A Boy a Girl and a Ghost

by Robert J. McCarter

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone and the steak in my stomach suddenly feels like lead. I hear her shifting around before she says, “I don’t know what it means.” More silence and then, “What do you think it means?”

  “You’re the one that said it. I know what I want.” My heart is thumping in my chest.

  Another pause. “What do you want, Wade?”

  “As much of you as you will let me have,” I say.

  I hear her sigh. “It’s complicated.”

  “I know,” I say. “You’re dating someone new. I don’t care. Whatever you want to give, I’m here. I want it. Just let me know what that is.” My whole body is quivering with energy. My voice wasn’t exactly steady when I said all that, but at least I said it.

  “Is that the truth?” she asks.

  “I swear, Helena. I swear.”

  “It’s complicated,” she says again.

  I give a brief snort. “Ain’t that the truth?”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Of course,” I say. After another pause I add, “But I will admit the waiting is likely to drive me nuts.”

  She laughs briefly. “Listen, Wade, I should go. We’ve got family day tomorrow and I’ve got some things to talk to my dad about before my shift.”

  “Yeah… okay. I hope your visit with your mom is a good one.”

  “Me too. Do you think you’ll hear from the doctors on Monday?”

  “Should. We’ll talk then. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  “You’re a weird kid, Wade. You know that?” she asks.

  “And you’re a fascinating woman, Helena.”

  After she hangs up I slump on the five-gallon bucket like some rag doll. The adrenaline has left me and I am exhausted. It wasn’t the move Billy suggested, but it was a move.

  23

  Tuesday, July 5, 1977

  The rest of the weekend is pure torture. I don’t “start the conversation” with my parents. I can’t. It’s like we’re all stuck in a Shakespearean purgatory.

  We go through the motions of our lives—eating, talking, resting—and it might look like things are okay, but underneath everything is roiling. Mom probably wants to be with her boyfriend. Dad… God, I don’t know where, or with who, my father wants to be. And I’m stuck in this family that isn’t what I thought it was. And we are all waiting for the call. From the doctor. About my tests.

  Monday is the Fourth of July and we are barely present for it, dutifully barbequing and watching what we can see of the fireworks from our backyard.

  The phone call comes early on Tuesday morning. Mom and I are in the kitchen cleaning up from our oatmeal with blueberries breakfast and Dad is checking the oil in the Chevelle.

  When the phone rings, my mother jumps. Her blue eyes find mine and I can see the fear there. We’ve had way too many bad phone calls for us not to feel some fear.

  She picks it up on the second ring. “Hello,” she says, wrapping the long curly cord around her free hand. “What?” She nods, a grim look on her face as she listens and my knees turn to jelly. “Yes. I’ve already gotten the day off.” She’s nodding now, her face serious. “We’ll be there.”

  When she hangs up, her hand rests on the white phone in its wall holder. Her shoulders are slumped and she’s silent. I know it’s not great news, but I’m not sure if I want to know anymore. She takes a deep breath, her shoulders straightening, and turns to me. “Doctor Wright wants to see you today,” she says with a twisted little smile. “He’s concerned about your white counts and wants to do more tests. We’ve got an appointment at eleven. We’ve got to get moving.”

  I nod and say, “I’ll get ready.” I move slowly towards the stairs. This news is not surprising. We were expecting it. But the reality of it is still hard. One step closer to… To what? To more treatments? To death? To life as a ghost?

  I chuckle at the last part. Life as a ghost. What is life as a ghost really like?

  Las Vegas is our “city.” It’s about two and half hours southwest of us and an hour closer than Salt Lake City. Las Vegas is where we go if we need to fly somewhere, shop at a mall, or go to a major hospital.

  Doctor Wright, my oncologist, works at Sunrise Children’s Hospital. It’s such a cheery name for such a difficult place.

  It’s a strange place. Las Vegas and the hospital. Las Vegas is this sprawling city nestled in a parched desert valley. So many houses, so many people, so much going on in such a dry, dry place. I hear the Colorado River doesn’t make it to the sea anymore, supporting desert cities like Vegas.

