The following happened to a relative of mine but I've been somewhat included, enough to be sure it's actually true - I'm quite interested in the paranormal, but not very gullible.
It would be silly to use a «close relative» through the whole story, so lets call her Mary. I'm still Alice and English is still not my first language, so excuse me if I write something weird. Language-wise weird. The story itself is weird but it's meant to be.
So. Back in the 60's Mary had a big love in her life, one of those almost melodramatic relationships, with deep feelings and fiery fights. Verbal fights, no violence here. They've been together for a few years, both soon to graduate and everybody were sure they'll live happily everafter. But they had one of their pride-driven fights over some petty reason and stopped talking to each other. For days, that turned to weeks, and months... Both finished their education, each went back to home town, got job. Months turned to years. Too stubborn to make a call, or maybe afraid. I never understood that, but that's me.
After few months Mary was sure Peter doesn't love her, anyway. After few years he was just a painfull memory and she married some guy. It probably was love too, but she never told me «when my darling husband took me to dinner yesterday», it was always «when my darling Peter took me to dinner in 1966.». Well, yes, it's wacky but Mary is still my favorite relative and when I moved from my home town years ago we stood in touch, making phone company extremely happy.
About two years ago she mentioned there is this rather uninteresting conference or something like that she should attend. And she wouldn't but it will be in Peter's home town.
«Oh, you hope to meet him?»
«Please, of course not. He probably doesn't remember me. Or wouldn't recognize me, I'm so old.»
«Well, he wasn't getting younger either. Don't you worry about that. Only, he could be married you know.»
«Not a widow like me.»
«No, not a widow. A widower, maybe. That would be nice.» (I was joking of course.)
«Yes... I mean I would prefer my husband is alive but...»
«I know.»
and so we chatted on and she decided to go becuse she likes small towns on the Adriatic coast. Not because there is hope. Of course not.
Few weeks later Mary called me from her room in a hotel in the small town. Not a word about sea, or weather, or conference.
«Last night we had a dinner. And Peter walked in! The band is playing, people talking, laughing, I suddenly feel an urge to look towards the door and there he is! Walking in... I'm afraid he's ill. We are much older, I know - it's him I'm sure – but so pale and his hair is gray. He had such great, dark hair.»
«Yes, you told me that. Well, what happened? Have you talked at last?»
«No.»
«No?! What are you waiting for? Another forty years?»
«You don't understand, it's... well, he just sat there, across the room and looked at me. I looked at him and then turned my head away.»
«You're crazy.»
«I know. Wait, I'm not. It's just, you know, I was among my colleagues, talking and... I could not just bolt up and attack him. After all, I'm a lady here, it's his job to stand up and come to me.»
«Now I can almost understand what was happening between you two. And?»
«He kept looking at me, so I looked there. And he was so sad, and pale. So sad. It was going on for a while and people started to get on my nerves, really. Kept asking me something and I really wanted to...»
«Stare at him?»
«And then he got up, went to the band and asked for a song. Singer announced «This one is for Mary.» and they started to play and I tought I'll die. He ordered our song. I was too shocked to cry. As they played we kept looking at each other. The song finished and soon after that he got up and went away.»
«Oh.»
«I could not stand this any more. So I went outside too. Not after him, just outside.»
«Well, thank you God.»
«But he wasn't there. Went home I guess. I asked receptionist about him, but naturally with all those people coming in and out he couldn't tell... I walked around for a while and the musicians had their break so I kind of asked them if they are native here and do they know this gentleman who ordered that song but they couldn't remember him. They remember playing the song and it was for Mary but couldn't remember who ordered it. They weren't locals so... The receptionist is local, I'll ask him tomorrow.»
«Ask him what?»
«If he knows Peter.»
«That's silly.»
And then we talked this over and over, Mary kept complicating the matter, I kept saying she should call him already. She didn't. She stayed for the damned conference for few more days, looking around, hoping, Peter never showed up again, she went home. With heart broken again.
The situation dragged for about two weeks and we spent small fortune on phone bills. Finally, Mary looked for his phone number. He wasn't listed, only his brother Daniel.
«Maybe he was just visiting that day.»
«Maybe. Call his brother and ask. He'll be visiting again, right? You can ask, nobody will bite you.»
«I'm making a fool out of myself.»
«Oh, please, call him or forget him.»
«I can't forget! I've been trying to forget...»
«Then call!»
And she called. Peter's brother simply and somewhat coldly said there's no Peter in their house. Mary apologized, ready to hung up when Daniel said:
«You wanted to speak to my brother?»
«Yes, your brother Peter.»
«My brother died in 1982.»
Mary couldn't speak. She broke into tears, freaking poor Daniel out. He couldn't just hung up to some strange lady who is crying over the phone, so he handed the phone to his wife. Without any explanation. After shocking her too Mary regained self-controll and they had a long talk. It turned out that Peter never got over Mary. He led a lonely life, never had any significant relationship, often mentioned «Mary» and how she forgot him. Apparently, Mary had such a mythical status in Peters life so Daniel and his wife invited Mary to visit them.
As soon as she finished talking to them she called me and I was quite shocked to hear that the guy who is ordering songs around is actually dead.
Mary went back to Peters town, met his family, visited his grave.
«I hoped he could do that again.» she told me. But he didn't appeared this time. Nothing supernatural happened, «just the wind made this sound as I was standing there, like someone's crying. I know it's my imagination.»
Before she left they gave her Peters diary. After few days of reading it, she phoned me and said seriously she wants to die. As official family freak I made speech about «different concept of time in afterlife» (like I can know that) asurring her Peter can wait some more time. And an angry remark «Suicide is for cowards, anyway.» It took months before she was better.
All this time, as I write, I hear snoring from bedroom. And I don't mind. I really don't.
Fri Feb 15, 2008 8:25 pm