CONVERSATIONS WITH GHOSTS
by Liz Salamy Abess
“Brad, is that you? Mom? Dad?” I ask each night when the house reverberates in a language I don’t understand, the sounds coming from my deceased older brother’s bedroom. My empty family home responds to my returned presence in creaks and pops as I settle into bed. I lie still, pondering Covid-19, the first draft of my memoir, and my unfortunate divorce.
Enduring endless solitary hours while Brad’s memories swirl around me, I voice random questions about our childhood. Thank God my brother doesn’t answer me, despite his rising to life when I’m penning an overdue book about his addiction and overdose at age thirty-six.
Alone at my desk with nary an open Starbucks to be found — which served as my pre-Covid diversion to block memories from engulfing me — I seize my last spare tissues to mop the free-fall of tears.
After returning solo to my suburban Sacramento middle-class childhood home some thirty-eight years later — my family of origin all deceased — I spark one-way conversations with my adored all-star brother. “Did you punch your first hole in the wall by the front door or in the living room? Did your pot plants grow on the left or right side of Mom’s roses by the pool?” Longstanding thoughts sift to the front of my memory like old 45 jukebox records — selected, shuffled, and dropped on a turntable for listeners’ enjoyment.
I’m two scenes away from writing about the day I found his stiff, drug-ravaged body on a ratty brown sofa, his black pipe in hand. I’ve dodged the scene for weeks, fearing the grief might dissolve me into the foundation of this lifeless house.
Cleaning my parents’ musty closets never seemed so important, until I encounter a clear plastic tote with family memorabilia gazing up at me. Not now. Zoom meetings, random webinars, home cooking, and conversations with my cats demand priority.
I force myself to park and write in my blue office desk chair, but the urgent need for a pair of red flats directs my fingers, so I click my way to an online order.
After depleting my shopping funds, I draft the scene of Mom’s birthday a month before Brad’s death. I describe our sizzling steak dinner, my homemade chocolate cake, our gleeful family celebrating one of our few post-prison dinners since his release from a four-year term. Then I peek at an unearthed photo album and the exact scene jumps off the page in a picture snapped twenty-four years ago. The tears start, unrestrained, without any Starbucks coffee companions to keep me in check.
A minute later my best childhood friend calls to chat. I pause, inhale, and answer, amazed by her timing. I am lonely, but not alone. “Umm, can you give me a minute to grab a cup of coffee?”
And Brad’s still alive — until I write his death scene. But first I must organize the garage.
