Wherever You Go

by Heather Davis

A poignant story about making peace with the past and opening your heart to love.

  • Format: eBook
  • ISBN-13/ EAN: 9780547677675
  • ISBN-10: 0547677677
  • Pages: 320
  • Publication Date: 11/15/2011
  • Carton Quantity: 1
About the Book
About the Author
Excerpts
Reviews
  • About the Book
    A poignant story about making peace with the past and opening your heart to love.Seventeen-year-old Holly Mullen has felt lost and lonely ever since her boyfriend, Rob, died in a tragic accident. But she has no idea that as she goes about her days, Rob’s ghost is watching over her. He isn’t happy when he sees his best friend, Jason, trying to get close to Holly—but as a ghost, he can do nothing to stop it. As their uncertain new relationship progresses, the past comes back to haunt Holly and Jason. Her Alzheimer’s-stricken grandfather claims to be communicating with the ghost of Rob. Could the messages he has for Holly be real? And if so, how can the loved ones Rob left behind help his tortured soul make it to the other side?
  • About the Author
  • Excerpts

    chapter one

    You’ve been by her side for six months, but she hasn’t noticed you. Still, you slip into her mother’s sixth-floor apartment and keep her company while she eats her kid sister’s sugary cereal in the dark kitchen. And you’re there with her as she gets books from her locker in Hallway C. Sometimes her gaze wanders to the picture of you taped below the vents. You’re on her mind in the seconds before she slams the door shut.

    You pacify yourself with the thought that all this is for a reason. That one day she’ll sense your presence. Feel you watching over her. That she’ll see you. Finally.

    At this very moment, Holly sits on a bench beneath a sea of windows in the Downtown Seattle library—so close you could almost reach out and touch her, smell the sweet scent of her hair. You’ve been spending moments of this otherwise meandering afternoon watching her turn pages of the Toni Morrison book she’s reading for school. It’s almost like really being there. Almost like being together.

    Underneath the chatter of two girls near the copy machine and the whirring hum of the escalator, you can hear the beating of her heart. It’s as loud as if you were sitting on Holly’s bed, holding her in your arms like you used to. Absently, she tucks a stray strand of her light brown bangs behind an ear and turns another page.

    You wish your sense of touch was still active, so that you could run your fingers through her soft hair. If only. The closeness is maddening. You’re so full of the desire to be seen, you must be freaking glowing. I’m here. You try to reach her with mental tricks, with all your powers of concentration, with all your love distilled into a single thought. See me.

    Holly raises her head, and for an instant, just a nanosecond, your heart swells with hope. She glances around as if someone had called her name, but then the moment passes and she slips back into her page turning. You’re alone, again.

    It’s bluish late afternoon outside as the spring rain begins to pound against the wall of windows. I’m here, you whisper into her ear again—even if she’s not listening. I’m still here.

    ***

    “Holly, I brought home pizza,” Mom called from the living room.

    I closed the door behind me, grateful to be home out of the downpour. The bus ride had seemed longer that night, the damp passengers smelling like wet hair and wool, the warmth of a Northwest spring not helping matters at all.

    I abandoned my backpack full of books beneath the hallway table. As I hung my jacket on the rack, a pink raincoat printed with dancing kitties fell to the floor. Typical of this place—there were too many coats and not enough pegs. I jammed the slicker back on the rack and followed the smell of dinner.

    My family was sitting on the worn brown couch, eating from paper plates. Some tired sitcom was on, the laugh track blaring as the stupid dad character tripped over a bucket of paint.

    “I was going to make spaghetti tonight,” I said.

    “Honey, take a night off. Enjoy the pizza.” Mom gave me a tired smile as she abandoned a piece of doughy crust on her plate. She was wearing her uniform for the evening shift at the grocery store: a green polo shirt and khaki slacks. Her hair hung in a perfect ponytail, the kind my wavy hair never made.

    “It’s my favorite—pepperoni,” chimed in my sister, Lena. She had red sauce smeared around her lips and a string of cheese draped on the front of her tee, which for her was pretty neat eating.

    “’Kay. Pizza’s great, thanks,” I said, plopping down onto the couch.

