Until Then by Jacqueline Burant

I’m pulled from my numbness by a screaming tea kettle. Downstairs, pots are banging, cabinet doors slamming, dishes clattering against each other. Purposeful noise consciously made, lifting me from the silence I was drowning in. I breathe a sigh of relief.

I sit up in bed and listen, unsure of how long I’ve been awake, lying in the dark. The floor creaks, each sound closer and slower than the previous one until my door handle rattles, then turns. The door opens with a drawn-out whine to reveal a floating candle, its flame flickering as a chill sweeps into the room. It doesn’t move, exaggerating the dramatic entrance. She doesn’t move. My vision blurs with tears as I try to picture what she would look like in this moment, with the candlelight casting haunting shadows on her face. Her mischievous smile.

“It’s been weeks,” I breathe. “Where were you?”

The sheets fly off the bed. The candle drifts closer. The floor creaks.

“There’s pen and paper in the drawer if you—” I start, but she’s opening the closet instead and sifting through shirts. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

Dresser drawers open, clothing items tossed onto the foot of the bed until a full outfit is picked out for me.

“Can you answer my question?”

The curtains open without warning and light floods the room. I hiss and shield my eyes. The candle floats closer. Its heat ghosts my skin. Still, she doesn’t respond. She’s laying it on thicker, hoping I’ll laugh and forget I was ever upset.

I wrench the candle from her and blow it out. “Get out,” I croak.

I keep my gaze lowered until the door quietly clicks shut.

I take my time getting ready, even as the mouth-watering scent of cooked bacon wafts upstairs. Relief and aggravation war within me, the comfort of her presence unable to soothe the irritation brought on by her behavior. Her tasteless teasing. Like she had never even left me in the first place. I reach the stairs and an ominous waltz begins playing. Aggravation wins.

“Wow, how original,” I call out, and storm down to the piano. “It’s not funny!”

The keys appear to move on their own.

“Why does everything have to be a joke?”

I swipe my arm across the space above the bench as if to disperse her presence. Goosebumps rise in the coldness.

“Do you know how scared I was?!”

The music abruptly stops.

Chest heaving, I drop down on the end of the piano bench and stare at my hands. The silence rings in my ears, filling the empty space where she should be, dragging me under.

A chill hits me. I refocus.

“I thought… I thought you were gone for good this time,” I say quietly.

Warmth returns to my body, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s because she’s leaving.

“No, wait! Don’t go! I’m sorry I yelled. I shouldn’t have—”

The kitchen light flicks on, revealing a table set for breakfast. A loaded plate waits at my seat with a mug of tea steaming beside it. Across the table, her spot has the same dishes and utensils, sparkling clean and empty.

I drag myself to the table. “Thank you,” I sigh.

When the chill in the air returns, some of my tension eases. I watch a pen and notepad float over to her spot and don’t look over again until the notepad is hovering in front of my face.

I’m sorry, it reads. I just wanted to make you laugh.

“Mocking your own death isn’t funny.”

I wasn’t trying to. It was just a joke. I’m trying to make the best of this.

I take a small bite of toast. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

I wanted to come back sooner.

“Sure you did,” I laugh, no humor in my voice. “It must be suffocating, being here. Right? I’m not fun anymore.”

I had to go home. My family was missing me.

“And how do you think I feel?!”

I slam my hand on the table and glare at where I expect her face to be. But, even after all our years together, I can’t remember how tall she was.

The pen freezes.

Shame floods my face. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be selfish.”

The pen is silent for far too long before she begins writing again. I stuff my face to keep from staring, but my throat hurts with each swallow of food she lovingly prepared.

You’re not selfish. Or suffocating. You’re just grieving. It’s okay.

“It’s not okay.”

I’m here because I miss you. I don’t want to go yet.

“But you will leave eventually.”

Only when we’re both ready. Until then…

The pen and notepad drop to the table and a gust of wind announces her retreat. When she returns, she is wearing an old white bed sheet that has eye holes cut in it. A laugh forces itself from my mouth. “You’re so stupid.”

But I’m smiling as I follow her to the couch and sit beside her. She puts on one of our favorite shows as I sip my tea to ease the ache in my throat. My eyes water when she holds out her empty mug to me.

I clink mine against hers. “Cheers.”

At some point, she steals my phone to reminisce on old pictures and videos. Memories all the way back to high school. Her head rests on my shoulder. It’s weightless. Cold. But with the bed sheet on, the silhouette is the same.

I’ll be here for as long as you need, she writes.

The light eventually dims outside, the day passed just existing in each other’s company. She plays another video: a baking disaster that left us, and her parents’ kitchen, covered in flour. I’m lulled to sleep by the sound of our laughter captured for eternity.