Haunted

"Can you believe he’d say that?" she asks. "I was stunned! No one else laughed, but I thought it was hysterical. I almost died in the middle of the staff meeting! It’s not just me, right? You see it, too?"

I smile, my head near hers. She's sitting on a red-checked blanket wearing a blue-checked dress.

She always brought a blanket when she visited me. We'd sit here for hours. Sometimes looking at photos. Sometimes in silence. Today she brought a little tumbler of wine, which she clung to with one hand while the other sliced through the air that way it did when she was a little drunk and a little silly.

"That’s crazy," I say, not sure what to add.

"I knew you’d get it," she says, her laughter subsiding. "You always understand my sense of humor."

"What’s not to get?" I ask, rhetorically. "You’re smart. Funny. You always make me laugh. Plus you’re never mean-spirited. You’re easily the nicest person I’ve ever known."

She smiles that way she does when a memory of the past creeps it's way to the present.

"I think about how we met all the time," she says, after a pause. "God, that was so random. I didn’t even like coffee back then. Don’t know why I stopped in. Talk about luck. Did I ever tell you, I told Lucy about you when I got to class, and she said you probably just hung out there every day, waiting to meet girls? She was certain you were a creep! She tried to convince me that you used the same routine on everyone you met, but I defended you."

"I never liked Lucy," I say.

"I know you never liked Lucy!" she adds, at the same time, making me chuckle.

I stand, looking down at her, lost in her own world.

"I miss you," I say, my emotions bumbling up. "I hate being apart. I never wanted it to be this way. I hope you know."

She looks sad. She always looks sad lately.

"This really sucks," she says, finally, her eyes cast downward toward. "I don’t blame you for anything, but I HATE this. Hate that I feel this way. I wake up every morning hoping it’s just a bad dream and that you’ve come home. I’ve been trying to stay strong with everything, all the changes. I know you want that. But it’s too much most of the time. I’m not sure I can keep going."

If I could cry, I would.

"Don’t say that …" I say.

"I know I have to, but it’s hard," she adds. "You’re everywhere I look these days, and nowhere, at the same time."

We stay there, in the quiet. I'm not sure what to say. I was never good at saying the thing that needed to be said when it was needed to be said.

There's a long silence. It feels like ages. I can hear kids laughing a few blocks away and the sound of what I think is a garbage truck backing up. The wind gusts, her brown hair flitting in front of her eyes. I notice she is crying, silently.

Finally, she reaches into her purse, pulling out flowers, placing them on the ground in front of my grave marker.

"I love you," she says, so soft I can barely hear it. "Know that. Please. And I always will. No matter what. You’re forever in my heart, in my thoughts. I just hope, wherever you are, you know I’m still here; I won’t let you go."

***

I was 34 when I died. It's been two months now. I try not to let it get me down. Some people do not live as long. Some people live much longer but never really live at all. I was lucky.

One second I was there, the next I wasn’t. A flash. A moment. That was all it took.

It did not hurt. Dying was painless. Like stepping into a warm bath. One foot in, and half the work is done. The rest is just letting go.

I make it sound easy: letting go. But that is the hard part. Moving on. Checking out. Life is too damn great. The world is beautiful. Memories are forever. A life spent kicking and screaming. A life of taxes and bad Thai food and cold and angst and worry. A life spent dreading the next morning – then suddenly there are no more mornings. And all you want is one more.

You finally get the meaning of life once it is taken from you. That’s the gut punch.

I still feel. It’s a reflex. Love. Loneliness. Despair. It’s like an echo of a previous emotion, but it is still there.

Echoes. I guess that's what keeps me here. Why I can't move on.

***

I saw her today. She was like a ghost. I get the irony of that. But, still, she was. A memory. Something distant and tangible but definitely not real.

It had been weeks since I last saw her, ever since I left the cemetery. I'm not sure why I left. I just did.

Then I wandered around, searching for something I couldn't name. I visited a lot of the places we once frequented. I'm not sure why. I'd just stand there and stare at the people and wish they’d stare back.

I try to remember what it was like to be alive. And I can. Barely.

That's when I see her. She's crossing the street at the coffee shop where we first met. She's either going to work or coming from it, wearing that blue suit she'd wear when she had a big meeting.

