Page 46 of Earthly Ties

Esther tugs on her ear. “With all due respect, Dr. Frederick, I did request a TA on multiple occasions to assist with grading the intro coursework. Since I’m teaching Dr. Monae’s courses on top of my own again this semester, that leaves me teaching six days a week and not enough time to grade a hundred essays a week.”

Gilda waves her hand. “That’s because I trust you to actually grade the work. We only had one TA available, and Allan needs her because he can’t grade an essay to save his life.”

“Allan is perfectly capable of grading a damn essay!” I snap. “He just acts like he can’t, so he can get a TA to do his job for him. You’re rewarding Esther’s competence with more work! That’s bullshit! She may not be contagious anymore, but Esther is still recovering from the Pox, and you hold her to impossible expectations?”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Esther says, carefully. Her eyes flick toward me, then back to Gilda. “However, if students are complaining about the speed at which I provide feedback on their essays, then wouldn’t that suggest I do need additional support?”

“And what, have all of the chauvinist relics in the department snark about how women shouldn’t be professors?” Gilda leans forward on her desk. “I wouldn’t dare to give them the satisfaction. They’d be after me to step down in a heartbeat.”

“Couldn’t Allan share what he learned at the Diversity in Philosophy conference? Surely, he learned something there,” I mutter, the sarcasm dripping hot. I’m still bitter on Esther’s behalf that Allan took her place at the conference, that she and Cash worked so hard to get funding for.

“If that does happen, I’m sure Allan could share what he learned at the Diversity in Philosophy conference?” The question sounds a lot more innocent in Esther’s soft voice, but the shock of her repeating what I said nearly word for word leaves me sputtering. She left the amplifier in her office, didn’t she? “I thought that was one of the reasons he attended?”

Gilda lets out a bitter laugh. “You mean the conference he was kicked out of after two hours?” She sighs and covers her face. “Forget you heard that. Legal says that’s confidential.”

Esther leans forward, forcing her to look up even higher to meet Gilda’s eyes. “Look, Dr. Frederick, I cannot keep up with the work of two people. That’s not a reflection on me or any aspect of who I am; no one in this department could. I’m willing to do it if that’s what we need—especially since I get paid by the course—but I do need more support. Could we request additional funds for TAs and frame it as a way to mentor older students? Like how Dr. Berger mentored Dr. Monae when she was his TA.”

Gilda makes a noncommittal hum. “You would look more like a leader that way. And it would get the Dean off my back. Maybe we could have a mentor program for upperclassmen who want to pursue academics.”

“Great idea, Dr. Frederick.” Esther sits back in her chair with that irresistibly masc attitude she so rarely shows, a smug glint in her eyes. “I think that’s a wonderful plan, especially if it focuses on underrepresented demographics in academics.”

“East, that was all your idea.” I suck my teeth as I settle back down into the chair. “Don’t give her credit for any of that.”

Esther gives one of her deadpan stares in my general direction briefly, before turning back to Gilda. “I’d be happy to pilot your new mentee program. I could accommodate two or three mentees with my current workload. And perhaps next semester, we could expand it further?”

Gilda is furiously writing notes for herself. “Oh, the Dean is going to eat this shit up.”

I turn to Esther, who is looking in my direction again; her bottom lip is firmly between her teeth to keep from smiling. I’m beaming with newfound appreciation for her soft voice and deceptive lack of self-confidence that hides the sheer stubborn will underneath. “You played her at her own damn game. Genius.”

With a smug smile, Esther raises an eyebrow, tugging on her ear.

Her ear without the sound amplifier.

“Oh shit, you can hear me?” A laugh bubbles out of me at the ridiculous suggestion. But is it so ridiculous? I’m still giddy that she can hear me in the first place. If she could hear me, hear my voice, that would mean… I’d be real. Maybe not tangible, but more real than a voice in a speaker or a draft through a feather.

With a subtle nod that lands like a blow to the chest, Esther tugs on her ear again, and another laugh escapes me through my shallow breaths. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss, Dr. Frederick? My office hours start in a few minutes.”

“What’s what?” Gilda looks up. “Oh, no, I’ll be in touch when I post for the mentor program. Be sure to send it to students you think would be a good fit for it.”

“Of course. Thank you for the feedback, Dr. Frederick. Always looking for ways I can learn and grow.” Esther smiles sweetly as she leaves Gilda’s office.

I follow her eagerly, not even needing to be pulled with her because my long not-legs are float-striding ahead to her office to discuss this newest development: she can hear me!

Twenty-Two

Esther’s quirks are increasingly charming now that she knows I’m here, and we can talk openly without the assistance of the sound amplifier. She still dances as her terrible cookies bake in the oven, only now she asks me what I want to listen to when she’s picking the playlist. When she sings in the shower as she gets ready for work (like she is at the moment), she now asks if I have any requests before starting her world tour.

Most importantly, every morning before Esther does anything else, she reads a note that I asked her to write down for me. The note card summarizes everything I need to know to bring me back to myself: my name, when I died, what I’ve been up to since, and my purpose in life (academic in all things metaphysical) that has carried on into death. Morning after morning, I am overwhelmed by her consideration and thoughtfulness. By the time her coffee is ready, I fall harder for her than I already have.

Everything flows smoothly—for both of us—from there.

Her singing voice is…untrained, to put it politely, so usually we end up talking about whatever is on our minds while she gets ready for her day. She’ll complain about work, and I’ll tell her what I miss about being alive, or any interesting places my mind went overnight. Even though we spend literally every minute together, we never seem to run out of things to talk about. The silences are comfortable, occasionally filled with off-key singing that never fails to make me smile. For someone who struggled to introduce myself to new people in life, our conversation flows surprisingly easily now.

I still can’t understand how Esther can suddenly hear me without any assistance, but I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. My East says she can intuitively sense my voice, just not through her ears. She touched her sternum while she said that, which only reinforced my hypothesis that she feels our connection physically. Like the tug in my chest when I get too far from her, only she seems to be able to feel my emotions, my thoughts. The recordings and sound amplifier seemingly allowed her to identify what words went with what sensations. After weeks of constant conversations, she has become fluent in me.

From the other side of the shower curtain, Esther interrupts her performance of a duet from some musical (where she was singing both parts to varying success) to ask, “So, what’s the deal with your brother?”

“Angel?” I pause from writing in the steam fogging the mirror. Well, writing is a strong word. If I ground myself, my fingertip makes the condensation drip. Esther takes long and hot enough showers that I can press non-tangible fingerprint after non-tangible fingerprint until words form. While it’s not the most coherent script, if I can’t write poetry in the mirror, what’s the point of being a ghost? “That’s a loaded question. Where do you want to start?”