Chapter 16
You do not wake up in their bed. That is the first note of confusion.
You wake up on the sofa. That is the second note of confusion.
You wake up with a pillow and covered with blankets. That is the third note of confusion.
All of this would seem to suggest that your host has decided to sleep on the couch instead of in the bed with her partner, which does not bode well for you in the slightest. But if there is a problem with you, then your host would have rebuilt or restructured the obstacles trying to prevent you from tucking her away. She hasn’t done anything with that yet, so maybe this is less a problem with you and more a problem with her partner, which still doesn’t bode well.
You were told to stay away so that they could have a happy Valentine’s Day. This does not speak of a happy Valentine’s Day.
And it isn’t your business, but—
No. It is your business. You live here with them just as much as any other roommate. They might say otherwise, but you know that you do. And as much as they both might not like you, you have come to expect a certain sort of normalcy – a certain pattern of living, one that involves reading good Shakespeare and drinking good tea (and sometimes hot chocolate, but this less often). Something in you suggests that you know something of relationships – you had a daughter, which meant you likely had a husband of some sort or fashion, so the knowledge is there, even if you can’t exactly remember it.
Let’s not pretend this is entirely altruistic. You are meant to have tea and Shakespeare and conversation with the brunette. Regardless of whether they are fighting or not, you want your conversation. Even if it isn’t on Shakespeare.
You push yourself off of the sofa and pad on bare feet to their bedroom. (At least you are not in a night gown. You think you have had enough of night gowns. You think you’ve had enough of night gowns for your entire eternity. Someone should tell your host that you would like some new clothes. You’re not sure exactly how she would do that, but you should let her know. Unfortunately, letting her know would likely end in absolutely no new clothes along with less of everything she could make less. Maybe better that you say nothing to her.)
When you make it to their bedroom, you stand just inside, cross your arms, and stare at the brunette. You take a deep breath. “I know you aren’t asleep.”
“You’re not yourself, Poppins,” the brunette mumbles into her pillowcase, refusing to look up at you. “Go away.”
You ignore her not entirely kind request and move to sit on the edge of their bed. “Truer words could not have been spoken.”
“I told you to go.” The brunette is speaking through gritted teeth now, as though you care about her frustrations with you.
You scoot against the headboard, and she sits up just enough to glare angrily at you. But your arms are still crossed, and you raise your brows at her. “I refuse to go anywhere until you tell me what transpired between the two of you.”
The brunette snorts and flips onto her back, staring at the ceiling. She crosses her arms beneath her head. “Guess you’re going to be stuck here a long time, then, ghostie.”
“Perhaps.” You lift one corner of your lips in a half-smile. “But the longer I’m here, the longer your lady love is tucked away. I do not believe that you would much enjoy that.”
The brunette glares at you again. “You threatening me?” Her brows raise. “You threatening Dani?”
“Why should I threaten either of you, dear child, when you could simply explain the situation to me and ask for my advice?” You keep your eyes on her, waiting for any sort of suggestion that she will talk with you. “Even Romeo and Juliet had Friar Lawrence.”
The brunette continues to glare at you. “If I remember correctly, he gave them shitty advice. Pretend that you are dead and run away together; there’s no chance that can go wrong.”
“I do not plan on telling either of you to kill yourselves. The situation is not that dire.” You try to meet her eyes, but she avoids your gaze. “Is it? Have I misread this? Or is sleeping on the couch a normal thing when you aren’t fighting?”
“Sleeping on the couch is a normal thing when you leave her there.” But there is no bite to the brunette’s words, and she sighs. “You’re really not going to leave me alone, are you?”
You stare at her and offer only the smallest of smiles. “What is the point of being an immortal ghost if you don’t use your power to do some good in the world?”
The brunette stares at her. “I seem to remember you using your power to do a lot of bad in the world. Guess trying to even that out is a spot better than what you’ve been doing.”
