I WAKE TO FIND MOM playing in the dappled light that moves through the tree leaves outside my bedroom window. They flutter, and she speaks. “A black belt doesn’t make you invincible.”
“I know.” I turn my head and breathe in the scent of my fresh pillowcase, which Xander brought up this morning.
“Besides, it’s only a lower-grade black belt. You’re not a master.”
“I know.”
“A master could’ve gotten away from that Topher kid, hurt back or no hurt back.”
“I know, Mom!”
“And now here you are, staring at the crack in the ceiling, talking to your dead mother, who is very angry with you.”
“I was defending my friend!”
“You escalated an already violent situation,” she says.
“What do you want? Want me to prostrate myself and beg for forgiveness?”
“You’re already prostrate, and no. I just want you to learn this lesson. You’ve been pushing your body too far. Every time you’re almost better, you do something to hurt yourself again.”
“You know, Xander’s the one who got us into this.”
“Xander’s unraveling in her way, you’re unraveling in yours.”
“I’m the only one in the family who’s held it together!”
“Oh yeah? How many fights did you get in before I died?”
This stops me. For a second I forget that I’m having a fight with Mom, and I just think. This is what Mark meant when he asked if I’d used my skill to good purpose. Maybe I wasn’t really protecting my friends so much as looking for an excuse to let my anger out.
Even if Mom has a point, that doesn’t mean I have to admit anything. “Xander’s still acting crazier than I am. I don’t know why you’re not lecturing her!”
“Oh, she’s getting a lecture, all right.”
“You talk to her? Because she insists there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Hey! I resent that. I’m a spirit, not a ghost!”
“What’s the difference?”
“This is not a haunting.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
I open my eyes to the lines of light on the ceiling drawn there by my blinds. Particles of dust float, twinkling, and I imagine that Mom is one of them, floating around, enjoying her weightlessness.
“What’s it like to be dead?”
“It’s apart. I’m apart. But I’m here.”
“Like you’re on the other side of a wall?”
“More like I’m on the other side of time.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Like I’m underwater, or in an envelope of water, and I’m looking at all of you moving around in the air. I’m held by the water, I’m part of the water, and I can’t get out of it, but it’s soothing, and warm, and it feels nice. So I’ve learned to accept it.”
“I wish I could see you.”
“I know.” I feel a whisper of air against my cheek, and I imagine that she has kissed me. “Your father is coming out of his funk.”
“Yeah. He looks much better.”
“You guys are going to be okay.”
I watch the light cast through the shimmery leaves as it dances on my bedroom wall. Mom and I painted that wall a pale peach five summers ago, before she got sick. It was fun painting with Mom, changing the color of my room, listening to the radio as we worked. She taught me a song. “Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me.” She would knock on the ceiling as she sang it, and Dad would call from downstairs for us to be quiet.
“That was a fun day,” she says, her voice a wisp of shadow in my ear.
Suddenly I hate this. I hate that I have to communicate with her in fluttering leaves and shadows. It’s so unfair, I want to explode something.
“You seem angry,” Mom whispers.
“You’re right. I’m angry at you!”
“Say what?”
“You lied to us! You lied to us about John Phillips!”
“It’s not as bad as you’re thinking.”
“Why did you do it? Why did you cheat on us? Why did you have to die?”
“Well, for god’s sake—I tried not to!”
“That’s not good enough.” I’m surprised by the sound of my voice. I didn’t mean to speak aloud.
She sighs. “Honey. Honey, I’m sorry.”
“I know,” I say in my mind. Tears burn my eyelids. I press my fist to my forehead and stiffen up my whole body. My tense muscles fire rapid shots of pain through my spine, but I ignore it. I don’t want to cry. I won’t.
“Just let it come,” Mom says, and I feel her presence moving over me, under me, smoothing me over.
But is she? Is she really?
Is she here with me, or is she a figment of my imagination?
“Are you real?”
Silence. Only birdsong fluttering through my window.
Of course she isn’t real. I’ve known this for a long time. I knew her well enough when she was alive that I can imagine anything she might say to me, in any situation.
Mom isn’t here.
Mom is just gone, and I can’t keep doing this to myself. I can’t keep imagining things that aren’t there.
Everything in me releases. I turn over, my face jammed into my pillow, and I cry.
I cry alone.