Page 12 of Earthly Ties

Gilda tsks. “What’s the point in attending virtually? Conferences are all about networking, not the actual content.”

“Got it,” Esther mutters, eyes downcast. Her singsong voice is even softer than usual.

I want to comfort her. Pat her on the back. Hug her. Something. But that would be pointless; it would only burn me.

If I could burn Gilda, I might slap her. But based on how Esther sometimes gets chilly walking through me, the living likely just feel a slight draft.

Gilda deserves far worse than goosebumps.

“Happy Friday, Dr. Voigt.” Gilda hauls the old door open with a creak. “See you in the department meeting.”

Esther smiles that too-polite smile again, her eyes sad. “Happy Friday, Dr. Frederick.”

Six

Esther’s alarm wakes her from a sleep so deep, I don’t have a chance to ease from desperate madness into baffled confusion. We groan together as the shrill ring pierces the air, and I float backward through the apartment to rest on the dining room table. That perch is safer than floating next to her on the bed. Especially when I’m this emotionally raw. The burn of touching her would be nothing compared to the aching hollow of my heart in the mornings. Unmoored as I am, it’s too tempting to feel something other than overwhelming loneliness.

“Good morning!” we mutter, Esther’s significantly more cheery than mine. I can predict exactly how she’ll say it, even if my East normally doesn’t rise before the sun. She fusses for the lamp pull, light slicing through the heavy darkness of the early morning hours.

Normally, she springs from the bed, humming to herself. However today, Esther lies in bed long enough to let out a heavy sigh and a quiet, “I can do this,” to herself.

“I’m sorry, East,” I murmur, curling around myself as I hover above the table. I wish I could hug my knees. “This is my fault.”

How do I know that? I frown. Do I know anything? What is normal for her, or that her name is Esther, but I call her East? How do I know nothing, and yet I know exactly what Esther will say, even before she says it? How do I know what she’s normally like, what her routine is? How do I know I should feel guilty?

“She is Esther Voigt,” I murmur as Esther starts her coffee pot and disappears to the bathroom. I know that much, somehow. A tug on my heart drags me to the bathroom behind her. As the shower turns on and her undies hit the floor, I turn to give her some semblance of privacy, though I can still see her even through the opaque shower curtain and the back of my head. “I’m dead. I’m haunting her. I am…” My brow furrows as I try to remember everything. “I’m Lucy. We’re professors, colleagues at the same college.”

She’s teaching my classes now. That’s why her dread is my fault. Because I died, and she got stuck teaching them.

It’s starting to come back to me now, flashes of memories about her. The hollow ache in my chest eases as Esther sings to herself in the shower. I can’t stop myself from looking—the shower curtain may as well not be there—but I do my best not to pay attention to the water pouring over her curves, or the suds lathering her rosy skin.

Instead I stare at where I should be in the mirror. There is nothing but steam slowly condensating on the glass. Every memory of her life over the past few days springs to mind, and with it, I can piece together what I did, who I am, from what Esther did.

She spent the weekend cramming the curriculums for the extra courses. The seminar—my seminar, more than the intro classes. I had…observed. Took notes. Because I’m trying to remember all of this.

Why am I trying to remember all of this?

“I’m Lucy,” I say again. As Esther belts out a scratchy, off-key melody, pieces of my life flash into place, of meeting Esther, and Cash—how could I forget Cash? All of my studies, nights on the couch watching staged ghost hunting shows, and grading essays about theosophists and esoteric rituals. “Most of them were full of shit, just like the ghost hunters,” I scoff, a tentative smile on my face.

I nod, more confident now in who I am, what my purpose is, and the sharp reminder of just how much I miss my fucking journal. I’ve been collecting facts, observations to add to the knowledge of what the afterlife is like. Albeit with nowhere to put them, but I’m doing it anyway. Because I’m not just Lucy, I’m Dr. Lucy Monae: expert in esotericism, the occult, and philosophical understandings of life and death. There is no plane of existence where I would sit idly by and simply be a ghost.

No, I need to know everything there is about ghosthood.

The water shuts off, and Esther steps out. I edge out of the room to give her privacy, but even the closed bathroom door I pass through is transparent as air. Despite my attempts to look anywhere else, I am forced to watch her admire her body in the mirror. Esther dances as she moisturizes herself, getting ready for her day.

“‘Forced’,” I scoff at myself. “Such a burden.” In my dreams—I remember those easily, I’d been alive then—I did far more than look. My nights have belonged to Esther since we first met; it’s when I’m at my weakest, my happiest. I’ve caressed, kissed, worshipped every inch of her.

And now she is untouchable.

Esther doesn’t linger in the mirror like she usually does—no leisurely morning for her today. She dresses in her nice work clothes, and pours her sweet cream and sugar into a to-go cup before adding the steaming hot coffee. We’re out the door before the sun has begun to kiss the sky, and the guilt gnaws at me.

When we get to campus, the maintenance man is waiting in the Philosophy Department lounge, key ring jingling impatiently.

“So sorry I’m late!” Esther singsongs. I frown, wondering what she could possibly be late for, when the rest of the world is just starting to stir. “I really appreciate you doing this for me!”

The man shrugs, and gestures for her to lead the way.

To my surprise, she stops at my office. The maintenance man unlocks it for her, and gives her instructions to shut it firmly when she’s done, so it will lock again. Esther assures him she will just be in and out, once she finds the notes she needs.