I am sitting in the passenger seat of my client George’s truck. It’s likely we are breaking some sort of doctor-patient confidentiality rule, but I’m too intrigued to care. Plus, George is no snitch. He’s on the older side–late sixties, I think, with graying hair and a pretty bad rotator cuff injury. Definitely one of those guys who gets hurt and puts off going to the hospital because of pride. Friendly, but not too friendly. Wears a lot of flannels. Normally I don’t get along so well with these older guys, but I’d say George and I are friendlier than I am with the average patient. I really look forward to chatting with him every week. 

I’m in his truck because we’re going to meet his brother, who is apparently some sort of vehicular genius. It was strange. At his appointment last week, while he was in the middle of his doorway stretches, I happened to mention that my husband and I were interested in buying a car. 

“I’ll stop you right there,” he’d said. “You gotta talk to my older brother. He’s the guy you go to for this kind of stuff. He’ll get you the best deal possible. Really, Sarah, I mean it. It’s the least I can do for you after you helped me out with my shoulder.” 

“I get paid to help you out with your shoulder,” I said. “That’s kind of the whole idea that the physical therapy business is built on.” 

“Just talk to him,” George said. “I can take you sometime this weekend. It’s like magic, the way he can help you buy a car.” 

“I don’t know,” I said. “We were just planning on going to the dealership this weekend.” 

George went uncharacteristically silent. “Sarah, think of it as doing me a favor. At the same time my brother is doing you a favor. It’s important to me.” 

His seriousness surprised me. “Fine,” I said. “Why not. Let’s do it.” 

Now, three days later, we drive silently down an incredibly bumpy road. It’s not too late, nearing dusk, but the sun has sunk below the knobby trees surrounding us on either side of the road. I might be nervous, except George isn’t at all. He’s pensive, though. In the three months we’ve known each other, I’ve never seen him like this. But that could just be the fact that we’re always in a pretty clinical environment together. 

“You like my truck?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” I say. It’s fine. It’s a fine truck. 

“My brother helped me buy it.” 

We drive on until we reach a small house. It’s wooded on all sides, trees so close to the house that their branches reach over it, almost blocking out the sky. George parks the truck and we get out. It’s a cute little cabin, a blue-gray, that looks like it was built here decades ago and almost never changed. George unlocks the door with a key on a key ring that contains a suspicious amount of keys. I wonder what he unlocks all day. 

A little dog bounds out of the house towards me. It stands up, placing its paws on my jeans while wagging its tail. I give it a pat on the head.

“Down, girl.” George says. “Sorry. She gets excited for visitors. Not many people coming around here much anymore.” 

“What’s her name?” 

“Tally,” he says. “She’s not mine. She’s my brother’s.” 

“Is this your brother’s house?” I ask. From the way he unlocked the door, I was under the impression he lived here. Something about it was authoritative. That, and the fact that his truck is the only vehicle in the driveway. 

“He used to be the principal owner,” he says, “but now we share it.” 

“Oh,” I say. “Will he be coming later, then?” 

George looks at me blankly. “He’s already here.” 

Inside the house is pretty much what I expected: wood-paneled walls, knick knacks covering the shelves, a presence of dust, a stagnant smell. The kitchen, dining room, and living room are one space; two doors lead off into what I can only assume are a bathroom and a bedroom. Tally has disappeared entirely. Maybe there’s a doggy door somewhere. I find myself realizing I half-expected George to have a wife, but finding out he’s by himself doesn’t really surprise me. 

The thing that does surprise me, though, is the condition of the dining room table. It’s wooden, circular, half a leg missing, and the two place settings at the middle are encircled by a ring of candles. Candles of all shapes and sizes, all of them with drips of dried wax that indicate they’ve been well used. Some of them look just like dried wax puddles that somehow still have a wick. Most of them look homemade. There are two breaks in the circle on either side where I assume we’re meant to sit. I gaze incredulously at the display. 

