The experience stops as suddenly as it began. I feel quite breathless and, despite the shock I have a massive grin on my face.
I have always had strange experiences. Paranormal, or whatever you would call them. Bullshit is what Richard would call them. But this kissing thing – this is something new. I wonder who it is, this ghost.
For a dead guy, he kisses great.
CHAPTER SIX
After the kiss, strange things keep on happening. I start to regularly hear snippets of conversation and music in my mind. At first it’s just when I am drifting in or out of sleep, like the time I heard the piano playing. Then, as December gathers pace towards Christmas, I start to get small ‘flashes’ every day or so.
It happens mostly when I’m driving and listening to ‘Town Full of Heroes’. I’ll hear background noises, perhaps plates being put down on a table or a car starting, just like I did that time when he – whoever he is - kissed me. Sometimes I turn off the music or pull over just to check the sound isn’t something in the car, a faulty stereo or my phone acting up.
The strange experiences continue right across Christmas when, despite the festivities at Mum’s house, I come down with the most awful ‘flu and am laid up in bed at my family home with my iPod, while they celebrate downstairs.
Richard phoned this morning to wish me a Merry Christmas. It was the early hours of the morning in Denver; he had waited up especially. Poor Richard, away in a strange country for such a long time. He’d sounded lonely.
So now I lay propped up, full of snot and surrounded by a mountain of dirty tissues. I gave up aiming for the bin sometime around 3am this morning. I’m also a bit lonely, spending a lot of time by myself with just my music and my strange secret for company. My ghost kisser seems to visit most during track five of Town Full of Heroes’ album and – get this – track five is a song called “Love Twin”. So I start to think of him as my love twin. After all, we have some kind of connection.
It is freaking me out a bit that I might be having liaisons with a dead guy. Obviously I can’t talk to Richard about it, especially not over the phone. He loves me but he won’t tolerate ‘psychic shit’ at the best of times and he can be quite jealous if he thinks I find someone else even vaguely attractive. It would be interesting to see which he would mind more – me kissing someone, or the other man’s lack of a pulse.
And it’s considering this, which sparks off a realisation – I heard his heartbeat when we kissed that first time, interlaced with the thwack of the windscreen wipers. My ghost might not be a ghost. Is it possible that I am being haunted by someone who is alive? I Google ‘haunted by a live person’ and other combinations on the same theme but all I find are rambling forum posts, silly articles and web sites selling psychic services. I try to dismiss the idea and decide my auditory hallucinations have been brought on by the ‘flu.
*****
By the second week of January I am back in my own home and back at work, though still white as a sheet and feeling truly hideous. I am dizzy when I stand and I’ve had a temperature for three weeks now, with alternate chills and night sweats through the night meaning I haven’t slept well.
I look disgusting. I have a cold sore on my top lip, I’m on today’s second box of Balsam-infused tissues and I smell strongly of menthol oil. I don’t feel up to working; I came in this morning on autopilot.
I’m sat at my desk looking out at grey sky and grey buildings and even greyer people, when I see the first flakes of snow begin to fall, settling softly on the pavement.
“Shhh!” I hear, close to me. I look to my right - No one is there.
It’s him.
I sit up straighter in my chair, pen to my lip, wondering what and who it is that I am hearing. Without knowing the answer, I stand to put on my coat and gloves. “Just popping to the shop,” I tell no one in particular, my voice thick with cold. I have no intention of buying anything. The romantic in me wants to feel the snowflakes on my hot skin. I grab my iPod, pop the earphones in and hit Play as I step outside into the chilly air. I don’t know where I’m walking to.
The first snowflake touches my lip, and then a second rests on my forehead. More fall onto my hot skin like cold kisses from my secret twin. I keep putting one foot in front of the other, the beginnings of a small smile upon my lips, until I near the open grassland that folds itself over the hill. I feel a kind of quiet excitement, a pull towards something unseen. And then I see a man standing under the Sycamore tree about 100 metres ahead of me.
