This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

Published in the United States by Karen Jones

KarenJones.us

First Edition: August 2012

Contents

Books by Karen Jones

Chapter 1

From my window I can see a boy is moving in next door. He has blonde hair that hangs in his eyes. He sweeps it to one side to make sure he can see out. His shoulders are wide. The kind that make you feel safe if he puts his arms around you. I really want him to put his arms around me.

He's carrying a very heavy box. I can see his biceps straining against the light material of his Aeropostle t-shirt. I can't help but stare. He's just so delicious. He looks up at the window where I'm standing, staring. My first impulse is to duck back behind the curtain. Let it fall back in place so he can't see me. Then I remember there's no way he can see me. I'm dead.

He looks for a moment, then continues to carry his heavy box into the house next door. I stand there, frozen, awaiting his return for another box. To see him again. To watch him lift, carry, his muscles straining against the weight of a box containing I know not what.

When he emerges from the house next door, he looks again at my window. Just a glance. Does he see me after all? It can't be. No one can see me. But yet he stares for a moment before resuming his work. Another box. More bulging muscles. Carrying it inside. Back out again for another box.

I watch him for an hour or more. Time has little meaning to me now. But I'm aware of how it passes for the living. I try to keep track. It makes me feel more connected. The hour passes, or something close to it, and he's done carrying boxes. Done letting his muscles work for my amusement. He goes inside for the final time. And I don't see him again the rest of the day. I still wait by the window, just in case. It's not like I'm doing anything else.

Chapter 2

It's the next morning. The new boy next door emerges to check the mailbox attached to his back door, the door facing the highway. He removes junk mail and puts something inside. He reaches out to put the little red flag in the up position to alert the postal carrier that there is mail to be gathered. I watch him with intense focus. His every move is my reason for existing.

He's wearing old denim. Levis I think. There are worn spots in the knees, one torn completely through, and a paint splatter on the left leg near the bottom. He has on blue Chucks that have seen better days and a t-shirt that would have been rejected by Goodwill as too old and tattered.

As he turns to go back inside, he glances up at me, at my window. I again feel the urge to duck behind the curtains but dismiss the feeling as senseless since he can't possibly see me. Nobody has ever seen me.

Then he waves.

Chapter 3

I'm frozen. Should I wave back? That would be ridiculous. He can't really see me. He must think he sees someone. He pauses, perhaps waiting for a wave back, then continues into the house. The house next door.

I'm confused. Did he see me? Is that even possible? He must have thought he saw something or he wouldn't have waved. Did I accidentally cause the curtain to move and he thought someone must be there? I ponder these things the rest of the day while I wait for another sighting of the boy.

I really want to know his name.

When he doesn't emerge for some time, I decide to go to his mailbox and check out the item he put there. The return address might tell me his name. I wait until dark, then creep outside. The current of air from cars passing on the Pacific Coast Highway makes my skirts swirl around me.

At the mailbox, I carefully reach out to lift the hinged lid. It's not as easy as you might think, moving things in the living world, when you exist only in the afterworld. But with careful concentration and years of practice, it can be done.

I peer inside. It's a postcard. I pull it out. On the front side is a picture of the Santa Monica Pier. Water, sand, and the swirling lights of the carousel. I turn the postcard around so I can read the other side. "Dear Lilly, Just arrived at the new house. I miss you. Can't wait for Christmas break when I can see you again. Love, Mason."

Mason. Is that his name? Is Lilly his girlfriend? So many questions.

Chapter 4

He's coming out of the house. I've waited by the window for what seems like an eternity. I can see him now, feast my eyes on his hair, his shoulders, his long stride. I like what he's wearing today. Not shabby like yesterday, but nicer, dressier. His jeans are dark and neat, no holes. He's wearing a polo shirt, probably by some designer. He's chosen some type of biker boots, black with buckles. He has a sort of bad boy, preppy look. I like it.

He has a backpack with him today, so he must be going somewhere. Maybe he's running errands. Or going to school. Would he be going to school so soon after moving in? Did he move in just yesterday? Or was it the day before? Time sometimes escapes me. How long have I been at the window?

He reaches the end of his drive and turns right. He didn't look up at my window. He didn't look for me. He didn't wave. It's silly for me to feel sad and betrayed, but I do anyway. He should have looked for me. He should have waved to me before he went about his day. Maybe it's because I didn't wave to him yesterday. Or the day before, I can't remember which.

I vow to wave to him when he returns. After his errands. Or school. I'll stay by the window and wait until he gets back. I won't miss his return. It's not like I sleep or anything.

