For
most of us there is a poignant moment in life
when
we come to realize
we
are not alone.
And
I’m not referring to the billions of people
with
flesh-and-blood bodies surrounding us.
No.
What I mean are those numberless spirits
who
exist within our reach
yet
beyond our sight,
kept
secret by a blinding veil.
Many
believe such spirits are like angels
watching
over us, watching out for us.
But
perhaps the case is they are merely
just
watching.
“Mom, what’s so great about
being alive?”
“Knowing you’re not dead.”
It took less than a heartbeat
for my mother to spit out that smart retort.
“Mo~ther,” I groan grumpily. But I wonder about her answer. “How
do you know, Mom? Have you ever been dead?” Sure, it’s an equally wise
comeback, but I am semiserious.
“Of course not, Gwen.” Mom
frowns at me over her shoulder, peering out from my bedroom closet. Even
scowling in the dim lamplight she looks pretty with her blue eyes, pink lips,
and blonde curls. It feels wrong to be jealous of my own mother, but I envy her
color. Not to mention the perfect hourglass figure she works so hard to
maintain. Me, I’m a beanpole—stick straight and entirely drab. A closer
likeness of my father.
Seated in bed, I watch her
hang up an armload of clothes she has gathered from every corner of my room. I don’t
bother straightening up anymore because things always wound up strewn across my
floor regardless. Mom quit hassling me about my lazy housekeeping skills years
ago when I insisted (with a bit of youthful weeping and wailing) that a phantom
was responsible for the continual mess. It’s a truth she refuses to accept, but
she doesn’t argue with me about it.
My fingers comb the ends of
my limp ponytail as I sit and ponder the mysteries of death. My eyes lock onto
strands of gray hair without actually seeing them. Yeah, I know, it’s bizarre
for a teenager to have gray hair, but it isn’t like old-lady hues of gray. Mine
is more of a steel-blue, not-quite-dark-enough-to-be-black kind of gray. Weird,
yes, but it honestly is my natural hair color. Just like my eyes—stormy
gray.
I go back to staring at my
mom, considering life and death and the existence of a spirit world, when I
utter my thoughts aloud.
“Maybe death isn’t so bad. Maybe
being dead is actually better but we don’t know it because we’re stuck here with
the living, consumed by daily, tedious, grueling, pointless—”
“Guinevere!” My mother puts a stop to my pessimistic blathering with
a curt pronouncement of my full first name. I hate hearing it. She gave me a
queen’s name, yet everything about me is light years from regal or refined. My
gray eyes flash up at her, catching a serious look of parental concern.
I wrinkle my nose and answer
the obvious question on her mind. “I’m not suicidal, Mom, I swear. I don’t have
a death wish or anything.”
“Gwen, honey, then why are
you talking like this? Why ask such morbid questions?”
I shrug, not that I lack an
answer, but the truth would worry her.
Mother steps out of the
closet and hops over a pile of shoes to come sit on the edge of the bed. She
brushes back my long fringe of bangs and tries to comfort me in a manner she
hopes will put a peaceful end to the subject. I haven’t talked to her about
this kind of thing for years, and I can see it is causing her anxiety.
“Gwen, honey, think about it.
If you were dead, you would have no physical body to move around. No arms to
hug with. No legs to run with. No way to touch or feel or hold onto anything or
anyone. Not to mention the fact that no one would be able to see or hear you; that
in itself would be horribly frustrating.”
“Why wouldn’t anyone see me? People
see ghosts sometimes.”
My mother’s brow twitches
uneasily. “And how many ghosts have you seen lately?” she asks.
It’s a loaded question. I shake
my head. “None, Mom.” I catch how my answer visibly ebbs her fears, though she
tries to hide it.
“I rest my case then,” she says,
smiling as if everything is settled. Her hand strokes the downy comforter
covering my legs, ending in a motherly pat on my knee.
I want to let it drop, to spare
her additional worry, but I can’t. There is something bothering me to the point
of haunting my dreams. Something I will never confess to either of my parents.
“Mom, uhm…” I hesitate. But I
have to know. “Do you believe in life after death?”
She nods, not in answer but as
a signal that she will continue our conversation. “Well, Gwen, most religions
preach about an afterlife—a heaven or hell where our spirits are sentenced to
spend eternity. Others say death is the final curtain. End of story. Done and
done.”
“What about you, Mom? What do
you think?” I wait, anxious as a mouse for an answer.
She forces a tiny smile. “Honestly…
I think it doesn’t matter what I think. If life continues, I’ll live it. If it
doesn’t, I won’t.”
I have to tell her. “I know
there’s more to come. I’m sure of it.”
Her lips purse and her
forehead crinkles beneath a wave of blonde bangs. “Well, okay, Gwen. But you’re
not seeing apparitions or hearing voices again, are you?”
She is referring to my past: a
dramatic night at only eight years of age when I swore the ghostly image of a
dark tribesman appeared in my room where he spoke to me of frightful things. I screamed
for my parents and then talked nonstop about the vision for months afterward,
obsessed with the idea of ghosts and phantoms and dead people. Following a few
uncomfortable visits to a fanatical shrink, I stopped talking about it for the
most part. Except to my best friend, Daniel. He’s a smart kid and a good
listener. But most importantly, he doesn’t think I’m crazy.
Since then I have suffered a
few minor paranormal experiences, but I keep those facts from my parents. Only
Daniel knows. I have yet to tell him about my latest one, though.
To answer my mom’s question,
I cautiously present a theory. “Maybe ghosts and those in the afterlife haven’t
gone anywhere special, like to some glorious heaven or an awful hell. Maybe
they are still with us, living among us right now. Maybe the afterlife is right
here on Earth.” My wide eyes gauge my mother’s expression. She squints as if
considering the idea, and so I go on.
“Maybe we don’t see the dead
because they cover up our eyes with some kind of shroud or mist or veil or
something. Maybe they don’t want us to see them, so they blind us from their
presence. But if we were to look hard enough and catch a glimpse beyond that
veil, maybe we would find them gathered all around us.”
Mom clenches her jaw and
breathes in deeply through her nose. Her voice lowers half an octave when she
carefully asks me, “Gwen, honey, why do you think this?”
I can tell I’ve lost her. Time
to drop it. I wish with all my heart my mother would trust me enough to
understand me, but that is a futile wish. It will never happen. If I keep on, I’ll
be forced into more worthless sessions with that crazy shrink, so I lie to
pacify her.
“I miss Grandma Lucy, that’s
all. I just wonder where she is. I wonder if she’s happy—if she can see us.”
“Ohhh,” my mom sighs. There is
a mountain of relief in the sound. She pats my leg again, probably more for her
own comfort than mine.
“You shouldn’t worry about
such things, Gwen. Grandma was old. She lived a full life, and it was natural
for her to pass on. There’s no point fretting over it. We can’t know for sure
what happens after death until we get there. And I pray it’s many, many years
before we have to endure another death in this family.”
I nod and fall back on my
pillow, curling up to it. Mom leans over me to brush my smoky bangs aside and plant
a warm kiss on my forehead.
“Maybe, young lady, you
should think a little less about the unknowable and spend more time considering
why your clothes belong in a closet and not strewn about your room.”
“I didn’t do it,” I say,
closing my eyes to welcome sleep. “The phantom did.”
Mom groans bleakly. “Oh,
Guinevere.”
Copyright 2025 Richelle E. Goodrich
