Daphne was having an affair. It was not the first time she’d had an affair, but it was the first time she’d had an affair with a ghost. It was the first time she’d had any sort of relationship with a ghost, as far as she knew. She’d never intended for it to happen. She hadn’t planned on contacting any spirits, let alone sleeping with one. But wasn’t that what people were always saying about love? You found it when you weren’t looking. Or, it found you. People told the craziest stories about how they fell in love, but Daphne never listened to them and thought, that could be me. She never thought, one day I’ll get invited to a séance, where I’ll drink too much brandy, and the next, I’ll be sucking ghost dick in my Bay Ridge apartment.
After her last affair with a married person, Daphne promised herself: no more. She’d been doing a great job, too. She cut herself off from everyone she knew that was in an exclusive relationship to avoid the temptation. Before going out with someone, Daphne stalked their social media and flat-out asked if they were single. Then she sent their information to her former roommate, a hacker who ran background checks for sixty bucks. She hadn’t thought to do any of that with the ghost.
His name was Hank Reid, but Daphne thought of him as “the ghost.” She often referred to people she dated in this way, like “the firefighter” or “the neck mole.” Since he was dead, the ghost’s ability to go on actual dates was limited. He could only make himself visible to one person at a time, so Daphne refused to go out with him in public. She would not be the girl talking to herself at a bar or laughing at the empty air in Battery Park. Their connection was just sexual in the beginning, anyway. Once, she agreed to go to the movies, because it was dark and no one was supposed to talk. Plus she only had to pay for one ticket. They sat in the back and he fed her Swedish Fish.
It wasn’t so much that Daphne missed the ghost when he spent time in the spirit realm. It was more that her thoughts kept returning to him when they had no reason to. On the subway, she wondered, had he ever boarded this train car? She had an entry-level position at an ad agency, and she approached every new project as if he was the target demographic. When a song she liked came on in a café, she wanted to know if he’d heard it, and what he’d thought if he had. With a mouthful of sesame bagel and Nightshift on the stereo, Daphne realized she might have real feelings for him.
Then she found out about his wife. He mentioned her in passing, as he was setting up the punchline of an unrelated story. She figured the details out on her own. Her name was Camile Elliot, but Daphne thought of her as “the wife.” She was still alive and staying at their summer home on Martha’s Vineyard. (Of course the one time Daphne landed a rich guy, he was already married.) Daphne wasn’t sure if the wife should be a deal breaker. Did her principles against infidelity still apply, or did death equal divorce? She thought meeting the wife might help her decide. She took the 4:15 ferry to the island. The house had a wraparound porch and dark purple shutters, like she’d seen on Google Earth. The wife was sitting on the porch swing and brought a coffee mug to her lips as Daphne waved.
The wife swallowed, asked, “Coming up?” She was tall and had long, dark hair peppered with gray strands. The wooden steps sagged beneath Daphne’s feet.
Daphne said, “I’m sleeping with him.”
The wife looked at her, blinked.
“You mean you were.”
“No, I’m sleeping with him . . . now.”
“Right now?”
“Not this second, but yes.”
The wife sipped. “He had gonorrhea when he died.”
Waves crashed, and Daphne smelled salt. “I guess I better get tested.”
The wife smiled like she agreed, like she was somehow in on the joke—whatever sick joke Daphne was playing.
She told Daphne to sit. Daphne noticed, as her jeans brushed the wife’s leg, that it was covered in light brown hairs. Maybe she should stop shaving too. Maybe her ghost would like that. What was she saying, her ghost? And why would he? He could get that at home.
The wife passed Daphne her mug. She had wide knuckles. Daphne sipped, choking on the whiskey.
“He hated this stuff,” the wife said. “He liked to drink wine coolers.”
Inside, the wife poured Daphne her own glass. She took a salad from the fridge and handed Daphne a fork. They chewed romaine in silence. The sun was setting
“There are no return ferries after eight.”
Daphne had a picture of the schedule on her phone that said otherwise, but she didn’t say so.
The guest room bedding was cream with cerulean flowers. The pillows were down feather. Daphne could tell because stems poked her scalp as she rolled around. A breeze snuck through a gap in the window and pushed the curtains forward. She listened to the wife’s movements in the next room. A drawer creaked open, and something fell onto the hardwood. Then it was quiet. There was a ferry at 9:20 the next day. Daphne fell asleep with the lamp on.