I almost say hello. Stop. Let’s talk. It was an impulse. Because it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn't hear me. But I almost do it anyway.

She looks sad in a way she hadn't just a few weeks before. The beauty is still there, but it hides a lot of pain. I assume that is because of me. I know that look. I caused her a lot of pain when I was alive, and it did not stop when I left.

As she nears me, she hesitates -- for a moment, a split second. I feel it. It's a reaction. A small one. But something. I KNOW it was something. It still hurts. For us both.

***

I came back to our house. Where we lived. I held out as long as I could. Six months. Maybe seven. I didn’t want to, but I was drawn there.

I spent days on the lawn, looking in, trying to not go through the door. She left and came back, every day. But I just stood there. I just stared at the dancing lights inside, trapped somewhere between the past and the present.

THEN

"I think this is yours," she said, approaching my table. "My name’s not 'Pete.'"

"Neither is mine," I said with a laugh, taking the coffee. "But, yeah, this my drink. Thanks. They’re, uh, not very good here."

She lingered by my table that way people do when they are not in a hurry to leave. "I agree," she said, flashing the first of a million smiles. "It’s like they’re trying to be bad!"

"I know!" I said, a bit too enthusiastically. "And they’re SOOOO good at it."

"Right?" she said, laughing. "If they sold 'Bad Customer Service' here instead of coffee, they’d have lines around the corner."

We both laugh until we don't. She extends her hand. "Hi, I'm ..."

NOW

And then, like that, I'm inside the house.

That is where I once slept. That is where we made dinner. That is where I proposed to her. That is where I fell and broke my neck and died. And that is where she found me, a lifeless body, and cradled me and screamed and cried until she had no more tears.

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Not true. All I saw was the fucking stairs. Then the ceiling. Then I was dead and standing here, looking down at myself.

But now that I'm officially dead, ironically, the past is all around me, floating by. Every memory. Every moment.

THEN

"You promise you aren’t peeking!?" she said.

"I swear!" I said, feeling her waving her hand in front of my face to test me.

"OK," she said. "Because if you are, I’ll take it back."

I'd never met a woman who loved surprises more. The bigger, the more elaborate, the better. Luckily I had never spoiled a surprise by learning about it in advance, but I'd sworn to myself that if I ever did, I'd keep my goddamned my shut. I couldn't steal this from her.

She led me by the hand, out the front door, the cool of the winter air shivering my coat-less body.

"All right. Open!"

In front of me was a shiny, vintage convertible. The kind you see in movies starring James Dean.

"What is this?" I said, the practical one. "How could you afford ..."

"Don’t get too excited; I didn't buy it. I just borrowed it from a guy I work with for a few days. But I thought we could go up the coast for the weekend. You know, cruise with the top down."

"Well, it's winter ..." I said.

"Don't ruin it!" she said, laughing. "We can turn the heat on."

I was at a loss of words but not emotions. An unfamiliar place for me to be. Finally I just wrapped my hand around her waist and pulled her tight.

"I … don’t know what to say," I managed. "This is the best birthday I ever had. Seriously. You’re ... awesome. I don’t deserve ..."

NOW

No, your life doesn’t flash before your eyes when you die. That would be easy. A flash is quick.

Instead, your life tortures you. It chokes you. It taunts you, as real as when it first happened. Your life lingers like a shadow you can’t shake.

I sit next to her. I lie beside her while she sleeps, too. Cooks. Cleans. Whenever she’s home, I’m by her side. Waiting. Hoping she feels me here.

She doesn't, of course. Feel me. But she talks to herself when she sleeps, and sometimes, I swear she is talking to me.

She still has our photos up. Even the newest ones look older. Fading. I am surrounded by memories of me. Our life is on constant display.

THEN

"You sure about this?" I asked, wanting to make sure this was her dream, too.

"Yes. 100 percent."

"Because it doesn’t have to be this one. I don’t want you to think …"

"Will you stop?," she said, finally looking at me. "THIS is the house. We both agree. OK? Not the next one or the one before. This. One. Let’s just do it."

We had been standing in the driveway for about an hour weighing the pros and cons. Finally, I admitted I really, really wanted it. She said she did, too. But, like always, when I got what I wanted, I was suddenly not sure.

