If you’re afraid of dying alone

I’ll tell you how I died, but you have to promise not to laugh. I’m serious.

I was living alone in a tiny apartment in Allston, Massachusetts -- I was living alone because my boyfriend, Gary, just left me. I know what you’re picturing: some big, millennial brawl where we threw our IKEA flatware at each other and set fire to each other’s laundry baskets while I screamed, “Who is she?! Who is she?!”

I wish. That feels like an ending worthy of a long-winded relationship.

Instead, I came home from work one day and he was gone.

His stuff was gone too -- no trace of him left to burn except the couch he dragged in from the street corner a month before (the couch with the weird, dark red splotch that could’ve been spilled wine, but was probably blood).

It felt like a game. Like an Easter egg hunt. Like I’d find all his stuff hidden in the dark corner at the back of the closet or in the cabinet under the sink or behind the dumpster in the alley.

He changed his number. Deleted Facebook. His emails bounced.

He must have had his best buddy, Todd, come by, while I was out. Must’ve loaded up Todd’s dingy white pick-up with his X-box and flannel shirts and driven off into the sunset.

They were probably at Todd’s college, cracking open beer bottles with undergrad cleavage, or whatever it is 26-year-old toddler men do.

Anyway, enough about them. They were out of my life. Losers.

I was living alone.

Single for the first time since senior year of college and determined to enjoy it.

I wanted to whip myself into shape, to scrub off those soft layers that piled on from all our nights ordering in. I wanted to sculpt myself into a bullet, bold and sleek and ready to crash through new apartments and beds unharmed.

I made myself a lean, mean shrimp scampi with zucchini noodles.

It was so good, I shoveled it down my throat. I shoveled so much of it down my throat at once that a large chunk of shrimp blocked my airway.

And then I died. On my coffee table. Trying to give myself the Heimlich.

I died on a pile of trashy grocery-store-checkout-line magazines with tips on plumping up my flat butt and faking cheekbones with bronzer.

I died with QVC on in the background on mute; it was comforting -- the bright colors and white smiles, the confidence that buying this cowl/scarf/skirt/leg-warmer would make your sorry life bearable.

I died with a hamper overstuffed with sweaty sports bras, three overdue cable bills, $42,365 in deferred student loan debt, four missed calls from my mother and a perfectly portioned triple-layer chocolate mousse chilling in the fridge (that I would never eat).

I blamed Gary.

The only real benefit to being a ghost (and there are many downsides: you’re always cold, you’re always tired, you’re always hungry but you can’t eat) is that you can pop across any distance just by thinking about where you’re going.

The bad news is -- popping drains your energy. The more energy you store up, the more you can interact with the living world. The less energy you have, the more invisible you are. The best way to store energy is to sit still and charge up.

That’s why the only ghost sightings you hear about are creepy 18th century women in frilly nightgowns – they’re just old homebodies.

First, I wanted to visit my parents and watch my demise bring them together to sob on each other’s shoulders. That’s what divorced parents are supposed to do when their only child dies tragically, right? Put aside their differences and mourn together.

Instead, they were quiet, distant. Maybe shocked, maybe just embarrassed that they put so much effort into raising a daughter who choked to death on an ocean spider. They stood on opposite ends of the church, like different parties at a wedding.

When the funeral was over, and the rest of my stuff was carted out of my apartment, they went their separate ways. They even deleted each other’s names out of their cells, like teenagers.

Dad went back to his girlfriend and mom moved to a retirement community in Florida, even though she hadn’t even hit 60.

By the way, Gary didn’t even bother going to my funeral. Ass.

I popped back to the Allston apartment, because it felt right. When you die somewhere, you have a special connection to it. It feels like a childhood Christmas eve at home-- all cozy and meaningful.

Growing up, before my parents divorced, we didn’t have a fireplace, but we put the Yule Log on our TV and cranked the thermostat up as high as it would go. I’d swaddle myself in scratchy blankets on the sofa and crunch down on supermarket sugar cookies and read flowery Santa Claus origin stories and feel so warm and peaceful.

