Ophelia, Alive Read online

  And then I mailed it.

  It was far from the best thing I’d ever written, but it felt like a small amount of weight—one ghost’s worth, y’know?—had been lifted. And after that, I never saw Rachel’s ghost again.

  So I kept writing. I wrote to Cyndi’s parents, and I wrote to the bearded hipster guy’s mom (it turns out his name was “Daniel”), and with each letter I sent, there was one fewer ghost in the room. Usually, I never heard from the recipients, but some of them actually wrote me back, and I read every letter and kept them in a drawer. Most of them just said Thank you, and a couple cursed me out, and there were one or two that actually asked me for something. I think one of them, believe it or not, asked me for prayer, which was weird, but not necessarily in a bad way. Kind of flattering, really, that someone would imagine that God would actually listen to me. Because, I guess, what else can you do when your spouse has been murdered? You pray, or you ask someone else to pray for you.

  People are strange. But good-strange.

  And the other request I got was even weirder, if you can imagine that. I guess I must have mentioned in my initial letter that I sort-of thought of myself as a writer, because the woman I sent it to wrote me back and asked me if I would write her son, who I murdered, some poetry. It was weird, but I told her I would be honored, and I hoped what I wrote would help heal some of the damage I had caused. It took me almost a month to get the sonnet I wrote for him right, but when I was done, I stepped back and looked it over, and I honestly I didn’t think it was too bad. I kept a copy of it for myself, and I sent one to her. And then when she wrote me back to tell me how much better she felt after reading it to her son’s grave, I think I finally sort-of understood what writing is for.

  At that point, I found it hard to stop writing. When I wasn’t eating or sleeping, I was at the tiny desk in my room, putting words onto pages. Stories and poetry and essays and everything else. I wasn’t sure what to do with any of them, but I started passing them around to the patients and staff at the ward, because why the hell not? Some of them made people laugh, and some of them made people cry, and some of them made people roll their eyes, which is how I learned that not everything I write is awesome.

  And that’s okay.

  But I kept writing letters, and with each letter, another ghost disappeared. A couple of recipients actually wrote me back more than once, and believe it or not, I made a couple of friends that way—we send letters and occasionally talk on the phone, and it’s weird to think that I murdered these people’s loved ones, but they tell me that having a relationship with me actually eases the pain, and who am I to argue? Everyone has their own weird way of grieving, I guess. Some people turn to prayer, some to copious amounts of alcohol, and some become pen pals with their daughter’s murderer.

  It’s sort of like Kate was saying to me that one time, about how there are really only two forces in the universe. There’s death and there’s life, and if Sara were here she’d tell me that they’re actually one and the same, but then I’d have to ask her, So why do they feel so damn different? Because, the thing is, death is huge, and it’s strong. A gunshot to the face, a hundred knife wounds in your gut, a collision with a train. Death is big, and it’s violent, like the emptiness of space, or like pounding your fists on the wall till they bleed. I spent a week as death’s unpaid intern, and it’s a job that I never want back, because killing a person is an arduous task. It takes everything out of you. It tears you apart from the inside.

  Life isn’t like that.

  Life is tiny. It’s weak. The things that bring life are small and they’re subtle, like coffee and sonnets and glass bottlenecks held loose against the strings of guitars. Like sunlight and rain and a single SpongeBob Band-Aid on a child’s knee.

  Life is tiny and weak, and the weird thing is that life wins in the end, anyway.

  I carried death with me wherever I went for half a dozen days. And it’s true that a lot of people died because of my actions. But the thing is, even more people survived. And for the people who survived, life went on, and when they asked me to, I was able to push their lives forward a little, with phone calls, and sonnets, and even a stupid little prayer. I still don’t think I believe in God, but shouting into the darkness seems preferable to just accepting it.

  I still think about the heat death of the universe sometimes—how everything will have to die eventually. But it occurs to me that the universe is such a huge, powerful thing, and life is such a tiny, weak thing, that honestly, the universe doesn’t stand a chance.

  But anyway, I kept writing letters, till all the ghosts disappeared, except one.

  The one who remains is my mother.

  I keep flashing back the last conversation I had with her, when I told her I would look at her writing. Her face lit up, like she had been waiting her whole life for someone to say that, and then instead I banished myself to the bathroom, just to avoid killing her.

  And then, y’know, I killed her anyway (which explains why her ghost looks so pissed).

  I honestly didn’t know who I could write to to apologize for her death, since her only remaining family member is me, and I doubt I could ever forgive myself. It’s like what Sara said about how either what I did had no meaning at all, or I did it because I wanted to. The first possibility is terrible, and the second is even worse, and neither leaves any room for forgiveness.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I sent a letter to my dad. And a few days later, he called me.

  Despite everything, he was happy to hear from me, and he made sure to tell me how much he had enjoyed catching up with me back in January, and that he really wanted to show me something, and could he come by some time?

  And I had no idea what to say, so I said sure.

  So here I am, waiting for the man who left me so many years ago, hoping he’ll come bringing some good news and not just a lot of anger and confusion.

  Behold, I make all things new.

  And now there are footsteps in the hall, and even though my room has no windows, I still recognize the sound of my father’s feet. Even if it’s been years—really, more than a decade—I remember their sound in the hall, strong and rhythmic, with purpose, like waves on the side of a ship, gently rocking me to sleep.

