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 warned 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.