The Final Show

        There are a lot of things that ghosts will tell you about being dead once you’ve gone and done the damn thing; seeing as most dead people are old, it doesn’t me that they love rules. Like my grandma – with her plastic-covered couch, her dishes and furniture reserved for responsible grown ups only, her many parables about the dangers of a young lady not knowing the proper and polite way to stand, sit, talk, sleep, breathe – the old fogies of the great beyond love having a good list of ‘do’s and don’t’s’ to rattle off to unsuspecting dead youths like myself.

              What most ghosts won’t tell you is that the rules are boring. Uninspired. There’s hardly a word of it that would’ve seemed out of place in any B-list paranormal book or movie. Don’t bother the living. Don’t let yourself be seen. Don’t stir up the notice of the local religious parties. Don’t go to your own funeral. You get the idea.

              What even fewer ghosts will tell you is that it’s boring to be dead – if, that is, you decide to play by the rules. Sure, there’s other ghosts to talk to, but you’d be surprised how quickly conversations can dry up. We’re one-track-minds, ghosts. It’s why we’re still here. If we weren’t, we’d have gone to wherever all the interesting dead people have fucked off to. It’s all ‘I wish I’d done X one more time,’ or ‘I just wish I’d seen my grandson get married,’ or ‘can you believe that bastard moved on so soon after I died?’ Like, we get it. You have some unfulfilled need or desire tethering you here when you should be shuffling off the proverbial mortal coil. We’ve all seen Ghost Whisperer.

              So, all this is to say that I’ve decided to rebel. I’m going to my own funeral. I’m there, in fact – perched on a beam a respectful distance from my own open casket. My back is to that, of course. Even I’ve got my limits.

              The church is slowly but surely filling. This is an advantage of being bumped off young. When you live too long, all your friends die first. Mine, on the other hand, are beginning to line the pews. If I ignored all the black and the smears of eyeliner and mascara – not that I need to ignore it – I could’ve almost imagined they were here for my wedding. I’d always planned to get married in this church. At least I’m getting this rite done here, if I couldn’t get the other one.

              “You shouldn’t be here.”

              The harsh whisper at my side surprises me, and I tip forward off my perch. For a moment, I actually expect to fall, to feel that pit open in my stomach like it used to on roller coasters or jumping off a high dive. I don’t fall, obviously. When I turn to face her, I hope I’ve recovered my expression into something believably flippant.

              “I’m the guest of honor, aren’t I, Madge?” I say to the last scowling old woman who’s still trying to get me to toe the line. “Who wouldn’t want to know what people say at their own funeral?”

              Madge’s gray little face is all deep wrinkles pressed into paper thin skin; the lines around her mouth frame a disappointed frown. She must’ve been in her nineties when she died. Unlike the others who have tried to nag at me since I died, Madge has never broadcasted why she’s still here. I could ask, but I don’t. This is my show, not hers.

              “The funeral isn’t for you,” she says. Her eyes travel down to take in the rows of mourners, and her expression softens just a little. “It’s for them to grieve, dear. The living.”

              “Everything else is already for them,” I say.

The words come out in a more biting tone than I’d meant them to. I don’t mean to snap at Madge. I’m not even sure why I would. I’m just here to listen to the speeches, to look at the picture boards, to see if the right people are crying enough. Other than that, I’m over it – this ‘being dead’ thing.

              “Besides,” I add after a pause, “how do you know this isn’t what’s keeping me from moving on? Maybe I just want to see my own funeral.”

              “Is that it?” Madge asks wryly.

              I don’t justify the question with a response. When I take my seat next to her on the beam, though, she doesn’t leave. For a few minutes, we sit quietly there together, listening to the hum of hushed voices and sniffles.

              “My grandma used to count the cars in people’s funeral processions,” I blurt.

I feel Madge’s eyes on me, but I don’t meet them. I count the empty pews. Only three left with nobody in them. Grandma would call that a success.

              “My nan died when we still held wakes in our houses,” Madge says. “My mom caught my older cousins draining Nan’s liquor cabinet.” I look over in time to see her crack a smile. “One of them ended up throwing up in a vase during the eulogy.”

              Her story startles a laugh out of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Madge lay her wrinkled hand over my too-smooth one. It’s no different than feeling air. My gaze lingers on it for a moment as my laughter fades. Then I search the crowd instead for something interesting. Maybe someone smuggled in a flask, or maybe some college friend is telling my family a story that would scandalize them.

              “What do you think you’ll see if you stay, hm?” she asks.

              “I like you better when you’re not trying to nag me,” I say.

I don’t get a response, though. She’s waiting me out. It works.

              “I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe someone will throw up in a vase.”

              Madge clicks her tongue disapprovingly.

              “I don’t know, Madge, I’ll know when I see it!” I exclaim. “And then I’ll…”

              I trail off. I don’t know what I’ll do. Break some more rules, maybe. See if Elvis is still hanging around somewhere. Something better than being lectured by a crotchety old lady at my own funeral.

              “Would it be so bad to move on?” she asked, gentler than I would’ve expected.

              “You’re still here, aren’t you?” I say. “You tell me.”

              Madge doesn’t answer, and I feel a prick of guilt. I swing an arm around her shoulders and pretend I can feel them beneath the nonexistent weight of my arm. I imagine thin shoulders and the stiff linen my grandma used to wear.

              “Since you’re here, why don’t you enjoy the show with me?” I ask, smiling. “Come on, Madge, when’s the last time you went to a funeral? It could be fun. Lots of stories to tell. I was a bit of a wild child.”

              “Why don’t you tell me yourself, then?” Madge asks. Before I can argue, she says, “You don’t want to listen to your own funeral. They won’t laugh with you.”

              I hesitate, sparing another glance below. The murmurs are beginning to die down as everyone finds their seats. It’s starting.

              “And you’d laugh with me?” I ask Madge. I’ve never doubted anything more in my life.

              “And share some stories of my own,” she says.

              I glance down again, but this time Madge moves to block my view. I could easily see past her – maybe even through her, but I don’t bother to try.

              “Fine,” I say with a roll of my eyes. I loop my arm through hers and let her steer me away. “So did you know the guy who invented the wheel personally, or was that after your time?”

              “Don’t push your luck, kid.”

              But I will, and I get the impression that she’ll let me. It’s still my show, after all. She’ll give me at least until the funeral’s over.