Courting a Ghost
It's been two months now.
Aster are small, delicate flowers, perfectly round with starbursts of yellow in the center. The petals are the sweetest blue hue. The flowers are wrapped in clear plastic and a purple ribbon, the rough mesh kind with silky edges. I rub the ribbon on the pads of my fingers, scraping the rough fabric together.
How would he feel about them?
Jonah has a knack for misconstruing everything, and I could practically hear the bell tone of his voice:
"Matthew, flowers are for courting women." Well, dumbass, I'm trying to court you.
I'm standing in our driveway, the bouquet clenched in my awkward fist, groceries at my feet. I watch, noticing the flicker of the curtains upstairs. For a split second, I feel his gaze sear my skin, rearrange my bones, and read my mind.
I don't think I'll ever stop shaking.
He at least has the decency to wait till I am inside and settled before I hear him on the stairs. Oh he's here, everyday, and I pray to God he never goes away. My back is to him when he enters the kitchen, my eyes fixed on the smooth white tile of the floor. I can feel him rather than hear him, an elephant entering the room. I have a theory that whenever he enters a room, a cloud passes in front of the sun. It's the only explanation I have for subtle shift in air pressure, of the shifting of light from a bright afternoon to a smooth, cold pureness.
There's a tense moment of nothing that passes between us. Slow motion then, of his toes encroaching upon my line of vision. Smooth, they interrupt the lines in the kitchen floor, brush slightly against the worn rubber of my converse. As if against my will, my eyes follow up the smooth joint of his ankle, the curve of his calf, up and up to meet his liquid gaze. We stare at each other for a moment like that, and the tiniest of creases takes up on his brow. His eyes always seem so deep with emotion; currently, he looks worried.
"Matthew?"
Good lord, It's still so fucking surreal to hear his voice out loud, instead of only ever in my head.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good." I reply. "I got some food that I hope you'll like. Lots of fruit, as requested, and I invested in some hot tea, since you don't really like coffee...I also got you some candy, Charleston Chews. They caught my eye, the box said they were popular in the 1920s, and, well, I know you didn't get candy often when you were alive..."
Great, I'm eating my manners again, prattling on to fill this silence that always seems to stretch between us. Will living together again ever go back to the way things were before, instead of these tense, tortuous moments of normalcy? As my awkward attempts to connect fill the air, he steps away from me, his scorching blue eyes surveying the food littering the counter. There, in the middle of it all, are the asters, hiding timidly between the milk and eggs. He pauses, and I watch his long, knobby fingers reach out, brushing the velvety petals. For the briefest moment, an expression I've never seen before crosses his face. The shadow living in his irises seem to flee, the muscles in his face relaxing as the left corner of his mouth twitches up, a delicate half-moon of a smile.
I realize I'm holding my breath when he suddenly turns to look at me, the smile melting away into an unreadable expression. Once again, his gaze slips inside me, sounding my bones, testing my muscles, strumming my tendons. My eyes meet his, and reflected in them I see my own scarred face.
I think I can smell ozone.
With the smallest of shrugs, Jonah turns away, opening the cupboard over the sink for a vase. Brushing past me, vase in hand, I feel as if his shoulder lingers on mine just a few more seconds than necessary. He pauses at the base of the stairs, staring up them at nothing. Or, at least, nothing I can see.
"I asked for flour, Matt...not...flowers."
I'm speechless, one of my hands lazily coming up to point at the sack of flour on the counter. He doesn't notice the gesture, his gaze now resting on the bouquet in his hands. He's rubbing the petals between his fingers.
Then, something akin to a whisper:
"They're beautiful."
Later, I will find the vase of them on the windowsill of the room with the birds, Jonah's room, in which a bed he never uses takes up one corner. He slept in his own bed, once, the night after the ritual. Since then, he has made a nest of the couch in the basement. He's afraid I'll die in my sleep one night. Old habits die hard.
Why is it, then, that he won't talk to me?
It's been nine weeks.
