Page 14 of Earthly Ties

I like to think I did a good job teaching my specialty seminar last semester. There are at least fifteen students registered this semester, a fifty percent increase from my first semester. Back then, I barely had enough students for a quorum.

A class focused on death in the middle of a deadly global disease was a risk, but interest in the afterlife and the occult usually spikes after people are forced to encounter their own mortality on a systemic level. Even if the powers that be are determined to pretend that everything is normal.

Besides, there will always be odd ducks intrigued by death. This batch of students that Esther is teaching seems even weirder than last semester. Compared to the intro classes Esther teaches, the student body in this class has a decidedly goth vibe. One kid even wears a wool cloak and no shoes. Though, remote learning hides a lot of quirks; I never saw my last batch of weirdos in person. They may have been just as odd, with the abundance of crystals, pentagrams and black cat keychains dangling from their backpacks hidden behind their cameras.

Appropriately, the Phil of Death classroom is in the dungeon of the Castle, the nickname of the old Gothic stone building on campus that houses most of the Humanities departments. It’s officially named after some long-dead white man who donated an obscene amount of money to the college’s endowment, but everyone just calls it the Castle. It’s gorgeous on the outside—all gray stone, leaded windows, and towering spires covered in ivy—but a dank maze on the inside. Especially in the basement classrooms.

The ancient egress windows, with their swollen wood frames, are impossible to open more than a crack. White paint peels and flakes off of the cold limestone walls, and the wood frames of yellowed paintings are warped from moisture and neglect. The massive oak table in the front of the classroom resembles an altar more than a lectern. These basement classrooms have probably never been up to code.

One side effect of being dead—a bonus as far as I’m concerned with this classroom—is that I can’t smell. Because I just know this classroom has mold. Esther has complained about the mildew smell and weird splotches staining the carpet. And there sure as shit aren’t any cross breezes to air out the dank hallways of the Castle dungeon.

“Which then begs the question: If I can’t smell, then why can I see? How can I hear, but not touch?” I ask myself as Esther rambles about Plato. I can feel sensations, like Life burning me and my emotional reactions in my body, but I can’t actively touch things. It doesn’t make sense to keep my hearing and sight, but not the rest of my senses. Lost in thought, I slowly turn to face her instead of the students, though I’m still “sitting” instead of floating like a balloon.

Maybe I’m getting better at this.

I guess I haven’t tried to taste anything yet. And I’m certainly not going to start in the mildewy basement of the Castle. Maybe I’ll experiment after Esther puts her lip balm on. See if her kiss tastes of vanilla like in my dreams— “Ugh, why am I like this?” I turn to face the students again. That’s a terrible idea that I need to get out of my head. I don’t particularly want to experience my nonexistent lips on fire.

But also! More importantly! I’m not just going to kiss someone without their permission, or knowledge that they’re being kissed. Sure, Dream Me kissed Dream Esther many many times, but Dream Esther was very much a consenting, enthusiastic, and not-real partner, a figment of my psyche. I highly doubt Real Esther, Living Esther, would be into kissing Real Lucy—especially a Dead Ghost Lucy haunting her for as-of-yet unknown reasons.

I add “Can I taste?” to my list of questions that I haven’t been able to answer. The list is quite long. At the top is “How did I die?” and “Why am I haunting Dr. Voigt?”

I should change that question to “Why am I haunting Esther?”. I know her too well now to call her Dr. Voigt.

Gilda insists that women with Ph. D.s be given their proper titles. Which would be fine, except she calls male professors by their first name, instead of Dr. Soandso. As if we weren’t already otherized enough, by virtue of being youngish, queer, “ethnic” women—as Allan once described us, even though Esther is white. Apparently, she “looks Polish,” whatever that implies—in a department made exclusively of straight, white professors eligible for retirement, who (aside from Gilda) are all men. And tenured!

“Focus.” I pretend to rub my temples. “You were adding a question to your list. Don’t lose it.”

