by Foxglove Lee
“No, it’s not that.” She wasn’t thinking about practical matters. “I just wanted to explain my behaviour at the restaurant.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I do, because I was rude to you and you didn’t deserve it.”
He quieted, giving her space to talk.
Staring at his suit jacket, she said, “The girl who died on the escalator.”
“You knew her?” he said with a gasp.
Whitney shook her head. “No, nothing like that. But I saw her. In the underground. That’s why I fainted. I saw her ghost.”
When Bruce didn’t respond, she took a chance and looked him plain in the face. His eyes were wide with alarm, glistening with fear. His mouth gaped.
“And then again at the restaurant,” Whitney went on. “When I went to use the ladies’ room, she was there in that dark hallway. I saw her standing between the men’s and ladies’, thought she was a statue at first. And then I thought she was a person. She looked so real.”
“No wonder you were quiet after that,” Bruce said. “Gotta admit, I’m glad it wasn’t something to do with me.”
“It wasn’t,” she assured him, grabbing his hand for emphasis. She quickly pulled back. She didn’t want him getting the wrong idea. And then she felt fidgety, so she pulled her phone from her purse. “I was trying to take a picture of her when I accidentally called you, but I don’t think it worked. My hands were trembling too much.”
“Mine would be too,” he said supportively.
She opened the photos on her phone and blanched when she saw what she’d captured. “I didn’t think I’d managed… I really didn’t think…”
“Christ Almighty,” Bruce muttered. He inched that much closer to Whitney to get a better look, and the warmth coming off his body fried her brain. “It’s there, right? This dark shape centre frame?”
Whitney nodded. The whole picture was dark, because the hallway had been, but within that darkness stood a greater darkness. A shape. A form. The young woman Whitney had witnessed. She’d snapped a picture of this girl.
“I was so afraid you’d think I was crazy,” Whitney admitted.
“How could I possibly? Look what you’ve captured. This is incredible!”
Whitney didn’t know where to go from here. Was this ghost showing herself only to Whitney? Or to other people too? Would she keep showing up, keep following Whitney around?
Would the ghost girl follow her home?
Lord, she hoped not.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Whitney woke up thinking of Bruce. She brushed her teeth, got dressed, did her makeup thinking of Bruce. She walked to the subway thinking of Bruce.
He hadn’t kissed her when he dropped her home, but she knew he’d wanted to. She’d wanted to invite him up for a cup of coffee, except that she didn’t keep coffee in the house, so that would have been a pretty flimsy excuse.
When she got to the subway station, a chipper young man in a green apron handed her a free paper. The news of the world brought the unsavoury aspects of yesterday streaming to mind. She fully expected to see the escalator death on the front page, but that slot was devoted to American politics, as so often happened these days.
She didn’t open her paper until she’d squeezed herself into the subway car along with goodness-knows how many other office workers. She tried not to feel self-conscious about towering over the middle-aged woman beside her, but lady seemed oblivious to her surroundings, immersed in something she was reading on her phone.
When Whitney flipped to page two, she gasped. Audibly. Loud enough for the oblivious woman to glance up at her.
“Ohhh,” the woman said in a hushed tone. The subway was always strangely quiet in the mornings, like a crate transporting zombies to their places of business. Pointing to the article, the oblivious woman said, “Wasn’t that awful? So scary. You never think you’re in danger just riding an escalator.”
“Her name was Calpurnia,” Whitney said, scanning the article.
“What a pretty name,” the stranger said. “One of those ones you don’t hear every day.”
“Pretty girl,” Whitney went on, because the article featured a picture of the deceased. Not as she’d appeared to Whitney, of course. The commuting public could only handle so much gore with their morning coffees and breakfast bagels.
The photo featured Calpurnia in a cap and gown, one silver ring through her lip, another through her eyebrow. Was this a high school graduation photo, or had she completed post-secondary education? The article didn’t specify.
