Page 103 of Midnight in Paris

‘But you’re…’

‘What?’

‘Tom, you’re dead. You died.’ The words sounded cold, horrible in the afternoon light.

A shadow flickered across his face. ‘Yes, I know.’ He’d sighed as if it were tedious rather than tragic. ‘What a bloody waste of a life.’

‘Well, yes.’ She was clearly in need of a holiday, she’d thought. A doctor, maybe. A drink.

‘Can we just not talk about it?’ he’d asked. ‘Can we just act as if everything is normal?’

When she’d stepped towards him, he’d been gone.

When Will arrived home an hour or so later, she was sitting in the spot where Tom had appeared, sipping from a glass of water.

‘Are you OK?’ he’d asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘You look sort of pale.’

She smiled. ‘Yeah, I feel kind of pale.’ She’d looked up at him, not knowing how to put into words what she needed to say. ‘Will, I think I might need to see a doctor.’

That had alarmed him; he’d sat at her side and listened while she relayed the story – how real it had been, how Tom-like his responses had been.

Will had put an arm around her, drawn her to his side. ‘OK,’ he’d said. ‘Well, it’s a bit odd for sure, but honestly, I think it’s probably just stress. The engagement, work – and you’ve been thinking about Tom a lot. Well, his… his ashes at least. So…’ He’d let his words trail off.

‘Yes, that’s probably it,’ she’d said, but something in the back of her mind wouldn’t let her fully feel the truth in her own words.

When she’d seen Tom for a third time, a couple of weeks later, sitting in the early spring light of the garden and waving at her, she’d finally booked a doctor’s appointment.

‘What can I say is the matter?’ the receptionist had asked her.

‘I think I might have something wrong with my brain,’ she’d said, not knowing how else to put it.

‘Any other symptoms?’

‘Not really. It’s complicated.’

Luckily, she’d been granted an appointment the next day without further questions. And she’d been relieved – whatever happened, at least she could get some answers.

But then, seated in the plastic chair opposite a GP she hadn’t seen before, she’d felt suddenly shy. What happened when people confessed they were seeing things? Would she get sectioned or something? Labelled as mad or crazy? Would this end up on her medical records?

She’d taken a breath and explained, as calmly as possible, what was happening. The GP, who’d looked to be about the same age as her, nodded her head. ‘It sounds like you’re experiencing grief hallucinations,’ she’d said matter-of-factly.

Her calm, sensible tone had come as a shock. Because whatever was happening to her couldn’t be normal, surely? Were there other people being stalked by dead loved ones? Was everyone talking to people who were no longer there?

‘Oh. But he talks to me?’ she’d said. ‘We have… we have conversations, kind of.’

The GP had nodded. ‘I realise it must seem very strange, and I will make a referral for a few tests just to rule things out. But from what you’ve described, it does sound as if they might be a product of your mind. Usually, they happen quite close to a person’s passing. But it’s not unknown for them to occur later. When we’re overwhelmed with grief, when we want more than anything to see the person we’re missing, the brain can play all kinds of tricks.’

‘So what do I… how do I…?’

The doctor had tilted her head. ‘In all honesty, if they’re not causing you any great distress, you’ll probably find it’s best to let them take their natural course. They will fade off with time. If not, we can arrange some support for you,’ she’d said as she rummaged in her drawer. ‘There’s a grief centre here, and they have specialist counsellors.’

‘Thank you.’ She’d slipped the card into her bag.

When she’d got to the car, Tom had been sitting waiting for her.

---