That Phantom Touch

It should never be a sunny day when you're holding a funeral. Yet here they were, barely a cloud in the sky and the sticky heat of early autumn in Savannah. Not the weather to be wearing black, yet there she stood as the coffin descended.

There was a tension to her. There is always such a tension at funerals, of course. There is always something wrong, something unnatural. But this was not the tension of grief. It was not the suspense of hanging in the air wondering how long it would take to come down, how far she would have to fall. It was the tension of still being loaded onto the catapult, not yet having been flung. She didn't even believe, really, that she was in the air.

She was startled from her reverie by the sound of gunfire. Seven. Fourteen. Twenty-one. In honor of the man who might have been her husband, but who now never would. Then suddenly, there was a man in front of her. He held an American flag all folded up. Had she been so distracted for so long that she'd missed the whole rigamarole where they'd folded the flag? No, no, she thought, this is all wrong, you've got the wrong woman, I don't deserve this! But what else could she do? There was a dampness to the flag, too. Not soggy like her black dress over the day's perspiration, but heavy in a way that simple cloth just had no right to be.

As they planted his body, to one day fertilize a thin cypress in his image, she found herself focusing on logistics. What was she going to do with the well-placed downtown apartment she could no longer afford? How was she going to make up the income she lost from being "on leave" at Lucy's insistence? Was her would-be mother-in-law sincere in her offer to take her in, and did she live close enough to the bookstore? Could she impose so much?

With these questions swimming in her head and the soil filling up on top of the body, she drifted further and further away from the core emotion of her situation until finally, she felt a comforting hand rubbing the back of her neck and a sudden burst of happiness at the touch of the one person she wanted to see more than anyone else in her life. A smile growing under the surface, she turned—

But of course, he wasn't there. A soft wind rustled the spanish moss on the oak nearby and there was no one else around but the gravediggers, still piling on that dirt.

"You okay, Miss?" one of them asked. "You look like you seen a ghost."

"I'll be fine," she said, and she almost believed it. It wasn't him, no, it couldn't be him, she repeated. It can't be him, she told herself. He's gone.

She knew she shouldn't be alone. It's what everyone had told her at the funeral. Everyone except, perhaps, Lucy, telling her not to come to work, where there were people, customers for her to chase off by being too glum.

But women are always being told not to be alone, especially on the street at night and she had told every possible ride that she had someone else to accompany her. The part of Savannah she lived in was downtown, but not the good downtown, she was too close to Broad Street. Any time she parked there, even during the day, people told her she was asking for her car to get stolen. Any time she had to walk to her car at night, when she was alone, folks insisted she was asking for something worse.

It hadn't happened yet and, truth be told, she was beginning to think that everyone was making a bit too much of a fuss about things. Not that she hadn't been struck with the fear, not that she hadn't been followed, not that she didn't carry her keys in her hand and have 911 on speed dial every single time just in case.

Tonight, though? Tonight was something else entirely. On the way home from her late fiancé's funeral, she almost wished, almost hoped for something terrible to happen. She didn't dwell on it too much, but if a shadow struck her eye wrong, she would itch for a fight, she would have a burst of energy bordering on the euphoric. Perhaps this was only because fear was an emotion, one that was separate enough from the ones she had been suppressing to penetrate, and her parched soul guzzled it down like a fifth of cheap booze at a fraternity bash. Perhaps she was so starved for relief from her stress that she'd gladly gnaw the bones of this mortal terror if it meant finding herself at the end of it.

Or maybe she really did want something bad to happen.

But it didn't. She managed to reach her building safely, the one that she'd lived in with him. She climbed the stairs in the lobby to the second floor, let herself into the apartment. She closed the door behind her, rested the back of her head against it and let out a shuddering sigh.

She was home now.

She was home.

But then she felt it again. It took her back to the early days, to the days when she'd first known him, back in college. She lay on her bed in her dorm room and he wasn't supposed to be in her room, see, but her roommate was out of town that day and he offered her a sensual massage and he always had the best hands for it and she was naked from the waist up as he brushed his fingertips over her skin like canvas—

She slapped her hand at the thought. Thoughts like that were… unwelcome. Unhelpful. Hurtful, even. Thoughts like that… She stripped off her sweaty black dress and marched into the bathroom.

She turned on the shower, let it adjust to the proper temperature as she divested herself of the rest of her laundry and let the steam start to fill the room. She didn't even remember stepping under the stream but then her hair was wet and she thought this, yes, this was the right kind of weather for a funeral. The kind of weather that could hide your tears.

Water cascaded down her face, blubbering up her mouth, and she wiped it away, shuddering in frustration. Quick breaths in, then release in a gust. The opposite of laughter. And then through the pitter-pat of shower droplets splattering on her back, that old familiar touch again, rubbing congenially, kneading like he had on the bed back in college, kissing the back of her neck and she turned around and gave in to it, gave herself over to that phantom touch feeling her up. He was there in the shower with her, just like old times, and with her arms around his neck, she kissed him and with his arms around her waist he drew her to him with a touch so light she could barely feel it but she knew what he wanted and she raised one leg for him to catch and then she pounded her fist into the tile on the wall. Because he wasn't there. He wasn't there and if she couldn't have grief, well then by the gods she'd have anger, straining to squeeze out any drop of emotion that wouldn't ultimately make her feel worse.

In the doorway to the bedroom, towels wrapped around her chest and around her head, she looked at the bed. Unmade, unwashed. The sheets in disarray. She hadn't slept in that bed without him yet. Would tonight be different?

