He was there when I knocked on Grandma Lita’s house a few days later and then, when I started taking one drink before bed—and then two, or three—he slowly started to drift away.
So, the chair moving by itself felt like whoever was “haunting” me was angry at me and therefore it couldn’t be Grandpa Julio. But then again...
I walked into the kitchen, my eyes fixed on the chair, and the space surrounding it. “Grandpa Julio?” I called, my hands shaking. When nothing happened, I sighed and leaned against the doorframe. I covered my face and laughed at my own idiocy.
A wave of sadness hit me, because I had to admit that I had wanted something to happen—anything—maybe seeing grandpa, telling me he was here for me again. I stood there for a while, wiping my eyes, and then I grabbed my jacket and walked out of the house, letting the door slam behind me.
“What are you doing here?” asked Grandma Lita when she saw me walking into the diner.
I couldn’t tell her ‘I believe your husband is haunting me,’ so instead I said, “I just wanted to see where you work.”
“Well, that’s nice!” She smiled and gently patted my arm. “Come, sit. I’ll get you a piece of pie. You’ll love it!”
She found me a booth, brought the pie and left, fluttering around like a butterfly, greeting the other customers with a warm smile.
Maybe the ghost is trying to get me the hell away from her, I thought with sadness. “You don’t deserve her.” Jack’s voice popped into my head. “How can somebody love you, fat ass?”
“Shut up,” I said, too loud. A couple of people turned around, and Grandma Lita lifted her head toward me.
I shrank in the seat, wondering if he was right.
“Hey, sweetheart. Are you ok?” Grandma Lita’s eyes were sweet, and full of concern. But instead of bringing me comfort, her solicitude hurt me.
“Yes,” I said, getting up. “I just remembered I have something to do. See you at the house.” I dropped a few bucks on the table and ran out the door before she could stop me.
I walked the streets of my old town, cursing myself for letting Jack’s evil words get the best of me. “Asshole,” I said out loud, and a guy walking next to me stopped. I dropped my head and walked faster, without direction, wrapping myself against the cold autumn wind.
Only when I reached the bridge, I stopped. The smell of the river was pungent; it assaulted my senses, awakening me from my emotional trauma. Images of Grandpa Julio and me catching fish, throwing stones, and swimming in the river hit me like a brick. “I miss you,” I said to the wind. In response, it picked up, wrapping my hair all around my face.
I dragged my feet back home. When I opened the door, Grandma Lita was there, drinking coffee, apparently waiting for a while.