  The hospital is strange too. It’s in the “normal” part of Vegas, away from the strip right across from the Las Vegas Country Club, with its cheery green grass that is grown in defiance of the hot sun.

  Doctor Wright’s offices are just east of the hospital. We park on the black asphalt and do the “walk.” At 105 degrees, the heat is nearly unbearable and hits me like a solid force, like a brick, when I open the door.

  My father, who drove, stretches a bit when he gets out and then claps his hands behind his back as he moves towards the two-story building that houses many of the hospital’s doctors. My mother smooths her tan skirt and clasps her hands in front of her. She looks back at me, giving me a thin smile, and heads the twenty yards across the crowded parking lot to the door of the office building.

  We’ve done this before, dozens of times. I believe Doctor Wright is good—I’m still alive, aren’t I? But it’s almost never a good thing when we come here.

  I’m frozen, standing still by the car, the desert heat sucking away my nervous sweat, making my mouth dry. It’s not lost on me that I initiated this, asking for tests in Cedar after Lionel told me about the dark places he can see in my body. It’s because of that we are here. I know that, but I still can’t move.

  Part of me knows, I think, that the news, ultimately, won’t be good. That we are facing another round of treatments. My third strike. It’s not my mind that knows, but my body. That’s why I’m frozen there, like some damn Egyptian statue. Anubis stuck under the internal glare of the desert sun.

  My folks are halfway to the door before they notice. My mom looks back and then my father. They whisper something and she heads towards the door, and air-conditioning, and my father comes back for me.

  “I know,” he says, gently putting his hand on my shoulder.

  “I… I don’t know if I can do this again,” I say, my voice a little too high, my hands shaking.

  “Do what?” he asks.

  “Treatments,” I say, staring at the black of the asphalt. “I can’t do chemo again. I just can’t.” The memory of the weakness, the pain, the endless nausea come rushing back. The days stuck in my house, unable to see anyone but my parents for fear that my compromised immune system can’t handle a visitor. The vomiting, the diarrhea, the barely being able to stand some days.

  My father sighs and puts his hand on my chin and gently raises my head until I can see his grey eyes. “Listen to me, Aaron. We don’t know anything yet. This isn’t about treatments, this is about assessment. We need to know, don’t we?”

  But I don’t want to know now. What good will it do? How many times do we have to beat this leukemia monster back? How many more “treatments” can my body possibly stand?

  “Dad… this… why is this happening to us?” I ask. It’s the more important question. And it is happening to “us” not just me. If there are more treatments to be had, it will have a huge impact on their lives too.

  “I don’t know, son. I wish I did. But it is happening, and we can’t hide from it. We have to deal with it.” He takes a deep breath and does his best to put a smile on, but it’s not very convincing. “Besides. This time it’s probably nothing.”

  I nod and let him guide me in. But it wasn’t “nothing.”

  Life as a ghost. That thought begins to become something of a lifeline for me. What is it like, life as a ghost?

  I know this is a distraction. I k
now it may not be the best thing for me to be dwelling on (the word morbid does comes to mind). But the reality of my death is, I think, a lot more real to me than to other people, especially those my age. I can see Lionel, he’s a ghost, so isn’t it natural for me to wonder what life is like as a ghost?

  Tuesday is mostly a blur of poking and prodding that I receive at the hospital after we see Doctor Wright. He doesn’t have that much to say, just a tiny smile below his thin grey mustache. They need to know more. That means hours of waiting in the hospital, nearly choking on the antiseptic tang that brings back such bad memories, followed by the aforementioned poking and prodding.

  They draw blood. Take my temperature. They poke at my lymph nodes and look at my gums. They do a needle biopsy of my bone marrow by shoving a needle into my pelvis (sheer joy). I’m less a person than an object of study.

  My parents are good. They try to keep my spirits up. They offer to take me to Circus Circus to play some games on the way home, but it’s nearly dark when we get out and there isn’t time.

  And the whole time I wonder about life as a ghost.

