by Andra Brynn
But it’s not fine, and everyone knows it.
Daniel clears his throat and inches upward. Carefully he puts his weight on the floor of the bell tower.
Another crack! This one louder.
Hurriedly he backs up until he is able to kneel on the top step of the little stairwell, breathing hard.
I wish he would go away and mind his own business. I wish he would leap across the space between us and grab me, hold me tight until I don’t remember why I wanted to come up here in the first place. Love me into forgetfulness.
“It’s dangerous up here,” he says.
“I know,” I tell him,
“You should come down, with me.”
“No.”
I see him swallow, gauging the distance between us. His face is white in the rising moonlight, a cold sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Bianca?”
“Yes?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. He is staring at the bell rope, disappearing down into the darkness below us. “Why did you give me a different name to call you than the name you gave to everyone else?”
I smile, not looking at him. “Remember when I said drinking was like a vacation from being myself?”
“Yes.”
“Being with you, being Bianca, that was like being on vacation from being Annie. Annie has a lot of problems. My name is still Bianca. It’s the name on my ID, on my transcript, on the class rolls. But Annie’s a pretty miserable person. I wanted to try being Bianca for a while.” I swallow. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “You just... now that I know... does anyone else call you Bianca?”
I shake my head. “No, no one. I’ve always been called Annie.” I have to smile a bit. “Did you think I was a ghost? Just for a second?”
To my surprise, he laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “I did. Just for a moment.” Then he pauses. “Annie,” he says, and he lets it roll around on his tongue, through his mouth as though tasting it. “Annie.”
The silence stretches out between us. I know it’s coming, and I try to brace myself for it, but even when it comes it’s still like a blow across the face.
“Annie,” he says. “That story about the ghost in the hospital. That was you. The little girl, I mean.”
There’s a lump in my throat, and I nod.
“And the other ghost stories? Were those you, too? They were always the same, a kid losing their father. Which one of them is the truth? Did he die in Iraq, or here? Did he play the piano, or did he drink and drive and wrap his car around a tree or whatever it was?”
I don’t know what to say. Sometimes I tell people my father died in the war, because it’s true, in a way. The war surely killed him.
But he was home when the bullet in the brain finished him off.
“He fought in Iraq,” I say. “And he left messages for me in the bathroom mirror back when he was still in the States. And he did drink, a lot, when he came back. And he played the piano, too.”
I take a deep breath. “And he shot himself in the head in front of my mom and me, right in the middle of the living room.”
There. I said the words. They never get easier. I hate saying them, remembering that they are true. It isn’t fair that those words are true. Why is he dead, and other people alive? People who don’t deserve it, like rapists and murderers and all the old men that sent him off to war in the first place? And none of it mattered in the end. It was all for nothing.
If I ever let it slip that my dad was in the army, people always ask if he fought in Iraq or Afghanistan, and I have to say yes, and they tell me to thank him for his service, and I want to tell them that he’s dead and so is our family and it was all bad, nothing good came of it, and if they don’t see why that’s the worst thing in the world then they are part of what killed him.
I’m a casualty, I want to tell them, especially on holidays when they wave their stupid little flags. I’m a casualty, too. Thank him? You know nothing at all.
Daniel is staring at me. I can tell he doesn’t know what to say. People never do. They judge him for it, too. They say they don’t, but they do.
Suicides go to hell, but no one ever mentions that at the funeral. They’re all thinking it, of course, but they don’t say it. They say shit like, “He’s in a better place now,” or “The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” or “There is more to this than we can know” which is exactly the sort of thing you say because you don’t want to tell a twelve year old that the man who gave her piggyback rides and helped her build a tree house in the old sweet gum in the backyard is now burning forever in a lake of fire.
But I’m nineteen now. I think I can handle it.
“That’s it,” I say. “That’s all there is to it.”
I see him swallow. The moonlight does startling things to him.
“No,” he says at last. “That’s not all. You told me those stories for a reason. You wanted me to hear them, but you couldn’t come out and tell me.”
I dip my head. I don’t want him looking at me. I don’t want him seeing more than I want him to see.
But it’s too late for that. “Those...those are the stories you wanted to be able to tell about him,” he says slowly. “Oh God... Bianca...”
“I waited,” I say, the words suddenly bubbling up and over and spilling out without my permission. “I thought, if he gave half a shit, he’d come back as a ghost. He’d play that old piano, or leave me a message on the mirror, or call for me somehow. He died a violent death. He left so much unfinished business behind. He left my mom, left me. If I’d ever meant anything at all to him, he should have come back. He should have come back.”
I’m not going to cry. I am not. I am strong. I don’t want anyone to worry about me. I swallow, hard. “But you know, no matter how late I stayed up and listened for the piano to start playing again, it never did. So. You know.”
Silence falls.
Daniel’s eyes are huge, haunted. “Know what?” he whispers.
I don’t want to say it. But I do.
“So I guess he left for a reason,” I tell him, and the world goes blurry, fading, blending. Boundaries are erased, and the world melts together, and then I am crying, crying so hard that my bones hurt, that my joints rattle in their sockets and threaten to fall apart.
