We did not talk on the drive back. We held hands. I was kind of in a daze, honestly. I had never seen someone Fade before. There was a knot in my stomach and a tension in my limbs. Is that going to happen to Lona? I . . . I don't want that. I . . . I won't let that happen. My hand gripped tighter to hers and she squeezed my hand back. We did not look at each other. I did not really have words for her right now. I did not even really have words for myself. Just the image of the man jumping over and exploding into a thousand points of light. Then disappearing. His blank expression. Lifeless is not a word I really use to describe ghosts often, mostly because it is insensitive, but also because it is not usually terribly accurate. At least not in the colloquial way. Lifelessness usually implies a certain level of inactivity and ghosts are seldom ever inactive. They are always moving, saying things, trying to get attention. Until they're not, I thought bitterly. His eyes were lifeless. His everything was the epitome of the absence of energy people associate with death. I had met ghosts that died of cancer, ghosts that had taken their lives before. Ones that were tired. Exhausted. I had never met one so non-responsive as to basically be catatonic.

Except for Lona in the morning, but that was a little different. Every girl I dated slept like that. We arrived back at my apartment building and I parked and sat in the car, staring out of the windshield with my lights on. Lona did not move either.

“John?” She asked tentatively.

“Yeah?”

“D-don't kill yourself.” Her voice was weak. I looked over and she was crying, silently. The spectral tears dripping down her cheeks, off of her chin, and down to her jeans. This hurt me. It felt like I was being stabbed through the heart. I had to gather myself to prevent tears from falling over my own cheeks.

“Not really intending to,” I managed, my own voice just barely above a whisper. She looked at my face, searching. Her hand tightening around my own, painfully.

“Bullshit! Damn it, John! I know you have the thoughts. I can see them on your face. I-I know that you don't plan on it, but I know the impulse is there and some part of you believes it's inevitable. But you can't! You fucking can't, John. I can't see you like that. I couldn't handle it.”

I did not mention that if I killed myself, I suspected she would disappear, too. I was pretty sure that was how anchors worked. And I was pretty sure that I was her anchor. Instead, I took my hand and put it under her chin, raising it until her face was level with mine. Our eyes met. The facsimile of flesh that she had around her eyes were crinkled and her nose was red as she sniffled. It even looked like some ethereal mascara she had applied to herself through force of will was running. My eyes stung and I blinked back my own tears. “I'm not going to do anything like that. I've seen what happens to suicide ghosts. I've seen the effects. And I don't want to exist like that. Besides, we just ordered a sex doll and I have to disappoint my parents even further by owning that for at least a little while.”

She managed a weak smile and even a small chuckle. She nodded and wiped away her tears with her palm, still sniffling. We got out of the car and made our way towards the apartment. It was not exactly late for a Saturday, but I was still tired. When we got into the room, I felt my phone buzz. I took it out. The display screen just read Mom then her phone number. There was no picture. I stared at the screen for a few seconds and started to put it away when Lona appeared beside me. “Oh, your mom is calling? Tell her I say hi!”

I stared at the screen for a little longer before turning the screen off. “You're not going to answer your mom? That's totally rude!”

“I . . . I don't feel like talking right now.” I half lied. I was tired and not really in the mood, but that was not really why I had not answered. Lona looked at me skeptically, then shrugged, disappearing and reappearing in the bedroom. My phone buzzed again, letting me know that I had a voicemail. I took it and listened to the voicemail. Not because I really wanted to but more because I hate the notification.

“John, it's mom. Still not taking calls from your mom, huh? Too cool for us now that you've moved to the city and became some big shot accountant.” She sounded hurt and was trying to deflect it with passive aggressive humor. Apparently, I had inherited that from her. “Well, when you get this, you should call me. I . . . Well, anyway. Talk to you soon, John. Merry Christmas or happy holidays or whatever you celebrate these days if . . . If we don't talk before then.”

I deleted the voicemail and stared down at my phone. A voice appeared right next to me, causing me to all but jump out of my skin. “You should call her, John.”

You would think that I would eventually get used to Lona appearing next to me out of nowhere, but I have not. And I doubt I ever will. I looked over to her and shrugged. “I'll think about it.”

It was at this point that Lona stole my phone, opened it, and activated the call button. I panicked and jumped at her. She danced backward, giggling. “You're going to talk to your mom, mister!”

Once it had rung too long for me to just hang out up without an explanation, she handed back the phone. After another couple of rings, she answered. “John? Calling back the same night? Are you okay? Are you dying? Do you need money?”

“H-hey, mom,” I said, hesitating. I had not really spoken to her in a few years. We exchanged cards on birthdays and the holidays. I did her taxes every year, but she just emailed me her and dad's tax returns. “I, uh, I just saw that you called and decided to . . . Well, see what was going on.”

“Oh?” She sounded skeptical but did not press the issue. “I was just checking in. I take it you won't be coming home for Christmas?”

“Uh, no,” I said. So that's what this is about. She just wanted me to come out and get into an argument again. Just like the last three times I visited. I focused on the conversation again. “I took a vacation a little earlier this year and don't have the time off available to me.”

“Oh, that's too bad. So, how are things? How's work? Have you met anyone?”

“M-met anyone? Wh-why would you ask that?” I stuttered.

