Bedcrumbs
A GHOST STORY
by Amy Mink

He was my first, and every breath I took filled me with the vapors of his soul. He comes to me most evenings.  Always when I am alone. The light is so bright around him, almost blinding at times. But the light comforts me and exudes warmth. I am like a moth. I cannot resist the flame, the light- --him. I try to get closer, so wanting to touch him, but there is a certain strange space and distance between us that I am clearly not in control of.
    My parents worried, they said they weren’t sure about him. I, WE, were too young to be INVOLVED, they said. One night my Dad came out looking for us because I was ten minutes late for curfew.  Daddy found us sitting on the front steps of Bobby’s house telling childhood secrets. Every time I hopped into his car, it smelled like cookies.  He loved Chips Ahoy cookies and never failed to have a half eaten bag lying around. That’s what I loved about him.  He was the kind of guy who wasn’t afraid to live his convictions. He knew what was good in this world. Basketball, his cousin’s old Notre Dame sweatshirts, rolled coins that turn into real money. 
    I guess you could say that he came from the wrong side of the tracks. His car was a mélange of used pieces and parts. I even saw him fix a broken muffler once with a Pepsi can and a wire hanger. That was the coolest. His dad worked for the local trash company and his mom was long gone. She left them when he was only two years old. He said his grandma and Dad kept him in line.
    We had the worst and iciest winter this year here in Keene. New Hampshire is not shy about winter, that’s for sure. Sometimes there are so many months of snow that you can forget spring even exists. The night he was killed, he hit a patch of black ice and veered off  the road into a tree. The rescue worker said he died instantly. Didn’t even know what hit him.
    The day we met in school, I was running track. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I wore a blue ribbon which must have fallen out. He asked around to find out where my locker was and was waiting for me after the bell rang. Believe me, I am not one of those girls that gets a lot of attention from boys. So when he stood there looking right straight at ME with that ribbon in his hand—well, let’s just say that it nearly knocked the breath out of me.
The first thing I noticed about him was his grey eyes and the funny way his nose wrinkled up when he smiled. He had sort of an easy way about him but he was serious and intent on me.  He made me feel important. At first I didn’t know what to do with all his attention. Just the act of walking him to his car sent my heart into triple palpitations. He liked my freckles, my knobby knees, my reading glasses-- and he said I walked with an air of independence like I didn’t need anyone to make me okay. Whenever I was with him, it was as though he held up a mirror that reflected an image of me that I had never seen. 
    One day after school I met him at the basketball courts. He had just finished playing a pickup game with his friends. Dixon was his best buddy. The two of them acted like favorite cousins— closeness without the insane rivalry. They had the handshake, the butt smacking, the whole thing. Mostly they seemed to find humor and a sense of absurdity in The Rules Of The Game. The “Rules” refer to the institutional expectations of linear progress as prescribed by teachers, parents and various other authority figures who, Know What’s Best For You. How to Succeed In College and Life, etc. etc. He and Dixon figured that they would find their way in the world on their own terms without asking  “What Color Is My Parachute” or Ten Ways to Improve Your SAT Scores.
    His headstone reads: Robert P. Miller, 1991—2009, Loving Son, May He Rest In Peace. I go every Saturday after work to visit him. Sometimes I bring daffodils to leave there because that’s my favorite flower. Early on, Bobby used to bring me daffodils in a small brown paper bag. He picked them from the front of the library.
     At night, alone in my room, I will suddenly awaken from a sound sleep only to find him there. A filmy, translucent aura of light surrounds the black silhouette of him. All six feet and one hundred eighty pounds of his outline like a colorform dipped in dayglo yellow. He doesn’t move or speak. Somehow I get the sense that he wants to be near me. I don’t scream or cry or anything cause I don’t want to chase him away. 
    One time I went to his house on a rainy day. It was one of those Sundays that makes you want to stay in your pajamas all day. He played his guitar. I never even knew he could play. He had such a sweet and sharp sound in all his songs—kind of sad and tender at the same time. He made hot cocoa and peanut butter sandwiches for us and he wrote a song for me. It went like this:
    “Sarah, you are the reason for being. You got my eyes to be seeing.
Everything’s better with you. Someday, we will go make our own place. As long as I see your sweet face, you will be walking near me. All of the colors are brighter; my days are warmer and lighter. Sarah you are my true blue.”
    Last week when I got in my bed I saw the most beautiful moon outside my window and I started crying.  I was crying for Bobby, for all the moons he would not see. I’m not the kind of person to be mad at the world or at God. I have a roof over my head and friends and family who love me. I know that life is precious. It’s just that there’s this hole in me.  Bobby knew me in that “I really get you” sense, and I always had this feeling like maybe I was his life raft. If only…if only I had been in the car, maybe he would’ve slowed down, maybe he would’ve left his house fifteen minutes later and the ice would have had more road gravel on it by that time and wouldn’t have been so deadly slippery.  It was a good cry, the kind that makes you feel like you washed out your insides and hung them back out on the line to dry in the warm sun. When I woke up the next morning, my bed was covered in chocolate chip cookie crumbs. I am two hundred percent sure that I did not imagine it, especially after I ate some of them just to verify that they were Chips Ahoy.
