Between Seasons

by Aida Brassington

  “Oh, uh, hi. Just through that door - the kitchen’s in there.”

  The door pushed open, bumping into Sara’s shoulder. Patrick watched from a corner as another few people came in, everyone dumping pots and plates of food in the kitchen and then gathering in the living room. It was getting loud, and he couldn’t hear Sara’s voice anymore in the din. It was more people than he’d seen in one place in a long time, and he felt oddly shy.

  Two people settled into chairs near Patrick’s corner, discussing a writer he’d never heard of –Chuck somebody.

  “Monsters is his best work,” the woman argued.

  “I don’t know about that, Katie. Monsters is good, but I really like Rant . It’s that experimental style. I’m writing a piece along those lines right now, and it’s nice to see something like that get some critical acclaim.”

  “Yeah, but don’t you worry that no agent is going to touch something like that from a nobody writer?”

  The guy smirked and took a gulp of whatever was in the glass he held. “A nobody writer, huh?

  Katie blushed and clapped her hand over her mouth. “That’s so not what I meant, Kevin.”

  Patrick was bored already. He slipped out of his hiding spot – unnecessary, he knew –and braced himself for the feeling of body pa rts sinking into his as he circled the living room. All told, about ten people mill ed around. He found Sara in the kitchen talking to the white-haired woman.

  “… poem or two published,” she said. “Nothing important, but it’s my big claim to fame, so to speak.”

  Sara touched the woman’s shoulder. “That’s awesome! I’ve never liked anything I’ve written enough to submit it anywhere. I just started to write my first novel a few weeks ago, and that’s daunting enough.”

  “It just takes perseverance. Goodness, I’ve been writing since I was a teenager. My first poem was published when I was thirty-five .”

  “Well then, I’ve still got some time before I have to worry about it, I guess.” Sara laughed and bit into a cookie.

  The woman glanced around the kitchen, and Patrick looked at her closer. There was something familiar about her , although he couldn’t quite figure out what . Something about the eyes –they were a bright blue, the color of the sky on a clear day. She smiled and turned back to Sara.

  “I can’t believe what you’ve done with the house. It looks wonderful.”

  Sara swallowed, eyes widening. “Oh, you know the house?”

  “I should. I spent enough time here when I was a kid.”

  Wait… what? Patrick looked at her closer still. What was her name? He knew he heard her say it. Something with a “j”… Jennifer? Jane?

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he yelled, seeing the face of the woman he’d known emerge. His jaw dropped. Ginny was still beautiful behind the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and the softer curves of her face, but the shock of seeing her had him freaked.

  “Did you know the Boyles? Mrs. Stout told me Mrs. Boyle passed away a few years ago.”

  “Yeah, I heard that. She was a nice lady. I dated her son for a while. Patrick.”

  An electrical shock shot from Patrick’s head to his toes. Hearing someone say his name made his body feel as though it was swollen and pulsing. He took a step back, wishing he could pull out a chair and sit; his knees felt weak.

  “How funny! What was the family like?”

  “Oh, you know. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mr. Boyle owned a garage, and Pat worked there. I think Mrs. Boyle was a secretary or something. They were heartsick when Pat died.”

  “I hadn’t heard their son died. I sort of wondered why they moved.”

  Ginny cleared her throat, pushing her hair behind her ear. Patrick gasped; he’d seen her do that a million times, and the gesture was so familiar, it made him ache for the life he had before the whole thing with the stairs.

  “I feel odd telling you this, but he died in this house… he fell down the stairs and broke his neck.”

  Sara covered her mouth with her fingers, pressing them against her lips. “Oh, God. That’s… horrible.”

  Ginny smiled sadly, and Patrick wondered if she was remembering him. “Yeah, it was. We were good friends, even after we broke up.”

  “How long did you date?”

