Memory of a Handshake

I first met Mallory when I walked through a wall and promptly scared the life out of her.  Her first reaction was a panic attack. It took a few precious seconds before I realized she could see me. Then I started to panic, and like an idiot, I reached out.

She recoiled, “Don’t touch me!”

I froze. I had no idea what to do in situations like this, but I sat down slowly, telegraphing my movements. “Hey. Concentrate on my voice or…something. Ground yourself; look at your surroundings. Um, try to breathe?” I got the distinct feeling that if she could have been breathing at that moment, she would have been glaring daggers at me.

Eventually, her breathing went from terrified to shaky. She glanced up at me uneasily,  warily. “You’re a ghost?”

“Yep.”

“How?” I shrugged and she groaned theatrically. “Great.”

I stared as she collapsed onto a sofa nearby. She was so…alive. So human. I had been…like this for so long, I had forgotten how. She noticed my gaze and her face twisted sourly. “Don’t worry, it's not contagious.”

I bristled instinctively. “I’m dead, remember?” I snapped back. I winced as Mallory's expression softened to guilty understanding. Her hands were still trembling violently. I reached out, then I remembered. My hand slowly withdrew.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “I’m just used to people staring at me like I’m contaminated. Since word got out last year, everyone looks at me like they’re waiting for me to faint again. It’s like some sick reality show.”

“Everybody staring at you? Can’t say I can relate.” To my surprise, Mallory snorted, and then unexpectedly, we both burst into laughter.

That day, I had a proper conversation for the first time since I died. I mentioned how happy I was to have someone to talk to. The worst part about being a ghost is the loneliness. After all, I was human before, and humans are social creatures. Sometimes, it’s physical agony to watch people laugh and talk and live and not be able to do anything, while I’m being smothered by the silence.

And the cold. I’m always cold. I can’t remember what sunlight used to feel on my skin. And physical contact is a distant dream that belonged to a stranger.

Mallory told me about her condition in return. “It’s a genetic mutation, but not a cool one that gives me superpowers. It’s really rare. Professionals are searching for a cure, but they don’t even know what it does. Hurts in seven different languages, though.”

Our hands brushed, mine briefly phasing through hers. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t. She didn’t mean it.

I still played along, giving her hand a phantom squeeze, and sat there, pretending I could feel her warmth.

We gradually eased into this tentative friendship. As the only person I could speak to, Mallory became my confidant. Similarly, Mallory could confess any secrets to me and I wouldn’t tell a soul. The beginning was rocky, and most of our earlier conversations ended with biting words. But eventually, I got to see a gentle side of the girl with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. I saw a girl who argued and complained about her brother but always agreed to watch his shows together. I saw a girl who was eager to learn, devouring information in any form. I saw a wild spirit trapped in a human body, yearning to run with the wind if it wasn’t for her pain.

I saw a girl who was hurting, but full of so much hope, eagerly waiting every day for the news of a cure. So I immediately knew something was wrong when she drifted into her room one day, closing the door quietly. The lack of life in her usually vibrant self startled me.  It was unsettling, like something that belonged in the sky was pinned to the ground. Mallory was energy and passion, not this empty shell.

“Hey, what happened?” Mallory sat in the middle of her bed, staring but not seeing. “Mal?”

“The doctors said there’s no cure,” she said faintly.  “They said I’m going to-- that I’m dying.”

“What?” Ghosts don’t need to breathe. But at that moment, I was drowning, gasping, desperately trying to keep my head above the rising waters. “But you’re fine. You’re healthy.”

She shook her head, dazed, words falling heavily off her tongue. “Not anymore. They don’t know how much time I have left. I might not even graduate.” She turned to me, her mask finally cracking, “I’m going to die.”

I reached out, enveloping her body with mine as she cried, a torrent of cascading emotions and tears escaping her. I felt the moment when her fragile grasp on hope slipped.

I hugged Mallory and cried with her. I mourned with her, for her life that was stolen and for me, for the life I had lost, beyond the grasp of my memories.

The news hit her hard; Mallory tried to mask it, tried to remain hopeful, but I could see how much it drained her. There were more and more nights when I watched her cry herself to sleep.

