Life According to the Dead

Charlie

The bar smelled, and not in a good way. The place reeked with the air-clogging stench of beer mixed with cigarette fumes left over from earlier patrons. It was now empty apart from a bartender, two men in their early sixties slouched over the bar, and a lonely, haggard youth drinking himself to sleep in a far corner.

At the bar, Charlie Halliday signaled the bartender for a drink. The man slid the beer down the bar, and foam sloshed over the side when Charlie's hand stopped it. He smiled to himself as he took a swig. He'd only ever seen people do that in films.

His inebriated companion, Raymond Longwood, watched him through eyes dulled from too much alcohol. "How's the wife, Charlie?" he slurred, for the third time that night.

Charlie gave a wry, disappointed sort of smile. Raymond had never been good with bars. Every time they got together, they each promised not to get too drunk. They set limits so that neither would have to end up driving the other home. Charlie, who liked to think of himself as a respectable, dignified sort of man, kept his promise every time. Unfortunately, the same could never be said for Raymond.

"I'm divorced, Ray," Charlie reminded him.

Raymond nodded slowly, as if it took him a great deal of effort.

Charlie didn't drink often, as a rule. He had recently retired from his job as a police officer, and had always sworn to himself that he wouldn't grow to be some drunken old has-been with no real life to speak of – rather like Raymond, come to think of it. He kept himself busy with different things, dull hobbies and pastimes, but no drinking.

Raymond belched. "How's the kid, Charlie?"

Charlie looked up from his beer. "Kid?" he repeated, as though the word was new to him.

Raymond squeezed his eyes shut, as if working out some very difficult scientific equation. Then he said, struggling to place the words, "Your son, you know. Little Jimmy. Jim."

Charlie pursed his lips. "I don't know. Fine. I haven't seen him."

Raymond frowned. It was a sagging frown that pulled his lips all the way down to his chin. He stared at Charlie for a minute, and then some of the fog in his eyes cleared a little. Not a lot. But some.

"Jim's the kid who saw all the ghosts, right?"

Charlie closed his eyes. "No."

"Yeah." Raymond was nodding. "Yeah, he did. Hey, that's pretty neat."

"No, it's not."

"Yeah, it is. I had an aunt who said she could read minds and stuff. Guessed the number in my head more than once. If you've got a kid who talks to–"

"He doesn't," Charlie said tightly. "All right? He doesn't, and he never will."

Raymond blinked. Confusion registered in his eyes.

Charlie took a deep breath, let it out. "Sorry," he muttered. "So how's the wife, Ray?"

Raymond gulped down more beer, missing the irony.

"I'm divorced, Charlie," he said.

"Amelia – wait–"

"No, enough, Charlie. I'm done." He saw tears in her eyes, but she blinked hard, forcing them back as she stuffed more clothes into her already overflowing suitcase.

"Just...Just think this through," he pleaded. "We can try a new therapist."

"Are you kidding?" She laughed harshly. "We've scared off every therapist in the city!"

"You can't," he said. "Amelia, he's only seven."

"Yeah, seven years old and insane! What seven-year-old kid obsesses over death?"

"He doesn't. He doesn't obsess," said Charlie helplessly. "He says he can't help it–"

"It freaks me out, Charlie. The sound of him muttering to himself in his bedroom like that, saying he can talk to people who died from cancer or got hit by a bus or – this isn't The Sixth Sense, you know." She snapped the suitcase shut.

"He's not muttering to himself."

"You're saying you believe him?" she demanded.

"No! Of course not."

Amelia rolled her eyes. "I give up," she said, her fingers curling around the doorknob. "I'm leaving."

"Amelia, wait."

She stopped, looked away, and shut her eyes so tightly that it looked as though she never wanted to open them again.

"Please," said Charlie. "Things will get better. I know they will. You have to give him another chance."

A single tear made its way out of the corner of one eye and rolled down her cheek.

"Please stay," said Charlie softly. "And not just for Jimmy. For me." It was probably the most clichéd thing he'd said in his whole life. He stood motionless, afraid to say more. It was like she was a deer in a forest – if he spoke too loudly or made any sudden movements, he would shatter the peace and she would slip away into the trees. Helpless, he waited for her to walk out the front door and into the night and away from him and the boy forever.

Instead, the fingers she had clenched around the doorknob slackened and then fell to her side. She dropped the suitcase on the ground with a hard thud, as though it weighed a lot more than it looked. Only when he pulled her into his gentle arms did Charlie realize that he had been crying, too – he'd just been too frozen to notice.

Marriage was permanent. That was the whole idea. So why did it feel so temporary? Why did it feel like he was only delaying the inevitable?

"Daddy?"

He opened his eyes and looked over Amelia's shoulder. The boy was standing in the middle of the hallway, a teddy bear dangling limply at his side. No doubt Charlie and Amelia had woken him up with their shouting – it wouldn't have been the first time.

"I had a nightmare," said the boy.

Charlie sighed. So did I, kid, he thought to himself. The difference is that you got to wake up.