The weight of a husband's ghost

My wife is losing it.

I only died five days ago and here she is—falling apart.

My house, which I'm still paying for, looks like a victim of robbery. The kitchen Hope begged me to let her design—with its shelves of "organic" herbs and useless "décor" pots, and the "locally carved" wood table that cost me a fortune—is cluttered with plastic food containers her friends brought after my funeral.

Why would one person need all that food?

The mac and cheese looks disgusting, fit only for a pig. I'm glad I can't smell it, but my nose still wrinkles in disgust

It wrinkles again when I see her.

Finally, Hope drags herself out of the guest room. My God, when did she last shower? Her blonde hair looks like a worn-out mop, and the brown roots are creeping to the surface.

She always needed guidance. When we first started dating, God knows how long ago, she was so eager to please. She listened to feedback without complaints. Thanks to me, she has her signature blonde hair—coiled in a perfect, sculpted bun.

She drags her feet on the floor, even though I told her a million times just how much it grates my nerves. It sounds like a dog dragging its ass. She doesn’t even lift her feet when they encounter a jacket.

“Great!” I shout. “Walk all over the clothes, why don’t you?”

In response, she makes that sad little whimper. Then she slumps onto the couch where a mountain of more clothes and trash await. Where did all these clothes come from?

At least my chair is clean. I wish I could sit on it. I'm still figuring out this new body. It looks like my old body, but when I lift my hand, I can see through it. My body is outlined in silver light. I can't touch anything. Nobody can see me. It would have been somewhat useful if not for her.

Here I am, dead at 62. How embarrassing.

My father died in his late 80s, and he lived like a real man all his life. The rest of the guys are also still alive, doing exactly what the doctor told me not to do—whisky, a smoke, and fine red meat. So why the hell am I dead?

A "weak heart" my ass.

Well, if this is the afterlife, I guess the preacher was wrong. Heaven isn't real.

I look at Hope and take a deep breath. "You look like a trash bag!"

And as expected, the waterworks begin.

I'm surprised she isn't the one dead, to be honest. She's so frail and easily bursts into tears over nothing. Her posture reminds me of that time she was telling her silly jokes at a dinner party. The guests practically begged her for more. I told her afterward that they were laughing at her, not with her. Then came the same pathetic display. She doesn't understand that all I ever did was for her.

"Maybe you'll stop crying if you did something useful!" I say, and she buries her face deeper in the pile. If only I'd written down some instructions for her. Never in a million years did I think I'd die this young.

I remember a sharp pain. My vision blurred, the world spinning as if I was inside a giant washing machine. Then everything slowly faded to black. Then light appeared—blue, red, and the stark white of long walls. There I was, naked and spread out on a bed surrounded by doctors. I stood behind a door, watching them try to revive me. Failing at their one damn job.

Hope, howling like a mad woman, collapsed to the floor, alerting the nurses. There was too much attention on me for once, huh?

She had the same theatrics at my funeral.

I was going over the room, looking at who showed up: my mother and sister, people from family gatherings, and colleagues from the firm. One by one, they came to comfort her. Hope's eyes were swollen as if bruised.

Two women were in the line. I'd never seen them before. They held each of Hope's hands. One, young, looks like one of those Mexicans. The other looks like an old hippie, her long white hair covering her entire back. Who shows up in loose pants like that to a funeral? Who are these women? I hope people don't think I’m acquaint with them.

Hope just keeps her gaze in its usual position down to the floor. She's probably enjoying all this attention. It's my body in that casket. It's supposed to be my day.

She didn't even stand at the podium to talk about me. How hard can it be? It's speaking into a microphone, not citing a Ph.D. But she stayed in the front row, curled up with her mommy.

The preacher approached the stage, holding his old Bible, thick with sticky notes and bookmarks that haven't changed since I was a boy. I remember the conversations we had over the years. I never left his church. In my family, we stay loyal to the church, and here, he showed loyalty to me.

"He was a great man," the preacher said. A man of example, a man of honor, a man of work. A Christian man. What a loss this man is to the community.

I scan the room for reactions.

My eyes land on that girl from the office.

She was hired seven years ago. Back when she was young and fresh from law school. She was full of ambition and silly ideas. She spoke about "making a difference." She was friendly with me. A smile ever so wide. My nose wrinkled again as I remembered how she played all dumb when I asked her to “scratch my back,” and I’ll help her career. She avoided me right after, but I saw how she remained friendly to the other men. Now she is a partner too. Slut.

