Chapter Five

Life went on, as it always does, but Beetlejuice was not alive. When he returned to the Roadhouse, he didn't even notice Jacques and Ginger's worried questions; he just shut himself up in his room and refused to come out.

Everything made him angry: the pictures on the wall, the moldy food in his refrigerator, the rumpled mess of blankets in his coffin. Everything was out of place; nothing seemed to be right. He was just too confused to see that the mess, which had been there since the day he'd moved into the Roadhouse, was the exact same mess that had been there since he moved in; it just had been Lydia's presence that made it all seem right.

It was just a stupid fight, he reasoned. They'd had fights before; he knew how to fix this. He'd go back over to her mirror, say something about how he wouldn't make her mad again, and she'd forget about being angry and let him out. Everything would go back to normal. Everything would be the same again.

He waited a week before he tried to cross over and see her. The Friday after she'd banished him, he popped back into her mirror and rejoiced when he saw her staring right into it.

"Babes, it's me!" he'd cried. "I promise I won't bug you about dating again! Let me out!" But Lydia hadn't responded; she couldn't see him. Beetlejuice's literal manifestation of power had struck again; as long as Lydia was alive, she would never see him again, whether he was there or not.

For once, Beetlejuice was struck with the inability to apologize due to circumstance rather than stubbornness; unable to cope, he'd fled back to the embrace of the Roadhouse, refusing to come out again.

Years passed as he remained stagnate in his coffin. He tried to shut out what had happened, at first. Denial was his usual medicine; if he pretended everything was the way it was, maybe everything really was the same. But he couldn't escape completely. Whenever he woke up from his fitful bursts of sleep, realization would set in, and he would sink back into a deep depression.

At last he began to think about what had happened. Lydia had driven him away. Lydia had made him leave. Lydia no longer wanted to be his friend. These thoughts continued to drift through his mind as, over and over, the last words Lydia had spoken kept playing like a broken record.

I want you to go away. I never want to see you again as long as I live.

One day, he got up. Maybe someone had knocked on the door, or maybe it was just a passing whim, but he decided it was time to do something else. That's the funny thing about eternity; everything, eventually, gets boring, even wallowing.

He walked out of his bedroom, out of the roadhouse, and out to his mailbox, which was bulging with several years' worth of Neitherworld junk mail.

"That's a lot of mail," he said before juicing himself and the contents back to his living room.

Sorting the mail was a mundane task, but it gave him something to think about other than what had happened. The majority of it was junk mail: advertisements for new scream shops, and the like, but one leaflet in particular caught his eye.

"New Arrivals" it said, and there was a picture of the Deetz family in the center of it.

In a panic, Beetlejuice read, "We are pleased to welcome Mr. Charles Deetz of Peaceful Pines, CT, to the Afterlife. He is regrettably survived by his wife Delia (whose art caused a sensation here in the Neitherworld back in '91) and daughter Lydia. As Charles adjusts to his new circumstances, we ask particular kindness to him on account of his nervous condition."

"Guess poor Chuck's heart couldn't take it anymore," he said aloud. He didn't want to think about if time spent in the Neitherworld had anything to do with Charles's death.

His eyes kept returning to the photograph of the family. While Charles and Delia looked pretty much the same, he had a hard time believing the other person in the photograph was Lydia. She looked so different, and not just because her hair was much longer and styled differently; she looked older and more mature than when he'd last seen her. Beetlejuice couldn't tell how old she was exactly, but he could hazard a guess and figured he'd been in his room for at least half a decade. Surely Lydia had forgotten him by now.

He slumped down on the couch, miserable. Lydia couldn't see him, so she'd grown up and forgotten about him and probably had a wonderful life without him. That was just how it would go, wasn't it? At the same time, though, what was the point of staying here and never knowing for sure? He'd certainly never heard her summon him, but knowing what had happened, perhaps she'd never tried.

He had to see her; after five years, maybe his powers had worn off. Maybe she'd see him again. Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't even be angry with him anymore, and it would just be like old times.

With a snap, he popped over to the Otherworld and slipped into her mirror like a warm bath of mud. For a moment, he thought he had the wrong room; it was completely rearranged and decorated very differently. Gone was the spiral rug in the center of the room; new green bedding and curtains had replaced the old spider decorations Lydia had once had.

Voices floated up the stairs, and Beetlejuice quickly disguised himself as a spider on the edge of the mirror. The door opened and a woman walked in. Beetlejuice had to do a double take before he realized that she was Lydia! He would never have recognized her if he hadn't seen the picture in the newsletter. Her hair was long, past her shoulders, and she'd grown out her bangs. Although she was still short and slim, there were slight curves that hinted at newly gained womanhood. Beetlejuice was shocked to realize that if he didn't know it was his Lydia, he would have probably made a pass at her or at least leered appreciatively; his own thoughts disturbed him.

She pulled a suitcase out of the closet and started packing from her old dresser. At one point, she looked in the mirror; Beetlejuice waved his spider legs at her, hoping she would notice, but she just tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear and resumed packing.

"Lydia?" said an anxious-looking man standing in the doorway. She didn't look up.

"You can come in."

