She walked into the bar. She was feeling apprehensive and excited all at once. She had come a long way to take a break, she told herself. Suddenly she became aware of her surroundings. The present moment became like a long arm yanking her irresistibly out of her thoughts and her past and landing her quite firmly in LaFitte’s, the oldest bar in New Orleans and quite arguably, the country.
Suddenly her ears filled with the tinkling of glasses, the whispers of fervent and intimate conversation, flirtatious laughter and a crystalline voice dominating the other senses, singing, lamenting.
Her nose was shot through with shards of cigarette smoke, liquor, perfume and piss. The latter came care of a sign in the corner of the bar that read “Men’s Room” and pointed to an open door leading to the outside brick wall.
Her eyes darted quickly filling up like glasses of water with visions of sequins, wool, wrinkles, makeup, weathered skin, smoke and eyes. Eyes looking directly at her. The eyes belonged to the crystalline voice. The voice belonged to a woman. The woman was playing piano and singing “St. James Infirmary”.
Celeste sat down near the piano and waited to order a drink. She sat near the piano because in her shy nature and being alone she thought she could give the impression of coming to a bar by herself because she wanted to listen to some music. The truth was that she needed to escape her thoughts and her heart. She needed to drink. The waitress came by. She ordered a gin martini with two olives. Gin. Tonight felt like a little reckless. Or maybe she felt a little reckless and she hoped the night would pick up its cue. The drink came; she gave the waitress a credit card and opened a tab.
The woman at the piano finished the song. She got up from the piano and sat down to her drink at a little table near where Celeste was sitting. Someone else got up and started playing “House of the Rising Sun”. Celeste looked at the woman and said, “You play beautifully”.
The woman looked at Celeste, studied her face for a moment and smiled openly and said “Thank you. My name is Beauty. Beauty Poirier. And you are?”
“Celeste. Cade. What kind of…where did you..where does that name come from?”
“From a horse.”
“You were named after a horse?”
“Indeed I was not. The horse was named after me. The horse and I were born on the same day. My Mother got mad that my Father was staying on the farm to watch the foal be born while my Mother was in the city giving birth to me. So my Mother told my Father that she had stolen his name for the foal, Beauty, and named their new daughter with it and if he dared name his new foal after his daughter he’d be the laughing stock. Then my father stole the name back and named the foal Beauty anyway because he was mad my Mother didn’t name me after his grandmother. So you see, the horse was named after me because I was born first.
“Well, that’s quite a story.” Celeste said.
And with that they were off to a grand start of a very interesting evening. They swapped storied, flirted with boys, flirted with each other, drank and had an all around good time.
The bars were all starting to give last call. Celeste and Beauty tumbled out of LaFitte’s and into the damp, thick New Orleans night. The walk back to Beauty’s was uneventful except for a quick stop in an alley so Celeste could relieve herself of the contents of her stomach while Beauty gracefully and skillfully pulled back, held and caressed Celeste’s long sleek, ebony hair. Finally they arrived at Beauty’s house. They chose Beauty’s because Beauty wanted to show Celeste where she had been born. Sort of an epilogue to the story of her name.
Beauty’s house was a Spanish mansion in the heart of the city. True to the Spanish style before the French arrived it was a simple house front, one color, few windows, no balconies over-looking the street. Once inside the main entrance however, all of that changed. They entered a dark courtyard filled with trees and Spanish moss and three storied of windows and balconies on every façade overlooking the courtyard.
Celeste stopped and stared. Beauty turned and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just having a strong feeling of de ja vu.” It would be the first of many that night.
They crossed the courtyard and entered into the main foyer of the house. They crossed it directly and proceeded up the Tara-like marble stairs to the upper levels. They walked down a long hallway and entered a doorway on their left. Beauty announced, “This is the room I was born in.” And then she ran across the room and jumped onto the bed. She collapsed back in a fit of laughter. Celeste came over to her and lay down next to her. Beauty said, “I hate this room.”
“Why?” Celeste asked.
“It’s so full.” Beauty replied and closed her eyes.
Celeste looked around. Actually, it looked pretty spare to Celeste. The bed, a bureau, a chair by the fireplace and a green bottle on the window ledge.
Celeste turned back to Beauty. Beauty’s eyes were still closed. Celeste lay there a long time staring at Beauty. Beauty was not beautiful at all but she had the kind of eyes that made Celeste want to wake Beauty up so she could stare into them again.
