Her Ghost in These Pages by Daniel Joseph Day

I write about Jeanie just to keep her alive, her memory is a ghost in these pages. Though it hurts to remember, the pain is easier to bear than the emptiness. So I return again and again to the image of her face which at first was burned into my mind but now begins to fade – the lines once sharp and vivid are loose and blurred.

She lives on somewhere out there, and that is what I think of. I imagine her out for coffee with a friend, or on her own; she liked that sometimes. I imagine what she’d say if serendipity allowed me to find her, to pull up a chair beside her and pick up where we left off. Would she be thrilled to see me or would she look down, pretending she hadn’t noticed, hoping I’d walk by? I could never predict her moods, even when she was here. Sometimes she’d run and fling her arms around me, other times she’d greet everyone else except me, leaving me wanting, empty, alone.

I’ve lost her smell. It once lingered on one of my T-shirts after she wore it one evening. It was one of those times – the good times. We hung out at mine, ate junk food, binged movies. I keep the T-shirt in the drawer unwashed, but the smell has almost faded, though a few of her golden hairs still cling to it. I put it on sometimes, it helps me sleep.

When we first parted, we messaged daily, then weekly. My last email has not been answered, the one before went two months without reply. We had so much to say to each other at first; how was Uni going? Who had she been hanging out with? What was her flat like? When was her next break? Her last reply ended with her asking how the weather was up north. The weather! How had our relationship come to talking about the weather?

Of course, it’s not a relationship and she’d scold me for calling it that. She was never comfortable with that word. She was quite comfortable to show up at my door when all her friends had abandoned her though. She was quite comfortable to cosy up on the couch when she felt low and needed the comfort. She was quite comfortable to climb into my bed – strictly for cuddles – when she couldn’t sleep. Then she’d tell me what a wonderful friend I was. Friend – that word was like a knife in the heart.

I’ve been on the train for several hours. I curl the pages of a notebook with my finger as I stare out of the window, watching the shapes, the colours and the light all change as I head south. The notebook was a gift which I gave to her on the day we said goodbye. She loved it, said she’d treasure it, said it was her favourite colour and I was so thoughtful.

When she told me in a single breath that, she really had to go as there was loads to sort out and people she wanted to see before she left and she still had to pack, she hugged me, though it was short and unfeeling. She closed the door behind her, the notebook lingered on the coffee table.

For the first week I let it sit there, its presence soaking up all the breathable air in my flat. I’d stare at it on evenings, then nights, then early mornings. Eventually I dared touch it and lift the cover, revealing the first page, blank except for my note to her:

Dear Jeanie,

To a new chapter,

With all my love

Since then, I’ve been filling its pages with memories of her. When memories are exhausted, I write new stories, imagining her in her new life.

When I leave the station, I walk across the unfamiliar town to my hotel. As soon as I check in, I take the notebook and sit facing the seafront by the window. Brighton is much as I imagined it, but it helps to write about Jeanie, being here where she now lives. I write about her waking up, throwing on a summer dress then strolling along the pier. I scan the street below, just to see if she’s really out there. For a moment I think I see her – a flash of golden hair. But no – there must be a thousand Jeanie’s out here – only one of them is mine.

I’m not doing anything wrong by being here. I often said I might visit, and she didn’t protest – she didn’t say anything. Besides, I’m allowed a holiday if I like. Am I not free to do as I please? She used to say that life was for living, that freedom meant nothing if you didn’t live free, that we were lucky just to be here, to be alive. And that’s what I’m doing; living free.

I choose the restaurant for tonight’s meal carefully; it has great reviews, and I want to treat myself. It’s on the other side of the university campus and there’s a shortcut I can take through the quad to get there.

Imagine if I ran into her just as she was leaving the lecture hall? I spend the afternoon imagining it. There could be a lecture that’s finishing around four O’clock, she might spend some time in the library for a while before coming out around five, just in time to bump into me. I’d make sure I smelled great. She always said I suited that navy-blue polo.

‘Oh hi! What a surprise!’ I’d say. But I can’t hear her answer. I’ve forgotten her voice. I replay a voice note on my phone from last year, but the sound is tinny and nasal – it hardly sounds like her at all. Still, I replay it. I play it again as I get dressed in front of the mirror. I spray my cologne. I practice my smile. I moisturise my face. I button my polo then unbutton the top then button it again.

By five O’clock I’m wandering through the university quad, scanning every face. I think I see her once, and then again when another blonde twenty-something walks by. My heart swells, I have to press on it to keep it from bursting out of my chest. I’ve slowed my pace to the point that people are shoving into me.

‘Shit, what are you doing here?’ I know the voice. She rarely swore, except when she was angry or startled. I take her in. Her hair is purple, yellowing at the roots. I don’t remember those earrings.

‘You’ve dyed your hair!’ I say, knowing I’ve missed my chance to act just as surprised as she is. Her wide eyes and open mouth demand an explanation from me. ‘I’m on holiday.’ I try – it doesn’t land.

Her eyes dart back and forth, she folds her arms.

‘I thought we could talk?’ I say, showing my palms like I’m talking to the police.

‘Talk about what?’ she says. ‘I don’t get why you’re here?’

‘Well, let’s talk about that then, shall we?’

‘You’re freaking me out!’ she whispers, trying not to draw attention.

‘Why? What have I done?’

 ‘What have you done? You’ve driven all the way to bloody Brighton, that’s what!’

 ‘I got the train actually.’

 ‘Look, you can’t be here, ok?’

 ‘Why can’t I?’

 ‘Because things have changed, we’ve moved on now!’

 ‘Have we?’

 ‘Well I have!’

We’re talking close and quiet so as not to make a scene, though I sense some of her friends in the periphery keeping close watch of us. I breathe her in, she doesn’t smell the same.

 ‘New perfume?’ I say.

 ‘Just fuck off back up north, Ok? I don’t want to see you, I never want to see you, is that clear?’

I take the hit like a man. I nod so she knows I’ve understood – actual words would be too much; besides, they would only bring tears and neither of us need that.

I turn my back and walk away.

*

Back in my seafront hotel room, I watch the corner of her notebook bloom white and yellow, illuminating the surrounding darkness. I blow out the match then watch the pages curl and blacken. Smoke pours into the room, a surprising amount for such a little notebook. Perhaps it’s her ghost finally escaping those pages? I’m startled by the fire alarm. When I come to think of it, I’m surprised it didn’t go off sooner.

Flames spew like a fountain from the coffee table. A lampshade browns, blackens, then glows hot. From the flames of her pages, many fires ignite.

I hear the footsteps of the other guests thump down the corridors. I’m in no rush. I wait; I need to see this through. I can’t go anywhere until all that’s left of her is ash.

As time drifts on, my eyes become heavy and start to close. There is a strange peace as I breath her in through the smoke of her pages. Finally, we are becoming one.

Suddenly I’m being pulled by unseen hands. The warmth of her flame gives way to the coldness of the street. They’re shining a torch into my eyes. They’re asking my name. They’re telling me I’ll be ok and I’m lucky to be alive. I cough, gulping in the clean sea air.

I’m lucky to be alive.

Daniel Joseph Day

Image: an open book lying on a dark surface. Seen from the end from Pixabay.com