Page 41 of Ghostly
“You binge-watch the whole ofBewitched, the original series, to celebrate? Oh, please, Gabriel. I hadn’t seen it since the seventies.”
“I’m not watchingBewitched.”The Bachelorettewas where he drew a line. A very firm line. “No, you keep winning. That’s what you do.”
Ida tilted her head and did a frighteningly good impression of Rosalie’s puppy eyes.
Gabriel let out a loud breath. “One episode. One!”
To continue his winning streak, Gabriel visited Marge in the library the next day. She allowed him to see the archives (while chatting about everyone and every upcoming event in town) and with a little organized digging, Gabriel discovered an old grave site, active in the late nineteenth century, where people of “dubious morals” would be buried.
Which, in their terms, he guessed meant Ida.
The site was beyond the edge of town, by the forest. It hadn’t been in use for decades and as such was appropriately overgrown, but a few wooden posts hinted at where a fence used to be, scattered stones and wooden crosses implied the graves, and a long-abandoned crypt-like building stood at the edge like a watchman.
Gabriel spent a good two hours cleaning various grave markers, trying to figure out which one was Ida’s. The stone ones had eroded so much it was hard to distinguish the engravings, even after he’d cleaned up the plants overgrowing them. Many had no markings at all; just a lump of stone or a cross indicating someone whose name was not worth mentioning had been buried there.
With his hands all scratched—for real, this time—and his knees hurting, Gabriel stood and stretched. Few undiscovered graves remained, and his winning high was starting to drift away. Two, three, five. Only 25% of the graves were named. He didn’t think any of them were Ida’s— the letters he could recognize weren’t right—but how was he to figure out the right one from the rest?
If she was buried here, at all. Maybe her asshole family didn’t think she was even worth that.
Discouraged, but not defeated, Gabriel sat by the next grave. One, two, three, four, five, six. Tear off the overgrowth, curse as it pricks you in the process. One, two, three, four, five, six. Use your car keys (he came woefully unprepared) to scratch the dirt off the engravings in the stone. He used a rag he found in the back of his car to wipe the stone clean. He was so ready to move on to another grave, to shake his head at another futile attempt, that he stared at the engraving for a good minute until he understood what he was seeing.
I. S. H.
1863-1888
Ida. He found her! The last bits of his winning high bubbled up inside him, and he stood and jumped in place. Three-quarters done, almost.Hell, yes.
Three-quarters done. Ida was almost three-quarters gone.
Gabriel kneeled and clenched his fists in his lap. There wasn’t a feeling that could equal a good, solid win—and he hated that an undertaste of loss had to sneak in. He was doing what he promised he’d do, what both he and Ida wanted. It made no sense to feel regret.
He shoved the thoughts away and, with renewed zeal, cleaned the space in front of the tombstone, accomplishing the task much faster than in six minutes, until he had room to place a pot of vibrant orange marigolds. He’d nearly gone for the chrysanthemums in the town’s flower shop when he’d spotted the marigolds. They shouldn’t even be here—not when the first frost has fallen already, and it was weeks afterDia de Muertos. But someone had gotten them to that shop, and all Gabriel could think of was howabuelitaalways insisted on marigolds when remembering the dead; the flowers were supposed to guide their spirits back to the land of the living.
Ida wanted the opposite—but first, she’d need to be remembered. Enlightened. And what would be better than a marigold?
Last came the candle. This close to Christmas, the general store offered only the super cheesy ones—red, gold, glitter, and snowflakes. But Gabriel thought Ida wouldn’t mind some pizzazz and picked a red one splattered with gold glitter at the top. He laid it by the tombstone and prepared a lighter. If this didn’t work…
He paused, staring at the grave. If it didn’t work, he’d used a lot of time and effort—but it was still worth it. He wasn’t getting paid in increments he’d used to clean the graves, he didn’t change anybody’s life, and probably, nobody cared.
But he’d done a good job. He’d forgotten how that felt—being satisfied from a non-work-related achievement.
He lit the candle and waited. The first drops of wax slipped to the ground. He couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed, but—
The feeling came back. The same as at dinner, and as yesterday.
Enlightensomeone.
Oh, Ida.
Ida.
She’d have felt it, too. Feeling light and optimistic, Gabriel only used a minute to sprinkle a few marigolds on the other graves, then ran for the car.
***
Eyes closed, Ida let the flower-scented dampness of the tropical jungle permeate her being. Raindrops trickled on the canopy far above; leaves crunched in front, where Armando cleared the path with one powerful swipe of the machete after another, beads of sweat disappearing into his half-buttoned beige shirt.
Sweating was never that attractive in real life.
