Ghost Story

She was tucked warmly in her bed, still awake after two hours of counting sheep. She stared at the sliver of light poking under her bedroom door. She knew those noises were normal, the furnace was very noisy. The floor or doors or windows sometimes made annoying pops and creaks, too. When she first started hearing the bells ring, she had picked up the telephone—only to hear the dial tone. It seemed as clear to her as the real thing. An article she had read somewhere had said that hearing bells was a sign of anxiety. She no longer had a landline, so that ringing had stopped, but then the doorbell had started summoning her to an empty doorstep. She lived alone, so there was nobody else to test her reality against; she couldn't say "Did you hear the doorbell?" She just resolved to ignore it. When it really did ring, it took multiple presses from the visitor’s finger to impress upon her the need to check it. She usually blamed her delay on being far from the door. They probably thought she had been asleep. Family especially gave her credit for way too much sleep.

She had started leaving the TV turned on all night to mask the noises the house made. That had led her to where she was tonight—with insomnia, which made things like decisions and driving a little harder to handle. Decisions were delayed until they disappeared or were made by someone else. Driving was one activity that could put her out like a light. She had tried many times to sleep while somebody else drove, but that didn’t work. If she wasn’t the one behind the wheel, she was too nervous to sleep. She knew this was irrational, but that is the way it was.

Her heart started to pound before her brain recognized what had just happened. The sliver of light beneath the door had faltered. She stared more intensely. Shadow moved again across the light. She sat up quietly, straining to hear movement. This must be her imagination again, she told herself. She began going through possible scenarios in her head. If there was an intruder in the house, she knew she could easily escape out the front window. She grabbed her cell phone and, pulling on a pair of shorts, stuck it in her pocket. As she crept toward the door, she held her breath. When she was still three feet away, there were three light taps on the door and a whispered, “I’m home, Mom.” She froze.

The only noise now was the TV and her shaky breaths. The sliver of light returned to its post under the door. For ten full minutes she stood frozen, listening and watching the door. Finally, she inched forward again and pressed her ear against the door. Nothing made a sound on the other side. She knelt to the floor, put her eye to the carpet and tried to see under the door. Realizing this was a weak position, she got back up. She wished that a prudent plan would come to mind. Multiple choices had to be evaluated—suddenly she felt more tired than ever. Wisdom be damned, she opened the door and flipped on the light.

Her eyes took a couple of seconds to adjust and she berated herself for not thinking of that. Stop the second guessing, this is a time for nimble attention she told herself. The room was exactly how it was supposed to be. The front door was securely locked and nothing was out of place. Had she imagined it?

An idea began to form in her mind. Maybe the last few months were what she had imagined, and this was real—he really had just gotten home. She went to the window and peeked through the curtains. The streetlight shone on the normal night sights—an empty driveway and empty street. She had wished to see a blue Cavalier in the drive. Not the way she had seen it last, but the way he would have remembered it.

Pausing to listen to the faint music that now drifted up to her, she slowly descended to the bedroom where he had slept. The shade was open on the window; she didn’t need to turn on the light to see the room was vacant. His bed was made and things were as she had arranged them in his absence. His alarm clock/CD player was playing the CD he had left in it.

She plopped onto his bed as she often had in the mornings to talk to him before he was up and running. Staring at the ceiling, she began to cry as she remembered how many times she had stayed awake worrying until he came home. He was an adult, she kept telling herself. She had called him at eleven o’clock on the last night. He had told her he would be late. How ironic that she had been asleep when they finally brought the news. What an awful, awful thing she had been spared. The TV news had been showing the highway shutdown. What would she have done if she had known? Probably try to call his cell phone again. Would someone have answered?

Part of one of many lectures she had launched at him in the past few months came back to her, “I’m glad you are living with me, Matthew. I always like you with me.” She decided that was the important part of the conversation, the rest could be dropped from memory. She chose to believe her heart, he was finally home again. Now she said, “I’m glad you’re home, baby.”