Body Capital

I raise my head as in fades the wailing of sirens, opening my eyes to an oscillating blue and red fog, which I later confirm to be smoke. My skin burns hot like steam, even though it snows. I extend my hand, and a snowflake falls through it, which to me seems normal.

           My brother's body sprawls over a few steps. I react like any other person would in the face of tragedy—with unreasonable optimism. He'll wake up soon, I decide, ignoring the small pond of blood and melted snow, his half unattached arm, and his cracked-open rib-cage.

           I realize I've been in an accident. When I see paramedics standing not too far in the smoke, I call them, but they don't listen—either that or my voice doesn't carry. I walk to where they are.

           "They were twins," one of them says.

           "I don't think the other one is in the car."

           "Yeah. Henry' s—Henry's over here," I say and expect them to follow me, but they act like I don't exist. 

           I ask what is wrong and curse them when I get no answer. I approach a short firefighter and after being ignored five times, I punch him but my hand goes through his face.

           “I’m dead,” I realize.

           I go into the woods looking for my brother's ghost because I must not be the only one dead. No, we were born together; we die together. That was his body I saw. I want to exhale sharply, but my empty lungs won't let me.

           I go back. Henry’s body’s been taken but the blood remains. Phantom knives slit my arms—the buildup of the weight I cannot breathe out. Ahead of me, the firemen pull the other body out of the car.

           "He's alive!"

           When I approach, I see the tuxedo my brother wore back at Michael’s bachelor party.      

Next thing I know, I'm running. My body does not cast a shadow against the blue and red asphalt. I stop, throw myself off the road, and roll atop the snow because my skin boils hot. I want to throw up, to vomit the image of my own dead body, but there's nothing in my gut. I calm myself down and forget the burning, moving on to the next demanding matter—why am I a ghost, and what must I do to not be one?

           I return to the crash scene because Henry is my only lead, but the ambulances are gone. Left are the crashed car, the fire trucks, and the stopped traffic coming from the other direction. Great, I think, predicting how long it takes to get to the hospital on foot. 

For two days, all I see are the pavement and unceasing snowfall, with the occasional passing of cars. I arrive at the hospital both exhausted and not at all. The people inside talk lively despite their being in a hospital, and the pool-green color on the wall feels happier than I remember.

I spot the back of another ghost, the third one I see since my death, and like all the others, I do not want to talk to it. I do not want to reaffirm an already uncomfortable awareness of my condition.

After looking room after room, I find my brother on the fourth floor, asleep. He's been cleaned, changed, and plugged into a machine, his red hair looking darker than I remember. Judging on the look on ma's and pa's faces, he's in a coma. My wife Sandra is also there.

           I feel the weird sensation again, that of burning energy inside my chest and hands and not being able to cast it out. My wife holds Henry's hands as her body hovers above his, still thinking he is me. She looks beautiful as her black skin reflects the sunlight. I want to touch it, but I know I will never again.

           The three of them take turns watching Henry over the next two days. Sandra stays the longest. At 5:15 pm of the second day, she whispers to Henry that she desperately needs him alive, calling him Case.

It isn't until dinner that I have time alone with my brother. I ponder what to say. Maybe confessing is what God wants of me. I'm not too stubborn for confessions, so I give it a try. I step towards Henry with unease. He looks frail in his coma, and his glass wounds are still open.

           "They say twins are supposed to have a special connection, but you know we never had any except that we looked the same. That would've been different if I hadn't been so mean to you, so. . . I'm sorry, I guess. But hey, look at the bright side: you've always hated competing with me, but now look at who's won the game that matters the most. Not that I want you to feel guilty or anything.” I bit my lip. “I remember when we were twelve, and I won that monopoly game, and you declared never to compete again because you always lost, and I was always mean about it. But you know, sometimes you got mad too easily, and sometimes I liked making you mad. It made me feel bigger. With the two of us being so similar to each other, I was desperate to be best. But it doesn't matter now. I am also sorry about the whole David statue thing. When you wanted that replica at the auction, I almost bid all my money so that I could win it from you. I didn't really mean to hurt your feelings."

           I wait until anything happens, but confessing doesn't work. Maybe I am not good at it, or maybe ghosts are not meant to confess.

           I walk out of Henry's room. If that didn’t work, what is next?

