The Past is a Foreign Country
by
Owlcroft

The gala opening of the Museum of Fashion Design was, naturally enough, spectacular. The invitees, mostly from the world of design, but including some politicians and a few celebrities, wore their most unusual and chic outfits. The crowd on the 6th Avenue sidewalk, just outside the Garment District, oohed and aahed as the attendees trod the red carpet up the steps to be admitted only after close scrutiny.

Lydia and Beetlejuice wore the same attire she had created for their Paris trip a few months earlier. He had assumed his slight human glamour for the occasion; it changed his skin tone a bit and his fingertips looked human – Lydia hated it, but he'd insisted. She did like his ponytail and ear stud and she wore her new necklace, small linked gold scarabs, that he'd given her for her twenty-fifth birthday.

"We can leave fairly soon after the place is officially open," she whispered as they approached door security. "Scarab House," she told the man in the navy-blue uniform and proffered her invitation, which read 'Lydia Deetz-Joos and Bietel Joos'.

Beetlejuice grinned at the guard and told him confidentially, "It's spelled wrong but it's pronounced Beetlejuice 'cause that's my name."

The guard admitted them with a faint puzzled look and they entered into a storm of sound, color, and activity. For nearly half an hour, they wandered from room to room, admiring the exhibits, then finally settled in a corner with glasses of white wine and watched the throng heaving to and fro.

Suddenly someone said, "Lydia Deetz?" in a surprised voice and they turned to see a familiar face approaching hesitantly.

"Claire? Claire Brewster?" Lydia was a bit unsure since this woman had her blonde hair in a tight bun, only a light tan, and a muted smile quite unlike the megawatt brilliance Lydia remembered from years earlier.

The blonde woman smiled just a bit more and said, "It's Claire Hoskins now." She waved a hand toward a crowd of people at the drinks station. "My husband's the one in the glasses."

Beetlejuice and Lydia looked at a small man in horn-rimmed glasses and a plain gray suit. He was listening to an animated woman in diamonds and furs and trying to seem interested in what she was saying.

"He's one of the lawyers with the museum's acquisition department. But you're here because you're Scarab House, right? I love your designs, especially that one," she nodded at Lydia's gown in Beetle Blue with Punaise d'Or spiders/starbursts. And your necklace is gorgeous." She sighed enviously. "But one evening gown is enough for me and this one," she gestured down at her own dress, "has always been my husband's favorite."

Lydia shook her head. "I only wear this to advertise, and that's just a couple of times a year. Oh, but," she turned to bring Beetlejuice forward. "Do you remember my husband? I think you two met a few times when we were still in school."

"Yes, I do remember you. I think." Claire's smile faded. "Since I entered therapy, my memory of those days is a little sketchy. That's probably because there's so much my subconscious is trying to forget."

"That's, um, that's okay," replied Beetlejuice. "Come to think of it, everybody's probably got stuff they want to forget."

The two women asked each other about children (neither had any yet, but had hopes for the future), and chatted briefly about former school-mates. When that subject flagged, Claire hesitated then took a deep breath and spoke. "Lydia, there's something I have to say. Something that's . . . My therapist says it's important for me to face the past and adjust in relation to it. So, I have to apologize –"

"No, no," Lydia was quick to interrupt. "There's nothing you need to say about it, that's all years ago and we're different people now, aren't we?"

Claire shook her head. "I have to do this. For my own sake, Lydia. Please, let me apologize for being such a horrible person to you. I was lonely and angry and unhappy and I took it out on everyone around me. It might not have all been my fault – my family, well . . . enough of it was my fault that I hope you'll forgive me when I say I'm truly sorry for the way I always treated you."

"Claire," Lydia extended a hand, "it's in the past and forgotten as of now. Let's just remember the good parts and we can ignore the rest."

Claire Hoskins took her hand and shook it gratefully.

ooooo

"Well, that was . . . interesting." Back home, with what her husband referred to as their "glad rags" put away, Lydia had started heating up a pot of ghoulash. "Dinner in half an hour, okay? I made something new, something special tonight. I think you're going to like it. It's made with roots and a spice from Hungary – you know, where Dracula was from."

He looked at the steaming pot with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "Well, I'll try it."

"I'm going to stir some sour cream into it, and you know you love that. And, this is the best part, it's served over noodles – and I know you'll eat any kind of pasta."

Beetlejuice poured her a glass of red wine and shrugged. "No problem. Whatever."

Lydia took a sip and smiled as she savored it. "I'm not sure I would have recognized Claire, you know. I have to say, the therapy seems to have helped. I hope she's happy now."