Her long curly brown hair partly covers her face, but I can see where her eyes are pointing. To her damn phone. She giggles and turns the screen to the person next to her.

Of course it’s Patricia.

Patricia latched on her husband when we first started the firm. We gave her the same title, a partner, and she thought it meant something. I was the only one man enough to put her in her place after her husband passed. I like when people know their role in society. That’s how the world works best.

Another howl of sobs, as loud as a siren. Hope.

How much more can she embarrass me? I can decipher the look on others. It's not admiration for a loving wife. It's pity.

I get as close as I can to her ear and whisper sharply, "Stop it!"

And she does.

Hope glances around, as if someone had called her name, her gaze passing right over me.

That's when I learned she can hear me. When I'm loud enough. I didn't try yelling again until we were alone.

I have to put her back in her place. I can't have her lose herself. She gave me not a single living son. And she carries my name. If this is how I will spend the afterlife, she will spend it with me.

Here at the living room, I gather air, strain my neck and shout “Get up!”

She jolts from the couch. I laugh.

“Wh…?” she stutters, looking everywhere and nowhere.

“Look at your hair! What’s wrong with you?” I don’t really feel pain, exactly, but I do feel the effort as I shout.

Hope stops, her gaze drifting ahead. I follow it, and it lands on the large mirror.

“Oh…” she whimpers. “Oh… my hair.” She steps closer to the mirror, lifting the blonde strands to reveal the brown underneath. “No, no, no.”

Yes, exactly. But that’s later. “Now, clean!”

Instead, she drags her feet back to the guest room.

“NO!” I shout. “C-L-E-A-N!” I stress each syllable. I don’t even want

to go in that pig’s den. If I wasn’t dead already, the shame over the state of this house would have done it.

“Why do I have to keep telling you the same thing over and over again?”

She trips on the jacket on the floor and lands hard on her knees with a cry.

“See? How can I trust you? You can’t trust yourself!”

Like in a trance, she paces from room to room. I follow.

“Please,” she says, fists in her hair.

We are in the kitchen. The fool isn't aware of her own body. Her arm knocks one of the containers from the counter and it spills on the marble.

“You are a mess!”

“Stop!” she screeches, collapsing to the floor. Her body, curled like a worm, looks so old.

I’m tired of her theatrics. And I’m bored. This is usually when I leave. I’m not a babysitter; It’s not my role. But no matter how hard I try, my new form won’t budge unless she’s nearby. Why would God do this to me?

Hope lifts her head.

"Are you done?" I say. It's not loud enough for her to hear, but I say it to fill the space with anything other than her cries.

She grabs the handle of a chair and lifts to face the table where her phone lies. She picks it up and types in a number.

"Hi…" she says. "It's me."

She better not invite anyone to my house.

"I don't know if I'm losing my mind but…" she takes a breath and then whispers, "I can feel him…I know it’s him."

I smile. I'm glad she isn't a total idiot. Standing on the other side, I press my ear to the phone.

I hear a voice I don't recognize. "His spirit must still be in the house. Don’t worry, there is a ritual for that. Maggie and I can come right now."

What in the hell?

"DON'T YOU DARE BRING ANYONE INTO MY HOUSE," I say, gathering all my strength.

She yelps, nearly dropping the phone. "I must be losing my mind, please, hurry!"

I try grabbing the phone, but my hand passes right through her.

You stupid bitch! Now my night is ruined. I'm too angry to think. I want to punch something, anything. I swing my fist so hard at the wall that my body goes right through to the next room.

I jump to my feet and hurry towards her. I can see her back as she enters the bathroom. Facing the skin, she turns the water on and she splashes it on her face. Again and again and again, letting the water run and run and run.

“Oh great! Go on! Waste my money!”

I let words come out as if my tongue is the highway. She squints her eyes. She acts all in pain, as if she knows what real pain feels like. I keep shouting, repeating myself when I can’t think of anything new to hurl. Again and again and again.

She sprints to the door.

“DON’T YOU DARE!” I run, just inches behind her.

She pauses at the lock. Takes a breath. And opens.

“No!”

The two women from the funeral, the young Mexican girl and the old hippie walk in. Into my house.

“Clara, Maggie,” Hope says and the three hug. “I don’t know what to do. Am I going mad?”

“No,” the girl says. “There is a horrible energy here. I can feel it down my bones. It’s… angry.”