  “Oh, not long. Maybe six months. But he was my first love.” The corner of Ginny’s lips turned up further. “We were really better off as friends. Handsome boy, though, I tell you. He had these eyes that just… well, tall and dark. Good hands, when they weren’t covered in grease. One of the first poems I ever wrote was about his hands.”

  Patrick held his palms up and wiggled his fingers, grinning. Good hands, huh? He liked that, wishing he would have known about this while he was still alive.

  “I’d love to read it sometime.”

  “I’ll email you a copy.”

  “Would you… I mean, would you like to look around the house? You, you know, you spent time here.”

  “Would you mind? I haven’t been here, God, it’s been forever. Probably the day of his funeral.”

  “Jesus.” Patrick shook his head in amazement. The evidence was right there in front of him – Ginny with her white hair – but it still seemed like yesterday to him. It was shocking that even through the monotony of spending that much time doing exactly the same thing every day, he could recall things that had happened just days before he’d died with perfectly clarity.

  “Yeah, of course. Go now if you want… before things get started.”

  Ginny grinned, and it was instantly as if she were a girl again. She had liked to wear this ratty pair of bell bottoms wi th a hole near the ankle, and Patrick was almost disappointed to see a skirt swirling around her knees . He followed her as she climbed the stairs, her hands clutching at the railing.

  Her first stop was his room… Sara’s office. She stood in the middle of it, eyes glistening. The sounds of the crowd downstairs s ifted through the room, and Ginny closed her eyes and crossed herself. Patrick was strangely touched by the gesture, wishing she could somehow know he was t here. She’d done it at his wake, too, although she’d been standing near his window at the time.

  She went next to Sara’s bedroom, and Patrick laughed, remembering the time he’d made out with Ginny on his parents’ bed. There had been no reason for it. His own bed was just next door –he couldn’t explain it except to say it must have been the danger factor. It was only the sound of his dad slamming the front door shut that saved them from being caught.

  He’d been too caught up remembering the feel of Ginny’s hair that afternoon to notice her moving toward him. Before he could move, she walked directly through him, shivering as she did.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered, turning to watch her walk away and round the corner of the stairs. She moved quickly, as if compelled to get downstairs as fast as possible. Did she react because of him? He wanted to test the theory, so he took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to skirt around the place where he died this time, and gently stroked into the skin of Ginny’s face. Her eyes darted back and forth while a spasm rippled over her, and goose bumps rose along her neck.

  He’d accidentally passed part of his body through Mrs. Stout’s a few times over the years, and she’d never reacted… it couldn’t only be people who knew him in real life. But Ginny and his mom and dad had a physical reaction. People who were close to him before his death, maybe? Well, Sara had shivered that one time, but maybe it had been fluke. He didn’t know, but another piece of the puzzle dropping into place was a relief… even though he didn’t think it meant much in the grand scheme of things.

  Things wound down around ten o’clock. Patrick had been fascinated by Ginny read ing one of her new poems, explaining it was about her husband’s funeral. It was odd to think she’d been married, and he wondered what the guy had been like, if he knew him. Media hadn’t exactly been a hot bed of happening times in 1970, so he doubted it would have been anyone who had moved here… maybe she’d met him in
college. Right before he died, she’d started her sophomore year at Swarthmore College, but she lived at home. He wondered what the man had died from –even though Ginny seemed so old to him, he knew fifty-eight was young to pass away. More appropriate than nineteen , but still.

  The short guy – Jon, maybe? – had read part of this ridiculous short story that sounded more like a porno. Patrick had caught that girl Katie rolling her eyes when Jon described nipples as “luscious orbs, ” and Sara’s face had flushed a deep pink behind the fingers hiding her face . The “experimental” fiction the one guy had been boasting about turned out to be really stupid too… something about a talking cigarette lighter. Patrick didn’t have a college education, but he knew what he liked.

  Sara ended up reading part of Patrick’s memory about his first kiss. He was relieved she’d changed the name of her characters –Ginny had known Brenda, which might have been a little weird if she made the connection , although it seemed like a long shot .

