by Natale Ghent
Rows of plastic amber prescription bottles lined the glass shelves. Sarah selected one cautiously. Valium. She checked the date, opened it, inspected the odd assortment of coloured pills inside, then replaced it and chose another, hidden at the back of the chest. It was a big bottle of codeine, nearly full. Maybe a hundred tablets or more, she estimated.
“Thanks, Mom,” she said, taking several white pills from the bottle and slipping them into the breast pocket of her pyjamas before replacing the codeine carefully on the shelf. “Reserves,” she said, laughing softly. She stood staring into the medicine chest, then let out a deep sigh as she decided on a wrinkled and years-old cold remedy packet.
As Sarah filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove, she had the dark sensation of being watched. She canvassed the windows in the kitchen, checking to see if the curtains were all closed. The window on the kitchen door was exposed, the white curtain drawn to one side. Moving slowly toward the door, Sarah approached it so as not to be seen through the window and tugged the curtain across. Counting several beats to herself, she glided back to the stove where the kettle waited. But when she reached for the dial, a phantom hand brushed the hair at the back of her neck. She froze. Her skin tingled lightly. He’s toying with you, trying to set you off balance.
“All right!” she yelled, spinning around and staring wildly across the room. She turned, snapped the dial on the stove to high, folded her arms across her chest and leaned with her back to the kettle, one hand massaging her neck. The kettle clicked and clucked behind her as the element heated to a red glow. Before the whistle had a chance to sound, Sarah pulled the kettle from the burner and turned the dial to off. The water steamed and sloshed into the mug. The foil packet was difficult to open, the powder sticking to the pouch in a big clump from the bathroom damp. Sarah worked it with her hands, breaking the clump into chunks and dropping them in the mug. Grabbing a teaspoon, she hurried back to her room, leaving a trail of lights behind her.
Before closing the bedroom door, she tested the handle to make sure it wouldn’t stick again, then she slipped into bed, covering her legs with layers of blankets. As she stirred the medicine, the bright ting, ting, ting of the teaspoon against the sides of the mug sounded somehow eerie in the quiet of her room. She took a tentative sip. It was a familiar taste, sweet and slightly acidic. It was the same medicine she used to drink at night in the hospital to calm her mind. Near the end when she had started keeping a twenty-four-hour vigil, she’d depended on it. It was all she could do to cope with the erratic rhythms of the hospital.
The nurses worked in twelve-hour shifts. Four days on, three days off. It made things difficult. In the somnambulant world of chronic care, change was disruptive. A new set of eyes and hands. The endless questions. How much of this? How much of that? Legs covered? Legs exposed? No oral medication. Intravenous only. The high-pitched efficiency of staff recharged from the weekend, the counterfeit friendliness ground to an inert powder by the end of the week. The patients didn’t like change. They didn’t like getting used to new personalities. “Watch out for that one,” one of them told her. “She’s a witch.” And always the concern that the nurse would wilfully screw up, administer the wrong dose or wrong medicine entirely, indifferent face cocked to one side, neat white shoes touching, manicured hands patiently clasped.
By the time she finished the medicine, Sarah could feel it beginning to work, her eyes heavy and drooping, her fear deadened. Placing the empty mug on the crate beside her bed, she settled in. But the light—should she sleep with it on? She couldn’t bear the idea of the dark right now. She lay for a moment thinking about what she should do, then rolled over and faced the wall, covering her head with the blankets.
“I think I saw John,” Sarah announced out of the blue at the Queen’s. She didn’t know howelse to open such aconversation.
Donna lowered her coffee cup. “What do you mean? Like a ghost?”
Sarah pushed her french fries around her plate. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Tell me all about it,” Donna said, sitting up excitedly in the booth.
“There’s not much to tell.”
“Come on, Wagner!”
“He came into my room. He stood beside the bed. That’s it.”
“Holy crap, this is great!”
“Yeah, sure.” Sarah sat back in her seat. Here we go. Donna would find a way to make a three-ring circus out of the whole thing if she wasn’t careful.
