The Living Ghost

Though it looked like any ordinary house from the street, the moment one walked through Mrs. Erinn’s door they would feel they had entered a museum rather than someone’s home – either that or the storage room of a museum after it had been blown apart by an explosion then put back together in under five minutes. This could have caused many problems, and indeed it had in the past, but Mrs. Erinn rarely received visitors anymore. She wasn’t shy, nor did she harbour any particular dislike for social interaction. On the contrary, she yearned for the company of others and made every effort to be included in the goings on of the hundreds of people she was acquainted with. Yet the more she tried, the more distant people became. They just didn’t want to do things the way she did! No one understood.

So, Mrs. Erinn was left to herself – herself and the house full of… well probably everything. And yes, every single item was accounted for, and every single item had a purpose. Whether that purpose was ever brought to fulfillment, however, was another question entirely. Mrs. Erinn hated when people asked her that. After a while she gave up trying to give an answer because they just didn’t understand.

There used to be a time when the valued possessions were not so abundant that they practically barred entry into the house as they did now. That had certainly been a stressful period, but one which in no way discouraged the talkative woman from inviting people inside. Some – her children and closest friends – she had little reason to fret over. They knew all too well how she kept the house and could even be called upon to help do a frenzied clean half an hour before more distinguished guests were due to arrive – near strangers, other relatives and friends, or simply anyone coming for a special occasion. It wasn’t as though such people were ignorant of Mrs. Erinn’s lifestyle (the few that were had only to notice the shelf and box-filled walls or the conspicuous pile in the corner covered by a tablecloth and all was laid bare). They were simply the privileged ones who were deigned worthy of seeing Mrs. Erinn in a semi-presentable setting. As long as the impression of normality was maintained, all was well. The most unfortunate thing about this was that Mrs. Erinn seemed to be the only one who was ever convinced of such normality. But then, what did everyone else know? They were far from understanding her.

If there were such a thing as a mausoleum for the living, this would be what Mrs. Erinn’s dwelling place had transformed into. Treasures and mementoes from past experiences – some her own, most discarded by strangers – collected layer upon layer of dust in their permanent temporary resting places. They were scattered on top of, underneath and behind books, old clothes, jars, boxes, plates, papers, pieces of things that had been broken, lost or salvaged… and as to the rest, a reward would not have been unworthily given to someone who could identify just what each thing was let alone what it was once used for. Now that would be someone who truly understood.

By now, the windows were merely a feature seen from the outside, but if it were possible to see into the mausoleum, a lucky observer might be able to catch a glimpse of a hunched figure shuffling through the maze, perhaps moving an item from one spot to another or pulling apart a tower in search for something else. This was Mrs. Erinn: the living ghost. Some liked to speculate how long she would outlive her husband who now occupied just a simple dirt grave. He had tried his best to understand.

In any case, though no one ever saw her, she had not been forgotten; nor had she forgotten everyone else. Mrs. Erinn drank five litres of water a day to make up for the tears which constantly seeped out of her eyes in mourning for her estranged family and friends. That was something she didn’t understand: how they could all abandon her.

Eight long years had passed in this way. Eight years since the death of her husband, eight years since she had finally been given the freedom to fill the house to save on landfill, eight years since she had seen her children, eight years since she had interacted with anyone she knew.

Mrs. Erinn was sorting through a pile of old schoolbooks – her sister’s – taking care to peruse every page in her reverie of nostalgia. She had simultaneously all the time in the world to complete this task and barely enough before she had to move on to the next box of things. Although, she would probably get distracted by something sooner or later and move on to the next one regardless of whether she had finished her current endeavour.

The front and back door were open for air as they always were (she did hate ‘gloominess’ in spite of her inability to create an open space for herself). There was rarely a time when she did remember to close the doors except for when it was cold outside and an unwelcome draught was blowing in, but today did not pose such an annoyance.

When the car pulled up in her driveway, therefore, Mrs. Erinn heard it.

First she frowned and stopped reading, merely sitting in contemplation. Then the engine turned off and she looked up from the page of grade ten history notes about ancient Egyptians. She waited for the sound of the car door to open and shut, but when several minutes had passed by in silence, the curious woman placed the notebook to the side and slowly climbed to her feet.

