Barrie

Barrie woke up and woke up and woke up. She couldn’t remember doing anything else but waking up. The bedroom was swathed in beige, many different shades, old blankets from her family, grandmother, neighbors. She admired the sentiments of things in old age - the thread-bare pillowcase from her youth, and the green bowl she’d favored across the last thirty years of her life. She’d never felt so at peace until she woke up dead.

—

She hadn’t expected the afterlife to feel this way. She could still feel things. It felt the same as when she was alive, to be honest. But there was peace now. No obligation to perform. She folded the fresh sheets George had bought her on the bed, angling her body to look out the window. The world was winding down into fall, orange rushing over the landscape.

“Some spirits never move on,” George had explained to her one evening while they ate dinner together. “And, it seems, you’re one of them.”

“Are you dead?” She’d stammered over braised pork. He shook his head no, almost sadly.

“Not yet.”

—

She hated how sad she’d made George. Sometimes she watched him from the window as he tended the garden, pressing the dirt down firmly around new seeds and pruning the old plants. She watched the way his hands aged in what seemed like a few months, his bones making his skin look loose and soft. She hated how he flinched when she touched him.

When she made dinner, she’d lay out his favorite plates and set the table slowly. Her mind wandered to the years of closeness they’d had. The way he held her lower back with his long fingers when they crossed the street, or the small smile he’d give her while she put her makeup on in the mirror. All of that had changed.

—

Barrie entered the hall and paused a moment, knowing it was close to the hour, for the cuckoo clock to begin its song. She heard the first click of its initiation, and hummed the tune while the wood tapped against itself and rotated a small bird on its beautiful face.

She followed the pressed beige carpeting down slowly with her slippers as she danced towards the bedroom, a smile overtaking her and making her giddy. She waited, lying comfortably on the bed until George came back inside.

—

She pulled the potato skins from the sink, taking in their wet-dirt smell and preparing to wash the now bare spuds in the sink. Her thumbs rubbed the potatoes clean as she wondered how to prepare them for tonight. She had so much trouble remembering recipes now. Hell, she had so much trouble remembering much of anything, nowadays. The days all faded into each other.

She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. She’d never expected to feel so tired in death. How did anyone ever move on? She felt excited to carry on with George as long as she was able to. She diced the potatoes and scooted them, dripping, into a bowl.

Somewhere, a soft wisp of a thought curled through her head. She tried to ignore it most days. If we were both dead we could continue like this forever. She shook her head. Georgie was just fine alive. They needed someone to talk to the neighbors when they asked too many questions, and she wasn’t sure that could be achieved if they were both in ghost form.

She prepared the potatoes a little slower.

—

Barrie dried her hands on her apron. She’d just pulled cookies out of the oven, realizing, to her dismay, she’d forgotten to put eggs in the batter. She sighed, closing her eyes and trying to remember if George still went to work or if he had retired.

She jumped at the sudden knock on the door, a force of habit leading her through the kitchen and to the front entry hall. She paused with her hand above the handle. Maybe ghosts shouldn’t answer front doors? She shook her head. Maybe they would have a funny reaction, whoever they were.

She swung the door open.

“Mrs. Brown?” A police officer suddenly addressed her. Two were standing in the doorway. “We have some solemn news about your husband.”

She stood stark still, holding her apron like she used to hold the bottom of her shirt as a little girl. Fear rang through her. “Is he here?” She suddenly blurted at him. If he was, would she be able to see him?

The two officers exchanged looks. The second officer walked toward her. “Mrs. Brown, your neurologist has been trying to reach you for weeks.”

“You can see me?” her face was suddenly wet, tears flooding down her cheeks.

“Mrs. Brown, we’re here to help. Dementia can be very devastating.” He looked around the yard for a moment. “We need to ask you some questions about your husband. The new petunias are lovely, but we’ll have to prepare a proper burial.”