by Kelly Oram
The house has been restored accurately and is listed on the National Register of Historical Places. Restoring and registering it is how my mother became involved with the city’s historical society.
When we moved to New Jersey from New York City, I was thrilled. I like the breathing room in the suburbs. And I love, love, love the house. I love its history and personality. I love its hidden secrets and mysteries. Julia and I have always joked that it’s the perfect house to be haunted.
I picked a room on the third floor to be my bedroom because I love the odd shape. There are two cozy nooks where the dormer windows stick out, and the slope of the roof cuts the ceiling in half, making me feel like I live in an attic. It’s romantic. It’s my sanctuary.
I make the three-story journey up to my room not worried about the noise the stairs make, knowing that my mother isn’t home to question my arrival. Stairs, no matter how restored, squeak and groan when they’re over a hundred years old.
After turning on my ceiling fan and throwing open my windows—hundred-year-old houses also lack central air conditioning—I set my iPod in its dock and turn up my favorite concerto, hoping the magical sounds of Brahms will distract me from things I don’t want to think about.
The symphonic harmony is soothing but not enough. After a few minutes of lying on my bed to listen, I become restless again, so I grab my violin and begin to play along with the piece I have memorized. My eyes flutter shut and my breathing slows. I lose myself in the music. My heart swells and pounds along with the tune as my bow glides across the strings and I forget everything. I escape. Toward the end of the movement, nearly fifteen minutes later, a soft sigh startles me. “You know the violin is the reason I fell in love with you, right?”
I let out a squeak and whirl around to see Spencer sprawled lazily on his back across my bed. His feet dangle over the edge. He has one of his hands tucked under his head, and the other is in the air waving about as if he’s conducting the orchestra playing on my iPod. He’s smiling up at the sloped ceiling, with his eyes closed.
I’m surprised to see him. I dream of him often, but to have him there while I’m wide awake is new and slightly terrifying. Have I really lost my mind so completely that I’m hallucinating him now? It wouldn’t surprise me, sadly. After seeing Wes again, it is possible I’ve finally gone completely mental.
I shake off the thought and convince myself that this is just another dream. I must have lain down to listen to the music and only dreamed I’d picked up my violin. That makes more sense than hallucinating Spencer. It’s less scary anyway, so that’s the idea I go with. Either way, though, I’m not complaining. Two dreams of Spencer in one day is a good thing.
“It was the day you moved in,” Spencer continues. “We were nine years old. I was in the tree house with Wes, arguing over football cards, when you came out into the backyard with your violin. I’d never heard a violin before, much less seen anybody play one. It was like magic.”
I giggle at the memory. Wes and Spencer scared me to death when they yelled down from the tree house window at me. They made me climb up and play for them again, asking me all kinds of questions when I was finished about how and where I learned to do that. Wes wanted to know if I could play the guitar or the drums, too, but Spencer thought the violin was perfect for me.
I’ve been playing the violin since I was four. I’m not a prodigy by any stretch, but I’ve always loved it, and I’ve worked very hard to be good at it. By the time I was nine, I’d been playing for five years and could compete with the kids in the orchestra at the high school. I guess I can see how it would have been impressive to a couple of boys who spent the majority of their time trying to catch frogs in the woods.
Spencer opens his eyes and turns his head to me. His gaze is alight with mischief. “I never told you this, but I used to sneak up into the tree house every night to listen to you practice. Even in the winter when it was freezing, and you kept your window shut. It was my favorite part of every day.”
I glance out my window. My bedroom is on the back of the house, and the tree house is almost dead even in my view.
Before he died, Spencer would sometimes sneak out of his house, climb the tree, and flash a flashlight into my window to see if I was still awake. I couldn’t sneak out to meet him because of the three flights of very squeaky stairs I mentioned—I tried a number of times and almost always had to claim middle of the night hunger pains when I woke my parents—but Spencer and I had a set of walkie-talkies, and the forty or so feet separating us didn’t feel like much as we talked through the nights.
