Nine
My landlord must be either very generous (or just disorganized) because I died four months ago, and they are just now getting around to clearing out my apartment. It’s not like I had auto-pay set up. They really let me go three months without paying rent?
I crane my neck to peer down through the sheer pink curtains at the dingy alley between the two brick buildings.
The overcast skies leave the alley dimly lit, so it’s hard to tell what’s happening three stories down.
I could easily stick my head through Esther’s windowpane for a better view, but that wouldn’t be very human of me.
People don’t stick their heads through closed windows on chilly autumn days, and I’m unwilling to give up what little humanity I have left quite yet.
“Hey, Mom. It’s Esther.” My Tie’s singsong voice is more timid than usual as she leaves a voicemail. “Just calling to wish you a happy birthday. You probably won’t listen to this, but if you do, and if this is still your number, and if you don’t block me first, I hope you’re well.”
I try not to eavesdrop, but this is the fourth time Esther has called and left a voicemail for a friend or family member since I died.
Other than work calls, she hasn’t spoken to anyone on the phone in the few months I’ve been haunting her.
Despite her many attempts, no one in her life ever picks up.
No one ever calls back.
Honestly, it’s impressive how often Esther tries, when not a single person has called her. My chest blazes with rage and pity and…hurt on her behalf. What kind of parents would block their child’s phone number? Though, I’m sure if I’d ever tried to call my mom when we were alive, she would have.
“If you and Dad could get over the me-being-gay thing, I’d love it if you would call me back. Hope all of your birthday wishes come true. Unless you wished for me to be straight, of course.” Esther laughs weakly, her singsong voice growing strained. My jaw tightens. “Okay, love you. Bye.”
I keep my focus out the window to avoid looking at Esther—more for my own peace of mind than her privacy.
There’s nothing I can do to fix the tremor in her voice, and if I look at her, I’ll care too much.
I’ll want to fix things. Even though she’s probably crying, there’s nothing I can do to comfort her.
Not that I’d know what to say in the first place.
I was already hopeless at shit like this before I died; now I’m completely useless.
For my own sanity, I pretend not to hear her sniffles.
Instead, I keep looking out the window, forcing my gaze from the alley below, up to the window of my old apartment directly across from Esther’s.
Someone in a mask, gloves, and navy blue polo shirt picks up the husk of my purple oxalis from the windowsill.
I hope they don’t toss it in a garbage bag.
“It looks dead, but it’s just dormant!” I call, even though no one can hear me, let alone the cleaning company across the street.
“All it needs is some water and attention, and it’ll bounce back. ”
The cleaning crew has been moving my belongings to the alley all afternoon.
To be honest, I’m a little disappointed I missed them taking my body to the morgue.
I would have stuck my head through the window for that!
But if they’re already packing up my dishes and putting them on the curb for people to take, my body is probably long gone.
It is a little weird that I never saw the police, or a mortician.
Esther doesn’t go anywhere besides campus, other than meandering slowly home to the grocery store or for a treat to eat in the park.
We haven’t been gone long enough to miss the aftermath of a dead body being discovered in the apartment building next door.
And ghosts can’t sleep; I should have noticed the flashing lights if they came overnight.
Also strange that the cleaning crew isn’t in full hazmat gear, if I’ve been rotting in there for three months. Merely wearing a mask and rubber gloves seems unsafe.
“Unless I died somewhere else?” I tilt my head.
I’d assumed my body was in there, but maybe Drunk Lucy was adventurous after a box of wine.
It’d be out of character, but maybe I went for a walk by myself that night and became a statistic.
I laugh at myself. “Physical activity? In public? At night? Unlikely.”
Esther’s been watching for something, too.
I like to think she’s been watching for signs of me, though, because she whispers, “I hope you’re okay, wherever you are,” when she looks out the window.
I never know how to answer her, but I do my best to reassure her that I’m fine.
Being dead would imply that I’m not okay, but honestly, I don’t mind.
I’m more bothered by the fact that I don’t mind that I died, than the fact that I am dead.
Not that she hears me when I tell her that.
