Dead To Me

by Anton Strout

  Irene caught me staring and smiled. My face flushed. “Sorry,” I said. Few things in my experience were worse than being caught checking someone out. Thankfully, the elevator stopped and I quickly slid the accordion doors aside and gestured for Irene to step out.

  “You’d think I’d never dealt with the dead before,” I said apologetically.

  She whirled around, looking upset—and once again I was able to see straight through her. I could make out my apartment door through her down the hall. “Please don’t,” she said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Please don’t refer to me as that.” She sighed. “The dead. I’m afraid I’m not quite used to the idea yet and I’d prefer it if you’d just call me Irene.”

  “I’m sorry, Irene.”

  Stupid, real stupid. I excused myself and headed down the hall toward my apartment door. I had to make a better effort tonight to think before I spoke. I opened the door and flicked on the light.

  “You’ll have to excuse the place,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to clean.”

  Usually I was quite proud of my apartment, but not with the way I had left it. The main living space was still cluttered with crates, hiding the normally impressive Clue conservatory atmosphere I had been working so hard to cultivate.

  “It’s absolutely marvelous,” she said.

  “You think?” I asked, surprised by her reaction. “I’ve always wanted to live in a Nick and Nora film. I’m afraid my current look isn’t quite doing it.”

  Irene walked across the living room, blithely passing through several unopened crates and boxes of every possible size. She stopped inside the middle of one of my brass-tacked leather sofas and looked around. I was surprised to realize that I desperately wanted her to be impressed. I watched as Irene crossed to the room’s focal point—towering bookcases full of the finds I had recovered over the years. Last night’s bag with the Intellevision and games was still there. I didn’t know what she had expected, but as she marveled over the shelves, I could tell it wasn’t this.

  “You’re certainly well-read,” she said, looking at all my books and grinning.

  “It’s all lies,” I said.

  She turned, puzzled. “How so?”

  “Well, none of this space is really me,” I said. “I’ve developed a space for the type of guy I hope to be—a man who wants space to think, to be cultured, and to be able to do it in comfort and style. It still feels a little like a ruse to me, though. I never feel quite at ease with the finer things I surround myself with.”

  Still, I wanted Irene to appreciate it, and it looked like she did. I felt a rush of pride.

  I cleared boxes from one of the leather Catalina sofas and stuffed handfuls of scattered packing materials into a tall wooden crate from which a Tiffany floor lamp poked out precariously.

  “I’ve been meaning to get to all this,” I said. I straightened the lamp and secured it with a few handfuls of the packing material. “Really. It’s kind of gotten out of control lately with my caseload at the Department.”

  Irene laughed, covering her mouth with one hand as she did so. “I completely understand your appreciation.”

  “You do?” I asked. “How’s that?” I muscled a painting-shaped crate to the floor and shoved it toward the row of bay windows that ran down the other side of the room.

  Irene started to answer, but paused instead and sat down in the space I had cleared. “You know, I’m not quite sure why I said that.”

  I stopped what I was doing and sat down next to her on the sofa. “Maybe you remembered something…?”

  “It’s possible,” she said with a frown of concentration. “I’m really not sure.”

  She was agitated by her lack of memory. I couldn’t imagine how I’d handle missing my entire memory. Hell, I got agitated when I couldn’t remember where my keys were, and Irene’s situation was worse to then 9th degree.

  “Just relax and think,” I instructed. Maybe I could get something out of her with a little guidance. “You said it for a reason, Irene. Did something about my apartment trigger something for you?”

  Her nose crinkled with even greater concentration as I watched, but I didn’t smile in case it distracted her.

  Finally, with a hesitant look of triumph, she said, “I…I think I may have been a lot like you, Simon. A collector. When you were talking about how you never could find the time to take care of all these things or get them put away, well, it struck a chord in me.” She thought for a moment longer. “I think that’s something that I may have been doing with my own life. Or if I wasn’t, I think it’s something I would have been very much interested in doing.”

  “Well, that’s certainly a start,” I said encouragingly.

  My stomach rumbled loud enough for both of us to hear. “Are you hungry? I’m going to cook something.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “No, thank you. Given my…condition, I’m not exactly sure how I would manage that anyway.”

  “Right,” I said, feeling the fool once again. “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing, Simon,” she said sternly. “It’s okay.”

  It was the first time she had said my name, and a smile crept upon my face.

  “It’s terribly sweet of you to offer, though,” she continued. “For your sake, I could try to eat but I have a strong suspicion it would end up all over your couch, like Mr. Christos’s drink back at the café.”

  There was an awkward moment before I took that as my cue to get up off the couch and made my way to the kitchen. I worried about leaving her alone, but I could still keep an eye on her over the counter that divided the two rooms.

  I stripped off my gloves and pulled some questionable-looking chicken from the fridge. Living dangerously, I set it in a skillet over low heat while I chopped up a mix of garlic and portabella mushrooms. When I was done, I poured balsamic vinegar over the veggies and threw the mixture into the skillet as well. I started in on a zucchini as I noticed that Irene had moved herself to one of the stools on just the other side of the counter, where she seemed content to watch me work.

