I gasp the moment I see her again. She's asleep at the witching hour when it's easiest to visit; part of me is happy to avoid the confrontation of scaring her, while part of me is disappointed that I can't speak to her, look into her hazel eyes. Her long golden blonde hair is in a tangle on the faded linen pillow case.
She must sense something. Edith was always very perceptive. She rolls over, and the linen sheets come with her, flopping down to her knees. And then I see.
The big, billowing white cotton nightgown and its frilly lace sleeves can't hide what's lurking beneath it. Her belly is round, her hands and arms are softened with a slight touch of extra weight, and her face is just a bit softer. She's pregnant. I gasp again.
Good. Good, that's a good thing. She got remarried; she has someone to look after her. But shards of jealousy, like broken glass, shoot through my veins like the blood they used to hold. Negativity is...painful...in this state. For someone who has swallowed gallons of pain, emotional and physical all my life, I am lost in this new world I'm in where I can't seem to hold onto either for very long—the agony it brings shuts me down.
How I wanted her for my wife, for my love. Yes, I fantasized about having children with her, all while part of me knew her time with me was very limited. My sister never let them live. Together we plotted to murder my beautiful, innocent wife—well, Lucille always did the plotting, and I lived with the results. Guilt and self-hatred shoot through me and the pain brings me to my knees. I let out a scream most humans couldn't hear, but Edith stirs. I try to swallow it and get back to my feet. None of that, now, Thomas, no more of that—it hurts too bad.
I had survived in this marriage only by living in a constant state of self-delusion, where I could pretend Edith and I would be man and wife forever, and I could have a chance at a normal life, one in which intimacy wasn't the same as disgust. One in which Lucille was my sister and nothing more. One in which my sister's mind was healed, and we had found peace.
The one night I was intimate with my wife—over and over again that night at the depot—I learned love didn't automatically come with pain and sex didn't automatically come with shame and self-hatred. I loved her so much. I love her still.
She looks maybe...6 months. She must have married the doctor within weeks of my death, not that I can blame her for wanting to change the picture of marriage she undoubtedly held after me. Your husband tortures and kills you, don't you know, that's what happens if you marry a Sharpe...ouch, ow, ow, ow, stop. So strange that negative emotions equal pain as a ghost, and the more negative the emotion, the worse it hurts. The depth of my ability to despise myself has been leaving me in throes of torment since my new existence began.
I don't know how long it's been. I know I'm dead. I know I could still feel Edith's comforting hand on my cheek, despite being dead, and despite the intense pain still somehow coming from the knife wounds. When I realized the pain from the wounds was more emotional than physical, I gradually let it go. I found Lucille in the house, playing piano just like mother, and... did not even speak to her. I desired with every ounce of will I had left to be elsewhere and suddenly I was. I heard her calling my name desperately, but feared that if I turned back even for a second, I would never be able to get away.
From there, it's been a learning experience, first dealing with hunger pains that are never satisfied, and cold that can't be overcome by any fire. Searching all of England for Edith, knowing if I did find her, I would probably walk away before I even saw her. I have no right to see her. The things I did to her...Ow, ow, stop.
Then one day I realized I could be anywhere if I simply imagined where I wanted to go. I pictured her and was suddenly in her parents' home in Buffalo again, looking down at her as she tosses, turns, and frets. Of course she came home. Of course she did. I feel stupid for thinking she might have stayed in England. Of course she married. She's a beautiful, brilliant, vibrant young woman and a gifted writer, she could have any man she wanted, even if they didn't know about the fortune she inherited. But if she was married to Dr. McMichael, where was he? Shouldn't he be sleeping next to his wife at midnight? Maybe he's reading, or studying the chart of a particularly difficult patient. Why is she tossing around so much? It appears she has a lot on her mind.
But I don't have the right to even ponder this. She's no longer mine. Dammit! I clutch my side. I deserve this though. I deserve every spasm. She was mine for a time, and I hurt her, wounded her, destroyed her, nearly killed her...I deserve it, I deserve it, I deserve the pain, relish the anguish, I...
Suddenly golden hazel eyes open wide. And for the first time, I know a living breathing human being can see me. She gasps. "T...Thomas?"