           I hear my wife's voice. She leans against a wall as she talks on the phone, battling her urge to shout and her need to whisper.

           "No, you don't understand. I have to postpone the photoshoots until my husband wakes up."

           It better not be Elle Magazine she's talking to. I have not spent my entire life on her so she'll throw it away with a whim. I close in so I can hear the other person, getting the closest I've been to my wife since my death. She does not notice or feel me.

           "This is what Case would want," I hear from the phone. The voice belongs to Martha, the white lady I spent nearly a month convincing of the benefits of having a black woman on the front cover.

           "Not 'would.' Case is still alive, but he is dying, so it is time I do what I want. Please, the accident was just days ago."

           I step back and almost punch a wall until I remember my arm would go through. Modeling is what she wants, too. I merely showed her how much she wanted it.

           Something catches my wife's eyes. I look behind me and see a nurse hushing inside Henry's room. 

           "I got to go," Sandra says. I follow her.

           Henry's eyes are open. The nurse tries to catch his attention, but his gaze fixes on my wife. Almost like a magnet, she reels towards him. She closes her eyes and leans in, expecting his mouth to meet hers, but Henry leans back, confused. 

           "What are you—I'm not—" he pauses. Something deep goes on inside his brain. "Where is Henry?"

           "Oh, Case, I don't know how to say this. Henry... He's, um—"

           "It's okay," he says. "I understand." I swear I see the corner of his mouth smile right before he kisses my wife.

           Invisible strings attach themselves to me—to my eyes, to my hands, to my shoulders, my liver, my heart, my tongue, and they each pull away from the center. With a strong will, I reassemble myself before watching them kiss for what seems like way too long.

           When they let go, I wait until my brother says April Fools’, or something of the sort, but he never does. Invisible blades now cut my skin open, and from the cuts, real fire catches until I literally explode.

When I open my eyes again, I am elsewhere. I look up and see the replica of David, its perfectly sculpted body looking down on me, his marble muscles more alive than my phantom limbs, almost like God himself. I must be in my father's house. 

           The discovery that I can teleport calms me down, and again, I welcome the news of my impersonation by my own brother with unreasonable optimism. Maybe what I saw was a dream. Henry hates me. He would never impersonate me.

Sometime must've passed because not long after the teleportation, my dad enters the house. I stalk him down to the cellar, where he opens a forty-three-year-old wine bottle. He chugs a quarter of it like an uncultured college student and goes back up the stairs. I know he's going to his library, where he usually stays, but he stops in front of David's statue.

           "I don't know why my wife insisted on putting ya up there," he tells David. "It looks like you're about to take a piss on me. Just like Case." He drinks from the bottle. "No father should ever experience losing a son, let alone one of two twins. Having them was like seeing myself double.                        

           "When Case brought you into the house two years ago, I thought he was finally learning how to get things right, the way Henry did. But you knew Henry was going to die, didn't you?

           "Back there at the hospital, I thought Sandra was stupid for thinking Case was the one in a coma when it clearly was Henry. Fatherly instinct told me. But then, long behold, Case wakes up." Pa looks silly looking up at the naked statue. "God is cruel for creating a world where a father lives to see a son die, but crueler still because out of the two, he had to take Henry."

           After pa leaves, I peacefully contemplate what other powers I have as a ghost. Can I curse that man, haunt him, break his back, eat his soul and then spit it out? I scream, but my father does not listen, so I try to teleport again. I get my body to catch fire, but it doesn't move. After an hour of trying, I wonder if I have ever teleported because I no longer can tell if any of what happened is real. Am I really Case? Maybe I am Henry, and I've been cursed to think I am Case, and I'll remain a ghost until I discover the truth. I accept that as my next lead, leave pa's house, and walk to my own, or Case's.

           The journey takes forty-two days. On the fourth week, I see a big truck with an image of Sandra in red lingerie, her dark breasts amplified to the size of car wheels. I never pictured her as that kind of model. Henry or Case (whoever that is) must have different plans for her. I hope she at least made it to the cover of Elle. 

           When I enter the house, the hasty voices of Sandra and my doppelganger lead me to the master suite. I dare not enter, not when they sound like they don't want to be intruded. That man must be powerful. With Case's face and name, he can walk into this house and sleep with Sandra. For all I know, he is Case now, with all of Case’s body capital at his disposal.

