I’m jerking off in the shower the first time I see my dad’s ghost. He doesn’t see me trip over the tub onto the carpet, cupping my junk. But there he is – heavy black bags under his eyes, a galaxy of freckles stretched out and connected, giving the illusion of a tan, bald head, red and white beard. He stares blankly into the clouded mirror above my sink, turns and walks through the bathroom door. I wait on the front porch for mom to get home before going back inside.
“I saw dad in the bathroom,” I say.
“You’re grieving,” she says.
She used to fuss him for any and everything. From buying the riding lawn mower instead of the push kind to grilling her steak rarer than she liked. She’d go, “Ah, shit, Jerry, what the hell is wrong with you? You trying to kill me?” He’d laugh, “Everyone knows you’re gonna kill me first, Debra.” Now when someone asks how she’s doing she just says, “He was a great man, and he was my husband.”
I’m taking a leak in the middle of the night the next time I see him. I pass out, wake up soaked in piss. He’s still there, silently staring at himself in the mirror. I try to get his attention, throw my arms around and shit. Then, just like last time, he turns and walks through the closed door. I wait for him to come back for a while, wondering how to get him to see me. If I stand where he stood, what would happen? But the idea of accidentally being possessed by the spirit of my dad scares the shit out of me and makes me nauseous. I try taking the mirror off the wall. It doesn’t budge. I give up, go back to bed.
I wonder where he goes when he isn't haunting me. Like, is there a ghost dad rock band where they only play covers of Live and Supertramp. I feel like that’d be something he’d be into. When I was a kid, he used to pull out this old guitar his dad gave him, tune it up, and strum. Always the same two songs. His calloused thumb scratched against the worn dull steel strings while his other hand fumbled to form the only three chords he knew. I’d stand in the doorway and listen. After finishing the songs, he tucked the guitar in the closet behind his coats, found me standing there. He said when I got older and could hold the guitar, he’d teach me what he knew.
If mom is having any similar paranormal experiences, she doesn’t mention them. I also haven’t asked. She spends most of her time now decorating the living room with houseplants. They hang from the ceilings and stand in every corner.
I’m helping her hang shelves for the succulents when I slip. A few plants crash and spill onto the floor. She goes, “Ah, shit, Jerry!” I wait for her to acknowledge that she called me by his name. She doesn’t. I lose it. I pick up one of the small pots and chuck it across the room, covering the walls in black dirt and cacti. She freezes. My voice booms throughout the house. A parade of insults and obscenities cascade out of my mouth. Halfway through my rant, she slaps me across my face.
“Your father never would have let you talk to me like that,” she says. It takes a second, but it comes hard and fast.
I’m blubbering.
She grabs me by the back of my neck and puts my head on her shoulders. I wail my throat raw. She holds me for a long time, runs her fingers through my hair, “You’re just like him,” she whispers and lets me go on.
We sob as we clean, our faces wet and stinging, hands caked in dirt. I vacuum the last bit of soil off the carpet, go into my bathroom and start a shower. Steam rises and drifts across the ceiling, fogging the edges of the mirror. I study my reflection, see my father looking back at me.
D.T. Robbins has stories in Hobart, HAD, Maudlin House, X-R-A-Y, and others. He's founding editor of Rejection Letters. Find more at dtrobbins.com.