  I’m honestly a little afraid of what it means. Am I giving up? Have I lost the will to fight this disease? And if I have, isn’t that a valid reaction to what I’ve been through? Quantity of life is not the only measure. Quality has to be in the equation. I’ve been having an amazing summer (in that I’m amazed, not in that it’s all been fantabulous) and I don’t want to go back to being the “chemo” kid.

  I call Helena as soon as we get home. I call her on the kitchen phone, and when I get her, I walk right into the pantry and close the door without a trace of shame. There is an inch-high crack at the bottom of the door and the long curly cord fits there just fine. I see the look my mother gives me and then my father, but I don’t care. I need to have private conversations.

  We don’t talk long. There’s nothing really to say. They poked, they prodded, and now we wait for the next phone call.

  I’m in a state, a foul mood. My parents are being all optimistic. That since I don’t have any symptoms yet, there is nothing really going on. I don’t believe it. I know something is going on. Lionel can see it. Lionel is real. And that takes me back to my distraction: What is his life like?

  As soon as dinner is over and I’ve cleared the table, I excuse myself and go up to my room. I don’t want the forced cheerfulness or strained silences that keep occurring. I want to be alone.

  But when I get to my room, I’m not alone. Lionel is there. I smile. Maybe I can find out what his life is like. Maybe that will help.

  Our conversation is really long. We spend hours with me writing in my Lionel diary.

  A while back, I started recording my raw interactions with him encoded in a separate book. It’s a bit time consuming because I have to write the question encrypted and unencrypted, hold up the diary for him to read, write down his answer as he points at the Ouija papers. I then black out the unencrypted question with a sharpie and a scrap piece of paper underneath so it doesn’t bleed through.

  It’s worth it though, I end up with just what I need. I have the raw questions and answers, but I’ve decided to record a portion of it here in my main diary for clarity.

  “I’M SORRY FOR WHAT IS HAPPENING TO YOU,” he points out on the Ouija papers.

  I nod and thank him.

  “I HAVE BEEN WITH YOU ALL DAY. I HEARD SOME CONVERSATIONS YOU DID NOT. BETWEEN DOCTOR WRIGHT AND HIS NURSE. BETWEEN THE NURSES DOING YOUR TESTS.”

  My mouth drops open. He was with me? “I didn’t see you,” I write. “Why didn’t I see you?”

  He smiles at me. His lips don’t move much, but it’s more in his eyes. It’s a smile full of compassion and it affects me in two ways. It makes me wonder who would want to murder this man, and that makes me even more dedicated to helping him.

  “IT TAKES EFFORT FOR ME TO PRESENT MYSELF IN A WAY WHERE YOU CAN SEE ME. IT IS VERY TIRING. THAT IS WHY I AM OFTEN GONE FOR A WHILE AFTER OUR TALKS. I AM RESTING. BUT, WHEN I AM NOT RESTING, I AM WITH YOU.”

  “Okay,” I write. “So go back to your normal mode right now. Let me see if I can detect you at all.”

  He nods and then is suddenly gone. I can’t see him at all. I close my eyes, cover them with my hands. Sure enough, where Lionel was is one of those flashes of light that I can only see out of the corner of my eye. “I see you,” I whisper to him.

  He moves a little around the room and I take one hand off my eyes and point at him as he moves. I feel this brief moment of happiness. A mystery solved. I can see Lionel because he is doing “something” so that I can see him. That something is tiring. When he doesn’t do it, he looks like all the other ghosts do to me.

  I mean, it’s not like I understand the whole thing, but at least I know why I can see Lionel. It’s not just my ability, it’s his efforts too.

  I open my eyes and whisper, “Come back.” And then I can see him again.

  “What is life like for you as a ghost?” I write.

  He folds his arms, takes a pace to the left and to the right, and then comes back to the Ouija papers. “IT’S NOT SO BAD, BUT I REALLY MISS BEING ALIVE. I MISS FOOD AND SMELLS AND THE FEEL OF THINGS.” He pauses, his hand rubbing at his mustache a bit before continuing. “BUT I DON’T WANT TO BE A GHOST. I WANT TO MOVE ON. AND TO DO THAT…” He stops pointing and looks at me intently.

