by Robin Roseau
"What do you remember, from your drive here?"
"The roads were bad. There was an accident. I stopped for it. I was going to see if they needed help."
"Yes."
"You were there."
"Not right away, but yes. I arrived later."
I struggled to remember. "Why can't I remember, Dee Dee?"
"It was very traumatic," she said. "Tell me what you remember."
"Headlights."
"Yes."
"My car was hit. Pushed off the bridge. Oh god, Dee Dee, I was so scared."
"I know, Emily. I know."
"I couldn't see. It was dark. And the water was so cold."
By then we were standing in the cemetery, staring at the grave where I'd left notes for Dee Dee for all the years we'd been apart. The notes were all gone.
"My notes are gone," I said. "Did you take them?"
"I read every one," she said. "I love you so much, Emily. Remember that, I love you so much. And your mother loves you, and your father loved you, and even your grandmother loved you, more than you could realize. She asked me to watch over you, and I did, as best I could. Tell me what happened in the river."
"Something was wrong with my hands," I said. "I couldn't open the seatbelt."
"Your thumbs were broken. You couldn't press the button."
I looked at my hands. They were fine. How long had it been?
"What else do you remember, Emily?" Dee Dee asked me gently.
"The water kept rising. Oh god, I was so scared. I knew I had to get out of the car, the water was so cold and kept rising, but I couldn't get free of the seatbelt."
"I know, honey. What else?"
"And then, the water was over my head. I took a deep breath, and held it while I tried to get the seatbelt free." I turned to her. "Oh god, then you were there. Dee Dee, you were there. How did you know? Were you in the truck that hit me?"
"No, honey. I wasn't. I told you I'd be there when you really needed me. And I was there. What else do you remember?"
"The water, and I couldn't breathe," I said. "Then you said you loved me, and you kissed me, there under the water. And then I truly started to panic and tried to take a breath of air anyway, but all I got was cold river water."
I struggled to remember.
"You must have saved me," I told her. "That's the third time you saved me."
She looked away for a moment, then looked back, and the expression she offered was one of sadness.
Then she turned to the grave we were standing in front of. "Do you know whose this is?"
"Delores Dyson. Some old ancestor of yours," I sad. "She died young."
"Almost twenty-two," Dee Dee said. "Look at me, Emily."
I did, I turned and looked at her in the moonlight. "You were seven when we first met," she said.
I nodded, remembering. "The first time you saved me. I was playing lusty pirate wenches." We both smiled. "The railing cracked. I would have fallen if you hadn't caught me."
Dee Dee nodded, smiling. "Do you remember how old I looked?"
I thought back. It had been a long time ago, eighteen years ago. "You were older. I thought you must be in high school."
"Is that how I looked? Do you remember, Emily? Did you remember thinking I'd been in high school?"
"No," I said slowly. "No, I thought you were older. But then when I got older, I could tell you weren't far out of high school, so you must have been younger than I first thought."
"And now. How old do I look now?"
I looked at her. And then stared at her. She looked younger than I was. My mouth gaped open. "Dee Dee?"
She didn't say anything.
"To a seven-year-old, even a twelve-year-old would look old. But even if you were twelve then, you would be thirty now. And you aren't thirty."
"No. How old do I look?"
"Younger than I am," I told her. "You look twenty. How?"
She didn't answer. I stared at her.
"You once told me you were a vampire," I said, giggling. "You told me you were going to suck my blood."
"But I never did," she said, smiling. "And I used to play with you in the daylight."
"Maybe the mythology is wrong," I said. I stepped closer and tried to get her to open her mouth.
"Stop that!" she said, pulling away and giggling.
"I want to see your fangs."
"I don't have any fangs, Emily," she said. "I'm not a vampire." And then she looked pointedly at the grave again. "Emily. This isn't an ancestor's grave. It's mine."
I stared at her, then punched her arm. "Good one. You don't feel like a ghost."
She rubbed her arm where I'd punched it, then said, "How many other ghosts have you talked to? How do you know what ghosts feel like?"
"Dee Dee," I said in a quiet voice. "Please stop teasing. I'm worried about my mom, and I'm not in a mood to be teased. This is mean."
"Honey," she said. "I'm not trying to be mean. This is my grave. I was born in 1871 and died twenty-two years later."
"This isn't funny, Dee Dee. I'm going back to the house." I turned to go, but suddenly she was in front of me.
"I have more to show you, Emily. But you need to believe me. That's my grave."
"You look pretty good for being a hundred and forty years old."
"Thanks," she said.
I stepped around her, angry.
"Look at me, Emily," she said. "Have you ever seen me wear a coat in the winter?"
I turned back to her and realized she was standing in a light dress. The same dress I'd always seen her in. She didn't even look cold. We were standing in the snow, and she didn't even look cold.
"Have you ever seen me eat? Even late in your teens, when your mom was gone and you would eat pizza?"
"You always said you weren't hungry."
"Ever seen me drink anything? A glass of water? Do you remember me ever eating or drinking a single thing?"
