A Pleasing Life

A Pleasing Life

Swimming through syrup

It was several days before Helen came to the realization that had metamorphosed into a spirit. It was not a moment of epiphany, just a slow creeping feeling of warmth; a heat that comforted and coddled her spirit. She felt settled and comfortable in her new form and gradually, over the course of several weeks, the passing of time added more sense to her being.

She remembered little of the agonies of her slow, unyielding march towards death; just the faces of those that loved her, communicating their love through sorrowful eyes. She wanted to see those eyes again and, somehow she came to understand that it was in her power.

“If I want, I shall have,” became a mantra that she would recite to herself as she billowed around her new world. What she wanted more than anything was to see Martin and the boys just once more, to make sure they were happy enough, that they were coping without her. It gave her a reason for her new existence, a goal to aim for.

So as each new day came along, she would experiment and then assimilate the information gleaned from these efforts. She soon gathered that she had lost her sense of smell forever; it was not possible for her to retrieve even the most repugnant odour. She would hover over wild roses for hours, profoundly distressed at the impossibility of receiving even the merest touch of its powerful scent. It was there, but not for her.

However, on the positive side, she could see reasonably well and hear with great clarity, and it was this audible clarity that helped define her time as a ghost. It meant she needed to find quiet spots as she could not cope with the cacophony of busy places.

On learning that she could travel, she thought it would be nice to attend a concert at the Carnegie Hall, but the noise and clatter of thousands of people blotted out the music for her. It took her ages to get over the disappointment. Music had been one of the greatest joys of her life, and now only catching snatches of Bach were like stabs to her heart.

Time gave her a clearer idea of what she could not do, or could not cope with; she realised she needed to devote her energies to the positive aspects of her new self. For example, pain did not exist. She could never lose an argument. She didn’t need to mess around with washing her hair or putting on make-up. She would never have to go shopping ever again; in her imagination she blew a giant raspberry at Publix and imagined herself laughing at the gesture.

Her mental creativity+ seemed to know no bounds; her thoughts could skitter off into the wildest fantasies and time would drift away into one long, enormous dream full of happy thoughts and deeds. But always – always – somewhere central to those thoughts were Martin, Will and James.

She had been amazed at how long she needed to travel to find the house again. She had been vaguely aware that those last few days of dying were spent in a hospital which was more than fifty miles away from her home. The effort to bridge that fifty miles took its toll and she rested up for a full twenty four hours before she attempted to cover the last few hundred yards.

***

In real time something like two years passed in a chaotic haze before she breezed over the old village and had the joy of seeing The Red Sun Hotel car park. She floated over its old slate-tiled roof, watching children skip around the hotel’s playground.

She was nearly home and the anticipation was sugar-sweet, yet utterly daunting. She lingered around the hotel, drifting about the village green and peeking through old neighbours’ windows.

On the third day, the dull peaceful air of the village told her it was a Sunday; the sharp, piercing ring of St Mary’s bell tower confirmed her thoughts. The boys would be home today.

She moved slowly – the two hundred yards seemed as difficult to progress as swimming though syrup – but all the time, there was a gentle following wind of pressure pushing her forward to the point where she was hovering over her old house. Her first impression was that the front garden was wonderfully and unusually neat. The magnolia tree had grown and was in full bloom. It took her breath away. Sitting on the drive was a different car, a bright blue Range Rover. Had they moved away? But no, her old Nissan was still there. Of course – Will was learning to drive. He might even have a driving licence by now. Two or three years had gone by; of course he’d got a licence.

She waited, floating delicately over the top of the magnolia tree, oscillating with the soft April breeze. Then the back door opened and a tall, slim teenager with dark, lank hair and an oh-so-familiar slouch came out, unlocked the Nissan, and squeezed into the driver’s seat. She rushed to sit next to him. She would always miss the smell of his hair.

“James. How are you? I cannot believe you can drive already. Your hair needs washing. Have you got a girlfriend? Do you still surf? Have you got your inhaler on you?”

The boy frowned and looked to the passenger window to see where the draught was coming from, and for some reason he was reminded of his inhaler. He patted his trouser pocket and muttered, “Damn.” He turned off the engine and headed back inside. He felt strange, as if a cobweb had wrapped itself around his head. As he walked down the path, he brushed it away vaguely with his left hand. Helen moved with him, a few inches away.

“Back already, dude?” That voice.

So many thoughts and emotions hit Helen all at once that it made her giddy. Her thoughts were a mishmash and utterly confusing. On entering the house she was taken aback to find the house was full of people, maybe as many as a couple of dozen spread around the rooms. There was a party atmosphere, but with a strange edge to it.

The dull white kitchen had been completely made over, the old fittings replaced by light beech wood units with sparkling black worktops, and a new central island with an army of kitchen utensils balanced above. Helen hated cooking and did not begrudge Martin this little indulgement.

Three student types sat at the large new kitchen table. She didn’t know any of them. A slip of a girl with curly red hair and a mass of freckles jumped up as James entered the room.

“Oh, I’m glad you came back. I changed my mind; I’ll come with you to the shops.” She gave him a big kiss on the mouth.

“Aw, she missed you,” laughed the other unknown male in the room.

The slightest blush reached James’ cheeks, and he quickly changed the subject. “Tell Will and Dad that we’ll be back in time.”

Everyone looked at the kitchen clock. As soon as James and the girl left the room, the other pair began to kiss and pet. It was too much for Helen, so she drifted through the house to the conservatory. The clock in there agreed with the one in the kitchen: 11.45.

The sight of Martin’s parents and her own sitting and drinking coffee together caused energy to whoosh away from deep within Helen’s core. She instantly understood that she had very little time left; these last few years had been a gift that would soon disappear.

The foursome were creating no dialogue, but seemed to be happy to unwind in each other’s company. Through the glass, she could see some of her cousins running around the garden with Will. Sitting on the garden swing was a heavily pregnant young woman. Her eyes followed Will constantly.

Helen went over and sat next to her on the swing. “Be gentle with him,” she whispered,” He needs mountains of love to keep him nourished. But he is so worth it.”

The girl spun her head around; something had happened and she was not comfortable. “I’m going inside, Will.”

He waved and blew her a kiss. Helen could not understand why she felt so ambivalent about the situation. They had moved on with their lives and she was not missed, but that still seemed to be okay. She gave Will a big kiss on the back of his neck, moving sharply out of the way before Will clapped a hand on his neck.

“Damned mosquitoes.”

Her love was akin to a mosquito bite? How funny.

Helen went back to the kitchen where the couple was eating toast, and not long after that James returned with the Sunday papers. Helen suddenly felt a need to know the date, so she looked down at the top of the newspaper. March fourth. Should that mean something? Oh, and surely they’d made a mistake with the year.

Then, for the second time in forever, she heard Martin’s voice. “Come on, everyone; through to the conservatory.”

She rushed through. His hair was very short and totally grey. He had a slight paunch and his face was lined with creases, but he still looked wonderful. She feasted on him as he spoke.

“Thank you so very much for making the effort to come today. This is not a day for mourning or sadness. Today is the fifth anniversary of the death of a wonderful mother, friend, daughter, and wife.” He raised a glass, looked directly at Helen and whispered, “To Helen, my one true love.”

The ghost of Helen Ferguson felt the last gasps of strength ebbing away forever, it had been so worthwhile, the quality of peace ran through her, she left accompanied as she went by the gentle clinking of wine glasses – a pleasing sound, a pleasing life.