“What a creeper,” I tease.
“I was definitely a stalker.” Flashing me a wicked grin, he scoots over on the bed and pats the empty space next to him.
After I put away my violin and join him, I immediately try to cuddle up next to him, but when I touch him I fall right though him as if he’s not really there. It startles me, and I sit up.
Spencer loosens one of his hands from behind his head and holds it out to me. It looks real, solid. I reach for it but can’t grab it. Again, my hand moves right through his. “This is a new twist to the dreams,” I say, trying several more times to connect with him.
When he doesn’t answer, I glance up. He’s watching me with knowledge in his eyes and a heartbreaking ghost of a smile on his face. He’s happy right now, but he’s also sad. “Bay, this isn’t a dream.”
“How can this not be a dream?” I don’t want the answer. I’m not ready to be crazy.
His eyes start to shine, and he sits up. “It’s real. I’m really here.”
My hand passes through his again, and I understand. “Are you trying to say you’re a ghost?”
He smirks as his eyes travel the circumference of my room. “Well, you always did say that this house begs to be haunted.”
I bark out an incredulous laugh. “Sure. Okay. I’m being haunted by my deceased boyfriend.”
It’s a nice thought, and I almost believe it. If anyone could find a way to be with me from beyond the grave, it would be Spencer. If he could, he would break through a separate plane of existence to reach me.
“Such a skeptic.” Spencer laughs. His entire frame shakes from the force of it, but the vibrations don’t transfer to the bed. It’s as if he’s not really there. I’m not sure why the dreams have changed, and I miss being able to touch him, but I’m grateful he came to see me anyway. “I’m real, Bay. Promise.”
Spencer crosses the room to examine the pictures of us I’ve left on my dresser. My bedroom furniture is as antique as the house, and I have a vanity table with a large mirror attached to it. I spent years decorating the mirror by sliding pictures between the glass and its wood frame. Eventually, the entire edge was filled with pictures, and it became a game of deciding which photos to replace when I took new ones. All of the pictures around the edge of the mirror now are of Spencer and me.
Spencer’s eyes focus on a picture of us in the city dressed to the nines in expensive formal wear. He may not have been “hot,” per se, but there was no denying that he was dashing in a tuxedo. “That was a great night, wasn’t it?” he asks without tearing his eyes from the picture.
“It was the best night of my life,” I confess, crossing my arms over my chest in an attempt to push away the throbbing ache that began when Spencer showed up. It hurts, but I would rather feel the pain than not have this impossible moment with him.
I come to stand by him, wishing he could pull me into one of his world-peace worthy hugs. He can’t be a real ghost. There’s no chill from his presence. On television, ghosts are often depicted as cold spots—their presence will give a person chills or drop the temperature in a room. I’ve heard that they will affect the electricity, too, making lights flicker and go out. There’s nothing like that right now. Spencer’s just a figment of my broken mind. I know this, and I don’t care.
I look at the picture he’s studying and smile at the memories it brings back. The Christmas before Spencer’s death,
he’d asked his parents for front row seats to see the Philharmonic Symphony play. Such a coveted prize should be near impossible, but Spencer’s parents had friends in high places and managed to score a pair.
I’d chastised his choice, saying that his Christmas gift was supposed to be for him, not me. He’d laughed and said that the tickets to the symphony weren’t the gift, but rather watching me watch the symphony was what he wanted. “It was worth it,” he says suddenly, as if reading my thoughts. “You were moved to tears within minutes, and you closed your eyes the entire time as you listened, so I got to watch you without feeling like I was creeping you out.”
The comment is romantic, and cheesy, and just so entirely Spencer, that I smile. For a moment, it’s just like old times. I can almost pretend the last year never happened. But the truth can’t be forgotten entirely, and my melancholy mood catches up to me. I climb back onto my bed, hugging the fluffy brown bear he gave me for Valentine’s Day when we were fourteen.
