My Relationship With Frances Marie Sauvegeot, 1973 – 2001 By Martin Reid Sanchez

HOW WE MET

You have to understand that my first glimpse of her was mostly obscured. The bar was dim and crowded, and I’d already had more than my share of scotch. And wasn’t feeling picky, having struck out three times already — so, after that first glimpse, I sidled right up and said the first slick thing I could think of, which ended up being something about how her dress caught the light. Only then did she turn to face me head-on, showing me what she was and exactly what I’d just done.

HITTING IT OFF

To my surprise, she nodded solemnly and thanked me for the compliment. I was too stunned now to reply, but she didn’t seem to mind. She launched into a long story about the dress — where she’d bought it, why she liked it, and the various places worn it when she was alive. And how nice I was to have noticed it, especially with her standing in the corner of the room. She loved talking to people, but felt very shy sometimes. Did I ever feel shy? Probably not? I seemed confident, and she’d always liked a confident man.

She said all of this without smiling once, but when she finally told me her name I felt I at least owed her a reply. Thus we fell haltingly into conversation.

She was a little hard to follow at times. Sudden topic changes, and of course that droning wind-tunnel voice. But she was smart and cultured, even if her references were a few decades out of date. And when I managed to interrupt her train of thought, she listened more intently than anyone I’d ever met.

THE THING ABOUT GHOSTS

But you already know all about them, don’t you? You’ve seen them around, and remember how it was when they first appeared. All those unanswered questions: where they come from, why their eyes look like that, why they only appear at night. Why not everyone who dies becomes a ghost. What they’re made of, if not actual light. Whether they prove the existence of God, or maybe the absence of her. Why they don’t know the answers either, but do know that they are dead.

You know all the questions. If you’re smart, you know better than to ask. Ghosts can’t hurt us. If we all knew better, we would just leave them be.

GETTING OUT OF THERE

Frances and I talked until the bar was almost empty. I was bemused and entranced, feeling as though I’d wandered into a dream. I was also a little attracted to her — her blurriness took some getting used to, but it couldn’t wholly obscure her high cheekbones or the curve of her hips. She’d clearly been lovely when she was alive, and I’ve always had a weakness for pale, distant women.

Eventually, our conversation petered out. After a pause, Frances asked if I perhaps wanted to come back to her place. To my surprise, I said yes instantly. I was curious. I thought it would be a good story. And did I mention all that scotch?

Those weren’t the only reasons, if I’m honest. I doubted she actually had a place to go back to. I guessed she would just vanish once we stepped outside. But maybe —

Maybe she’d give me something to look at before she went. Delicate hands slowly unbuttoning that lovely dress, letting it slide down her shoulders and vanish on the ground. Silvery hair grazing bared clavicles. Her parted lips and smooth pearly skin.

HER SKIN

You’ve heard all the comparisons. My favorite is the one about impressionism.

From a distance, impressionist paintings can seem pretty realistic. But look closer, and the individual details — sunset flecks on the water’s surface, luminous streaks of cloud — reveal themselves as mere smudges of paint.

Or, in Frances’ case, changes in the texture of the air.

THE APARTMENT

To my surprise, she did actually have a place for us to go back to. It was the basement unit in a classic Victorian — faded pink walls with green and gold trim.

Fortunately for me, the front door was unlocked. It opened onto a dark hallway that smelled like sadness and mold. The first room on the right was an empty parlor. The next was the bedroom — peeling wallpaper, washed-out photos, and neat, dusty sheets.

Passing car noise told me I’d left the front door open. When I went back to close it, I saw another ghost across the street. An old man in a trilby and a tweed jacket — I felt a guilty thrill, wondering if he would admonish me somehow for consorting with one of his kind. But he didn’t even notice me. He held his hands like a half-opened book, and was staring at them as though it were all that mattered in the world.

LOVEMAKING

We couldn’t actually touch, of course. But she could pose, and tease, and gradually reveal. She could touch herself in ways that seemed to give her pleasure. She could tell me what to do to myself, and describe things she wished I could do to her.