She headed for the dresser, but the bed loomed at her, haunted by outlines of whispered nothings. She pulled open a drawer and looked inside.

But these are his things. Why had she chosen that drawer?

On the couch in the living room, still dressed in towels, she drew her legs up to her chest. She rocked back and forth, gently but at a healthy pace.

*Creak*

This was not a new building, but the sound made her turn. Why did this house have to be so empty? She wasn't particularly hot right now, but she thought about turning the fan on in here if only to have background susurrus to help drown out the weird.

Instead, she turned on the TV. Some schmaltzy romance. She hadn't heard of it, but she recognized both of the leads. Why are you torturing yourself? But she knew why. She watched the couple on the screen lean in close; they almost kissed, but were interrupted. The kind of moment that usually sent her up the wall—Just kiss her already! But now? Nothing. Maybe it was how self-conscious she felt being wrapped in a towel and a half, even all alone in this "big apartment" or maybe it was the little box that happened to still be sitting to the left of the couch next to the phone on the end table. The little box that had recently held a ring.

Was she getting sleepy? She must be getting sleepy because now (again?) she felt a hand on the back of her head, fingers sliding through her hair, the pressure just enough to—

She grabbed for the hand. It wasn't there, of course, wasn't there again, but it had felt so real. She must have drifted off?

"Hello?"

It was an effort just to form the word in the thick, molten silence that suffused her. But there was no answer. Of course. "Get a grip, Sarah, get a grip. There's no one here, so stop talking to yoursel—"

But even as she said it, she could feel a hand out of nowhere touch her hand.

"All right, what the hell was that?"

The room was unresponsive. The only sound was the subdued smoothe jazz the dual protagonists were swaying to on the TV screen.

"I just need to relax," she whispered to herself, drawing herself into a foetal position again.

But she would not be relaxing alone. When the ghostly hands returned, they were massaging her shoulders. It was effective. She could feel her tensity unknotting and she finally decided You know, this is probably just my imagination trying to help me out. I need… something, I need comfort, and so I…

No, no, no, no, no—

"Please," she whispered, as though the ghost could hear her. "Please…"

There weren't any hands touching her, but could feel them so she reacted as though they were there, rolling her shoulders, her neck and head, back and forth, arching her spine. She could almost hear his voice.

"OK… OK…"

She gave in. She didn't remember turning off the TV, but she hardly needed the distraction anymore now that she was distracting herself. She fell back, rolled over and lay down on her chest on the couch, her back flexing under invisible hands, arching as the rhythm of their deep-tissue rub slowed and intensified.

"Stay with me," she said, back in the dorm.

Sarah lay naked on her front as he ran his hands over her back.

"It's like you're not even touching me, like your fingertips skip right through my skin and just soak straight into the muscle beneath."

"That's the idea," he told her.

"I love you."

His hands stopped moving.

"I love you," she repeated. "Say something?"

He bent down and whispered in her ear.

"Words are inadequate ministers of the heart. Why should I abuse them?"

After more time than she cared to think about but less than would satisfy her, the touch started to lift, the hands started to recede.

"No, stay!" she said. Out loud. To no one. "I don't care if you're…" What? A ghost? A hallucination? A figment of my unmanifestable grief? "Stay, please. Just for tonight?"

Just for tonight, she told herself. Just for tonight, she would indulge in this… whatever it was. Just for tonight, she would let herself feel what she wanted to feel. In the dark. In the silence. What she needed to do would come in daylight.

She flinched and gasped at the unexpected brush of an invisible hand on her cheek. No, not invisible. She closed her eyes and now, suddenly, she could see them. She could see him. All alone in her living room, she lay back on her towels and moaned.

In the middle of the night, she lay curled up on the couch with the feeling of him still wrapped around her, his chest against her back, his one arm clasping her waist while the other wrapped around her head to stroke through her hair. He was gone. He was dead. She knew this wasn't healthy, but she didn't care.

"Thank you," she found herself saying. "I know it isn't right, but… Thank you for staying." She felt lips on the back of her neck. "I don't know what I'll do without you." She heard her voice finally crack. "But I think… I think it's time." Pressure on her belly where the phantom hand was, pressure on her back as he pulled her close. "I think it's time to let you go. I don't want to, but…" An entire face nuzzling into the back of her neck. "I know, I know, this isn't how I wanted it either. This isn't how it was supposed to go. But it's how it is. It's how it has to be. I'm so sorry." She put her hand on top of his, on top of where she felt it on her belly, and finally said "Goodbye, Elton."

There was a flinch. He was still there, but he pulled away slightly. She could still feel the top of his hand under hers and the bottom of his hand on her belly, where she was touching it. She could still feel his chest on her back, but his hand pulled away from her head and his face from her neck. It was like he was taken aback.

"Elton?" she said.

The hand on her belly shifted. It twisted around and now she could feel her hand in his as he guided her up to a sitting position. There was a pen on the coffee table, and a notepad, both his, and he guided her hand towards it. "Oh, OK." She picked up the pen and paper. "I don't… know how I'm going to—"

But he took her hand again. The pages were big enough, he wrapped his hand around hers and guided her, carefully forming the letters like an amputee writing with the wrong hand. What was he writing, though? Some parting message? A secret treasure map? Where he'd cleverly hidden the remote?

Then his hand drew back and she read on the pad:

"I'm not Elton."