Twelve
My experiments are still inconclusive, but I am more hopeful than ever that Esther’s subconscious can hear me, because she’s listening to a new single by my favorite artist. We’re dancing to it together in the kitchen—well, maybe not together.
To lower the burn risk, I’m dancing a safe distance from Esther, though my face is beaming just as bright as if she was in my arms.
I overheard Syd and another student in Phil of Death talking about the new album last week.
It took me five days of shouting in Esther’s ear before she finally listened.
A new record for her subconscious responding to something she’s not already thinking about.
It’s easier when I tell her things related to what she’s already doing.
Getting her to do something outside of her norms typically takes a couple of weeks, long enough that there’s no way I can prove it was me.
There’s a good chance her phone can hear me; it’s been pushing corresponding ads to her.
Since Esther first hit play, she’s had the whole album on repeat. Pleased that she likes the music I “recommended,” I can’t help but dance along with her. I was never a big dancer in real life. Mom said dancing invited sin, and that lesson lingered, unchecked by my therapy.
But now? I have every reason to dance, and no reason not to. Literally, no one can see me, and I can float! So why wouldn’t I dance, when I can spin around like a figure skater? Hell, if Esther had a pole, I’d be on it. No upper body strength required for ghosts.
Esther’s always dancing around the apartment.
Even now, she’s watering my plant, now full and bushy with purple butterfly leaves and delicate pink flowers that brought me so much satisfaction.
Even I, the depressed disaster queer that I was, could not only keep a plant alive most of the time, I could make it bloom!
Esther’s phone chimes with a notification, interrupting the music for a moment.
When she checks it, Esther gasps. “Oh shit, Defective Barrett finally responded!”
I stop spinning around midair to face Esther, waiting for a rush of dizziness that never comes. Six or so months of being dead, and I still expect my not-body to act like my real body did. There’s no head rush without a head.
I creep over her shoulder as she reads the email from the detective.
Angel’s name and contact information are listed in the email.
“Oh, Lord. They finally found him.” I wonder how he took the news.
I scoff. “Honestly, I bet he is loving this. Check his social media. See if he’s making my death about himself yet. ”
Angel has always taken after Mom. Well, he has Dad’s charisma and good looks, with Mom’s narcissistic tendencies and Eurocentric features.
Every year on his birthday, I used to look him up on social media, intending to send him a happy birthday message.
Twelve months was always just long enough to forget how he treated me when we were kids.
But then I’d see the smug thirst traps and obnoxious humble bragging about how blessed his life is. And how hard he’s worked to get this far in life. And how much he struggled growing up with a single mom. And if he can do it, no one has any excuse for failure.
I’d close the app every time, remembering exactly why I stayed no-contact with him. Even his carefully curated internet persona was attention-seeking, controlling, and judgmental. Just like Mom.
“What should I do?” Esther asks the plant. “Should I reach out to him? Extend my sympathy and support?”
I let out a derisive laugh. “That’s a terrible idea!” Hopefully, some part of her deep down will hear me. “He’s going to walk all over your good heart and shockingly pathetic lack of boundaries. Seriously, let Defective Barrett deal with him. Don’t get involved.”
Esther wrinkles her nose and wobbles her head in indecision. “Let me see what I can find out about him, at least.”
She searches his name on a few different social media platforms, before finding his main account.
I crane my neck over her shoulder, ignoring the burn where I get too close.
I want to know what he’s saying about me.
Maybe I take after Mom a little too. Or maybe Mom was right all along, and I truly am a selfish bitch.
But Angel has posted nothing.
Not a damn thing about his missing, presumed-dead sister.
Just another gym selfie posted an hour ago, touting his new PR for his bench press. And then he asked his “female fans” to leave a kiss emoji if he could bench them.
“Barf,” Esther says.
“Barf is an understatement.” I frown, my eyebrows pinching together as pressure swells behind my eyes.
I don’t know what I expected. We’d only spoken the once since Mom kicked me out.
Neither of them ever showed care or concern for me in all the years since.
He never reached out on my birthday or holidays.
Growing up, he always parroted Mom’s insults, and snitched anytime I did something “sinful” (basically anytime I didn’t let him get his way).
Since he was Mom’s little cherub, I had to let him walk all over me. He and Mom idolized each other, and I was the one who got blamed and punished for everything. There was never love lost between us.
So I shouldn’t feel hurt that he doesn’t care that I died.
But I do.
“Your mom is missing, too?” Esther clicks a pinned post about Mom’s disappearance, still up from a few years ago. “Why would he have old posts about your mom missing, but not a single mention of you?”
“Why indeed?” I respond rhetorically, the lump in my throat making it hard to talk.
“Maybe Defective Barrett didn’t explain the situation well. He is kind of a dipshit.”
I chuckle halfheartedly. She’s not wrong.
With Detective Barrett in charge of the investigation, I’m never going to find out how I died.
The missing white girls get media attention, and I’ll become yet another Black woman whose case quietly goes cold.
If my only family member isn’t concerned about my disappearance, no one will push for answers.
“Maybe I just need to tell him.” She clicks the message button and sends a “hello” before I can stop her. Not that I could stop her, but I would have tried if she’d thought about it for more than half a second! Esther hums approvingly. “Okay, what should I say next?”
“Oh my god!” My hands cover my mouth as I spin in circles around her. “Why did you do that? You’re so impulsive sometimes!”
Charging full speed ahead, Esther types up an explanation about how she’s a friend of mine, and she’s so sorry for what he’s going through when his mom is already missing.
Only she sends each thought one at a time, instead of one longer, edited message—my personal pet peeve. By the time she types the seventh message (an invitation to meet so she can give him some personal belongings of mine), my not-eyelid is twitching from annoyance instead of panic.
With a shake of my head, I tell her, “He’s not going to respond.” I feel inclined to be helpful, even if this is a bad idea.
Ugh god, what if he does respond? Maybe he’ll be such a douche that Esther blocks him.
That’s the best case scenario, honestly.
Better for her to find out through DM than in person, because I already know she’s going to want to have a heart-to-heart—not that Angel has one.
“You need to appeal to his ego if you want him to do something. You can’t phrase it like you’re doing him a favor.
You have to imply that he’d be a good person if he does respond. ”
It seems Esther unintentionally agrees with me. That, or she subconsciously heard me. She adds two more messages explaining how it’d be nice to process with someone who knew me as well as he did, and she can meet him anywhere that is convenient for him. “Would that be enough?”
“Bitch, yes! You’ve sent him nine messages. Stop!”
“Oh, he’s replying!” Esther shimmies nervously, her shoulder searing through my neck repeatedly. No amount of Life in the world would keep me away from reading his response.