Then she realized that Beauty was asleep in her own bed and she was only a stranger in a stranger’s house. She got up and went to the door, turned off the light and stepped into the hallway. Suddenly she felt a cold wind slap her across the face. She froze. It came up so quickly she didn’t know what it was. She looked to her left down the hall where the wind had come from and saw a shut window facing the street. She regained her composure, took a deep breath, shut Beauty’s door and started down the hall. As she moved carefully down the hall she began to notice a dark mass at the top of the stairs. It looked like someone’s shadow but she was having a hard time explaining that to herself because there was no light for a shadow to be there. Then she saw the shadow move slightly and this she couldn’t take. She turned and ran back into Beauty’s room and shut the door. She looked for a lock underneath the handle. She found a key and turned it and checked the lock. Then she went to the chair by the fireplace and sat down.
“I’ll just rest a while. I’m drunk, that’s all.” She said to herself. She saw that there was kindling in the fireplace. She hesitated but then decided to build a fire. She spent some minutes getting the fire going and this process was very distracting and relaxing for her. She sat down in the chair again to enjoy the fire and get warm. She started to laugh to herself, “of course there are ghosts in this house for God’s sakes. It’s New Orleans.”
Then a green glint from the fire caught the corner of her eye. She looked to her right and noticed the green bottle on the windowsill. But this time because of the firelight she noticed it wasn’t a green bottle at all. It was a clear crystal bottle with green liquid in it. Absinthe. She got up, walked over and saw that it was sitting on a tray with all the appropriate accoutrement: a silver spoon, polished to a fine sheen; a little crystal bowl of sugar, a silver lighter and a crystal sipping glass. She had always wanted to try this. She brought the tray over to the chair and sat down. Uncertainly she began to ritualize the drink. She picked up the bottle and started to pour, no, first you take the sugar and pour the Absinthe over the sugar, right. Then you light the spoon on fire and breath in the fumes. Then you stir the spoon in the glass, that’s right. Then you sip the drink. She put the tray on the floor and sat back and began to sip and breath. Just like you do when you are drinking a really nice wine. Breathe and sip. Sip and breathe. She felt like she was falling in slow motion, backwards and it felt so nice. She finished the glass and put it on the tray. She lay back and melt into the chair.
When she awoke she saw little flickering lights filling the room, faster and faster. She opened her eyes fully and saw light everywhere, all over the room. She adjusted her eyes to the lights and saw that they had forms. She stood up. She felt woozy but calm. Then she heard whispering all around her. She went closer to one of the lights and saw that it was a person! A woman dressed in an old-time ball gown and she was saying something, “This is my coming out dress. Do you like it? My Mama knew I’d want to be buried in it. I had cancer and I died when I was nineteen…” her voice faded as Celeste moved onto the next one. A man dressed as a Civil War soldier, “…I never knew death would feel so terribly lonely and scary. I kept thinking it must be like what a deer feels when she’s put down on the hunt…” Celeste looked all around the room and saw that these ghosts filled the room. Their stories filled the air.
Then Celeste heard her name. She turned and there was Beauty sitting up, holding something in her arms.
“Celeste, come sit on the bed.”
But by now Celeste’s suspicions were growing and she was too unsure to move.
“Why?” Celeste asked. “What’s going on?”
“It’s time for you to say goodbye.” Beauty said and she held out the bundle in her arms.
Celeste looked sideways at Beauty, “What are you talking about?”
Beauty brought the bundle back to her chest and said, “Come say goodbye to your baby.” And with the word ‘baby’ Celeste sank to the floor.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…” She couldn’t stop denying and yet wanted to badly to hold her baby. But she couldn’t move from her spot on the floor. Finally, she held out her arms as long as they would go and whispered, “Please may I hold her?”
Beauty said, “Of course.” And brought the baby to her.
Celeste sat there for a long time and held the baby and sobbed and said, “I’m sorry” over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”
Finally Beauty said, “Tell me your story.”
