The Afterlife of Holly Chase by Cynthia Hand
“Dad?”
“Hey, sweetie.”
I blinked back tears. “Hi. Where are you?”
“I’m at the hotel,” he said. “I sent the actors home for the holidays, but there are some details I need to work out here on the editing.”
“It’s Christmas,” I said. “You should be—”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” he said, like I was accusing him of something. “And it’s your birthday tomorrow. I didn’t forget. I thought maybe . . .” He hesitated.
“Maybe what, Dad?” I loved the way the word Dad felt when I said it—like he was mine again. My dad. Mine.
“I thought maybe you’d like to fly out for a few days. Hang with your old man. I know you probably have plans, but—”
“Yes. I’ll fly out. I’d love to hang out.” I didn’t have any idea where he was or what he was working on, but I couldn’t think of anything better than seeing my dad again. It was like the very best present I could think of, to spend my—how old was I going to be tomorrow? Seventeen. My seventeenth birthday. With my dad.
“Okay.” He sounded surprised and happy. “I’ll get my assistant to work out the details. How about today, if she can book a last-minute flight for Christmas Day?”
“Today would be amazing,” I said. “I’ve missed you, Dad.”
And then I was full-out crying. Again.
“Oh. Hey. Sweetie, I’ve missed you, too. So much,” Dad said. “I can’t wait to see you.”
I wiped at my nose, still sniffling. “And we should totally watch It’s a Wonderful Life together—it’s always on TV at Christmas, right?”
He chuckled. “I thought you hated that movie. You said it was ‘the cheesiest cheese,’ if I remember correctly.”
“Maybe it’s grown on me. Besides, you like it. We should watch it because you like it.”
“All right, who are you and what have you done with my teenage daughter?” he laughed.
“I’m just growing up, I guess.”
“Well, don’t do that too fast. I couldn’t stand it.”
“Okay.”
After we hung up I walked around my room for a while just touching things and remembering: my ragged stuffed bunny named Ears. My pretty clothes and shoes. My jewelry box that revealed a ballerina when you opened it, dancing in a circle to “Clair de Lune.” I opened the vanity and found the torn pieces of the picture of Ro and me that I used to have taped to the edge of the mirror. A selfie on the beach. I leaned forward to look at it. In the picture, we had our arms wrapped around each other. My hair was brown and slightly frizzy; Ro had the same long black hair, which had dried into beachy waves. We were both smiling. Happy.
I touched her smile with my finger. Ro.
I picked up my phone and called a cab. Fifteen minutes later I was standing outside Ro’s house. I knocked on the door.
“Hey, you,” I said when Ro answered.
“Holly?” She of course was completely confused because—in her timeline, anyway—we hadn’t talked in more than a year. For me it’d been like seven.
“I need to talk to you.”
“It’s Christmas morning, Holly.”
“I know. I know.” But honestly, it felt like I couldn’t wait. I had to make things right with everyone I possibly could, as soon as I possibly could. Starting with Ro. “But this is like an emergency. I’ll just take up five minutes of your time. I promise.”
She sighed. Then she came outside and closed the door behind her. “All right,” she said warily. “What do you want?”
I was trying not to stare at her—Ro at sixteen, still kind of skinny and with her hair cut in the pixie do she’d had back then.
“You look awesome,” I said. “That haircut is so flattering. But your hair looks good long, too. You lucked out with the hair.”
“What’s going on?” she said.
I just smiled. “So much, it would take forever to explain. And even then, you’d never understand. I got to reset myself. And this time, I’m not going to screw it up.”
“Yeah, well, you said it was an emergency.” She sounded annoyed.
“It is. You’ve been my best friend for my entire life.”
She was already shaking her head. “Holly,” she sighed. “Come on, don’t do this to me.”
I grabbed her hands. “You can’t stop being my friend, Ro. It’s impossible. You’re always going to be my best friend. It’s not actually up to you.”
She tugged a hand through her short hair. “Look, we just grew apart,” she said. “That happens to friends all the time. I can’t do this again. I told you before. I can’t hang out with you. I’m sorry if you’re feeling lonely or whatever. But I—”
“Oh, I understand why you broke up with me. I mean, you know, what you said last year. I heard you. I totally get it now. And you’re right,” I agreed. “We grew apart.”
She frowned, clearly surprised that I’d admitted that. “We didn’t live in the same world anymore. We never really did.”
“I don’t care that you’re a T-shirt and sneakers girl,” I said. But then something occurred to me. “Well, actually, I do care. That’s who you are. But I don’t care about money anymore.”
She shook her head. She obviously didn’t believe me. She looked around like she was searching for the real Holly, who would jump out from behind the bushes any second now and start making fun of her.
“Do you remember what it was like before?” I asked her. “When we used to watch TV with the sound turned off and make up the dialogue? Or we’d name all the fish at the pet store. We’d build weird sand creatures on the beach. We’d write songs together. Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember.”
“None of that was about what clothes we were wearing,” I said. “It was about us, right?”