“Hey, East? I think my course notes are in that box,” I call over my shoulder as a member of the cleaning crew drops a cardboard box next to the dumpster.
In it, books are stacked haphazardly high next to some three-ring binders.
I’m relieved they’re putting it on the curb, instead of throwing it in the trash.
At least this way, my meager belongings might be useful to someone else.
With everyone’s wallets still recovering from the Pox restrictions, free dishes and clothes go a long way.
And they’re not packaged for burning, so they should be safe to take. Now, I know for sure that it wasn’t the Pox that got me, although I would have noticed the herald patch first, even before the pockmarks erupted.
I turn to Esther, hoping I can make her hear me for once. Somehow. Subconsciously.
She taps away on her laptop on her tiny table, dressed only in boxers and her shirt, all the buttons undone. She squints at the screen in concentration. Her eyes are damp, with a hint of red around the edges making the blue even brighter than usual. Tear streaks stain her cheeks.
“Fuck your mom, East.” I wish I could haunt her mother, just to fuck with her for disowning someone as sweet as Esther. For not picking up the phone when her overly-loyal daughter calls. Not that it’d do any good. I can’t do shit as a ghost.
I never cried about my mom kicking me out. Even when Cash made me go to therapy when I was his TA, my therapist learned to keep the tissues near her. She was always more moved by my breakthroughs than me.
Not to say I never cry. As a July Cancer, I cry a lot. Cried, rather. Still haven’t been able to cry as a ghost, but I certainly did when I was alive. Over the stupidest shit like stepping in puddles, avocados spoiling before I got a chance to eat them, and people applauding too loudly.
Just not about my mom. I hardened my heart to her long ago.
Methodically, I step over to Esther; I’ve been getting the hang of walking instead of floating.
My goal is to get good enough to walk next to Esther, instead of being pulled along with her.
Harriet was right; walking does make me feel more human.
Less like a ghost haunting my coworker, and more like a living person who works alongside her roommate.
Or—if I can indulge in wishful thinking—girlfriend.
I have to laugh at the thought. “Wishful thinking is an understatement.” That would have required talking to Esther when I was still alive. If I had done that, maybe I wouldn’t be dead now. Endless opportunities to try, and I intentionally let each one pass.
I lean down, breath catching in my throat at the familiarity, our closeness.
The tattoo behind her ear, so close, and yet so impossibly far, makes my heart ache.
If I were solid, her curly brown hair would be tickling my face like it used to do in my dreams. Instead, the sharp burn of Life sears my face where her curls pass through me.
No matter how hard I try, there’s no whiff of the jasmine I’d breathed in every night.
On our cloud blanket, we would cling to each other and watch the purple glitter grass wave in the breeze.
Esther would talk to me in her soft voice, and I’d bury my face in her neck and kiss the lips tattooed behind her ear, instead of answering her million questions.
As in real life, I never saw the point in talking to her.
I should have, because oh, I miss dreaming!
All of my best dreams were about Esther.
The only thing I used to look forward to every night was sleeping, because it meant being with her.
It was never real; I’d been so stubborn for no logical reason.
Why didn’t I talk to her, like I wanted?
Because I was afraid of enjoying it too much?
That I’d slip up and talk to her in real life?
So what? Why didn’t I? Would that have been so bad?
I shake my head, longing to bury my face in her neck mere inches from me, to smell the sweet, floral scent of her shampoo.
To kiss the soft skin until she’s gasping and begging for more.
If I’d ever been brave enough to speak to her in my dreams, maybe I would have found the courage to kiss my East like that in real life.
But ghosts don’t sleep, and therefore, I can never dream again. At most, she might shiver if I tried to kiss her, and I will only ever feel pain. There’s no chance to rectify my regrets.
All I can do now is try not to make the same ones in death.
“Look out the window!” I shout in her ear, my hoarse voice extra raspy from the lump in my throat. Maybe ghosts can cry.
I step away from her, desperate for some space. If, by some miracle, her subconscious did hear me, then Esther might suddenly get up. Her Life burns my soul when she walks through me without warning more often than I would like.