Spencer stays put, choosing to lean against the table rather than joining me on the bed. The distance makes the ache in my chest throb again, but I understand his reluctance. The closer we get, the more it will hurt when he leaves. If he leaves. Part of me hopes he’s telling the truth about being a ghost, and he’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.
He folds his arms over his chest, taking a long moment to look me over. The emotion in his gaze isn’t lust; it’s longing. Eventually, his eyes fall shut, and he takes a deep breath. “I love you, Bay.”
“I love you, too.” My voice is so thick I can barely whisper the words. If he’s trying to make me cry, he’s getting very close to accomplishing his goal.
The room is silent for a moment. I don’t want to break it.
Spence’s greenish-gold eyes are full of pain when he softly says, “You need to let me go.”
I suck in a breath and lean over the teddy bear in my lap, burying my face deep in its fur as a few tears escape my eyes. I don’t want him to see me cry. I don’t want him to know how much his words hurt me, because I understand why he’s saying them. And he’s right. But the idea of moving on is impossible.
Waiting until I’ve got control of myself, I sit up again. Spencer joins me on the bed. He sits right in front of me, tucks his knees under his chin, and wraps his arms around his legs. He’s waiting—as patient in death as he was in life—for me to be ready to talk. I’ll never be ready for this conversation. I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“You have to, Bailey. You can’t live the rest of your life like this. I’m gone.”
“You’re here right now.”
He tries to smile. His lips curl up, but there’s no spark in his eyes. “This won’t last forever. You have to move on.”
I don’t respond to this. Maybe if I pretend I didn’t hear him, I can keep telling myself he’ll stay with me and be mine forever. I don’t care if he’s a dream or a ghost or a hallucination. I’ll take him in any form.
Spencer pulls his bottom lip into his teeth and slowly releases it. It’s an action he’s done ever since I’ve known him, always when he was nervous or worried. I know it’s worry he’s feeling right now. Worry for me. That’s why he’s come back, because he’s concerned about me. I wish I could be strong for him, but I’m not. I don’t know how to survive without him.
“It hurts,” I admit.
He nods his head. “I know, but it will get better.”
I want to believe him, but I don’t. How will it get better? He’s gone. He’s never coming back. He left me alone on Earth, shattered, empty, and lifeless. From the look on his face, I know he understands how messed up I am.
“You can do this, Bay. You’re strong. You’ll learn how to love again.”
Shaking my head furiously, a few more tears fall down my cheeks. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to love anyone else but you.”
His shoulders slump, but he holds my gaze. His eyes burn with determination. “Then do it for me. I need you to do this—let me go, Bailey.”
It’s irrational, but his request makes me angry. “How can you ask me to do that? Don’t you love me anymore?”
Of course he does. But I refuse to face this problem. I can’t do it. I’m not ready.
My bedroom door opens without warning, and my mother pokes her head in the room, a frown on her face. “Who are you talking to?”
I look back and Spencer is gone. When I meet my mother’s eyes, the gravity of the situation sinks in. I hadn’t been sleeping just now—not dreaming. I’d been hallucinating. I’m losing my mind.
“No one,” I mutter. I offer nothing else, no explanation for why I was talking to myself or for why I’m home from school early. “What are you doing home?”
The administration must have called her. Or maybe it was Julia. I’m sure the rumor mill has gotten to my sister by now. She’d have to go to school on Mars for it not to.
Inviting herself into my room, Mom takes a seat on the edge of my bed and smooths out her dress. She waits a few minutes before starting in on whatever lecture she has planned. “The school called me.” I guess that answers that question. “So did your sister.”
I almost smirk.
“Are you okay?”
Of course I’m not. She knows that, but as my mother, she has to ask. She sighs into the silence. “I’ve made an appointment for you with Dr. Moscowitz. He’s working at the hospital today, but he can squeeze you in at two o’clock. Do you want to get some lunch or maybe some ice cream before we go?”
