OOM: Quality reading time
Author's Foreword from the second printing of Calvin Chandler, Jr's autobiography; published 2042, re-issued 2057
I am going to tell you something new about myself. I'm sure you don't think that's possible. After I've spent my life in the spotlight, after countless exposés on my family and this reprinting of my autobiography, how can there be anything to tell about myself that the American public hasn't already heard countless times?
But there is, and it's this: I believe in ghosts.
With a family history like mine, you're probably expecting some sort of overwrought metaphor. After all, my father's noble suicide, sixty years ago next month as I write this, is the stuff of legends. Even on the rare occasion that the media does manage to talk about me without talking about him, his name is still there, implied in mine. I've long since made my peace with growing up in his shadow.
But, even though there is a connection, that's not what I mean. What I mean to say is what I said: I believe in ghosts.
I had the same woman as a nanny until I was eleven. I think Mom kept her on longer than she really needed the help just to keep things stable for me. God knows I adored Marisa, and kept in contact with her until she died twenty years ago.
When I was eight, Marisa told me a story. She only told it once. I only needed to hear it once.
She told me of a night, a few months after my father's death, when she met him in the hallway outside my nursery. He was worried about me, she said; he'd come all the way back from the afterlife just to make sure that I was okay. And when she had reassured him that I was, and he believed her, he left.
Now, understand that Marisa was not the stereotypical Latina nanny. She was second generation, had been to college, and had never, at least in my presence, uttered so much a syllable of superstition before she told me that story. I didn't know what to make of hearing such a thing from her.
"That's crazy," I said, "there's no such thing as ghosts."
Marisa smiled. "Don't believe me," she said, "just ask your grandmother."
I laughed, more disbelieving than amused. Grandmother was right there. Even if she hadn't been listening to the story, surely she'd have something to say about Marisa getting her involved?
"Grandmother, did you hear that?"
My grandmother, the most practical skeptic I will ever meet, a woman who kept her sharp tongue right to the end and never hesitated to let fly when she heard something she thought was foolish - she just looked at me. In silence.
And so I believe in ghosts.
Calvin Chandler, Jr
April, 2057
I am going to tell you something new about myself. I'm sure you don't think that's possible. After I've spent my life in the spotlight, after countless exposés on my family and this reprinting of my autobiography, how can there be anything to tell about myself that the American public hasn't already heard countless times?
But there is, and it's this: I believe in ghosts.
With a family history like mine, you're probably expecting some sort of overwrought metaphor. After all, my father's noble suicide, sixty years ago next month as I write this, is the stuff of legends. Even on the rare occasion that the media does manage to talk about me without talking about him, his name is still there, implied in mine. I've long since made my peace with growing up in his shadow.
But, even though there is a connection, that's not what I mean. What I mean to say is what I said: I believe in ghosts.
I had the same woman as a nanny until I was eleven. I think Mom kept her on longer than she really needed the help just to keep things stable for me. God knows I adored Marisa, and kept in contact with her until she died twenty years ago.
When I was eight, Marisa told me a story. She only told it once. I only needed to hear it once.
She told me of a night, a few months after my father's death, when she met him in the hallway outside my nursery. He was worried about me, she said; he'd come all the way back from the afterlife just to make sure that I was okay. And when she had reassured him that I was, and he believed her, he left.
Now, understand that Marisa was not the stereotypical Latina nanny. She was second generation, had been to college, and had never, at least in my presence, uttered so much a syllable of superstition before she told me that story. I didn't know what to make of hearing such a thing from her.
"That's crazy," I said, "there's no such thing as ghosts."
Marisa smiled. "Don't believe me," she said, "just ask your grandmother."
I laughed, more disbelieving than amused. Grandmother was right there. Even if she hadn't been listening to the story, surely she'd have something to say about Marisa getting her involved?
"Grandmother, did you hear that?"
My grandmother, the most practical skeptic I will ever meet, a woman who kept her sharp tongue right to the end and never hesitated to let fly when she heard something she thought was foolish - she just looked at me. In silence.
And so I believe in ghosts.
Calvin Chandler, Jr
April, 2057