Two #2
There is so much more I could say. My old therapist would question my choice to verbally journal these observations, instead of my feelings about being a ghost, or examining why I’m haunting Esther.
But this is my journal. These are my facts, my observations.
I will not be drawing any conclusions until I’ve gathered them all.
Mostly so I can ignore the meaning behind all this for a little longer, if there is a meaning; the signs from the universe are lit up like a marquee, but I don’t want to acknowledge what it has to say yet.
Facts are comfortable. If I’m dead, I have nothing but time to process what the facts might mean.
Just, slowly, bit by bit. I don’t need to handle everything at once. Or at all.
I am a philosophy professor who has dedicated my career to studying the afterlife. This is a unique opportunity I cannot pass up. There are probably bigger reasons I’m here, why I’m haunting Esther, and I will come to accept those. Eventually.
For now, I’m going to learn everything I never expected to have firsthand experience in. I’ll become my own primary source on what it means to be dead.
Inever realized before how little concern Esther has for her personal space.
On the short walk past the shops clustered on the edge of campus, she’s pulled me through no less than half a dozen people, all of whom burn just as painfully as she does.
It’s summer; there’s no one here. How does she manage to bump into nearly everyone she passes?
We are in the midst of a literal plague. Has she no concern for her health?
Has Esther already had the Pox?
I shake my head, pulling myself closer to keep pace, just to see if I can. “Floating next to the subject at shoulder level is manageable. Approximately three feet away. Pain level is zero.”
Esther looks both ways before jaywalking across the street, making a beeline for the liquor store.
I float ahead of her, to see if I’m able to sense her at all behind me, to stay ahead of her before I get burned.
Getting through the door of the liquor store is easy enough; the familiar rows of wine fancier than I drink, the shelves of brown liquor greet me like comfortable acquaintances.
My true friends are in the back, along the bottom shelf.
I wonder what’s Esther’s poison of choice—
Yanked backward through the door, I pass through someone else entering with a rush of pain. Esther carries on down the street, humming to herself as she opens the door next to the liquor store and walks into an ice cream shop.
“Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” Esther greets a mother with two kids as she holds the door open for them to go in ahead of her.
The pain of the kids running through me, or the woman carrying another baby who follows them, doesn’t even phase me. Disbelief and confusion have stunned me.
But why? It’s just ice cream. It’s July, and while I can’t feel the temperature, it looks hot. The cicadas are singing. Esther’s curls stick to her neck, and the mom with the kids is fanning herself, even inside.
Why does getting ice cream feel like culture shock?
“Hmm, what should I get?” Esther muses to herself, eagerly peering into the glass case behind the kids.
Embarrassment slowly seeps into my shock, and I try to hug myself, but my arms simply pass through me.
I curl my feet up instead, floating in an imitation of the fetal position somewhere above Esther’s right shoulder, safe from the kids running around.
Does everyone else get ice cream on their way home from work, instead of wine? Does Esther not drink at all? Somehow, this has rocked me more than being dead.
Once the family has been helped and sat at a table outside, Esther orders a strawberry cone with far more enthusiasm than necessary.
The teenage boy scooping her ice cream simply blinks with a slight nod.
His forearm is pitted and marred by Pox scars, the faded herald patch in the crook of his elbow.
An early case, I’d assume, as there’s no hint of the redness and swelling that linger for months afterwards.
One with a relatively easy recovery, being so far from his torso, and at his age.
“Thank you!” Esther beams as she taps her payment. “This is my treat for the week! It looks so good!”
“Have a nice day,” the boy deadpans, not even attempting a smile as he hands her the cone.
“For the week?” I ask as Esther marches past the woman and her children. “Subject appears to be mentally stable to an unrelatable degree. Really? One ice cream a week? That’s enough to cope with all the bullshit?”
The toddler in the mother’s arms looks up as I talk.
“Can you see me?” I ask them, for what feels like the hundredth time today, waving my hands. I’ve asked squirrels and a dog, and several professors. No one reacted. Maybe a kid will be different. “Can you hear me?!” I shout.
The toddler starts crying.
“Well, fuck,” I mutter as the achy tug pulls me down the sidewalk again. “Test subject number…” Once again, missing my journal. I didn’t keep track of how many people I tried to communicate with earlier today, when I was in panic mode. “Test subject baby is inconclusive.”
I catch up to Esther, floating alongside her as she hums to herself, shoulders dancing as she eats her ice cream.
She walks through a park, meandering along the paths I’ve never bothered to take on my way home from campus.
Stopping to watch ducks swim in a pond, she crunches the cone down to nothing, licking her fingers where the strawberry has melted down the side, before she continues on her way.
I should experiment more, try to remember more about this experience.
Try talking to the ducks, or see if water feels different than air.
Who knows how long it will last, after all?
Maybe I just get one day, a window into Esther’s life, before I move on to whatever is next.
I should take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
And yet, I simply watch her.
Learning about the afterlife is important, but admittedly, I am also curious about Esther herself.
What she’s like outside of work. If she actually does speak in questions all the time, and not just because Gilda makes her nervous.
If she’s anything like the Esther I’ve been dreaming of since we met a little over six months ago.
After everything today, I am drained beyond belief; basking in her presence is enough.
Esther must not live too far from me, because she enters an apartment complex I’ve passed on my way home, maybe only a block or two away.
I hadn’t noticed on the way to work, too caught up in accepting my paranormal state to observe anything worthwhile.
As Esther kicks off her shoes, I float over to perch above her table, somewhere safe where she won’t accidentally walk into me.
When I turn back, a laugh escapes me. Before she’s even set her bag down, Esther is kicking off her pants with a sigh of relief. “Finally! Pants off o’clock! Home sweet home, baby! Happy Friday to me!”
Despite the shock of everything today, her sweet silliness softens the blow. I don’t bother to hide my smile—there’s no one to see it anyway. If I must be dead, if I must be haunting someone, I’m glad it’s Esther.