And Celeste did. She spoke as if she hadn’t spoken for years even though everything had happened in the last 11 months. She had taken ten month old Sara out to the nearest Bodega for some milk. It was only a block away so she didn’t bother with the Bjorn or stroller. She didn’t see the truck backing out of the alley, his backing signal blending with all the other city noises. Everything after that happened in slow motion: her shoulder getting knocked, something yanking her back, her baby up and out of her arms, landing under the tire of the truck, the screeching, the pounding the screaming, the sirens. She only remembers from that moment on she couldn’t stop screaming. They wouldn’t let her see the baby after that. And after that, it seems everything went wrong. Nothing went right after Sara was gone. She could no longer focus on work, her husband asked for a separation. Everything happened so fast. And she found herself in New Orleans on a ‘getaway’, telling herself she was starting over. She looked at Beauty. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I am your Enlightened Witness.” Celeste didn’t understand. “When a baby dies it is very different from an older person dying. This baby, any baby that dies, was never meant to be here for very long. They came here to do a very specific job. A job you are not allowing your baby to do. Their job is to cause suffering.
You are not grieving the loss of your child. Indeed, you have all but forced this part of your life out of your memory. Sara came here to offer you the experience of suffering. There is something born of your suffering that you will do. But if you never suffer, if you never grieve, if you never allow yourself to experience your loss, you will be lost. You will never do what it is you came here to do. You must grieve, you must suffer. You must lose your child in order to gain your voice.”
But I don’t want to gain my voice. I want my child back.”
“Your child has already done her job. Now you must do yours. Her soul will not move on until you do. Your soul will not move on until you do.”
Celeste looked down at her baby and started crying again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” She lay down with her baby in her arms…
Celeste awoke with a start. She was lying on a floor. She sat up. She was in an old, musty room. It looked abandoned. There were no sheets on the mattress of the four-poster bed. Dust was everywhere. She got up. She couldn’t believe it. This was Beauty’s room. Beauty Poirier. The room where Beauty was born. Celeste examined everything. The fireplace hadn’t been used in years. There were cobwebs everywhere. She stood there for a long time trying to absorb the evening, this room. Finally she decided to leave. She walked to the door, unlocked it, opened it and just as she was about to step out of the room a glint of green in the morning light caught the corner of her eye. She turned her head to her left and looked at the floor and there it was: a silver tray. On the tray was a clear crystal bottle with green liquid in it, a silver spoon, polished to a fine sheen, a little crystal bowl of sugar, a silver lighter and a crystal sipping glass. She stared at the items. She thought about going over to them, decided against it and left the room.
She walked down the creaky now half-lit hallway. Down the decrepit stairs and out the door half off it’s hinges. She marveled at the shambles of a courtyard. She got to the main door and looked back astounded at this dilapidated, abandoned building. She walked outside to an overcast, cold, windy New Orleans day looked up into the sky, smiled and started walking back home.
The End.
Story by jessica margaret dean
12.27.04
Suddenly her ears filled with the tinkling of glasses, the whispers of fervent and intimate conversation, flirtatious laughter and a crystalline voice dominating the other senses, singing, lamenting.
Her nose was shot through with shards of cigarette smoke, liquor, perfume and piss. The latter came care of a sign in the corner of the bar that read “Men’s Room” and pointed to an open door leading to the outside brick wall.
Her eyes darted quickly filling up like glasses of water with visions of sequins, wool, wrinkles, makeup, weathered skin, smoke and eyes. Eyes looking directly at her. The eyes belonged to the crystalline voice. The voice belonged to a woman. The woman was playing piano and singing “St. James Infirmary”.
Celeste sat down near the piano and waited to order a drink. She sat near the piano because in her shy nature and being alone she thought she could give the impression of coming to a bar by herself because she wanted to listen to some music. The truth was that she needed to escape her thoughts and her heart. She needed to drink. The waitress came by. She ordered a gin martini with two olives. Gin. Tonight felt like a little reckless. Or maybe she felt a little reckless and she hoped the night would pick up its cue. The drink came; she gave the waitress a credit card and opened a tab.
The woman at the piano finished the song. She got up from the piano and sat down to her drink at a little table near where Celeste was sitting. Someone else got up and started playing “House of the Rising Sun”. Celeste looked at the woman and said, “You play beautifully”.
The woman looked at Celeste, studied her face for a moment and smiled openly and said “Thank you. My name is Beauty. Beauty Poirier. And you are?”
“Celeste. Cade. What kind of…where did you..where does that name come from?”
“From a horse.”
“You were named after a horse?”