    Mom sank back into the cushions as I took a slice from the greasy box and put it on a napkin. “So, how are you?” she asked. “Everything go all right this afternoon?”

    “Fine,” I mumbled, biting into the pizza. The cheese was slightly cold and chewy, but it still tasted pretty good.

    “Hmm.” Her lips pressed together, and I could tell she was thinking hard.

    I set down my pizza and reached for a cola from the six-pack on the coffee table. “I think I’m probably done with them. It’s not—”

    “What does the counselor say?”

    Right, the counselor—Dr. Martinson, or something like that. I could hardly remember the woman’s name, since for over a month now I’d been going to the library on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school, instead of the community center. “She doesn’t really say anything, Mom.” I cracked the cola open and took a big swig.

    “Well, counselors in those kinds of groups are more about listening. They’re there to encourage you to talk about your grief, to let you get it all out.”

    “It’s out.”

    Mom’s eyes were fixed on mine. “What are you doing, quitting the group?”

    I didn’t want to tell her the truth, so I just ignored her and chewed my slice.

    “That’s a conversation for another day, I guess.” Mom set her plate of crusts on the coffee table, and clicked mute on the TV remote.

    Lena emitted a nine-year-old’s growl. “Hey! I was watching that.”

    “I know, honey. I want to discuss something with you two.”

    Discuss was one of my mom’s favorite words, but it really didn’t mean “discuss.” We didn’t discuss much of anything in this family. When Mom decided something, it happened.

    “I really want to watch my show. It’s getting to the good part,” Lena whined.

    “This will only take a moment,” Mom said, patting my sister’s dark hair. “And this affects Holiday more than you.”

    Holiday. It was never good news when Mom used my whole name. I’d gone by Holly since I was in second grade and realized that holiday wasn’t a normal name, it was a day off.

    “Mom, I told you I don’t want to talk about the group.”

    “This is not about that.” She turned toward me, her eyes serious. “Your Uncle Frank called me today. He’s really worried about Grandpa Aldo. It’s kind of sudden, but Frank and I think that, well, maybe Grandpa could come live with us for a while.”

    Lena smiled widely. “He always gives me butterscotch candies.”

    “What do you think?” Mom was focused on me, waiting for my reaction.

    But I was running through the scenario in my head. Lena and I were going to have to cram into one room if Grandpa Aldo moved in. Though it had three bedrooms, our apartment was on the small side: tiny living room, kitchen, one bath. It was going to feel smaller.

    “Holiday, he’s alone in that apartment he moved to after Grandma died, and he’s starting to need more help. He can’t move down to Tacoma with Uncle Frank, because there’s not enough room. And Grandpa’s insurance isn’t enough to pay for in-home care, and I can’t . . .” Mom’s voice got really quiet. “I can’t put my father in a nursing home. We couldn’t afford it, anyway.”

    I knew it was true that we didn’t have the money, because I helped Mom write out the bills and balance her checkbook each month. We were barely making it as it was.

    “I don’t get it,” Lena said, chewing thoughtfully on a stray piece of pepperoni. “Is he sick?”

    “Yes, honey. He’s starting to forget things. He can’t live alone anymore. It’s too dangerous.”

    “Is he gonna...

  • Reviews
    "Eerie and sweet, haunting and real — a ghost story of love in its many forms: the kind that binds, and the kind that frees."—Laini Taylor, National Book Award finalist for Lips Touch: Three Times

    "This ghost story gently delivers growing emotional power as it explores the thoughts of three teens, including the ghost. . . . Poignant and eventually quite moving."--Kirkus Reviews "A welcome addition to the shelf of YA books that deal honestly with grief. Without sugarcoating, it achieves a melancholy sweetness that is becoming a hallmark of Davis’s work."--Publishers Weekly "This tale is a comfortable read for those who want more than a pink-covered romance or a melodramatic storry of loss, neither cotton-candy light not three-hankie dark." — School Library Journal "A truly touching story." –Seventeen.com
    "Conversations about love, life, and death create a poignant connection between a life not quite lived and one in its final moments."--Bulletin
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