Page 26 of Earthly Ties

“Gross, babe,” I say without thinking. My heart sinks as I slowly glide back along the bed to sit next to her. “Fuck, why did I call you that?”

I have to stop pretending this is more than it is. Haunting someone is the worst situationship. Domestic bliss with the woman I’ve been slowly falling for from my perspective, a paranormal stalker from hers. This isn’t… I bite my lip, unwilling to acknowledge what I wish it could be.

This is too comfortable; maybe I should try to move on. Both spiritually and emotionally. Eventually, she’ll meet someone alive. For my sake, I can’t be all hung up on her when she does. I can’t settle in this place that isn’t meant for me. My future is destined for nothingness, not lying to myself as I cling to the impossible.

“I hate that I’ve accepted that you’re probably dead so quickly. You might be alive somewhere, or just got another job and didn’t bother to tell Gilda. Which would be hilarious, so I hope it’s true.” Esther chuckles, then shrinks, hugging herself tighter. “But I can’t help but feel like you’re gone. I wish there was a way to know for sure, to learn how you died.”

“That makes one of us,” I snark, finding solace in the bitterness that has always been my comfort zone. “I know I’m dead. I’m a damn ghost, after all.”

Even if I could tell her I’m dead, I don’t know how I died. Especially since they didn’t find my body in my apartment. The last thing I remember from being alive is setting the bougie box of wine on the coffee table after dinner, filling up my mason jar, and turning on Ghost Hunters. That’s all the memory I have, other than flashes of my dream of Esther that night. I wouldn’t have left my apartment normally, and I certainly don’t remember leaving.

It’s like I vanished in my sleep. Just a temporary visitor to that apartment, to this job, this life, just a fleeting impression with no real disturbance, no legacy, no lasting impact. Except for Cash, and now my East.

“Is that why I’m here? Am I supposed to solve the mystery of how I died?” Wishing I could fix everything for the hurting woman next to me, I frown, leaning my head back against the headboard. I’m grounded enough that I can almost feel the wood behind me. That would imply that being a ghost is a kind of test by a higher power, and, to be honest, I haven’t seen any evidence of that. But maybe that’s part of the test. Maybe I’m supposed to have faith that some higher power cares about my soul enough to provide the answers I need. I laugh, my frustration making me delirious. “If that’s true, that blows. I’m never going to pass that test.”

I don’t have faith in anything, let alone God. Or some burnt-out detective who already gave up on me. As much as I know I should, I don’t even have faith in myself that I’ll ever move on. Not when I might still might help Esther do the job I left behind, when I still have more to discover about life after death, when I finally get to connect with the woman I’ve dreamt of since the day we met.

Esther lets out a quiet sigh of determination and picks up the binder again. I ground myself again, poking the owl with my foot, since that seems to work better than my hands, fighting the pain when I touch Esther’s thigh through the paper.

It seems to do the trick. Esther shivers, and her eyes narrow as she notices the drawing. “What’s this?”

“That’s your essay prompt that will make everything crystal clear,” I explain, letting my concentration go. It’s getting easier, this humanity shit. I can focus for so much longer now than I could before. It’s almost enough to give me a little faith that maybe, with my help, Esther will get through the worst of this. “Hopefully, anyway.”

I certainly don’t have faith in Detective Barrett. Poor Esther has been pestering him for updates on the case, and he hasn’t even tracked down Angel yet. But I appreciate that she’s pushing. It’s nice that at least one person cares. Lord knows Angel won’t.

Twelve

My experiments are still inconclusive, but I am more hopeful than ever that Esther’s subconscious can hear me, because she’s listening to a new single by my favorite artist. We’re dancing to it together in the kitchen—well, maybe not together. To lower the burn risk, I’m dancing a safe distance from Esther, though my face is beaming just as bright as if she was in my arms.

I overheard Syd and another student in Phil of Death talking about the new album last week. It took me five days of shouting in Esther’s ear before she finally listened. A new record for her subconscious responding to something she’s not already thinking about. It’s easier when I tell her things related to what she’s already doing. Getting her to do something outside of her norms typically takes a couple of weeks, long enough that there’s no way I can prove it was me. There’s a good chance her phone can hear me; it’s been pushing corresponding ads to her.

Since Esther first hit play, she’s had the whole album on repeat. Pleased that she likes the music I “recommended,” I can’t help but dance along with her. I was never a big dancer in real life. Mom said dancing invited sin, and that lesson lingered, unchecked by my therapy.

But now? I have every reason to dance, and no reason not to. Literally, no one can see me, and I can float! So why wouldn’t I dance, when I can spin around like a figure skater? Hell, if Esther had a pole, I’d be on it. No upper body strength required for ghosts.

Esther’s always dancing around the apartment. Even now, she’s watering my plant, now full and bushy with purple butterfly leaves and delicate pink flowers that brought me so much satisfaction. Even I, the depressed disaster queer that I was, could not only keep a plant alive most of the time, I could make it bloom!

Esther’s phone chimes with a notification, interrupting the music for a moment.

When she checks it, Esther gasps. “Oh shit, Defective Barrett finally responded!”

I stop spinning around midair to face Esther, waiting for a rush of dizziness that never comes. Six or so months of being dead, and I still expect my not-body to act like my real body did. There’s no head rush without a head.

I creep over her shoulder as she reads the email from the detective. Angel’s name and contact information are listed in the email. “Oh, Lord. They finally found him.” I wonder how he took the news. I scoff. “Honestly, I bet he is loving this. Check his social media. See if he’s making my death about himself yet.”

Angel has always taken after Mom. Well, he has Dad’s charisma and good looks, with Mom’s narcissistic tendencies and Eurocentric features. Every year on his birthday, I used to look him up on social media, intending to send him a happy birthday message. Twelve months was always just long enough to forget how he treated me when we were kids.

But then I’d see the smug thirst traps and obnoxious humble bragging about how blessed his life is. And how hard he’s worked to get this far in life. And how much he struggled growing up with a single mom. And if he can do it, no one has any excuse for failure.

I’d close the app every time, remembering exactly why I stayed no-contact with him. Even his carefully curated internet persona was attention-seeking, controlling, and judgmental. Just like Mom.

“What should I do?” Esther asks the plant. “Should I reach out to him? Extend my sympathy and support?”

I let out a derisive laugh. “That’s a terrible idea!” Hopefully, some part of her deep down will hear me. “He’s going to walk all over your good heart and shockingly pathetic lack of boundaries. Seriously, let Defective Barrett deal with him. Don’t get involved.”

Esther wrinkles her nose and wobbles her head in indecision. “Let me see what I can find out about him, at least.”

She searches his name on a few different social media platforms, before finding his main account. I crane my neck over her shoulder, ignoring the burn where I get too close. I want to know what he’s saying about me. Maybe I take after Mom a little too. Or maybe Mom was right all along, and I truly am a selfish bitch.