“She was only twenty-two,” Whitney’s subway neighbour pointed out. “So young.” The woman suddenly seemed angry, and said, “What a stupid way to die.”
Whitney wasn’t entirely sure how to respond.
Quite a few passengers off-loaded at the next stop, and as they did so, Whitney looked up from her paper. The last thing she expected to see was Calpurnia’s ghost, and yet there she was standing between a young man in a suit and an ageless woman facing the other direction. You don’t expect to see a ghost under glaring subway lights, which makes the appearance all that more shocking.
Whitney screamed.
She didn’t mean to. The last thing she wanted was to call attention to herself while a new batch of passengers loaded onto the car. But it was just so shocking, seeing the poor girl in her death state. The ghost had longer hair than the girl in the photo, but same features minus the piercings.
The apparition only lasted for a moment, but the damage was done. She’d screamed on the subway. You don’t scream on the subway. People get scared. They avoid you like the plague, and most people did just that.
But the oblivious woman looked concerned in the extreme, to the point where she clutched Whitney’s suit jacket and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I saw her,” Whitney blurted. “Right there. Her ghost.”
The oblivious woman didn’t react the way Bruce had last night. She looked saddened by this proclamation, but saddened in a way Whitney interpreted as, “Oh darn, so you’re crazy after all.”
The oblivious lady didn’t go anywhere—that would have been rude, and anyway the subway was packed again with a new batch of commuters—but she didn’t make any more small talk for the rest of the ride.
Meanwhile, Whitney spent the trip staring at that no-longer-empty space where Calpuria’s ghost had appeared. Maybe she was crazy. Or at least seeing things, or dreaming. What were the chances a ghost girl would show herself on a rush hour subway? Some people characterized this commute as a living hell. It would be really sad if ghosts were subjected to it too.
When Whitney arrived at the office, Norma said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
Whitney couldn’t come up with a witty remark.
The receptionist hissed, “Give your cheeks a pinch! You’ve got a visitor!”
A shuffle in the waiting area drew Whitney’s gaze in that direction. She half expected the ghost girl to extend a hand, say, “It’s great to finally meet you. I’m looking to sue the escalator company,” and then Whitney would have to explain that she wasn’t a litigator, that she mainly worked in corporate mergers, and anyway, what would a ghost do with her settlement money? Was she hoping to buy a house in the nice part of Heaven?
But it wasn’t Calpurnia waiting to greet her with a coffee cup in hand. “You mentioned you’re trying to cut down on caffeine,” Bruce said with a coy smile. “There’s a place downstairs that does this killer hot chocolate. I hope it’s not too early in the morning.”
“It’s never too early for chocolate,” Whitney replied.
She didn’t need to pinch her cheeks. She could feel them blazing.
Norma was obviously eating this up, but Whitney didn’t give the woman the satisfaction. Taking her hot chocolate from him, she said, “Come on into my office.”
She led him into the firm without so much as glancing in Norma’s direction.
“I can’t stay long,” Bruce w
arned her as they rounded a corner. “I really just wanted to drop that off and see how you’re doing.”
The assistants poked their heads up over the tops of their cubicles like prairie dogs as Whitney led Bruce into her tiny office and closed the door. He gave a bit of a laugh and said, “This place reminds me of my first apartment.”
Kind of insulting, but she’d let it slide because this hot chocolate was the most delicious thing she’d ever put in her mouth. She sat on the corner of her desk and told him, “I saw her again.”
The amusement fell from his face as he cautiously asked, “Who?”
“Calpurnia,” Whitney said. “That’s her name. I was reading about her in the free paper. I look up and there she is. Right there on the subway.”
Moving closer, Bruce asked, “Did anyone else see her?”
Whitney shook her head. “I don’t think so. No one else screamed.”
“You screamed?”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “It was really embarrassing.”