“Indeed I was not. The horse was named after me. The horse and I were born on the same day. My Mother got mad that my Father was staying on the farm to watch the foal be born while my Mother was in the city giving birth to me. So my Mother told my Father that she had stolen his name for the foal, Beauty, and named their new daughter with it and if he dared name his new foal after his daughter he’d be the laughing stock. Then my father stole the name back and named the foal Beauty anyway because he was mad my Mother didn’t name me after his grandmother. So you see, the horse was named after me because I was born first.
“Well, that’s quite a story.” Celeste said.
And with that they were off to a grand start of a very interesting evening. They swapped storied, flirted with boys, flirted with each other, drank and had an all around good time.
The bars were all starting to give last call. Celeste and Beauty tumbled out of LaFitte’s and into the damp, thick New Orleans night. The walk back to Beauty’s was uneventful except for a quick stop in an alley so Celeste could relieve herself of the contents of her stomach while Beauty gracefully and skillfully pulled back, held and caressed Celeste’s long sleek, ebony hair. Finally they arrived at Beauty’s house. They chose Beauty’s because Beauty wanted to show Celeste where she had been born. Sort of an epilogue to the story of her name.
Beauty’s house was a Spanish mansion in the heart of the city. True to the Spanish style before the French arrived it was a simple house front, one color, few windows, no balconies over-looking the street. Once inside the main entrance however, all of that changed. They entered a dark courtyard filled with trees and Spanish moss and three storied of windows and balconies on every façade overlooking the courtyard.
Celeste stopped and stared. Beauty turned and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just having a strong feeling of de ja vu.” It would be the first of many that night.
They crossed the courtyard and entered into the main foyer of the house. They crossed it directly and proceeded up the Tara-like marble stairs to the upper levels. They walked down a long hallway and entered a doorway on their left. Beauty announced, “This is the room I was born in.” And then she ran across the room and jumped onto the bed. She collapsed back in a fit of laughter. Celeste came over to her and lay down next to her. Beauty said, “I hate this room.”
“Why?” Celeste asked.
“It’s so full.” Beauty replied and closed her eyes.
Celeste looked around. Actually, it looked pretty spare to Celeste. The bed, a bureau, a chair by the fireplace and a green bottle on the window ledge.
Celeste turned back to Beauty. Beauty’s eyes were still closed. Celeste lay there a long time staring at Beauty. Beauty was not beautiful at all but she had the kind of eyes that made Celeste want to wake Beauty up so she could stare into them again.
Then she realized that Beauty was asleep in her own bed and she was only a stranger in a stranger’s house. She got up and went to the door, turned off the light and stepped into the hallway. Suddenly she felt a cold wind slap her across the face. She froze. It came up so quickly she didn’t know what it was. She looked to her left down the hall where the wind had come from and saw a shut window facing the street. She regained her composure, took a deep breath, shut Beauty’s door and started down the hall. As she moved carefully down the hall she began to notice a dark mass at the top of the stairs. It looked like someone’s shadow but she was having a hard time explaining that to herself because there was no light for a shadow to be there. Then she saw the shadow move slightly and this she couldn’t take. She turned and ran back into Beauty’s room and shut the door. She looked for a lock underneath the handle. She found a key and turned it and checked the lock. Then she went to the chair by the fireplace and sat down.
“I’ll just rest a while. I’m drunk, that’s all.” She said to herself. She saw that there was kindling in the fireplace. She hesitated but then decided to build a fire. She spent some minutes getting the fire going and this process was very distracting and relaxing for her. She sat down in the chair again to enjoy the fire and get warm. She started to laugh to herself, “of course there are ghosts in this house for God’s sakes. It’s New Orleans.”
Then a green glint from the fire caught the corner of her eye. She looked to her right and noticed the green bottle on the windowsill. But this time because of the firelight she noticed it wasn’t a green bottle at all. It was a clear crystal bottle with green liquid in it. Absinthe. She got up, walked over and saw that it was sitting on a tray with all the appropriate accoutrement: a silver spoon, polished to a fine sheen; a little crystal bowl of sugar, a silver lighter and a crystal sipping glass. She had always wanted to try this. She brought the tray over to the chair and sat down. Uncertainly she began to ritualize the drink. She picked up the bottle and started to pour, no, first you take the sugar and pour the Absinthe over the sugar, right. Then you light the spoon on fire and breath in the fumes. Then you stir the spoon in the glass, that’s right. Then you sip the drink. She put the tray on the floor and sat back and began to sip and breath. Just like you do when you are drinking a really nice wine. Breathe and sip. Sip and breathe. She felt like she was falling in slow motion, backwards and it felt so nice. She finished the glass and put it on the tray. She lay back and melt into the chair.
