Last updated 2009/07/29
Two weeks ago, I died. Now, nobody will talk to me. I can’t talk to them, either, and I must. We just won the state lottery! My nephew Blake and I picked the numbers at the Quick-Mart by the airport. We talked about our dreams: my dream home in Hawaii; his being able to travel to all the Diamondback games; my quitting work and him quitting school. We laughed as I gave him the ticket, he stuffed it in his pocket, and then I got on the plane. The plane crash was terrifying but quick, and I found myself floating in a form that was slowly begin to fade the minute I formed. I sensed I had just a little time in this dimension to do what I wanted. Then I would leave, I knew not where. My first day dead I was numb. An incredible sadness fell over me as I watched my family in their grief, especially eleven-year old Blake. He sat alone in his bedroom tears streaming down this tough little kids face. I watched as he crunched the lottery ticket into a ball, tossing it up in the air. I thought, “Sweetie. I’m here.” He stopped and looked in my direction. I started to say more, but his dad called him. As he left, I felt incredible joy as his words “You’re here!” wafted by. I followed him to the living room when the strangest thing happened. As Blake and my brother talked, the television came on. We jumped. Well, they jumped, and I floated back a few feet. My brother muted the volume and spoke with Blake. They ignored the television, but I watched as the lottery numbers were announced. Blake’s three numbers were first: 13, 15, 51 – his favorite baseball player’s numbers. Then mine: 6, 17, 26 – my nephew’s birthdays. We won ten million dollars! Oh, crap, but I’m dead!
My second day dead was worse. This wonderful news needed to be told. Yet no adult could see or hear me. I tried telepathy, psychokinesis, everything I could think of. My thoughts wouldn’t transport and my objects wouldn’t move. My voice only made eerie, whispering sounds that others mistook for the wind or indoor fan. Stamping my feet only made the cat yowl and get sick. This annoyed my brother but made his kids laugh. Which made me laugh. That sounded like the screeching of car, which made everyone run outside to see what had happened. That’s when I discovered my form could only stay in the confined walls of my brothers home. I continued to drift. It was only Blake that knew I was here, though his reactions towards me were hard to interpret. I know he heard me. But he ignored me. Why? “Kiddo,” I whispered. “We won. Show Dad the ticket.” He grinned slightly. Suddenly, an image that was not my own flashed before me: I was dunking him in the pool, and he was laughing. This was Blake’s thought! “Yeah, I miss those times, sweetie. But please, the ti--”. His younger brothers came into his bedroom asking him what he was doing. “Nothing,” he replied, “Wanna play catch?” He got our wadded lotto ticket and threw it towards his brothers and they played catch! “Blake, what are you doing?” He giggled as he looked in my direction. The next day I tried harder to communicate with him, and I began to panic. My new form did not like panic, and I began to fade even more. I wanted to get through with this kid. Why wouldn’t he listen? This money would pay for him and his brother’s college tuition. With all the pressure his parents put on him to do excel in soccer so he could have a free ride in college, I knew he knew of the importance of money.
Day 4 and 5. Since I could mentally communicate with Blake, that’s exactly what I did. So, in Blake’s dreams, I appeared as our ticket. He laughed as he crumpled me up. I jumped into the movie he watched. He waved at me showing me the crumpled ticket in his hands. When he batted in his backyard, I appeared on the baseball. Guffawing he said, “Adios, Auntie”, and I smashed into the fence. When he picked up a book to read, I appeared on the page. Slam. When he played his WII game, I appeared as a player. Smack. All this time, I continued to fade, and he continued to laugh. On Day 6 something changed. We were sitting in his room – him on the floor, me somewhere in space. I was telling him about the money....over and over again. Finally he just sighed impatiently. He went over to his closet and pulled out our favorite game Sorry and set up the board. “I’ll be blue. And you….well, you’ll just be sorry.” Blake said. A blue and red token sat on the board, and we began to play. He picked up the cards and moved the pieces. I told him what I wanted done, and he moved my pieces. Our first game was just concentrating on picking up my thoughts. Then as we played a few more games, we began to communicate. About everything. Except that damn lotto ticket.
