Twenty-Two #2
“Oh.” I should have guessed she was talking about me.
But old habits—self-deprication and a complete absence of any self-esteem—die hard.
Despite my lack of corporeal body, I still feel a warm thrill, from excitement and validation that we were both…
But it doesn’t matter. There’s no point in reimagining the what-ifs, when I’ve already lost any chance we might have had.
Like Gilda said, we can’t go back. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for haunting me, Lucy. I’m enjoying it way more than I thought I would. Not that I ever thought I’d be haunted by a ghost, of course. It’s infinitely more pleasant than the movies make it out to be.” The water shuts off with a squeak of the valve. “Don’t peek. I’m getting out.”
As much as I long to cling to every word, every vulnerable moment, every precious gift Esther gives me, I’m grateful to end the conversation. It’s not worth telling her I liked her, too. That I have feelings for her now, even. Because what could come from telling her that now?
I frown at the strange, uneasy dread that comes with choosing to stay silent.
That used to be my default. Has death truly changed me so much?
Nothing good would come from telling her.
So then why does this omission feel so uncomfortable?
“Nothing I haven’t seen at this point, but I’ll avert my eyes. ”
I don’t remind her that I’ve been able to see her through the shower curtain this whole time.
The physical realm does nothing to block my constant awareness of Esther, but she seems to prefer pretending she has some privacy.
The wood grain on the bathroom door is suddenly fascinating while she hums a tune behind me.
“Okay, all decent,” Esther announces, wrapped in a bathrobe as she examines the mirror. The steam and condensation in the room has mutilated my poem, droplets rolling down through all of my carefully traced letters. Still, there is evidence that I exist. I changed something tangible.
Esther’s head cocks as she squints at the mirror. “Sorry, I can’t really read what it says.”
“Don’t apologize for that, East. It’s a long poem for a small mirror.”
“What did it say?”
“‘I heed not that my earthly lot hath little of Earth in it. That years of love have been forgot in the hatred of a minute. I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, but that you sorrow for my fate who am a passerby.’” I shrug. “It’s Poe. Of course.”
Esther pauses, tilting her head to examine the mirror. “You have a beautiful voice for poetry, Lucy. But this one makes me sad. You’re more than a passerby.”
A beautiful voice? She must really not be able to hear me. I huff. “Aren’t I? You cared more about my death than anyone, and we barely said a word to each other when I was alive.”
Esther chews her lower lip. “I regret that.”
“Me too.”
The heavy moment lingers between us in silence.
Finally, Esther lets out a breath. “Sorry to ruin your handiwork, but I need to use the mirror. I’d normally never admit this, but you probably already know about my unibrow. It’s plucking time!”
I laugh. “Your mustache is getting a little long, too.”
Esther laughs. “Ouch! Luce, that’s cruel.”
I tsk. “I’m just saying, I had my share of whiskers when I was alive. I’d want to know if it was time to bust out the epilator!”
“In that case, thank you.” With a chuckle, Esther shakes her head, before picking up the towel to wipe the mirror free of steam and condensation.
We both jump. In the reflection, I am standing behind her.
“Oh shit, Lucy, is that you?!” Esther’s mouth drops open. “I can’t believe it! How can I see you?”
“Is that me?” I wave. The reflection waves back, my jaw hanging just as loose as Esther’s. Is that… Is that me? I blink, disbelief giving way to delirium. For the first time in over ten months, I can see my reflection. “Damn. I look good for a ghost!”
Harriet did a good job tying up my veil.
It’s perched on my head like a turban with a bow.
My shroud, while not the most flattering length for my legs or arms, makes my neck look elegant.
Even the white color looks okay against my skin.
Stark white is normally too cold against my warm undertones, but now my undertones are translucent.
My skin looks healthier than it did when I was alive, too.
No blemishes or hyperpigmentation from old acne scars.
My eyes look a little sunken. But honestly, after ten months of being dead, if eye bags are my biggest flaw, I don’t look too bad.
“You do look good. I’ve never seen you wear white before.”
Giddiness spreads through me in a rush, and I laugh. “That’s because I never wear white.”
“Can we…” Esther trails off, chewing on her lip. “This is weird, but can we try to touch? If it hurts, we can stop, of course. Just…can you just hold my hand, when I can see it too?”
Eyes burning, I nod, understanding exactly what she means. I can see myself when I rub her back or pat her hand, I feel it so intensely. But to her, I’m just a whisper of cool air. Touching me when she can see me would make it a little more real, not just a voice in her head.
She holds her hand out next to her, palm up.
I ground myself and put my hand in hers.
Her skin burns hot to the touch, but I lace our fingers together anyway.
After a few seconds of fire in my palm, her life fades into a tolerable warmth in my hand.
If I focus on it, it hurts just as much.
But after laying with Esther so much while she was sick, I’ve learned to not only ignore the pain, I’ve come to embrace it.
“Your hand is cold,” Esther chokes out. When I meet her gaze in the mirror, she has tears in her eyes. “I’m scared to look away. Like if I stop looking at you, you’ll fade away.”
“I’ll still be here, Esther. I’m Tied to you.
” My voice cracks into a whisper. Despite months of not seeing myself, I can’t tear myself away from her gaze.
My East can actually see me. This is real eye contact, no adjustments needed to make pretending easier.
“Even when you can’t see me, I’ll still be here with you. ”
Esther swallows a sob and brings my hand to her mouth. Her kiss burns where her lips touch my knuckles. The aroma of jasmine shampoo and rose bodywash blossom in the small room. I’m reminded of our dates on the cloud blanket, breathing in her floral scent and tasting the vanilla from her kiss.
But that wasn’t real.
I don’t even know if this is real. Or if my imagination is putting scents from my dreams into my mind now, because I want those dreams to be reality.
I want to kiss her and taste her vanilla Chapstick.
I want to bury my face in her neck, breathe in her familiar scent, and press my lips to her tattoo.
I want to feel her warm skin under my hands. I want everything.
But that can’t happen.
Everything I want is impossible.
For one last, lingering moment, I meet her teary blue eyes once more in the mirror. When the surge of bittersweet regret overwhelms my focus, I fade from view. Hot tears roll down my own cheeks as my hand passes through hers. “Sorry. I’m still here.”
Still staring with red-rimmed eyes at the spot where I should be in the mirror—where I am, where I swear I am, even if neither of us can see me—Esther chokes a sob into her empty hand. “I know you are. I can still feel you.”