The Ghost Cannot Pay: a short story by Kody Boye
In which a young woman grapples with letting her father's ghost go
Kody Boye
The Ghost Cannot Pay
by Kody Boye
The ghost cannot pay.
He is struggling to break free of his mortal body—a body that has been wracked by pain for years—and yet, the doctors refuse to let him leave. Through medical marvels, and technological prowess, they are keeping him alive beyond his time.
Why, some might wonder, could this be allowed to happen?
The answer is simple:
The ghost simply wants to move on.
But the medical industry doesn’t want him to. They want him to pay.
No living credit.
No life insurance.
No health benefits.
No money in his bank account.
As a result, the doctors are binding the ghost to this space, this place, through a practice that could only be compared to magic.
“We can’t let him leave,” the head of the billing department says. “We are still waiting for the charity program to process his claim.”
“We don’t know how much longer we can hold him,” a nurse says. “His energy is becoming unstable.”
“Make it work,” the head of billing says, and stalks away.
Meanwhile, the ghost continues to try and break free, writhing and snapping and moving and lashing. However, suspended by cords as he happens to be, the ghost can do little more than hover there, above his body, a silent scream from his mouth.
Why are you doing this? he is trying to say. Let me die! Just let me die!
Painful as this happens to be for the dead, there is only one person living who can both see, and hear, what is happening.
His daughter.
Sophia. Seventeen years old. Small in stature, but possessing great psychic power. She is capable of hearing ghosts, and yet, has never told anyone. Not even her father.
Not until today.
Her father now knows quite clearly that Sophia is capable of both seeing, and hearing, ghosts. Sophia is trying to hold it together, especially in the face of her father’s screams, but she cannot.
Why? her father is demanding. Why won’t you make them let me go!
She wants to say that she has no control. That even if she did, she cannot stop the medical practitioners, the medical system. Yet, in seeing him struggle, in hearing him scream, she can’t help but wonder if there isn’t something she can do.
She wants so badly to just leave.
But she cannot.
Long ago, when she was just thirteen, she’d made her father a promise that she would not leave him until he was finally set free.
But now, they are waiting for a charitable program to process the final claim.
Sophia tightens her hold on the folds of her skirt and tries desperately to block out the sound of her ghostly father’s screams, but finds that he gets louder every time she tries.
Make—
Them—
Release—
Me!
She sniffles, then—an act so casual, yet so alarming, that a social worker immediately steps forward.
“Maybe we should leave,” the social worker says, “until they’re ready.”
“No.” Sophia shakes her head. “I can’t leave. Not… not while he’s like… like that.”
Sophia! the flailing ghost screams. Make them release me! Let me leave! Please!
Please, Sophia thinks, and closes her eyes.
She allows herself a moment to chase herself into fantasy, wherein she has never had this burden, never accepted this position.
Then the door swings open, and the head of the billing department steps in.
“The charitable program has approved the claim,” billing says. “You can release him.”
Sophia lifts her head, alarm in her eyes, a question on her lips. She asks, “What?”
But billing ignores her, and leaves the room without looking back.
Leaving Sophia to stand and approach her father’s bedside.
Please, Sophia, her father says. Make them release me.
“Miss?” the attending physician asks. “Are you ready to release your father?”
The question is worded so blandly, but with such absolution, that it sounds as though Sophia herself has kept him tethered to this space, this place. Yet, even with the metaphorical reins in her hands, the bolt-cutters of life in her grasp, she cannot help but look upon her father’s flailing ghost, and cry as a result.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, in a voice so low—so soft—that not even she can hear it. “I’m so sorry, Father.”
Sophia! the ghost screams. Sophia!
Sophia looks on at her father’s body—where his immortal soul used to rest. She sees the cables running onto his skull, the electrodes along his chest. She sees the half-empty IV bag, and thinks, How could this have gone on for so long? Then she closes her eyes, and lifts her head to view her father’s ghost—
Hovering there. Tethered in place by a single cord.
“Miss?” the nurse asks again. “Did you hear me?”
“Let him go,” Sophia tells the nurse at her side. “Please. Just… just let him go.”
The act is as simple as snipping the cord.
One moment, her father’s ghost is there.
The next, he is gone.
Gone.
Into the great, unfathomable unknown.
“Time of departure: 11:35 AM,” the attending physician says, then turns to face her and adds, “We are so sorry for your loss.”
The nurse allows the cord to fall. Steps forward. Covers the body with the sheet. They then turn and walk out of the room to await the man’s transport to the funeral home.
Sophia sniffles—and though a part of her would rather stay here, if only to let her father know that she’s paid her final respects, she turns and leaves the room.
All of this, she thinks as she walks into the hall, because he could not pay.
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