Orange

A ghost story

 

 

 

            After the first year the tears ceased their endless flow. The pain remained, but the tears stopped. His dreams had subtle differences, locations changed, colors changed, even the position of the moon had changed, but she remained, hidden away in his head. Locked in his mind's cell, the only place she exists. He had attempted to cry her out of his head, hoping she would slide out through his eyes in a little tear ship. But she remained in her cell. It was as if she had never died, the way her eyes looked into his when he slept. Her voice woke him up in the night and he could smell her in the room for a second, a warm smell, unmistakable. In the kitchen he would hear her preparing dinner, the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board, the opening and closing of the refrigerator. But when he would open his eyes and stare at the emptiness next to him in the bed, he knew it was just her in his head, trying to get out.

 

            After he moved out of the house they had lived in for five years, the changes were too hard to cope with. His job was harder, his stress level building up. He knew nobody in the new town, and he gradually became more lonely. Living in a new house, a different house, a cold house, he longed for his old home. The first tears in years came after he switched residences into the different house. His dreams lacked a certain familiar feeling, a warmth. In the mornings he cried because he had forgotten about her. When he left his old home she stayed. She wasn't in his dreams anymore after the move. In the new house he would wake during the night and walk to the window and stare at the stars and the moon. He would look down at the unfamiliar back yard, the lack of the woods and the trees, and cry. The moon was his only familiar friend.

 

            He stayed in his new house for one month. Without even thinking he packed up and left. He drove back to his old town and contacted his real estate agent, and in a couple of days he moved back into his home. He finished unpacking late in the evening and walked in the back yard. The reason he kept telling himself he came back. For the woods and the trees at the bottom of the hill. The moon was high and orange. Everything in this town was completely orange in November. The woods big and dark, the tips of the trees ablaze with the moon light. Orange. Her favorite color. 

            He felt a familiar warmth emerge from his eyes and slide down his cheeks. It was her saying hello, she knew he was home. He continued his descent down the hill into the woods. He stopped at the first tree and turned around. He went back up the hill to his house. Not yet, he thought. Not yet. A mist formed at the shallow base of the hill. The moon light reflected in his wet eyes, shined off his tears. He walked up the steps to the back porch and slid open the glass door. He shut the door behind him and took one last glance at the woods, the lake behind them, the fog dozing off on the water. It rained.

                       

            In the morning he went downstairs and made coffee, and sat at the table waiting. He gazed out at the orange trees and the dark lake beyond them. After a moment the suns glare could be seen through the window. The coffee was ready and he poured a cup. He was about to take a drink when he heard a faint noise, small murmuring. He set the cup on the table and left the dining room. It was dark in the house, and so cold it hurt to breathe. He walked into the small living room and looked at the faces on the TV screen. He looked for a moment at it, without question, and then realized he had not turned on the TV.

            “Hmmm,”

            He turned off the TV and left the room. He walked back into the kitchen and forgot what he was doing. He opened the fridge and stared blankly at the half full containers. He smelled coffee and went to the kitchen table and then stared blankly at that. The coffee cup was not there. He sighed and went back to the living room and looked for his coffee cup.

            “Where the hell,”

            The cup was nowhere, so he gave up, and walked outside and stood on the porch. The sun was up higher than it was earlier. The morning was bright and cold, the air felt smooth in his lungs. He stepped down the steps and walked down the hill. He stood at the base of the woods and peered into the orange maze. He was very skeptical about walking into the forest, because he knew what was in there. He knew of course it was not dangerous, he was not scared, he just didn't want to remember. But despite his skepticism he walked in.

            The woods were a mess, the trees old and wrinkled, the ground ablaze with orange leaves, wet from the rain, and the roots emerged from the soil like dead fingers. He found it hard to walk, tripping over rocks and holes, falling into mud. The sun was obscured in the woods, and he could see his breath in the dark. Rain dripped from the trees onto his shoulders as he stumbled to the spot. He could make it out now. The last tree, by the dock that went out into the lake. That is where she was. He ran and jumped over the protruding roots that seemed to want to pull him into the ground. He stood on the wet shore next to the orange fruit tree. She planted this tree, and he planted her with it. He looked at his feet and let a tear slide down his face and hit the soft tan wet sand. His shoes were dirty, the ends of his pant legs wet with dew. He touched the bark of the orange tree and caressed it. He felt the dark green leaves, rubbed them gently. He pulled one off and smelled it. It smelled like her. He slipped it in his pocket, and touched an orange with his finger. He pulled on it gently, and it popped off the branch.

            He remembered when they planted this tree here together, all those years ago. It was so small, but now it sprouts from the ground, tall and alive with her soul. The skin of the orange was soft, the ripples small and symmetrical. Perfect. He peeled off the skin and held the wet orange. Juice dripped from his fingers, and he put the whole thing in his mouth.

            “I'm sorry, dear.”

            He looked out upon the lake, looked at the exact spot where he had found her lifeless body float  in one spot, the fog swallowing her. He turned and left the shore. The trees grew thicker as he neared the house, as well as the roots that reached at him. He was all up in his head, not aware of the growing, tangled mess below him. A root took hold of his foot, and seemed to almost squeeze it. He tripped and pushed himself up, but his foot was stuck down in a cave of root.  He jerked his leg and his bare foot shot out, his wet sock dangling by a toe.

            He reached down in between the roots and felt for his shoe. He crouched and blood rushed to his face, hot. He felt something cold touch his hand, wet and soft. He jerked his hand away and got up and ran. He ran through the woods, dodged trees, jumped over streams, and ran up the hill. He ran hard and blood beat through his temples and in his ears. He stood at the base of the porch and looked down at the trees. The woods beckoned him, but he refused to go back, and looked away. He sat in the wet grass and watched the sun hide behind a cloud. His eyes closed. His foot cold. He heard footsteps near him, and he opened his eyes. There were no footsteps. It was only his heart beat.

            He went up the steps and into the house. He flung off his wet socks and changed them. The house was cold. It smelled like coffee in the kitchen and he remembered. He went downstairs into the kitchen and grabbed a new coffee cup and as he began to pour the coffee he caught a glimpse of the original coffee cup, the exact place he left it, on the table. He set down the cup in his hands and walked over to the table and picked it up. There was a lipstick smudge on the rim of the cup.