Dinner at the Johnsons' house.
Kevin, Chloe's husband, is all charm, no substance.
He pats Chloe's hand, a practiced gesture.
Diane, recovering on the sofa, beams at them.
"You two are such a comfort," Diane says.
I float in the corner, watching. This is Chloe's family now.
Not me.
Diane turns to Chloe, her voice syrupy sweet.
"Chloe, dear, have you checked on your mother lately? Eleanor? It was her birthday, wasn't it?"
Chloe scoffs, a harsh, ugly sound.
"She can handle herself."
Her voice drips with old bitterness.
"Besides, after what she did to Dad, I don't owe her anything."
The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and familiar.
Richard. Her father. Dead for years.
Chloe still blames me. Believes I had an affair with Sam Carter, our friend.
Believes the stress of it killed Richard.
It's a lie Richard told, a lie I let stand to protect her from his truth.
Kevin nods sympathetically at Chloe's words. Manipulative.
He subtly undermines her, always.
I see it. I always saw it. Chloe never did.
My anger, cold and helpless, swirls around me.
They don't know I'm dead. They just think I'm the villain.
Later, Chloe is alone in her study.
She opens an old email account. One we barely used.
My messages are there. Unread.
"Happy Birthday to me! Hope to see you, sweetie. Love, Mom."
"Made your favorite apple pie. Maybe we can share a slice?"
A picture of the pie, whole and perfect, before Frank.
A pang of something crosses Chloe's face. Guilt?
She types a reply, terse and dismissive.
"Busy. Don't bother me."
She hits send.
To a dead woman.
Hours pass. No response from me, obviously.
She complains to Kevin later that night.
"She's doing it again. Her typical silent treatment. She just wants attention."
Kevin wraps an arm around her.
"Don't worry about her, babe. She'll come around when she wants something."
He's so smooth. So poisonous.
And I, Eleanor, am silent. Forever.
The irony is a bitter pill, even for a ghost.
My unread messages, my unanswered pleas, my uneaten pie.
All testament to a love Chloe refused to see.