On Monday, I sat in a too-low chair in front of a too-big attorney’s desk to sign papers to sell Beloved Field.
Scott was in the chair closest to the door, I was closest to the window, and Mike, his dad, was between us. I guessed Scott was in his 40s and Mike in his 70s. Scott looked expectant, but his dad looked like he’d done a million deals and this was just one more.
The attorney retreated to a back room to revise the Settlement Statement. While we waited, Scott said, “We still need to hear a story.”
I glanced at the back room. “Is this a good time?”
They nodded. I started.
“I used to be married. My husband, Trent, died unexpectedly at age 46.” The men murmured condolences that I brushed past.
“My husband, even though he’s gone, lets me know he’s still around. And now you might think I’m a crazy lady—”
Both men shook their heads, a permission to continue.
“—I’ll give you an example.”
I took a breath. Even though I’ve told this story many times, telling it feels like walking on ice.
“One day, I was walking through my condo when I said, aloud, ‘Oh, I need to call Jenna.’ That’s Trent’s daughter. As I said it, the hall light came on. I turned, looked at the shining light, and said, ‘I know that’s you.’ The light went off. Then I said, ‘I love you,’ and it came back on. So, that’s the kind of thing he does.”
I didn’t look at them directly, but kept going.
“I used to live in Chicago, but work moved me to Cincinnati. At first, I rented out my Chicago house but after a year, decided to sell it to Kyle and Khrystyna,* the couple renting it.
“After we signed the papers, but before the ownership transfer date, Kyle called. He said he and Khrystyna wanted to talk. Not over the phone. They wanted me to come to Chicago.
“When I got there, Kyle said Khrystyna had been seeing a ghost. As he described it—tall, a big guy, light hair—I thought, yeah, that’s Trent.
“Kyle said they asked their priest to come over. He sprinkled holy water, but the ghost was still making appearances. So, they called a psychic.
“As she came through the front door, the psychic said, ‘We need to go down to the basement.’ Downstairs, she pointed to the electrical panel in the corner. ‘There is a current of electricity running from that to this big blue wooden box.’
“Trent’s grandfather built the box for his tools. Trent used it the same way, to store tools but not haul them, because being wood, it was heavy.”
I thought about the box, how it looked like a piece of folk art you’d see in Anthropologie, cornflower blue cracked milk paint worn at the corners. It was beautifully built. I didn’t want to think about what was in the box, all the notes and cards Trent and I exchanged, other items that meant something. The ones I wanted most were in my nightstand, but there were so many. I felt guilty for leaving it, for leaving unfinished business.
Kyle, Khrystyna and I stood stock still, the box near our feet. Kyle blurted, “We think he doesn’t want us to buy this house. We think he’s mad at us.”
I shook my head. “He’s not mad at you. He’s mad at me. He doesn’t want me to leave that box. But I can’t lift it.”
Kyle’s eyes lit up. “I can lift it!”
“But he couldn’t. Kyle and I carried the box up the basement stairs and put it in the back of my car. It stayed there for a few months, until I told my friend Erin about it, and what I wanted to do with it. I wanted to do what Trent had wanted done with his body—send it up in flames.
“That’s what we did, in Erin’s backyard with another friend, Stephanie, party music, and a bottle of tequila. I thought I’d just toss the papers and things in the fire, but Erin insisted I speak about each first. It took a while.”
Mike and Scott had been attentive during the telling, so I told them the part that mattered most.
“This field in Kentucky is the place I feel most connected to Trent. I wasn’t sure if he was okay with me selling it, or if he might start showing up, doing strange things.
“Because I want the sale to go smoothly, I did something I’ve never done before—I saw a medium.”
…to be continued…
PS: There are some parts of this conversation that I can’t remember if I spoke or only thought, but the gist is right.
*pseudonyms
Chewing the Cud of Good
Thankful for coffee and chocolate.