Here After

I’m late! It is the first thought that hits me every morning in the summer. I turn to my alarm clock and verify that I am in fact NOT late, yet. Scott isn’t here, but he’s usually gone by the time I torture myself into getting up.

The TV set turns on and my alarm clock rings simultaneously. I stretch out to silence the painful noise. My hand goes right through the clock. Unbelieving, I try again. I fail. My mind is racing. How did I become non-corporeal? I feel solid enough, but I can’t touch anything.

I try to get up. The scream of the alarm clock is unbearable. I try to turn it off a third time. I fail. Scott comes into the room and turns off the alarm. Why is he here at this time of the day? His eyes are red. He doesn’t look like he’s slept in days. That’s not saying much for Scott. He doesn’t sleep much anyway, but he looks like he’s aged 10 years since yesterday.

It was yesterday that I saw him last, right? I don’t remember. Days blend in my memory. I try to stand up and pass right through the bed clothes. I turn to look at the bed where I was, but there isn’t even an indent in the mattress on my side of the bed. The comforter is tucked in over a series of pillows. My pillows. Scott only does that when I’m out of town and he misses my presence in bed.

The thought flashes through my mind: “Only an idiot does the same action and expects different results.” It’s quickly followed by “When all other options are eliminated, the one that remains, however unbelievable, is the answer.” I’ve tried to touch solid things 4 times and failed. Scott’s acting like I’m not here. I can’t impact the physical world.

I’m dead.

It’s a thought I don’t want to hear. It keeps repeating. I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead. I open my mouth to scream. Nothing comes out. Right. No vocal cords, ergo no sound.

I look at my feet. They aren’t touching the floor. They’re near the floor, but not touching it. I turn and look at Scott. He’s finally gotten the alarm clock stopped. He’s just sitting on my side of the bed staring at it now. I reach out to him. I miss. My hand passes right through him. He looks up. He looks like he sees me for a minute. He looks right through me. Maybe he felt that. I try again. Again, he looks at me and then through me.

I’m here. I try to say. No sound. It’s that vocal cord thing again. Scott sighs and gets up to go downstairs. I can’t stop him.

Why am I here? In this house? Shouldn’t I be in Summerland, Valhalla, Heaven, Purgatory, a graveyard, anywhere, nowhere? Why here? Where is everyone? Shouldn’t there be an angel, guide, dead relative, someone who comes to retrieve me? What comes next?

Just like with your own birth, there isn’t a user manual for your own death. The irony of the situation strikes me and I start to laugh. Silently, of course, the vocal cord thing again. My job is . . . was . . writing user manuals for software documentation. I guess they’ll have me writing a user’s guide for your own death at some point. At least my wrists don’t hurt.

I’ve had carpel tunnel syndrome for the past 10 years. It made writing so difficult. My wrists hurt every day, even if I wasn’t writing, even if I took pain killers. I kept working anyway. I was driven. I don’t know by what.

Even now, I wish for a notebook to start taking notes of what I see, what I feel. I need to make sure I remember these first few moments, days, how do you measure time here? Where is here?

A notebook appears with a pen in my left hand. I can touch them. I can open the book. I can write with the pen. I make a note about the non-corporeal thing. I make a note about the no vocal cord thing. I wish I was downstairs in my kitchen.

I am in the kitchen. Scott is sitting at the table making phone calls. Coffee is brewing in the pot. I reach out to him, and reach through him again. I write a note on the notebook and tear out the page. I try to put it on the table, but it falls right through. So much for communicating with Scott in writing. I make a note about the wish thing. I make a note about the notebook not being a means of communication with the living either.

I think I should go try things and expand the notebook’s contents. I don’t want to leave Scott. He’s been my anchor, my everything, for 25 years. The truth is, I’m afraid to go without him. He was the one who always made me feel strong. There isn’t anyone else like me here. Maybe I need to leave the house to find others like me. I don’t want to find others like me. I want to stay with Scott.

I sit in the kitchen. Okay, I’m really just pretending to myself that I can sit in the chair. I hover over the chair so I can feel like I’m sitting in the kitchen, still alive. I make a note about the hovering thing.

I sit in the kitchen. Scott sits in the kitchen drinking his coffee. I can pretend I’m still alive. I wish he could feel that I was here. Scott smiles to himself as he drinks his coffee from my coffee cup. He looks at me and then through me. Maybe he’s pretending that I’m still alive, too.


word count: 979