Ghosts

11/20/2004

My sister was wise. Once I had asked her, a year or so before her death, if you ever stopped

being in love with people. At the time, I had thought myself in love with the boy down the street,

all tan skin and long legs and black hair that curled over his brow.

“No, you don’t, but it doesn’t feel like it was.”

I had simply looked at her, confused.

“You ever hear a song come on that you listened to as a little girl? And you remember that time

through a haze, and, as glad as you are that your older now, as much as you wouldn’t want to

be that little girl again, stumbling through the world, experiencing everything for the first time,

deep, deep down, under your skin, you feel just a hint of that bittersweet nostalgia? That is what

it’s like when you don’t love someone anymore.”

See, she was always wise. She was wise enough to come back.

When she died, I assumed I’d never get to ask her advice again.

There is something normal about seeing ghosts. We all see ghosts in one way or another,

glimpses, outlines, little signs of the people we loved. For me, I saw my sister. Just her, clear as

day, standing next to me. You think you don’t see ghosts? That strange moment when the

thought of a person strikes you, or you think for a brief second that you see them in a public

place, that that isn’t seeing ghosts? Some people’s ghosts are just clearer, more visible. And for

me, my sister was ever-present, a grey presence over my shoulder at all times, appearing in the

corner of my eye at the start and slowly coming into the forefront of my vision, her appearance

becoming stronger until she looked almost real enough to touch.

She only started to talk to me months after she was a daily fixture in my life, whispering

whenever I hesitated to speak my mind. Your voice is important, Catrina. Say what you want. It

continued like that for weeks, and once I was bold enough, she encouraged me to, I don’t know,

step out of my comfort zone, do things the other girls did that I had never done before. Sneak

wild girls. She thought I was lashing out because of her death, I think. She sat me down, said

that although she also missed my sister, acting out wasn’t going to bring her back. We would

never see her again.

What was I supposed to do? My mother deserved to know the truth, she deserved to get to see

my sister again. So, I made a decision. I told her the truth about my sister. And just like you, she

didn’t believe me.

I guess that’s it. That’s the start of my story and how I got here.

-Cat

“You did good work, Cat. This is the first step in coming to terms with reality.”

Ms. Anderson puts down the diary, then jots down on her notepad, peering through her glasses.

I’m glad she didn’t claim they were delusions, like most of my other therapists did. My sister was

real. Almost solid, slipping into my blood and my bones until I thought she was alive. Until I knew

she was alive. This was reality. I was not like the other patients here. They didn’t know who they

were. What they had was a negative influence, it made them weaker. My sister made me better,

more fun, gave me a purpose.

My sister would never have left me. Not in life and not in death. She came back, just like I knew

she would. Even for the brief time I couldn’t see her, I knew she would find her way back to me.

She’s here with me.

“My sister is alive.” My voice is full of conviction. There’s no doubt in me.

Ms. Anderson smiles sadly, her brown eyes shining with maddening patronization. “No, she’s not,

Cat.”

My sister stands behind her, glowing and proud in all her glory, and smiles.