The Valentines Day dinner

My heart stopped in the middle of the operation.

I woke up and found myself floating upwards, towards a great light. I could see my body flat out below me, raw red rip where the surgeon had been, but otherwise peaceful and serene, an anaesthetised smile on my face.

The scene played out in slow motion. The surgeon was barking insults and orders. A junior doctor was juggling inexpertly with the defibrillator, shocking my body with powerful electric jolts. A machine was beeping, which added to the general air of panic. I was the only one with any sense of perspective.

I could see a light above me, drawing me to it, like a moth drawn to a fire or lamp. I resisted though, didn’t want to go up there just yet.

I died about a minute later, I watched the flatline and heard the beep of the machine shrieking out to the world that I was dead. It was 2 January 2011 at approximately 11.15 a.m. It really spoilt all my plans for the new year.

Above me, the light was still calling, but I wanted to see Karen before I left, to make sure she was all right.

I followed my body to the mortuary, Karen came to see it some time later. She stared blankly at my body for a while and then just nodded and turned away. She was in floods of tears, I wished I was there to hug here. Really there, not just a floating mind.

I didn’t want to leave her after that, I decided to stick around, for a bit at least.

I followed her tearful and careless drive home. No sooner had she walked in the house than she lit a cigarette. I was shocked, after what happened to me had she really not learnt anything about the dangers of smoking? In a rage I picked up her cigarettes and threw them into the bin. It wasn’t ‘til afterwards that I realised how amazing it was, lifting a solid object when all I am is air and mind. I never realised until then that ghosts were real.

I tried to avoid moving things, I didn’t want to freak her out, to become some kind of poltergeist. I did turn off the gas once, that was the only other time I intervened with the physical world. She must have forgotten she’d switched it on when she’d started cooking, or something. She was like that after I died, short of energy, unable to complete a task. She barely ate for the first week, if it wasn’t for her friends rallying round she’d have faded to nothing.

I’ve been here for a few weeks now, just keeping an eye on things. There isn’t much I can do, just watch over her. I think she senses me sometimes, which I guess is a sign that I should move on. I don’t want to unnerve her, to haunt her. I just want to know she’s all right.

I decided to stay until Valentines Day. I’d planned to cook her a special meal that day, a three course supper. So I thought why not do it anyway, as a one-off treat. I may be dead, but I can lift things, move things, and it was a simple recipe.

It proved harder than I expected. I’d lifted a packet of cigarettes and switched off the gas, but I hadn’t realised how much energy it had taken, how hard it would be to repeat that sort of one-off trick. There were so many things I needed to do, so many pots and pans and all the ingredients. It took me seven attempts just to open the fridge, then I had a mad fight with the peddle-bin which I used to prop the fridge open.

I was so drained after that I could feel myself slipping away, but was determined to continue. I took two eggs out of the inside of the fridge door, however, I only managed to get them halfway across the kitchen before my hands faded away into nothing and the eggs splattered onto the floor forming a pancake-mix puddle. Crepe!

I tried to mop up my mess, but have you ever tried lifting a mop without having a body to lift it with? It’s impossible, I felt like I was wrestling with a thousand abstract snakes and the mop clattered to the ground.

I was drained, I decided to rest before carrying on. It worked, I managed to lift the next two eggs safely onto the worktop. However, I had less luck with the flour tin, and it crashed onto the floor, flour gushing out on top of the egg. I should have stopped and rested again, realised that my physical powers were eking away, but I panicked and rushed things. In turn I spilt the milk, dropped the potatoes, broke the bottle of wine, sent the cutlery draw tumbling. I even managed, somehow, to wake the cat. And the cat NEVER wakes up.

I had similar lack of success with the mixing bowl, which fell onto the floor, luckily without breaking. At least, it didn’t break until all the saucepans crashed on top of it.

Following the crash Karen came running into the kitchen. She’d been sleeping upstairs and I’d intended to wake her with an unexpected, nourishing meal, instead she’d woken to what must have sounded like the end of the world.

It wasn’t until I saw the look of horror on Karen’s face that I realised how stupid I was being. There was no point making her a romantic dinner, who’d eat a meal that a ghost had cooked for them. All I was doing by hanging around was making it hard for her. I was dead, it was time to grow up and act like a dead man.

Karen had loved me, I knew that. Karen would always love me, in a different, love-for-the-absent way. But she would also live on, learn to live without me, learn to love others perhaps. And that didn’t concern me, my life ended just over a month ago.

I can still feel the light above me, even though I can’t see it. It’s time for me to go.

Goodbye Karen. I really do love you, you know. Happy Valentines Day.

Sorry about the mess.