Purgatory

The sky was dimly lit, as if the sun hid behind the sheath of gray fog that casted a dull finish over the otherwise brilliant autumn leaves. The muted oranges, yellows and reds seemed to blend into a beautiful subtle water-color painting. A lonely house hid behind the majestic oak trees, the leaves of which framed the dull ivory brick walls. It seemed as if the house was built on the entire spectrum of grays, a light hint of gold tinging the corners of the mural. 

The house truly looked ordinary. Enticingly so. 

It was at the porch of this house that I found myself staring at the oak door, wondering if I should knock on the wooden surface since I had already determined the calling bell was not functional. The cold autumn breeze swept through, prompting a decision.

I sighed. Knock, it was. I rapped my knuckles agains the old wooden surface thrice before I paused.

The door creaked open slightly, revealing a silhouette of a disheveled man peeking from behind the entrance. He seemed to be bent over himself, and except for a couple of angles, he was hidden mostly behind the shadow of his door. I forced a smile to my face before proceeding to talk. “Mr. Geist?” I asked, waiting for a response. I received a slight bob from the shadow. “My name is Alma,” I stated softly, looking at where I presumed his eyes would be. “I’ve been appointed as your therapist?” The last sentence had unintentionally come out as a question. 

There was a pause, a brief moment of contemplation, and then the door opened fully. A middle aged man stood before me, adorned in light gray crew neck and sweatpants. His face was clean shaven, highlighting his square jaw and contrary to the state of the wispy brown hair sticking every which way. The gentle slope of his nose ended at the pink-tinged lips, moistened by a nervous flick from his tongue. His brilliant blue eyes peered shyly beneath the luscious eyelashes, twinkling with an unexplained joy. My god, this man could have been considered handsome in another time and era. He reeked of charisma. And a bit of sorrow. 

Almost as lonely as his house.

“Ms. Alma,” his soft voice called out, almost wistfully. “Please, do come in,” he invited, as he opened the door further and moved to the side.  “I was expecting you.”

I walked in, a bit nervous but also at ease. I smiled tentatively at the older man. Mr. Geist returned the smile, his eyes never once leaving me even as he closed the door. 

“I was told you had requested the appointment to be conducted at your house,” I started. He nodded in confirmation before pointing towards his living space, housing a small black futon and an ebony tea table. The carpet was a darker shade of gray. The walls were a lighter shade. The room looked like it was from a black-and-white classic movie. Except for the floral armchair at the other side of the sofa. The cloth armchair that had light pastel colored flowers scattered onto its surface.

I found myself settling into the floral chair, enjoying the cosy comfort it had to offer. “Mr. Geist - “ I started even as I watched him settle into the futon before me.

“Please,” he interrupts, “Gordon.” His eyes twinkle again, and the hints of a smile resurfaces on his face. Almost teasingly.

I tilt my head, understanding the flirtatious body language. “Gordon,” I corrected. “Shall we start?”

And so the gray morning continued into noon, and small talk slowly led to longer conversations, scattered with laughs in between. Gordon moved into his kitchen, and I followed close by. He proceeded to set a teapot to the stove, pouring water into the kettle and waiting for it to boil.

“Chamomile?” He asked me.

I smiled. My favorite tea, no doubt. “Yes, please.” I responded politely. He turned away from me and added the tea leaves to the water. “I do like a warm cup of herbal tea in autumn.”

He smiled at that, turning to me. “My wife loved tea in autumn as well.”

At the mention of another woman, I felt something fall within my heart. Something had endeared me to this introvert within mere hours of his presence, and I found a light pang of jealousy sneak in. 

Gordon pulled out a china set from his cupboard, his blue eyes watching me intently as I kept my gaze at the liquid that poured into the delicate ceramic - wisps of steam escaping from the herbal concoction.

“Alma,” He whispered softly. I looked up at him. “Do you know what Alma means?”

I shook my head lightly, indicating my ignorance.

“Nourishing,” he replied as he handed my tea to me. He pointed towards my tea, adding a slight chuckle. “Spirit.”