  “I will start investigating just as soon as I can,” I write. “I’m grounded right now. Please be patient.”

  He nods and smiles and we talk for quite a while longer. He doesn’t tell me much about “life as a ghost.” It’s like he’s shy to share it, or doesn’t like it, or is withholding information intentionally. I can’t tell. But, still, it’s comforting to me to know. It may mess with my atheistic leanings, but I like knowing that consciousness goes beyond the body.

  It’s what I’ve got right now. I cling to it.

  24

  Wednesday, July 6, 1977

  I spend my morning cleaning my room. It’s always neat, but I really clean it, going through everything, dusting, throwing out some old broken toys, looking at every book.

  It is, I know, an attempt to gain some control of my life. So much is beyond my ability to effect change. This is not, so I go at it with gusto.

  As I do, I realize that unless he is resting, Lionel is with me. This is comforting to me somehow.

  I take my shift at the bookstore and I’m surprised when Arthur McBride, aka Banquo, walks into the bookstore. I don’t know why I’m surprised, he seems a likely customer. I have been pondering him and his passion ever since the theatre opened.

  He comes in with a girl a few years younger than me. She has long brown hair, braces, and a good helping of pimples on her face. Banquo has his hand on her shoulder and I figured she must be his daughter.

  After the play, I had begun to think back on why the man was so familiar. He had been in town for five years. I had seen him at some Christmas parties at the university, and I think he’d been in the bookstore a time or two. But, I don’t think we had ever interacted.

  “Anything you want, Page?” he says quietly to the girl, his hand gesturing across the shelves of the store. I am sitting behind the counter trying not to be nosy but being nosy anyway.

  She goes straight for the Nancy Drew section, which makes me smile, given what Helena and I are up to. He goes to our section on Shakespeare, which makes me feel a bit self-conscious. He is the expert. I’m worried that we don’t have a good enough collection.

  I get off my stool behind the counter and walk over. He is thumbing through Asimov’s Guide to Shakespeare. “Can I help you find anything, Mr. Banquo?”

  He looks up and smiles. His face can be rather stern, but when he smiles he really lights up and looks like a young man. I would guess he is in his early forties like my father, but his smile makes him look more like he’s in his twenties.

  “I’m fine, my boy,” he says, looking me up and down. “You’re Henry Wade’s son, aren’t you?�
�

  “Yes, sir.” I smell tobacco on his breath, but different than Helena. Not cigarettes, probably cigars.

  His smile disappears and his forehead crinkles. It is his version of the leukemia look. He is wondering if I am healthy, if I am okay. “It’s okay to ask,” I say.

  Banquo looks surprised, but then he looks me up and down again and smiles. I suspect he’s reevaluating what he thinks of me. “How is your health?”

  “Bad news recently,” I say.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I nod and then scan our Shakespeare shelf, thinking over his body of work. “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Banquo?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” He looks puzzled, so I pull out one of our nice leather-bound Complete Works of Shakespeare and flip through it. “Hamlet, King Lear, and of course Macbeth. They all have ghosts in them. Shakespeare wrote about them and the supernatural over and over. Do you think they are real?”

  I know I have good evidence that ghosts are real, but there is a sliver of me that still doubts. A part of me that doesn’t want to believe in what my eyes are seeing. It goes against my view of this world. It makes me wonder what I really know.

  Banquo, his lips pursed, pauses for a minute and looks me over. “I’m sorry, my boy. I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe Shakespeare used them and things like witches and magic to put into stark relief aspects of the human condition. It was just a literary device he used. We can’t be sure, of course, it was a long time ago, but I don’t think the Bard believed in ghosts.”

  I nod. I want to tell him about Lionel, about the proof I have. Run this by another adult, but I don’t. His daughter walks up to me and asks, “Do you have volume 16 of Nancy Drew? It’s the next one and I don’t see it on the shelf.”

  She’s got brown hair and warm brown eyes and a nice smile like her father. “Let me check in the back,” I say and scurry off.