The frustration was part of the appeal, I think. Like I said, I’ve always had a thing for unavailable women.

OUR ROUTINE

After that first night, I went through a predictable few days of shame and denial. On the third night, I downed a bottle of wine, went back to Frances’ place, and found her waiting for me outside the front door. From there, we settled into a refreshingly uncomplicated routine — meeting several times a week, always at her place, to spend the night together. She was always happy to see me. She never mentioned any other living acquaintances, and I never asked.

We always had sex, but that wasn’t all we did. She had a large collection of movies and records — I could press the buttons on her entertainment system. We strolled around her neighborhood and talked about how it had changed. She told me stories from when she was alive. Sometimes, I even told her a little about my day.

I never actually slept at her place, but there were several close calls. Her dull voice was dangerously soothing in the leaden blur of false dawn, as I lay spent and panting on her cold, rumpled sheets.

AN ARGUMENT

Lying on that bed, tracing the outline of her hip with a cupped hand, I mused, “You died in the year two thousand and one.”

“Yes, in August,” Frances replied.

“That’s almost thirty years ago. I was just a kid.”

“You were, Nick, yes. You were still very young.”

“And now you’re back as a ghost.”

“Don’t say that. I don’t like you saying that, darling — please, I wish you’d stop.”

Admonishments don’t land as hard when delivered in a distant monotone. Maybe that’s why I pushed my luck.

“You don’t mind talking about your death,” I chuckled. “Why can’t I call you a ghost?”

“It’s different,” she insisted, frowning. “It’s not the same thing, it’s another story.”

“How is it different?”

“Because it’s another story, because it bothers me. I can’t say why, it’s different — it isn’t easy to explain.”

That wasn’t the end of the conversation, but I can’t remember the rest. Just that Frances grew vague near the end of it, appearing only faintly and infrequently on the bed and around the edges of the room. This happened every morning when the sun began to rise.

THE APARTMENT, AGAIN

She said it was her place, that’s all. The exact same way a living person might. But you know how it is with ghosts. It isn’t exactly easy for them to pay rent.

Then, while leaving her place early one morning, I glanced up at the house proper and saw an old, old woman watching me through the second-story window. I got curious. I also didn’t want to get arrested for breaking and entering. So I popped over to the Department of Records one morning to look for answers.

When I found them, I wished I hadn’t tried. The house was owned by Marian Anne Sauvegeot, who had taken over the lease from her deceased husband, Jacques, ten years beforehand. Frances had never said anything about her parents. I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask her now. I stayed away for a couple extra days after that, and the next time I arrived, I kept my gaze firmly on the front door.

DOORS

She usually waited for me to open them, but not always. Once, I was using her bathroom — which, by the way, felt really weird after I learned about her mother. Like I too was haunting the building. Did poor Marian ever wake late at night to water moving through long-dormant pipes?

Anyway. I was sitting on the toilet, and Frances melted through the door to tell me something, and I was so startled I shot to my feet and cut my head on the corner of the wall cabinet. The scar is still there, actually. A hard little pucker where the hair won’t grow.

Why do I still remember her mother’s name? 

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

“I’d like to meet your friends sometime.”

“No way. I want you all to myself.”

“That’s sweet, Nick. It’s sweet, it’s very nice of you to say that. But I’d still like to meet them. I think it would be fun.”

“I’m sorry, babe. I just don’t think it’ll work.”

She frowned — only slightly, but she only ever made any expression slightly.

“Why not, Nick?” she asked. “Why won’t it work, why can’t I meet them? It’s strange that I haven’t — it’s been over a month, and you still haven’t offered.”

“You can’t go anywhere you don’t remember from being alive, remember?”

“They can visit us here, Nick. We’ll have them over here, and we can host them, and it will be a wonderful evening.”

“Entertaining takes so much energy. I’m way too busy with work.”