“Bianca...”
“I’m fine,” I say between great gulping breaths for air, as the tears well up, as my whole body collapses into them. “I’m fine. I’m over it... I’m... I’m fine...”
My sobs are so violent I hear the floor of the bell tower creak under me. Another snap. A groan.
“Bianca, please...”
From the corner of my eye I see his hand reaching for me, like the last moment of a movie, the final chance for the villain to redeem themselves. I’m no hero, but I’m not a villain, either. I can hardly see Daniel through my tears, but I know he’s there. I know if I reach out, he will catch me.
I surge upwards, pushing onto my knees, and my hand meets Daniel’s. His long, warm fingers close around my chilled skin. I don’t deserve it, but he’s there.
Maybe this is what they mean by grace, I think.
A loud crack sounds in the cold, still air, and under my knees the floor buckles.
I stop breathing and look down.
“Don’t look, don’t look, just come here—” I hear the panic in Daniel’s voice. His hand is pulling me, and I slip and slide across the splintering wood, the cracking timbers. The bell tower groans and shudders, like a house hit by a wall of water.
“Bianca!”
I look up at Daniel. In the moonlight, his eyes are bright, his face pale and haunted. And I think, I’m sorry I made you worry. And then I think, He heard me even when I couldn’t speak. I should just say it and save him the trouble.
“I’m sorry I made you worry,” I say.
And then the floor falls away beneath me.
.0.
There are many stories about near death experiences. You see a tunnel. You se
e a light. Your life flashes in front of your eyes.
A loved one comes back to guide you home.
If I ever have a near death experience, I hope my father will come to me. Maybe he will smile. Maybe he will hold out his arms and move to hug me close.
And when he does, I will run to him, I will rip him to pieces, I will fall into him and hold him, I will kill him all over again with my own two hands.
.20.
It all happens in slow motion, just the way they say. Dying happens in slow motion, and all our lives are spent running toward it.
It only takes one mistake to die. One mistake, and everything is over.
Maybe you put a foot wrong and tumble down a mountainside. Maybe you don’t stop to look as you cross the street. Maybe you forget to wear your hardhat on the oil rig.
Maybe you sign up for the army, thinking it will give you a better life, and the next thing you know your brains are on the wall, your body hits the floor, blood gushes from your nose, and all the screaming of your wife and child can’t reach you, because you’re dead.
These things happen. Our fates have been decided. There is nothing to be done.
But me? I don’t want to die.
For a moment I hang weightless in the air, my hand still in Daniel’s. Everything is perfectly crystal clear to me. The moonlight, the cold air. The stars above us, the darkness below. The bell in the rafters like a hanged man.
Then I am falling, dust and splinters raining down with me. Flashes of light and shadow. A moment carved out of the world.
My hand slips from Daniel’s, so fast I must have let him go, not wanting to drag him down with me, and then there is dust in my eyes and I am heading straight down through the bell tower.
There is a weightless quality to falling. My hands flail outward, dreaming of being wings, and when I find a rope in my fingers I grab it, purely by instinct.
It burns through my hand, and above me I hear the bright clang, clang, clang of the old bell.
I’m changing, I think.
Then I hit the ceiling of the church entrance and white hot pain lances through my leg as the ceiling gives way beneath me, too.
But it slows my descent, and when I land on my broken leg on the church floor the boards crack, but they don’t break, so I don’t die, at least not right away. And I don’t black out either, but I wish I did.
I am deafened somehow. As though the pain has short-circuited my brain. All I can hear is the ringing of the bell.
If I could laugh, I would. If I die here, I know exactly how my ghost will haunt this place.
And you can hear her still, ringing that old bell as she falls...
Then I try to breathe and I realize I can’t, and the panic sets in.
An ugly sound breaks free of my throat as I struggle to draw air. My back explodes with pain and a thousand panicked thoughts race through my mind. Broken back, ruptured lung, bleeding out, internal injuries...
Then Daniel is kneeling beside me. “Oh Jesus,” he says. “Bianca.”
I try to draw breath again, and this time it comes and I realize I’ve just had the wind knocked out of me. “I’m okay,” I tell him, and I must not sound too terrible because he gives a frustrated little scream.
“Really?” he says. “You’re going to lie here and tell me you’re okay? If you’re okay now, when are you not okay?
“When I’m dead?” The pain is fogging my head, making it hard to think, but it seems like my brain has detached from my skull and is floating somewhere above, still able to make jokes.
“Not acceptable,” he says, and his hand alights on my head. “Don’t move for now.” Gently, he starts to stroke my hair as the electronic beep of his dialing cell phone squeaks against my ears. The bell above us is still ringing, or maybe that’s my head.
“I have a medical emergency,” he says, and I realize he’s dialed 9-1-1.
I try to concentrate on his voice, tell how he’s feeling, and now that I’m listening for it I hear the fear in him, trembling through his words on a high silver thread, and my heart is crushed.
