Wow, this one really got away from me! But I didn’t want to let go of it and split it up, so I hung on and rode it out. Part of the problem is how much of a nerd I am – I have names, dates, and places for all the old characters that line up with real places and events. None of that is relevant, but my silly brain felt it necessary for me. Anyway, this is a bit longer than usual…
First, let’s go back to when I was walking past the cemetery – I didn’t deliberately intend to walk past a cemetery. Our house on Jefferson Street in Santa Clara is less than a block from Santa Clara Mission Cemetery. I was nine weeks pregnant and my morning sickness was terrible. In desperation I Googled for any tips to ease my debilitating nausea.
In an article on Parents.com they wrote, “We know, we know: You probably don’t feel like working out with your tummy so queasy.” Yeah, no shit, Laura Riley, M.D. Keeping an open mind, I kept reading, “Try a gentle walk instead—it can do wonders for your body. ‘Even walking 20 minutes a day can help release endorphins that counteract the fatigue and nausea,’ Dr. Hakakha says.”
I didn’t know who Dr. Hakakha was, nor the article’s author,Laura Riley, MD, but I was ready to try anything. Just around the block was my goal… which took me right past the cemetery.
Of course, I looked into the cemetery. Usually there’s nothing but a lot of graves, sometimes – but not too often in the section that borders Jefferson – families tending the graves of their loved ones. But the man dressed in a Navy Sailor’s uniform standing by a grave? Okay, that got my attention. And, unfortunately, apparently my attention got his attention. Our eyes met for a second, but there was something…electric in that moment.
Apparently for him, too because he started walking hurriedly through the rows of graves towards the fence bordering my street. I, naturally, picked up my pace, hoping to get past shouting distance when he reached the fence. But he kept moving towards the fence… and then right through it. I stopped and stared as he started across Jefferson and I let out a little shriek when a car went right through him… and he continued moving towards me.
What. The. Hell?
“Holy shit, Artie! I can’t believe it’s you!” he said as he reached the sidewalk an exuberantly friendly smile creasing his face.
I looked behind me and saw no one. “Umm… who?”
“Artie, you’re hilarious! My god, it’s been forever!”
Now I was wondering if this ghost – it had to be a ghost, right? – was talking to some other unseen ghost. I mean, I’m seeing this ghost, so shouldn’t I see the other ghost in this conversation? I don’t know what the paranormal rules are, but it seems pretty rude that if I’m privy to one side of a spectral conversation I should at least get to see the other ghost too, right?
Seeing the confusion on my face, the smile faded on his face. “You don’t recognize me, Artie?” Then he looked down at himself, “Shit, I got blown up pretty good there, but I thought at least my ghost was in one piece. Am I all disfigured and mutilated? Crap, Artie, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t see me like this…”
Deciding that, for whatever reason, he though I was Artie, I responded, “No, no, you’re fine. You look fine.”
He smiled broadly again, “Aww, thanks Artie! You look…” a frown crossed his face and he blinked rapidly, like trying to bring a picture into focus, “Well, will you look at that! You look like a dame!”
I was all sorts of confused by this conversation. And while I’ve been called a lot of things by a lot of people, I’ve never been called a “dame”. “A dame? Excuse me?”
“Oh, sorry, Artie. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just noticed you look… different.”
I was done with this conversation. “Look, sir, I don’t know who Artie is. I don’t know who you are. I feel like I’m about to throw up, so I’m going to go home,” and then for lack of anything better to say, in deference to his uniform I said, “thank you for your service,” as I hurried away.
An hour later, I was fixing toast – about the only thing that sounded the slightest bit appetizing at that moment – when I heard a male voice say, “I think I have it figured out, Artie.” I dropped the butter knife which clattered noisily to the floor. “Whoa, a little jumpy there, Artie?”
“What the hell are you doing in my house?!” I screamed at the ghost sailor standing in my kitchen.
He held his hands out palms up in a placating gesture. “Whoa, whoa, let’s calm down a minute.”
“There’s a ghost – you!” I pointed an accusing finger unnecessarily, “standing in my kitchen. I have earned the right to not be calm, thank you very much.”
“Okay, you’re right,” he said gently. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. But I think I have an idea what’s going on here.”
The toast popped up in the toaster and I jumped another three feet.
“Great timing,” he said.
I smiled a tight smile and managed a nod.
“Let me start again. I’m Charles Williams – Charley to my friends.”
“Charles,” I said, “Good to meet you.” I paused for a moment and then said, “And why are you haunting my kitchen?”
Charley smiled that friendly smile again and held up a finger. “I’m getting to that,” he promised. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Jessica Rodriguez. Jess,” I replied.
“Jess,” he nodded to himself. “Good name.”
“Thanks?”
“When were you born?”
“Rude,” I said.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, “But I have a hunch…”
“I was born in 1993. February 5th.”
He pointed his finger at me to emphasize a point. “Ah, that’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“You died in 1992 – December 9th!”
“Charles—” I started.
“Charley,” he corrected.