When I broached the subject of money, lottery ticket, or future, Blake changed the topic. He would try to cheat in the game we were playing which resulted in an all out battle of me mentally moving the pieces to their rightful place and him chuckling as he would undo everything I did. Other times he would just end the game and get another game. Once he wanted to see how I would do at 52-Pickup. But then, he got mad. And he popped the crumbled ticket into his mouth. “Yummmm….lottooooo goooodd.” Just then his dad opened his door and starred at him. “Son, what do you have in your mouth? Spit that into the wastebasket.” Blake took the lotto ticket out of his mouth and held it in his hand. His dad took the disgusting ticket and threw it into the basket. “Son, I know this is hard for you. It is for all of us. But hiding out in your room? And why do you have these games set up? Why are all these playing cards on the floor?” his dad asked. Blake just shrugged. “It’s been tough on all of us.”, said his Dad. “Tomorrow is the funeral. We’ll talk more after that. In the meantime, we’re expecting lots of people here tomorrow. So, clean up this room. Start by taking out the trash.”
After he shut the door, Blake looked over in my direction and stuck out his tongue. He grabbed the basket and started to head out the door. “You take that out of the basket. Right now,” I demanded. “Yeah, or what?” he replied as he slammed the door on my form. I fumed, hissed and wailed. Blake’s parents glanced out the window and muttered something about ambulance noise. I intently stalked Blake, begging him to take the ticket out of the basket. “Hey, Mom, I going to go talk to Brent next door. Be right back,” he said as he went to the garage. Instead of emptying the basket into the recycle bin, he began to walk next door, tossing the basket up in the air as he went. “Hey, get back here!” I cried. He gave a loud laugh and shouted for his friend Brent. I couldn’t go any further, and he knew it. A few minutes later he returned with a big grin on his face. And an empty basket. When I began to scream again, his parents looked frightened. “I’m beginning to think that is not an ambulance. I’m wondering if it is coming from somewhere inside the house,” grumbled Blake’s dad, “Cripes, maybe it's the pipes or something.” “Nah, that’s just Auntie,” said Blake. He knew he said the wrong thing when his parents looked at him dumbfounded. His mom tried to speak, but she just looked at her son in sorrow. But his dad’s eyes flashed anger. “Seriously, Auntie is still here. Well, not here exactly. Like you can’t see her or anything,” Blake explained to his parents. “Oh, baby ---,” began his mom. Blake continued “Auntie keeps talking about our lottery ticket. You see, the numbers we picked won. At first she was upset she was dead cuz she wanted a house in Hawaii, but now she’s glad. Well, I don’t mean she’s glad she’s dead. Even though it is sorta funny if you think about it. She won all this money and then died. But now she’s happy cuz we can have the money, and I have the ticket. But see, I just really want her to ----.” “THAT IS NOT FUNNY,” said his dad.
The room became quiet. Blake looked at the floor, and his parents stared at him. I coughed a tiny bit, wishing for his parents might see me. His dad rolled his eyes grumbling, “Damn pipes. Like I have time for this,” and he stomped down to the basement. The phone rang as Blake’s mom began to talk. “This will be your uncle, Blake, I have to get this. Just – oh, I don’t know, honey, just – ummm- go to your room. We’ll talk,” and she cuffed his chin and said “Baby, it’s okay. You’re just sad.” Blake and I headed to his room with me projecting images of wealth that an 11-year-old could understand – all the French fries and ice cream imaginable, a sports car, a room dedicated just to WII games, his younger brothers living in Siberia – but Blake was having none of it. Finally I projected an image of Kate, the girl he had a crush on. He just shouted at me, “I don’t like her anymore. She gave me hug after you died. That’s scary. She’s scary. All girls are scary.” He fell down on his bed and mumbled, “Just like you!” “Yeah, pal, well, I’m a ghost. I’m supposed to be scary.” “Nah, you’re not scary. But…turns out you are just like any other grown-up. Always concerned about money. You weren’t like this --- before.” Then he pulled the pillow over his head and fell asleep. I wanted to enter his dreams, but his last statement caught me by surprise. And made me think. Day 7 – My funereal. You would think that I would be sad – watching my family in my grief. But I had a blast! On the day of my funeral, my form got a ‘second wind’ and my powers were strong. When my ex mother-in-law continued her non-stop verbal nonsense about how she loved me, I blew into her mouth causing her dentures to loosen and fall out. As a self-absorbed colleague of mine described my work as stellar, I banged my form against her head causing her to see stars. My favorite was messing with my ex. Every time he put down his glass of beer, I would move it a few inches away from him, onto the floor or just tip it. The worried look on his face was priceless. Every now and then I would howl into his ear making his head hurt and give him migranes to which I knew he was prone. I drifted amongst people I didn’t like causing mischief. And amongst the people I liked I sat there and held their hand, saying kind words I knew they could not hear. For some reason, they seemed less sad after I spoke. Throughout all this, Blake followed me. How he knew where I was, I don’t know. His giggling when my mother-in-law choked or my colleague bonked her head did not endear him to his parents who were not pleased with him at the moment. As my ex was rubbing his forehead, Blake walked to him. I whispered to Blake, “Hey, kiddo, please tell me you didn’t throw out that lottery ticket.” “SHUT UP about the lottery already! Are you thinking about money NOW?” screamed Blake at me while my form stood beside my ex. I giggled. And then Blake started to laugh.