“Do you know how badly I’ve wanted an experience like that?” Donna asked.
Sarah sighed, taking a cigarette and lighting it. “Nice for you, Donna, but I don’t find it particularly thrilling. It’s scary. I mean, what does he want from me? And how do I know I’m not just nuts?” She twirled the cigarette nervously on the edge of the ashtray. She should have just kept it between herself and Michael. At least he didn’t ask for explanations. He seemed to simply understand how she felt without asking her to define it. It was strange how they could communicate and not have to say a word sometimes.
“Maybe he’s having trouble crossing over,” Donna proffered hopefully. She pushed her coffee cup away and began eating Sarah’s french fries.
“What do you mean … like, to the other side?”
“Yeah. Maybe he’s stuck in limbo or something.”
Sarah picked up a fry, swirled it in the ketchup and abandoned it at the edge of the plate when a wave of nausea threatened. The ketchup looked too much like blood. “I suppose it’s possible,” she said.
“Of course it’s possible,” Donna asserted. “And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. There are lots of books about it. Our culture is so tight-assed when it comes to anything even remotely connected to death. We don’t recognize it as a part of life, the cycle of all living things. In Mexico they celebrate the Day of the Dead.”
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t think a parade is going to help matters much.”
“Not a parade,” Donna said. “Something more intimate, more personal. Some kind of ritual.”
A ritual, Sarah thought. Is that what John needs?
“Some people just don’t want to let go,” Donna continued. “They are so deeply entrenched in this corporeal plane that they can’t imagine anything else. So they hang around, occupy the same spaces they did in life, go through the same routines. They become ghosts … And most of them don’t even know they’re dead.” She whispered this last part like it was a national secret.
Sarah considered the notion. “He loved living,” she agreed.
“Of course he did,” Donna jumped in, apparently happy that her words had hit home. She tossed the fry she’d been toying with onto the plate and brushed her hands together. “Come on. Let’s go to the bookstore.”
There were two whole walls of titles in the Witchcraft section, everything from dream analysis to spell and charm books. “I don’t know,” Sarah murmured, browsing the shelves.
“Listen to this,” Donna said. She opened a blue hardcover called The Hidden Meaning of Things and began to read. “‘Psychologically, the forest is often interpreted as a symbol of the unconscious, where there are secrets to be discovered and perhaps dark emotions and memories to be faced.’”
“Hmmm. Interesting,” Sarah said without conviction. She continued to peruse the titles.
“There’s more. ‘Forests were considered places of mystery and transformation, and were therefore the rightful home to sorcerers and enchanters. The tree was believed to be infused with both divine and creative energy by the ancients.’”
The tree. The oak from Sarah’s dreams appeared in her mind, its leaves shining enigmatically in the dark. From somewhere deep in the woods, the girl beckoned. “No,” Sarah said, dismissing the image. “I need something specifically about ghosts.”
Donna sighed, shut the book and replaced it on the shelf. “Okay, here’s one … Rituals for Everyday Life.”
Sarah glanced at the yellow cover and shook her head.
Donna discarded
it, yanking another from the shelf. “What about this? The Book of Living and Dying.” She held the book up. It had a faded black leather cover with white letters, shaped like little bones.
“It looks used,” Sarah said, taking the book. It had a slightly musty smell. She opened it to the first page. The type was heavy and old fashioned, the paper filmy and yellowed. Parchment of some sort. Below the title, there was a pen-and-ink drawing of a spiral floating in an ocean of stars. Leafing quickly through the pages, Sarah landed on a section entitled “Ghosts.” She read a few sentences, then closed the book excitedly. “This one seems good.”
“Excellent!” Donna said. She rose from the floor, where she had been sitting cross-legged, and brushed herself off. “We can get started right away.”
Sarah didn’t answer but walked up to the counter and placed the book face down in front of the sales clerk. The woman promptly flipped it over and read the title out loud. She searched unsuccessfully for the price, then checked the computer. When nothing came up, she held the book in the air and called loudly for the manager.
“Have you seen The Tibetan Book of the Dead?” she chattered as they waited.
