Page 45 of Earthly Ties

“Do you want to read it? I can hold it open for you.” Esther hesitates, glancing at it. The blue cloth cover sits on her bedside table, only half full. She’s never done more than flip through it, just enough to realize it was my private journal. She’s left it shut since then. “It just seems really personal. Even if it is just facts.”

“No, thank you. I remember what I wrote.” The worn pages and plain cover have been taunting me since Esther brought my journal inside, but…that chapter is closed. There’s no more life to add to it. No observations from Dr. Monae to document. Just Lucy’s, the ghost version of me. Adding to the current journal wouldn’t be right. When I was alive, I’d get a new one for a new chapter in my life; nonexistence demands a fresh page. “But I would appreciate it if you could track my observations about the afterlife. You don’t need to write in my diary or anything. Just a word document or something? I know there’s probably no point, but it helps, to know things, to ask questions. I forget so easily…”

“I’d be honored to,” Esther picks up the lull I leave in the conversation. She nods, fishing for the journal under a pile of other books on her nightstand. Tracing the cover with her fingertip, she leaves it unopened, simply hugging it to her chest for a moment, before setting it down again. “Probably better to do it on my laptop, so I can do it while we’re at work too.” I barely dodge her as she scrambles for her backpack. “So, can I ask how you died? It’s totally okay if you don’t want to talk about it, but they haven’t found your body or anything. Detective Barrett thinks you skipped town or committed suicide.”

“I thought he was ‘Defective’ Barrett,” I tease, earning another blush. Oh, this is so fun, being able to see her blush in real time! The instant gratification of making her blush lights a thrill in me I haven’t felt since my dreams, a visceral reminder of why I became so obsessed with her so quickly, when we had barely spoken. “Honestly, I have no idea how I died. I didn’t particularly like my life, but I wasn’t suicidal. Not actively, anyway. I went from drinking at home on my birthday to coming to as a ghost the next morning in your apartment.” I perch on the table, next to the potted plant to wave my hands through the purple leaves.

Esther settles into the chair, plugging in her laptop to the cord that lives under the table.

Talking about this is easier than I expect, though perhaps it’s because I still don’t know the truth. Right now, my death is a hypothesis; I can still delay my grief for myself, while I gather enough evidence to sate my curiosity. This is analysis, not vulnerability. “I figured they would have found my body in my apartment, but my drunk ass must have gone out for once and got killed somehow.” I snort. “That’s what I get for being adventurous!”

“At least you don’t have any of those bad memories? I wish you were still alive, but I’m glad you didn’t suffer.” Esther’s eyes cloud with emotion, and my chest lurches in sympathy.

I’m an expert in avoiding, minimizing, repressing my feelings, but Esther? Her sensitive heart is a proud badge of honor, on display for all to see. That she cares so much still floors me. How did I really believe that no one cared about me after Cash died? I was the one who never let anyone care, refused to let anyone in. For months, I have witnessed her worry and grief firsthand. Why does this still feel so uncomfortably novel?

“It’s so frustrating that no one else seems to care,” she murmurs. “For months, I’ve been so worried that you were hurt and alone somewhere. I hate how helpless I feel when everyone who could do something doesn’t.”

My not-heart twists with the reminder that my death has caused her so much pain, on top of the stress from being overworked. I’ve caused this cognitive dissonance, burdening such an optimistic person with a hopeless situation. While my death isn’t fully tangible for me yet, not while there are still so many unanswered questions, Esther has been grieving me. Alone. Gilda is still pretending my absence is temporary. Detective Barret rarely responds. And Angel? I shake my head with a silent derisive laugh.

Who would believe her, if she were to confide in someone that I was haunting her? Could she even talk openly, knowing I’m always mere feet away to hear it all? All she has is me. All I have is her. A lifetime of stubborn refusal to get attached, and in death, I finally understand what I was depriving myself of.

“Thank you,” I finally whisper, my voice hoarse. It seems inadequate for all my East has done for me, but a thank you is all I have to offer. “For worrying about me. For caring.”

Twenty-One

In the late afternoon, after a long day of classes and with hours left of grading, Gilda knocks on Esther’s office door. The heavy oak groans as it swings from the impact. “Dr. Voigt, come to my office.”