"Dee Dee," I said. "You're scaring me. Please stop this!"
"Your parents never caught us."
I thought about it. They hadn't. Then I looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Grandmother Stark did!"
"No," she said. "I went to her on her deathbed. I went to help ease her passage. She needed me, and I was there for her. Do you remember the stories I told you about her?"
"From her childhood. You said she told you those stories."
"I knew those stories because I was there with her. She and I used to play, the same way you and I did."
I stared at Dee Dee. "No," I said. "You can't be a ghost. You're right here. I can feel you." I reached out and pulled her into a hug, and she hugged me back. "A ghost can't do this."
"Not normally," she said. "It takes a special bond. Will you let me tell you my story?"
"No!" I said. "I'm not listening!" I tried to step past her, but she blocked my path again.
"Please, Emily," she said. "Let me tell you my story."
Dee Dee's Story
My mother was your great, great, however many times great grandmother's cook. My father was the grounds keeper. We lived in the house on the other side of the main house. It's not there anymore. It was destroyed in a fire in 1903.
Growing up, I became the playmate for your great-something-or-other grandmother. Starks seem to have one girl child in every generation, and they never marry. Your father had a sister, but she died in childbirth. You can believe the Starks were quite the scandal in generations past.
I was two years older than your great-great whatever grandmother. Her name was Beatrice. Once I was at all old enough, it was my duty to watch out for her. When we got older, we used to joke about it. I promised I would look out for her for as long as she lived. And then as we grew into our teenage years, we would joke that I would also look out for her daughters when they were born.
We used to play all sorts of games, although we never pretended to be lusty pirate wenches. That game was new with you, Emily.
And then, your mother met a boy fr
om town. Her mother didn't remotely approve, nor did her grandmother, and they tried to keep them apart. But as you know, you can't deny young love, and I become party to giving them opportunities to be alone together.
Well, one thing led to another, and Beatrice became pregnant. And at the same time, I got sick. Very sick.
She shouldn't have been, but Beatrice was at my side, day and night, taking care of me the way I used to take care of her, but as I grew sicker and weaker, she started begging me to get better, to get stronger. She reminded me of my promises to her, my promises to always watch out for her, and to always watch over her daughter.
She was with me when I died, holding my hand. I remember looking over to her, and she was crying. "You promised," she told me. "You promised you would watch over me."
"I will," I told her. "I promised you, and I will. I'll always watch over you." And then I lay my hand over her stomach and said, "It will be a girl, and I will watch her, too, and her daughter, and all the daughters after that. I promise, Beatrice, I promise."
Then, while Beatrice cried, I died.
It was some time later before I rose. Or whatever it is I did. It was years later. Beatrice's daughter was five, and she had your bedroom. I remember I was standing over my grave, staring at it. It was the first memory I had after dying. And I remember looking up and seeing a little girl looking at me from the window, your window, Emily.
I didn't know what was happening, but I knew I was dead, and I knew this was Beatrice's little girl. Her name was Mildred. She was a sweet child, but she had no friends. I became her friend, but told her she couldn't tell her mother about me.
I watched over her until she no longer needed me, and then I was gone, and don't remember anything until I was standing over my grave again. I could tell time had passed. It was spring, where it had been autumn, and the trees were different. The house looked different, a little more weathered. And there was a little girl in the window, looking out at me.
I became her friend. Her name was Virginia. She was a sweet child, and very lonely. And I watched over child, and child, and then your grandmother. And then you. And I loved them, I loved each and every one like you wouldn't believe, but never have I loved one like I loved you, Emily.
I didn't understand all the rules at first. I can't go very far from this cemetery where my body lays. Once I get to the other side of your house, it starts to get hard. That's why I always wanted us to play on this side. On this side, it's easier. Your house is okay. But after that, I start to feel pulled to the cemetery.
That night in the river a few weeks ago, that was the only time I've been so far from my grave, and I was there because you needed me.
I know you thought you needed me other times, and I wish I could have been there. I wanted so badly to be with you, but I couldn't. There are rules, I don't understand all of them. At some point, I stop being able to help, and then the girls stopped seeing me. But I learned I could be there when they were about to die, too. To make it easier for them. To help them. I was with your grandmother. And then, after she died, she came to me, and I helped her move on.
Move on? There's a light, it's very bright, and I can't see, and they step into it, and then they're gone. If there's a girl for me to watch over, I stay. If not, then time passes, and I don't remember anything until there's another girl.
I don't know what is to become of me now.
Understanding
"What do you mean, you don't know what's to become of you?" By then, tears were streaming down my cheeks. I believed her story.
She didn't answer, but instead she reached out and took my hand in hers. She pulled me away from her grave, and soon we were staring at another grave.
"Beatrice Stark," it said.
She pulled me to another. "Mildred Stark." Then "Virginia Stark." And finally we came to my grandmother's, "Edith Stark." Next to my grandmother's was my father's.
Then she pulled me to one more grave, and I stared at the name.
"No." I said. "Dee Dee, this isn't funny."
"I love you, Emily," she said. "Always remember, I have loved you since the day we met."