She was still frowning. Her legs weren’t moving, but she was drifting slowly towards the wall.

“Anyway, my friends are assholes,” I continued. “You wouldn’t even — ah, come on, baby. Don’t look at me like that. It’s almost morning. I need to leave soon. Honey. Don’t be mad. Come back over here.”

MY FRIENDS

It’s simple, I didn’t tell them.

Well, there was one exception. An old college friend, who came into town one weekend and suggested we grab a drink. We don’t usually talk much, and he doesn’t know my local friends. So I guess it felt safe.

After hearing my story, he sat quietly for a while, looking concerned. That made me a little proud, actually. Finally he asked: Did Frances’ ghostly nature ever unsettle me? Was it weird being the lover of someone who was dead?

Sometimes, I told him. But only sometimes. Yes, there was the occasional trickle of horror when her reflection lingered in the hallway mirror. No, I didn’t like her reminiscing about the moment of her death. Yes, her eyes unsettled me sometimes — that heart-chilling sensation, the slowly roiling mist.

But I’d dated stranger women. And fear of death wasn’t what finished us in the end.

A FINAL ARGUMENT

“I have a question about other ghosts.”

“Other ghosts, Nick?”

 “Yeah. Where do those weird habits come from? Like Mister Book Hands across the street, or the kid who dances under the streetlight by the corner store.”

“I don’t understand, Nick. I don’t get it. Are you saying there are other ghosts besides me?”

ENDING THINGS

It came when she was unavailable for a whole week, claiming to be busy with “personal errands.” What a ghost’s personal business might be, I still can’t guess. Regardless, after a few lonely nights, I got drunk and ended up texting Jackie, a coworker with whom I’d shared a long-simmering flirtation. Our encounter didn’t leave a mark on my body, but when I arrived at Frances’ house the following weekend, she took one look at me, let out an anguished wail, and ran right through me into the street.

I took a hot shower in her bathroom, then waited in there for a while to let her cool down. When I came out, I found her ‘sitting’ on the bed. At great length, speaking as tenderly as is possible without inflection or affect, she apologized for overreacting, seeing how we’d never clearly defined our relationship. But now, she wanted me to know that she loved me, and wanted us to build something lasting together. Could we leave uncertainty behind, and commit to each other for the long term?

I thanked her for her honesty and said I needed to step outside to collect my thoughts. From there I walked to the nearest bus stop, caught the first bus that arrived, and rode it to the end of the line. That was six months ago. I haven’t been back to Frances’ apartment since.

CONSEQUENCES

To be honest, I can’t think of any. That’s the good thing about breaking up with a ghost. Sure, I avoid Frances’ neighborhood at night now, but there are other dim bars to flirt and get drunk in. And it’s not like we had any mutual friends.

My friends did say I seemed off for a while. But that’s just — I don’t know what, and they were probably imagining it anyway. I’m pretty good at controlling my feelings. I keep my shit to myself. And anyway, how can you mourn something that was never really alive?

It is a little weird seeing other ghosts now. They don’t pay me any special attention — they don’t pay anyone special attention, as you already know. But still, there are moments, especially with the women who are what I can’t help thinking of as ‘my age’…

Speaking of women, Jackie and I still hook up sometimes. It’s not the healthiest situation, but oh well.

I saw her the other night, actually. Work has been crazy recently, and we both needed to blow off steam. We were in her living room, even though her roommate was still awake one room over — Jackie’s adventurous like that. She was leaning back on the coffee table, and I was watching and telling her what to do.

After a little while, she leaned forward abruptly and whispered something she wanted me to do to her. Her breath was hot on my neck, and her hair tickled my cheek. At that same moment, the clouds parted and a moonbeam came through the window to land on her face. Leeching it of all color and shining in her eyes —

AND THEN

I pushed her back, shouted “Don’t touch me,” and ran gasping into the other room.

Martin Reid Sanchez

Image: Dark interior of a bar with two people talking on bar stools and several other customers spread about from Pixabay.com