"You didn't return my phone call…I heard you were in town for…for the—"

"For the funeral?"

The man gulped and nodded.

"Yes, but I'm leaving tonight. I have to get back to New York."

"I see. Then you wouldn't have time…I was hoping we could get coffee, maybe talk about—"

Lydia's face was utterly expressionless when she turned to look at him. "Tony, my father just died. I can't have this conversation with you right now."

"Lydia…"

"Just call me later. Tomorrow." She returned to her packing.

"This can't wait until tomorrow," Tony said, visibly distressed. "I can't keep calling every day hoping I'll get you and not the machine, you know? Just come with me tonight; let's talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," Lydia sighed, more out of exhaustion than anger. "We're done. I can't give you what you want."

"You are what I want!" Tony cried as he moved towards her. "But you keep yourself closed off from me no matter what I do!"

Beetlejuice suddenly realized the intimacy of the moment and retreated to the kitchen. Delia was sitting at the table, sobbing quietly. Beetlejuice felt dirtier than usual, like he'd tracked mud into the house; he didn't belong anymore.

After a moment, Tony came down the stairs and joined Delia in the kitchen.

"What did she say?" she asked.

"She won't listen to me. She's dead-set on going back tonight." He hung his head. "I offered to drive her, but she turned me down."

Hearing this, Beetlejuice popped back into Lydia's mirror. She was sitting on her bed staring straight at him. He made a face, hoping for a reaction, but she didn't—couldn't—see him. Suddenly, she began to cry.

"I wish you were here," she whispered. "You'd tell me it was OK. I just wish I could see you one more time." Beetlejuice figured she was talking about her dad, but then she said his name in such a heart-breaking tone of voice that he immediately flew to her side and held her tight, even though she couldn't feel it.

"Babes, I'll never leave you again! I'll find some way to get back to you; don't you worry!"

Lydia's trip back to Peaceful Pines had been mostly uneventful. Few people came to her father's funeral. Bertha and Prudence had been awkward around her; neither of them had lost a parent. Lydia felt hollow; she missed her father, but he'd died peacefully in his sleep. It was how he would have wanted to go, and Lydia was grateful for that.

Her conversation with Tony, however, had not gone as well. It was no secret that he'd spent the last year since they'd broken up trying to get back together with her; Lydia often came home to an answering machine filled with messages from him calling and hanging up, but she never called him back. She knew she couldn't give him the commitment he wanted, not with the secret knowledge of her impending death looming over her, so when he'd taken her to the Hilton that night with a bottle of champagne and a jewelry-box-shaped bulge in his pocket, she'd cut and run and not looked back. Her friends all thought she was bitter about the breakup, and she'd never bothered to correct them.

The overnight ride back to the city was long and soothing, and despite her restless mind, Lydia soon found herself rocked to sleep by the movements of the bus. Beetlejuice, meanwhile, possessing a small compact mirror, was packed away in her suitcase, madly thinking of a plan to finally get out and make her see him again. He was certain there was a way, and if anyone could figure it out, it would be the ghost with the most!

Lydia didn't wear makeup very often. When she finally opened the compact a week later, Beetlejuice sprang out and immediately began to survey the surroundings. Lydia's apartment was tiny; the entire place was only about the size of her room back in Peaceful Pines. There was a futon couch in the center, a closet-sized bathroom, a kitchenette tucked in the corner, and blackout curtains on the only window. Judging by the chemicals on the countertop and the red lightbulb, Lydia was using the place as a makeshift darkroom.

He turned his attention back to Lydia, who was carefully applying lipstick. She checked her appearance in the mirror once more before grabbing a black portfolio and setting out.

Beetlejuice followed her around New York City, watching as she showed her portfolio at six different agencies that morning. It wasn't a promising day; Lydia felt no more optimistic about finding a publisher anytime soon. Working at her college's bookstore was just enough for groceries, but she wanted to be able to pay the rent on her own; her scholarship money wouldn't last forever. Besides, she had other, more selfish reasons for wanting her photography published at such a young age.

She sighed and walked faster; if she didn't get back to the subway in the next five minutes, she'd miss the next train and be late for class.

Beetlejuice still trailed behind her, noting her every action. Lydia was clearly unhappy, and not just because her work had been rejected. As he followed her into class, at work, during her meager excuse for a dinner, he could plainly see the loneliness written all over her face.

Does she even have any friends? he wondered. There were a few of the customers in the bookstore who tried to make small-talk with her, but she couldn't seem to put out the effort to meet them halfway. She was almost like a walking ghost, and with a pang of remorse, Beetlejuice realized that he had caused this. Lydia knew she was going to die, so she'd already begun cutting her ties to this world. He remembered his offer for her to come straight to the Neitherworld and cringed. As much as he enjoyed the afterlife, he could clearly understand why a woman in the prime of her youth would be unwilling to give up living; how could he have been so stupid then?

As Lydia fell asleep on her futon couch to the comforting sounds of a monster movie marathon, Beetlejuice was suddenly struck with an idea; not everyone could see the dead, but the dead could interact with the living though less orthodox ways. He knew what he had to do, but he also knew the terrible price he'd have to pay if he got caught breaking the strictest rule placed on the dead.