Eric and I got in a fight. He thinks I have a problem — that I’mabusing the Tylenol PM. Listen to how stupid that statement sounds. It’s anover the counter pain killer, not OxyContin. Also, I would fucking know if a Ihad a problem. I grew up with addiction. I watched it every day of mychildhood. What the fuck does he know about it? He watched an after-schoolspecial once? Or maybe a piece on Dr. Phil?
So I overslept and missed a few days of work. Who cares? It’s notlike I’m the bread winner. I only work so we can have play money.
The actual reason he’s pissed, if I were to guess, is because ofChristmas morning. He and the kids couldn’t wake me and had to go about themorning ritual sans mommy.
I get it. He had a perfect fucking family, and Christmas wasmagical. Well, the kids are almost teenagers. They don’t need mommy to get upand watch them open their presents. If I want to sleep in a little on a dayoff, then who the hell is Eric to judge?
He says I have a problem, and that I should talk to someone aboutlosing my dad. I do have a problem, but it’s not the death of my loser father.It’s finding him in my house, breathing his poisonous tobacco, dragon smoke allover my life.
December 30
Everyone’s avoiding the living room. They don’t consciouslyrealize he’s there, haunting our house, but they all feel it on some level. TheTV only plays old, black and white shows and movies. Every channel ismonopolized by the monochromatic dead. Kyle and Georgie don’t even bother withit.
Marla won’t step in there. She’s abandoned her dog bed and sleepson the cold tile beneath the kitchen table. Even passing through the livingroom on our way out for walks makes her fur stand on end. She growls and yipsin the direction of the couch, at that taunting, invisible specter.
Eric keeps complaining about drafts and insulation. He goes on andon about getting new windows, not realizing that the chill is emanating from myfather’s rotten ghost.
January 2
New Year’s was a shit show. It started off well enough. We stayedin the kitchen, playing board games and listening to music. We ate cheese andcrackers, and drank Pepsi and champagne. There was even an unspoken agreementto pretend that the living room didn’t exist. I was perfectly happy with that.
Around midnight Eric decided he wanted to watch the ball drop onthe big TV. Georgie and Kyle seconded him. I nervously assented and weadjourned to the living room.
It was cold, and wreaked of smoke. Kyle’s nose crinkled indisgust, and everyone’s mood dropped three notches after crossing the threshold.
Eric turned on the TV. It went straight to a twilight zone rerun,the one where the last guy on earth loses his glasses and can’t read all thebooks. Dad’s favorite.
Eric fought with the remote and the cable box for two minutesbefore finally bringing up the New Year’s countdown. When the camera moved awayfrom the gathered crowd and came to focus on Ryan Seacrest, in lieu of the lateDick Clark, the signal wavered sending ripples of static down the screen.
I turned to look at the couch. As I expected, an angry puff ofsmoke manifested in the air. My dead father was throwing a temper tantrumbecause he wanted The New Year’s host he was used to.
Eric grumbled about the cable company and the reception, but myeyes were focused on the pulsing ember that floated in mid-air. On the TV, allof Times Square counted down from ten, as did my boys, but all of that wasbackground noise behind the labored moans of my paternal ghost.
Eric joined in with the counting, abandoning his grumbles aboutthe wavy lines obscuring the broadcast.
Five. Four.
The smoke in the air took on familiar features. My father’smiserable, ethereal face stared through me and at the television. He looked thesame as he had in life, greedy for misery and pissed at the world.
Three. Two.
The line of smoke that made his mouth twisted into a hatefulsmirk. A second before midnight the image collapsed into a formless cloud andthe lights cut out. Sparks erupted from the power strip, the fixtures, and thesockets.
Georgie let out a cuss word that we ignored, then all was silence.After a few moments Eric chimed in with a sarcastic, “Happy new year?”
I disregarded my husband’s satire. My back was turned to myfamily. I stared intently at the couch, waiting for the orange dot of myfather’s cigarette to appear. When it did I lost my mind.
“Get the hell out!” I screamed. “Get the hell out of my house!”
I can only imagine that Eric and the boys stared at me with slackjawed horror. A hand touched my shoulder, presumably Eric’s. I shrugged it offand continued my verbal assault,
“You can’t have this! You’re dead and this is mine! My house! Myfamily!”
The phantom cigarette vanished and a puff of white smoke hit me inthe face. I collapsed to the floor screaming, not words but raw emotion. Ikicked and thrashed on the ground, until Eric eventually restrained and calmedme.
He got me into bed, then took the kids aside. He probably gavethem some feel good psychobabble about how their mom wasn’t crazy, justemotionally strained.
Soon after that he came to bed. We didn’t speak. He just held meas I cried. The smell of smoke wafted in, but I ignored it and gave myself tomy husband’s embrace and to sleep.
January 7
They’re gone. Eric. Kyle and Georgie. Marla. Gone.
Eric kept begging me to get help, especially after New Year’s. Irefused. What help was there to be had? Maybe if he meant an exorcist, but no,he wanted me to see a damn shrink, as if talking about my feelings would sendthe ghost in our living room packing.
It was becoming unbearable. The smoke, the blue flickering lightof the TV, the bullshit happy facade of classic television.
I upgraded from Tylenol PM to Ambien. When Eric found out, he lostit. He threatened to leave me and take the kids. I knew he was bullshitting atthat point, trying to scare me, but then my