That’s how that ratty apartment felt to me now. It was a place of rest and restoration. It was powerful.

I spent a few days on my own, relaxing. And then -- a couple moved in.

They were older – must’ve been in their 60’s – too old to be sharing an apartment this cruddy. From what I could tell, they both just left their spouses for each other. And they couldn’t be friggin’ happier about it.

Lydia and Sam. Lydia was edgy, dressed in flowing black clothing, wore obnoxious perfume and painted pictures of naked women. Sam was sensitive and soulful and sang in a bluegrass cover band.

I hated them.

I hated the way they cooked dinner together. I hated the way Sam burned the salmon and Lydia still ate it and pretended it was delicious. I hated the way that burned salmon made my place smell like a fish market for weeks. I hated that my sense of smell was still functional.

I hated the way they danced together without music playing. I hated the way they brushed their teeth together, and clipped their toenails together, and I even hated the way they both went about their own business and looked up every once in a while to blow each other a kiss.

But the worst part was when they were intimate.

I tried to leave as soon as they started undressing, but I was still too weak to pop away. So I stood in the kitchen, as far away as I could get from the bedroom, and tried to drown out their moans and grunts with my own loud thoughts.

Eventually, I mustered my strength and turned on their blender.

Sam came running out of the bedroom, half-naked, wielding an acoustic guitar by its neck like a sword. “Who’s there?” he shouted over the whirring.

Lydia pushed him aside. She headed straight for the kitchen and shut off the blender, no nonsense.

“Must’ve been a power surge or something.”

She looked right at me as she said it. Could she see me?

I decided I wanted them out.

Seeing them together made my blood boil, and I’m not sure I even have blood anymore. Whatever was boiling, it probably wasn’t good for my health.

I thought I knew how to scare them away. But every time I turned on the microwave or shut off the TV, they thought it was faulty wiring. When I smacked down picture frames of their grandchildren, they thought I was a rat.

I thought it might be easier to freak them out at night in their bedroom (I’ve watched a lot of horror movies). So one night, I gently eased open their door and wandered in.

I saw them tangled together on the bed together in a shaft of moonlight. Like something out of a dream. Fast asleep, soft smiles on their faces. Breathing in tandem.

They looked so damn peaceful.

Gary and I never slept like that.

We slept like my parents did the year before they announced their divorce – bookending the bed. I know I’m a sweaty sleeper, but still.

I decided it was finally time to visit Gary.

I felt strong enough.

I found him in another small apartment bedroom – one I didn’t recognize – with a view across the Charles toward Allston. It was quiet, save for the hum of the heater and the occasional breath of a passing car.

Gary was sitting on the side of the bed in an undershirt, nipping at his fingernails. He did that when he was nervous. Bad habit.

I walked toward him, put my hand on his cheek.

I gathered every ounce of energy I had, every bit of affection for him I ever felt, and I made myself appear.

His eyes widened. He didn’t scream.

“Abby?” he asked.

I looked down at him. Really looked at him. I couldn’t say anything, but I tried.

“Abby…”

I held it as long as I could. I wanted it to be real.

And then I faded, I was invisible again.

Gary started crying-- big, ugly sobs.

A lump under the covers beside him stirred.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Todd said, emerging.

He sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around a trembling Gary.

“Shh, it’s okay.”

Gary leaned back into Todd, they pressed their foreheads together. Almost… romantic.

Oh.

“I saw Abby,” Gary said to Todd. “She looked terrible.”

Jesus. Can’t I ever catch a break?

“It’s just a bad dream. It’s gonna be okay.”

Gary looked back over at me, questioning.

I nodded.

He closed his eyes and leaned into Todd. Sank back into bed with him.

I felt my blood turn to flat soda, the hate and anger drain away, and I waited for the light...

No light yet. Guess I might have another lesson to learn.

I tried to pop back home, but I was too weak. So I walked. As I crossed the city, I saw other loners – maybe humans, maybe just their ghosts -- scrolling on their phones for comfort.

I had always known, I think. I should’ve been the first to leave.

The next time I save up some energy, I think I’ll pop down to Florida and visit mom.