I soon found myself heading down the gravel road to the highway, the opposite direction of where Billy and Liz would be hiking. I felt drawn there, to the trail that Julia had shown me. Down the rocky cliffside I hiked. Through the wildflowers and the grasses, over the boulders and below to the pebbles and the sand. I found a spot to sit and watch the waves crash against the rocks. I thought of Julia, that first day, asking if I liked it. I still didn’t know, but the loudness of it, the power of it, helped me remember where I was.

After sitting for a long time, I took off my shoes and rose to cross the small beach to stand in the froth.

A roaring wave, a shock of cold.

I stepped farther in. Stood until my feet were purple. Numb. The waves were growing high and strong—it was time to head back. I dried my feet with my socks and then pulled on my shoes.

I hiked to the highway on trembling legs, up the long gravel drive and through the gate. I stopped there, catching my breath against a boulder.

The air was colder, the sky quickly darkening. I passed the three cabins, lined up in their row, and entered the bathroom again. I chose not to turn on the lights. Stillness, all around me. The only sounds, those I made myself. The flush of the toilet, the stream of the faucet, my own hands rubbing together. I splashed water on my face. Placed my hands on my cheeks, then on my heart. Felt the rise and fall of my breath.

I returned to my cabin and lit a fire. I sat close, letting it warm me. And then a ghost darted past my window, bright as lantern light.

One afternoon, months after we’d moved to Blake’s, I climbed up to the platform to look for Lorna and found she wasn’t alone. I lowered the opera glasses. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Lifted them to look again. Yes, it was true: a man, right beside her.

“You guys,” I called out. I hurried back down the hillside, rushing to show my mother and Blake. “My ghost! Lorna! Someone’s with her.”

Blake stood and turned around so he could see the street. There they were, plain as day. My ghost and a young man, taking her elbow, coaxing her back to the house.

Blake smiled, cocked his eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you actually believe that poor old lady is a ghost.”

It was like being pushed into a winter lake, sudden and heavy and cold.

“But . . . you said. You told me. Her name was Lorna and she died.”

“How would I know what her name was?” He laughed. “She’s some crazy old lady. A ghost,” he said, and laughed harder. “Miriam, can you believe this?”