In the morning, she found a black swimsuit on the bathroom counter. It had a halter top and a diamond-shaped cutout underneath the chest. More risqué than Daphne would’ve expected for someone who didn’t shave their legs. A post-it on the mirror read, “Beach?” She didn’t have anything to wear over it, and her nipples got hard in the air conditioning on her way downstairs.
“Good, it fits,” the wife said. She wore a navy suit and light grey shorts. Together they looked like different stages of a bruise.
They drove along a road that bordered the water. They could’ve gone to the beach across from the house, but the wife said she didn’t like how close it was to the dock. They came to a narrow bridge over an ocean inlet. A group of teenagers sat on the railing before jumping into the water. “They’re not supposed to do that,” the wife said. By the time they’d crossed the bridge, another group was on the railing, ready to take their turn.
Was she being stupid, getting into a car with the woman whose husband she’d slept with? What if she drove them into the ocean? She could bury Daphne in the sand or feed her to those reckless teenagers. Daphne was too trusting. She didn’t know how to look after herself.
She scrolled through her phone, hoping for a distraction, but the problem with dating a ghost was he didn’t have a cell phone. Actually, she was impressed she’d been able to keep things interesting for this long without sending him topless photos. Maybe that was the power of a true connection. She put her phone in the glove compartment.
In the trunk, the wife had beach chairs with built-in umbrellas. She had extra towels and a stocked cooler—no room for Daphne’s harvested organs. After they’d set up camp, she handed Daphne a shooter and a Diet Coke. Daphne burrowed her toes into the sand.
“You’re my dream girl,” Daphne said. She was surprised at herself. Had the ghost ever told her that? She watched the wife turn away, trying to hide a smile.
Should she mention the ferry? On the drive back from the beach, Daphne felt like the boat was creeping up behind her, and she kept bracing herself for the foghorn to sound. But it was like the wife had forgotten Daphne wasn’t supposed to be there. Or she was just being polite, and Daphne was an idiot. There was always that possibility.
That night she woke to a shadow in the doorway. “You came.” The figure moved closer, and she realized it wasn’t him. The wife slid under the covers. Her limbs were so cold, Daphne shivered as they brushed against her.
“I don’t know which is more pathetic,” the wife said, “being cheated on by someone dead or alive.”
“I’m the one dating a ghost.”
They laughed. Daphne had forgotten what it felt like to have the weight of a real-life person in her bed.
“I never knew anyone he cheated on me with,” the wife said.
“I’ve never met any other wives.”
The wife’s back was pressed against Daphne’s side when she woke. Sleeping, the wife didn’t look how Daphne remembered. She was prettier, maybe, or just more relaxed. She reminded Daphne of a child from a movie, but which movie, she wasn’t sure.
There was no cereal in the house. Daphne walked to a market and bought one of every kind that had a cartoon character on the box. She should’ve made a gesture like this earlier. The wife was grieving. She strung the grocery bags on her wrists like bracelets. There was a church across the parking lot. It was unremarkable—brick walls, white trim, and a pointed roof. A lantern hung over the entryway, and the pale red doors were propped open. Daphne stepped inside. She found the pastor practicing a sermon at the pulpit. The woman waved her in and gestured to the front row pew. Daphne dropped the grocery bags on the carpeted floor and the pastor shook her hand.
“This is a weird day to be meeting me,” the pastor said. “I just got my hair cut.” She sat down next to Daphne. “How can I help?”
“I guess I want to, you know, atone for my sins. Or whatever.”
“We don’t really do that here.”
“Oh. Well, what’s your stance on the afterlife? Heaven and hell?”
“Now there’s the million-dollar question. Where do I begin?”
“Do you think it’s one or the other? Or is there an in-between place people go where they still have access to the living world?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
Daphne drummed her fingers against her knee. “Would you believe someone who said they’d spoken to a dead person?”
“It’d be hypocritical if I didn’t, don’t you think?”
“I’m having an affair with him. The ghost.”
The pastor pursed her lips. Daphne expected her to look confused, even horrified, but instead, she looked bored. Like she was working out the kinks of her sermon in her head instead of contemplating Daphne’s confession. She wanted some advice, maybe even an exorcism, anything to fix this problem.
