Oh Danny Boy; A ghost story

All my stories are true. They are memories I have. Be it coincidence or something more. This one, I call “Of Danny Boy”.

These things happen when you least expect it. And I feel this is why it calls attention to itself. Such was the day in late October, seven years ago, as my close friend Paula and I took advantage of the cool fall weather and walked into town. It was a a little over a mile, downhill, and through a neighborhood of well-manicured, craftsman homes.

Paula was in a sad mood that day, and I had taken it upon myself to treat her to a cup of coffee and croissant at her favorite bakery. A French bakery in the downtown, run by an ornery Frenchman who served overpriced croissants and coffee served in porcelain teacups. I despised the eatery, but their coffee was freshly roasted and you could smell the baked goods wafting through the air like a sweet siren’s call within a block of approaching.

Paula was not her normal self that day as we descended into town. The normally talkative and Jocose woman was solemn and quiet. Her parents had died a little of a year earlier, amazingly on the same day; one from cancer and one from complications of Alzheimer’s. Although she had grieved them, she found herself deep in their memories that morning.

“My father died and never forgave me for leaving.” was all she said when I asked what was wrong.

I knew the story. Paula had left North Carolina, at a young age, against his wishes. She would marry and move into New York, and although she visited from time to time, he was never able to wrap his head around her departure. Mourning her absence as if she had taken her final breath the day she left. Sadly, dementia ravaged his brain in his later years. Her most recent visits were unremarkable. He didn’t recognize her and it was as if she weren’t there at all. It saddened her.

On his deathbed, she rushed home for a final visit. As she entered his hospital room she was amazed to find him lucid, remembering not only her name but their shared history. It was an eerie moment, lasting no more than a quarter hour as if talking to a ghost who was allowed to enter the living world. But then he disappeared, cruelly called back into the dark recesses of his mind where he was hidden for so many years. His last words, a testament to his pain, “You shouldn’t have left.”

He died an hour later.

On another floor of the hospital rested her mother. At the time critically ill, her body ravished by cancer. Ironically, she would die later that same day.

“She didn’t talk to me,” Paula said, “But she held my Pinky, just like she did when I was little. That’s how I knew she knew I was there.”

That had been a little over a year earlier. That was all I had known about the death of her parents. She rarely spoke about it other than to mention they had died on the same day.

So here I was, as we walked into the overpriced French bakery and the nasty man who tended the coffee press, rolled his eyes, as he always did whenever anyone walked in. It was never a greeting, always a snarky comment or look as you entered and an feeling that you were lucky to be there.

I placed our orders as Paula sat at our table. I reluctantly paid the bill, then carefully carried the two hot cups and a warm Tarte Tatin, before sitting at a round table covered in a white tablecloth embroidered in yellow and orange daisies. Paula gazed ahead, transfixed on a porcelain doll, dressed in a bluish-silver gown, positioned in a stand in front of the bay window. The curtains framed around her as if she were on a stage.

It’s hard to know what to say when you see your friend in pain. Why her father had invaded her mind that day was unclear. Why she carried him down the hill was hard to say. She said he was just in her thoughts. So we ate quietly. My presence, not conversation, was all she needed.

The chime of a bell called my attention to the fancy French doors, lined with lace curtains, as an old woman entered. The Frenchman seemed not to notice. Older than God it seemed, she could barely walk, relying on a third leg, wooden cane. She set her slate blue eyes on our table and stared at us. Her pastel pink jacket was disheveled. She wore orthopedic sneakers, stained, but her white hair was well-coiffed and shimmered in tints of blue.

She ordered a small cup of espresso and sat at a table nearby. I smiled at her, and that was enough. The invitation had been sent. She immediately stood up and walked to our table.

“Good morning.” Her accent, a thick Irish brogue. She smiled as both eyes disappeared in a hodge podge of wrinkles.

Paula smiled back and then an odd moment of silence before she addressed my friend.

“Dear, I hope you don’t mind, but you look so sad. I feel you may need a hug?”

Paula looked up, allowing the woman to come into her space. She leaned over and hugged her.

“There there.” As she patted her back. “It’ll be OK.”

She pulled away, the old woman’s eyes, now wide open, revealed a subtle blue, serene beauty that demanded attention.

“I want to sing you a song. ” she patted her on the shoulder and continued, “To cheer you up.”

She balanced her cane on the table, reached for Paula’s hand, and grabbed her pinky. In an odd moment, tugging it towards her, Paula’s mouth contorted while she gazed at the old lady’s hand. The words dripped out of Paula’s mouth.

“A song?”

The old woman stood up straight and began. The melody chimed out of her thin wrinkled, red lips,

“Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.”

And then something odd happened. Paula laughed, but her tears cascaded painfully down her face as the woman continued, the entire song,

“The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling,
It’s you, it’s you must go and I must bide.”

She finished the song, as Paula laughed and cried while gazing at the woman’s hands. Once smooth and youthful, now bore life’s journey etched into every line and crease. When done the old lady grabbed her bag, all the while keeping her sharp blue eyes fixed on Paula.

“Did that cheer you up, my dear?”

Paula merely nodded.

“I felt I needed to sing that. It happens to me sometimes. And I’ve learned to listen and do as it says.”

“Thank you,” Paula replied. And with that, the woman clutched her cane and waltzed out. Never having taken a sip of her coffee. Still hot, I watched as steam swirled into the air, the bell gently ringing as she walked out. The Frenchman, apparently oblivious to it all.

Paula picked up her coffee cup, took a sip, and closed her eyes as I watched the pain subside, now replaced with a sense of calm. She looked at me, smiled,

“My father used to sing me that song every night before I went to bed.” She nodded her head, “He sang it to me the day he died.” She bit her lip and held her pinky. ” I know they’re OK. Wherever they are..”

I squeezed her hand. We finished our coffee.

Now as I think about it, years later, what struck me as odd was the Frenchman. He had never acknowledged her. In all the years I had frequented his establishment, I had never seem him fully aware of his space and yet he seemed ignorant of her very presence that day. Perhaps she wasn’t even there to begin with? Perhaps were we were Haunted and Waiting?

Thoughts?