“I’m going outside to look at the stars.  Do you want to come?  It’s a perfect night for it; it’s still warm and there’s no moon.”

Marilyn tried to inject as much enthusiasm into her request as possible, knowing that the invitation to her husband to walk uphill to the meadow behind their house was probably not going to be accepted.  Each evening after dinner when he had cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, Kenny settled into his upholstered recliner with a sigh of pleasure and switched on the television.  Within a few minutes, the authoritative voice of a male presenter describing a car restoration project would drift into her “lair,” as she liked to call her sewing room.  Years earlier when she had been bitten by the quilting bug, Kenny had added a room to their bungalow.  It was a bright, sunny space from which she could just see the hilltop meadow, the colors of which, as they changed with the season, gave inspiration to her quilting designs.  This room was where she spent most of her evenings, and much of her days since retiring from her job at the local bank.

“I’ll pass this time, if you don’t mind,” Kenny said.  “There’s a program I’d like to finish watching.  Remember, I told you about my ’64 Corvette?  The one this guy is working on looks exactly like mine.  Same color too.”  His audible sigh was followed by, “Boy, I should never have sold it.”

Passing through the living room, Marilyn gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek before pulling on a fleece jacket and going outside.  Theirs was a happy marriage of nearly forty years.  Each of them had been married previously, but as neither had brought children to their union, their love was focused on each other.  Kenny gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his fingers lingering for a moment before releasing her.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” she said, but doubted her comment was heard over the sound of the television.

Outside, the air had a moist, nutty smell – a harbinger of the approaching Winter.  The silhouette of a massive maple tree guided her towards the path.   Passing by, she noted that the leaves were devoid of color whereas earlier in the day she had been stunned by their range of hues, from pale yellow to vibrant red.  That morning she had watched, enthralled, as dozens of leaves detached themselves in a spontaneous gesture of exhaustion, and drifted to the ground in a blur of color.  All through the day she had mused over how she might translate this visual miracle onto a canvas of cloth.  The quilt would feature a pile of colorful newly fallen leaves, together with the figure of a child, their arms outstretched in a moment of joyful abandonment.

It was an easy climb to the meadow.  Cresting the hill, she went a little farther so as to block out any stray light from the house.  Here there was a natural dip, deep enough to be sheltered from any breeze, yet shallow enough to see the full panorama of sky.  She lay down on the cool ground and deliberately closed her eyes.  From previous experience, she knew this would hasten her dark adaptation, and maximize the experience when she opened her eyes and looked up into the sky.  It was easy to keep count of the seconds and minutes.  For some unexplained reason she was able to hear her heartbeat in her right ear — a steady sixty-four beats per minute.  The tinnitus had developed after a routine ear cleaning, but her doctor reassured her it was nothing to worry about and that it would likely go away.  But it hadn’t gone away.  During the day she could ignore it for the most part, and at night had taken to sleeping on her right side to muffle the sound.  Now as she listened, the steady pulsatile thrum dominated the night sounds — the hoot of an owl, a coyote’s howl, some small creature rustling in the grass, the plaintive wail of a train.  One hundred beats later, she opened her eyes to view her personal planetarium.  A tiny gasp escaped her as she tried to absorb the immensity of the sky.  Her eyes first sought out familiar constellations, starting with the Big Dipper and from there following a line to the North Star.  Orion with its distinctive belt was just beginning to appear over the edge of her horizon.  She recognized Cygnus to the east, a grouping that often eluded her, but this evening did indeed look like a swan.  High above, the irregular “W” shape of Cassiopeia came into focus.  But it was the Milky Way that held her gaze, sweeping across the arc of the night sky from north to south.  It was easy to understand why Native Americans from Chile to Alaska had thought of the Milky Way as a pathway for departed spirits, connecting the earth with the otherworld.  Staring at it now, it seemed to engulf her, sucking her into its swirling interior.  In the stillness, she listened but could no longer hear the beating of her heart.

* * *

It takes some time to get used to being dead.  For a start, the whole idea of time is different.  It’s not linear like in life, but seems to be interrupted, as if you were reading a book and skipped a chapter or two, leaving you struggling to reconnect with the story.  The past is irregular too, like watching tiny snippets of black and white movies punctuated by blank sections.  There’s no future, or at least I don’t recognize it.  Sometimes I feel as if I have been dropped magically into an ongoing stage play, where none of the actors notice my presence.  They just continue with their lines, moving through me without missing a beat, and yet I am there on stage with them.

