In July, my brother got sick. I nursed him through a long illness. He was bright-eyed and happy by August, and I played chess with him in early September. He spoke incessantly about being excited about returning to Rutgers in two weeks, and I let myself hope for the first time in months. By October, he was down to 98 lbs. and the entire family gathered in our apartment in downtown New Brunswick: Mom, Dad, Elise, our other sister, Rowan (who had flown in from California with wet, bloodshot eyes and sleep-tussled hair) and our much older brother, Branwell, from Mom's previous marriage. There was a paradoxically celebratory atmosphere, not despite Ben but because of him. He was just a small child the last time the entire family had gathered, especially with Rowan and Branwell.

We all stayed up late Friday night, eating pizza from Giovanelli's and drinking beer, including Ben. He seemed genuinely happy for the first time since his longtime girlfriend, Jessica, died six years ago. We all laughed a lot that night, and owing to how much everyone had drunk, we all stayed in the apartment, including Rowan and Branwell.

#

I awoke before everyone else Saturday morning. Looking in on Ben, I gently ruffled his hair. He was much to pale and cold to the touch. I sat upon the edge of his bed and lifted his upper body into my arms. I rocked him gently as I wept. I must have been louder that I thought, because I looked up at one point and found that the rest of the family had come in at some point. They stood watching me as I held my little brother and best friend. I just went back to rocking him.

#

As the EMTs took away his zipped body, I caught a movement in the room adjacent to the foyer. I know none of the others could see, but I could, and clearly. Ben sat in the corner stair in the sitting room, quietly reading a science fiction novel. That's when I learned that Ben would be just like Jessica. Only I could see Jessica, and I kept that to myself. But as time would show, those who loved Ben could see him, whether they had the aptitude for viewing ghosts or not.

Ben did not look up from his book when I entered the sitting room again, which was rude considering his current status. I cleared my throat like etiquette still mattered. "You know you are dead," I said. He turned a page. "I know. I was hoping no one would bring it up before breakfast." I laughed and hated myself for it, because grief apparently now came with a laugh track.

Rowan drifted in clutching a mug and looking like sleep had filed a complaint against her. She froze when she saw him. "Oh. Cool. So I am hallucinating now." Ben finally looked up. "You always were dramatic." Rowan dropped the mug. Coffee everywhere. "Nope," she said calmly. "Still hallucinating. But with continuity."

Mom appeared next, drawn by the sound of porcelain surrendering to gravity. She followed Rowan’s stare and went very still. Ben smiled at her, soft and boyish, the way he used to when he wanted forgiveness in advance. "Hi Mom." She pressed a hand to her mouth. "I knew it," she whispered. "I knew you would not leave quietly. You never cleaned your room either."

We were still processing the family wide breakdown of reality when Ben sighed and closed his book. "So here is the thing," he said. "Jessica is waiting." My stomach dropped. He kept going. "She says this is not how it usually works. Apparently I am bleeding through." Rowan blinked. "Bleeding through what." Ben shrugged. "Through you. Through all of you. Love does that. Very inconvenient."

The twist came later, when Branwell arrived and walked straight past Ben without blinking. Ben frowned. "Huh." Branwell paused at the doorway and said, without turning around, "Tell him to stop hiding and tell her what he promised." Ben looked at me, eyes suddenly very alive for someone not breathing. "Oh," he said. "So that is new."