A Romance Reader

The Ghost Who Loved   BY S. H. MARPEL I IT WAS FATHER’S DAY. They were all still dead, and I was again dry-eyed over their grave. I came this way every year, for the past few, as it was also my birthday. Such as it was. Growing older just meant more sadness for me. Father, Mother, and younger sister all passed that night. Horrific car accident. All decapitated or crushed instantly, head-on collision with another car, that seemed to come out of nowhere. I was the only one remaining. And I couldn’t even cry anymore. Of course my heart ached. But it was almost the dull, screeching creak of some massive pump whose bearings were failing and overheated from lack of grease. The grease of kindness, of human love. Why was I still here? What reason did I have for existing? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I kept going from day to day, month in, month out, and then showed up back here again - once a year. Graveyards are funny things. Why they exist is such a morbid concept. Small and huge monuments erected to incite the memory of the fallen. Like it was the old Japanese ancestor worship. But just because they weren’t remembered after a few centuries, didn’t mean the ache went away. Only the persons who had the ache. To their own plot of earth and monument - or not. People visited. And opened up that ache fresh to the sting of memory once again, like a wound opened to the air. Painful, abrupt. The ache continuing long after the bandage was re-applied. Like that guy over there, a few rows over. Downcast young face. Blue jeans, black sweater jacket, high-top basketball sneakers. And that cute brown hair, those nice cheekbones. Why did he come here? Did it ever help him move on - or was he like me, a magnet for more punishment? II “WELL, SIS, HOW DID this year go for you - wherever you are?” I visited my sister every chance I got, knowing that it wasn’t really her. She was long gone, only some ashes remained now. Buried under ground somewhere near that stone. She was the only one who had left, and the rest of us carried on. Somehow. Mother and Dad were busy in their new retirement job, a part-time detective agency. Didn’t pay much, but they didn’t need much to keep going, to pay the bills, to enjoy what was left of their own span on this earth. Me, I was just starting out. Barely in college when this happened. They said it was congenital, that it would jump generations. Neither of my parents had it. And I had no signs. But neither did she. She got a check up for a pain in her arm that wouldn’t go away. The doctor called for an ambulance and they rushed her to a hospital. By that evening she was dead. Not enough left of her heart to revive. And she wasn’t even out of high school. So I come to talk to her, tell her all the things I’d learned in college, of the people I’d met, of the charities I worked for in her memory. Just to live her life as well as mine. But it never seemed to help. That stone just sat there and looked back at me. It wasn’t alive, neither was she, so what was the use. “Hey.” A girl came to stand beside me. I’d seen her earlier, a couple of rows over. “I just thought that I should come talk to you. Of course you can’t see or hear me, but you looked like you could use some comfort. Some people feel that. And it feels good giving it, at least to me.” She was wearing dark brown slacks and with thick off-white shawl-collar sweater and sensible flats. Her blond hair center-parted and naturally curled in long waves. A looker for sure. “Who says I can’t hear or see you?” I asked, looking directly at her. She was shocked, “Wait, really? No, this can’t be.” “Yes, it can. But I know why you think you’re invisible to everyone. You’re a ghost.” I said as calmly as I could. Some of these specters went into denial and started screeching, so a guy had to be careful what and how they talked to them. “No, you aren’t real. Nobody talks to ghosts.” Her eyes were wide in surprise. “Well, it’s kinda my gift and my curse. Must be inherited. My Mom and Dad can both do it, too.” I lightened up at this, since she wasn’t going to go into dramatics on me. “Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you here for today?” “My family. Over there.” She pointed. “I come here every year on the anniversary. “Sorry for your loss,” I said. “And I’m sorry for yours. Who are you here for?” She asked. “My sister. She was in high school when it happened. Too suddenly. But at least I got to see and talk with her just after she left. That’s one ‘benefit’ I guess you could call it. She was at peace and wasn’t serious about it at all. She told me not to be down about it, that I’d be joining her soon and to go out and make a big thing of living. That was our joke. I was always telling her to not make a big thing out of the issues she came up with. And she’d say, ‘Why not? That’s all the fun there is to living.’” She smiled at this. “I’m Tom.” “Rose,” she answered. “You know, this is a bit freaky, but you lost your sister but have your family, and I’m the only sister left from mine.” “Yea,” I said. “That is a bit freaky. Kinda OK, though. Like finding a missing piece to a puzzle somehow.” “It does ‘fit’ somehow.” She smiled at that. “Well, nice meeting you.” And just stood there. I stood there, too. “Do you mind if I hugged you?” She asked. “Not if you don’t want to be surprised.” I replied. “Why would I be surprised?” Her face formed a little frown. “Ghosts don’t normally hug.” I answered. “Yea, I know,” she said, looking down at my sister’s headstone. “Because in the living, it gives them chills. That’s why I asked.” “Oh, this is a different kind of surprise. You’ve never hugged someone who could hear and see you before.” I said. “Go ahead and try it.” She moved closer to me and tentatively put her arms around my shoulders, then moved closer