I quicken, stumbling over the clumps of frozen grass as I make my way towards him. As he turns away, I catch a glimpse of a familiar profile and I realise it cannot be who it appears to be. As I get closer, I wonder whether this is a trick, maybe a cardboard cutout but he moved so it can’t be... And the snow has become a flurry and the wind has become its whip, as I push away the hair and the snow from my eyes and stride on, blinking away the flakes as they fall towards me.
It is him. I stop, astonished.
“Shhh,” I hear again. He is looking towards the horizon, that unmistakable jawline tenses. I take in that same furrowed brow and that trademark jacket. I don’t understand what I am seeing. I don’t understand because it’s Joel, the lead singer of ‘Town Full of Heroes’, standing there under the Sycamore tree. At my work.
One blink later and he is nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
So, my secret twin is a rock star. Go ahead and laugh, say “Oh well it wouldn’t have been anything normal, would it?” I understand. I know it sounds implausible. Like when people claim to recall their past life. They’ll say they were a famous army general or a beautiful medieval princess. They never claim to be Jane Smith from Birmingham, do they?
Joel is a rock star in a band called Town Full of Heroes and, as such, he leads a life far removed from mine and Richard’s. He occupies a place in the South Western United States, some 3,000 miles away from my life here in rainy, snowy England. Most of the time when he is awake I am asleep.
This is frankly ridiculous. However, perhaps in part due to my boredom and loneliness, I decide to test out the theory. I leave work on the dot of three ‘o clock. I’m not the only one leaving early, it seems everyone is rushing home before the snow lays and darkness falls.
I turn into my road just in time to see a blue car pulling away from outside my house. I nab the space. I step out of the car, or try to, as the strap of my handbag catches on my handbrake and pulls me back onto the seat. I tug it free. The cold air whisks around me, flinging snowflakes and hair into my eyes. Grateful to have a home to go to I dash towards the house, quickly shutting myself into the cramped porch and knocking over a bag full of empty jars and bottles that I have yet to take down to the recycling depot. I really must get a porch light sorted, I think, as I fumble to find the keyhole. Where is it?
I sigh heavily as I finally enter. I step over the letters on the mat, thinking they can stay where they fell for a little while longer. My shoulders drop with relief. It’s been a long day and all I want to do is to sit down. The house is silent and shadowy. I turn on the hall light. It illuminates the kitchen ahead and I see a stack of dirty dishes that I didn’t have time to wash up earlier. I ‘tsk’ under my breath. If I had put the dishes in the dishwasher before I left they would be clean by now... A beep from my handbag tells me that I have a text message.
Well, it will have to wait a minute.
I take off my coat, hanging it on the aged old coat stand that was my grandmother’s. That coat stand has witnessed a few things in its time I think, as I take off my boots and wriggle into my new fluffy white slippers. It’s silly really, I always buy the same style... this pair is not yet a week old but I know how it will look in about two months’ time, all grey and falling apart after a dozen ill-conceived trips out to the bins and a few thousand spins round the washing machine. It’s a silly idea, white slippers. This pair still has a resistance to the shape of my feet, which makes them feel unfamiliar.
&n
bsp; I pad into the front room, heave the curtains closed (thinking I must replace that curtain track) and turn on the table lamp, dimming it to a comfortable glow. En route to the kitchen I retrieve my phone from my handbag and see that the text is Richard telling me he misses me. I am getting used to being alone but I miss him too. I busy myself about the kitchen and then, when all is clean and the dishwasher is whooshing and humming away, I take my mug of hot English Breakfast tea into the front room. I throw a couple of cushions up one end of the sofa and lay down with my head upon them. Finally, I can close my eyes and relax.
No sooner have I done this than, through my eyelids, the quality of the light changes to warmer tones and I ‘see’ Joel in my mind’s eye.