I’m surprised she talks in proper English. I steady my fist and swing it. Not a single lock of hair moved.

“BITCH! CUNT! GET OUT!”

"I brought everything we need," the old crone says. "Let's get rid of this demon."

The old hag grabs her cheap bag.

"Salt," she says and pulls out a box, "for the circle."

"Oh, I don't know," Hope says.

"You tried the old beaten-down paths," the girl says and holds Hope's hand. "Give something new a shot."

Hope nods. Of course she nods, that gullible fool. I look at the two slobs, dirtying my house. A bunch of ugly witches poisoning the mind of my wife.

They sit in their dirt, light up some dollar store candles, crossing their legs like this is a kindergarten activity. It's ridiculous, and I can't stand to watch.

Not even a week without me and she’s in the company of hooligans.

"Follow us, Hope."

They breath loudly. Moaning like idiots. My kick doesn’t even disturb the candles’ flame. Why can’t this body do shit?!

Then something changes.

It doesn’t feel right.

“Goddess!” the women shout in union.

“Come to us! Help us! Show us how!”

What nonsense is this?

They repeat the sentence. They say more. Words I don’t understand. And I find I can’t move at all.

Oh dear God, they are witches.

I feel sick. The work of the devil is in my house. I want to run, but around me is only darkness.

“This is it Hope,” the girl says. “Use your voice.”

She can’t!

“I can’t” she whimpers. “It’s all too much.”

“You can let him go,” the old woman says.

My stomach is twirling like I have a nasty internal wound. I want to vomit. Witches. And Hope joined in their diabolical coven.

“There is power within you. It never left you.”

“I’m a sinner,” Hope says. “I’m an awful person.”

“That’s a story you were told and you believed. Believe in a new story. Your own.”

I yell, harder than I ever did, “You listen to me!”

“I…” Is Hope fighting their grip? I try to think of passages I heard from the pastor, but nothing relevant comes to mind. I curse her stupidity.

“Confront it, Hope, speak it.”

“I…”

The room spirals. The two witches continue chanting. I look down and I can’t see my feet. My feet! There are gone. The silver light that held my body is disappearing. No! Are they sending me away? What's next from here? No. Nobody has that power. Not over me.

“I killed him!”

The two other women stop their chants, but their mouths remain open.

What? What did she say?

“I… I killed him.” The words came out of Hope. My wife.

There is only a faint noise coming from the windows. Has it started to rain?

“Hope,” the older woman whispers. “Did you really?”

Hope meets the woman’s gaze, and after forever, she speaks.

“He was on heart medication. He tasked me to give him is pills like the doctor said. He forgets…and he never even thanked me…he didn't even notice. I just stopped.”

The women place their hands on her shoulder. I sink to the floor with what is left of my body.

"It's not your fault."

Who is saying that?

“I couldn’t take it anymore. I tried so hard to be perfect. To be who he wanted, so he would love me. But nothing was ever enough. He didn’t love me. He didn’t see me.”

A sigh.

“And then when he hit me, I… couldn’t pretend anymore.”

Did I? I remember the plumpness of her cheek in the back of my hand, but I don’t remember what was before.

“The past few days without him... I thought I would die. I realize just how much he lied to me. He lied to me all along.”

Another squeeze on her shoulder. She leans in. And I can’t interlace my own hands.

“I known nothing but him. Look at me,” she tosses her hands in defeat, “I wasted my life for him.”

“You don’t have to carry his ghost with you anymore, you still have so much time.”

Listening to this voice, I am gripped with fear. It's as if someone else speaks through her. The fear reminds me of an early memory: I in my old bedroom, excited for my dad to read me a story about cowboys and horses, but instead, he told me about Hell.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore,” Hope says.

I don’t know either.

“Then how wonderful that, now, you can decide who you want to be.”

“And you won’t be alone in that journey.”

Hope takes a deep breath and releases a sigh. It’s long and heavy. I wish I could take one too. Her face is wet but her lips curl to a smile. The women hold hands and breath together until I can’t hear anymore.

Something else disappears. I don’t… feel. I can’t feel anything. I think I was angry. I have only a concept of what anger is. I was angry, but I don’t remember why.

What was my name?

So, Hope killed me.

Or did I kill myself?

Why didn’t I remember about those pills? Did I even care? I don’t remember what was the point of it all.

The last of my body to go are my eyes as I watch the women rise.