Thomas told his mother about the strange hallucination he’d had in the next room. She listened thoughtfully, then admitted that maybe she really had rolled too strong a joint.
“So, what did he say?” she asked, sitting beside Thomas as casually as if he had told her he’d run into one of the neighbors on the landing.
“That I wouldn’t fall through the window.”
“Bizarre . . . What else?”
“Nothing special, except that he’d been a little overprotective when I was a kid.”
“Alittle? Your father hovered over you so much, it’s a miracle his feet ever touched the ground. But what can you do? He was a doctor and he saw epidemics around every corner. He didn’t say anything about me?”
“Mom, it was a hallucination, not a real conversation.”
“You never know. I saw him in my dreams once or twice, not long after—”
“Did he talk to you? Could you really see him?” Thomas interrupted, feeling a burst of energy.
“Yes, I saw him, like I said, and yes, he talked to me.”
“What did he say to you?”
“That he was sorry, but his excuses meant nothing to me. The nights I saw him, I was a little tipsy, to be honest. Did he seem all right?”
“Same as always, but your question is absurd.”
“Did it help you to see him?”
“Not really, no.”
“Too bad. Not everyone gets that chance.”
“I’d have preferred to skip it, frankly. Although ... if I hadn’t been under the influence, maybe I could have made more of the moment.”
“I have a great idea! Come over after your concert and we’ll try it again. I have a few things I’d like you to tell him. You can be my messenger.” She gave him a conspiratorial glance.
Thomas let out a long sigh. “My mother has just invited me over to smoke weed with her so I can deliver messages to my father’s ghost. And you really wonder where you went wrong with my upbringing?”
“Would you prefer I suggest a game of bridge or a macramé class? Go to bed. You have a concert tomorrow. We’ll talk about all of this another night. Are Colette and I allowed to come congratulate you in your dressing room after the show, or would that be embarrassing too?”
Thomas kissed his mother on the forehead and left.
He still felt strange as he exited the building, so he decided to take a taxi home. As he walked to the taxi stand, he thought about calling Sophie. He’d never needed her more. He needed to talk to someone who would find the night’s events as bizarre as he did, someone who could offer him a little sympathy. He quickly gave up on the idea, though.
He was afraid she’d think he was crazy.
Climbing the five flights of stairs to his small apartment made him feel normal again. His head was clear, and his legs were stable. The drug seemed to have worked its way out of his system, which he found reassuring.
Before heading to bed, Thomas looked around. He walked over to the dormer window and looked up at the sky with a smile.
“If you knew what happened to me tonight, Dad, you would laugh so hard. You scared the shit out of me, but it was nice to see you, even in a weird dream.”
Raymond’s ghost waited for Thomas to fall asleep, then sat at the foot of his bed.
And as he watched over his son, he smiled.
3
The low rumbling of the crowd rolled through the house, barreling past the backstage curtains. Like an ocean swelling in the wind, anticipation mounted in those who’d come to listen. The orchestra members stood in a single-file line in the hallway that led to the stage. The lights dimmed, and the musicians took their places. They tuned their instruments in a joyful cacophony that hushed the audience. Then it was the pianist’s turn to enter the stage.
