Three Times the Ghost of Cousin Sadie Slipped the Veil to Bother Me While I Was Reading by Kate Tooley
Managing editor Z Howard on today’s bonus short: In this unexpectedly cozy ghost story, Tooley has created a world so saturated with love and tenderness—for our children, for our lovers, for the departed—that no trauma seems insurmountable. Sometimes, all that’s necessary to find a moment of peace is the willingness to let our ghosts stick around.
Three Times the Ghost of Cousin Sadie Slipped the Veil to Bother Me While I was Reading
Ten
The first time, The Boxcar Children had my full attention, my narrow butt on a stolen couch cushion I’d wedged onto the sill because I wanted a window seat but didn’t have one. Sadie popped up on the other side of the screen, scritching her fingers over the fine metal grate and asking me to come play.
I hadn’t seen Sadie since last summer when we were jumping off the rocks at Highland Park into the deep water and she said, “‘betcha I can do a better summersault” and never came back up.
I dropped my book; the July sun splashed on my cheek and arm wasn’t warm, and I could feel my feet on the edge of the gritty rock instead of the sill, see her body miss the mark. I slammed the window and hid under the bed ‘til dinner.
Twenty-Two
The second time I was studying for my Neural Basis of Behavior final, my girlfriend out getting us Thai because I always forgot to eat until I was hangry and no good for anything. The room smelled like cold coffee and our sweat and that special brand of dorm mold that I hated but would later get nostalgic over. Her Bob Dylan vinyl was on the last song, a silly thing I loved her for: bringing a record player to a dorm.
Sadie slipped in the open door and changed the record to ABBA, started shimmying to the music, her shoulders uncoordinated just like always, water dripping from her hair, her hands out beckoning to me like at every church and family wedding where they ran the same playlist over and over: innocuous 80s ballads, ABBA, and George Strait. I shoved my books away and ran, sidling around her. I hid in the bathroom waiting for my girlfriend who came back and asked when the heck I’d changed my mind about hating ABBA.
Thirty-Three
The third time I’m reading a story about a feisty Siamese cat to my daughter who is two, who I am teaching to swim even though I want to puke each time her feet touch water, even though I haven’t been in past my ankles since I was nine. My wife and I agree that nothing smells better than baby girl’s head. She is bitty and warm and alive, and I think I’d be a better mom if I could forget how uncertain all that is.
When Sadie comes in without knocking and asks if she can read with us, I scootch over on the bed and this ghost girl who is still in her lavender My Little Pony bathing suit tucks in beside us and lays her head on my shoulder.
After that, Sadie reads with us every night, her time-caught body always small against me, my time-bound body feeling for the first time in forever like its feet are solid on the ground; my daughter grows up at home with water and books.
Kate Tooley is a queer writer originally from the Atlanta area, currently living in Brooklyn. She writes about the sticky corners of gender and sexuality; complicated families; and magical animals. They hold an MFA from The New School and are an assistant editor at Uncharted Magazine. Their writing appears or is forthcoming in journals including Barren Magazine, Gargoyle, and Wigleaf, has been recognized by River Styx and Retreat West contests, and nominated for Best Microfiction and Best American Essays.
Tip the writer on venmo @Katetooley.