My ex pressed his hands against his forehead, and implored Blake to stop laughing. But poor Blake couldn’t stop, and his laughter became hysterics. Quietly his father took him by the shoulder and led him to his room. “We’re going to talk. Just not now. Stay here for a bit,” my brother said gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble,” I said. He shrugged. “I won’t talk about the lottery any more. Well, I won’t talk about it today,” I continued. He shrugged again. “Listen, kiddo, I don’t think this form I’m in is going to last much longer – I’m giving it about a week more.” He looked at me and said “But I thought you’d be here forever.” “Ummm, remember. I’m a ghost. Don’t you think it would be strange to have a ghost hanging out with you forever?” I asked. “Ummm, yeah. But remember. I’m related to you. So strange is, well, normal,” he retorted. We started to laugh again and then sat in silence, listening to the family talking in the other rooms. Blake would roll his eyes when someone would talk about suing the ‘damn airline’, and he’d groan when they said something maudlin. Someone recalled something funny I did and Blake nodded and chuckled. I howled causing my brother to say “Don’t mind that noise. Just old pipes, folks.” Blake laughed so hard that tears were rolling down his eyes. “New name for you, Auntie. I’m going to start calling you “Old Pipes.” Blake and I just went into another set of hysterics. After a bit we stopped and listened to the family noise. We tuned into my brother talking. He was saying something about torturing my toys when we were kids. Blake grinned and tried to listen, but my brother drifted into another part of the house. “Torture your toys? Cool. You have got to tell me about that,” he pleaded. So I recalled the time my brother took my Barbie dolls and buried their heads. Unfortunately the puppy chewed them up before I knew the heads were missing. Then there was the time my brother replaced my dollhouse furniture with GI Joe paraphernalia. When questioned (well, interrogated actually) he said sheepishly that the furniture went by way of the Barbie doll heads. “But you know, Blake. I never did find the furniture. So I don’t know if your dad meant he buried the furniture or the dog chewed them.” “Maybe both? Maybe the dog chewed the furniture and then buried it someplace else,” said Blake grinning. As I told Blake more stories about his dad, Blake began to get sleepy and with a few quick jerks to try to stay awake, he gave in and fell asleep. It was quiet in the house. Mostly everyone had left. My sister-in-law was in the kitchen with my younger nephews and her parents. My brother was staring at the television as he changed stations – not watching, not hearing. I sat next to him and tried to talk, but my brother was having none of that. So I shut up and just sat with him. As I did, I could feel my form waver a bit and diminish. The news came on and there was a story about a lottery winner. So I howled, but it was weak. My brother rolled his eyes and said ‘pipes’. When the lottery number was mentioned later in the broadcast, I weakly howled again. This time my brother looked at the numbers and then towards Blake’s room. “Nah….couldn’t be. I’m just….exhausted.” said my brother. A guest on the late night talk show featured a lottery winner. I could no longer howl. A squeaky whine was now the noise I made. Everyone in the house seemed to hear this noise. Even Blake as he stumbled out of his room. He ignored his parents talking about the pipes and watched the television talk show.
I hovered by the bookcase watching the activity. In the midst of a heated argument between my brother and his wife about their crumbling house, my brother glanced over at Blake and barked, “Do you have that lottery ticket your aunt bought?” “Maybe. But its mine. Not the houses.” “Where is it?” Blake shrugged and watched the man on television cry about ‘all his money but no friends.” My brother shook his head at his son and the television. Then resumed his argument. Blake looked over in my direction. Then looked in the opposite direction, towards the television and by the windows. “Are you still here, Old Pipes?” Blake whispered. It took Blake a few minutes to pick up my mental projection of the bookcase. “Gees. Everyone wants that money, don’t they?” he said, “And then they go on talk shows and tell how unhappy they are.” I tried to speak to him, but my noise – an eerily scratching sound - was even worse than the squeak. My brother and his wife sighed, and everyone, except Blake, went down to the basement. “You’re good at getting rid of people,” he chuckled. “Yes, a remarkable talent.” I remarked. “Huh? I can’t hear you.” Again I tried talking and projecting an image, but I was weak. “Don’t go, Auntie. Please. I want to ask you some things.” I gave as strong of projection as I could of his room. This make my form waver and diminish more, but luckily he picked up what I wanted. As we headed towards his room, I could feel my form become sluggish and cold. This was new. It scared me. It seemed the beginning of the next stage in death. Blake sat on his bed looking for me. I floated above his desk looking out at the darken night. “So, this is what I want to know first. Before you….hmmm…got on the plane you said that you had a trick for checking your school papers. What is it?” Blake demanded. “Ah. Read your paper out loud.” “No way. Dorksville.” “Seriously. When you read your words out loud, you can hear your mistakes. Trust me. Just try it.” “Kids will laugh at me.” I mustered as much energy as I could and then said, “Hmm….two things there, kiddo. First, try reading your paper at home. Though, if you have to read it someplace else, say the school the school bus, then mumble.” I tried to tell him the second point but suddenly my form lost what floating gravity it had and went slamming into his desk. He didn’t hear me crash, but instead waited patiently for my next point. I could say nothing. It took a few minutes for my form to float – a very weak, wavering float. This time my form seem to turn into itself – crumbling almost. “Second,” I struggled, “is what I call Rule of Important Players.”
