olivia. Tithe. I’m—I need to speak to Carol, I mean, Mrs. Kohl. To Carol Kohl. Concerning my mother, Miriam Tithe. Please call me back as soon as you can. It’s important.” I pause, correct myself: “No. Urgent. It’s urgent. Thank you.”
    Work is impossible.
    The only paying customers for the carousel, all day, are a mother and her bouncy pigtailed daughter. I take their five dollars and watch them go slowly round and round, the little girl shrieking. The ride seems to last forever.
    After they leave, I check my phone every minute—waiting for a call back, fingers working nervously at the edge of my Parks and Rec T-shirt—driving myself crazy.
Seven days
.
    And the whole time, though I’m sure no one’s paying me even a lick of attention, I swear I feel
eyes
on me, boring into the back of my head. But, every time I whip around to catch whoever is there, I realize I’m just as alone as I ever was.
    I plunk my cell phone into the pocket of my purse, fingers brushing against my sketchbook. I pull it out, open it onto my lap—an action that brings back the singing realization of how easy it all used to be, how art just flowed from me. I start to sketch a teenage couple, entwined on the swing set across the park, hungrily making out. But I keep seeing Stern. All I can see is Stern. His lips, his teeth. His hands. The black of his hair in every shadow, in every fractured angle of sunlight. It’s always him.
    Stop it, Olivia. Stop it
. I start to sketch the sprawl of banyan trees mid-park instead, wild roots licoriced through the dirt. But Stern’s face keeps returning to me, everywhere I look—how different he is in death. The dark smudged now beneath his wide hazel eyes.
    A storm rolls in around