I took a sip, humming in satisfaction as the heat spread from my heart. “Are you comparing me to tea?” I asked. teasing the other man. He simply shrugged. “Then I suppose you know that Geist is German for ghost?”

His eyebrows rose at my rebuke. “Poor choice of a last name from my ancestors, I’m afraid.” He responded lightly.

“On the contrary,” I refuted. “I do wonder if I’m talking to a ghost.” He looked at me surprised again. I laughed. “You sure look like one, wandering in oversized gray clothing in a lonely gray house. You don’t have an affinity towards other colors?”

“Colors can’t seem to enter my house…” He started carefully. An unknown sorrow made its way into his features, as his face slowly contorted into a careful mask. The previous joy and tease were now absent.

“You have a beautiful armchair in your living room,” I told him, hoping to lift the mood.

“Yes,” he agreed as he looked towards the chair. “My wife had brought that into this house.”

I place the cup down on the granite kitchen top. “Tell me about your wife.”

“She was beautiful. So full of life.” He replied instantly. “So full of color.” He turned towards me sadly. “Maybe too full of life.” He fell silent at that. I leaned in, gently placing my hand on his shoulder.

“What happened?”

“An untimely accident,” He responded back slowly, his careful visage still intact.  “I survived. She didn’t.” It was a simple answer. Succinct. 

“Your reports tell me that you’ve been speaking to a ghost since then?” I asked. “The ghost of your wife?”

“Yes.” He agreed. 

“And you believe her to be real?” 

He looked at me curiously. “Are you asking if she’s real or a hallucination of my mind?”

I shrugged. He sighed softly, a hint of a smile escaped his mask. “She is as real as she can be. No fragment of my imagination.”

“And what proof do you have?” I asked. He smiled now, his lips stretched across his face as he pointed towards my tea cup.

I looked at the tea cup to see my cup empty. 

What?

When did I drink all of this? I turned back to the man in front of me. “Who…”

“Alma,” he whispered forlornly. “My wife.”

It took me a moment to understand and I staggered back, my back hitting the counter behind me.

Gordon did talk to a ghost.

The ghost was me.

The ghost was me, I realized, even as memories came crashing, just as the turbulent waves onto the steady black rock. “What?” I gasped, glimpses of memories surfacing above others.

Gordon and I meeting at a local college coffee shop, a small dispute over who ordered the chamomile tea.

I, frequenting the same shop, in hopes to meet the introverted young man.

A friendship that blossomed into young love, christened in stone by marriage.

I brought color into his life. And it ended abruptly. Painfully. 

Alarmingly mundane. 

“Alma?” Gordon called to me. I look at him, his form blurring as tears spilled over my cheeks. 

“Oh, Gordon,” I cried sadly, reaching out to him, just as the corners of my vision dissolved into oblivion. And the last thing I saw was him reaching out to me.

And then I saw nothing.

[Line Break Line Break Line Break]

Gordon gazed at his empty hands, his tears staining his cheeks. 

How many times? He asked, cursing himself. He could never tell Alma who she was. And he could never move past her death. 

He took a shaky breath in as he lowered himself to the kitchen floor. Every time Alma made it to his front door, he found himself falling in love again. Every moment he spent talking with her about his life, his future, his hopes and ambitions, he felt he was in heaven. He felt whole again. 

And then he would lose her. He would be stuck in his own ravaging hell, where pain, tears, and guilt were commonplace. Why had he survived? Why did someone so full of life die?

And then she would be at his doorstep, calling out in her sweet voice. 

No, this was no heaven or hell. This was purgatory. A purgatory of his own making.

[Line Break Line Break Line Break]

I stood at the doorstep of the gray brick house, wondering if I should simply leave or just knock on the door. Finally I made a decision and knocked on the door three times. I waited patiently, and after a few minutes had decided to turn around and leave. The October chilly breeze swept past me, just as I heard the door open. I turned around, calling softly towards the darkened form hiding behind the door.

“Mr. Geist?”