But if Mallory was anything, she was a blazing flame. And yet, she was as stubborn as a rock.

“I’m not going.”

“You’re what?” The school held an annual dance on the winter solstice each year. It was considered an unofficial coming-of-age ceremony in the town. “But this is your Solstice Dance! And you’ve been planning since October!”

“And I nearly collapsed today. Again,” she pointed out steadily. “I can’t risk it.” Only a slight tremble of her bottom lip betrayed her true feelings.

I reached out. “Mal…”

“No!” she yelled, twisting out of reach. “Don’t try to convince me. Please. I can’t risk dying, like, like-”

“Like me.” The sudden stillness was painfully quiet. A thousand and one protests rose up inside me, but I held my tongue, waiting. I knew Mallory well enough by now.

“I’m sorry,” Mallory whispered, anger draining out of the air. “You know I don’t mean that. I’m just- I’m so scared.” Her voice cracked. “I have less than six months left now. I’m not ready.”

“No.” Mallory looked up, startled at the harsh tone of my voice. “No. Get up, Mal; you’re going to the dance.”

“Stop it,” she protested. “I know it’s pointless anyway.” The fear in her voice scared me. It felt too familiar.

“No!” We both flinched at my outburst. “Get up. You’ve been planning this for weeks.” I locked eyes with her fiercely. “If you have six months left, then you are going to live during those six months, Mallory Joanne Walker.”

The initial shock on Mallory’s face slowly faded to determination. “Okay,” she muttered, then louder, “Okay. Let’s go. We’ve got a dance to get to.”

My smile, if I had seen it, would have put the sun to shame. “Told you.”

We danced our hearts out that night. Mallory was a beacon of energy, laughing, twirling, smiling with everything she had. I was right with her the entire time, and that night, we were alive.

From then on, Mallory and I carved out small moments of joy. Ice skating in a small pond in the woods. Sneaking out of the house at night to see the stars. Attending the bonfire in town on Christmas Eve. The winter months flew past in a cold blur, leaving small pockets of luminous memories.

However, time doesn’t stop for anyone, and certainly didn’t for us. Mallory’s condition worsened; there were days she could barely move from the pain, and she stayed confined in her bed with me hovering over her anxiously.

I would have given my own life again in those moments for Mallory to stop hurting.

Eventually, her health worsened to the point she was hospitalized. She had cried when the news was broken, having just recovered from another one of her bad days.

“I don’t want to go,” she confessed quietly that night. “Moving to the hospital seems so…final.”

You’re going to be okay. You’re going to heal. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them down. I squeezed her hand. “I’ll be right with you.” That, at least, I could promise her.

Nearly a month later, I visited the hospital. The beeping of medical equipment echoed through sterile air. A girl lay in the middle of a cot, a machine helping her breathe. Her pale face split into a radiant smile as I entered the room. “Hey, you.” She turned to the doctors. “Can I have a moment?”

“Hey, Mal,” I whispered once they left. “You look terrible.”

Her laugh was as bright as ever. “Aren’t you polite?” A serene light lit up her eyes. “My body doesn’t hurt anymore. I feel so light.”

“Yeah?”

 “Mhm,” she hummed. “Hey, do you remember what dying felt like?”

I swallowed hard and closed my eyes, seeking a memory from years ago. “It’s- It’s quiet. Peaceful. Like falling asleep.” I hoped I wasn’t lying.

“That sounds nice.”

“It is. It was.”

“I’m still scared,” she admitted, turning to meet my eyes. “I’m scared that if I blink, I’ll never wake up again.”

I reached out and covered her hands with mine. “I’m right here,” I promised. “It’s okay; close your eyes. I’ll be right here waiting for you when you open them again.”

We stayed like that, in the beeping room, as doctors rushed back and forth.

Beep…beep…beep…beeeee…

A girl opened her eyes and sat up slowly on the bed. I sat next to her, waiting. She took her time, taking in her surroundings before our eyes met.

She tilted her head, frowning slightly. “Do I know you? You seem…familiar.” She blinked. “Where are my manners?” She held out her hand. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”

I shook her hand firmly. “Nice to meet you too. I think we’re going to be great friends.”

Her hand was warm.