I didn't know what to say to her, so I said the emptiest words in any language, "I'm sorry." I thought about adding other words: "I'm so sorry"; "I'm so sorry for your loss"; "I'm so sorry; is there anything I can do?" But what was the point? She bore her suffering from life through death and into whatever state of soul she was in as she sat beside me. What is a ghost, anyhow, if not some deep hurt persisting inside and outside of time? And does that mean those who feel things most deeply, love most deeply, and suffer most deeply will be suspended in a neither/nor realm of quasi-existence forever? That is just too, too sad to believe. Why does suffering endure and not joy? So I asked her, "Miss Wallace, when you first came to me, you said that all things would be restored in time. Is that true?"
"Give me a moment." She pulled a hood over her head and tugged it down so the hood covered her eyes. "I came to you as a caricature, speaking as a caricature, and prophesying as a caricature. How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
"You will learn soon enough that most people will come to you as caricatures because they're terrified of being known. When boys and girls came to me for the unveiling of their futures, they wanted a mountain maid, a witch, a lunatic even, but not a heartbroken old woman who despaired of finding love again. That's not who they wanted, so I gave them what they wanted."
"And you promised them restoration because that's what they wanted?"
"Yes. We mourn the loss of trivial things because every loss reminds us of the Great Loss to come. Recovering a ring or finding a silver dollar is like a little resurrection. That's why the Kingdom of God was likened to a woman who finds a lost coin."
"But is resurrection real?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"Are you?"
"More or less. But why must you question a beautiful idea?"
"Because I want to know!"
"Do you?"
"More or less."
We sat in the silence of neither/nor, and I felt a gaping hole open at my feet.
I asked her, "What will you do now?"
"Stay around until someone else wakes up to pee, I guess."
"Huh. I thought I was . . ."
"Special? That's what everybody thinks. Thinking we're special is cousin to the desire for resurrection. Do you really think you were the first to ask me about Cynthia?"
"Maybe. Was I?"
"Don't fool yourself."
"Okay. So, let me ask you one another question. Are you being real with me now? I can't see your face."
"Trust me; you don't want to see my face."
"But what you're saying: Are you being honest with me or are you being who you think I want you to be?"
Somewhere down the river, someone started cracking sticks to start a fire, and someone else was unzipping a tent flap. There were voices.
"It's time for me to go," said the apparition. "What does it matter if I'm being real? People interpret ghosts in different ways. That's all a ghost is: the object of equivocal interpretations. It doesn't matter what I say."
"But it does to me!"
"Because you're special? I've got to go."
"Wait! One last question: Is it true that nothing done in love is ever in vain?"
"I've got to go."
The hooded heap of rags sloughed down from the picnic table and shuffled toward the long shadow under the bridge. And as she made her way across the sward of grass, the sky began lightening in early dawn. I looked up to see a fingernail of a moon hanging in the purple penumbra.
I thought about getting back in my sleeping bag and trying to go back to sleep, but a park ranger came up and told me it was time for me to "move on." He was going to give some sort of early morning program in the pavilion and needed to get it ready. That sounded reasonable. I was packing my stuff in my duffle bag when he asked me how my night was. I told him about the apparition, and he smiled and said, "So you got to meet Jean? Did she tell you about Cynthia?"
I told him she did, and he shook his head. "Imagine: Jean died in 1940, almost thirty years ago, and she's still looking for her lost love."
"How did she die?" I asked.
"The worst way possible. She burned to death when her cabin went up in flames. But even with such a horrible passing, it's Cynthia who troubles her."
I said, "Well, thanks for letting me sleep here. Guess I'll try to hitch a ride south."
"Where you headed?"
"Arkansas. Onyx, Arkansas."
"Onyx? Never heard of it. Well, good luck."
"Thanks."
I began walking along the road through the campground, and when the traffic picked up, I stuck out my thumb. Pretty soon I was on my way to Eureka Springs with a family from Iowa.
I'll tell you that story next.