  Ginny lingered near the couch while the other group members left, and when she and Sara were finally alone, she gathered her bag and approached the door.

  “Thanks for letting me wander around the house,” she said, eyes tightening around the edges. Her smile seemed genuine, but the set of her face was off .

  Sara smiled. “Of course, Ginny. I still can’t believe someone died here and you dated him.”

  “I can’t tell you how shocked I was to see his photo in your bedroom. Where did you find it?” Ginny took another step toward the door, glancing around. Maybe he really had spooked her earlier.

  “What photo? I have a photo of…” Sara’s forehead crinkled, and she stared at Ginny.

  Patrick moved closer until he stood almost between the two women. He held his unnecessary breath as the moment stretched on.

  “Patrick,” Ginny supplied. “Yes, there’s a photo of Mr. and Mrs. Boyle with Patrick on your nightstand.”

  “Oh my God,” Sara whispered, peering up the stairs. “That’s… it… fell out of a book I found in the house. The Turn of the Screw .”

  Ginny chuckled, turning and stepping out onto the porch. “Mrs. Boyle must have left it accidentally –that was Pat’s favorite.” She waved at Sara before moving across the walk and out to her car. She drove some tiny, red car he’d seen once or twice before , driving down the street.

  Sara closed the door and sagged against it, sighing deeply and closing her eyes as her head thumped on the wood. “Patrick,” she said slowly, each syllable distinct.

  He brushed his fingers against her shoulder. She shivered, and Patrick’s eyes widened in shock.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Down the shore? What does that even mean?” Sara asked with a laugh before shoving a forkful of lettuce into her mouth.

  “It’s just what the locals call going to the beach,” Megan answered, a dribble of dressing clinging to her lip. “It took me forever to figure out what people were saying.”

  Patrick thought about the sand under his toes, and he could almost smell the sea air. He’d give almost anything to have the scent of salt in his nose, that faint odor of fish in the background. It was such a big part of his life each summer, and he missed swimming in the ocean. He and his friends used to hang out on the beach, play Frisbee.

  “Well, I suppose that’s good to know. I wrote a scene that’s set at the beach. I guess maybe I should actually visit one this summer since the coast is pretty close. It is, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Roger and I go to Long Beach Island – it’s maybe a two hour drive if the traffic isn’t too bad .”

  Megan had been over once or twice since Sara moved in, but in the couple of weeks since the writers’ group meeting, Sara seemed to make more of an effort to get out of the house.

  Patrick was bothered by it on some level; he wanted to spend as much time with her as he could. He continued to hope one day he’d just wake up and be… well, if not in Heaven , then in some form of the afterlife, so he wanted to enjoy her company while it was possible .

  He liked the idea of reincarnation. He’d reread that chapter of his religion book a million times. Maybe he wasn’t a believer in Hinduism or Buddhism, but the idea of creating his own religion was attractive in his darker hours. It wasn’t as though it mattered. Not really. Even though he’d been stuck exactly in the same plane of existence –another idea he’d picked up from the book –for a long time and constantly wished God would appear and explain to him what the Hell the purpose of all this was, he wasn’t entirely sure the Catholic God his parents had worshipped really existed any more than he thought Jews or those who followed Shintoism or Sikhism had it right. He felt free to make up his own rules. The only thing he was sure of was that something really did exist… otherwise, wouldn’t he just be… dead? In the back of his head, he still vaguely believed in the God he’d grown up with, but he wasn’t entirely sure why. He just couldn’t shake it.

  Sara made a noise through her nose, a cross between a snort and a sigh. “Well, I just got my first alimony payment, so I suppose I can take a vacation.”

  He didn’t have a clue what that meant, but the idea of Sara leaving him for a significant period of time didn’t sit well. What if she didn’t come back? He knew more than anyone that things could change in an instant.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were divorced.” Okay, so alimony must have something to do with divorce. Patrick filed that away for later and carefully leaned against the wall , so he wouldn’t fall into it.

