To Love A Ghost || ONC 2023 Shortlist

Chapter Eight

"How's this?" Daniel asked. I craned my neck to look up at him perched on one of the wooden cross beams, the last of the four speakers in hand as he peered down at me. The wires had already been taped down, running the length of the beam to disappear in an inconspicuous hole drilled there to feed the wires down to the satellite radio receiver in the closet across from the small storage room that Aunt Lorraine, and now I had designated as my office.

"Perfect," I said. "Tape it to the beam and then float down here, or whatever you do, and I'll try it out."

Daniel had already copied the menu I'd written on notebook paper on the now properly hung chalkboard. He'd written each item in a precise, neat print, far more legible than my own. He had also been aghast at the prices I was charging, informing me that in his day, a cup of coffee cost no more than a couple of cents. "Well," I said with a shrug, grinning at him. "People make a hell of a lot more money these days, too. And I'll have you know that my prices are actually cheaper than Starbucks, and the quality is way better. Starbucks coffee is like drinking battery acid."

Daniel swung a leg over the beam and yeah, he actually didn't float down to the floor. He blinked out of sight instead. When he reappeared right in front of me, his face lit up with a teasing grin as I yelped in surprise. "I have no idea what a Starbucks is," he said. "Nor have I drunk battery acid, whatever that might be, but surely people don't really spend five whole dollars for a cup of coffee and steamed milk?"

"Don't forget to add the syrup upcharge," I retorted. "To answer the question, yes, they sure do. You'll see for yourself tomorrow."

At least, I hope you will. I scanned the shop as I let out a whoosh of breath and wrung my hands. Yeah, I had some serious last-minute jitters, mountains of self-doubt, and straight-up terror that nobody would show up tomorrow and at the end of the day I'd be left standing in the middle of an empty coffeehouse surrounded by costly fixtures and inventory and feeling like a total failure with a chorus of voices—my parents and Cindy and everyone back in Minneapolis among them—screaming, I told you so!

My stomach grumbled, interrupting my inner freakout. "Someone is hungry," Daniel said, chuckling. "There's literally nothing left on your list to be done now. You need to eat, and remember, you asked me to tell you my story."

I nodded, a flutter of nerves of a whole different kind taking flight inside me. "One last thing. I want to check the sound system, and then I'll have some food. And then we'll talk. Yeah, okay."

With a smile, Daniel blinked out of sight again, but I knew I'd find him upstairs in the apartment.

I went to the storage room and fired up the Sirius XM receiver, letting out a breath when music filled the space from the pre-selected indie-folk station I'd programmed into the device. A quick walk-through assured me that each speaker was functioning properly Satisfied, I shut it down and then, after ensuring the lights were all off and doors were locked, I hurried upstairs to join Daniel in the apartment.

***

To my surprise, Daniel was very forthcoming with telling his story. I guess I'd assumed sharing the details of his life and the memories of how he'd ended up a patient in an insane asylum would've been too difficult for him, but he readily spoke about it. At least what he could recall. His memories were scattered, and there were many blank spots during his stay at Roselawn where he had no recollection at all. I didn't want to imagine what had been done to him to cause those memory skips.

His death, however, he remembered clearly. And God, how I wished he couldn't. By the time he'd finished describing what it had been like to be strapped to a table, biting down on a rubber tube while electrodes were affixed to his body, unable to move or beg or even scream as his heart gave out and darkness enshrouded him–my throat went tight and a red hot rage boiled inside me.