Ghost

This story contains child sexual abuse, substance use and overdose, and discussions of mental health.

The bright LED lights flickered over the snack aisle, momentarily turning the blue packages dark black. The television played reruns of an old sitcom, the recorded laughter echoing slightly in the empty space. That, and the faint sound of air conditioning, were the only sounds at the gas station shop for the past three hours.

Toby put down his phone, frustrated with another loss at a game of solitaire. He eyed the notepad peeking out of his back, then glanced at the entrance door for the millionth time. He was expecting someone. Actually, two someones, but he had no way of knowing whether or not either one of them was actually going to show.

Time slipped away with infinite ease, to the point where the moving hands of the clock over the counter seemed to drag on just to spite him. He waited for it to reach around midnight. That was usually the time she’d arrive.

He’d seen her every single time he’d worked a night shift. She’d come in, get the exact same items, pay the exact same amount of tip, and leave. Without uttering a word. Most times, without even making a sound. At some point, he thought he’d imagined her.

Life had gotten in the way, though, and Toby wasn’t able to work nights for some time now. One morning, when he came to start his shift a bit earlier and to thank Kayla for covering for him, he’d asked her how the night went. She simply responded, “I’m pretty sure I saw a ghost.”

It was a funny way to put it, but not an entirely inaccurate one. The first word that popped into Toby’s head when he’d first seen the woman was reaper. She was tall and long-limbed, always wearing a heavy woolen coat and leather boots to combat the cold and the mud. Her hair was dark, highlighting the porcelain of her skin, but what troubled him most were her eyes. They were so pale, it almost looked like she had no irises. It was like staring back at a haunted mirror, a reflection no one could bear to look at for too long.

A screeching sound brought Toby out of his head, and he saw a car pull into the gas station’s parking lot. His heart began to beat faster, but he kept reminding himself that he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t know what her car looked like, and he certainly couldn’t decide for her what she was going to buy before she even picked it out.

When she walked in, the overhead bell barely even rang. She didn’t look at Toby, or her surroundings, or make any sort of comment on how cold the nights were getting. She just walked to the drinks aisle, picked up three items — some off-brand red wine, Jack Daniel’s and a packet of beers — then headed towards the snacks and grabbed two salt-and-vinegar Lay’s.

Toby gulped, put his phone back in his pocket and wiped his hand on his pant leg. He wanted to ignore the nagging voice in the back of his head, telling him to mind his own business. To stay out of it. That he had plenty of problems of his own, and there was no need to add someone else’s to the mix.

So when she approached the counter, he said, “ID, please.”

Then he immediately wanted to beat himself up for it as he took a closer look at her. She looked gaunt, high cheekbones standing out sharply and a small nose that had a scar, like it had been broken once before. Her mouth was pursed tightly, a small furrow in her forehead as if she was in deep thought, like the task of pulling her ID out of her wallet took an insurmountable effort.

“Wait,” he blurted out, and they both froze. He, with his palm up and a tense expression, her with her ID in a gloved hand and a confused look on her face.

Wide eyes stared back at him, opaque and blank.

Toby sighed. Wrung his fingers behind his back. “Look,” he started out slowly. “I get that I don’t know you or anything, but I’ve noticed you coming in here almost every day and getting these drinks. I don’t mean to overstep or make you uncomfortable, but this is not, uh… normal, you know? So I wanted to ask… are you okay? Do you need to talk to someone? About… something?”

She just kept looking at him with that eerie gaze of hers. “You noticed?” She asked. Her words were slightly accented.

He shifted his weight in discomfort. “Well, yeah. I mean, not just me, the other guys who work the night shift, too.”

That seemed to take some sort of effect, cause she dropped her wallet back into her purse and straightened up. Once again, he noticed just how tall she was. “What would you like to talk about?” Her voice was so neutral it made him a little flushed. She wasn’t angry, which was good, but she also didn’t sound all that forthcoming or pleased at the interruption of her routine.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. A bit like a chastised child. “How was your day?”

Her head tilted to the side, inspecting him back. He tried not to squirm. “I went to work,” she started. “And then I had to review a case I was working on, about a girl who was getting molested by her uncle. She was pregnant, so I took her to the clinic and sat with her the entire day. I tried to contact her mother and father, but neither one of them would answer. So I spent the second half of the day debating whether or not to search for another family member to take her in, or to send her into the system, where she might end up in a home exactly like this one.” She took a deep breath, and when she let it out, her entire demeanor changed. It was like she gave out under the weight, and the lifeline was on the counter between them. “How was yours?”