“In life, always know who are important people to you. Like right now it is your mom and dad and your brothers,” I began. He raised his eyes. Laughing, I continued, “Yes, even your brothers. So what they think is important to you.” “Yeah, so?” he replied. “Well, in life, there are going to be a lot of people giving you all sorts of opinion. They’re going to make judgments on you all the time – what you wear, how you throw a baseball, where you live.” “Yeah, so?” he said, “Don’t you think I know that?” “Here is the trick – you have decide whose opinion matters. To you. If you go around trying to please people who don’t really matter to you, you are just wasting your energy.” I probably should not have said the word energy because my form shrunk considerably, and I floated higher than ever, almost touching the ceiling. “Like my ex-mother-in-law. You might think she would have been an Important Player, but she wasn’t. She was nice, but she never really cared for me. I wasted ener-….ummm…time on someone who was not an Important Player.” He nodded, “So, like that time at the baseball field when that pitcher was calling me names as I batted. He is the districts best pitcher, and I wanted to pound him. But you yelled from the stands to ‘just play ball, Blake’ So…you were really saying that pitcher isn’t an Important Player.” I could see his wheels turning. I hope he’d remember this. As adults we often forget this rule. I did on numerous occasions. “Yeah, kiddo. What helped me with this rule is to remember that people are not nearly thinking of you as much as you think they are. They might judge you. It’ll be for a few minutes, and then they are back thinking about themselves. Further proof that you need only be concerned about Important Players.” Blake took this in, but I’m not sure how well he processed it as he was frowning. He was a kid. This was a grown-up lesson. “So, now tell me about my dad as a kid. He doesn’t talk about growing up much,” Blake said switching the subject. And I began. I told him how his dad made up funny stories that our parents would believed, how he cheated at cards (‘so that’s how he does it, mused Blake), cutting down a neighbors pine tree so we could have a holiday tree, and his basketball scholarship. Then I told him about his dad’s biggest fault – that he overdid everything – maybe to make up what he felt was lacking. “When we were kids, life was tough. We barely had enough food on the table so there wasn’t any money for extras. We worked hard for what we got. As you get older, that just gets tiring,” I said edging my way to bring up the lottery. But Blake’s quick and groaned “The lottery…here we go.” I relented. My time was short, and there were other things to be told. For the next few days I spoke of things I learned in life. Blake argued with me that school work was important, but he listened intently when I told him the only exception to the Rule of Important Players was to do what he wanted in life. “Regardless of what your parents want you to be. It’ll take courage, and I know you have that.” He grimaced when I told him how his siblings would be important to him as an adult. My form was now a speck that floated, like a piece of lost dust, wandering around the room. Blake had a difficult time hearing me, and I had to float close by to speak, though eventually all what I could do was project images. Blake stayed in his room most of the time. His parents didn’t mind as they thought he needed a rest. Blake and I started keeping a count over the number of plumbers his father had come over the house. Blake once made a screeching sound when a plumber was leaving, which got his dad and the plumber running down to the basement. This gave us what turned out to be our last laugh. Day 14. Blake is sleeping now. I thing about all I told him over the past few days. I listen to my own advice as my form is disappearing all together. That who we love and what we do is what counts. Money is not the be all - end all. But it was not to be ignored, either. I hope Blake would hear this. Blake is rolling over in his sleep, and I see a crumpled piece of paper sticking out from under his pillow, and I smile. I want to wake him up to say my final good-bye. Why are good-byes so much easier, yet sadder when someone is sleeping? I kiss him gently on the forehead; wish him a long and happy life, with love filling in his days. Then I am gone.