"But it costs so much," I said, trying to talk us out of the thing I wanted, or trying to test her in some weird way. "We will be paying until we’re …"

"Until we are two old folks STILL living together in this beautiful house?" she said, grabbing my hands. "So? Is that a bad fate? To grow old together in a place we love, until one day, it's ours?"

"We could start a family here," I said, allowing her enthusiasm to pave over my fear.

"We WILL start a family here," she corrected me. "We won’t regret this moment. But if we say no, we will. I know it."

NOW

They say the past makes sense with time and distance. But that’s all I have now, and I … just … feel lost. Angry. Frustrated.

I can’t move on, and I can’t be present. So I wallow in the pain of yesterday, caught in this slowly simmering sea of rage from which I can’t seem to escape.

She went on her first date tonight. It has been a year, from what I can gather. Joyce said she needed to get back “out there.”

The guy took her to a restaurant in Little Italy; I found out later when she called Joyce with the news. I wanted to go with her, but I can't seem to leave the house anymore.

She was polite but told Joyce she did not like him. There was no spark.

I'm relieved. I want her to move on. But I also don’t. Not really.

***

She has seen Paul eight times. He is a new guy. It has been three years since I died. I have watched men come and go, but he is the only one who has stuck.

Paul is a nice guy, from what everyone says.

He works in a furniture store. Maybe he owns it. I don’t know. He always seems happy and kind. It does not make it easier. I knew she’d find another man; I just didn’t want her to find a better one.

For Christmas, he buys her a trip to the Bahamas. She squeals and leaps up and gives him a big hug. She always wanted to go, but we could never afford it.

He asks if she is happy, and she says yes, and I die a little bit more. He calls her "baby," and I wish I could punch him.

Luckily, she rarely brings Paul to our place. Most of the time she goes to meet him. A few times she does not come home at night. I seethe and spin and feel the rage building inside of me. Even though I know I shouldn't.

She needs this. Deserves it. But, still, I am right here. RIGHT HERE.

***

Paul asks her to marry him. She says yes. She jumps and wraps her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to reach him. They kiss. They plan. I seethe.

He is moving into our house in the suburbs, the one with the fence that I never got around to painting, but you just KNOW he will. They'll probably get a dog, because Paul is not allergic. I bet he will do woodworking in the garage when he's not volunteering at the orphanage, or whatever.

He will cut the grass and clean the kitchen and put up the Christmas tree. He will have my life, and I cannot do anything about it.

He will sleep in my bed and be with my wife, and I will just be a tourist. A visitor.

He keeps telling her how much he loves her. I hate Paul.

Why am I still here? This is torture.

***

We visit my grave today. She goes there, and I do, too. It turns out, I guess, that's the only other place I can go.

I had not been out of the house in years.

"I’m sorry I don’t visit as much anymore," she says, crying a bit, but not nearly as much as before. "I’ve tried to find the time, but it’s not easy. … God, I feel guilty … like I’ve let you down … but then I tell myself you’d want me to move on. You only ever wanted me to be happy. But, still, I can’t help but miss you."

It was the first time in a long time she had talked to me, directly to me. When I first came back home, she'd still occasionally talked to me, from time to time, as if I was still there. But that ended when she met Paul.

She says she's getting married. That she's in love. That I would like the guy she's marrying, but I already know I don't. She says she's sorry, and I think she should be.

She says she misses me and that she feels guilty. She cries more.

I try to tell her I did not want her to marry Paul, but nothing comes out. I just stand there, wishing I was in the grave not over it.

She leaves me flowers, and we leave.

***

I've gotten stronger with time. It's been years, but I can finally do things now when I'm really angry.

Sometimes, when Paul is sleeping, I stand over him and try to choke him.

It rarely works. But sometimes it does. He wakes up coughing and sputtering, and she gets him water and comforts him. But I don't care. I love it.

I feel great. Really great. Like I accomplished something.

In the kitchen, I smash plates and glasses and sometimes open cabinets. She and Paul are scared by, but it’s the only way I can show how angry I am. How discontent.

I'm stuck here, watching them, every day. It’s painful. They did this.

