Balancing Catherine

1.

The storm is growing near. We feel the inert and stagnant air grow more and more silent. She complains about the temperature in the room so we go outside, but it is just as hot. We hear nothing except for the coquis and the occasional burst of shooting stars. She always spots them up above, pointing vividly to the skies. I always miss the phenomenon. I always miss the ghosts that Catherine sees at night in our new house. I don't believe in ghosts, much less in her, but the more adamant she becomes, the more I start to believe her. But I will only reach out my skepticism as far as her pretty, quixotic mouth would lead. The storm has started. She wants to go back inside because the winds are beginning to howl. I tell her not to be afraid. She thinks I'm talking about her ghosts. Under the approaching deluge, she simply says that nothing will ever be the same. I never believe in what she says.

2.

Catherine had many boyfriends in the past: nefarious juggernauts who led her straight down a spiral of sex, dirty needles, and chemical imbalances. The forgetting of one's self, mastering it. In a radical daze, she would surf through sketchy apartments of former lovers and ex's, old acquaintances and junkies. She stole things constantly. I never knew any of this. She tells me everything now as the storm intensifies and strikes down a massive bolt, blacking out the entire barrio.

I wasn't mad at her. Couldn't be. I feel sorry for her. I tell her I was no saint myself, but she yells: you just don't get it.

I had one serious girlfriend in the past, and she was a lot taller than me. We lasted three months, breaking up due to my despondent stubbornness and narcissistic behavior. She said I just stopped caring. I went through a bad stint with alcohol and crashed my parent's SUV. After the charges, quick detox, quicker relapse, and medicated, I was able to move into my Abuela's house, 1150 miles from home.

I look for candles while Catherine searches for her flashlight. She doesn't remember where she keeps it and has a small panic attack just as I find her flashlight and shine the light directly on her white face. She cries first in discomfort, then in relief. "Whose stupid idea was it to move to a tropical island?" she snarls. I don't answer her. I'm worried about the winds outside.

3.

The first time Catherine saw the ghost was when we were unpacking our belongings. We picked my Abuela's old room because it had the most windows. Catherine loved the sunshine. Coming from such a dark past, I didn't blame her. Later that night I went into the kitchen to look for food while she was in our bedroom, unpacking. The coquis were loud and enigmatic, bothering her wildly. I heard her yell, which was a normal thing she did, so I ignored her. Then she yelled again, and that's when I knew something was wrong. But nothing was wrong. I came upon the scene of an eerie Catherine, forlorn and otherworldly. She did not speak for the rest of the night, but she finished the room and we went to sleep.

The pana tree comes through the window in the middle room with a crazy crash. Rain and wind blow into the room, making a complete mess. I had told her the middle room would be the safest place if things ever got bad, and now she freaks out because there is half a tree in the room. The walls and roof are concrete so I tell her we will be safe, but she doesn't believe me. She keeps saying we're going to die here and no one will ever find us.

I couldn't tell if it was the darkest of our house being tormented from the storm, or the fact that she insists this place is haunted, but something from an arcane realm must have been stirred because all the candles blow out. She cries and runs back to our room (with the most windows). It has been raining for hours now and all the amphibians and critters make their way into the house. She makes me eliminate them, saying it was a husband's duty to keep his wife safe from the creatures of the underworld. Under the pitch black of the night, we listen to the roaring rains and clamorous winds, endlessly. Our bodies are fervent with a want to get fucked up but she had already drunk all the wine and we had been out of weed since before the storm. It was going to be a long night.

4.

We try to sleep, but our bodies are too restless, and the storm is deafening. It feels as if the earth is going to betray us to its natural calamities. We give up on sleep and tell each other ghost stories to pass the time. She doesn't like the story I render about el chupacabra, saying it's just dumb folklore. She tells of a different tale, one that has happened in real life. She had seen another ghost the other day while I was shopping in el pueblo. She was painting the room where the pana tree will crash through the next day, and she felt a sudden chill even though the day was very hot. Then, something had thrown a paint can halfway across the room. She said that if she hadn't moved out of the way, it would have hit her. She kept her composure, because she was just as wild as the intangible spectrum of the esoteric, and cursed at the spirit. She never finished the room.

We hear the break of tree branches and glass, the roar of metal roofs ripping apart. Water starts to seep through the ceiling. Debris is thrown in every direction. We can hear someone screaming in the distance. It's hellish. She says the spirits are disturbed because we are occupying their home. The storm has nothing to do with this, she proclaims. I roll my eyes and go into the other room, attempting to put a tarp over the window with the pana limb jutting in.

That night she dreams of wild, horned beasts, with enormous wings. We are in the house but everything is upside down. The ceiling is full of water, slowly ascending. She tells me of the dream when she woke a few hours later. She tells me that I had died during the storm and that all the ghosts in the house had taken my body. Where, I ask, more tired than curious. She just snickers. The storm has died down some but it is still too dangerous to venture outside. We have a few more hours of the night to endure, and I couldn't wait until the sun comes back.