I stared at the name. "Emily Stark, Beloved Daughter, 1987-2013."
"I'm so sorry, Emily," she said. "I tried to save you at the river, but I couldn't. I'm so sorry."
I looked over at her. "I can't be dead. I'm standing right here."
"Are you cold? It's winter, and you're not wearing a jacket. Did you notice?"
I looked down, and she was right. I was wearing the same clothes I'd been wearing on the drive home, my office clothes, but the car had been warm, and I'd taken my coat off.
"When's the last time you ate or drank anything, Emily?"
I couldn't remember. I turned to Dee Dee. "This isn't funny, Dee Dee! Stop this!"
"Honey, I'm so sorry." She reached for me, trying to hug me, but I pulled away.
"No!" I said. "I can't believe you were gone all those years when I needed you! And then you play this joke on me. What did I ever do for you to be so cruel?"
Then I turned and began running for the house.
Suddenly, I found myself in my own room. I stormed out and crossed to my mother's room. She was still sitting up, but she had fallen asleep, tried tears on her cheeks and the book still in her lap.
"Mom!" I yelled. "Mom! Wake up! Talk to me!"
And then Dee Dee was there.
"She can't hear you."
"Mom!" I stepped forward and tried to shake her, but she didn't move. And I don't mean that she didn't wake up. I mean that when I tried to shake her, she didn't move. "Mom!"
I turned to Dee Dee and began beating my hands against her chest. "Stop this! Dee Dee! Stop this!"
Dee Dee simply opened her arms and pulled me into a hug. "I love you, Emily," she said. "Whatever happens next, remember I love you."
"No! Nothing is going to happen next."
"Come on," she said. "I think it's time."
"I'm not dead!"
"I'm so sorry, honey," she said. "I couldn't save you."
And then she led me from the house and back to the cemetery. I went with her, denying what she was saying, begging her to stop saying it, but she led me quietly to stand in front of my grave again.
"I don't want to do this, Dee Dee!" I said. I turned and clutched at her, pulling her to me, crushing her against me. "Please tell me this isn't real."
"I'll always love you," she said, holding me.
And then from behind us, there was a light, growing brighter and brighter. Dee Dee pulled away, but I clutched at her.
"That's for you," she said. "You have to go, honey."
"No!" I said, grabbing her and pulling her to me. "I'm not leaving you. I'm not going."
"You have to, honey," she said. "And I can't."
Then I pulled away slightly, looking at her. "You can. You can come with."
"I tried before," she said. "I can't. Only you can go. I have to stay here."
"To take care of the next Stark girl," I said, my tears drying up.
She nodded.
Then I smiled. "Dee Dee, there are no more Stark girls. I'm the last. There are no more Stark girls to take care of."
I looked to the house, and Dee Dee looked with me. "But, my Mom. She looks so sad."
"She is," Dee Dee said quietly. "But she has met a very nice man, and he will be good for her. She won't be alone."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
I looked at Dee Dee, taking her hand. "We'll go together," I told her.
"I can't," she said.
"You can try."
We looked at the light. It was coming from my grave, I couldn't see what was past it, but I thought if I just stepped across the grave, the light would take me. I took one step. Dee Dee raised a foot and tried to step with me. I glanced over, and she was trembling. Then she looked at me sadly, setting her foot back down. "I'm sorry, Emily."
"I'm not going without you!" I screamed. I looked back at the li
ght. "I'm not leaving her here! Do you hear me? God. Whoever you are? She's coming with me."
I turned back to Dee Dee, taking a step to her side. I kissed her quickly, then bent down with an arm behind her knees and another behind her back, and I picked her up. She wrapped her arms around me and shrieked for a moment, then pulled herself forward for another kiss.
I turned towards the light and took a step, Dee Dee in my arms. And then another step. And then I stepped through the light, with Dee Dee in my arms.
About the Author
A writer by avocation, Robin has a renaissance interest in many areas. A bit of a gypsy, Robin has called a few places home and has traveled widely. A love of the outdoors, animals in general and experimenting with world cuisines, Robin and partner share their home with a menagerie of pets and guests, although sometimes it is difficult to discern who is whom.
Robin can be reached via email at [email protected]
Other Works by Robin Roseau
All titles are available at Amazon.
Short Stories
Southern Night
Vacationing in Australia, Amber meets Jackie, several years Amber's senior. Amber finds Jackie commanding and alluring and instigates a meeting.
Southern Night is a short story of 5,000 words.
Cooking for Love
Jocelyn saw herself as short, dumpy, plain, and boring, a former housewife and repressed lesbian who had tried to fit into the expected norm. Her husband had left her three years ago, and in spite of her best friends' efforts, she hadn't had a date since.
Deb was a gorgeous woman with cropped but stylish blonde hair, sharp features, and an athletic build. In other words, the perfect woman in Jocelyn's eyes, and the last woman Jocelyn would expect to want her.
Cooking for Love is an 8000-word short story.
Stark's Dell
Copyright 2013 by Robin Roseau
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