  A nurse knocks to be polite, and then she unlocks the door, and my father is standing there with a laptop, half-smiling and awkward, and still in his lab coat and stethoscope. And without even thinking, I jump to my feet and say, “Daddy!” and throw both my arms around his neck and just hang there, smiling up at his stubble. I realize that’s a strange thing to do—I know this is a man I’ve barely talked to in years—but I’m starting to see how short this life is, and if I don’t love now, then when?

  I remember his smells (slightly boozy, cologne). I remember his voice with my head on his chest. And he’s all that I have now; there’s no way I’ll let myself waste him. He says, “Glad to see you too, Ophie,” and he hugs me back (awkward, sincere). When I finally relax and allow him to speak, he says, “Ophie, I’ve been going through your mom’s stuff—somehow, legally, I ended up responsible for her estate—and I’ve found pages and pages of stuff that she wrote. Did you know about all this?”

  “Well—” I say—“she mentioned something to me about it just before she, uh, y’know. But I really don’t know much, no.”

  “It’s really good,” he says.

  “Seriously?”

  He says, “Yeah, I think so. I’ve been reading it—but, I mean, you know more about writing than I do.”

  I look into his eyes, which are blue like mine, and I’m happy the gray in mine faded away and my world shines the same color as his now.

  And he says, “Anyway, it’s good stuff, I think, but a lot of it is half-finished. I was wondering if maybe you could help me go through it, and maybe the two of us can cobble together something that might be worth publishing.”

  I tell him, “I’d like that.”

  And he’s almost surprised. “R
eally?” He laughs. “Can we get started now?” And we sit at my desk, and he opens the laptop, and I see now how life can go on. Tiny words on a page—insignificant things that somehow contain my mom’s soul. He shows me her work, and we read it together, and I think that he’s right—that it’s good. And that somehow, despite all the death that’s occurred—that I’ve caused (why mince words?)—there’s a glimmer of life shining bright in this room. And a glimmer is all that you need.

  Because life grows, like a weed pushing up through the sidewalk.

  And I look in the corner, where my mother is standing, and she smiles.

  And then she fades away for good.

  Acknowledgements

  Obviously the first round of thanks needs to go to my wife Julia, who was the first person not to laugh at me when I announced my intention to write one of those “novel” things I’d heard so much about, and whose experiences in the medical industry inspired some of this book’s episodes. Without her longsuffering support, I probably wouldn’t have written a word, in this book or anywhere else. Then again, I already dedicated the book to her, so maybe I don’t need to belabor the point here. You’re pretty cool, wife. I like you.

  I owe nearly as many thanks (but not quite as many—don’t get greedy, you guys) to Ben and Rachel Bausili, who have been in this book’s corner from the moment they first knew about it, and have provided me with incomparable amounts of advice, support, cheers, jeers, love, and friendship. I don’t know where I or my family would be without the two of you, but it would no doubt be a much darker place.

  Third, I must give special thanks to my brother Thadd, who has been my friend and confidant for as long as I have known him, and my muse and artistic collaborator for much of my adult life. Thanks for believing in my creative ability before pretty much anyone else did, kid. You still owe me a screenplay.

  Blake Collier, my first and possibly biggest fan, who provided no shortage of encouragement when I was trying to sell this thing.

  Everyone who read previous drafts of this novel and offered feedback and support: my dad, my sister, my brothers, Joe Valasek, Evan Derrick, Ryan Dunlap, Ryssa Laucomer, Megan Timperley, Daniel Bergman, Dana Wimmers, Dallas Koehn, Scottie Moser, Ian De Jong, Pr. Hall, April-Lyn Caouette, Nicole Harrington, Nicholas Tieman, Jessica Buller, Jeffrey Mays, Rachel Uhrenholdt, Carol Mathias, Joe Rubas, Brad Carter.

  Everyone at Christ and Pop Culture, a writing community where I have found no shortage of friends, advice, encouragement, and opportunity to grow as a writer.

  The good people at Cracked, who gave me my first real writing break.

  Eric and Stephanie at Post Mortem, who published the first edition of this book.

  My mom and dad for conceiving, birthing, and raising me. Hope you don’t regret it too often.

  Apologies to anyone I forgot. I’m a jerk for forgetting you.

  And special thanks to anyone who actually read this far. Hi, mom!

  About The Author

  Luke T. Harrington

  Luke T. Harrington is an award-winning novelist, best-selling humorist, and all-around dude with a podcast. HIs debut novel, OPHELIA, ALIVE: A GHOST STORY, won several awards, including a 2016 Independent Publisher Book Award for horror. His nonfiction debut, MURDER-BEARS, MOONSHINE, AND MAYHEM: STRANGE STORIES FROM THE BIBLE TO LEAVE YOU AMUSED, BEMUSED, AND (HOPEFULLY) INFORMED, will be out from HarperCollins in August of 2020. Other projects include CHANGED MY MIND WITH LUKE T. HARRINGTON, his podcast where he interviews people who have changed their minds about big things, and PROJECT CONARRATIVE, an ongoing multimedia experiment in collaborative storytelling with author K.B. Hoyle. He lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with his wife, two daughters, and a yappy doggo.