I can remember that final evening on top of the hill behind our house, lying on the ground looking up at the Milky Way.  I came back to the house and went into the kitchen where a light was still on; the rest of the house was in darkness.  Things seemed a little out of place.  A book I had left on the counter, planning to return it to the library the following morning was gone, but I guessed Kenny had put it in the car so I wouldn’t forget it.  A couple of other things had been moved.  But the biggest change was that he had replaced the toaster on the countertop by the sink with a brand-new air-fryer oven.  He had talked about getting one for me at Christmas, so this was a lovely early present.  In our bedroom I could make out his bulky form under the comforter, but resisted the urge to wake him and tell him how pleased I was.  Instead, I lay down on the sofa.

I became aware of two voices coming from the direction of the kitchen, neither of which I recognized.  When I looked, a young couple was sitting at the table, the remains of a meal around them.  He was tall and dark-skinned, and had a pronounced Indian accent.  She was short and pretty, her voice carrying the rounded consonants and dragged-out vowels of the Midwest.

“Who are you?”, I asked, “and where’s Kenny?” I was irritated by their intrusion and annoyed with Kenny for not letting me know we were going to have guests.

They ignored me and continued talking.  I walked to the table and stood awkwardly between them, looking from one to the other.  Again I asked the question, this time more forcefully.  Still they didn’t make any effort to respond, so I grabbed the man’s arm and shook it.

“Look here. I’m talking to you.  How dare you…”

It was then I realized that I couldn’t feel his arm, that my hand made no impression on the sleeve of his shirt.  I reached out with my other hand, this time tentatively, and tried to pick up the knife that lay beside his plate.  Nothing.

I returned to the living room and looked around more carefully.  For a moment I thought I had developed cataracts.  The room had a washed-out appearance, like you might see in an old photograph — not quite black and white, but what little color there once was had faded.  The furniture had been rearranged to face a huge flat screen TV, something Kenny and I had sworn we would never buy.  I continued down the corridor to my sewing room.  On the large work table where my sewing machine sat, all traces of quilt-making were gone, replaced by a laptop computer and neat stacks of papers and journals.

I could still hear their voices in the kitchen as I went through every room in our house, searching for signs of Kenny or me.  There were some — pieces of furniture mostly — but any sense that we had lived in this house for almost forty years together was gone.  I know it sounds ridiculous, but when I couldn’t find our electric toothbrushes in the bathroom, I glanced in the mirror.  It was only then I finally understood: I had died that night under the stars.

But why had I come back to my house as a ghost? I  asked that question again and again over the next several months.  Even though time had little meaning, I knew that months were passing because I could see Mary Anne’s belly getting bigger.  The couple now living in our house were Mary Anne and Arjun and she was pregnant with their first child.  From conversations I overheard, I gathered they had met while they were at university.  Now they were working at two different Biotech companies in the nearby city.

It wasn’t as if I deliberately eavesdropped.  It was just that when they were in the house, I was aware of them and heard everything they said.  It struck me as odd that I could both hear and see, yet I had no ability to feel anything or move an object.  Smell and taste were also absent.  In life that would have been a hardship, but now I hardly noticed.  It was the absence of touch that affected me the most.  Time and time again I would reach out to stroke a piece of fabric or put my hand over the stovetop and try to capture its heat . The absence of any sensation was a cruel reminder of my new state . I could still watch clouds drifting across the sky, see pine branches trembling in the wind, or look at birds alighting on the feeder — all things I used to enjoy when I was alive but now gave me little pleasure.

What did give me pleasure was hearing Kenny’s name or mine.  Little by little I pieced together what happened to me that night.  I had a cerebral aneurism that burst, ending my life instantaneously.  Even if Kenny had found me, it wouldn’t have made any difference.  As it was, he slept soundly through the night, only realizing that I wasn’t beside him in bed when he woke the following morning.  He blamed himself for not going with me, choosing instead to watch that television program.  But the aneurism could just as easily have burst when I was with him, perhaps when I was driving which would have ended both our lives.  I think he might have preferred that outcome, for, according to Mary Anne and Arjun, he was depressed and had lost all interest in life.

