Page 3 of Earthly Ties

I didn’t think ghosts were real. Like, yeah, I’ve studied the possibility of ghosts since I was the weird, quiet girl with an unhealthy obsession with the paranormal, to the point where I’ve become a recognized expert in the modern discourse of metaphysics. But between the pseudoscientific measurements, and anecdotal stories from people who were briefly brain-dead, no one has ever come close to proof of any afterlife, let alone a sustained liminal existence between life and death.

Yet, my coworker just walked through me. My mouth twists into a bitter imitation of a smile. “Proof enough for me.”

With a more genuine smile on her face, Esther hums to herself, downing the rest of whatever is in her mug. Coffee, presumably, but I can’t smell it. Or anything, now that I think about it.

“Can you hear me?” I shout, my voice breaking as reality sinks in. My voice is so hoarse and muted, so full of desperation to be heard, that it chokes me. “Please, hear me!”

“Let’s go, computer! Change of scenery today!” Snapping shut her laptop on the table, Esther puts it in her bag, grabbing her keys as she closes the studio door behind her.

“Seriously? You’re leaving? I might be dead and a fucking ghost, and you’re leaving?” I walk—or float, rather—to the studio door. So far, the evidence shows that she’s unaware of my presence, but I don’t care. I want to live in denial a little longer, desperate for more time to process my situation before I accept my fate.

My therapist from undergrad would be so proud that I can finally sit with my feelings. How far I’ve come: In death, I finally want to shout at someone, allow myself to be angry out loud, to nurse my hurt and self-pity, instead of drinking it away.

The door swings open, and everything burns as Esther passes through me again in her rush back inside. Gagging in pain, I resolve to keep that from happening as much as possible.

She shivers and mutters to herself, “Forgot my shoes again.”

“Oh, so you regularly forget to wear shoes?” The absurdity of the situation makes me laugh, and it comes out in an unhinged cackle. This is just so perfectly Esther—meandering, naive, and inexplicably endearing. “This is a thing for you? Walking through ghosts and going outside without shoes on? Just another average day?” All of my thoughts just flow right on out of my mouth. The sound is muted, lacking an echo that I’d never noticed was there until it wasn’t. My carefully guarded filter protecting the world from my thoughts is no longer needed in the afterlife. “She can’t hear me anyway. Why hold back?” I scoff. “If only that therapist could see me now! Selective mutism, who?”

“Shoes, computer, pants? Check! Wallet, keys, phone? Ready to go!” Esther walks through me again, incinerating me before I can doggy paddle out of the way. She shuts the door behind her and into the hallway. This time, however, I go with her.

Not by choice. No, I would rather stay put to figure out what happened. Be alone with myself to calm my racing, depressing thoughts. To figure out a plan. To come to terms with this. Maybe cry a little. Or a lot! Either way, some alone time sounds heavenly.

But no, as if a rope is embedded in my sternum, I am pulled with her, right through the solid wood door that Esther locked mere moments ago, floating headfirst after her down the stairs.

“Fuck.” The ache in my chest finally cracks open. Instead of grief or tears, I am overwhelmed by a numb, apathetic daze. “I am dead.”

My only regret is how little I care.

Two

Being a ghost is humiliating.

After six or so hours of being dead, the shock has worn off. In its place, I am left with frustration and embarrassment that I’m being dragged around campus like a goddamn Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. While my first hour or so as a ghost might have been uncharacteristically chatty, I’m now feeling more myself: quiet, curious, and easily annoyed. That, and there’s this odd, dull ache in my chest that won’t go away. It’s the only feeling I can sense in my body, other than a general chill that feels more numb than cold.

At first, I thought the ache might be grief, which would be very unlike me. Even faced with my own mortality, I can’t imagine I’d linger on wishful thinking or regret. Better to simply accept reality.

But whenever Esther stops pacing frantically around campus and actually sits still in her office, the ache eases. That ache must be the limits of our connection. The metaphysical cord, for lack of a better phrase, tethering me to Esther is approximately a ten foot radius.

At least, that’s how far I can get before my chest hurts, and I get yanked in whatever direction Esther happens to be going. She’s so unpredictable. The woman can’t walk in a straight line to save her life. She gets distracted enough to take detours to smell flowers, or take a picture of a bird perched on a fence.

If I were less annoyed by the state I’ve found myself in, I’d find her whimsy endearing. Unfortunately, the lack of agency over my own existence is threatening to break me.

I can’t let it. I won’t.

Instead, I test the boundaries of my ghostly tether, just to feel in control of something, while Esther is busy revising her lesson plans at her desk. Her office is smaller than mine, but not by much. The high ceilings are the only part that feels spacious. The single tall, narrow window is draped with a thick blue and gold velvet curtain, which Esther has tied back with a gold honor cord she must have earned in undergrad. The bookshelves are laden with dusty tomes she inherited from those who had the office before her, and the heavy oak door is propped open with a cast iron bust of Karl Marx to let fresh air in.

I can pass through the furniture and the wall into the hallway, but in a way where it appears the bookshelf and the wall disappear around me, instead of me passing through it; Esther stays in full view, even when I’m on the other side of the wall. I can stick my head out the window, but not the exterior wall, nor can I sink into the floor.

I’m floating ten feet in the air above her, trying to see if I can reach the ceiling, when I realize I don’t know how to get back down. Dog paddling doesn’t work—not that it was super effective at ground level either. With no mass, gravity has no effect on me.

How did I get up here without trying, and why is going back down not equally intuitive?

I close my eyes to try and imagine myself sinking, in case it’s, like, an intention thing or something. No matter how hard I squeeze them shut, I can still see Esther. No matter what direction I turn or if I block my vision with my hands, Esther is still visible. Not just visible, like a magnet for my consciousness. It’s more annoying than I expected; normally I would not complain about being able to look at her freely. But right now? I need to concentrate. To do so, I need to be alone.

Only six hours into the afterlife, and I haven’t spent this much time with anyone since the Pox came out of nowhere. Even in the few years before, I was not exactly an extrovert. Quite the opposite really. I would just like a single moment where I can think of anything but Esther, so I have the smallest chance in hell of collecting my thoughts.

Despite all of my attempts to manifest myself standing on the floor, I am still floating up by the ceiling. Still orbiting Esther like she’s the sun.