She thought of the wife, how close her face had been to Daphne’s when she came into her bed the night before. She’d done so many bad things in her life, but there was something about hurting the wife that gnawed at Daphne’s throat. She couldn’t keep it down.
“I don’t want to be part of another affair,” Daphne said.
“You don’t need God for that.”
The grocery bags left indents in Daphne’s arms that made it look like she’d attempted suicide. She arranged the boxes on the kitchen island in rainbow order.
The wife wandered in and poured herself a bowl of Cap’n Crunch.
Daphne decided she would sleep with her, should the opportunity present itself. She took a handful of Fruit Loops from their box.
“Hank’s parents have a house on the other side of the island,” the wife said. “We’ve been meaning to scatter his ashes there. I called them earlier and said I wanted to do it today.”
“Did you see that My Strange Addiction where the woman couldn’t stop eating her husband’s ashes?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying. Lucky that didn’t happen to you.”
“You can borrow anything of mine. Just make sure it’s black.”
Daphne looked at her.
“Don’t tell me you’re not ready to meet your boyfriend’s parents.” She added a layer of Frosted Flakes to her bowl. “Oh, and bring your bathing suit. They got a new hot tub, and it’s all they talk about.”
The house had a long, winding driveway and columns framing the front door. It sat on a private beach. His parents kissed the wife on both cheeks and eyed each other while shaking Daphne’s hand. She felt like the scholarship kid at private school. They wandered inside, where the urn was waiting. Daphne had not encountered anyone’s cremated ashes before. Another first in her relationship with the ghost. The urn his parents had chosen was gold and monogramed with his initials. She smiled, knowing how much he’d hate it.
His parents led them to the water. His mother’s heels sunk into the earth. His father held the urn like a thermos of hot chocolate. Daphne wished she’d brought cocaine. If this had been anyone else’s funeral, she would’ve brought cocaine. She’d never had someone in her life, living or dead, who was important enough to make this practice feel inappropriate. Actually, she was glad she didn’t have any now. What would it mean if she didn’t take it?
When they reached the shore, she stayed a few steps behind the others. His mother said a prayer that Daphne couldn’t hear. A sailboat passed several yards ahead as ashes curled through the wind.
Inside, his mother poured wine into stemless glasses. Daphne went into the hall bathroom to put on her swimsuit. The lighting cast dark shadows under her eyes. Or maybe that was just how she looked. She heard the wife say, “Because I want her here,” and then his mother responded with something Daphne couldn’t make out. She turned on the sink and imagined the water crashing over her like a wave, dissolving her into sand-sized pieces and sending her down the drain. She had to let this go.
She called out to the ghost, and he appeared behind her. She watched his reflection in the mirror.
“I can’t be with you anymore,” she told him.
She still loved him but in the way you love an old friend you haven’t seen in years and don’t really want to talk to again.
He nodded. Of course he understood. She thought she saw him smirk, like he’d known all along how things between them would end.
“You planned it this way,” Daphne said. “Didn’t you?”
“She likes you,” he said.
Daphne fought the urge to roll her eyes. She didn’t think life was as serendipitous as that, and even if it was, she didn’t want to give the ghost that much credit. She preferred the idea that she and the wife had come together despite their circumstances, not because of them. And she would’ve told the ghost so, but he was already gone.
That night, Daphne tried to count each wave as it hit the shore, but from the guest bedroom it was hard to separate the sound of one ending and another beginning. She imagined the wife listening to the same sounds in the next room. There was no reason for them to be alone. She went into the bathroom and found their swimsuits hanging over the tub, still damp. The material clung to her skin like a leech. She tiptoed into the wife’s bedroom.
“Let’s go swimming.”
The wife let Daphne drive. It felt like they were on their way to the hospital for an early morning surgery. Daphne pulled over when they reached the bridge where they’d seen the teenagers jumping a few days before.
Daphne helped the wife onto the railing before hoisting herself up. They sat and listened to the water slosh below. The occasional drop of mist hit their legs. Daphne imagined the flip in her stomach from the jump. She imagined how the landing would feel against her skin, cold and biting, like a slap. She wanted it. She wanted to be woken up. She pressed her palm into the wife’s hand.
“Ready?”
***
Rumpus Original Art by Peter Witte