to me. I felt the hug. And then put my arms around her and hugged her back. She immediately stepped back and held me by my shoulders, eyes almost as wide as her mouth. III “YOU HUGGED ME BACK!” I almost screamed in delight. “How did you do that? I haven’t felt an actual hug in years. This is... is...” Then I hugged him again and felt my eyes get all moist and bleary. So I kissed him on his cheek. He pulled back, a smile on his face. Right below the most amazing blue eyes I’d seen in years. “Well that was unexpected, particularly for a graveyard.” I blushed, and dropped my arms. “Sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean to offend.” “No offense. It actually - felt good. Even in a graveyard.” He said, still smiling. We stood there for awhile, both of us not knowing what we wanted to do next. He took my arm in his and turned to gently walk with me along one of the many paths of the cemetery. We walked without talking for quite a while, rounded many corners and passed under many stately oaks and old magnolias. At last he spoke. “Rose, I don’t want to seem forward, but for a ghost, you are pretty nice and all. I don’t mean to interrupt any schedule you may be needing to get back to. What I thought is that you could come see where I live. But no pressure, of course. I mean it's fine if you don’t want to come. We can just meet back here next year or sometime, otherwise...” I smiled at him. He was just being so sweet. We both had big lonesome spots in our hearts - or at least where mine used to be - and he just seemed honest. I mean, it’s not like this could lead to anything. Ghosts and people don’t mix in general. “Sure.” I said. “I’d like that.” He smiled back at me, “Well, turn here then. It’s not far from here, just a couple of blocks and up a hill over there.” Tom pointed. We walked and talked. I had him tell me what he was studying in college and what he wanted to do when he got out, did he have my major settled and so on. I told him that I usually spent my days at the old folks retirement centers or visiting the playgrounds. Because only the ‘demented’ and the very young could see spirits and talk with them. Otherwise, I enjoyed sunrises and sunsets. And sometimes take the light rail down to Long Beach to watch the ocean reflect the colors of the sky. Or just go out there on stormy days and watch the big waves crashing against the piers and beach. Long Beach had the big ships that would come and go, different from Santa Monica that mostly only had sail boats. Venice wasn’t too much different, and just down the coast. I told him I didn’t much like L.A., but since I didn’t have to work for a living, I was pretty much a professional tourist. He laughed at that, and I started laughing, too. He suggested I should try “auditing” classes at the various colleges. “And what would that get me? Not a diploma.” I replied. “No, but it might help you decide what to do next.” Tom said. “Next? What makes sure you think their is a next?” I asked. “Like my Mom and Dad say, there’s a reason people hang around after they die. There’s something they have incomplete, something they still want to do. Most specters don’t know what it is and they are stuck here until they figure it out.” He said, but looked into my eyes with some concern. “I didn’t mean to offend you, though. Your life sounds really peaceful. And that’s fine if you...” “...just want to keep doing what I’m doing? No, you’re right. Peaceful, yes. But extremely lonely. Old folks and kids can’t really have many useful conversations. The old guys think I’m cute and that I remind them of their niece or their wife when she was my age. They often can’t remember my name, and then will simply go off to sleep just sitting there. Then the kids - they want to just play, but they can’t leave the school yard and the only real game we can play is hide-and-seek, or ‘tell me a story.’ But the teachers and assistants are always telling them that I don’t exist or implying that the kids are making me up.” I again felt how lonely these few years had been, that all the visits to the beach or ‘sneaking’ in to theaters was just to distract myself from being alone. “Look, no pressure. I’m auditing some film classes at UCLA. The teachers have some really liberal ideas about things, but the ideas of stories being a universal language fascinates me. There are always plenty of empty seats. I’ll show you a schedule and you can decide if you want to or not.” Tom said. “That sounds a lot better than watching movies. At least I can hear about what goes into making movies.” I said. Tom then started in on what he’d learned about how stories explain how humans work, and was just as applicable to ghosts. He was explaining it terms of plots and shooting angles and all sorts of things he’d been studying and I had no clue about. Too soon, he stopped in front of a two-story Arts and Crafts style residential home. The front yard had been turned to native plants that were drought resistant, so the low maintenance was a plus. It gave an overgrown aspect to the house, and made it somehow spooky and homey at the same time. “Your parents and you live here?” I asked, surprised. “Yea, great, isn’t it? They really like the atmosphere - ‘ambiance’ they call it.” Tom replied. He swung open the white gate and let me go first. A few stone steps and short concrete walk got us up to the porch. Lights were on. And I felt nervous, somehow. IV “MOM, DAD? IT’S ME, Tom. I brought a friend.” I called out. The sound of footsteps coming to the door. Both of them came to meet me, which was kinda not surprising, given their line of business. The door swung open and my parents were both smiling at Rose. As one they both talked over each other in welcoming her. They didn’t try to shake hands or welcome her, just stood out of the way and gestured her in.