     I always thought that ghosts were supposed to be creepy. Bobby’s ghost is like a giant night light coming into my room to keep it from getting too dark. I guess he wants to make sure I don’t forget him. No matter how old I get or who I marry or where I go to college or all the places I will visit, I will never, ever forget Bobby. Your first love is something that you just don’t get over. But this Bobby-ghost has tricks. Who’d believe the cookie crumbs? What’s next, I wondered.
    Dixon walks around school in a fog these days. He looks like someone took the air out of him.  I was tempted to tell him about my ghost visits, but it just seemed too risky.  Then about two weeks ago, he saw me in the library and told me something I’ll never forget. He said that he was asleep and he heard tiny rocks being thrown at his window. He got up to look outside and there were Bobby’s basketball shoes hanging across the telephone wires.  Those shoes were always kept in his gym locker. After he died, Bobby’s dad had asked Dixon to empty his son’s locker and told him he could keep whatever he found in there. Dixon had kept the shoes in the back of his closet along with Bobby’s favorite orange jersey. He figured he’d save the stuff as a way to remember him. No one even knew Dixon had Bobby’s things. So I told him about my nocturnal ghostly visitations. Dixon asked me if I was freaked out or anything. Not knowing what Bobby’s next trick would be was a little unnerving for both of us. I read once that ghosts come around when they have unfinished business or aren’t ready to “crossover” into their next life. The thing was, we really couldn’t figure out what Bobby was trying to say other than, “I am still here”.  We swore secrecy to keep this information under wraps, otherwise people would be looking to fill two slots at the local loony bin. 
    Mr. Miller kept a low profile after the memorial service. No one saw him around town anymore. I heard his mom was bringing him all of his meals and spending lots of time at their house.  A few weeks ago, Mr. Miller was going through some of the things in Bobby’s room, and he came across an envelope that was simply addressed, “Sarah”. He was kind enough to give it to me.  He never asked me to read the contents of the letter, I guess respecting my privacy and all. 
    Dear Sarah:
   You are the only girl I’ve ever loved. From the first minute I laid eyes on you, I wanted you near me. Something about your smile and the way you looked at me stung, but in a good way.  You have no idea how beautiful you are, inside and out—that’s why I fell for you. You and Dixon and Dad and Grandma are the most important people in my life. Without you guys, I’d be like a balloon floating off into Neverland. Lately, my balloon is so deflated, Sarah. It’s all I can do to get up in the morning or breathe. I have no hope of coming out of this darkness. You deserve to be loved by someone who can share everything with you. There’s nothing left. Hollowness is sucking me into the blank zone. Tonight I will leave. Please forgive me. It’s cowardly, I know. My words are here only because I need you to know what you mean to me. I believe in heaven-- someday I will see you there. In the meantime, all this stuff in between called life just doesn’t mean anything to me. Let me go. I’ll be able to move on to a new place, hopefully a better one. There was nothing that you could’ve done or said to change my mind. The part about hurting everyone sucks. Hurt is my constant companion.  I’m gonna follow the light and leave the darkness behind.   Bobby.

    I burned the letter immediately after reading it. My first reaction was --what a fucking- crybaby- loser- go get yourself some Zoloft-how dare you? I was in love with an empty chicken shit shell of a boy who believed he was worthless. Lucky me. Poor me. Fuck him. Fuck me. Don’t count on me mourning for a burn out. And why should his father have to suffer even more than he already has. I cannot pretend to understand the choice he made and I never will. In my heart of hearts, I know that he won’t leave me until I forgive him. This will take time. How long, I have no idea. In the meantime, I am prepared for cookie crumbs, daffodil petals or whatever else he brings my way.  Sometimes love isn’t enough, but life itself should be. One thing is for sure, with or without Bobby, I will connect to this world, to the people in it and I will be thankful for every waking moment. 
     Dixon and I get together every so often and we reminisce. Sometimes I get the feeling that Dixon knows more than he’s letting on. He said that Bobby stopped going to his classes the week that he died and that he withdrew all his money from his savings account and left it in a cup on his dresser. Mr. Miller asked him if he knew anything about the money or why he would close out his account. In many ways, none of us knew him. His motives and secrets eluded us. I stand by my decision-- it’s between Bobby and me. He could easily have written notes to his dad and to Dixon. But he didn’t. That means something. He was letting me know things about him that maybe no one else will ever know.  If I protect his secret, I protect him—the memory of him. Isn’t it better for everyone to think that he died in a tragic accident?
      I miss the smell of his skin, it was like the combination of laundry detergent and Irish Spring soap. I tried mixing the two together on a washcloth, but it just wasn’t the same. 
      I can tell in little ways that I’m getting ready to let go and move on. He stays in my prayers at night, but I can study better and keep my focus. I notice other boys at school. My friends are coming around more often and the pity party’s over. That’s the thing about being young, you feel like you don’t have a lot of time to waste. The other day I went to his gravesite and tossed a bunch of Chips Ahoy crumbs on the grass next to his headstone. The following night he was in my room. This time he wasn’t still. It was as if his light spread all over me on my bed. The warmth was amazing and for one split second, he showed me his face. The sparkling grey eyes, the dimpled smile. It was all there in front of me and then suddenly gone.  We never did make love and I’m still a virgin, but this feeling of his warmth and face hovering over me…after he left, I was covered in tingly sweat and wet between my legs.
    Nowadays when I wake up in the morning, I listen to my breathing. I stretch my arms over my head and wiggle my toes under the covers. It feels good. I am alive.