“As awful as the weather is outside, I can’t wait to get back out in it,” my son whispers. He sits next to me on the pew, doing a better job than he used to at sitting still, but for a thirty-five-year-old man, he’s very fidgety. I tell him so, and he glares at me out of the corner of his eyes. I try not to smile; it’s a solemn occasion, after all, but I enjoy teasing him, and I hope I always will.
There might be two hundred souls in this church, not including the ghosts. I don’t think I’m the only one who can see them, but if a ghost-watcher were anything like me, she certainly wouldn’t be mentioning it to strangers anyway. Although it’s tempting – I can see it now, leaning over to share the peace of Christ with the older gentleman behind us and saying, “That’s a lovely boy sitting next to you; do you know him?” Once again, I try not to smile.
The ghosts make the church seem almost oppressive – but watching the people around me is so entertaining that I can hardly mind them. They’re not bothering anyone – not today, anyway – which I appreciate, given the circumstances. So many of the younger ones these days refuse to show any respect for the newly dead, especially if the person has already passed on.
I should have called. I should have visited. She wouldn’t have agreed to see me, but I’m sure I’m stubborn enough to have gotten through the doorman and up to her apartment. I’m old, but I’m not that old yet. At the very least, I might have met her daughter, which would have been such a comfort. It’s selfish, I know, and at the moment I don’t care in the slightest.
Alex nudges me and hands me a slightly wrinkled tissue. He really is the sweetest thing sometimes. I wipe my nose and let the tears run. There’s no point in stopping them; they’re going to flow whether I want them to or not. At least I’m not the only one crying. Even some of the ghosts are looking terribly sad, and of course they would – some of them would have known her like they knew their own family. After all, Catherine went to confession regularly and I’ve never known a ghost who wouldn’t eavesdrop given half a chance.
It’s very strange how they’re all looking at the priest today. In a church, they’re usually more interested in the congregation, especially if they’re strangers. I’m sure it must be like watching a new TV show or opening a new book – a good way to pass the time. But now they’re all watching him. He has sprinkled the coffin with holy water, blessed it with incense, and is finishing up the last prayer, I think. The ghosts begin to surge forward en masse. Even the ones in the choir loft are floating down; it’s very lovely, but I wouldn’t want to be in that priest’s position right now. Some of them look very resentful, and there are one or two who seem to be actively enraged. Can he walk through that crowd of souls and not feel it?
Apparently he can.
Oh. Goodness. That hurts very badly indeed. I clutch my son’s arm hard enough to make him grunt.
“Headache?” he whispers.
I nod, because it’s the only thing he’ll understand, but this is more than a headache; it’s a pressure on the inside of my brain, and it goes all the way down into my belly. Like a stake through the heart, but I think if it were just through the heart it wouldn’t be quite as bad. I gasp. Curling up only makes it hurt worse.
Alex puts his arm around me and says he’ll get us out soon, and I lay my head on the soft wool of his suit jacket and breathe it in, finding some comfort in the smells of dry-cleaning, coffee, and my son’s light sweat.
A blessedly cool puff of air passes over the back of my bare neck and the pain begins to let up a bit. I think it’s Alex, but when I look up, I realize my mistake. The ghosts have come to me. They stand close around me, their translucent colors superimposed over the faces of the people around me; it’s very unnerving. I’ve never been this close to so many of them and I try, very hard, not to let my fright show on my face. I doubt I’m successful.
The smallest one, the boy I saw sitting next to the older man, looks at me intently, as if to make sure he has my full attention, which of course he does.
He raises his arm and points to the priest, who is walking in front of the pallbearers who are carrying Catherine’s coffin. Every ghost around me does the same thing, until I am surrounded by a crowd of undead beings who are pointing their fingers straight at the priest, their arms tracking him as he walks slowly out the door.
I don’t know exactly what they’re trying to tell me, except that there’s something they need me to do, and it obviously has to do with that priest. But I nod briefly to the boy, who blinks in response, and moves away. The crowd of spirits separates into individual souls, and they return to what are probably their accustomed places in the church.*
I consider it for a moment, but the pain has receded and I can finally get a full breath again. “No,” I say, and I smile, because he’s so genuinely concerned, and so handsome I can still barely believe he’s my son, even after all these years. “I’m fine. Let’s go on to Mount Saint Mary’s. I’m sure the interment will be short, and then we can go get some ice cream.”
Alex rolls his eyes. “Ice cream. I’m not ten anymore, Mom. Can we compromise and go to Mona Lisa? You can get your sugar fix and I can get a decent plate of ravioli.”
“Perfect.”
*I revised the end of this scene today (3/30/10) to keep this lady around - she and her son need to be at the graveside ceremony.
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