It's All True

 

". . . I didn't want to kiss you goodbye—that was the trouble—I wanted to kiss you good night—and there's a lot of difference."

– Ernest Hemingway

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'"

– Jack Kerouac

 

PART ONE

"Write it down."

Sofi has been waiting so many years for Lucinda to haunt her that she is surprised by how much it surprises her when it finally happens. She walks into her kitchen and sees Lucinda leaning against the counter—head tilted, hair loose, half-smile on her lips, the most familiar, non-threatening ghost in the history of ghosts—and screams.

"Hey, it's just me," Lucinda says. Or doesn't say, exactly: When Sofi is visited by spirits they don't speak. Instead, she feels what they're saying as if the words are her own thoughts.

Lucinda is holding up a gold notebook Sofi doesn't remember buying. "You don't have any time to waste. You need to write it down." The words fill Sofi's head and she screams again. Seconds later, her neighbour Mrs. Sandoval (who has been accused of listening at people's doors but who claims to be too hard of hearing to eavesdrop) is banging on their shared living room wall and shouting.

"Are you okay, querida? Do I need to call 9-1-1, or get out my gun?"

Sofi backs out of the kitchen. "I'm fine, it was just a mouse!"

"What?"

"A mouse! I'm fine!" Sofi gets her coat, but now Lucinda is standing in front of the apartment's doorway, blocking her exit, still with the half-smile, still with the notebook.

"How are you holding that? Spirits can't hold things."

"You're the one holding it."

And suddenly, Sofi is. She drops the notebook as if it's made of hot coals.

"Why are you here? Why now?"

Lucinda just shakes her head. When she does, Sofi is sure she can hear the tinkle of the earrings her friend always wore: dangling and metal, chiming like bells, cheap even though she could have had diamonds and pearls. They would have come at a cost, but if she had paid the price Lucinda could have had anything she wanted.

"Write it all down in that gold notebook you bought the other day. Write our story. Why do you think you bought it? Gold for protection. Gold for courage."

"I didn't buy that notebook."

"Yes, you did."

Sofi closes her eyes. Maybe she's losing her mind. It happens to mediums all the time. Sofi always tries to protect herself, but maybe she wasn't careful enough after that last session with the woman from the Upper East Side. Rich people always make her feel vulnerable.

"For Thalia's sake, you need to tell the story."

"But ... sometimes I feel I don't know the whole story. Sometimes it doesn't feel like mine to tell."