“Right,” she said hoarsely. “But—”
“I’m sorry I lost sight of that. I changed, I know I did. My mom died, and Yvonne showed up and whispered all this junk into my ear, and I got a little lost. I’ve been a total brat, not just to you, but to everyone. I have been. I’ll admit it. I’ve been selfish and shallow and pretty much a horrible human being.”
She smirked. “You’re not that bad.”
“The thing is, I’m still that girl you knew. She’s in here somewhere.” I put my hand on my chest. “And you being my best friend didn’t change, even when I changed. That’s what I should have said last year.” My voice wavered, and I looked away from her. “You’re the best person, Ro. You’re awesome. You’re so smart—I love the way you love books—and you’re funny and you’re honest and you’re kind. And I’m not saying you don’t have flaws, because you do. You’re too sarcastic sometimes, and you have a short temper, and questionable fashion sense, and you don’t like Indian food. But you are like the best. Person. Ever. I’d be crazy to not want to be your friend. I’ve missed you so much. I love you. I know that sounds weird, coming from a friend, maybe, but it shouldn’t, really. You’re like the best friend version of the love of my life.”
And then I started crying. Again. It’d been an emotional twenty-four hours. Or six or seven years, however you want to count.
Ro was staring at me, dumbstruck. “What happened to you?”
I kept staring at my feet, sniffling. “So much.”
“Holly, hey. Look at me,” Ro said.
I wiped my face. “So here’s my big emergency. I’m kind of hoping that you’ll forgive me for being an idiot, and you’ll be my best friend again. Unless . . .” I took a deep breath. “Unless you feel like you really can’t stand to be around me anymore, which I will try to understand. But I’d really like another chance.”
“Okay,” she said. She didn’t even hesitate.
I looked up. Her dark eyes were twinkling. “What?”
“You can have another chance.”
All the air left my lungs. “You mean it?”
She smiled. “Nobody’s perfect, right? We can work on our flaws together. We learn. We grow. Ma
She was going to say more, but I hugged her. I couldn’t wait one more second. I threw my arms around her neck and hugged her like there was no tomorrow. She hugged me back, and I was filled with something that could only be called joy.
“I love you, too, you know,” she said. “I have to go inside, because it’s Christmas morning and my little sisters are desperate to start opening presents, but I’ll call you later, okay?”
“It’s Christmas,” I realized yet again. “It’s Christmas Day.”
“Yes, it is. Merry Christmas, Holly Chase,” she said softly.
I laughed. “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas, Ro!”
She hugged me again. “And a happy new year.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
WELL, OBVIOUSLY THAT’S THE PERFECT ending to the story. But I’m thinking that you might have some questions. And so did I.
First of all, you’ll never guess, not in a million years, where I flew to meet my dad that night.
Or maybe you can guess.
It was a good Christmas, and the best seventeenth birthday I could have imagined. Dad and I hung out at his hotel and watched It’s a Wonderful Life, just like I’d promised, and we laughed and ordered cupcakes from room service and talked, and I felt closer to him than I’d ever felt before. Like we were going to be a real family again. And when he had to go back to working on his film, I decided to stay in Manhattan for a few days. You know—just because.
“I love New York,” I sighed as my dad and I walked through Central Park a couple days after Christmas. Our hotel was right across from the park, and it was so beautiful that winter, full of snow and lights, a place of magic and hidden dreams.
“You love New York?” He looked at me sideways. “Since when?”
“Since . . . now, I guess? There’s always something new to discover here,” I said. “And the snow is so pretty.”
He put his arm around me. “You’ve changed, young lady, since the last time I saw you. You even look different somehow.”
I flipped my newly colored hair over my shoulder and batted my eyes at him. “Why, thank you.”
He laughed. “No, not your hair, although that is great. You look like your—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “It’s you that’s different. I think you were right.”
“Which time?”
He laughed again. “When you said that you’re growing up.”
I nodded. I was technically a very old and wise seventeen-year-old girl, and that was fine with me.
Dad checked his watch. “So I have to go back to the studio, sweetie. Are you sure you’re going to be all right on your own?”
“I know my way around,” I assured him. “I have a great day planned that may or may not include the Empire State Building and a Broadway show. I’ll catch up with you later.”
You can guess what I did then, and it wasn’t a Broadway show. I took a cab straight to 195 Broadway. And I made sure to look both ways before I crossed the street this time. I had so many things I wanted to say to Boz, to Dave, to Blackpool, even. And so many things I wanted to know.
But when I went into 195 Broadway, it didn’t look the same. It was all newly remodeled, with glass and metal and comfortable-looking couches in the lobby. There was a new security desk just inside the door, and the guard there told me I couldn’t go up in the elevators without approval. And there was no business listed as Project Scrooge anywhere in the building.
It was like they’d never been there.
I didn’t know what to do with myself after that. So I walked to the movie theater—the Angelika, of course—and I watched a film there one last time. One of my dad’s, it turns out. It kind of blew my mind wondering if he’d ever make those movies now that he’d made after I died, or if I was the only person in the whole world who would ever remember seeing them.
Thinking like that will drive you crazy. That’s the thing about messing with time.