Despite my struggles with memory, and my as-of-yet unsuccessful attempts to help Esther, gathering evidence to explore my list of questions remains my biggest priority. My curiosity about death is what keeps me…me. In life, my fascination with death was my only unique quality. All of my other hobbies—if I can be generous and call binge-watching bad reality TV about mediums and ghost hunting a hobby—were basic as hell.

Mirroring Esther’s pacing as she tries to engage the class, I float back and forth behind her. I could try tasting her food. Maybe something strong-flavored like hot sauce or cinnamon, to see if ghosts have paranormal taste buds. “What is the point of tasting, though? I don’t have a stomach that needs to eat.” I pause. “Is that why I can’t smell anymore? There’s no biological advantage—paranormal advantage?—to smell if I don’t need to care if my food is spoiled or if there’s a gas leak. That might explain why I can see: to avoid the burning sensation of touching the living.” I groan, equally frustrated by my lack of answers and relieved to have questions. “But then why can I hear?”

A student bursts through the door, followed soon after by another figure. “Sorry I’m late, Professor Voigt. I got lost.”

“No problem.” Esther beams. “And sorry, I should have said this in our first class, but please call me Esther.”

I huff and side eye Esther. She didn’t need that apology in that sentence, and her own name should not sound like a damn question! Sometimes, I wish I could tell her how annoyingly girlish her speaking tone is.

But more often, that soft voice is my only anchor to sanity. When I’m about to lose my mind from despair, that lilting singsong murmuring a monologue of all of Esther’s thoughts helps me remember who I am. Her musings remind me of the personal and scientific curiosities that I’ve decided are my purpose in death.

My scowl softens. I’m grateful she talks to herself as much as she does. That soft “good morning” to herself when Esther wakes up and stretches is a bell pealing, bringing me back to myself after a night of silence, darkness and isolation. My own personal long morning serenades, lasting from prime to compline. Like Quasimodo’s bells, Esther’s voice gives me purpose and companionship.

“Thanks. Okay. Sorry.” The student—Syd, I think? They were supposed to be one of my advisees this year, if I’m not mistaken—takes a seat close to the door. The other person who entered the room with them lurks next to them, standing.

I scoff, annoyance flaring again. The student didn’t need to apologize either. Why does everyone apologize all the damn— Wait, why isn’t that person sitting down?

I try to look closer at the lurker. My vision might have become perfect in death, but unless Esther is involved, my concentration is shit. I pull myself to the edge of my spiritual tether, just to the edge of where the bond between Esther and I will yank me back, to get a closer look.

She’s a Black woman, wearing a white shift dress. Like me. A white scarf wraps around her head like a turban. The painted brick wall is visible through it. Through all of her, really. Not like me. At least, I don’t think like me. I look down, bending over to try and see through myself. While I look opaque to me, I may be completely transparent. I haven’t exactly been able to see myself to determine what my true opacity may be.

When I straighten up, I jump. The woman is smiling at me. Or smiling through me perhaps? I look behind me to check, but no, it’s just a blank expanse of chalkboard. Esther’s handwriting and allergies are both terrible. She wouldn’t touch a chalkboard unless her job depended on it. Esther should request a smartboard. And windows that open. And no mildew.

“Focus! This lady can see you!” It’s so hard to keep my mind off of whatever Esther is doing at all times, but this is important. This is so so so important. I turn back to look at the woman, unsure what to say. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

The woman smiles. Her teeth are as bright white as her shift against her translucent ebony skin. While my skin has a pallid, ashy cast to it, hers is literally glowing. Her light is faint, but it shines through her smoke-like skin. “You must be new.” She eyes me up and down, her eyes soft. “You’re so bright.”

Am I glowing too? Why can’t I see it?

“You can see me?” I ask, desperate to confirm she’s actually talking to me, that isolation hasn’t driven me truly mad.