Thomas and Adeline

“Let me explain,” said Thomas. “Please do.” Adeline started clearing the table. “You might want to sit down. In fact, yes, sit down, please. If only so you can jump up in shock or surprise. Preferably surprise.” Adeline put down the plate she held and sat down in her chair. “If you’re going to tell me you’re married—” “What? No. I’m not married. I already told you I wasn’t. I just don’t want you to be frightened—” Thomas stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers— “I want you to understand, that’s all.” “You have a terminal illness.” “No, no, no. Listen—” “You’re a criminal, a fugitive?” “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m nothing of the sort. Stop guessing and let me tell you. Will you please just listen?” Adeline nodded. “I’m dead.” “You mean, you feel dead inside.” “No. No, I mean I’m dead.” “Dead?” “Yes. Dead, deceased. Your instincts were correct. That is me in the painting. It was for my birthday party. I don’t remember being murdered, I passed out and when I woke up the next day there was my body on the bed. And I wasn’t in it. I was a ghost.” “You think you’re a ghost.” “Yes. No. I don’t think I’m a ghost; I am a ghost. I wanted us to be better acquainted before I told you. I was waiting for the right time. Because I was . . . afraid.” “Afraid? You just said you’re a ghost. What could you possibly be afraid of?” Thomas shrugged. “That you wouldn’t like me anymore.” He tilted his head to one side as he looked at Adeline. “How about this? You watch me right now and don’t look away for an instant. Promise?” “All right. I promise.” Thomas disappeared. He didn’t disappear slowly or in a mist, simply one moment he was there and the next he wasn’t. Adeline gasped, glad she was sitting. She clasped her hands together to steady herself. After a minute she spoke to the empty kitchen. “Thomas? Are you still here?” “I am.” He appeared again, just where he had been standing. Adeline shook her head slowly. “I must be dreaming again. You can’t be a ghost.” “Why ever not? I just disappeared, didn’t I?” “Yes, but . . . ghosts make rooms cold and, and—” Adeline pointed at a small bouquet of flowers on the kitchen windowsill—“they make flowers wilt.” “That’s all you’ve got to base your argument upon? I wasn’t given a book of rules. I’m just going along as best I can.” He sat down, shoulders drooping. “I don’t even remember all the details of my life, let alone my death.”