When she awoke she saw little flickering lights filling the room, faster and faster. She opened her eyes fully and saw light everywhere, all over the room. She adjusted her eyes to the lights and saw that they had forms. She stood up. She felt woozy but calm. Then she heard whispering all around her. She went closer to one of the lights and saw that it was a person! A woman dressed in an old-time ball gown and she was saying something, “This is my coming out dress. Do you like it? My Mama knew I’d want to be buried in it. I had cancer and I died when I was nineteen…” her voice faded as Celeste moved onto the next one. A man dressed as a Civil War soldier, “…I never knew death would feel so terribly lonely and scary. I kept thinking it must be like what a deer feels when she’s put down on the hunt…” Celeste looked all around the room and saw that these ghosts filled the room. Their stories filled the air.
Then Celeste heard her name. She turned and there was Beauty sitting up, holding something in her arms.
“Celeste, come sit on the bed.”
But by now Celeste’s suspicions were growing and she was too unsure to move.
“Why?” Celeste asked. “What’s going on?”
“It’s time for you to say goodbye.” Beauty said and she held out the bundle in her arms.
Celeste looked sideways at Beauty, “What are you talking about?”
Beauty brought the bundle back to her chest and said, “Come say goodbye to your baby.” And with the word ‘baby’ Celeste sank to the floor.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…” She couldn’t stop denying and yet wanted to badly to hold her baby. But she couldn’t move from her spot on the floor. Finally, she held out her arms as long as they would go and whispered, “Please may I hold her?”
Beauty said, “Of course.” And brought the baby to her.
Celeste sat there for a long time and held the baby and sobbed and said, “I’m sorry” over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”
Finally Beauty said, “Tell me your story.”
And Celeste did. She spoke as if she hadn’t spoken for years even though everything had happened in the last 11 months. She had taken ten month old Sara out to the nearest Bodega for some milk. It was only a block away so she didn’t bother with the Bjorn or stroller. She didn’t see the truck backing out of the alley, his backing signal blending with all the other city noises. Everything after that happened in slow motion: her shoulder getting knocked, something yanking her back, her baby up and out of her arms, landing under the tire of the truck, the screeching, the pounding the screaming, the sirens. She only remembers from that moment on she couldn’t stop screaming. They wouldn’t let her see the baby after that. And after that, it seems everything went wrong. Nothing went right after Sara was gone. She could no longer focus on work, her husband asked for a separation. Everything happened so fast. And she found herself in New Orleans on a ‘getaway’, telling herself she was starting over. She looked at Beauty. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I am your Enlightened Witness.” Celeste didn’t understand. “When a baby dies it is very different from an older person dying. This baby, any baby that dies, was never meant to be here for very long. They came here to do a very specific job. A job you are not allowing your baby to do. Their job is to cause suffering.
You are not grieving the loss of your child. Indeed, you have all but forced this part of your life out of your memory. Sara came here to offer you the experience of suffering. There is something born of your suffering that you will do. But if you never suffer, if you never grieve, if you never allow yourself to experience your loss, you will be lost. You will never do what it is you came here to do. You must grieve, you must suffer. You must lose your child in order to gain your voice.”
But I don’t want to gain my voice. I want my child back.”
“Your child has already done her job. Now you must do yours. Her soul will not move on until you do. Your soul will not move on until you do.”
Celeste looked down at her baby and started crying again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” She lay down with her baby in her arms…
Celeste awoke with a start. She was lying on a floor. She sat up. She was in an old, musty room. It looked abandoned. There were no sheets on the mattress of the four-poster bed. Dust was everywhere. She got up. She couldn’t believe it. This was Beauty’s room. Beauty Poirier. The room where Beauty was born. Celeste examined everything. The fireplace hadn’t been used in years. There were cobwebs everywhere. She stood there for a long time trying to absorb the evening, this room. Finally she decided to leave. She walked to the door, unlocked it, opened it and just as she was about to step out of the room a glint of green in the morning light caught the corner of her eye. She turned her head to her left and looked at the floor and there it was: a silver tray. On the tray was a clear crystal bottle with green liquid in it, a silver spoon, polished to a fine sheen, a little crystal bowl of sugar, a silver lighter and a crystal sipping glass. She stared at the items. She thought about going over to them, decided against it and left the room.