He took the take-out cup from her hand and set his beside hers on her desk. Then he wrapped both arms around her in a compassionate embrace. Because she was sitting and he was standing, their hug was a touch more triangular than she’d have liked, but she reminded herself he was trying to console her, not seduce her. Not this early in the morning.
She could have lived in his embrace. He was so warm, so generous of spirit. He didn’t even mind that her powder had rubbed off on his suave suit jacket.
“Why does she keep showing herself to me?” Whitney asked. “Why me? I’m not a psychic. I’ve never seen a ghost in my entire life, not until now. I didn’t even think I believed in ghosts.”
“She must have some kind of message she’s trying to get across,” Bruce reasoned. “Calpurnia, that’s her name?”
Whitney nodded and reached for her hot chocolate. Lord Almighty, that was good stuff.
“I think we need to go to her funeral,” Bruce said.
Whitney locked onto the word “we” more than the word “funeral.” She would go anywhere with Bruce, anywhere he wanted. Even the funeral of a girl she’d never met—in life, that is.
In death… well, that was another story.
Chapter Seven
“I always feel so awkward at things like this,” Whitney whispered to Bruce, “when I don’t know anyone.”
“You know me,” he reassured her.
Arm in arm, they entered the room in the funeral home devoted to Calpurnia’s visitation. A strange sensation came over her. Nothing ghost-related this time. She just had this vision of herself in a white dress, walking down the aisle arm in arm with her future husband. Yes, they would walk in together. There was only so far tradition could take you. Whitney would gladly don the gown, but she wanted to walk down that aisle side by side.
Strange thought to have in a funeral parlour. Would make more sense in a church. But this place did have some lovely stained glass along one wall. The evening sun shone through, casting rainbows across the neutral space, really brightening up the place. It would probably be even more beautiful for the funeral tomorrow morning, but as it turned out, Bruce and Whitney were both too busy at work to escape for a stranger’s funeral.
So they’d have to carry out their recon work at the visitation. Probably better this way. Lots of people milling about, talking in hushed tones. If they split up, they could eavesdrop on twice as many conversations, but Whitney didn’t want to let go of Bruce, and he didn’t seem to want to let go of her either.
Closed casket. Unsurprising. Whitney would have been mortified if she’d had to confront the physical body of the girl who’d been haunting her.
“Pretty girl,” Bruce said as they perused the photos in frames on top of the casket.
Whitney wouldn’t say “pretty” was le mot juste, but she wasn’t about to say so at the girl’s visitation. No reason to sound uncharitable. She simply nodded as she took in Calpurnia’s school photos, pictures with friends.
“Finally!” said a voice to Whitney’s right. “Someone who knew the real Cal!”
Whitney looked around to see who this young woman was referring to, and she was confused when she realized the girl was looking straight at her.
“I’m Danine,” she said, as though Whitney should know what that meant. “You look confused. Didn’t Cal mention me?”
“I… I…” Whitney wasn’t sure how to answer. “I’m afraid I never met Calpurnia.”
“Cal.”
“Cal,” Whitney repeated.
Some lady was muttering something Whitney couldn’t quite make out. Danine made the sort of face that would have been accompanied by steam shooting out of her ears, had she been a cartoon character. Danine grabbed her hand and dragged her away from the casket, over toward the wall where there were no eavesdroppers present.
Aside from Bruce.
“Who’s he?” Danine asked sourly.
Loaded question! “Bruce,” Whitney said. “He’s my… we’re friends. Good friends.”
Danine seemed to catch her drift, but that didn’t make him any more welcome in their grouping. “Whatever,” she said. “As long as he’s not here to enforce oppressive patriarchal structures.”
“I’m just here to pay my respects,” Bruce interjected.
Whitney could tell by the way Danine looked at him that she didn’t have much time for men. “Were you and Calpurnia… was she your girlfriend?”
“Not she,” Danine replied, seeming at the end of her rope. “Cal.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Cal was genderqueer. I figured that’s how you knew each other, from one of those trans orgs. Volunteer work or support groups, something like that.”