It was after the movie was over, when everybody was shuffling out, that I spotted Boz sitting at the back of the theater.
“Hello, Havisham,” he said warmly.
“Am I still Havisham?”
“You’ll always be Havisham to me.”
I sat down next to him as the credits rolled in the dark. He was wearing that tweed jacket of his, the one with the leather patches on the elbows, and I kind of loved him for it.
“You changed your hair,” he commented.
“I was sick of blond,” I said. “So I dyed it back. Trying out a new look.”
“It suits you.”
“Thanks.”
“And it seems that’s not the only thing that’s changed.” His eyes were sparkling. I hadn’t seen him look so happy before except for the time when he found that first-edition record of Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.”
“I’m trying. I’m really trying, Boz. I am. I won’t let you down this time.”
“Oh, Holly.” He reached over and patted my arm. “You never let me down.”
I stared at him. “Never? Not even when I was totally messing up your entire company?”
He shook his head. “It all went according to plan, as far as I’m concerned. Although I have to admit you gave me a scare now and then.”
My mouth had dropped open. I closed it. “You knew?”
He chuckled like this was the best prank ever. “You didn’t really think you’d get something like that by us when Blackpool could see your future and Copperfield could read your mind.”
Well, yeah, I’d wondered about that. But they never said anything. They never tried to stop me. “But then why did you let me—”
“You had to come to your own conclusions,” he interrupted. “That was the most important part in your rehabilitation.”
“My rehabilitation.”
“We never give up on a Scrooge, Holly,” Boz informed me cheerfully. “And we didn’t give up on you. We’ve been working on your case for years, hoping to find a way to reach you. And this year, with Mr. Winters, we saw an opportunity for you to succeed. And here we are.”
“So all along, it was about me?”
“Not all of it.”
“How’s Steph?” I asked. “Is she . . .”
“She’s our current Ghost of Christmas Past. A job that she enjoys, I think, and will continue to do for a while, until it strikes her fancy to try her hand at something else. Like high school.”
“And what about Ethan?” I would never hear the name Ethan ever again without feeling something powerful and protective rise up inside of me. I’d always wonder where he was, and what he was doing, and if he was getting by okay.
“Ethan is a twelve-year-old boy at the moment,” Boz said. “He’s fine.”
I thought for a minute, and then all the pieces seemed to fall into place. “He wasn’t a real Scrooge, was he? You made Blackpool choose him, for my sake?”
“You always were a clever girl,” Boz answered. “I can see the future, too, at times, although not as often or as predictably as Blackpool. I saw the potential in where Ethan Winters might lead you. It was a great sacrifice on Blackpool’s part. He hates telling any kind of falsehood—he thinks it damages his credibility—and he had to stretch some truths in order for things to go our way in this case. But he, too, could see where our clever schemes might lead you. He also foresaw that Stephanie could return and be part of your resurrection, so to speak.”
“Poor Blackpool.” I arched an eyebrow at Boz. “Are there cameras on us right now?”
He nodded and pointed to a corner.
I stood up and waved at the camera. “Thank you, everyone. Dave. Are Marty and Grant there yet? I guess not. Well, hello, Marie and Leigh. Tox. Even you, Blackpool—Arthur. I owe you all so much.” I blew them a kiss. “And Steph. You won’t get this, because I don’t think you’ll remember, but we’re friends, you and me. Real friends. So shoot me an email, okay?”
Boz stood up, too, and brushed off his p
“I need to thank you, too, Boz,” I said. “I don’t even know how to tell you how grateful I am.”
“I did my part—no more, no less.” He coughed. “But I suppose I should be going now. I have work to do back at the office.”
“What? It’s after Christmas. Don’t you get a day off once in a while?”
“A day wasted on others is not wasted on one’s self,” he said. “Besides, this is a world of action, and not for moping and droning on.”
Which was when I noticed there were tears in his eyes. He was going to miss me.
“I think I’m going to miss you most of all,” I said, giving him a quick hug. He smelled like he always did, like peppermint and tobacco and a hint of Douglas fir.
“Well, now,” he said with a cough. “Life is made of ever so many partings welded together.”
I pulled away. “Hey, can you stop quoting Dickens? I’m getting a headache just trying to figure out what that even means.”
He patted me on the head like I was a little girl and he was my doting grandfather. “Good-bye, my dear.”
I nodded and made my way across the aisle to go out of the theater, but then I thought of one last thing and turned back. “What about Ethan? What’s going to happen to him?”
Boz gave me a sly smile. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. It’s a wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.”
“So you’re saying you don’t know?”
“What I do know about Ethan is this: he’s twelve right now, and everything in his world is what it should be. For now.”
For now.
I gasped. “Boz, what day is it?”
“You’re asking me?” he said. “Gracious, I could barely tell you what decade I’m in.”
“Come on, Boz. Use the earbud. Ask. Embrace the technology for once.”
He listened for a minute, then nodded. “It’s December twenty-eighth.”
“December twenty-ninth,” I murmured to myself. “When Ethan is twelve.”
“No, I said . . .”