I went to the store early, because we ran out of coffee. He stands five feet six in sweatpants and a pullover bearing the name of my high school basketball team. Displaying finesse and skill I wasn't aware he had, he flips two pancakes at once in a large skillet. I start unloading groceries, a glance into the dining room revealing our round little table set with silverware, plates, empty coffee mugs.
"Could you put on coffee?" His voice is always so quiet, requiring the utmost attention to hear. I nod, busying myself with the coffeemaker. His side presses into mine as he steps closer to look at the groceries. I feel him holding his breath, the thrum of his heartbeat faster than usual against my ribs. The top of his head brushes my jaw.
"No flowers, this time?"
He's pulling away. He's piling pristine pancakes on a plate, and the furrow on his brow is back, his eyes shadowed. After breakfast, I develop a rhythm of punching the shower wall, making sure my knuckles are evenly bruised.
It's been nine weeks and three days.
His lips part almost imperceptibly, his jaw slackening. His eyes are clear, icy pools again as he cups the bloom in his hand. I turn away, stuffing boxes of cereal into a cupboard, watching him from the corner of my eye. He brings both hands up, the soft sphere of blue hydrangea nearly engulfing his palms. I watch the curve of his neck bend, the topmost knob of his spine peeking out from a too-big black tshirt. He brings his lips to the bloom, feeling the texture of its petals before burying his snub nose in them.
The asters are somehow still alive, and there seem to be more of them. The hydrangea live in a mason jar next to them, and are labelled "more" in cramped magic marker.
It's been three months.
It's a mammoth of a plant, with broad verdant leaves speckled with pale green, about two feet tall. The pot that it's in is lovely, a yellow-glazed, chipped clay that the previous owner made herself. I bought the beautiful plant from an estate sale, the owner having passed away at the rather young age of sixty-three. Her daughter seemed happy that it was going to a good home, as the plant had been well-cared for for a few years.
Jonah has fallen in love with it on sight. One foot on the door jam, he cranes his neck to see as far out of the front door as he can, arms crossed huffily at being unable to help me lug this heavy-ass plant to the porch. I make it all the way to the steps before heavily setting it down, staggering slightly. Jonah jerks forward, and I flinch as he plants one foot squarely on the porch. Half in and half out of the house, blotchy color flushes up his neck and into his face.
"Jonah, back the fuck up. You're playing a dangerous game, and I'm not re-animating your ghost again."
His glare punches holes into my chest. I scoot the pot the rest of the way to the front door, and the two of us somehow manhandled the plant into the house and up the stairs into the nursery. What was once the "room with the birds" is now "the room with the plants," and every single thing I've brought him is not only alive, but growing. The windowsill is a massive mound of aster, the floor covered in hydrangea. We scoot the huge houseplant into a corner, and I know in a matter of weeks, it'll inhabit the whole wall. Jonah folds his legs underneath him, sitting indian style in front of it. He holds one of the large leaves in his hand, and they're virtually the same size. He gaze is fixed on the plant, though his irises are glazed.
"I'm going to name it Shannon," He whispers. I get chills from my head to my feet. "And she can visit the plant as much as she likes."
I nod, slowly coming to sit on the floor next to Jonah. The owner's name had been Shannon.
"And Matt," he starts, turning to look at me, his eyes still staring into a mist I can't see. "Thank you...I love it all, so much. I'm surrounded by living things. I can heal them, grow them, care for them..."
His eyes finally focus, and he is staring into my eyes. My fingers feel numb. I shrug awkwardly and smile, leaning closer to him Unbidden, I mumble:
"I'd do anything for you, you know. It's a miracle you're sitting here."
The crease in his brow is back, and I wonder what I've said wrong. I go to turn away again, feeling slightly nauseous for upsetting him, when he leans forward, his knee almost roughly pushing into my thigh as he scoots closer. One of his hands is resting on my shoulder, and I feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. I turn and stare at him. He ducks his head, and smiles.
"It's a miracle you're sitting here, too."
And we sit there for hours amidst Jonah's nursery, shoulders and thighs touching. At some point, I take his hand, and he lets me.
I can never stop bringing him flowers.