  “No offense,” she said, “but that seems like more of an effort than I’d expect from a typical bachelor.”

  “I used to eat take-out nearly every night. Enough MSG in my system for seven heart attacks, probably.”

  “So why did you learn how to cook?” she asked.

  “The curse of my life,” I said. “Women. I’ve never had luck with the ladies, but I thought I might keep them around a little longer if I at least learned to impress them with cooking. It didn’t really work, but I did get used to eating well. Even though I’m alone, I don’t feel like going back to my menu-collecting days.”

  “Well, I’m impressed,” she said, clapping. “And just what do you call what you’re making?”

  I threw the zucchini into my countertop steamer and leaned over the counter conspiratorially. “I call this meal Third Date with Jessica. Better known as Last-Minute-Download Number Sixteen. Not terribly romantic sounding, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sure it worked like a charm,” she said. “I know it would have worked with me.”

  I looked at her and her body flickered as she blushed. I suppressed a smile. As usual, I had made quite a mess in such a short time in my kitchen. I set about cleaning up the remnants of my handiwork as my food cooked. I hoped keeping busy would help me avoid any further dorkiness on my part.

  “Do you miss it?” she asked, resting her chin on her open palms. “Cooking for two, I mean?”

  I turned on the faucet and let the warm water run over my hands while I thought about her question.

  “Do I miss having someone around is what you mean,” I said. “I don’t know. I’ve never gone long enough dating someone to really feel the ties of cohabitation. I’ve gotten pretty used to the hermit life. I like my space. It’s set up the way I prefer it, except for all that packing clutter. I’m comfortable in it.”

  Irene waggled her finger at me. “That
doesn’t really answer my question, now does it, Simon? Shame on you!”

  “Okay, okay!” I said with a grin. “I admit it. I like having someone around. I miss the company, the sound of another person’s voice, someone to cook for. But what am I going to do, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  It had been a long time since I had confided the truth about my powers to anyone. I took a deep breath. I held up my soap-covered hands and flexed my fingers at her. “I mean, what am I going to do about these?”

  “You mean, what you did with the PEZ dispenser back at the café?”

  “You watched that?” I asked.

  She grinned sheepishly. “I was eaves-watching.”

  I nodded. “Well, psychometry doesn’t really make being with someone an option.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said with a shake of her head, “but I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand what that is really.”

  I washed my hands and slipped my gloves back on as I stepped to her on her side of the counter. I headed for a carton sitting behind the couch, grabbed it by its flaps, and rested it on my lap as I sat on the barstool next to hers.

  “What is all that?”

  “The remnants of girlfriends past,” I said. I slanted the carton to show her the items within. Scarves, mix tapes, pictures, books, hairbrushes, and even a few pieces of sexy underwear from Victoria’s Sock Drawer or wherever they had been purchased. I moved the box closer so she could see everything, making sure I didn’t let either of my hands touch anything in it. I could feel the electric pull of my power stirring just holding the box, so I put it back down hastily. “Things they left behind or things they gave me. For most normal people? Pleasant memories of their time together. For me? They’ll never be anything more than invasive doorways into other people’s thoughts. Intimacy beyond intimacy. Everyone else’s memories are stored in these, but for me they’re pain in its purest form.”

  “Why do you keep them then?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Look around, I’m a packrat, maybe that’s it. Or maybe I have trouble letting go because in some sick way I see it as some sort of penance for being cursed with this power.”

  “But surely you must take some consolation in helping others with your gift!” she said.

  Before I had a chance to answer, the smell of garlic overpowered me and I ran back around the counter to save my dinner from the brink of burning ruin.

  “Yeah,” I said once things were back in control. “For most of my life, my ability has been treated as nothing more than a magic act or something to laugh over. Now I’m finally able to use it to some good end other than my own selfish needs and I like it. I can deal with all that. What I can’t deal with is how it affects my personal life, especially dating. I don’t want to be in the head of someone I’m involved with. It’s…it’s devastating. Do you know what it’s like to see someone you’re dating having sex with another person?

  “If that isn’t some heavy strangely homoerotic shit to deal with, I’d like to know what is. And everything in that box is a trigger for visions like that. Just like anyone who gets close to me is.”

  To help the weakening sensation pass, I pushed past the disorientation and plated my food, setting the still sizzling skillet back on the stove. It felt exhausting to finally articulate out loud what had been rolling around in my head unspoken for months, but liberating, too.

  “At least you can touch something,” Irene said without a hint of sympathy.

  There was awkward silence for a moment, but then we both burst out laughing. I felt a little embarrassed about how whiny I must have sounded. Still, it lightened the dark mood I was setting with my “poor me” ramblings. Suddenly I felt in better spirits. To tease her, I cut myself a nice, big juicy piece of chicken with several mushrooms piled high on top of it. I popped the whole thing in my mouth and chewed with slow, blissful satisfaction. “Too bad you can’t taste. Delicious!”

