Nine #2
Harriet said shouting at our Ties works sometimes.
Or at least it did with her and Syd. Though she had one advantage with Syd that I don’t have with Esther.
Syd was a baby when Harriet died, and Esther is grown.
Kids are presumably more open to paranormal intervention than a thirty-something professor.
At least, they always were on the reality shows I used to watch.
Probably not the best metric for reliable data, but in theory, their paradigms are far less rigid than adults; kids probably would be more open-minded about the metaphysical.
Although, the plague has everyone in a weird mental state.
Maybe now is my best chance to get her to hear me.
Esther’s been teaching remotely this week, because three people in her intro classes (and half the football team) caught the Pox at an unapproved frat party.
So far, two have confirmed minor cases, with both of their herald patches on their legs.
The third erupted under the student’s jaw, right where Cash’s was.
All these years since the world first shut down, and scientists are still stumped as to how it works.
It’s a virus, undoubtedly, and spreads like the flu.
But it acts more like a fungal infection, trying to find its way past the skin.
When a pockmark erupts in an orifice—ears, mouth, nose, eye, anus, urethra, or an open wound—that’s the foothold it needs to slowly take over the inside of the body, eventually shutting down organ function as the pockmarks swell from inflammation.
People have tried all sorts of preventative measures to keep the pockmarks from erupting, or try to direct them away from their face.
Nothing works but luck and time. It’s a waiting game to see which direction the Pox will spread.
To see if this student will live, or suffer slowly like Cash did.
I’m not sure how long it’s been, or what day it is, but the pockmarks usually show up five days after the herald patch, so they will probably know soon.
For someone as empathetic and outgoing as Esther, the harsh reminder that the Pox isn’t as over as everyone pretends has got to do a number on her mental health.
She’s been chattering to herself nonstop in that singsong voice of hers even more than usual.
Fortunately, Esther hasn’t caught the plague.
I’ve been keeping my eye out for a herald patch, but her skin is as smooth and perfect as it usually is.
However, there’s also no sign she’s had it before.
Gilda and Allan had it the same time Cash did, from what I’ve gathered from other people’s conversations.
Gilda’s on her foot—annoying but a mild case.
Allan’s was on his ribs—painful but not life-threatening.
Even if Esther did get it, she’s young enough that she would probably recover with a few pockmarked scars on her torso.
As long as it’s nowhere near her face, or groin, anyway.
“Then again, Cash was young, too.” He was unlucky to get a case where his herald patch erupted just under his chin, and the Pox spread upwards.
Once it reached his lips, he didn’t stand a chance.
No one survives once the pockmarks erupt inside the body.
It spread down his throat and into his lungs.
Luckily, he passed faster than some do, lingering in pain for a week or so after that, instead of months.
I should have called him before he passed. Even if he couldn’t talk, I should have reached out once his wife let me know he was dying. I could have said goodbye, at least.
“What is wrong with me today? Stop thinking about Cash!” My voice cracks as I rub my forehead, the guilt I’ve tried so hard to ignore splitting my heart in two. “The course notes for Phil of Death in the alley!” I shout again, desperate to distract myself.
Being dead means no self-medicating with boxed wine to distract me from the grief that shouldn’t belong to me. Who am I to grieve so profoundly for someone who was, at best, a professional acquaintance? Cash probably didn’t even notice that I didn’t call.
I scoff, turning to the only remaining escapism from the lies I tell myself: helping Esther, since she’s the only one suffering from my death.
I can’t ease her burden, but I can distract her from her sadness, from grading the god-awful intro-level essays about epistemology.
If I were her, I’d be taking any opportunity, especially since she’s been looking for these course notes.
Esther swings her arms out to stretch, and her arms pass right through me.
“Fuck!” The pain is excruciating. And yet, the molten lava feeling of Esther walking through me is a relief, compared to the anguish gutting me from the inside.
“Course notes! Alley!” I manage to bark as I back out of reach.
I should be better at dodging her after four months of constant spectral obsession, but her studio apartment is tiny.
Yeah, I could just float through everything, but passing through her bed wouldn’t be very human-like at all, and I need… Well, I need to feel human.
I need to stay Lucy.
But then—miracle of miracles—Esther stands up and walks to the window.
“Did you hear me this time? Or is this just a regular stretch break?” I ask, as if she’ll give me some answer to add to my inconclusive evidence.
“Could that be what I think it is?” She cocks her head as she looks out the window, exposing the tattooed lips just behind her ear.
Those lips were a target; Dream Esther would make the softest gasp every time I kissed them.
Even now, that tattoo is a magnet, and I am helplessly caught in its pull.
However, the burn of Life is a very effective deterrent to any amorous fantasies.
As is the knowledge that Real-Life Esther is not Dream Esther.
Even if Real-Life Esther ever liked Real-Life Lucy as much as Dream Esther and Dream Lucy liked each other, that wouldn’t mean Real-Life Esther would want Real-Dead Lucy to kiss her neck.
I shake my head to erase the surge of longing to press my lips there anyway, pain be damned. “Yes! It’s my stuff! Go steal it!”
“If it is Lucy’s stuff, should I go through it?” Esther taps her chin. “Would it be ethical and professional to raid your hot but missing and potentially dead colleague’s belongings?”
“Oh, I’m hot now, am I?” I can’t help but laugh.
The sound is as bitter and raw as the rest of me.
What a perfect time to add on the blatant reminder that Esther had seen me too, had wanted me too?
I’m already falling apart at the seams; why not throw one more regret in the mix!
“Yes, raid my belongings. You have my full consent to go through my shit.”
“Could I rationalize stealing her stuff with the assumption that the ends justify the means? Like, doing justice to her seminar—which I still don’t know how I ended up teaching.
” Esther wrinkles her nose. “And, if Lucy ever comes back, she might want her stuff, right? Could this be considered safekeeping in that case? Or, if she’s not coming back, wouldn’t it be better for me to have it than someone else? ”
“Yes to all of the above!” My laugh is exasperated.
Why do I find her most frustrating qualities so charming?
Why did I let them stop me when I was alive?
“Bitch, I know you’re a philosophy professor, but stop overthinking and asking hypothetical-sounding questions that you already know the answer to! Just do it!”