Ghost Stories

No one sleeps on the settee downstairs. No one even sits on it, not even company. Only my mother dares to brush it lovingly with her hand sometimes as she passes. Something about the little couch makes people uneasy, but in a respectful way. I don't fear it; sometimes I sit downstairs with it and just breathe.

My father began to die on that settee.

Twenty years ago, he and my mother returned from their regular Saturday night excursion to their local social club. She told me later that he was holding his side all night and grimacing, but when asked about it, he said he was fine.

They walked through the door and my mother headed for the stairs.

"I think I'm sleeping down here tonight," my father said. At my mother's questioning stare, he smiled and said, "I'm not feeling so well. Go have a peaceful night. I'll toss and turn down here."

She kissed his cheek and went to bed.

The next morning, she came downstairs early to check up on him. He was already awake, but especially quiet, and followed her into the kitchen. "Mmm, eggs," he said with a forced smile when she glanced up from the stove to where he sat at the kitchen table.

"Are you feeling any better?" she asked, her back turned.

"I feel...peculiar," he replied. His voice trailed off and he went quiet.

When my mother turned, mouth open to ask him another question, he was gone.

It took months for her to come to terms with living without him. I kept in contact with her as usual, as did my sister and her two grown children, and we came to visit when we could. One Sunday afternoon, we managed to coordinate our visits, and we were all sitting together in the living room of the house in which we'd grown up.

I sat in the chair facing the window, where I could remember watching football with my father on past weekend afternoons just like this one. My sister faced me, and her daughters sat alongside her on the family couch.

My mother came into the room with a tray of drinks. Her eyes fell on the settee, the only empty spot in the room. I half rose to offer her my seat, but she strode purposefully across the room and sat down. A little sigh escaped her.

The time began to pass as we reminisced in gentle tones about our father and husband. Suddenly, at 3:10 p.m., my mother stopped mid-sentence and began to cry.

"Oh, Mum," my sister said, reaching across the coffee table to pat our mother's knee. "There, there. Please don't cry."

"What's wrong?" the more vocal of my nieces asked.

It was as if I could feel every needle of emotion in my mother's mind and heart. My head lifted without control, and I saw out the front window exactly what it was that made my mother's tears fall.

"It's Dad," I said softly.

A hush fell over everyone. My sister's mouth was hanging open. I continued, still staring at the vision. "He's wearing his hat and jacket. Oh -- he just looked in and waved. Just like every Sunday afternoon."

"Right around three," my mother whispered hoarsely.

My sister turned around, craning to see what I was so clearly envisioning. "Is it true, Mum?" she asked, her eyes bewildered.

Our mother nodded. "Yes."

I reached out and took my mother's wrinkled hand in mine, and we watched in silent communion as our lost loved one waved once more, put his hands in his pockets, and disappeared into the crisp fall air.