I smile. He is unaware I am facing him. He has a look of intense concentration. He bites his lip, minor frustration crosses his beautiful face like a brief rippling wave and then it’s gone. His eyes shine, oddly darting left to right. What is he doing?
I try to concentrate. Ah, I think, he’s playing a computer game. His hands are moving. He looks like he is driving; it must be a driving game. I take in the rest of him like a gift to be savoured; his body, toned and restful in grey track suit bottoms and a white t-shirt with a light, flecked pattern on it. He has some kind of black cord around his wrist and white socks on his feet. It’s the first time I’ve seen his feet out of boots. The carpet is off-white or grey. He is sitting on the floor at the foot of a massive bed which he’s leaning against. There are blinds at the windows. They are big windows, with warm light flooding in. I wonder if this is his bedroom.
Ooof! My eyes fly open. Next door’s cat, Hickey, has spoiled this heavenly vision by jumping and landing square on my bladder, then pausing to knead my trousers with her claws. I chastise her and pop her straight out the front door and out of the porch. I feel bad doing it what with the weather but it’s not her house. We inherited the cat flap when we moved in and Hickey likes to use it. Needing a wee, I get up, mentally shake Joel out of my mind and go upstairs.
So I am on the loo, contemplating what in the way of bathroom products I need to buy from Tesco’s when Joel jumps back into my head. I see him looking at his own face in a mirror. He has some stubble. Is he about to shave? Has he just left the game at the same time that I left the sofa? Am I seeing him in real time? Maybe he has an ensuite and was only steps away from the TV...
Why did we both get up together? Was that a coincidence? So many questions... Did he see me? No, he couldn’t have done.
This concern is uppermost in my mind as I hurriedly finish what I have to do on my porcelain throne; hoping (with my pants round my ankles) that these visual flashes are not reciprocal. I flush, whip off my clothes and press the button to start running the shower. I will wash that man right out of my hair. I have to, or I fear I will go slowly nuts.
If I’m not already.
*****
Over the next few days, Joel continues to permeate my life. Day by day, at work and at home. These regular flashes where I get visible, audible and emotional glimpses of his life make it harder to ignore what is happening. Snatches of conversation, a laugh perhaps. The increase in frequency and intensity of these flashes is both exciting and terrifying.
I have a £295,000 mortgage. I need to hold down a job, spend time with my family and love my fiancé forsaking all others... How will I cope if Joel starts to break through to my life every minute of every day? Will there be a time when I hear everything he thinks? See everything he sees? Feel everything he feels?
In a way I am grateful for the eight-hour time delay between England and the USA. It affords me hope that I will not be lost in his life forever.
There is one problem. Joel is not always eight hours away. He often flies to all sorts of places. What would happen if we met? I like to hope he will look into my eyes and see; not the woman in front of him with the duffel coat and the non-whitened British smile; but the ‘me’ he will recognise. My spirit, if you will.
It sounds corny, doesn’t it? Do you think, like in some sappy love story, that he will recognise me as his soul mate? That he will understand in less than a heartbeat that we don’t have to be any more than we are? That my life and his can continue to be separate, yet together, so neither loses what they have? Could we exist in some third space, one that does not affect our day to day lives?
Well I suppose that’s what we have already. So maybe I should be glad.
But I have questions. Does Joel ‘feel’ me? Does he know I am here? Is he scared to tell, too? As I said, Joel is a musician. A pretty famous one. During the past few weeks I have found some possible answers in his music and in interviews, particularly about his passions and his fears. We are both scared of sharks. Obsessed with fears about death. In love with music and fond of old 80s brat pack films. Control freaks. Sometimes crushed by a lack of self-confidence. Secret dreamers with poetry in our hearts. We have lots in common. We have both holidayed near to the other, maybe in some kind of search we weren’t aware of to find the other.