“Okay, Charley, I don’t know if you’ve noticed something, but there’s only one of us who’s dead in this room, and it’s not me.”
He nodded at me, “Okay, yeah, you’re not dead right now. But you were dead. That is, you did die.”
“How… I don’t understand.”
“Look, I don’t think I really understand a lot of what’s going on either, but I’ve seen some stuff in the time I’ve been wandering around since I was blown up.” He cocked a thumb over his shoulder, “In that cemetery over there is your grave.” He shook his head and started again, “Okay, sorry, not you-you. Artie – Arthur Johnson.” He suddenly looked sad as he said, “My best friend.”
“I’m, uh, sorry for your loss?” was all I could think to say.
“No, okay, so here’s the thing: the dates on his grave are September 15, 1926 to December 9, 1992. When I saw you across the street I didn’t see you, Jess, I saw Artie.”
For a moment I didn’t know if I should be offended by being mistaken for an old man, “I’m pretty sure I don’t resemble an old man…”
“That’s it, see? I saw Artie, and then I saw you – you’re the same person. You were him.”
“Come again?”
“Reincarnation! You – Artie – died in December and then were born as Jess in January!”
“Reincarnation? What the—” I started and pinched the bridge of my nose. “You know what, I can’t deal with whatever this,” I waved a hand at him, “is right now. I’m seriously getting a headache. I don’t know what protocol for asking a ghost to leave is, but… can you please let me take a nap?”
“Oh, yeah, absolutely, Artie, err, Jess,” he said. “I know this is a lot…”
“Please leave.” And he did.
My nap was peaceful, but that night my dreams… weren’t mine. I dreamt of Santa Clara, but clearly from a much earlier era – old cars and so many fruit trees. I remembered my friend who looked like a younger version of the ghost – that same smile – playing at Bowers Elementary. We were born a few days apart, and I remember us both enrolling in the Navy the moment we both turned 18 in 1944. I remembered being on a warship in the Pacific as fires raged and planes strafed us. I remember getting the letter from my mother telling me she’d heard from Artie’s mother that he was in an explosion and listed as missing and presumed dead. And then I remembered meeting a beautiful young woman. I remembered our wedding day, the birth of our son, our daughter. And their weddings and my grandkids. And I remember kissing my wife goodnight… and not waking up. The sun shone through an opening in my window and I, Jess, did wake up. And then I threw up – morning sickness, not the dream. But I felt more uneasy after the dream than I did from the nausea.
I went for a walk later that morning. Charley was waiting for me and started walking along side me. “I saw you had a dream – you remembered,” he said enthusiastically.
“You… you can spy on my dreams?” I said accusingly.
“No, not really. I just got the feeling that you, that Artie… I don’t know exactly. It was just a feeling that you saw your soul.” He shook his head and laughed, “Look at me, I sound so weird – your soul! Ha!” But then he paused and said, “I guess that’s the best way to put it, though.”
“Yeah,” I said… and then realized that the guy who just jogged past me and clearly saw me talking to myself must think the pregnant lady has gone batshit crazy. “Look, meet me back at my house in like fifteen minutes, okay?”
He nodded and… disappeared. “Wow, that was disconcerting,” I said aloud to no one.
Sitting in my kitchen, I told Charley, “Yes, I dreamt about someone else’s life.”
“See! I knew it!” he smiled broadly.
“And I saw you in the dream. I remembered getting the news that you died in an explosion?”
He nodded sadly. “Yeah. I got blown up pretty bad.”
“How?” I asked before I could stop myself. “Sorry, you don’t have to talk about how you died if that’s too hard – I don’t know how decorum about talking to ghosts…”
Charley laughed, “No, it’s okay. We signed up at the same time. Went through boot camp together. But then they shipped you off to serve on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific and I was stuck as a rigger on Victory ships taking ordinance across the Pacific. Well, up at Port Chicago on Suisun Bay. I was below decks rigging the Victory ship SS Quinault Victory when a loading crane dropped a crate of bombs into the hold of the SS E. A. Bryan – the ship docked on the other side of the pier. There was a huge crash and then, boom…”
“Oh my god, that’s terrible,” I said.
“Yeah,” he nodded solemnly. “I mean, I guess I was lucky it was over fast – literally in a flash.”
I stared thinking about how terrible the explosion must have been. “Can I ask when you became a ghost? I mean, like right after you died? Is that rude to ask?”
Charley chuckled, “I don’t know if it’s rude to ask. But, yeah, pretty much right after. I was walking among the devastation. I saw the ship I was in was torn into sections and tossed in several directions from the blast. I remember thinking ‘yeah, I wasn’t going to survive that!’”
“And you’ve been around since then?” I asked.
“Yeah, pretty much. I’ve lost track of time now and then, but I’ve been wandering around.”
“Why?” I said and then clarified, “I mean, why don’t you move on?”
He smiled sadly, “I don’t know for sure. But I think it’s because according to the military, I’m not officially dead.”
“Come again?”
He laughed. “See, the explosion was so severe that, well… Excuse me for being graphic, ma’am,” he reddened and then continued, “there wasn’t a lot of parts of folks left. A lot just vaporized.”
