Staring at Ophelia

The girl in the painting isn’t dead yet. We know she’ll die soon, but for now she’s floating down the stream, arms open, gazing upwards, contemplating the tragedy of her life but still breathing. Unlike me; I’ve been dead for eight years. I pegged out on this spot, looking at this painting, and I’ve been unable to leave the gallery since. There are some nice paintings here, but it’s a bit gloomy, not just because of what happened to me but because the pre-Raphaelites had a habit of making their subjects look miserable. I should have had the heart attack in another room.

I spend a few minutes staring at Ophelia, admiring her looks but still thinking she was daft to kill herself for a navel gazer like Hamlet, and getting bored all over again. Then comes the relief of a young man joining me – without a clue that I’m here – glancing at the picture then pulling a smartphone from his pocket. I’m able to peer over his shoulder to check the date on the home screen and assure myself that this is the day, the anniversary, when Emma will appear. I stay with him for a while, looking at the screen as he scrolls through Instagram then onto a dating app. He dismisses three female faces then lingers over a redhead with a resemblance to Ophelia. I step back to get a proper look at his face, note the three-day stubble and scars where there had been rings through his lower lip, and think ‘No, she’s out of your league’. He strokes the screen, smiles and turns away. I follow, curious by what he might look at next, but he goes into the adjoining room and, as always, I manage just a couple of steps before I’m swung around back to where we’ve just been. That’s how it always works.

At least I’m sure of the date, and that I have Emma’s visit to look forward to. At least that’s what I hope, and don’t want to think about the possibility that she might not come. I retreat to a corner of the room, watching visitors as they move between the paintings. Usually, I watch their expressions for signs of whether they’re enjoying or bored with the place, sometimes moving in for a close look. But today I can’t get interested. I’m waiting.

It's early afternoon when Emma appears, pausing at the border between rooms, as always, as if she’s hesitant about facing the memory. Then she moves slowly towards the centre, seeming to take in the space rather than the pictures, and I move towards her. She’s aged a little since the last day of my life, with a touch more weight on the face and faint lines at the edges of her mouth, but she’s still gorgeous. She has blue eyes in which the sadness has never quite dulled the sparkle and lips that always look ready for a kiss. I move closer, full of the familiar longing, gently extending myself to the contours of her waist, arms and cheeks in that weird sensation of touching but not touching. She can’t feel, see or hear me, but I tell myself that she knows I’m here. We’re still for a moment and I wallow in the sensation of being with her, then she turns her head and I know that she’s looking towards Ophelia. This is the next part of the ritual, that she’ll approach the painting and stare at it for a while, allowing me to stand beside her, trace her tiniest movements, watch her breathing and see the tear in her eye. This is the moment for me. But instead I hear a voice – “Is this it?” – and she turns towards a man with a lean face, short hair and a neatly cropped beard, nods and points towards Ophelia. She hasn’t come alone.

They approach the painting and stand close to each other but not touching. I position myself off to Emma’s side, where I can watch both of them and feel desperate for a sense of what he means to her. He looks awkward and for a while neither of them speak. Then he turns his head.

“Was it here?”

She nods.

“Jack suddenly clutched his chest, pulled a face and sank to the floor. For a while he just sat, struggling for breath, then clutched again and rolled back. That was when he stopped breathing.”

Alright. I’d rather not be reminded of that. But I notice that they keep their eyes on the painting and there’s still no contact between them. It’s telling me that they’re just friends. Then he steps away towards the next painting. Emma remains for a while and I see that her eyes seem to be on the picture but not really taking it in. She’s thinking about me. I move very close to her and take some precious moments. Then she moves away, back towards the other guy but with a foot or so between them, and wanders around the gallery. I glide around them so I can keep looking at her face, feeling the same delight as when I was alive.

It lasts for almost ten minutes when they step beyond the border to the next room. Again I try to follow, and again I’m spun and thrown back. I have to watch as they take a couple of steps away from me. Then their hands lock together, their shoulders touch and they pause, and there’s something natural about it. He’s her lover.

It’s a punch in the gut. I roll back, spin then back up to a wall where I don’t have to see them. I feel deserted and jealous, as if Emma’s taken that lingering bond between us and given it to him. Suddenly I’m contemplating the thought that now I’m really alone. I’m still, wishing I could close my eyes, not see the people or paintings and fade into being nothing. But I can’t. A man, woman and two teenagers wander in front of me and speak to each other in Spanish. I move away, towards Ophelia, and try to blank out what’s happening around me.

Then I’m aware of gentle footsteps to my side and realise Emma has come back into the room, and that she’s alone. At first her eyes are on Ophelia, but as she brushes into me her head turns and she stares, like she’s expecting to see something. I know she can’t see me, but something’s happened, a momentary connection that I can’t explain. She turns to look at the painting and I savour more moments of being close to her, little extras on the years we had together. I’m still as madly in love with her as when I was alive. Then I know what I have to do. I move close, as if pressing my cheek against hers, and let the words drift into the inch between our lips.

“You can let go of me. It’s OK to love him.”

For a few seconds she’s still, a tear rolls onto her cheek, there’s a faint nod of her head and then she does something I haven’t seen in this room. She smiles.

I don’t know how long we stay together – probably seconds but thankfully it seems longer – then she stands back, still smiling, and walks slowly towards the other room. I stay at her side until I can go no further, then watch as she returns to the other guy, takes his hand again and they kiss. And as they walk away I feel happy for her.

Then I turn back into the room, accepting that this is my eternity, and take a step towards Ophelia. But something is different, as if I’m looking at the picture through a softer focus, and I can feel a weird but pleasant lightness inside me. Then I’m not in the gallery but rising, through the bones of the building and into the air above. For a moment the world is below me, and then it disappears. And now I’m in a place of peace.

Image by John Everett Millais, public domain

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