minutes to get to class. He knew from his haphazard thoughts about Sarah that he would have trouble concentrating on the lecture that night. He stood from his desk and paced the ten short steps of his office, his eyes closed, his mind heavy. Since he walked Sarah home a few nights before he had been struggling to make sense of it all—what he had said, what she had said, what any of it meant, if anything. Yet no matter how hard he tried to understand, everything around him seemed confused. Even the familiar sights in his office, his desk, his computer, his books, looked foreign, like archaeological artifacts uncovered from some long-ago culture.
That beautiful dark-haired, sweet-eyed woman had managed to undo all the careful forgetting he had done. It had taken him years to get to the point where he didn’t walk around feeling weighted down by the past. He had walled himself off from nearly everyone and everything, going from work to home and home to work, except for his occasional clandestine meetings with Amy, keeping busy so he wouldn’t be consumed by his history. Now, since he had seen Sarah, he found himself sorting through the memories because he couldn’t ignore them anymore. They were pinching him, pecking him, forcing him to pay attention. Now, he was flipping through them as though he were pasting them under their proper headings in a scrapbook—scenes he wanted to remember and others that were still too painful. If he were being honest he would admit that the memories were mostly good, only the bad were oh so very bad. He scolded himself for coming back when he should have stayed away. Forever. What was he looking for? His wife hadn’t been there for a long time and she wouldn’t ever be there again. He told himself he should sell the house to the Salem Historical Society and leave. Forever. But he could still feel her in the pots and pans lining the kitchen shelves, in the furnishings in the great room, in their bed. And though he knew he shouldn’t come back to Salem, he did. As long as he felt connected to her there he would return whenever he could. And now there was Sarah, and he didn’t know what to do about her.
He thought about the first moment he saw her. He hadn’t expected anything out of the ordinary that night, but he awoke with a start, pinpointing her quick, light footsteps near his front door. Usually his neighbors stayed away since they thought his wooden gabled house was haunted. And in its way it was. He heard the dry crunch of autumn leaves, so he pulled aside the curtains, raised the blinds, and focused on the shadows outside. When he saw her he thought he was dreaming. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, expecting her specter to vanish, but she was still there. Only she was not a ghost or a phantom meant to haunt him. She was human, and she looked exactly as he remembered with her dark curls, her chocolate-brown eyes, her thoughtful expression, the full lips he wanted to kiss whenever he looked at her…
“She’s so like Elizabeth,” he said.
Jennifer sighed. “I know you miss her, but you need to accept the fact that she’s gone. It’s been a long time.”
James grabbed his keys and his book bag. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “I know this sounds crazy, but it’s her voice, her face, her hair. Everything about her is the same. Even the way she looks at me. And she became so frightened after I told her about the Witch Dungeon Museum.”
“But that’s just it. You keep scaring her. The last thing any girl needs is to have a hungry old fart like you jumping out from the shadows of a creepy house. Or telling scary stories while walking her home in the dark. You need to play nice if you want to get to know her.”
“I’m not hungry, and my house isn’t creepy.”
“But you are old.”
Jennifer walked to the window. She stood there awhile, not speaking, watching the watery Rorschach blots hit and slide from the glass.
“Did Sarah tell you why she
That beautiful dark-haired, sweet-eyed woman had managed to undo all the careful forgetting he had done. It had taken him years to get to the point where he didn’t walk around feeling weighted down by the past. He had walled himself off from nearly everyone and everything, going from work to home and home to work, except for his occasional clandestine meetings with Amy, keeping busy so he wouldn’t be consumed by his history. Now, since he had seen Sarah, he found himself sorting through the memories because he couldn’t ignore them anymore. They were pinching him, pecking him, forcing him to pay attention. Now, he was flipping through them as though he were pasting them under their proper headings in a scrapbook—scenes he wanted to remember and others that were still too painful. If he were being honest he would admit that the memories were mostly good, only the bad were oh so very bad. He scolded himself for coming back when he should have stayed away. Forever. What was he looking for? His wife hadn’t been there for a long time and she wouldn’t ever be there again. He told himself he should sell the house to the Salem Historical Society and leave. Forever. But he could still feel her in the pots and pans lining the kitchen shelves, in the furnishings in the great room, in their bed. And though he knew he shouldn’t come back to Salem, he did. As long as he felt connected to her there he would return whenever he could. And now there was Sarah, and he didn’t know what to do about her.
He thought about the first moment he saw her. He hadn’t expected anything out of the ordinary that night, but he awoke with a start, pinpointing her quick, light footsteps near his front door. Usually his neighbors stayed away since they thought his wooden gabled house was haunted. And in its way it was. He heard the dry crunch of autumn leaves, so he pulled aside the curtains, raised the blinds, and focused on the shadows outside. When he saw her he thought he was dreaming. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, expecting her specter to vanish, but she was still there. Only she was not a ghost or a phantom meant to haunt him. She was human, and she looked exactly as he remembered with her dark curls, her chocolate-brown eyes, her thoughtful expression, the full lips he wanted to kiss whenever he looked at her…
“She’s so like Elizabeth,” he said.
Jennifer sighed. “I know you miss her, but you need to accept the fact that she’s gone. It’s been a long time.”
James grabbed his keys and his book bag. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “I know this sounds crazy, but it’s her voice, her face, her hair. Everything about her is the same. Even the way she looks at me. And she became so frightened after I told her about the Witch Dungeon Museum.”
“But that’s just it. You keep scaring her. The last thing any girl needs is to have a hungry old fart like you jumping out from the shadows of a creepy house. Or telling scary stories while walking her home in the dark. You need to play nice if you want to get to know her.”
“I’m not hungry, and my house isn’t creepy.”
“But you are old.”
Jennifer walked to the window. She stood there awhile, not speaking, watching the watery Rorschach blots hit and slide from the glass.
“Did Sarah tell you why she
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