I finally succeeded in contacting my resident ghost and not by seance but by simply following the notes in the margins of Blythe Summers' book of poems.
Those instructions were directions—simple guides to entering her world—segues into another time.
But all my success evaporated in an instant when I smugly demonstrated to her that I was from the future by proudly waving my iphone under her nose.
She pixilated and dissolved into sparkling flecks riight before my eyes.
A low groan welled up from deep within me. I couldn’t believe my stupidity.
Somehow, Fate allowed our paths to cross and I trashed the moment by proudly displaying an icon of our technology with all the pride as if I invented the damn thing myself.
I slumped down onto the bench seat of the breakfast nook.
The practicality that had grounded me that morning had just pixilated into a haze of electrons—actually, they were still sparkling in myriad flecks suspended in a sunbeam in my dining room—and what was I doing? I was numbly sitting in my kitchen, still reeling from the shock.
I felt I was in a fog and had to get away, so I drove downtown and met Stella for lunch at Sassafraz, hoping the bustle and lively pulse of the upscale eatery would take my mind off Blythe for a while.
As I sat there, I was tempted to confide in her, but ultimately decided against it—she’d think me certifiably mad. To tell the truth, I was beginning to suspect that myself.
After Stella returned to her office, I deliberately stayed out the whole afternoon trying to recover some sense of normalcy.
As I drove home in the stop and go rush hour traffic, I could feel the boring weight of everydayness seeping back into my pores.
As it was, I still hesitated opening my front door, and nervously peered about before deciding it was safe to enter my own house.
I definitely had an approach-avoidance attitude to the whole business—on the one hand, being drawn to Blythe, but on the other, fearing I might be losing my mind.
I waited several days before boredom and curiosity again enticed me to pick up Blythe’s poems and peruse her Segues.
I had to admit the whole experience of communicating with the dead had disturbed me, but what upset me most was my lack of understanding about the whole thing. I just didn’t get it—and it was damned infuriating.
Blythe acted totally shocked and surprised when she saw me—that was real. But, on the other hand, if she wrote the Segues as paths so I could find her, why was she surprised when I did?
The thought occurred to me that perhaps Blythe didn’t write the Segues herself—maybe she copied them into the margins of the book for safekeeping. But if she didn’t author them, who did—and why did she copy them at all?
If for no other reason than settling my mind and clearing up these obsessing questions, I wanted to meet her—I had to meet her again—but how?
I could go back and look at her Segues and try another path, but why not repeat the pattern that brought me to her the last time?
I know I was obsessing but I was bound and determined to return to her era and reconnect with my soul mate.