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Remembering a ghost

There are places where memories stick like flies on honey, places that live with ghosts. Buses, too, can be like that as they hurry along their routes, and yet it’s not always where or when they exchange passengers along the way -sometimes it’s the journey, and the stop that is haunted.

Now that I’m retired, I don’t go downtown very often. It means a ferry trip from the little island where I live, and then, depending on the route I take, a rather long bus journey. I usually cut it short by getting off at the Park Royal Shopping Centre and doing my shopping on the North Shore to avoid the traffic crossing the Lion’s Gate Bridge, as beautiful as the view always is. Sometimes, though, I have business in the big city.

After one of those excursions, I found myself sitting beside an elderly man on the scenic #250 bus. It travels from downtown Vancouver, through Stanley Park and over the Bridge, wanders along Marine Drive in West Vancouver, and then eventually ends up at the ferry terminal in Horseshoe Bay. I’d only just met him as we waited in the lineup and he chose to sit beside me in the aisle seat on the bus. At first he’d merely seemed lonely and perhaps just wanted to while away the journey with someone who was willing to listen to him. As it turned out, though, he was very nervous about the trip.

“I haven’t taken the bus back home from here since my wife died,” he said, peering anxiously out of the window at the traffic.

It seemed a rather personal confession to make to a stranger, but I offered him my condolences, sensing his anxiety. “I’m sorry to hear that… Has she been gone long?” I asked, after a momentary pause to consider the correct word to use.

He nodded in reply, and was silent for a moment or two. “Almost two years now,” he finally said. And then, after another long pause, “She’d been in perfect health when she left,” he added. “But at our age, I suppose you never know, eh?”

I had to think about that; he didn’t seem that much older than me.

He sighed and stared out of the window again. “We’d been married for almost 50 years,” he continued, without looking at me, “and for our anniversary, we’d gone downtown for an afternoon at the movies.”

He turned his head slowly and stared at his lap. “Once we’d crossed the bridge and the bus continued along Marine Drive past the Park Royal shopping centre, she got off a few stops early, and told me she’d be home in a few minutes. She said she wanted to buy me –us– a surprise at a special store she’d found.” He sighed deeply and glanced at my face for a second. “She never came home, though…” He shook his head at the memory. “I suppose I should have guessed there’d be a problem: the door wouldn’t open to let her off the bus at first…” He sighed and glanced at me. “Maybe that was a sign… I should have got off with her,” he added, shaking his head slowly.

“What did…?” I stopped; I didn’t know quite what -or how- to ask him more about her.

“They said it was a stroke, but…”

I sent my eyes to rest on his face for a moment, and stayed silent.

“I didn’t think I could take this bus again, but I know that’s silly…” He stared out of the window again. “We were in these same seats, you know -I’m not sure if it was the same bus, but…” He gulped for air. “But it’s not the bus anyway, it’s the trip, isn’t it? The route.” He glanced across the aisle through the windows and then at the window beside me. “The same buildings, the same beautiful views of the sea and the boats anchored in the Burrard Inlet when we cross the Lion’s Gate Bridge… I mean, it all looks the same.”

He sighed again. “There seem to be a lot of Elderly Care Homes like ours in West Vancouver, and everybody takes the bus into town.” He closed his eyes briefly. “My friends have all been encouraging me to get on the bus again; some of them have even volunteered to go with me, but to tell the truth, they all remind me of her, for some reason.”

He turned his head towards me and stared at my face briefly. “Tell me if you think this is silly… but somehow, the #250 bus -this route across the bridge- seems haunted to me.” He looked out of the window on my side again. “Ellen used to love looking at all the boats in the Inlet. We used to walk along the Centennial Seawall in Ambleside on summer days and count the number we could see. The seawall is close to our home…” He smiled as he thought about it again. “Often we’d stroll along the wall to Dundarave and then have some lunch… It was our little treat,” he added as the thought occurred to him.

“It sounds wonderful,” I said, when he seemed lost in thought.

He suddenly turned his head to look out of the window across the aisle, took a deep breath, and reached across me for the cord. “This is the stop coming up,” he explained in a hushed voice. “It’s where she got off…”

I hesitated for a moment and then asked, “Would you like some company? I’m not in a rush.”

He smiled and shook his head as he patted me on my arm. “I’m sorry I never asked your name.”

“G,” I said and reached for is hand to shake. “Everybody calls me G…”

“I’m Raymond,” he said. “I’m sorry I was so anxious about the bus trip. I…” He looked as if he was embarrassed at his manners. “But you’ve helped me get this far. You’ve been a blessing, G.” He blinked away a tear and looked out a window for a moment. “I’ve got to do the rest for myself, though,” he said as he stood to make his way to the rear door.

But as he stood at the door, it wouldn’t open at first, even though the bus had completely stopped. Someone, noticing him standing there, yelled “Open the door, please, driver!” but it still took a few seconds for it to open.

He shrugged and turned his head to look at me with a little smile on his face as he got off. It was what he’d expected.

Maybe there really are ghosts…

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