I never wanted anyone to feel that way about me. Never. It’s too easy for me to slip away, to die. I know how easy it is to die.
I’ve seen the strings cut. I don’t ever want anyone to have a memory like that of me. It would be easier if no one cared.
But Daniel cares. I know he does, because he followed me, even after he found out I lied, even after he figured out what I was trying to tell him.
I’m sorry I’m not good at talking, I think.
His mouth is going a mile a minute as he talks to the person on the other end of the line, though his hand on my hair is still sweet and soft, gentle. I want to turn my face into it, but I’m afraid to move, lest I bring more pain down on myself.
Which, now that I’m thinking about it, is a pretty good metaphor for my life.
I must be going into shock, I think, and I am far off, detached. I want to close my eyes and sleep for years. I’ve never been so tired in all my life...
“Bianca!”
“Hm?” I say. My eyes snap open.
“Can you move? Your legs and stuff, I mean?”
I give my hands experimental twitches. “Arms are fine,” I say. I curl the toes of the leg that isn’t broken. “Legs are fine.”
“Can you stretch out? You might be more comfortable that way...”
“I don’t think I will,” I say. The pain of my broken leg is now a dull roar. I swallow against the nausea. “Hold my hand?”
His hand closes around one of mine. Warm.
“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.”
I want to laugh. I really do. “That’s my line,” I tell him. My words are slurred. I might have a brain injury. How will I keep my scholarships with a brain injury?
Daniel laughs for me, though it’s thin and nervous and half-sob. “Has anyone ever told you that you have abandonment issues? And trust issues? And all sorts of other issues?”
“Kinda guessed,” I say. His hand squeezes mine.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t be bothering you with that right now. You need to stay awake, though. Can you do that?”
“Can’t do that when I’m not injured,” I tell him.
Christ. I am tired.
I realize I’ve closed my eyes again and I peel the lids up. I don’t feel so hot.
“Bianca. Bianca, talk to me.”
“What ‘bout?” It’s cold. I’m cold.
“Why don’t you tell me why you ran away from me?”
Oh. Fine. Ask me that while I’m down and out.
“Or...” he says after a second. “Or your classes. Do you know how you did on your midterms?”
I frown slightly, confused by this sudden change of topic.
“Your friends,” he says then. “How are your friends? When did you get heat back in the house? Bianca, talk to me.”
Oh, I think. I see now.
“I’m sorry,” I say. When in doubt, apologize.
“Why? Why are you sorry? You don’t have to be...”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m sorry for running away. I really wanted to be with you. I thought that was selfish. Because you’re a priest. Wanting you to choose... that was selfish.”
His hand on mine tightens fiercely. “If that was selfish, then I’m the most selfish person alive. I said I wanted to help you and instead I gave in to my temptation when you were at your most vulnerable...”
I hadn’t really thought of it like that. “Hmm,” I say. “Yeah. Maybe you’re worse.”
“Thanks,” he says.
“No problem,” I tell him.
He starts to stroke my hair again. It feels good.
I’ve been stupid, I realize. I’ve been afraid to love him, trapped in my own endless cycle of pain and need, just like a ghost of regret. Always reaching toward the past, knowing only what has gone before and unable to break free. Loving someone, instead of just being loved by some
one... that’s dangerous. And scary.
I always break it off. I always break away. I don’t want to be the one left behind, because there are no happy endings even when you find love, because one of you is going to die first.
I was afraid I wouldn’t be the first. I was afraid to even put myself in that position.
Well, to be fair, I’m still afraid. But Daniel was right when he told me that only the dead have no fear, and I’m not quite dead yet, so perhaps I should try to fix my broken parts, make myself someone who can love him as he deserves. And if it doesn’t work...
It doesn’t matter. Borrowing trouble.
What matters is Daniel. He’s here. And warm. And real. Right now.
I’m sick of ghosts, I think. Being a ghost is no fun, especially when you’re still alive.
“Thanks for sticking with me,” I mumble. Far away, I hear sirens.
His hand on my head pauses. “Bianca?”
I’m tired. So fucking tired.
His hand is on my shoulder, shaking me.
“Bianca? Bianca, stay with me! Bianca!”
I let my eyes slide closed.
.0.
How do ghost stories end? When the ghost is put to rest, of course, or their mission is completed.
Sometimes, all a ghost has to do is realize that she is a ghost to move on.
.21.
People like to be dramatic when they come visit you in the hospital. I mean, perhaps I looked a little less than chipper with the monitors all over me, but I didn’t look that bad. I made Daniel promise me that I didn’t look that bad.
Then again, I think Daniel would have said I looked good even if I’d somehow grown a few extra nipples in the middle of my forehead. He’d stayed with me through the night, in the room where they kept me for observation. He wouldn’t stop staring at me, as though he was afraid I’d sneak off and try to die under someone’s porch. It was kind of creepy, but also sweet. Sweepy.
I like morphine.
“Annie, I am annexing your half of the room,” Tanya says as she waltzes through the door. “You are too irresponsible to have your own half of the room. From now on, I am queen of all. And you look awful. How can you look so awful?”