           Like in the movies, I scream and screech and pour my energy into the house. I wait for the lights to flicker, for the frames on the wall to twitch, and for the air to turn cold, but nothing happens. I wonder if that's the feeling Sandra's mom had. Sandra says that even after the Civil Rights Act, her parents could not get a loan from the bank to own a house. That's the card she used when she wanted to "check my privilege." 

As time goes by, I convince myself the man in the house is indeed Case and I no longer think I've had my identity stolen. This Case is also much like Case, sometimes better. Sandra seems happier now. She models less and spends more time reading and working on the house. Her mom visits often, claiming that whichever bug bit Case, it needed to bite her too.

           I spend more time outside when spring arrives. I give names to every bird and every snake, and usually, am only inside when Sandra is home. This past week, she's been feeling sick. When I catch her reading about maternity on the internet, I stay with her at all times. One Sunday evening, I follow Sandra into the bathroom and watch as she urinates in a stick.

I fold my arms when she learns she's pregnant. My reaction is very practical. That will ruin her figure and career, I think.

           I watch her pace back and forth for the rest of the day as I sit on Case's armchair, my legs crossed. When Sandra hears the door handle turning, she puts her hands on her hips very Wonder-Woman-like.

           "You look happy," says Case, “but apprehensive.”

           Case got it right. She brings her chin up, ready to confront him. Her announcement sounds like her own confession.

           "Of course, I am. I never wanted to be a model; I wanted to be a wife, to have a husband—" (A white one, I add) "—and to have a sense of security I can pass down to my son." At the word son, she rubs her belly.

           Case plays it down. "So, you are saying you don't want to be a model anymore? Well, that's okay. All I ever wanted was for you to be my wife."

           Their debauchery makes me gag.

           I stand and walk up the stairs and look at the family photos in the hallway, fixed on one of Case and Henry as teenagers. The man in the house is most definitely Case, and I am out of leads again. Case comes up the stairs afterward and stops where my body stands, both of us sharing the same space.

           "I told you before," he says to the picture. "Competition is not good for you; it only slows down your winning. But ever since you bought that statue, I decided I would never lose to you again, and now that the competition is over, it is your wife who will give me a son."

The explosion happens before Henry finishes saying the word son. When I open my eyes, I realize I've teleported again, this time, to a cemetery. My body is the center of a ten feet tall pyre, and below me is Henry's grave, with my real body buried deep inside. I explode again, but this time, I do not teleport. Most of the other ghosts pay attention to me, some don’t bother. I ask them what I have to do to not be a ghost anymore, but how would they know?

Two full springs later and I still haven't teleported again, not for a lack of trying. I decide to remain in the graveyard, the proper place for me.

           One day, Sandra visits my grave. She carries a little snuggled companion within her arm, which I assume is her son.

           “This is Daphne, Henry,” says Sandra, showing me the baby who’s apparently a girl. This the first and only time Sandra addresses Henry’s grave directly. After a short narcissist monologue, Sandra puts down yellow flowers on the grass and turns around, ready to leave.

"Please bring her back," I say, referring to the baby girl, but she doesn’t listen. It is not until years later that Daphne begins to come on her own, bringing purple flowers with her.

“Purple is the color of royalty,” she says every time, not skipping that phrase for the next seventeen years.

She grows up to be a gorgeous woman, a mixed beauty of brown skin, red hair, and freckles. The latter two she takes from me, or technically from Henry. I often tell her she should be a model, but I prefer listening to her than saying anything.

“They need to invest in black minds the same way they invest in black bodies,” she says, reflecting on the new social awareness she’s attained on senior year of high school.

           After prom, she tells she received an athletic scholarship for track and that she'll be able to go to college. "I won't be visiting you as often once I'm gone," she tells me. "All these years, I never understood why I like you so much, uncle. I was born right after you died. I don't know. . . It sounds silly, but sometimes I think my soul is yours, but in a different body."

           She comes to see me every summer, talking about professors she admires and revealing which boys commit sexual assault. But the next time she visits me is in the fall. She runs to Henry’s grave, crying, this time bringing blue flowers.

           She sobs for hours, but then finally tells me she's suffered an injury to her ankle and lost her scholarship, and that she can't go back to college.

           I wonder if that's how her grandma felt many years ago.