Nancy closed her eyes and Serena gripped onto her grandma’s bony hands even harder.
Soon, she noticed that her grandmother’s chest stopped rising. That was when she knew that she was dead.
Her eyes moist, she glanced about the room. She tried to console herself with the reminders that her grandmother had led a very long and successful life, with her passion as her career.
A poster above her bed showed Nancy crooning sweet melodies on stage, in front of thousands of adoring fans.
Five framed newspaper articles hung in front of the bed, above the television set. The first article read After her debut album was certified platinum, singer Nancy wins Grammy for Best New Artist.
The second one, dated a few years later read, In surprise Upset Victory, rookie Singer Nancy wins Academy Award for Best Original Song in Disney animated feature.
The third one, dated decades later, read Singer Nancy Newest Recipient of Grammy Legend Award. The fourth one, dated around the same time as the third one, read Singer Nancy Receives Own Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
The fifth one, dated recently, read Singer Nancy inducted into the Order of Canada.
A sixth inconspicuous article was not framed, but sat quietly on the bedside table, beside Nancy’s glass of water.
This was an article from the Vancouver Sun. It was a brief interview with Nancy. Serena picked it up. She did not remember seeing this article before. It was dated just a week earlier.
She scanned the article. One question jumped out at her. The interviewer asked, “What is the proudest achievement of your career?”
Serena expected her grandmother to say that she had millions of fans, but Nancy did not say that. Instead, she said, “My proudest achievement was revealing that I had been a poor Macedonian village girl who had been sex-trafficked to North America. I said that if someone with humble origins like me could achieve success then anyone can. Years after I revealed that, I received a letter from a very successful business lady who ran a Fortune 500 company. In that letter, she told me that she too had been sex-trafficked to North America from a tiny village in Romania. When she arrived, she had no hope. Until she saw my interview. She got up, hired a lawyer to sue her traffickers and then she borrowed money to start her own business. That’s what I’m proudest of. Not having sold albums, but helping inspire others.”
Serena read the article with awe, understanding that her grandmother had had a very successful life. She had not known that her grandmother had been a victim of sex trafficking.
Still, she wondered how exactly this Ryan person fit into her life. Nancy had said that if it hadn’t been for Ryan, she wouldn’t have been as successful, but she did not elaborate how.
Serena went over to the corner and picked up Ryan’s guitar. Sure enough, she saw the inscription Serena on it. No one had told her that she had been named after Ryan’s guitar. Whoever he was, he must have been someone very special to her grandmother.
She bent down and gave Nancy a kiss on her cold cheeks. “Goodbye, grandma.”
***
When Nancy opened her eyes, she was standing in her retirement room. She could see herself lying down in the bed and her teary-eyed granddaughter playing a song to her dead body with Ryan’s guitar.
It was an upbeat version of a sad song that Nancy had taught her. She had written that song after she had arrived in Hollywood, in remembrance of Ryan. He was the one who told her not to be sad, to see the wonder in the world.
What do you do when you’re happy?
And what do you do when I am too?
Fly with me to the clouds
And I’ll be happy with you.
“Serena!” Nancy shouted. “Serena. Can you hear me?”
Serena did not stir.
Nancy was indeed dead.
She smiled. She was not scared. She had been dead before. She knew what would happen. Any minute now, a door would open up to her. And she would be expected to pass on to Heaven. This time, she would leave quickly, so that there would be no chance a demon could trap her on Earth.
Then, she saw it. There it was, that famous white light, in the shape of a rectangular door.
There was no sound but Nancy could feel something call her, calling for her to step through the door.
Come through me, Nancy felt it was saying. Come through me and you’ll be all better. No more pain. No more lies. No more bad people. You’ll bask in love for all eternity.
She felt drawn to it, like it was her home.
She could see her reflection in the light. She was, once again, a 19 year-old girl, the age when she met Ryan.
“Go on,” a pleasant female voice said.
A woman stepped out in front of her. She was a plump woman, with short white hair and wide spectacles that made her eyes look huge. She was wearing a white evening gown. It was the same woman Nancy had met when she was underwater.
The wind blew through Nancy’s flimsy pajamas. “Will I see Ryan there?”
The lady said nothing, but merely motioned for her to pass through.
Nancy stared hard at the bright door. Before, when she was alive, she was merely full of hope that she would see Ryan again. But, of course, she had no way of knowing that.
She repeated her question again to the lady, but again, the lady gave no response.
Nancy took a deep breath, shielding her eyes from the brightening lights.
For a long time, nothing happened. Nancy simply stood in front of the brilliant door, unsure if she’d ever see Ryan again.
Then, the lights dimmed.
Nancy saw a face in the door.
She saw Ryan’s handsome face in the door, smiling at her.
Then, she saw his entire body. She saw his longish black hair, his brown eyes and the love in his face.
He stood at the door, with arms wide open.
“Nancy,” he murmured. “I told you I’d see you again.”
Excitedly, she dashed toward the door, arms outstretched, ready to embrace the love of her life and of her death.
***
A Message from the Author
I hoped you enjoyed reading A Romantic Ghost Story.
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If you liked this story, check out my other books. If you liked this novel, I would recommend Hiding In His Dreams, Meet Me at Taylor Park and The Patter of the Spring Rain, all love stories.
Thanks for supporting me.
Always Yours,
Jason W. Chan
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