right next to the TV,” I said, and Vinnie stopped his spin cycle to stare at the blank space of wall where, for me, his dad stood.
“You can see him?”
“Yep.”
Vinnie’s skeptical eyes flicked toward me, and I knew I needed to do or say something to truly convince him of my ability. He needed proof—people usually do—and so, I grasped for the first image Vincent fed to me.
“You learned to dance from him,” I said, while seeing the image of a young Vinnie awkwardly slow dancing with his father. “You were twelve. There was a dance at your middle school, and you asked a girl in your class to go with you. Your father told you there would be slow dances, and you panicked and almost called it off. But your dad taught you how to dance in your living room, to Billy Joel’s ‘She’s Got a Way.’”
It was a private memory only they knew, and it was one that made me smile. But Vinnie didn’t smile. His jaw clenched and his eyes filled instantly with tears and recognition.
That was when I knew he truly believed in me.
I watched his Adam's apple work with a forceful swallow. “So, um, what does he look like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like,” he squeezed the back of his neck, “does he ... does he look sick? Or, um, like a, I dunno, like a zombie or somethin'?”
Laughing and standing from the couch, I shook my head. “He just looks like your dad.”
It felt so intimate, being there with my husband and the ghost of his father. Vincent respected the moment of his son's acceptance and held off on passing along his messages. He simply watched; a somber smile drawn across his face. Before, in the old apartment, I had been too desperate to escape the nature of my ability to realize how much I myself missed him, but I felt it now. I hadn't been given enough time. But is there ever really such a thing?
“I wish I could see him,” Vinnie finally spoke, after moments of silence and his voice was gruff, as if he hadn't used it in weeks. “Is he saying anything?”
“The, um ...” I cleared my throat. “The dead don't talk. I can only hear static, like radio interference. It's weird, like, like we're in the same world but not on the same frequency.”
He nodded slowly, sliding his hands into his pockets. “It's not weird. I mean, that kinda makes sense, 'cause that's really how it is, isn't it? Like, they're here, but also in another dimension.”
I couldn't help but smile at his attempt to understand. “Yeah. Exactly.”
Taking a deep breath, Vinnie looked over his shoulder at me and said, “Okay, so how does this work? He's here to give me a message, right?”
“Usually,” I said. “But sometimes, they’re looking for something from you.”
Nodding, he looked back to the place where his father stood. “If I talk, he can hear me, right?”
As Vincent nodded, I replied, “Yes.”
Vinnie bowed his head and stared at his shuffling bare feet as he said, “Okay. Um, so … Pops … I dunno if you were around when I was in Boston—”
“He was,” I quietly interjected, as an image came through of Vinnie, sitting on a couch, across from a professional-looking woman in glasses.
“Cool, okay,” he continued, nodding toward the floor. “So, then, you know I had to write those letters. Dr. Travetti told me it was important, so I could let go of the shit I was holding onto. And I did write a few of ‘em, to Zach, Jenna, and Andy. I was gonna write one to you, too, but I didn’t know if there’d be a point, you know? ‘Cause if I couldn’t give it to you and say the shit I needed to say, why waste time on it?
“But,” he continued, looking up and facing the wall, “I still have some shit I need to say to you, and if you can hear me, then I’m gonna say it. Ready, old man?”
Vincent nodded, which I reiterated quietly, realizing I was there only as a mediator for father and son. Their conversation felt personal, and I felt like I shouldn’t have been there at all. But I had my purpose, and I knew they needed me, so, I stayed.
“So, I’m never gonna understand why you decided not to tell us about your heart. I’m never gonna get that. But I can accept it was your decision to make and I gotta believe you