Sarah glanced nervously over her shoulder at the man standing behind her in line. “No, I haven’t,” she said.
“It’s a wonderful text,” the clerk continued. “I think everyone should read it.”
The manager finally appeared, a teenager, apparently, in a vest too big for his thin chest. He inspected the book and scratched his head. “Must be old stock,” he said, entering a code into the computer.
The total came to nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. Before the clerk could bag the book, Sarah grabbed it from the counter and stuffed it into her knapsack. Punching her PIN number into the keypad, she waited for the approval prompt to light up the screen as the clerk stood, bank card held casually in the air. Once the machine began to ring the transaction through, the clerk handed the card back to Sarah.
“Have a great day,” she called out cheerfully as Sarah and Donna left the store.
“We can do it at my house,” Donna offered. “I’ve always wanted to do something like this. You know I’ve been into this kind of stuff for a while, but I’ve never had the opportunity to do it for real, for something serious like this.”
“You mean, like The Exorcist?” Sarah said. She placed her hand on her friend’s arm. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Donna. But I think I need to do this alone.”
Donna’s face crumpled in disappointment. “But it helps if you have more than one person. It creates more positive energy …” She saw the refusal in Sarah’s face and relented. “Fine, Wagner. Whatever. It’s your ghost.”
“Thanks,” Sarah said. “I’ll tell you how it goes, I promise.”
It was rare to find her mother away from home. Sarah checked the rooms twice, to make sure. But it was true. She was alone. She threw her jacket over the back of the couch, opened her knapsack and pulled the book out. Kicking off her shoes, she curled like a cat in one corner of the sofa and turned eagerly to the section on ghosts. She discovered almost immediately that hauntings are rarely violent or indiscriminate. More often they are personal, generated by the incapacity of the living to atone for the loss of the dead. Hadn’t Michael said something similar? Sarah felt a sudden rush of gratitude. Here was the answer before her, and the knowledge that she was not alone. She wasn’t crazy. The book was proof of that. Other people had had the same experience. She checked the cover for the author’s name but couldn’t find one. She searched the pages inside. Nothing. “How odd.”
Turning back to the chapter, Sarah learned that death can be confusing for the dead. That sometimes they get lost in their journey to the other side. It seemed that it was up to the living to help the spirit of the deceased, to let it know what has happened. She paused, considering this. Had John’s spirit simply got lost? At the bottom of the passage, a ritual was described. It began with a series of items. Sarah made a list of the things she would need: an altar appropriately set up (she put a question mark after this), a photo of the dead person, tea-lights, sheets of paper and pencils, an apple, a pin, a cauldron and, if possible, a statue of the Lady or Lord—whoever they were.
Sarah dog-eared the page in the book and looked at her list. She didn’t have a cauldron or statue of the Lady or Lord. She did have a small jade Buddha, though, and a heavy glass ashtray—there were lots of ashtrays in the house. Would these substitutions affect the magic? There was no way to know for sure. She rose to collect the necessary items and found herself drawn to her mother’s room. When was the last time she’d been in there?
Stepping cautiously inside, Sarah looked around the room, at its austerity. The single bed, neat as a matchbox.
The walls, white, unadorned. A pine night table next to the bed. White curtains on the window. A small veneered dresser with round wooden knobs. A metal rod behind the door displaying a handful of dowdy dresses. No wonder her mother had no will, she thought. She’d divested herself of earthly trappings, like she was expecting to die any minute.
Beneath the bed was a cardboard box with a lid, as though the bed had laid an egg in its own image. Sarah reached in and pulled the box out. It was filled with papers and old cards. Picking up a card from the top, she read the inscription: “To a Dear Mother.” On the inside, beneath a gold-lettered poem, was John’s handwriting. “Have a good one, Mum!” There were cards for Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day—all from John. The dutiful son. There were letters, too, and short notes. I’ll try to make it for Thanksgiving. Save some bird for me. John. Interspersed among the cards were receipts for things: some cans of paint, a pair of shoes, a book. And then a larger receipt, folded. Sarah opened it and looked at the letterhead at the top. “Fine Funerals.” She read the description, the details in meticulous handwritten script. “Basic Funeral Package: Blue Horizons, pine with brass accents. Cremation and burial service. Newspaper announcement—free.” The whole thing, with announcement gratuity, had set her mother back $3,500. Sarah folded the receipt and placed it to one side of the box.
