I look through the phone book and circle the names of a grief counselor, a house cleaner, and a priest. My feet sit in a puddle under the table. I have stopped trying to keep the floors dry. Jeremy drops a roll of paper towels, and they swell with water.
Death has made him even more incompetent.
He floats around the house, opens the cabinet drawers, smudges his phantom prints on the bathroom mirror, and keeps the water running from the sink until it pools on the floor. A Post-it note on the fridge reads like a Halloween episode of a sitcom: Get apples, milk, bread, help Jeremy win purgatory?
He watches me while I read it.
“Don’t you think if I knew how to get rid of you, I would?”
He groans and points his pallid finger at the wet paper towels.
***
The priest begins quickly, swinging large censers filled with smoke. Jeremy is hiding in the pipes. The plumbing moans as he pushes through the waterlines and follows the priest.
The grief counselor grabs my hands, makes me take deep breaths, and tells me I am unfocused. Of course I am unfocused. My husband is dead and complaining. I take loud, performative breaths, shake my shoulders, and yell. He is pleased. He sits back in his chair and smiles.
“We should open the windows,” says the priest. “You should keep them open for twenty-four hours. It allows lingering spirits to find their way to heaven.” He looks at me like he’s solved a complicated equation I should be thankful for. Like I haven’t already thought to open the goddamn windows.
The radiator whines, and I know it is Jeremy complaining.
“You should try to get some sleep. Maybe do some meditation,” the counselor says.
The men leave, and I sit in the kitchen while the cleaner continues to scrub the floor.
She has spent all day cleaning, dusting his model trains, drying the water he let drip from the sink, and taking out the trash that he’s thrown about.
She puts Jeremy’s wedding ring in my hand. “I found this under the kitchen sink.”
My head snaps to the sound of Jeremy, angry in the water line.
“You need to get rid of it,” she says.
I run to the bathroom and flush his ring down the toilet.
The home is finally silent, and I know he is gone.