“Oh my GOD!” My mother screamed, causing the microphone to peak on the phone. I held it away from my head, but even from that far away I could hear my father asking what the commotion was about. My mother must have put her hand over the phone because her voice was muffed for a few sentences before she addressed me again. “John met someone! He's got a little girlfriend! What's she like? How'd you meet? Are you going to bring her over? Have you met her parents? What does she do for a living?”

Throughout my mother's barrage of questions, I watched Lona, who was politely flipping through a book and pretending not to listen. I say pretending because with, every question, her smile grew a little bigger. Because of course it did. I turned away from her and spoke a little quieter, knowing full well that she would move to hear more clearly. “H-her name is L-Lona. I met her on my vacation this year. She . . . She's a little shy and we just started dating. I don't know if meeting the parents is a smart idea . . . just yet.”

I felt Lona press into me, floating up and pressing her head against the other side of the phone. I glared half-heartedly at her from my peripheral vision. Even from this vantage point, I saw the huge grin on her face. I tried to push her away but she would not move.

“What does she look like? Is she nice? Ooh! Send a picture of her! Maybe I could make her a sweater! I started knitting, John. I'm getting pretty good. I was going to send you a sweater. But you should bring her around soon! I'd love to meet the girl. And send her picture over!”

“Well, I don't have a picture of her. She's . . . Kind of weird. She said I couldn't take a picture of her, but I could paint her. So I have a picture of the painting.” I lied.

“Huh. What kind of girl doesn't want her boyfriend taking pictures? I thought that all you kids liked taking pictures all the time of everything. Of your food, each other, your genitals. Just sharing everything constantly.” My father said something in the background and my mother cracked up laughing, slapping her knee. “Oh god, yeah, just like that Senator, what was his name? Wiener? You gotta be kidding me. That's way too obvious.”

There was another pause in the conversation while my father spoke. I could not hear him. The conversation went on for ages like that. I had been on the phone with them for two hours before they finally let me go. Lona had dragged me over to the couch and laid my head down on her lap and stroked my hair while I was on the phone. She smiled down at her. My mind kept drifting to the ghost on the bridge.

“Are you still seeing things, John?” My mother asked. I was still dazed.

“Huh?” I asked, dumbly.

“Well, you certainly can't hear things anymore. Listen up, son.” My father interjected. He was standing close to the phone. “Ya still seeing . . . Are ya still seeing . . . ghosts?”

My father had never believed me. No one had. But I had learned how to skate past the issues pretty easily. “Uh. All of the people that I'm seeing are perfectly real.”

“That's good, boy. I'm glad yer a bit healthier. Y'know. In the head.” I clenched my jaw. It was a miracle that my teeth had not clicked in annoyance. Lona looked down at me.

“Don't say that to him. He's talking to us again.” My mother whispered over the phone. She had put me on speaker and probably did not realize her voice was picked up.

“I'm not gonna lie to the boy. He was cuckoo. Now he's better.” My father responded, indignantly, in his normal voice. He was cuckoo. His voice echoed in my head. Now he's better. Right. Now I'm dating a ghost. But I'm sane, right? I know what's real, right? Karen can hear her. Lona has to exist. Cynthia has to exist. Unless I somehow imagined all of it.

“Hey, uh. I got some stuff to do before bed and it's getting late here. I'll . . . I'll talk to you guys a little later.” I said quickly. “I'll send out that picture though. So you can see Lona. Or at least my painting skills at work. I didn't really do her justice.”

“Oh,” My mom responded. She sounded hurt. “Y-yeah. Of course, John. We'll talk another time.”

“Uh, yeah, son. I, uh. We'll talk to you soon. Give us a call. And come down to visit.” My father managed. “I . . . I love you.”

“Yeah, I love you, too, John.”

“Yeah. Love you too, mom, dad.” I said awkwardly. I did not really feel it. Truthfully I had not felt full of love for them, or anyone really, in a long time. It was one of the reasons that I did not really date. I just had not felt connected to people in a long time. But I had always been the kind of guy who was either not attached or too attached. There was really no in-between. I disconnected the call and sat up. Lona looked at me like she wanted to say something. Before she could, I walked out of the room, but she followed. I could not really stop her. I did not know if I should. They still think I'm crazy. Mom was nicer about it, but if I spend any time around them . . . It'll happen again. I just know it will. The thoughts ran through my head again and again.

“John, I'm really sorry. That . . . Like, what your dad said. That was uncalled for.” Lona said, softly.

“Doesn't matter.” I lied, pulling the blanket up and adjusting the sheets. She grimaced and closed the distance.

“I . . . I don't really know what it's like to go to an asylum, but wasn't that years ago?” Lona asked. “I mean, it's been what? Fifteen years.”

“Twelve,” I corrected, the monosyllabic response filled with a cold rage.

“Oh. But you said when you were fourteen . . .”

“They did it again when I was seventeen. They said they knew I was still hearing voices and that I was seeing things. I had tried to hide it but ghosts wouldn't leave me alone and they had me institutionalized again. When I got out, I left. I got emancipated, got my G.E.D., and didn't see them again for five years. Since then, I've never really gone back.” Lona looked hurt by my words. I do not think she could imagine a time where she would willingly cut her family out of her life. Her situation had always been because of a terrible accident. I undressed and climbed into bed, facing the wall. She did the same a few minutes later. She put her hand on my back and rested her forehead against her.

“I'm sorry. That must've been hard.”

“Don't worry about it.”