Toby was stunned into silence. All he could do was stare back at her, chest aching, memories unfurling in his mind like smoke. He reached a hand back into his pocket, pulled out a joint, and placed it on the counter between the beverages. “On the house.” He said, his voice gruff.

Her brows lifted slightly and the corner of her mouth twitched. Her seriousness was still present, but something peered through. “You got a lighter?”

***

“What got you started in social work?” He asked as he passed her the joint. After two puffs, he was already feeling much more at ease around her. Things didn’t seem so scary once your mind stopped working so hard.

“I don’t even remember,” she said and brought the joint to her lips. “It was something that needed to be done.”

“Do you like it, even?” He asked, but his tone was so juvenile that it must’ve sounded more like, “Is there any adult who likes their job?”

She turned to him, slightly amused. “What does like have to do with it?”

He shrugged. “It’s what you’re gonna do every single day for the rest of your life. If you don’t enjoy it, then you at some point you’ll probably end up resenting it, then you won’t put so much effort in, and eventually just stop doing it.”

“Is that why you work here?” She gave the joint back to him and hugged her knees to her chest. “Cause you love it so much?”

Seated on the curb in front of the store, cold wind blowing the smoke in his face, it was impossible not to laugh. “Of course not. I’m making ends meet. That's completely different.”

“Why?” She asked. “You’re doing what’s necessary, and so am I.”

“I’m doing what’s necessary for me,” he said bluntly. And not truthfully, but still. “You’re doing it because… what? A sense of duty?”

“Sort of,” she replied. “Someone has to do it.”

“Yeah, I know. But why does that someone have to be you?”

She opened a bag of Lay’s and put it between them. Grabbed a chip and crushed it between her fingers. “I’m good at it.”

“At what?”

“Talking to kids. Listening to them. Figuring out what they mean when they don’t know what they mean.” She faced him again. “It’s like a language.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get that. Some people are just good at getting others to talk, but that doesn’t mean you have to suffer for it.”

“I’m not suffering.”

“Well, you don’t seem all that happy either.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “If it were all about happiness, no one would do anything besides drink beer and eat chips. The world is bigger than that.”

“Sometimes,” he conceded. Then scratched at a blotch of paint he suddenly noticed on his fingernail. “But not always. There are moments in between the big picture where you gotta look out for yourself, though, right?”

She studied him in a meticulous way he was kind of surprised she was still capable of. “And what makes you happy?”

Toby looked away and tried to prolong his answer by taking a deep puff. He held it in, then exhaled slowly, pretending like his embarrassment was leaving along with it. “I paint.”

“You paint?”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“People who paint usually don’t work at a gas station.”

“You mean, people who paint usually don’t work at all,” he joked, but she turned away, stared up at the sky. The silence made him uneasy, so he continued. “I’ve always liked art and I’m pretty decent at it, but lately I feel like I’ve lost my touch.”

“What do you mean?”

He gave the joint back to her. Ate a chip. “Uninspired, I guess.” That was also not entirely true.

“And what does uninspired look like in your art?”

Toby fidgeted. “Why does it matter?” His tone was both light and bitter. “It’s not like I can make a career out of it.”

She turned to face him, grave expression and sad eyes. “My brother was an artist.”

He blinked. “Yeah?” Was?

She nodded. “He was good, too. Had showings and exhibitions and whatnot. They liked his street style, they said.”

Toby clasped his hands together and held on so tight his knuckles turned white. “What happened?”

“He ODed.” She said plainly. “He always had trouble saying no to people he cared about, so when his girlfriend offered him oxy, he accepted. It hit him differently than it hit her, I suppose.”

He eyed the joint, recalled the bottles, and a pit formed in his stomach. “I—”

“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice authoritative. “I’m good. I don’t have a problem. Just…” she let the word drift off. If she didn’t say it, maybe it wouldn’t be true.

Toby licked his lips. “I’ve been uninspired since I recovered. Mental health stuff.”

“Like what?”

“What do you think? Depression, anxiety, what everyone has,” he tried to sound light, but the memories of being unable to get out of bed, the incredible heaviness of a pencil, how hard it was to even drink water made him sound anything but.

