Sarah's Image: A Ghost Story

Sarah’s Image
A Ghost Story
1,533 Words

Sarah had lingered for a long time on her deathbed. Her passing seemed to go on forever. John had not dealt with it very well. In fact, at times he had not dealt with it at all, preferring to bury himself in a bottle rather than face her death. He knew he should be with her.
It was sheer luck he had been there at the end of her life. When she had finally succumbed to the inoperable cancer, John had sat on the edge of their bed and held her hand.

That was all he could remember. Now, six months later, a shell of his former self, he struggled to remember Sarah’s sweet face. He had let himself go completely over the edge. Without her, he felt he was nothing. Why would he want to go on with his life? Why should he even want to be happy? He had lost the only woman he had ever loved.

Sometimes, late at night, he would wake up and smell her lying there beside him. The fragrance of her auburn hair would fill his lungs bringing a peace he had never felt before. He would roll over and prop himself up on an elbow to watch her sleep, as he had so many times before, only to realize that she was gone. The fact of her death would hit him again like a freight train, bringing his dreamt happiness crashing down around him. He would sob and pray to remember their last moments together. Why was he such a coward? She needed him and he spent most of his time drowning himself in pity and booze. He was so ashamed of his action and yet he just could not bring himself to watch her waste away.

This night, like most every night, John got up from their bed and went into the kitchen. He pulled a full bottle of bourbon from the cabinet and snagged a glass from the dish drainer. He sat there alone for several hours taking shots and smoking cigarettes, wishing the dawn would hurry. The dawn always had a way of taking his mind off the gun in his desk drawer. This night, however, was going to be a long one. Too long, he figured as he rose from the table and retrieved the pistol. He sat back down and sloshed another long shot. He placed the pistol on the table before him and stared at it. A breeze from the open kitchen window cooled his perspiring face. He glanced out hoping for at least a shimmer of hope on the horizon but all was still dark.

The gun was calling him. Tears welled up in his eyes and he called her name aloud. He had no one else who could comfort him the way she had when he was depressed or upset about something. She used to come into the kitchen during one of his long moody nights and sit next to him. She would run her fingers though his hair and tell him how much better things would seem when the sun came up. He could talk to her about anything. Oh, how he longed for her to come through that kitchen door. He needed her to muss his hair and tell him everything would be all right. John would take her in his arms, kiss her soft lips, and tell Sarah how much she meant to him. She would take him by the hand and lead him back to bed. They would make love and then lay awake for hours, sometimes talking, but mostly just laying there being in love.

He picked up the gun and felt its weight. He had one bullet in it. He pressed it to his temple and started to cry. A high, whining sound emanated from deep in his belly.

“Why can’t I remember you?”

“Where are you now when I really need you?”

“Why could I not bring myself to be with you when you needed me most?” he sobbed these questions into the empty house that was no longer a home.

John pulled the hammer back and cocked the gun. This was it. He could sense the courage building up inside him. Sugar grains splattered and danced across the tabletop as he drove his free fist down hard, almost shattering the ornamental sugar dish her mother had given them. If he had to live with this guilt without even the memory of their last moments together, he did not want to live at all.

He closed his eyes and put pressure on the trigger. As he applied more and more pressure, he noticed a scent in the air. At first, it was so faint he did not recognize it. Then he realized what it was. He associated the fragrance with her hairspray. He started thinking about that last day; the day she had left him here, all alone. He had been at the bar most of the afternoon. He had not felt too much like drinking that day and had been nursing his way through a few double shots. He suddenly felt the urge to go home. It was a bad feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

When he arrived, the home nurse was just coming out of her room.

“Oh thank God you are here, Mr. Jones, I don’t think she will be with us much longer. She should be gone already but it’s like she is holding on for some reason.”

He did not speak; he just nodded as he passed her on the stair and went to her door. Pausing there with his hand on the old glass doorknob, he leaned forward and rested his head on the cool wood as if he were trying to draw from its strength. Somewhere deep inside he almost wished she passed before he could go in. Then he took a deep breath and entered.

She lie on her back, breathing shallowly. He gingerly sat on the edge of the bed without making eye contact. He felt so ashamed of himself for not being stronger. As he stared at her still beautiful yet thin form under the sheet, he could remember all the laughter and joy they had shared together. He could remember every dream and every goal they had for their lives. He could not imagine how he was going to get by without her.

It was there, at this point, that he could not remember anything further. He was just about to pull the trigger when he felt a hand on his hand. He opened his eyes and he was back in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. His wife, Sarah, had reached out and put her hand on his. Her hand was so soft, the skin so paper-thin. She tried to squeeze his hand, the strain evident in her breathing.

He looked down at the clean crisp sheet and spoke softly to her. He told her he did not want her to leave him here, all alone like this. He needed her to be with him for the rest of their lives. He needed her to tell him everything would be all right. He told her that he loved her so much it hurt. He knew she could not speak but he could not bring himself to look into her eyes. He was afraid he would see himself there, ashamed, alone, and afraid.

She squeezed his hand a bit harder. He finally got up the nerve to look at her. What he saw there amazed him. She was not crying. She did not look sad or even like she were about to die. On her face was a very precious smile, the one she had always reserved for him. In her eyes was all the love he could ever feel. A lifetime of love was shining in her beautiful green eyes. That smile told him that everything was going to be all right after all. It told him that she was ready to pass on and that he would be strong enough and would love her enough to let her go.

“Oh, darling,” He cried and put his arms around her frail neck. Tears finally streamed down his face as he gently kissed her cheek and forehead. “I love you so much,” he said to her. “You go, sweetheart. Go and find peace. I’ll be alright.” 

He looked into her eyes again. Sarah was still smiling that sweet little smile. Her eyes still held all that love. She breathed one last, long breath and left him there holding her on the bed.

He released the pressure on the trigger of the gun. He laid the weapon down on the table and opened his eyes. Outside the kitchen window, the most beautiful sunrise he had ever witnessed was taking place right before his eyes. He barely noticed it. All he could see was his wife’s beautiful face. She was an image in the windowpane. Looking into her eyes, framed by the glorious sunrise, he knew that he would be all right after all. He could live again.