I might not have been able to feel, in the sense of feeling an object, but even as a ghost I could still feel.  Just as with the faded images and scenes, my emotions were also diminished; but they were still there.  I still felt love for Kenny, and I missed him deeply — the pleasurable anticipation of seeing him when I walked into the room, a smile lighting up his face when he saw me.  I missed basking in his loving gaze, touching his hand, kissing his cheek, being hugged by him.

* * *

Mary Anne looked up from her computer and stared out the window of her home office.  The maple tree that dominated their backyard was at the peak of its Fall colors, she guessed, noticing a few leaves drifting gently to the ground.  She decided she would ask Arjun to hang a swing from one of its thick lower branches next year; that is, if they were still living here.  For several weeks now, they had been negotiating with Kenny to buy the property.  Meanwhile, his nephew had advised him against a direct sale, pointing out that he could get far more money if he listed the house with a realtor.  As renters, they would have to leave once a sale was finalized.  In her mind’s eye, Mary Anne could see herself swinging back and forth lazily, surrounded by color, while her son played in the circle of leaves beneath the tree.  Lost in this vision, she didn’t hear the car on the driveway and was startled when Arjun burst into the room.

“He’s going to sell the place to us!” Arjun said, stooping to wrap his arms around his wife.  “We don’t have to move.”  The relief in his voice was palpable.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “At the price we offered?”

“Yeah.”  Arjun nodded vigorously.  “After all, it’s not as if we’re asking him to fix any of the things the building inspector came up with.  Still, I was afraid he might change his mind at the last minute.  His nephew has been talking to him again.”

“It’s a fair price, and I think he likes the idea of us living here, especially with the baby coming.”  Mary Anne moved Arjun’s hand to her belly.  “Can you feel him kicking?”

Arjun kissed his wife on the lips.  “I am the luckiest man alive.”

“You are indeed,” she replied, with a laugh.  “Actually, we both are.  And we’ll never be able to thank your parents enough.  I know they have lots of money, but still…”

Arjun kissed her again.  “They love you, and now that they’re going to have a grandson, they love you even more.  Besides, it’s now that we need their money, not in fifty years’ time.”

Groaning slightly, Mary Anne got up from the chair.

“Tell me about the visit with Kenny.  I feel badly not going with you, but the place depresses me.  I’m certain the baby feels it too.”  She stroked her belly protectively.

“It’s alright.  I don’t mind going there.  I know in the beginning I had an ulterior motive, but over the past few months I’ve come to enjoy our chats.  Kenny is an interesting old guy with lots of great stories.  Today when I got there, everybody was in the day room, so I asked if I could take him to the conservatory — that glassed-in area off the dining room.  It was a little chilly, but at least we had some privacy.  We had a good conversation and in the end we shook hands on the deal.  He’ll call his lawyer tomorrow and get things rolling.  He asked how you were, by the way.  I think he likes the idea of a new baby in the house.  He and Marilyn never had children; I think his nephew is the only relative he has.”

“Did you tell him he can come and visit any time he wants.”

“I did of course.  But to be honest, he’s so weak, I doubt if he’ll be around much longer.  All he talks about now is that he’ll be with Marilyn soon.”

“That’s so sad.” Mary Anne made a wry face.

Arjun shrugged.  “He believes it.  I suppose that’s all that really matters.”

* * *

The thought of my husband spending his final months in a nursing home surrounded by strangers made me sad.  I wondered what would happen to him when he died.  How would he find me?  Up to now I had never encountered another spirit, neither in the house nor in the surrounding farmlands.  There was nothing more to learn indoors, so I began to roam the woods and fields around the house, often at night when the absence of light made little difference to my wandering.

One night I made my way to the hilltop pasture and the spot where I had died.  I lay down in the grass and looked up into the vastness of the universe.  The Milky Way was shimmering above me, and as I stared at it, the banner of stars seemed to descend.  I raised my hand with fingers outstretched as if to touch one end of this band of light.  For a moment I wasn’t sure, but then I felt something.  I felt something.  Fingers brushed against my hand, then entwined themselves in mine.  I brought Kenny’s hand to my lips and kissed it.