Page 34 of Earthly Ties

Neither Esther nor the students hear me. I don’t try to ground myself in the hopes that anyone might.

Mania is what comes to mind when I think of love. That was how my mother loved. Deeply and possessively. First for Dad—she always said I came between them and drove him away. She couldn’t stand how much he cared for me. As if an infant—her own child—was a threat to their marriage. Later that manic love shifted from Dad to Angel, which apparently continues even in her death.

Part of me is grateful she never loved me.

“Ah, well, doesn’t matter.” Esther scribbles a question mark that looks more like the number three at the bottom of the list, and turns back to the class. “The love I like to celebrate on Valentine’s Day is philia and philautia.” She underlines them.

“Sounds more like fellatio,” someone mutters in the back, and the class collectively snickers.

Esther pretends not to hear. “While my friends live pretty far away, we all still texted this morning to wish each other a happy V-day!”

I frown skeptically. She technically did text a group chat this morning, but she’s slightly exaggerating. There were no responses to her text. She needs better friends, because she also wished them a happy new year and Thanksgiving, with no response. Granted, I never had friends other than Cash, so perhaps that’s just how long distance friendships are. How would I know?

“And even though I’m happily single, that doesn’t exclude me from celebrating self-love on Valentine’s Day. And I plan on treating myself tonight!”

The class is openly tittering now. “Get it!” someone teases.

Esther laughs and pretends to be embarrassed, but I can tell she’s pleased with how engaged the students are. “Get your heads out of the gutter! I didn’t mean it like that!”

I laugh with them. “Don’t lie! You made a point to charge your vibrator this morning!”

“Throughout history, how we conceptualize love shifts with our norms. And in modern times, we pedestalize eros and storge—romantic and familial love—but demonize philautia as narcissism, and ludus as meaningless flirting.” Esther points to the board as she talks, not that anyone but her can make out her handwriting. “But there is meaning in all kinds of love. Especially loving ourselves and playful love. If we practice agape—love for the world—why would we exclude ourselves, or minimize the connection we had with the stranger we barely spoke to? That is love, too.” Esther tries to underline ludus, but misses, striking out storge instead; she doesn’t pause long enough to notice. “Love is inherently human. We may be told that love should be celebrated in diamonds and expensive dinners, but people have loved each other and ourselves since we understood we were people, and that’s worth celebrating.”

Esther smiles at the class, pleased at the slight nods of agreement she’s managed to squeeze out of them. Her students look significantly more awake than they did five minutes ago.

I shake my head, astounded and overwhelmed by her, yet again. “How do you do that, East? How do you love everyone so hard, when no one seems to love you back?”

I barely scratched the surface of love when I was alive. Before I met Cash, I only knew Mom’s manic love. Cash opened my heart to friendship and loving myself. He showed me what romantic and familial love could be, through his adoration for his wife and kids. He modeled agape by seeing the best in everyone, even frustrating people like Gilda and Allan.

In a way, I suppose Esther showed me ludus. She’s the stranger I barely spoke to, but I felt that connection with her. I wouldn’t have dreamt of her otherwise. I wouldn’t have panicked and lost my confidence that first day, if I’d merely imagined that draw between us. Dr. Monae’s rehearsed social niceties would have sufficed, but Esther had been excited to meet Lucy, not the academic mask. I’ve never been good at being myself, but I felt compelled to try. When I failed, I lied to myself it was all in my imagination. Wishful thinking. A dream that would never become reality.

By now, I’ve seen enough evidence to trust that she felt that connection, too.

Sitting on the table, I curl around myself as Esther engages the class in small talk about their Valentine’s day plans. What do we have now? Have I become my mother, obsessed with the object of my affection to the point of madness? Or is this another, undiscovered kind of love, a force like eros or pragma or philia?

Can I even love as a ghost?

I laugh quietly to myself, “Of course, I can.” Of all of my ridiculous attempts over the past seven months to hypothesize my way out of grief, that is the easiest conclusion I’ve drawn. That ludicrous connection we had when I was alive has transformed into something incomprehensible to my emotionally stunted heart. I undeniably love her. “But what can I even do with that?”

“Okay, back to business!” Esther wipes down the board and turns back to the class with a grin, ignorant of my heartbreaking revelation. “Should we talk about priming and anchoring bias? Who could define priming for the class? Could anyone summarize the articles we read for today? Would anyone like to share their thoughts about how these concepts might relate to white supremacy within the Suffrage movement?”

Sixteen

Inotice it before Esther does. Fresh out of the shower, she gets dressed to go to work. This routine happens every morning; nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Except she keeps scratching her neck every few seconds.

I usually avert my gaze when she’s naked. Or try to, anyway. Not looking at her takes concentrated effort. She showers in the morning, when I’m at my most desperate to connect with her after a long night, and—added to my own hopeless, pitiful, gay ass yearning from beyond the grave—I don’t have a very long attention span. So when she winces the third time she scratches her neck, I float around her to see what the issue is.

The flaky, red patch on the back of her neck makes my heart drop.

“No,” I whisper, wishing my eyes were deceiving me. But there’s no mistaking that perfectly-round welt below her hairline. “No, not there. Not the neck. Not her, too.”

That itchy, dry circle of skin, puffy from inflammation, can only be a herald patch. A portent of impending weeks of misery. If it was a few inches lower and to the side, she might have been lucky. There would be a fever, a few dozen itchy pockmarks fanning out from the herald patch, but nothing that steroid cream and acetaminophen can’t help with. But this is on the spine, so her options are unlucky or completely fucked. At best, she’ll suffer from a dangerous fever and flu symptoms.

And if she’s fucked?

With a trembling exhale, I shake my head, refusing to even consider the possibility that what happened to Cash. That I’ll be forced to watch her…