“Why can’t you talk to her here, Dr. Frederick?” I ask sarcastically. “Why does she need to come to your office and sit in your short-ass, uncomfortable chairs?”

Esther covers her snicker with a cough before replying, “Of course, Dr. Frederick. I’ll be there in a moment.” She takes out the sound amplifier and sets it on the charger. While she’s been wearing it constantly, she rarely replies when we’re not at home. Still, it’s nice to be heard, and she seems to appreciate hearing my commentary.

Not that I have a lot of it, not until we get home and she can respond. While I’m pretty sure I’ve spoken more in the months since my death than I did in the entirety of my life, I am still me. More often than not, I simply make a ghostly observation. Esther’s been dutifully compiling my facts in a document, in tidy bullet points labelled with the date and separated into themes.

One observation, which I haven’t shared with her yet, is that Esther has gotten better about figuring out where I am in the room. Perhaps it’s based on the sound of my voice, or maybe the tie between us feels more physical for her than it does for me? I’m not sure how she can tell where I am if she can only hear me through the sound amplifier, but Esther has given a few deadpan stares in my general direction when someone says something particularly infuriating or funny. Her aim isn’t perfect, but it’s probably as close to eye contact as I can get without physical form.

I take the seat next to her in front of Gilda’s desk. Gilda’s office is designed to intimidate. Cash warned me before I interviewed for the adjunct position that eventually went to Esther. Her ornate desk is solid oak, and she sits in a wingback executive chair with built-in bookshelves packed full on the wall behind her. Meanwhile, she has two club chairs for visitors to sit in; they sink so low, her visitors have to look up at her, no matter how tall they are.

For me, being quite tall and prepared for it, it seemed comical at the time. Now that I know Gilda better, I find it more frustrating than funny. Especially when it’s someone as diminutive as Esther sinking into the chair. This powerhouse of a woman doesn’t need to rely on semiotics to have the upper hand. She fought so hard early in her career for respect, that she doesn’t realize her pendulum has swung too far in the other direction. She’s become a caricature of herself, an unintentional satire of her values.

“Dr. Voigt, we’ve had a few complaints from students,” Gilda says as she sits, her leather chair creaking. “The quality of your teaching seems to be declining.”

“What? Seriously? That’s how you start that conversation?” I ask, annoyed on behalf of Esther. “You give her double the classes to teach—most of which have been intro classes—and no additional support. Your idea of going easier on her this semester has been three extra classes, instead of four! She’s been handling it better than anyone else in this department could!”

Esther’s jaw works back and forth as she tilts her head. “I’m sorry to hear that. Could you please elaborate on the feedback you’ve received?”

When Esther is upset, her voice becomes unusually decisive. As if anger turns her usual soft butch energy into the most stubborn masc. Even the way she sits in the chair—leaning back and spreading her legs with an intentionally casual air—hints at the inner steel she rarely shows. Like her polite decline of Angel’s advances, her “sorry” wasn’t a true apology this time. Her shoulders are set, gaze determined as she looks up at Gilda from across the desk.

Her subtle fierceness is so admirable.

Gilda waves her hand. “I can’t give specifics. The Dean wouldn’t give me names. Just generally that you’ve been late in getting grades to students, more classes have been virtual than the standards the college expects now that you’re back in person, and you don’t seem knowledgeable about the course content. Of course, the asshole wouldn’t tell me which courses, so I can’t tell you who said it.”

“That’s all right. I don’t need to know who said what.” Esther replies carefully, her hands folding in her lap. “Did the Dean suggest anything that could help me improve my performance?”

“Seriously, East? You’re just going to take that?” I ask incredulously. “Stand up for yourself! You just survived a literal plague, you have an overwhelming amount of work, and she rejected your request for a TA. You teach classes six days a week! And she has you teaching Philosophy of Death again—she should have canceled that shit!”

Gilda shrugs. “He seems to be under the impression that you don’t have enough support and your workload is too high. I reassured him that you have it under control. But really, you should come to me if you can’t handle the work. I hate being on the Dean’s shit list.”

“Her workload is too high!” I yell at Gilda. “She did come to you for support, and you repeatedly told her to figure it out on her own! You would never put this much work on a male colleague, especially not one who almost died a month ago! Why are you holding her to a higher standard? You hate it when they do that to you!”