Awake and Dreaming - Kit Pearson [60]
“I suppose so, although I prefer the word ‘spirit’ to ‘ghost.’ But there you are, I’m just being particular about words as usual.” Her expression was yearning. “You’re the first person who has ever seen me—imagine that! I haven’t talked to a living soul for forty years! Why don’t you come and sit down, Theo?”
She didn’t look like a ghost. She wasn’t transparent or white or any of the ways ghosts looked in movies or comics.
Cecily looked exactly the same as she had the last two times. She was wearing the same pants and baggy coat, her hair was still messy and her eyes were still sad. Theo’s skin crawled with fear, but she couldn’t help feeling curious and excited as well. She stayed where she was, but she dropped to the grass, clutching her trembling legs.
“How do you know my name?” she whispered.
Cecily sat down on the step and smiled. “I heard your mother call you Theo on the ferry. It’s a good, strong name—it has a real ring of individuality to it.”
“I saw you watching us.”
“You saw me there as well? I wondered, because you kept looking at me, but I wasn’t sure. If you could see me I apologize for staring at you like that. I often travel on the ferry and watch people. It used to be my best place for getting ideas.”
“Ideas?”
“Ideas for books. I was a writer.” Her expression became even sadder.
“I know,” said Theo. “I’ve read both of your books.”
“I hoped you would. That’s why I put one where you’d find it.” Cecily looked eager. “Did you—what did you think of them?”
Theo stopped trembling. “I loved them! My favourite characters were Edward and Gwyneth.”
“I’m so glad,” said Cecily warmly. “That’s the best part of writing—hearing the reaction of my readers. Or at least, that was the best part.”
She stood up and paced the grass. Theo tried to keep still. When Cecily moved, she did seem like a ghost. Her feet hovered slightly over the grass instead of touching it.
“You can’t imagine how utterly frustrating it is, Theo, to be cut off from your vocation in the middle of it! There were so many books I wanted to write! My head was bursting with ideas, especially since I started so late. And then to die. To die at age forty-one, just when I had begun to master my craft!”
“I’m sorry,” whispered Theo.
“If only I hadn’t waited so long to start,” continued Cecily. “I always wanted to write, but I didn’t have much confidence in myself and it certainly wasn’t something my parents would have approved of. When Father died, I looked after Mother for four years. After her death I changed my whole life.” Her face lost some of its anguish. “There wasn’t much money—my parents weren’t rich, although they took care to associate with people who were. But I was left the house and enough to live on. First I sold all my fancy clothes. Mother had always dressed me, even as an adult. I only wore comfortable slacks after that—I’ve never given a hoot about clothes. Then I finally got started on my first book. What a relief it was! All I did those last years was write and garden—I was perfectly happy. Until I began to feel sick …”
“Couldn’t you still write?” asked Theo timidly. Then she felt her face redden. “I’m sorry—that was a stupid question.”
“It’s not stupid,” said Cecily sadly. “I tried. I went into my house and found a pen and tried to write words on paper—but the paper was blank. That was my most despairing moment, looking down and seeing that paper full of nothing.” She sighed deeply. “I can still read, at least. I’ve read most of the books the families who’ve lived in my house have owned. The Kaldors have the best collection.”
Theo smiled—so that’s why Dan’s books were always misplaced! Smiling made her braver. She tried to ask Cecily what she most wanted to know—but the question was so hard to put into words.
“Why … why are you here?” she whispered.
Cecily understood at once. “You mean why haven’t I really died? Why am I not at rest, as I should be?” She sighed again. “It’s because I haven’t written the book I was meant to write. The first two were perfectly adequate—but