I glare at her before I can stop myself. “You’re making me go see that stupid quack again, and you’re asking me if I want to go for ice cream first?”
My parents sent me to Dr. Moscowitz for months after Spencer’s death. I always hated my appointments. I don’t think I have anything against therapy—heaven knows I could use someone to talk to—but I hate Dr. Moscowitz. He’s a short, fat, bald, pushy man who thinks he knows everything about everything. He discounts my feelings, saying that I’m just a teenager, so everything feels worse than it is. Every word he says to me drips with self-importance and condescension.
Even if I am going crazy—which I obviously am, considering I just hallucinated my boyfriend’s ghost—Dr. Moscowitz is not going to be the person to fix me. But arguing with my parents on this matter is pointless. Dr. Moscowitz went to Yale with my dad, and apparently a degree from Yale means one can do no wrong.
Mom pinches the bridge of her nose with her forefinger and thumb. “I was trying to be nice.”
“Nice would be not making me go see Dr. Moscowitz.”
“What choice do I have, Bailey? You’re not well, and you refuse to get better.”
Her bluntness surprises me, takes the wind out of my sails. My anger deflates, and I fall back into my pillow. Rolling onto my side, I grab my bear again and curl up with it. The bed rocks, and I feel the depression in the mattress from my mom’s weight as she lays down beside me and drapes her arm around me. “I don’t know how else to help you, sweetheart.”
Her voice quivers, and she hugs me tightly. The affection brings my guilt back. I love my mom and feel terrible that I’m putting her and the rest of the family through so much worry, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to feel better. She’s asking me to do the same thing Spencer just begged of me—to move on. But how? It feels impossible.
“I’m broken, Mom,” I whisper, selfishly snuggling deeper into her arms, though I feel as if I don’t deserve her patience. “He went to heaven, and he took my heart with him.”
“No, he didn’t.” Mom combs her fingers through my hair. She’s babying me, and I let her. “Your heart is broken, but it’s still in there. You can fix it, Bailey. Maybe it’ll have scars, but you can get it working again. If you would just try.”
I hope she’s right.
We’re quiet for a long while, using up our ice cream time lying in bed. Mom’s dress is surely getting wrinkled, but if it bothers her she doesn’t show it. “Your sister wants to g
o shopping for a homecoming dress in the city this weekend. Will you come with us, please? We’ll find you the perfect dress.”
My chest caves in. I’ve been dreading homecoming since the first day of school. As if reading my thoughts, Mom says, “I think you should go.”
The idea of going to the dance makes me want to vomit. When I don’t answer, Mom doesn’t press the issue anymore. “Would you at least come help us find your sister a dress? She’s worried about you, too, you know.”
Worried? Or angry? Julia is jealous of the attention I’ve gotten since Spencer’s accident. I try not to blame her, but it makes me mad when she gives me attitude. She’s upset with me for getting attention that I never asked for and don’t want. I’m not sure encroaching on her shopping day with Mom because I had a meltdown at school is going to help the problem any, but how can I say no when Mom is obviously desperate for me to come along?
“Fine, I’ll come. But I don’t think I’m going to go to the dance. Not after what happened last year.”
Mom’s body sags with relief against me, and I’m rewarded with another firm hug. “All right. I’ll take what I can get.”
Hospitals are not my favorite place. They’re filled with so much pain, sickness, sorrow, and death. People try to disguise the depressing atmosphere by painting the walls soothing colors like pale yellow, but there’s no hiding the ugly truth. For instance, the patient visitor room I’m in right now has a cute, cartoony mural of a green, flowery meadow. But even looking at the big, yellow sun and the brightly-painted blue sky on one wall, I still know this room is used for people to visit their dying relatives. Probably their dying children, considering the youthful décor.
Dr. Moscowitz mostly deals with terminally ill patients—hence the hospital visit. I assume that’s why he never has much sympathy for me. I’m not dying like most of his other patients, so I’m just being melodramatic.