It flatlines. My heart drops. His heart drops, literally. His eyes are wide open staring me in the face like I should have done something more. There was nothing I could do. I pick up my clipboard and open the door to the patient’s room so I can get his family. I round the corner and they immediately stand up and ask how he is. “I’m so sorry, there was nothing else we could do,” I say. The mother screams, and it imprints in my ears. I already know I’ll be hearing that scream in my nightmares. The father falls to the ground and the sisters rush to the room. I stand there in the same shock I’ve endured all of my years working here.

It’s 3:21 AM. 3, 2, 1. I dig out my keys from my bag and quietly click and turn them into the door. Cold air rushes through me, which is odd because it is winter and it should be colder outside than in my house. I shut the door behind me and lock it. I open the closet door and hang up my coat. Suddenly, something grabs me from behind. I jump, about to let out a yelp, when I feel a hand cover my mouth. I soon smell the scent of bergamot that I’ve become so accustomed to this past year. I breathe deep knowing I’m safe, away from the ICU, away from the eyes that stare straight back at me, every time they leave the world. 

André is the most thoughtful husband I could ever ask for. He makes me dinner, cleans the house, and even meditates with me, which no one ever joins me in. “Thank you for being so nice to me, I love coming home to you,” I whisper as he hugs me and we walk toward the kitchen. 

“How come you’re home so late?” he questions.

“My shift ended at 3, I already told you that.” I snapped. I didn’t mean for it to come out harsh, but he didn’t seem to care (another thing I loved about him.) 

“Well I’d stay up till sunrise to see you,” he replied with a smile. We eat dinner and he asks more about my day. 

“A patient passed away, the only one I’ve enjoyed looking after this week,” I say quietly. His eyes darken, he almost looks fake, the way his expressions immersed across his face. 

“I’m so sorry Stace, I wish I could have been there to comfort you. I’m so proud of what you do, I hope you know that,” he says while placing his hand neatly on mine. We go to bed shortly after.

One month later…

I wake up to the sound of my doorbell ringing. It’s a quarter past 9 and I quickly run to the door. André is at work and I now remember that Sadie is coming over today with Clara. Sadie is my sister and Clara is her daughter. I love them so much. Clara’s eyes light up when she sees me, she reaches for my arm. Since the day Clara was born, May 21st, we’ve always had a deeper connection than anyone else, sometimes I feel like she’s my own daughter. She’s 9 months old now, god she’s growing up fast. I smile at Sadie and give her a quick hug. She hands me Clara and announces her schedule for ​​errands today, and says she’ll pick up Clara at 2:10 PM. 2, 1, 0. If I was Clara’s mother I would take her with me everywhere, unlike Sadie.

She waves goodbye and I wish her a great day and shut the door. I feel like my whole life is opening and closing doors, whether I’m shutting out the bad or opening to the good. I wish I could just catch a break. Today I am. Today is all about me and Clara, who I wish was André and my daughter. I look around my spotless house and set Clara down on the sofa. 

The morning is full of fun. We play games and go to the park, I even teach her how to stack 3 blocks before they fall over. Soon enough it’s 2:10. Sadie shows up just like she said and I hand Clara over. Sadie asks if she can have a glass of water, since she’s “parched from all the walking,” so I let her in. She steps inside and her eyes widen. “Geez! This house is a wreck! I thought you said you would be better about cleaning it,” she says. I look at her confused. 

“What do you mean? André cleaned it yesterday. I think it looks perfect,” I say firmly. This time she just looks at me. Confusion, sadness, and anger, all built up into one stare. “I thought we were past this,” she hissed. I took a step back.

 “I’ve told you this before! André is my husband. You went to our wedding. You were the maid of honor!” I say helplessly. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I know she doesn’t like André, but she could at least acknowledge that he exists. 

“Stacy. Listen to me. I don’t want you to talk about him anymore and I don’t know why you keep bringing him up but you need to stop. You’re scaring me!” she spat. I’m angry now. She has taken this too far. 

“Sadie stop. He is my husband and I love him and I don’t care if you don’t. Can you please get out of my house now,” I bellow. 

“Fine. If you want to act crazy! Be my guest. But I’ll have you know Clara will not be coming over to this house again until you figure this all out. Goodbye.” she shouts. 

I stand in shock. The same shock that my deceased patient gave me last month. The feeling of hopelessness and fear, mixed into one. My sister was crazy. André was very much real, and now I fear for Clara’s safety, as she is living with my psycho sister who is just jealous of my perfect husband. I shut the door as Sadies car races off.

André is an architect. You have to admit ‘Architect André’ has a nice ring to it. He mainly works on schools, and occasionally his company gets a big assignment, stadiums. He’s currently working on a stadium for our state baseball team. That means he’s working more than usual, which makes me feel lonely, but I know that’s how he feels when I have long hours at the ICU. 

I start on dinner, tonight we’ll have a roast. 

André arrives home around 7:00 pm, once I hear the front door open I stop setting the table and run to go hug him. He looks tired, but a smile streaks across his face when he sees me. “How was work, honey?” I ask. 

“Good, good, I just need to clear my mind,” he responds, still smiling down at me. 