  Irene feigned pouting and stormed back to the couch. The whole act was so cute that I stole another discrete opportunity to check her out once again. She might be dead, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t hot. I felt no shame in thinking that this time. The nervousness of taking the wayward ghost into my home melted away. I strongly suspected that the reason I got along with her was because there was absolutely no chance of getting in Irene’s pants or of setting off my powers by touching her. Touching was something we couldn’t do, no matter what that pottery-spinning movie might have tried to convince me of.

  While I finished eating dinner, Irene seemed content to poke through my collection of books. The shelves towered well above her normal reach, but she rose up in the air toward several books that caught her eye without even noticing she was floating.

  The odd mix of my collection was not overly reflective of my own tastes, and I worried what she might think when she saw such eclectic combos as Curious George sitting next to The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers. Some were simply books that had caught my fancy and others I meant to redistribute to their original owners or antiquarian book dealers. I cleared my throat.

  “I can show you where you’ll be staying,” I said, “if you like.”

  “I’d like that,” she said with a nod, and drifted back down to the floor. I put my dishes in the sink as she headed toward the rear hallway.

  “Irene…” I began, but panicked when I saw her phase through the first door on her left.

  “Is this my ro—” She was cut off as she vanished through the door.

  It was the one door I didn’t want her or anyone to enter, the one door I kept locked. Shit. I ran for my jacket hanging over the back of the couch, fished out my keys, and dashed down the hall.

  “Irene!” I yelled through the door. “Hold on.”

  I could hear her gasp on the other side as I fumbled my keys with nervously shaking hands. When I got the door open, Irene was standing stone still, giving off a soft luminescence that I hadn’t noticed until I saw her in stark contrast to the darkness of the room. I flicked on the light and the blinding whiteness of the room sprang to life.

  “What in heaven’s name…?” she gasped.

  “Welcome to the White Room,” I said. Compared to the rest of my apartment, the room looked completely out of place.

  Irene turned to me apprehensively. “Would you care to elaborate on this?” she asked hesitantly. “It’s all a bit…extreme, don’t you think?”

  “It’s not as crazy as it looks,” I said. I wished I could undo the past few minutes. If only I had been faster, if only I could have kept her away. I felt defensive, in panic mode. “No one is ever supposed to see this room! That’s why I keep it locked. I didn’t even think about you passing right through the door.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Simon. Sit yourself down.” Irene moved closer to me and there was compassion in those eyes. With a slightly clearer head, I shuffled to the chair in the center of the room before I collapsed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that no one’s ever been in here. No one. Of all people, though, I suppose I’m lucky it was you. There’s no danger of tainting the space since you can’t really touch anything.”

  Irene kneeled before me. Her own concerns were forgotten if only for a moment. It was terribly ego-stroking and a little bit thrilling to be the center of her attention. But in the White Room, it was an uncomfortable sensation, and I fought the urge to leap out of my chair and run to the safety of another room.

  “What is all this?” Irene asked again.

  I took a deep breath and choked down my discomfort. “Superman has his Fortress of Solitude. Batman has his Bat Cave. I have this.”

  “Oh God,” she said with a look of half-joking horror. “You think you’re a superhero!”

  I laughed and shook my head. “No, not at all. I’m not delusional, I swear. But those characters, fictional though they are, have one thing in common. A place to hang their cape, a secret place away from the outside world where they feel t
ruly themselves…truly safe. This is it for me—or as close as it gets. This is my safety room. This is where I come when I fear my abilities.”

  The look on Irene’s face only needed to have a light bulb coming to life over her head to complete it. “This is your inner sanctum. Your holy place.”

  I nodded. She actually got it and I could have kissed her.

  “It’s rather stark,” she said. “Why does it look like it was designed after heaven’s waiting room?”

  “Everything else in this apartment is potentially loaded with other people’s thoughts,” I said. “That box by the front door was a prime example. I need a place that is clean of any potential triggers. A place I can retreat to, where I know I’m in control.”

  She had stopped staring and started checking out the contents of the room. “And all this furniture…?”

  “Straight from the manufacturer,” I said. The slightest twinge of pride tugged at my heart. “I know it seems obsessive, but given the nature of my power, I really had to go out of my way to get items that were least likely to trigger an episode. Each piece of furniture is brand new, never touched except by the machines that crafted their basic components. I even picked them up direct from the warehouse myself because I didn’t want deliverymen handling them. I assembled them and finished the job using the same coat of white on everything in the room. Fresh paint mixed up right in the store seems to dull the psychic impressions most.”

  Irene walked around the room. Her footsteps made no sound whatsoever.

  “You know,” she said with a grin, “psychologists would have a field day with your disorder.”

  “This chair,” I continued, ignoring her comment. “It’s from a store in the Bowery. It had been sitting among the back stock for years, but it was just what I had been looking for—something new, unused, and relatively untouched for a long period of time. You should have seen how absolutely hideous it was before I painted and recushioned it.”