“Oh… I see. Did you…” I made a gesture with my hands that should probably be the international signal for being vaporized.
“No. Well, yes. Well, sort of. There’s some of me left there.”
“Eew. Sorry.”
“Yeah. If I had to guess… that’s why I’m still here. Because there’s still some of me left unaccounted for. And because they never found me, I was technically listed as MIA – presumed dead, but not officially.” He paused then added, “I mean, there’s a process… after some time they do issue a death certificate, but… I guess I’m not okay with that.”
We sat in silence around my kitchen table. I thought of the terrible explosion. I remembered hanging out with my best friend, Charley, when we – when Artie and he – were kids. I’d known this ghost for less than 48 hours, but I felt a deep sadness for him and for his situation. “Charley,” I started slowly. “Could you guide me to where you are – where whatever remains of you are, that is?”
“Yeah, I know it like the back of my hand. I mean, it’s literally part of the back of my hand…”
“Eew,” I said. Then I pulled out my phone and opened my laptop. “Let me make some calls…”
US Military bureaucracy is a complicated knot that works very slowly – usually. I started with my Congress critter’s office who pointed me to the defense department’s office of public affairs, who got me in touch with a historical department. When I mentioned I knew where “human remains” were located… that untied that knotted up bureaucracy pretty quickly.
A week later I was standing on the shore of Suisun Bay at the Port Chicago Naval Magazine National Memorial on a sunny morning talking to a public liaison who was guiding a crew dredging the shore. Unseen next to me stood Charley.
“No, no, they’re too close to the shore – they need to go out another fifty feet that way!” he said urgently.
I relayed, “They need to go another fifty feet out that way,” and I pointed the direction Charley indicated.
“But, ma’am, the stern of the Quinault Victory landed right there.” He pointed just in from where the launch was dredging. “You’re indicating another fifty feet beyond that?”
“I know where my arm is,” Charley nodded.
“Yep, another fifty feet.”
“Alright,” the man sighed and spoke into his radio.
We were there the rest of the morning, and I didn’t hear back from them for another week. But when they did call it was good news – they found remains. They had sent them to the Smithsonian to see if they could perform DNA testing. I told him if they were able to get a sample, check it against Alice Marshall who was living in an elderly facility outside of Vacaville – Charley’s younger sister.
“Umm, ma’am, how do you know all of this? We’ve had forensic archeologists all over that site for decades and you come in and point and they find remains we couldn’t find?”
“Would you believe I’m psychic?” You would have thought I said I had leprosy how quickly he tried to get off the phone with a promise to tell me if they found anything.
Suffice it to say, they did. They were able to extract DNA. They were able to match it to a sample from Alice. Unfortunately, Alice was suffering from dementia, and her family obviously never knew Charley, so while there was undoubtedly some familial closure, there wasn’t really anyone around in his family to celebrate his being identified.
But there was me.
Now eight months pregnant and, thankfully, the morning sickness had subsided. But I still took walks around the block – or, more accurately, waddles around the block with my enormous belly. And Charley still walked with me. And we talked, too – I took to wearing earbuds so I looked less crazy talking to myself.
“The ceremony was wonderful,” Charley said on July 18th, the day after the annual ceremony at the National Monument. This year, though, in addition to the usual solemn memorial, they also ceremonially laid Charley to rest. “Alice’s daughter was there, and she received the flag for me that my parents never got,” he smiled sadly. “They officially added me to the list of those killed. I’m no longer Missing In Action.”
“I’m so happy for you, Charley!”
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Artie, err, Jess.”
He still slipped and called me Artie sometimes like that. But I didn’t mind. I had more dreams of when I was Artie – he seemed like a pretty good guy. I mean, he better have been – he was me. Or was I him? Whatever, you get the idea.
“I’m glad we could get that taken care of,” I said. “Maybe now you’ll get to move on.”
“Oh, yeah, there’s a real bright light over there,” he motioned behind us. “It’s weird, I feel really drawn to it.”
“Jesus, Charley, you could have led with that!”
“I had to tell you about the ceremony!”
I smiled and nodded, “You did, Charley. Yes, you did. But now…?”
He smiled that radiant smile at me, looked at where he indicated the light was, and then back at me. “I think… I think it’s time to go.”
I felt tears welling up as I said, “Yeah, Charley. It’s finally time.”
“Thanks, Jess. Thank you for everything.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “My friend.”
Charley smiled broadly and started towards the light. “Hey, you take care of that kiddo there,” he said.
“I will, Charley. I will.”
He turned and took several steps into the street and then vanished. I felt a wave of peaceful energy wash over me. Jesus, now I’m sounding super metaphysical.
A month later, I gave birth to my daughter. The doctors put the swaddled bundle in my exhausted arms, and I looked down at her and she smiled up at me with an exuberantly friendly smile.
“You have decided on a name, right?” My best friend, Melissa, asked.
I grinned down at my baby daughter who already looked so familiar. “I have. Charlotte.”