Perhaps we have we both been haunted by each other for our whole lives... If so, why? How?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Joel
It's the start of a brand new day. After breakfast, Georgia, Harry and I visit my mom at the Medical Center on Grayson Boulevard. We walk through the noisy corridors and I look down as I walk, avoiding the glare of the lighting and the row upon row of rooms, all full of sick people, IVs, machinery... We arrive at her side room; I glimpse her through the glass in the door while I steel myself to step inside. She looks expectant. Maybe a little nervous, too. I wonder how long she has been watching out for us to arrive. The visit is OK. Her blue eyes shine a fraction brighter when she sees Harry; she is propped up and able to talk a little. Harry monopolizes Gramma’s attention, as he should. She looks pleased but oh so tired, so we don’t stay long.
As we leave the room, blowing kisses and promising to come back tomorrow, I think that she seems a little better in herself and that it could be a good thing; that is until the doctor takes me to one side out in the hall. He explains that she has been put on a different kind of medication to keep her more comfortable. But it’s not going to make her well. Nothing can now. He has a robotic way of speaking about the end of life as I know it, as if he is the one who is sedated. I bet he does this all the time, day in, day out. Delivers the verdict when, one by one, his more terminal patients slip into their last sleep, before some spotty teen comes to wheel their gurney to the elevator for the trip downstairs.
In my head, I christen him the Grim Reaper. Yes, he is dressed in a white coat, he has a beard, he looks quite normal and his badge says Dr. Larry Theobald but I know better.
As we leave the Medical Center with Harry burbling and giggling and Georgia blowing raspberries on his belly, behind my dark glasses my eyes are full of tears. I blink them back but I feel it won’t be long until they fall uncontrollably.
My gray top of the range Dodge Ram is parked out front. Georgia buckles Harry up into his car seat while I start the engine and whack on the air con. It’s a hot day in San Diego. As I pull away from the kerb I see a guy with a camera over on the sidewalk. He is trying to get a shot of me, so I speed up. It’s times like these that you see the dark side of fame. My tears, when they fall, will mean pay day for some scumbag.
That night, I can’t sleep. I keep seeing the girl when I shut my eyes. She is stalking my mind. I go into the home studio and play guitar for a while and then record some rough vocals for a new song idea. I hear Harry cry and I go to him; he is hungry so I give him his bottle then cradle him in my arms.
I imagine what would happen if my marriage to Georgia fell apart. I couldn’t lose Harry. I couldn’t be without Georgia. I live with unimaginable good fortune. So it sucks if I can’t hold on to my sanity much longer.
CHAPTER NINE
Beth
Having slept for seven hours straight - at least one hour less than my body requires to function properly - I take about thirty m
inutes to come to the next morning. It doesn’t help that I know outside it’s still dark and cold. In that time, laying somewhere between being awake and asleep, I suddenly hear Joel sing a line or two absentmindedly. It kind of shocks me and wakes me a little for a second or two. It sounds like he is in the room with me but of course he isn’t. I let sleep take me again, hoping this private audience will continue. Then I see him in what looks like a home studio. He is just working on some ideas, playing with sliders on the mixing desk, sitting all alone. Then I see him in his kitchen, grabbing a drink.
I hear a baby cry; he goes straight to the child and cradles it in his arms. But he looks scared. I wonder why? I hope his kid is OK. I can feel the warmth of his skin as if it were my own. It makes me smile. Oh, if he were mine.
Guurrggh. I get up, feeling like an unholy mess. I need to get to work.
I take a different route in the mornings. I like the motorway when I’ve not long woken up, whereas I prefer the back roads in the evening. I think it’s because, when I wake up, I like to be alone with my thoughts and Joel’s, of course. The motorway is comfortably impersonal. It doesn’t care who you are. You are unlikely to ever meet the people around you so, if you sing along to the radio the person who drives past and clocks you doing a Mariah Carey number probably won’t be in the queue at the supermarket that evening. I feel I can be myself on the motorway. There aren’t many places, after all.
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