“Excuse me. Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks, I — oh. I didn’t realize.”
“Realize?”
“That you’re — never mind.”
A spark, a catch, sulfur, smoke.
“Funny place to see one of you.”
“Is that so?”
“Well, outside a hospital. Sick people coming in all the time. And you’re, well…”
“I am what?”
“A ghost. You do — I mean, you know that, right?”
Passing lights, engines humming. A gust of wind, then stillness.
“You know what? Forget it. Just — are you here for a particular reason? Do you all get to choose the places you — well, haunt?”
“I like it here. Everything is where it is supposed to be.”
“What does that mean?”
“What does what mean?
“Everything here is where it’s supposed to be. What things are you talking about?”
“It is rather hard to say.”
“Are you talking about the patients? Do you know something about them?”
“What kind of thing could I possibly know?”
A sigh, a pause, a breath.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t badger you.”
“I am sure you have your reasons.”
“I guess. My dad — he’s been here two days, and I guess I’m going a little nuts.”
“What is he doing here?
“Right now, lying down.”
“Why?”
“Because his chest is split open on an operating table.”
Faint voices across the street. Fallen leaves rustle in the breeze.
“Christ, I can’t believe I just said that.”
“I am sure you have your reasons.”
“But I shouldn’t be so fucking morbid.”
“Why not?”
“Because — good intentions, or something. My sister keeps saying we should think positive. But…”
Another breeze, branches shaking. Grit in the eye, a watery blur.
“I wonder if he’d come back as a ghost.”
“I do not know.”
“I think he would. One of the weird ones — the tics, the songs, everything.”
“It is rather hard to say.”
“No offense, of course. I just think he’s too stubborn to spend eternity in the ground. Did you know?
“Know what?”
“That you would turn into a ghost when you died?”
“I was twenty-four. I never thought I would die at all.”
This is the heart of the story, but that doesn’t mean what you think. Already, things are coming undone.
“What does dying feel like?”
“It is rather hard to say.”
“You must remember something.”
“You are alive or you are dead. There is nothing in between.”
A watery blur in the eye. Branches shaking in the wind.
“Do you know it’s happening if you’re unconscious?”
“I do not know.”
“Your soul is leaving your body. You’ve got to feel that.”
“You are alive or you are dead. There is nothing in between.”
“Do you — God, I need to stop. I need to…”
Leaves rustle, a gentler breeze. Across the street, faint voices pass.
“Just tell me. The people you knew when you were alive — do you still think about them?”
“I do not know.”
“Do you remember them? Do you still care about the ones you loved?”
“It is rather hard to say.”
“Did you think about them while you were dying? Did you forgive them for their mistakes? Did you know they loved you, even if they rarely said it? Did you wish you’d said it more, too?”
“I was twenty-four. I never thought I would die at all.”
“Stop repeating yourself and tell me something. Anything. So I can know what he might be feeling. What it’s like to…”
A breath, a pause, a sigh.
“This is pointless, isn’t it?”
“I am sure you have your reasons.”
“You aren’t even — forget it. My sister’s probably looking for me.”
“I do not know.”
“It wasn’t a question. God. To think I’ve been hiding out here telling you shit I should be saying to…”
“Is that so?”
“Um. Things I should be…”
“Is that so? Is that so? What kind of thing could I possibly know? Realize, I am what, it is rather hard to say.”
“What are you talking about? And why are you looking at me like that?”
“Realize. Realize. Everything is where it is supposed to be.”
Stillness, wind, engines humming, light. Smoke, sulfur, a catch, a spark, a spark, a spark…
Martin Reid Sanchez was born in Northern California. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Works Progress, Scaffold, Literally Stories, and The San Franciscan. He lives in Brooklyn.
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