He shrugged again, moodily this time. "She seemed to be."

"Maybe she wasn't as bad as I remember," mused Lydia.

Her husband turned away suddenly. "Oh, yes, she was!" He stood looking down at his glass then set it on the small kitchen table.

"Beej?"

"She was that bad. She was . . . I can't . . ." He sighed and turned back toward her. "Babes, I don't like to think about . . . then."

She approached him and offered a hug, which was instantly accepted. "What is it?" she asked. "I love to remember when we met and became friends and everything that we did together."

He held her closer and drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "I do, too. But that's not all I remember." He fell silent for a moment, then said in a low voice, "I remember I was just as awful as Claire Brewster was."

Lydia gave a start of astonishment and said, "What?"

"I was." He was still speaking quietly. "I was thoughtless and uncaring and . . . unthinkingly cruel. It's no use trying to argue, heart. I was an awful person and I didn't change fast enough when I found my therapy." He kissed her temple.

"Oh, my Beej, no." She pulled away from him just enough to lift her hands to his face. "No, you weren't!"

Beetlejuice looked at her with a sad smile. "You forget all the scams and pranks and trouble I caused. You forget what I was . . . before. I was just as self-centered as Claire was, just as insensitive and . . . and mean. I hurt people, Lyds. Maybe just their feelings, but I did. I was rude, and greedy, and . . . worthless."

She had her arms around his neck now. "You were never worthless. Rude and greedy I might just accept," she said with a grin. When his expression didn't lighten to match hers, she pulled him in for a kiss. "My darling, we all change. And I'm glad that Claire has changed. But you? You were never a horrible person." She looked at the simmering ghoulash and stretched an arm out to lower the heat. "Beej, come here and sit down." She led him to the nearest chair, lowering herself onto his lap once he'd sat.

"You were a prankster. People loved your pranks, except when they were the victims. You never truly harmed anyone, either. Yes, you got into trouble once in a while. We both did. But you also did some really good things – remember saving Ginger from the Sandworm?"

He frowned and looked away from her. "That was just . . . a fluke," he muttered.

"Oh, really? Well, I know you always had a good heart, even if you tried to deny it. What about when you helped me with old Spooky? And the time we tried to help Prince Vince with his rock tour? And you did eventually get Doomie together with Pinky, and what about the smell-a-thon you held, and rescuing me from Prince John Don Juan, and saving my parents from Boris Todeoff, and the work you did with the Sappy Faced Ghouls, and –"

"Babes, c'mon! I did some stuff that turned out to be . . . not so bad, but it doesn't outweigh the other stuff. The malicious stuff. The heartless stuff." He sighed unhappily. "I know I'm not the same guy now. But it doesn't make it any easier to remember what I was like before. Sometimes I guess I just get a little depressed about it, is all."

Lydia rested her head on his shoulder. "My darling. We all did things in the past that we don't like to remember. But the past is gone. It's over and done. It's what I told Claire this evening. Let the past go; just remember the good things."

"I know. It's just that sometimes it's hard to do that." He rubbed his cheek on her hair. "To only see the good parts. Like meeting you."

She sat silently, mulling over what she could say. Finally, "Maybe the past should just remind us to be grateful for the present. To live in the present and for the future."

"You're my present and my future." He kissed her. "And the only part of my past that I want to remember."

"I don't know about that. If we forget the bad parts, doesn't that . . . lessen the good ones? I mean, it's the contrast between the two that makes the good memories so very good, isn't it?" Lydia looked up at her husband and loved him with all her heart.

Beetlejuice pondered that. "I think . . . um, maybe?" He juiced their wineglasses to within reach and handed her one. "I do want to remember some things, everything that had to do with you."

"And if you start feeling sad about something, then remind yourself of a few of the good things. There were so many! Just bear in mind that the past is the past and all we can do about it is to remember."

He was still wearing a thoughtful look. "You mean, I have to . . . once in a while kind of remind myself that I'll never be that guy again? To know I can look at that me and I won't be him?"

"Have I ever told you how much I love your syntax? And yes, I think that might be just what I meant." Lydia saluted him with her glass then took a healthy sip.

He looked at her seriously then said, "So it's easier to remember the bad parts as long as I remember there are good parts, too?" When she nodded, he took her glass from her and told her, "And if you want to talk about syntax . . . well, we have to sin before we can pay the tax, right?"

She put her arms around his neck, gave him a slow grin, and said, "Turn off the stove."