“I do not remember doing anything of the sort.”
“Of course, you don’t.” The brunette rolls her eyes. She sits up in bed and hunches forward, crossing her legs and propping her bare hands in the hollow between them. Then she gives you a curious look. “You’re really trying to help?”
You don’t even think this over before you give her a firm nod. “I’m bored. What else would you suggest that I do with my apparently infinite time?”
“Teach Dani how to make better tea,” the brunette says, and she snorts, a little smile crossing her face. You can see why your host finds her beautiful. It’s not an overwhelming gut punch the way your own beauty once was (and still is, when you are locked in your little room), but it is certainly there in these little moments with her, tucked just in the corner of that smile. “Alright, ghostie, but I should warn you – this is your fault. We wouldn’t be having this fight if not for you.”
You sigh. “Yes, yes, all of the problems in your lives are my fault, blame it all on the undead ghost, she can take it, don’t take responsibility for any of your mistakes, you certainly don’t make them.” You meet her eyes and raise one brow. “As you kids say, spill.”
The brunette laughs again – a sharp bark of a sound with no merriment in it – and then she pushes herself out of their bed. “Not in here, ghostie. If I’m going to tell you everything, it’s going to be over a good cuppa tea.” She looks you over and tilts her head to one side. “You’ve made enough of them for me. Think it’s high time I return the favor.”
You curl up on what has become your corner of the couch, your teacup in one hand and a saucer in the other. The blankets are spread across the couch over both you and the brunette, although she makes sure to stay on the opposite corner, just as she always does. But you have the additional comfort of your host’s pillow curved around your back, which adds a nicer feel than the plain thick of the couch’s arm. You could get used to this.
The brunette watches as you take the first sip of your tea. “Good, isn’t it?”
You raise a brow. “I made it myself. Just like you always make yours yourself. I do not understand why this would be any better than it normally would be.”
But the brunette just rolls her eyes and smiles as she takes a sip of her own tea. “Dani doesn’t much like me talking with you.”
This doesn’t surprise you. Is it supposed to have surprised you? Because it doesn’t surprise you.
You take another sip of your tea and wait for a further explanation. There has to be one. That can’t be all. But as you sit and wait and watch the brunette and she continues to not say anything, you pause, place your teacup back on its saucer with a little clink, and ask, “Is that all?”
“That would be our fight, yes. We’re not supposed to be talking.” She glances over to you and gestures – one finger at you, then back to her. “You and me. This conversation? Not happening.”
You glance down to your tea and sigh. “She will forgive you eventually. It is in her nature. Although I do not believe you have done anything in need of forgiving. There is nothing wrong with you talking with me.”
“Oh?” The brunette raises an eyebrow. “And how would you feel if a ghostie took over your body and started talking with your….” She waves a hand. “Whoever.”
You press your lips together, and your head tilts ever so gently to one side. “I do not know,” you admit. You know that you are staring off into the distance, but you are trying to remember. This isn’t the first time you’ve tried. It doesn’t end any better than the last. “I was married when I was alive, I believe. I had a daughter. She meant the world to me.” You shake your head once and then look back at the brunette. “I am not able to recollect more than that. My memories aren’t what they used to be, you know.”
The brunette rolls her eyes. “I know.” She hunches forward, holding her tea between both hands. “You really can’t remember anything, can you?”
“I remember my name,” you say, voice soft. “Only just. I remember my room feeling like a jail cell. I remember being locked away somewhere. I remember I had a daughter, which means I must have had a husband. I don’t remember whether I loved him or not.” You smile. “But I remember my name.”
“What is it?” the brunette asks, glancing over to you. “What’s your name?”
You stare at her unblinking. “Would you truly like to know?”
“Sure.”
You watch the brunette. It couldn’t hurt to tell her. You doubt that she would actually use your name. She seems the sort who tends more toward nicknames. Your host is Poppins. You are Ghostie. So what would be the point in telling her?