Chapter 5

It seems like I've waited a lifetime before he, Mason, returns. I see him the moment he emerges past the huge yellow house on our street. But he isn't alone. Another boy is walking with him. A redheaded boy. He seems familiar to me, like maybe I've seen him walking on our street before. But I can't place him. I can't remember if he lives on our street.

At the end of Mason's drive, the redheaded boy says something, then laughs. Mason laughs too. They raise their hands in a gesture of goodbye, see you later. The redheaded boy continues on and Mason walks up the drive, checks the mailbox. He pulls out a couple of envelopes. I know they're bills because I checked earlier. Checked for something from Lilly.

He has the door halfway open when he stops and looks toward my window. I'm standing there, waiting. I want him to see me wave, to smile at him. I'm nervous. It's silly, but it's definitely nervousness I feel. I see him search the window, see me. I know he sees me because he smiles. I smile back. He waves. I wave back. He looks a moment longer, then disappears inside.

Wow. He really did see me. Until this moment I had pretty much convinced myself that I was imagining things. I told myself he saw a shadow and thought it was a person. He saw the curtain move in a wisp of air even though I know all the windows to this room, my room, are shut tight. Maybe I didn't want to hope. But I'm convinced now. For the first time in over a hundred years, someone sees me.

Chapter 6

Now my entire time is spent by the window awaiting any glance, no matter how small, of Mason. Day and night, I stand at the window. Sometimes I go to other rooms, something I haven’t done in years, to look out other windows. Mason walks on the beach sometimes. He goes shirtless but he never gets sunburnt from the west coast sunshine.

I think it's been two or three weeks since Mason moved in next door, but I can't be sure. I keep forgetting to count the sunrises. Most mornings the redheaded boy meets him at the end of his drive and they walk, perhaps to school, backpacks bouncing. Sometimes, though, Mason doesn't come outside until later, usually wearing slouchier clothes, sometimes bare feet. Those days must be weekend days. He never fails to check the mailbox. Probably looking for something from Lilly.

He always looks for me now. He always smiles and waves. His smiles have gotten easier, friendlier. So have mine. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks it's odd that I'm always at the window. If he does, it doesn't show on his face. He hasn't tried to point me out to his redheaded friend. I'm glad of that. I don't think the redhead would see me. No one has ever seen me before Mason. I have no idea why Mason does. But the last thing I want is for Mason to point to my window, tell someone to wave, and they think Mason's crazy because no one's there.

I'm less concerned with how the redhead would feel than I am with how Mason would react. I don't want him to realize I don't actually exist in his world, in the living world. I don't want him to think I'm strange, or weird, or scary. I don't want him to not like me anymore.

Chapter 7

Mason has just come out the back door of his house. I like his house. It's the same style as mine. They're almost exactly the same. They were probably built at the same time. But his has a more updated look, more modern touches. Mine has been neglected, handed down from one family member to the next, each successive one less interested in home maintenance and upkeep.

My house, my home, was beautiful once. Just like Mason's. It has three stories, a balcony on the second floor facing the ocean, and an observation deck on the third floor. It's been several colors over the years, my favorite being yellow. Right now though, it's a peeling and chipping dirty shade of gray.

Mason's house is in much better shape. The outside is painted lavender and pink with very bright white trim. It makes me happy to look at it. Mason's mother has decorated the deck with potted plants. White wicker furniture is arranged in seating areas on the observation deck. Mason's mom has done a wonderful job.

This morning Mason is barefoot, wearing cutoffs and a paper-thin t-shirt with a tear at the collar. His hair looks like he hasn't combed it yet. He looks in the mailbox. I wait patiently for him to check the contents, turn toward my house, look my way, smile and wave.

But today, he doesn't look up. There's no smile for me. No wave. He just stands there, flipping through the envelopes he retrieved from the mailbox. Over and over again, sorting through them like the first few times he missed something and if he keeps shuffling through them he'll find it. It will be there.

Except that it won't. Because I have it. The letter from Lilly.

Chapter 8

Mason went in his house hours ago and I can’t stop pacing. I keep tapping the letter on my open palm considering whether or not to open it. To read it. If I open it I can’t return it to him. If I can’t return it to him he might call her to see why she didn’t mail him a letter. But letters go missing all the time. It’s one of the few things you can count on with modern-day mail delivery.

I could put it back. Leave it unopened and return it to Mason’s mailbox. It will be dark soon. Returning it would make it like it never happened. Like I’d never taken it. It would only be a day late getting to Mason. He would probably shrug it off.

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