Seven
Esther’s not doing a terrible job.
The lie, even to myself, makes me wince.
She…is doing better than I expected her to do, but the bar is set very low.
Esther’s a perfectly capable professor. She is very competent at teaching intro classes, incredibly passionate about queer and feminist theory.
But this poor woman has no idea where to begin with teaching the Philosophy of Death.
Not that I blame her. Not many professors could pick up and teach another professor’s seminar in their specialty with virtually no notice.
Especially two weeks into the semester. And without all of the course notes which are still locked in my apartment, presumably along with my rotting corpse.
Esther clears her throat, fiddling with her pen as she launches a presentation, using it to gesture at the screen.
“I’ve compiled the notes from our forum into a slide deck.
Thank you to those who responded to each other’s posts.
I won’t read every response since you can see it on the slide deck, but I wanted to call out some common themes.
The question posed was, ‘Why do people care about death or the afterlife?’”
Tugging down the hem of her wool jacket that rode up on her hips when she raised her arm, Esther clicks through the next slide.
“An interesting theme that emerged was the motivation for wanting to know what’s next.
Curiosity, fear, love, and hope were all brought up several times.
What other connections do you see with these themes?
What connections could be made with the reading assignment for today?
Does anyone want to take a stab at summarizing Plato’s Phaedo? ”
I hover over the desk next to her, pretending to actually sit on it, as if we’re leading the class together. “Give them a chance to answer. Pro tip I learned from Cash: Count to ten after each question. Gives the introverts like me enough time to work up the courage to raise their hand.”
Considering Esther panic-read all of the course materials last weekend, she seems more prepared than I would be in her shoes. If I suddenly had six intro classes to teach, my Phil of Death seminar, and her Beyond Duality seminar, I would have cried a lot more than she has.
Being able to teach the Philosophy of Death is the whole reason I applied for Cash’s unexpectedly vacant job—professors at this tiny private college get to teach a seminar on whatever they want, as long as at least ten students register for it.
Far cry from the state school I was an adjunct at before this, where I churned out intro class after intro class on classic philosophers, graded endless papers on rudimentary logic, and never taught anything interesting.
I like to think I did a good job teaching my specialty seminar last semester. There are at least fifteen students registered this semester, a fifty percent increase from my first semester. Back then, I barely had enough students for a quorum.
A class focused on death in the middle of a deadly global disease was a risk, but interest in the afterlife and the occult usually spikes after people are forced to encounter their own mortality on a systemic level. Even if the powers that be are determined to pretend that everything is normal.
Besides, there will always be odd ducks intrigued by death.
This batch of students that Esther is teaching seems even weirder than last semester.
Compared to the intro classes Esther teaches, the student body in this class has a decidedly goth vibe.
One kid even wears a wool cloak and no shoes.
Though, remote learning hides a lot of quirks; I never saw my last batch of weirdos in person.
They may have been just as odd, with the abundance of crystals, pentagrams and black cat keychains dangling from their backpacks hidden behind their cameras.
Appropriately, the Phil of Death classroom is in the dungeon of the Castle, the nickname of the old Gothic stone building on campus that houses most of the Humanities departments.
It’s officially named after some long-dead white man who donated an obscene amount of money to the college’s endowment, but everyone just calls it the Castle.
It’s gorgeous on the outside—all gray stone, leaded windows, and towering spires covered in ivy—but a dank maze on the inside. Especially in the basement classrooms.
The ancient egress windows, with their swollen wood frames, are impossible to open more than a crack.
White paint peels and flakes off of the cold limestone walls, and the wood frames of yellowed paintings are warped from moisture and neglect.
The massive oak table in the front of the classroom resembles an altar more than a lectern.
These basement classrooms have probably never been up to code.
One side effect of being dead—a bonus as far as I’m concerned with this classroom—is that I can’t smell.
Because I just know this classroom has mold.
Esther has complained about the mildew smell and weird splotches staining the carpet.
And there sure as shit aren’t any cross breezes to air out the dank hallways of the Castle dungeon.
“Which then begs the question: If I can’t smell, then why can I see?
How can I hear, but not touch?” I ask myself as Esther rambles about Plato.
I can feel sensations, like Life burning me and my emotional reactions in my body, but I can’t actively touch things.
It doesn’t make sense to keep my hearing and sight, but not the rest of my senses.
Lost in thought, I slowly turn to face her instead of the students, though I’m still “sitting” instead of floating like a balloon.
Maybe I’m getting better at this.
I guess I haven’t tried to taste anything yet.
And I’m certainly not going to start in the mildewy basement of the Castle.
Maybe I’ll experiment after Esther puts her lip balm on.
See if her kiss tastes of vanilla like in my dreams— “Ugh, why am I like this?” I turn to face the students again.
That’s a terrible idea that I need to get out of my head.
I don’t particularly want to experience my nonexistent lips on fire.
But also! More importantly! I’m not just going to kiss someone without their permission, or knowledge that they’re being kissed.
Sure, Dream Me kissed Dream Esther many many times, but Dream Esther was very much a consenting, enthusiastic, and not-real partner, a figment of my psyche.
I highly doubt Real Esther, Living Esther, would be into kissing Real Lucy—especially a Dead Ghost Lucy haunting her for as-of-yet unknown reasons.
I add “Can I taste?” to my list of questions that I haven’t been able to answer. The list is quite long. At the top is “How did I die?” and “Why am I haunting Dr. Voigt?”
I should change that question to “Why am I haunting Esther?”. I know her too well now to call her Dr. Voigt.
Gilda insists that women with Ph. D.s be given their proper titles.
Which would be fine, except she calls male professors by their first name, instead of Dr. Soandso.
As if we weren’t already otherized enough, by virtue of being youngish, queer, “ethnic” women—as Allan once described us, even though Esther is white.
Apparently, she “looks Polish,” whatever that implies—in a department made exclusively of straight, white professors eligible for retirement, who (aside from Gilda) are all men. And tenured!
“Focus.” I pretend to rub my temples. “You were adding a question to your list. Don’t lose it.”
Despite my struggles with memory, and my as-of-yet unsuccessful attempts to help Esther, gathering evidence to explore my list of questions remains my biggest priority.
My curiosity about death is what keeps me…
me. In life, my fascination with death was my only unique quality.
All of my other hobbies—if I can be generous and call binge-watching bad reality TV about mediums and ghost hunting a hobby—were basic as hell.
Mirroring Esther’s pacing as she tries to engage the class, I float back and forth behind her.
I could try tasting her food. Maybe something strong-flavored like hot sauce or cinnamon, to see if ghosts have paranormal taste buds.
“What is the point of tasting, though? I don’t have a stomach that needs to eat.
” I pause. “Is that why I can’t smell anymore?
There’s no biological advantage—paranormal advantage?
—to smell if I don’t need to care if my food is spoiled or if there’s a gas leak.
That might explain why I can see: to avoid the burning sensation of touching the living.
” I groan, equally frustrated by my lack of answers and relieved to have questions. “But then why can I hear?”
A student bursts through the door, followed soon after by another figure. “Sorry I’m late, Professor Voigt. I got lost.”
“No problem.” Esther beams. “And sorry, I should have said this in our first class, but please call me Esther.”
I huff and side eye Esther. She didn’t need that apology in that sentence, and her own name should not sound like a damn question! Sometimes, I wish I could tell her how annoyingly girlish her speaking tone is.
But more often, that soft voice is my only anchor to sanity.
When I’m about to lose my mind from despair, that lilting singsong murmuring a monologue of all of Esther’s thoughts helps me remember who I am.
Her musings remind me of the personal and scientific curiosities that I’ve decided are my purpose in death.