Ghost Hand by Ripley Patton Page B

his grave. You don’t visit him. He’s gone. But that’s not what I was referring to, and you know it.”
    “What were you referring to then?”
    “I was referring to your unhealthy, romanticized attachment to the idea of death.”
    “The idea of death? Don’t you mean the reality of death? People die, Mom. Dad is dead. It isn’t just some crazy idea I have.”
    “Yes, death is a reality, but obsessing over it isn’t mentally healthy.”
    “Don’t analyze me. I’m not one of your clients. And at least I’m not wallowing in denial.”
    “We weren’t talking about me. We were talking about you. And what you just did is called avoidance. Rather than face your own issues—”
    “Oh please, save it for the office! You and I both know I’m not the only one in this family with issues about death.” So, we were fighting again. We always fought. It was one of the few things I could count on.
    “Again, that’s avoidance,” she said. “As long as you keep putting your grief and anger back on me, you’re never going to be able to deal with it.”
    “Deal with it? You think I’m not dealing with it? I visit him. I talk to him. I miss him. And yes, I’m extremely pissed at the universe for taking him away. But that is NOT avoidance. Avoidance is constantly analyzing your daughter’s feelings so you never have to face your own. Avoidance is hiding his life’s work in a shed in the back yard. Avoidance is refusing to mark your husband’s grave and never visiting it because you’re afraid if you face that reality you’ll end up being the mental patient, instead of the doctor. Oh, believe me, Mom, I know all about avoidance. I see it every day. I live with it, and eat with it, and talk to it, and fight with it. It’s practically my mother!”
    Her eyes widened with shock. I saw pain, for a moment, tremble at the corners of her lips. For a split second, I thought she was going to slap me. And I wanted her to. I wanted her to hurt and cry and break into a million pieces with me. I didn’t want to be alone anymore, feeling everything for both of us. I wanted it so badly, I could feel it in my face, my throat, my chest, my arms, my hands.
    “Olivia!” my mother yelped, looking down at my hand.
    “It’s fine. I told you. It’s just a scrape,” I said dismissively, looking down too. But my mother wasn’t looking at my injured hand. She was looking at my ghost hand and the PSS that was seeping out of the tattered satin glove in spiraling tendrils.
    “What is that?” she asked, backing away a step.
    I turned and ran down the hallway into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind me.
    “Olivia, are you all right?” my mother’s voice came through the wooden door. “What is wrong with your hand?”
    I leaned against the door, panting and looking down at it. “Um, I’m fine. Yeah, it’s fine. I just need to get cleaned up.” She wasn’t going to buy it. She was majorly paranoid when it came to my hand. How was I going to explain this?
    Beyond the door there was a long silence.
    “Well, don’t make a mess,” she said. “And after your shower, we still need to talk.”
    I heard her walk away, her footsteps receding down the hallway and back to the living room as if nothing had happened.
    She had seen my hand whacking out right before her eyes, and she had just walked away. Something was seriously wrong with me, and she knew it, and all she had said was, “Don’t make a mess in the bathroom.”
    I grabbed at my wrist and ripped off the tattered satin glove, the glow of my hand reflecting off white tile like cold starlight. I could tell it was already on its way back to normal. I was beginning to get a feel for its new weirdness. But this time it hadn’t given me any warning of heat or warmness before it had changed, and that was bad.
    I crossed to the sink and looked in the mirror. My face was scratched and bloody. I lifted my ghost hand and watched its reflection move and twist, coming