Yet a part of you aches to answer the question. Even if she doesn’t use it at all, even if she only uses it once in a blue moon, that’s something. Only one person is better than none at all.
“Viola,” you say, finally, breaking the glance and looking down into the hot liquid swirling about in your cup. “My name is Viola.”
“Well, Ms. Viola No-Last-Name,” the brunette says, and at your name leaving her lips – leaving anyone’s lips – something inside of you tightens just so, “I’m Jamie. It’s not a pleasure to meet you. Wish we had better circumstances. Some without killing would be nice.”
You stare at her and blink. “I do not remember killing anyone.”
“You don’t remember a lot of things, ghostie.” The brunette stands and stretches back just enough until her lower back pops. “You finish your drink. I have some thinking to do.” She gives you a little nod. “Don’t bring Dani back to bed when you’re done. I don’t think she would appreciate that. Just leave her where you found her.”
You watch her carefully. “And what are you going to do, when she wakes? Will you continue this fight?”
“I don’t know.” The brunette – Jamie, she has introduced herself to you now, and so you feel more comfortable using her name – glances over to you. “I’ll figure something out. You weren’t much help with that.”
“I did not claim that I would be. I do not have enough memories of the real world to be much help. I only suggested that I would do a better job than Friar Lawrence. Besides,” and here you hesitate, considering your words carefully. “Perhaps it is time that she and I have a talk. Face to face.” You let out a breath. “I know she does not like me. I still have yet to figure out why she wanted me at all.”
Jamie blinks a couple of times. “Wanted you?” she echoes, confused. “What do you mean wanted you?”
“I was as close to nothing as I could be,” you say, trying to remember, “and she called me. She invited me to be…not alone anymore. I was so tired of being alone, you must understand, and I thought…. I thought that she wanted me.” You sigh and brush a hand through her blonde hair. “Perhaps I was confused. Perhaps she did not truly understand what she was doing. Perhaps she did not want me at all.” You smile, a soft thing. “Hope is my downfall, you must understand. I’m stubborn when I must be, but my stubbornness is often fueled by hope.” Your eyes narrow, and you look away. “I just often hope in the wrong thing – the wrong people.” You laugh and look back up at Jamie. “I don’t know how I know that. Only that I do.”
Jamie doesn’t reach over, doesn’t touch your hand comfortingly. She only looks at you. “Sounds like a memory to me,” she says. “I know what it’s like to be stubborn. I think we’re all a little like that.” She gives you a nod. “I’ll see if I can talk to Dani about that. She won’t want to talk to you, but I’ll see what I can do.” Another look. “You enjoy your tea. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
You watch as she leaves. Tomorrow is a nice idea, but you aren’t sure. Given the option between making up with the love of your life and continuing to talk with the ghost who lives within her, you think you would stop talking with the ghost. The answer seems straightforward enough. And given that your host and the brunette – Jamie – both don’t much like you, well, it’s very clear to you.
This time, you won’t put your hope somewhere you’ll only be disappointed.
Instead, you make your own hope.
It has been a long time since you have written anything, and while the pen still feels quite uncomfortable in your hand, you force yourself to try it anyway. The weight is off. Your writing is unreadable, even to you, and you know what you wrote. You try again and again until, finally, you think you have found something that just might convey what is needed.
You take a deep breath and glance up. The light is just beginning to crest over the horizon – you can see the sun through the living room window – which means it is almost time for your host to be waking. Instead of putting away your book, you tuck the note you have written inside the front cover, just next to the receipt paper that you know she uses to mark her place. It will be impossible for her to miss. At least, that is your expectation.
A quick read-through of your words suggests that they will convey exactly what you intend. The problem is that they will likely convey something you do not intend as well. Words are slippery things, and while you might once have had a better command of them, it feels like that must have been forgotten as well.
Still, you have done your best.
If it is not enough, you may have to consider other tactics.