She picked up a postcard: The Three Fates. The picture on the front showed an etching of three women sitting side by side, holding a skein of wool. The woman in the middle held shears poised, ready to cut the yarn. There was something eerily calculating about the women, with their dispassionate faces. On the back of the card was a quotation, written in pencil: “Who knows but life be that which men call death, and death what men call life?” The handwriting unfamiliar. What was this doing in her mother’s things? It seemed out of place among the Christmas cards and scraps of old paper. Sarah set the postcard aside, thinking it was somehow appropriate for the ritual, even though it wasn’t on the list.
Digging through the papers, Sarah began looking for something—anything—with her name on it. Hadn’t she given her mother cards over the years? When she reached the bottom of the box, she felt oddly disappointed. Why had her mother kept letters from John but not from her? There was no denying that they didn’t get along. But to be so final, so dismissive … Sarah found it upsetting. It was as if she were being slowly erased. “What do you expect?” she muttered, piling the papers back in the box, careful to place the cards she had found first at the top. She didn’t want her mother to know she had been snooping.
Sliding the box to its spot under the bed, Sarah picked up the postcard of the three women and moved into the kitchen to collect the rest of the things she would need. But as she reached to open a drawer, a wave of dizziness set her back on her heels. He’s doing this to me, she thought, grasping the counter in alarm, then remembering that she had only had coffee with Donna earlier. Coffee and Advil. She would eat after the ritual, she promised herself as the dizzy spell passed.
The pin was easy to find, but there were no tea-lights in the kitchen. There were several half-burned white tapers, though, and a box of matches. In place of a candlestick an empty green wine bottle from under the sink would have to do. Sarah pushed t
he snub end of a taper into the wine bottle, the wax curling over the lip like a strip of old cheese. The apple she found in the fridge, its skin slightly puckered. She checked her list: “An altar appropriately set up.” What that meant she wasn’t sure, but she felt it must involve a white cloth of some kind; a white towel from the bathroom was all she had.
Placing the altar trappings on her bed, Sarah cleared the milk crate, moved it to the centre of the room and covered it with the towel. The towel was too long, so she tucked it under at the sides, smoothing it with her hands. She set the wine bottle, pin and apple in the middle of the crate, took the jade Buddha from the top of her dresser, wiped it clean with her shirt and placed it next to the wine bottle. Retrieving her box of photos from the dresser, she chose a picture of John that wasn’t one of her favourites but clearly showed his features and his guitar. Leaning the photo against the wine bottle next to the card of the three women, she returned the box to the drawer.
To set the mood, Sarah drew the curtains on her bedroom window and sat cross-legged in front of the altar, book resting in her lap. But the effect of the whole thing was somewhat discouraging. With the wine bottle candle and the white towel, the altar looked like a prop table setting at a French restaurant in a high school play. It lacked authenticity, she thought, even though she had no idea what an altar was supposed to look like. It needed … something. Scouring her room, Sarah chose a handful of leaves, a small mesh bundle of shells she had purchased as a young girl and a tiny wooden basket the size of a walnut. Inside the basket, on a bed of cotton, a gold-and-green beetle gleamed, salvaged from the sidewalk years earlier. Rearranging the altar, Sarah placed the leaves and shells with the beetle beside the apple and was finally satisfied with the way things looked.
“‘Light the candle,’” she read in a hushed voice. She took the box of matches, drew one from the carton and lit it. The candle guttered in the draft from the bedroom window, a clear teardrop of wax rolling down one side and spilling onto the green glass of the wine bottle before congealing and hardening into a translucent exclamation mark. Sarah reached over and extinguished the bedroom light with a snap; the candle bathed the room with its glow.
