Maeve shakes her head. “I have clients this evening.”
“I’m out too,” I reply. “Work stuff.”
“I don’t miss that.” Kat shakes her head. “I mean, I stillwork. Four kids under seven is almost equivalent to a full-time job.”
“I’d say more like a job and a half,” Maeve replies, and I murmur my agreement. Raising another human being is the hardest job there is.
With a stab of sadness I think about my recent failed month. I told Maeve, because she checked in on me, knowing test day was coming. There’s little I don’t share with her, particularly in this arena, but I haven’t said anything to Kat yet. It’s likely I’m not giving her enough credit, but she can be myopic about motherhood and I don’t need cheerleading on the issue.
Beatrice’s voice fills the room, coming through speakers that line the ceiling. “Headsets on, folks. We’re going to be starting in a minute or so.”
I slide the virtual reality goggles onto my head, the glass eyepiece a stormy gray color that’s semitransparent. The headband is soft and stretchy.
I click the on button at the side, the device comes to life, and my vision fills with theTake a Breathlogo and a glowing yellow sphere that pulses like a slow heartbeat.
Choosing “Hawaiian Beach” for my setting—my usual (Maeve prefers snowy mountainous settings, and Kat wide-open fields of wildflowers)—I cross my legs, resting my hands on my bent knees in a sort of lotus position.
I’m now in Maui, on the beach. The mat is warmed, and I can almost convince myself it’s sun-drenched sand under me, the seabirds chirping above the continuous roll of ocean waves. A pod of dolphins swims by, jumping and frolicking among the waves, and I smile. Then a twinkling light pierces the center of the scene, and I watch as it grows to four times its original size, then retreats back to a pinpoint.
My vitals are recorded in the upper left corner of the screen, and I see my heart rate has come down five beats a minute. Feeling chuffed, I take a deep breath in through my nose, then slowly release it through my mouth, as per Beatrice’s request. The lavender scent is pleasing, and I take in another deep nasal breath, happy to see the twirling gold star beside my vitals.
“We’re going to start the session now.” Beatrice’s voice is whisper soft, like the gentle breeze the seabirds I’m watching float upon. My heart rate comes down another two beats. “Breathe in through your nose for four…now hold for seven…release for a slow eight. That’s it, everyone. Well done. And again, here we go…”
The first time I visit Savannah is when I come home with Wyatt to meet his parents, one month into our relationship. Yes, it was fast. No, it didn’tfeelfast.
Savannah was a very different place then. Before the flood that forced the city to get creative about space, before bicycles and trains replaced cars, before climate migration shoved everyone closer together. Savannah’s town squares, each of which used to showcase statues depicting historically significant figures, have been transformed. Repurposed as community gardening hubs, gathering spots for residents to socialize, places for children to play together.
What hasn’t changed are the city’s massive, century-old oak trees, whose branches hold swaths of Spanish moss, drooping in soft, dove-gray cascades. Some low enough that you can reach up and graze them with your fingers. “It’s so romantic,” I say to Wyatt as we walk along a quiet street heading to Wright Square on that first trip.
I have never been anywhere like it—Savannah has a heartbeat, pulsing gently,alive, especially after the sun goes down. The cicadas buzz loudly in the trees, the males singing mating calls.
“I can’t imagine growing up here. These oaks, and the moss…what is it, exactly?”
Wyatt holds my hand as we stroll toward the square. Our fingers are sticky with sweat in the August heat, but neither of us cares to let go. “It’s a bromeliad. Same family as the pineapple. And it isn’t anchored to the tree in any way, so it’s more friend than foe. The French colonizers called it ‘Spanish beard.’ ”
“It does look like a long beard.” I tilt my head back to gaze up at the moss. The sky is charcoal, stars beginning to pop. “How does it survive?”
“It gets nutrients from the air. It loves Savannah’s high humidity and temperatures.”
We arrive at Wright Square, essentially the center of the downtown area. Wyatt has a surprise—something super touristy, he warns, but also a fun way to learn about one famous aspect of Savannah’s history.
“Welcome to Savannah After Dark, and thank you for coming out this evening,” the tour leader, a middle-aged woman named Sharon with pink hair and an “I see dead people” tattoo on her forearm, says. I wonder if that tattoo came before or after she started leading ghost tours.
Seems I’m not the first to ponder the question.
“The tattoo came first, before anyone asks. It’s what led me to a ghost-tour-leader career. The pink hair after, because it’s all about balance, right?”
The group, around twenty of us, chuckles as Sharon hands out headphones and the audio devices, so we can follow along.
“One of Savannah’s most notable ghost stories—and, trust me, we have a lot of them—begins here in Wright Square, which is also where our tour begins.” Sharon has us stand in a circle. Then she tells the tale of Alice Riley, an Irishwoman who arrived in Savannah in the 1730s to work as a servant, alongside her husband, for a cattle farmer named William Wise.
“Residents here were not fans of Mr. William Wise,” she continues. “He would have been accused in the ‘hashtag MeToo’ movement, if you know what I mean.” There are nods all around.
“One day, nasty William Wise ends up dead, his head submerged in a bucket of water, and Alice Riley and her husband are nowhere to be found. Willy Wise was declared Savannah’s first murder victim, and with the unfortunate but rampant anti-Irish sentiment here at the time, Miss Alice and her hubby were found to be guilty of their boss’s murder. They were sentenced to a public hanging.”
I shiver, even with the stifling heat, and Wyatt rubs my arm. “Are you scared of ghosts?” he whispers with a smile.
“You have to believe in ghosts to be scared of them,” I whisper back, laughing a little to dispel the odd chill. But then tears prick at my eyes, and, horrified, I realize I’m about to cry. My mom has been gone for years, but some days it’s as though it happened yesterday. I wish I believed in ghosts—maybe then I could spend time with my mom, outside of my memories.
