Naomi’s asked again and again, but Deb won’t budge. No matter what angle Naomi takes—asking nicely, first, then discussing the merit of studying such a new, unknown phenomenon in a whole new dimension of time and space then stroking her ego with promises of mutual scientific recognition (think about it—two scientists working together in death and in life. Nothing like it before! You’ll receive the recognition in death that you never did in life! The world is finally accepting of female scientists! Well, sort of…), then flat out demanding, using her I’m-the-boss, I-mean-business tone that has become the norm at her lab. But the answer stays the same: no, Deb will not help Naomi establish connections with other ghosts. It’s too complicated, too murky. Too dangerous.
Slowly, the sunlight leaches from the house, leaving long shadows and shivery motes of dust in the few chopped, golden shafts streaming through the living room blinds. Naomi has been sitting in the armchair for hours. Her feet tucked beneath her are dull with pins and needles. When she untucks and stretches her legs, her muscles tighten painfully. She is thirsty. And hungry. And she needs to pee.
Deb watches her passively from across the room. “I’ve been dead a long time,” she says. “But your stomach is growling so loudly, I can almost remember what hunger feels like.” She tilts her head and studies Naomi. “Ah,” she says. “You’re scared to move.”
“I’m not scared,” Naomi snaps. “I don’t know whether I can trust you yet.” Her foot jiggles and rattles Jasper right off her lap. Her bladder is ready to bust. “I really need to use the restroom, though.”
Deb sighs. “We’ve already established that I can’t hurt you. And I don’t find jump scares particularly entertaining. I’ll stay right here. I promise.”
Deb has started to become faint in the thickly-shadowed room, so Naomi flips on the lamp beside her, and Deb appears opaque again, more the consistency of thin milk than water vapor. “Okay, ghost,” she says, standing at last. On her way out of the living room, she turns on the overhead light and the hallway one for good measure. “I’m trusting you,” she calls over her shoulder then sprints to the bathroom, sits on the toilet, shivers with relief, rinses her hands, flings the dripping water across the thighs of her leggings, then races back in the span of less than a minute.
At the living room entrance, Naomi’s chest heaves. Adrenaline jitters in her blood. She feels, for a moment, like she’s going to be sick and without warning, a memory rises like bile in her throat.
Naomi, Sal, and Maisie used to take long hikes on the weekends in the steep-hilled nature preserve that surround the southern part of their neighborhood. Naomi is terrified of heights—Sal used to walk right up to the edge of a sheer drop off, making Naomi suck her breath in. When he was feeling particularly brave or mischievous, he’d sit and swing his legs over the edge. Once, he’d patted the ground and Naomi smiled and shook her head. “You know I don’t do heights.”
“Not you,” he said. And Maisie walked past her mother to where her father’s outstretched arms beckoned and caught her, fencing her in away from the edge yet keeping her pinned so close to the danger. For a moment, Naomi could only see the worst: the cliff crumbling away in great swells of crushed earth, rock pelting her daughter’s soft skin, turning it pulpy as an overripe peach, gravel swallowing her daughter whole, her daughter’s head cracking open like a melon on the boulders below. She didn’t want to say something and risk distracting either of them, causing one of them to slip, so she stood at their backs, heart hammering away until she could barely breathe and the earth felt like it had begun to tilt.
She’d been so mad at Sal after pulling a stunt like that that she’d screamed herself hoarse when they were finally back on solid ground.
Jesus, she’d done that. She’s screamed so loudly she tasted blood. At Sal. In front of Maisie. Because he’d taught their daughter how to sit at the edge of a cliff. How to balance carefully, take things slowly, keep her feet. How to swallow her fear in the face of something big and beautiful and terrifying.
“I told you I wouldn’t move,” Deb says quietly from her armchair.
Naomi’s heart still feels like it’s thumping in her throat. She swallows.
“Could you please,” Deb says, “stop referring to me as ‘ghost.’ Especially since you know my name. It’s dehumanizing.”
Maisie had cried. Hard enough that they had to turn around and go back to the car. Because of the way Naomi had yelled—she’d seemed more afraid of her mother than the cliff. “Please,” Sal had said. “Please don’t ever speak to me that way again.”
“Yes,” Naomi says. “I’m sorry.”
“Good. Thank you,” Deb says. “Now let’s go get you something to eat.”
This was recommended to me (by Shaina!) as a story that was “visceral, haunting, funny and sweet” and I wasn’t sure how a piece could evoke all four of those things... but wow, yes, that is a perfect description.
I am even more impressed that you manage it all so concisely. Really wonderful piece.
Really great story! The characters are alive, fleshed out. I love Deb and her cool, calm reasoning. The fear and adrenaline framed by such cozy surroundings. Can’t wait for more!