“What happened?” She asked. Her voice was warm and comforting, and he felt like no matter what he said, he wouldn’t be judged for it.

“My mom stopped working and took care of me. Watched me 24/7 to make sure I didn’t do anything to hurt myself. Then she convinced me to go to therapy, then medication, then get my life back.”

“She sounds like an incredible woman. Cares a lot about you.”

“She does,” he conceded. “But…”

“What?”

He shrugged. Then straightened his back. Then extended his arms to the sides. “I was struggling since I was twelve years old, I only recovered at nineteen. All I know to do is sleep, barely eat and distance myself from everyone. I have no idea who I am without my illness.”

She studied him again, slight doubt in her eyes. “Yes, you do. You’re the kind of person who asks a stranger if they’re okay because you’re worried about them. You’re willing to go out of your comfort zone to make sure other people are okay.”

Discomfort gnawed at his belly, making it impossible to thank her. “Every painting I start, I abandon halfway,” he grumbled. “I never finish things.”

“That’s not true,” she shook her head once, then glanced down at his hands. “You finished this joint.”

She sounded so serious, he couldn’t help but laugh.

***

“Biscuit!” He suddenly called out, a goofy smile on his face.

The woman frowned and glanced back at the door she shut after she entered. “What?”

“That’s his name,” he pointed at the little orange cat walking leisurely over the curb they’d just gotten up from. “Biscuit. He always visits during the night shift.”

Her expression shifted, a hint of a smile. “Just you?”

“No, no. He’s a regular. Keeps us company right before the sun goes up. I have no idea how he’s even awake,” Toby headed toward the cat food section and picked up something small for him. “Always nice to see you, big guy,” he said as he opened the door and a strong gust of cold wind hit him in the face, but it was worth it. “Here you go.”

When he turned back, the woman was leaning against the counter, staring at the bottles she’d left there. She grabbed them, returned to the drinks aisle and put them back where they’d been. Toby waited, rooted in his spot, then barked out a strange laugh when she emerged with a double chocolate cake.

“Didn’t peg as the sweet tooth kind of person,” he admitted and walked back behind the counter.

“I’m not. My sister is,” the longing in her voice was obvious, but at this point, he figured he shouldn’t pry.

“Hey,” he said abruptly. “I’m sorry. For, everything, basically. I wish things were easier for you.”

Another moment of her unnerving silence. “Same goes to you.”

“Oh, come on, the two don’t even compare.” He shook his head as he pulled out a plastic bag to put the last bag of chips and the cake in.

“Why does it have to?” She asked, genuinely. He couldn’t come up with an answer. “How long does Biscuit hang around for?”

Toby blinked. “Uh, until sunrise. So for another three hours or so, I guess.”

She pulled a pencil out of her purse and put it down between them. “Why don’t you give it another go?”

He stared at it, noticing how it looked worn, and probably not because of her. “I can’t take that.”

“Of course you can. Things are meant to be used. And enjoyed, according to some.”

Toby picked it up, getting reacquainted with the weight of it, comparing it to how it felt in the past. He pretended not to notice when she stuffed something into the tip jar. “Thank you,” he said.

“Have a good shift,” she said and exited. The engine of her car rumbled in the still night, momentarily frightening Biscuit, but he quickly returned to his usual spot and ate the snacks he was left.

Toby flipped the pencil between his fingers. Took out the notepad from his bag. With the occasional glance up at Biscuit, he began to outline, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought of the woman, sitting at a dinner table, staring at that cake and at her phone. He hoped she’d call her sister, that the two of them might have an honest conversation about their lives. Maybe even talk about their brother for a bit.

He hoped his mother was feeling okay. He should call her, as soon as he was done with his shift, or at the very least once he arrived at his apartment and she was definitely awake. He wanted to hug her, and thank her, and ask for forgiveness for things that were out of his control. He wanted to go out, learn about the world and about himself. He wanted to feel everything he hadn’t been able to in the years before. He wanted to be happy.

A loud thump of a bag on the counter startled him, and he flinched back. “Sorry,” Kayla said. “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

“It’s fine,” his voice was hoarse, probably because he hadn’t used it in a while. He blinked at the sunrays streaming through the glass windows, the abandoned plate in front of Biscuit’s spot, and the complete drawing of a cat cradled in the arms of a smiling woman.

“How did your shift go?”

He put the pencil down. “I think I scared off the ghost.”