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Shorts
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| Ghost of a Chance | |
| By AnnieSeed | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 11 May 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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OK so I have some morbid preoccupations! This is also pretty much a first draft. One friend thinks it needs some changing around to give it more impact. I'd appreciate any advice. Ghost of a Chance Elizabeth Phillips She doesn’t know I’m still with her. I’ve almost given up trying to let her know - a gentle touch on her hair, a soft sigh, a breeze lifting the curtain when the window is closed and there’s no draught. She was never the most observant of women, so I’m not really surprised. She’s curled up on the sofa, deep in a book, frowning in absorption. She doesn’t notice when I sit beside her, nor does she hear when I say her name, half hoping, half fearful that she’ll hear me at last. I want so much to talk to her, touch her again, breathe in her fragrance. From when we first met, I could never quite believe she loved me. Before friendship grew to love, she told me about the last man she’d been in love with. Nothing ever happened between them but I was jealous of him, as I was jealous of any man she’d ever loved. I’d known him for many years. We’d grown up in the same town, been to school together and our families knew each other. I met him only rarely by that time, but we’d always been friendly – until he learned I was seeing her. From then, he was distant and aloof. It was clear he was as jealous of me, and with better cause, as I was of him. When we found ourselves attending the same event occasionally, we kept our distance, circling each other warily, like dogs about to fight. I married her two years into our relationship and we had many happy years together. I worked hard and was good at my job, so we were never short of money. I was never completely sure though, that she would have been with me, if he had pursued her seriously. She was a loving, affectionate wife and did all she could to make me happy. Even so, I was haunted by the fear that I wasn’t her first choice – that maybe she would have been happier if things had turned out differently and she’d been with him instead. Our last night together was uneventful. I went to bed very tired and slept heavily, dreamlessly. I was woken by the sound of dreadful sobbing and crying. One moment I was sound asleep – or so I thought – the next I was up and at her side, trying to find out what was wrong. I was intently focused on my wife and barely noticed at first the odd sensation of lightness and floating. Then I looked round and saw – me. Still lying in the bed, apparently sound asleep, unmoving, a mug of tea gently steaming on the cabinet beside me. She’d got up and made tea, come back upstairs, put the mug beside me on the cabinet and kissed my cheek as she always does. It was then she realised that I was dead, that I’d been dead some hours, and she’d burst into hysterical tears of disbelief. I’d watched as she almost fell down the stairs in her haste to summon help, snatched the phone and stumbled back up the stairs, dropped the phone while trying to dial, sobbing helplessly. She could barely speak when they answered. The ambulance arrived in record time but it was much too late. It had been hard for her, going on without me. The sombre magnificence of my funeral gave me an inkling of her feelings for me. My hearse was drawn by two black horses wearing black plumes; my favourite music was played and she got someone to read some Shakespeare (more her thing than mine but never mind). I was proud of her that day – the way she held in all that grief, greeted so many people, shaking hands, accepting condolences. I’d waited nervously after the funeral. She was still an attractive woman and our years together had left an unmistakable aura of contentment about her. Happiness had settled gently on her, become a habit, ingrained over the years. She had worn it daily, like a favourite dress or perfume and still it clung to her like a ghost, in spite of the loneliness and tears of the last few months. I was afraid, for myself and for her. I didn’t want to see her with another man. If it happened, I’d have to leave, and I was afraid of what I’d find, out there, on that “other side” I’d heard about, but most of all, afraid of not seeing her every day, of not being with her. And I was afraid for her; she was a trusting sort of woman, given to love, overlook faults and forgive too freely. It was easy for men to impose on her, leaving her hurt and disillusioned. I was afraid of seeing that happen to her and of being helpless to prevent it. But she lived quietly after the funeral. Her days were spent reading, gardening, writing, studying, cooking. She slept well some nights, badly on others, crying helplessly into the pillow, her body twisted into itself in contorted, agonised grief, and I ached to comfort her. She’d lost all her sparkle and if I’d ever doubted her love for me, that doubt was gone. She prayed every day. My wife never prayed with high-sounding language; she had long, rambling, one-sided monologues with God, when she told Him all her feelings, just as if she’d been talking to one of her friends. I grew used to the quiet rhythm of her days, and I was undisturbed by her thoughts of joining me. I knew she would wait patiently and in time, she would recover some measure of peace. Then one Sunday afternoon came the knock at the door. It was him – standing on the doorstep, clutching a bouquet of white roses, a hopeful grin on his ugly face, hoping for another chance with my wife. She greeted him, put the flowers in water, made tea and showed him into the sitting room. She was all politeness, inviting him to be seated, and indicating the sofa, whilst she seated herself in the armchair. He looked awkward and embarrassed as he launched into a long speech, expressing respect for me and hoping that it wasn’t too soon to make his own feelings known. “It isn’t too soon,” my widow replied calmly, and he took a deep breath of joy and gave her a shy smile. But he’d missed the faint chill in her blue eyes as she regarded him placidly. “It doesn’t make any difference,” she explained, in that same level voice, “I’m sorry if you’ve had a wasted journey. My husband was the love of my life, no-one else, and I don’t think there’ll ever be anyone else for me.” He reached over and took her hand, tenderly talking of not wasting time, of love yet to be. “Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded, “Maybe one day I’ll feel differently. But it will never be you. I’m sorry.” And she quietly withdrew her hand from his and rose to show him to the door. He was more embarrassed than heartbroken, and I suspected his hopes had sprung more from an egotistical desire to possess what had been mine, than from genuine affection for her – although no doubt the fact that she was now a wealthy widow had not deterred him. He made a last ditch attempt to persuade her, talking of what might have been, hinting darkly at unnamed people who, he alleged, had kept him from being with her all those years ago. She looked at him compassionately and replied honestly “If anyone kept us from being together, they did us both a favour. It would have been a mistake. I’d have missed out on all the happiness I had with my husband. He really loved me, you know. And I don’t believe many people have that.” Then she thanked him politely for calling, and for the flowers, wished him well for the future and closed the door firmly in his face. I’d never wished more that I could be alive again and in her arms, especially as I watched her sit down again with my framed photograph in her hands, and cry quietly for all those happy times we’d shared. Now I knew I was her first and only choice. If only I’d always known it.
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