Whitney felt a little as though she’d been hit with a frying pan. She should be used to being read by now, but she wasn’t. She was really starting to think she passed perfectly well. It was jarring, when some stranger came right out and acknowledged it like that.
“I didn’t know Cal at all. The law firm where I work is right near the elevator where…” Whitney couldn’t finish that thought. “Bruce and I were very touched by her passing. We just wanted to pay our respects, that’s all.”
“Not her,” Danine said, sounding increasingly aggravated. “Cal didn’t ascribe to binary gender, didn’t use pronouns. Just went by Cal.”
Bruce was quick off the draw. “Sorry for the mistake. We didn’t know. None of the news reports made that distinction.”
“Well they wouldn’t, would they?” Danine shot back. “Anyway, Cal’s parents didn’t get it. They didn’t get Cal. I did. Friends did. But prim and proper Mummy and Daddykins won’t acknowledge that their darling daughter is anything but. To them, Cal’s a girl, plain and simple. They don’t even want me here. I tried to tell the funeral director Cal wouldn’t want to be referred to with feminine pronouns, but he’s all like… who are you? Not family? Well, I have to do what the family wants.”
“It’s hard for some people to understand,” Whitney put forth.
Before Danine could respond, Bruce asked, “How long were you together?”
“Coming up on three months,” Danine said proudly. She seemed to be warming to him. “And I know what you’re thinking: that’s not a long time. But I knew Cal better than anyone.”
“Are you genderqueer too?” Whitney asked.
“No!”
Whitney looked to Bruce, not sure what she’d done to elicit such a loud reaction. People were looking. This was so embarrassing.
“I’m sorry,” Whitney said. “It’s only that, the day Cal died, she—sorry, not she—Cal had on this long dress. And long hair. All very feminine-looking.”
“So what?” Danine asked. “You can be genderqueer and dress femme. You can be genderqueer and dress masc. You can dress however you want.”
“I’m sorry,” Whitney replied. “I don’t know much about these things.”
Danine’s brow furrowed. “Aren’t you trans?”
“Yes,”
Whitney replied in a whisper.
The girl looked like she was about to launch into a tirade, but instead she asked, “Wait, did you say you work in a law firm?”
“Yes, I’m a lawyer.”
“Good! You should sue all these news places that keep referring to Cal as a she, girl, woman. Someone needs to set the record straight, and it can’t be me. Cal’s family won’t even let me speak at the funeral.”
“That’s awful,” Bruce commiserated.
“Well, they say it’s because we’d only been dating for three months, but it’s really because they don’t want their darling daughter’s memory tarnished by some raging queer.”
“They said that?” Whitney asked.
“They didn’t have to,” Danine said. “It’s obvious what they think of me.”
Chapter Eight
Whitney and Bruce didn’t stay long at the visitation. Partly because she was afraid the ghost of Cal would appear to her and she’d wind up causing a scene in front of other mourners. But mostly because they couldn’t seem to shake Danine, and Whitney found the girl more than mildly obnoxious.
“I don’t want to go home just yet,” Bruce said as they stepped off the subway.
Taking his hand, Whitney said, “I do.”
She led him across the street and then into the coffee shop on the corner.
“Pick a cake, any cake!” she said, indicating the showcase of desserts for two.
Bruce couldn’t decide between chocolate and cheesecake, so they bought both—and a tea latte each. With their treats in hand, they made their way to Whitney’s place.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said, trying to cover up how nervous she felt about having him over for the first time. “It’s not much to look at, but it suits me fine.”
Setting his coffee cup on the table alongside the cake box, Bruce said, “I like it.”
Whitney looked around the room as though she were seeing it for the first time: kitchen right in the middle—if you weren’t careful, you could open the front door and walk right into the table—and then the bed on the left, a little seating area on the right. The hallway heading to the bathroom doubled as a walk-in closet. Not a lot of space, but Whitney couldn’t complain.