I'm always jealous. Angry. I spend most of my time seething. I barely remember who I used to be.

***

She hired someone to do a séance, which did nothing. I was still there. A priest blessed the house, but I was still there. They put up cameras and took photos -- just like those ghost hunting shows on TV that we used to watch -- but they saw nothing. I was still there, though.

I've tormented them with my rage for years, now. I can't see it ending. It's like a faucet I can't turn off.

"I know you can hear me," she says, speaking directly to me for the first time in ... I don't know. Ages? A lifetime?

She says my name. My actual name. It startles me. Frightens me. Not JUST because it had been so long since anyone said it, but because I'd never heard her say it with such ... venom.

She'd never hated me before.

"I know it’s you," she says. "I didn’t want to believe it. But I’m not a fool. Paul knows it’s you, too, but he hasn’t said it."

Her anger builds slowly, leaking out. She gathers herself, her voice low and loud at the same time.

"I want you to listen to what I’m saying: You HAVE to go. LEAVE US ALONE! Leave ME alone. Do you HEAR me? What do I need to say to make you stop? That I don’t LOVE you anymore? This isn’t your home anymore! … Why are you doing this?"

She breaks down in tears; full-body sobs. She is tired. She looks older. She looks frail. She has not slept in days. Weeks?

This is me. I did this. My jealousy and rage and anger destroyed the last thing I had to cling to, her love for me.

"Please ..." she begs, in between sobs.

For the first time in forever, I feel something other than anger. I feel ... everything, all at once. All the emotions. Compassion. Shame. Regret. Remorse. Guilt. Sadness.

They come at me like a reflex. Like a burst.

I used to be human. I used to be real. I used to love something -- someone -- other than my own pain.

So I stop. No smashing things. No rage. No choking. No more. I bottle whatever is there and bury it deep.

I love her. Still. I don't want to forget again.

But ... I'm still here.

***

I've been dead longer than I was alive.

She is older, now. Still beautiful, but older than my parents were when they died. She had surgery last fall and was in the hospital for two weeks.

Paul is old, too. He has a bad hip. He is on blood thinners.

They never had children. They never got a dog. They just lived together, loving each other. Every day.

I have watched their romance unfold for decades. Whatever I tried to do to stop it just made their love stronger.

***

I'm a distant memory. A flickering image. A chill that barely gives you pause.

She will die soon. I will lose her. Her health is in decline, just like Paul's was before he passed. I was there when he died. I saw it happened. She mourned him longer than she mourned me.

I realize that when she dies, so will I. Again. There is no one left who loved me, who remembered me.

Then what? I want desperately to move on to ... something else.

What happens to a memory when no one is left to remember it?

***

I don’t know where they are now that they’ve died, but I’m sure they’re together.

Paul was her true love -- the love of her life -- not me. It's true.

I'm no longer haunted by my past; I'm haunted by there's. I close my eyes and see them laughing. Their moments. Their memories. Their love.

He devoted his life to her for 37 years, with a depth and understanding I could not fathom.

When you think about it, I was just a supporting character in her life. I moved the story forward. I was the guy in the movie you had to get past to get to the real love story. I was an anecdote that gave their past depth, a richness mine never had.

I realize this as I sit alone in this suburban tomb.

Then it hits me: The thing that has kept me here, all these years ... is me. Not her. Not Paul. I was a ghost, yes, but I haunted myself.

I wanted to stay. Pain was my excuse. I warped and twisted my love into an anchor that kept me tethered to this life.

All this hits me in the darkness of our old house, long after it’s too late to fix the pain I caused.

In the end, I became a monster that refused to let go long after she needed me to. I felt entitled to my anger, instead of grateful for her love. I lingered far too long.

I accept my mistakes, and I release the anguish. The hurt. The self loathing. The memories.

I let go of Her, for the first time since she died, since I died.

I feel the flood of the past cease, and I’m just here. Present.

The chains snap, and I’m free.

I see a light now. It's distant but warm. It comforts me. I feel peace and love and grace.

The house fills with this light. It calls to me, and my heart answers it, freeing myself from these shadows. I’m not frightened or alone. I’m at peace, even though I do not know what's next.

Whatever it is, I hope there’s love.