Fred Aiken Writing

She retired in 2020 when the mess came down and shrouded everything in a fine mist. She hadn’t thought she would ever walk away from teaching students. She thought she might die behind her desk and a student or janitor would find her lifeless body. Maybe with an apple in her hand, like some sort of Snow White thing. But she often romanticized the idea of dying. At the very least, she thought she would be in her seventies, maybe with a bad hip, arthritis, failing eyesight due to cataracts, or any type of ailment that would reasonably excuse why she could no longer teach. Instead, she went out with barely a whimper, and only the hint of a retirement plan. 

For the past 3 years, Ms. Santymire spent her days in a blissful routine. She woke up at 4am out of an unbreakable habit. She made herself a pot of Earl Grey that she used to drink with a cube or two of sugar and cream, but ever since her doctor told her that she needed to get her blood pressure under control she began drinking her tea without any additives. While sipping at her tea, she spent the morning reading. Occasionally, she broke out a red pen and marked the lines of the books or newspapers with errors, both minor, like spelling or the improper use of a semicolon, to major issues she found while reading. When she finished a book, she would scratch a small letter grade on the inner back cover for her personal reference. 

Then after fixing a small lunch, she ambled aimlessly around the neighborhood. On one of those afternoons (it does not matter which for the purpose of this story), she walked over the threshold of her small neighborhood and kept going. She walked until her legs moved past the pain of arthritis and went numb. This tricked her into thinking that she could walk forever. But logically she knew she couldn’t. So, as the heat of the day washed over and battered her, and the sweat on her forehead began to sting the corner of her eyes, she stopped to take a breath.

When she looked up to see where she was, she discovered that she had walked to the abandoned elementary school that she taught at for over four decades. She cursed her id. She didn’t entirely know why she subconsciously walked her way back to her old stomping grounds, but she figured she might as well explore the school while she was there. Plus, she figured she would never be back again and the place was abandoned, so it probably didn’t hurt anyone (including herself) to just take a peek at how time had decorated the place.

A thick layer of dust coated the hallways, classrooms, lockers, and, well, everything. Ms. Santymire thought her allergies might be flaring up and regretted not bringing her Zyrtec. Granted, she had no idea she would have ended up at the old abandoned school, so she didn’t give herself too hard of a time. Though perhaps, she pondered, this was as any good of a reason to collect herself and go back home. Part of her wanted to, sure. But a more curious part, a voice that never wanted to shut up, kept her feet moving forward.

The school had clearly taken a beating. Delinquents used the old school for a hangout spot that hid their delinquent ways. Graffiti artists practiced their skills, or lack thereof, on the walls. Junkies and teenagers left cigarette butts and pipes and an assortment of paraphernalia for all sorts of shenanigans strewn all across the floor. Ms. Santymire conceded that she would probably need to go to the doctor and ask for blood work to make sure she didn’t contract hepatitis or some other needle-related ailment. She kept whispering to herself, ‘Goodness, who does such a thing?,’ to no one in particular. She wanted to remember the halls, classrooms, and facility itself as what it was when she first started teaching all those years ago. Back when the walls and floors were spotless. The students were young and held hope in their faces as they passed by her each morning. Before what happened.

Ms. Santymire turned the corner to her old classroom. It was and wasn’t as she remembered. The room still held the motivational and educational posters. A thick layer of dust covered the desks and chairs. But otherwise, it was perfect, Ms. Santymire thought. Or at least better off than the rest of the school. The room was a shrine to her teaching career.

The last thing she had written on the chalkboard still prominently displayed: You are more than a sum. Love, Ms. S.     

She followed her usual path around the students’ desks and sat in her modest throne behind her desk in an ergonomic chair that she had sprung for after having back issues for longer than she cared to admit, especially since those back issues followed her into retirement along with a few other emaciations. As she sat down, she noticed a flicker of light that her mind tricked her into thinking it was another person in the school with her. But as Ms. Santymire dismissed what she thought was her imagination, an ethereal figure appeared in the front row of desks.

“Is someone there?” she asked, while admonishing herself for being paranoid and silly. Yet still, her heart skipped a beat. She thought she might be in an Edgar Allan Poe ghost story, and perhaps a raven would pop out of the corner at any minute.

But alas…

“Hello, Ms. Santymire.”

“Who is it? Who are you?”

“You don’t recognize me?”

Ms. Santymire squinted and strained her failing eyesight to try and decipher who or what was communicating with her. 

“It’s me…” But the figure’s declaration did nothing to clarify.

Ms. Santymire’s vision focused. She understood that she was in the presence of a ghost. In a way, she expected to come across at least one when she walked through the threshold of the abandoned school. In fact, she had subconsciously hoped to be confronted by her past one last time. As the psychologists might say, she had unresolved trauma. 

“Who are you?” she asked. But Ms. Santymire already knew the answer. Her eyes focused on the wispy figure of a boy frozen in youth. She wanted to scream, but the muscles in her throat felt stuck, like she had swallowed a giant piece of hard candy before it fully dissolved. “Am I dead?” she managed to ask.

“No, or, I should say, I don’t think so. I’m not really in charge of those sorts of things.”

“But you’re dead.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what is this? A class reunion? A moral lesson in folly?”

“Or your wild imagination?”

“Yeah, maybe…”

“But it’s none of those,” the boy said. “I haven’t been waiting here all these years. Death doesn’t work like that. When you die, time no longer exists, so waiting isn’t really a thing. I’m talking to you at the same moment you crouched over my unconscious body trying to resuscitate me back to life. Futilely, I might add.”

“Not that I could have known…”

“Of course not. This might actually be more of a haunting if you hadn’t tried to save my life.” 

“But I failed.”

“Still, it’s the effort that counts, as you liked to teach us.”

“Do you think I was a good teacher?”

“I guess that depends on the definition of a good teacher.”

“Did I change your life? Did I improve you in some small way?”

“I suppose…in a way.”

The ghost of the boy disappeared. Ms. Santymire quietly contemplated her day away. She wondered if the ghost would return. She hoped he would. But hope never looked as transparent as it did in her abandoned, rundown classroom that no longer carried student laughter and learning, but festered under the deluge of a memory Ms. Santymire had long ago retired.