The floor was a minefield of books, boxes and papers, but Mrs. Erinn would have found it a greater challenge to walk across a clear floor. It was only once she reached the front door and gripped the edge with fingers she hadn’t noticed were trembling that she faced her first obstacle. Whoever had come would have made it much easier for her if they would just get out of the car and come up to see her rather than making her come out of her hideout to face them. (It didn’t occur to her that if her visitor had come up to the house she would have been equally vexed and have preferred them to wait for her to come out to them). There were very few things that went exactly according to Mrs. Erinn’s preferences.

Her mouth was dry and clammy by the time she finally summoned the courage to poke her head around the door and peer out into the front yard. She didn’t recognise the car as belonging to anyone in particular, but she could just make out the figure of someone sitting in the driver’s seat still gripping onto the steering wheel. The glare from the sun kept her from gleaning the person’s features in any more detail. If she wanted to know who it was, she would have to go closer.

It was a curious thing how quickly Mrs. Erinn’s longing to see people could overcome any other emotion that had inhibited her. Her resolution made, she was fully out the door and carefully making her way down the steps before marching across the grass to the car. She had to take a moment to catch her breath once she had reached the car, giving time for the visitor to wind down the passenger window.

Mrs. Erinn almost lost her breath again when she laid eyes on the lady sitting in the driver’s seat. “Danni.” Her voice was just as pale as her face.

The lady turned to face her and managed a thin smile. “Hi, Mum.”

“You… you cut your hair – it’s short.”

Danni’s thin smile pressed even closer together and her hands contracted into two tight fists. “I’m not too bad, thanks, Mum. How are you?”

Mrs. Erinn was still staring at her daughter’s shoulder length hair and reminiscing the days it used to cover her whole back with long golden waves. She could still feel Danni’s soft locks running through her fingers as she brushed and styled it with the most tender attention to detail. “I liked it long.” Then a tear blurred her vision, and it was almost as though the young Danni sat in front of her again, long hair and all. “I’ve missed you.”

Danni nodded. “I know… I’ve missed you too.”

“How come you haven’t come to see me for so long, then?”

Danni still let out a small sigh, then bit her tongue to keep herself from telling her mother everything she really wanted to say. If she started, she might never stop and, after all, she doubted her mother would understand even now after eight years of running things the way she wanted. Whatever the scenario, it was never what Mrs. Erinn wanted. Even so, it was hard not to say she was sorry, at least. Out of all the children, Danni was the sorriest about how their mother had ended up, no matter how many times she got told there was nothing she could have done or could do to save the poor woman from herself. If only she would stop staring at her with that pitiful, watery-eyed gaze of bitter sorrow! Anyone would have thought she were Jesus staring down Judas after his fatal kiss!

“I could really use some help inside if—”

“I’m not going inside, Mum.” Danni hated how hard it was to say that. Even she felt like the young Danni again, inwardly squirming in the presence of her mother when she was pressing her to do something. “Believe me, you don’t want me to go in there.”

“Danni…”

“I didn’t come to argue with you. Mum.”

Mrs. Erinn watched with hawk eyes as her daughter reached behind to the back seat and turned around holding a sapling in a clay pot. “What’s that?”

“It’s a pear tree.” Danni held it out across the seat, reigning in the smirk that wanted to creep onto her face as her mother’s eyebrows arched in that owl-like expression of shock that eight years’ absence couldn’t wipe from her memory.

“And what will I do with this pear tree?”

The smirk couldn’t be contained any longer, breaking out over Danni’s features. Mrs. Erinn took the pot from her hands, looking at it as though it were a bomb about to explode in her fingers. Danni shrugged. “How should I know?” she chimed, clicking her seatbelt back into place. “We’ve all been asking you that for as long as we can remember. Maybe this pear tree will help you figure it out.” Then she turned the keys in the ignition to mask the sound of her mother’s exclamation of frustration as she stood helplessly outside the window with the silly pear tree sitting awkwardly in her grasp.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Erinn shrieked. She was a master of going from one to a hundred in a split second. “Please don’t leave.” If a command could be begged, this was the perfect example. “Don’t Leave. Please, Danni, don’t leave me. Dannielle!”

The car began to roll backwards out the driveway, but Mrs. Erinn didn’t have any free hands to grab onto it.

“I wrote my number on one of the leaves,” Danni called out as the window slid upwards. “Call me if you find anything.”

Then she was gone, and Mrs. Erinn was alone again. She tucked the pot under one arm to wipe her wet eyes then glanced down at the sapling. “I don’t even like pears,” she whimpered, and turned around to stare at her house.