“Want to take a walk before dinner?” I offer. 

“Sure. Yes, that would help,” he says. 

We live down the block from a cemetery. Whenever we go on walks we always seem to end up walking past it, and we admire the flowers set up on each of the gravestones. “Beautiful night,” he says as a breeze pulls his hair out of his big brown eyes. 

“Yes, it is,” I reply contentedly. 

As we approach the cemetery the wind picks up and I start to shiver. “Here take this,” André says as he hands me his jacket. 

“Thank you,” I beamed. Suddenly, I have the urge to go into the cemetery. I never have because we’ve always just admired it from a distance. I walk toward the gate and push it open. It swings and screeches to a halt. “Come on, let’s go in!” I exclaim, suddenly full of adrenaline. André nods and closes the gate behind us. I start to walk around, inspecting each gravestone and its decorations. My eyes are pulled toward a gravestone across the way, in front of it are chrysanthemums, André’s favorite flower. I walk towards it, drawn to the flowers. 

André is from France, where chrysanthemums are normally placed around gravestones. As I near it, I feel André starting to become anxious. He grabs my hand. “Maybe we should go home, the roast is getting cold,” he says. 

“One sec, I just want to see those flowers over there. They’re your favorite, remember?” I asked skeptically. 

“No, please let’s go,” he pleaded. 

“Are you scared or something?” I jokingly yelled. But he just stood there, not saying a word. I didn’t know what was happening, so I kept walking towards it. I had to see what his problem was with it. Was it a family member? If it was, why wouldn’t he just tell me? 

As soon as I neared it I stopped dead in my tracks. This can’t be right.

In loving memory of 

ANDRÉ YVES MORIN

12 July 1980

14 December 2011

The light of our world is now gone 

May he rest in peace

 That is André’s full name. December 14, 2011, was 2 months ago. Nothing made sense.

Why would André already have a gravestone? Who is this? 

That’s when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. I feel a gust of wind run through me, but no one is there. Maybe he went home. Maybe I’m imagining this stone. I turn around. It’s still there. 

I walk home shivering. The jacket André gave me is no longer placed on my shoulders. Did I go into shock? Why did he go home without me?

I open the door, it creaks in the serene silence of the house. It’s warm inside, the fires lit. I don’t remember it being lit when I left. I look around, Sadie was right, the house is a wreck. I’ll clean it tomorrow. André isn’t in the kitchen, nor is he in the bedroom, or bathroom. In fact, he’s not in any room. He’s just gone. I open our closet and for once I’m not overcome by the bergamot scent of his clothes and I don’t see the flannels he owns so many of. It’s just my scrubs and my rarely-used normal clothes.

I start to panic. How could he pack up so fast? Where did he go? Then I have an idea. I run to my computer and before I can think I start typing in his name and our city. “André Morin Farmington Hills, Michigan.” 

I read the first link and my vision goes blurry. I don’t know if it’s because I’m crying or being possessed, at this point it could be either one. I scroll and find his LinkedIn account, but it’s not for his architecture firm. It’s a picture of him next to the title accountant, and a description of his experience. Nothing about the account describes the André I know. I exit out of LinkedIn and find a Facebook and Twitter account with his name. André hates social media. Who is this? His Facebook page is full of photos with his family and friends but not me. His last post was December 10th, 2011.

That’s when it hit me. The gravestone said December 14th, 2011 was when André died. That’s 4 days after he stopped posting. 

I keep scrolling down. There’s a link to an obituary. I feel my body start to tremble and my heartbeat quickens. I click on it on the link and read. I read the whole tribute and by the time I finish my tears have filled and formed a puddle on the ground and my hands are shaking so hard I can hardly close my laptop.

André passed away December 14, 2011, just like the gravestone said. I shiver. I shrink into my seat and read aloud, “André Morin, son of Gabriel and Natalie Morin. He passed away due to a heart attack December 14th, 2011, at Beaumont Hospital, Royal Oak.” Oh. My. God. That’s where I work. “He died under the care of Dr. William Grayson, and nurse Stacy Hart.”

That’s when it all came back to me. His family crying in the ICU, the shock that rolled through my body as I watched his heart stop beating. The feeling of regret and failure, when there’s nothing else I could do to save him. 

I suddenly feel eyes on me. I turn around, there was no one. “André?” I call out. It echoed through the house bouncing off the walls. I hear shuffling downstairs. “Hello?” I yell, overwhelmed with confusion. I look down the stairs and there standing at the bottom is André. Anger rushed over me. Did he fake his own death? Why is he here? He looks me straight in the eyes and slowly smiles. 

“Hi,” he says so casually. The sound of his voice rattled through my bones as the stillness of the house surrounded me. Instead of responding I run and push past him into the kitchen. The time is 1:00 AM. 

Without thinking I grab our largest sharpest knife. I lung at him. “PLEASE! DON’T.” he thundered. But it was too late. I had stabbed him right in the gut.

His eyes went dark and his eyebrows furrowed. His jaw clenched and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Then, without a sound, he vanished. Into thin air, no trace of blood, dust, not a single scent of bergamot left. 

He had disappeared into thin air. He was a ghost.