  “Yeah, well…” Sara smiled, although her face was carefully calm, and ate another forkful of salad.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Megan sounded sincere, and he kind of hoped Sara would take her up on the offer –he still didn’t really know much about it, and he’d been dying to know. Everything about Sara was of interest, but it was the divorce that piqued his curiosity.

  “Uh, there’s really not much to say. Well, that’s not entirely true, I suppose.” Sara threw down her fork in disgust, a metallic clunk resounding throughout the kitchen.

  “You don’t h – ”

  Sara sighed. “All right, here’s the truth: I had a really shitty divorce. My husband basically dumped me after we found out I couldn’t get pregnant.”

  Megan gasped, and Patrick moved closer to Sara, touching her shoulder. She shivered and leaned back in her chair. He hadn’t gotten any closer to figuring why she could now sense him… or feel him… or whatever it was.

  “Oh, geez. I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too,” Patrick said, moving back but wishing he could hug her. He’d never really given much thought to kids before he died since he hadn’t dated anyone seriously except Ginny. The idea of divorcing his wife over something like that didn’t sit right with him, though. He would have never admitted it when he was alive, but he was a bit of a romantic. He had liked doing it with Ginny, but he also really liked just lying around with her on the couch and giving her flowers he’d picked out of his mom’s yard. It might have made him seem kind of girly, but he did. Ginny had always seemed to appreciate it.

  “That’s not the worst of it.”

  “What is?”

  “I sort of went a little nuts over it. I mean, you know, screaming Mimi, a month in a mental institution crazy.”

  She’d mentioned the breakdown when Jules had been here, so that was no surprise, but he still couldn’t believe her own husband would act like such an asshole.

  “Well, I can understand that,” Megan said. “Infertility is a big deal.”

  “It was partly that, but it was mostly what he did.”

  “This sounds bad.”

  “Man, what else could the guy do,” Patrick snarled. “He sounds like a dick.” Too bad he couldn’t snap his fingers and be somewhere else. Not that he could do much other than shout names at her ex that he’d never hear, but that might have been satisfying… well, maybe not. He really wanted to kick the guy’s ass.

  “It is. I, uh, well… we
had a really good marriage, I thought. Things were going well. We found out about my infertility , and a few weeks later for our anniversary he took me out to dinner , and we stayed at a hotel.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I woke up in the hospital.” Sara sipped at her lemonade, making it sound like casual conversation.

  “What? What happened? Did he… hit you?”

  Patrick clenched his fists, hovering protectively over Sara. His presence couldn’t stop anything from happening to her –now or then –but the very idea that anyone would ever harm her made him sick to his stomach.

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that. Well, he might as well have, I suppose. I think he drugged me, but he told the police I was an addict and had overdosed, which I didn’t know until later.”

  “What?” Patrick yelled, pacing back and forth. “Sara, how could you marry someone like that?”

  Megan’s eyes went wide, and she slapped her palm on the table. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “I wish. The blood tests came back, and it was clear to the doctors I hadn’t abused anything long-term. Scott didn’t come to the hospital at all, or at least not to see me. I was making excuses, of course, thinking he had been called away on business.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well… my mom flew down from Oregon, and they released me. When we got back to the house, everything was gone. Well, not everything. My clothes were there, but all the furniture and stuff was missing. I thought we’d been robbed or something, but there was a note from him to let me know he was divorcing me.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Patrick muttered. “I’ll kill that jerk.” If there was ever any way he could figure out how to physically touch a person, he hoped he’d be able to punch that guy in the face.

  “Holy cow!”

  “Yeah. I mean, it was bad.”

  “Uh, I’d say so. You had a good lawyer, I take it?”

  “Yep. I may not have known anything was wrong, but I had enough sense to have a separate savings account. I used almost every dime, but… it’s not like I ruined him or anything… as much as I wanted to.”