She walked down the creaky now half-lit hallway. Down the decrepit stairs and out the door half off it’s hinges. She marveled at the shambles of a courtyard. She got to the main door and looked back astounded at this dilapidated, abandoned building. She walked outside to an overcast, cold, windy New Orleans day looked up into the sky, smiled and started walking back home.
The End.
Story by jessica margaret dean
12.27.04
posted by:
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Los Angeles
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Re: Ghost Story
Thu, February 2, 2006 - 1:09 AMWow, nice tale. Started before Hurricane Katrina I take it? Or not? No matter, the time setting isn't specified and New Orleans, ghost town that it seems even more to be now to those of us so far away, just adds more of the same element of eerieness it always did. I liked the dialogue, and the more descriptive moments. I know from other communication with you that this is your first post in this tribe and has been something of a work in progress. It is also the first new post of fiction to the tribe in awhile. Thank you very much for sharing it.
I liked the little twists here and there a lot. Imagery that stuck with me included the 'men's restroom' (I have never seen something like that, but I can just picture it and it seems New Orleansy), the 'horse story', and the various little mysteries that stay unexplained, like the shadowy form, how she 'really' got to the house or built a fire that wasn't really built even before drinking the Absinthe, and how we dont really learn the 'purpose' she has avioded.
I like the room full of ghosts, but it jarred my 'suspension of disbelief' a little when the first pair freely interacted with her and non-chalantly referred to their own deaths so easily. Maybe some more development in those dialogues or some added element where something about their interaction offers her an insight so they seem to have more purpose? Or maybe just a shift to where they are observed in various scenes but not aware of her? A room full of ghosts that are all aware they are ghosts and yet seem to live in the moment instead of the past was the thing I guess I found unsettling...but just a little bump really.
Overall, I really liked it...I couldn't help wondering if she was going to allow herself to grieve or put it away again, since that didnt seem fully resolved, but I like that ending...not everything has to be neatly packaged and gift-wrapped with fully resolved happy endings even though Hollywood seems to think so.
One other thing... I liked knowing that if I stuck with it I'd get to the 'Ghost Story' part since I am a fan of speculative fiction, but I am guessing that is just a 'working title'? I use working titles a lot because coming up with a great title that really fits is like the ornament that goes on top of the tree...you save it for last. When you feel comfortable enough with the tale to let it go (who was it that said artists never finish their work, they just abandon it? was it DaVinci?). I'd be interested to know if you come up with another title and hearing what you settled on...
Thanks again! -
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Re: Ghost Story
Thu, February 2, 2006 - 11:13 AMWow, Michael, thank you for taking such time to think about all that stuff and commenting. And you did it so nicely. Thanks for the kid gloves. I need them. A lot of these questions I've been thinking about for a year now. I did write it b/f Katrina. The 'Ghost' in Ghost Story refers to the Enlightened Witness, Beauty, in the story. You come away not knowing if she was real or not. Maybe she was a ghost too. I see her as a caretaker of all these other ghosts that were in the room with Celeste when she 'woke up' from the Absinthe.
I really didn't want to explain too much but I really did see Celeste meeting this woman and going back to a dilapidated old Spanish mansion, that looked a lot better at night, building a fire, really drinking the Absinthe and then laying back and entering a dream world. But a dream world that was really there to help her grieve, facilitate something she was really looking for and needing. A lot of her greiving was done holding the baby one last time.
When she walks out of the building in the morning it's cold and grey, a stark contrast to the lush romantic night but she is firmly planted in reality, she is ready to move on. Her drug-induced Catharsis facilitated by Beauty allowed her to move on to a place where she might be able to make some decisions about her marriage and her future.
Rereading it I don't know how crazy I am anymore about the ghosts talking. But originally I saw them trapped in time, like they can't get out of the shock of dying. Which is why they're with Beauty. She's kind of their caretaker. But I don't think that's clear.
PG
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Re: Ghost Story
Fri, June 22, 2007 - 3:27 PMI liked this story a lot! It really kept me engaged. I do agree with Michael that the ghosts knowing of their deaths bit didn't really work for me, but that may be because I harbor the preconception that ghosts are still "living" in their past.. Anyways, good job! :)