George grabs a lighter from a cabinet and begins to light each one. I don’t know what to say. He’s a strange man; I knew that already. But this is weird. Not quirky-weird, or I’m-about-to-get-killed-weird, just plain, regular weird. An eccentricity of an older man, maybe. I would have expected a hunting obsession, or maybe some questionable political views. But candles are really out of left field. 

He makes eye contact with me. I find myself wanting to shy away from it, to walk away from the living room and out of the house. But he drove me here, and we haven’t even met his brother. And I would like a good deal on a car, if I’m being honest. It’s not just the intrigue of George’s brother that’s brought me here. I also want to save money. Physical therapy doesn’t pay top dollar. And it’s this promise that makes me keep the eye contact, to take a deep breath, and decide to continue with whatever this is. 

“Sit down,” he says. There are two chairs facing each other on opposite sides of the table. I sit. 

“What car are you thinking of buying?” 

I almost feel silly answering. “A Kia Soul.” 

“How much do they want for it?” 

“Nineteen thousand.” 

“How much do you want to pay?”

“Fifteen thousand.” 

“Alright,” he says, “let’s get started.” 

He puts his hands facing upwards on the table, and after a moment cocks his head to indicate that I should hold them. I do, although I don’t know what I’m doing. “Close your eyes,” he says. I do. 

“Bernard, we contact you from the great beyond,” he says. 

Immediately, I reopen my eyes. “What?” I say. “The great beyond? George, what are you talking about?” 

“Close your eyes!” he yells. “Bernard, forgive her. She knows not your ways.” All of a sudden, the candles begin to flicker. I feel a breeze flow through my hair, not unpleasantly. “George, what-” 

“Trust me,” he says. “Do you want the Kia Soul or not?” 

It’s stupid, but I do. So I close my eyes. I’ll be so mad if I get murdered. 

The wind in the room picks up, circling George and I, around and around the table of flames. He’s murmuring things in some language I don’t understand–and if what I think is happening is happening, it’s probably Latin. 

“George,” I say, eyes still shut, “Does your brother happen to be deceased?” 

“Haec femina opus est ut emendo a Kia Soul!” He yells. The wind is almost deafening now, and I instinctively want to let go of George’s hands and cover my ears. But I don’t. “Quaeso, frater, hac raeda indiget!” 

All of a sudden, the wind stops. Abruptly. I feel my hair settle on my shoulders. “You speak Latin?” I ask, although it feels quippy. Like I’m an action movie character really trying to get a joke in. It’s silent, more silent than anything has ever been before. George lets go of my hands And then: 

“Open your eyes,” he says. 

I do. There, standing next to George, is another man. His brother. Bernard, I guess. He’s a little shorter, a little fuller in the face. But they’re very obviously siblings. I can tell by their twin smiles, which both grin at me. There’s one clear difference, though, which is that Bernard happens to be slightly transparent. 

It’s like looking through a glass, or a cellophane sheet. He’s not clear–he’s still got clothes and skin and all that–but I can sort of make out the needlepoint sign that reads “HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS” on the wall behind him. It’s bizarre. 

“Hi there,” he says in a gruff voice. He sounds a bit tinny, like he’s talking through an older phone with poor reception. 

“Hi,” I say. “George, what is this?” 

“This is my brother,” he says. “Sarah, I expected you to be a little more respectful.” “No, what is all of this?” I ask. 

George, still sitting, tries to put his arm around Bernard. It goes through his torso a little bit. “He’s my best pal. I only see him like this anymore.

When I can put my arm right through him!” He waves his arm back and forth through Bernard, which is only a bit disturbing. Bernard shivers. 

George stands up and procures a third chair from another small table in the kitchen. Somehow, Bernard sits down on it. 

“So,” he says. “You’re thinking of buying a car? A Kia Soul, I hear.” 

“Yes,” I say meekly. “A green one.” 

“Great,” the ghost of George’s brother says. “So why don’t we start by comparing some prices–you are preapproved for financing, right?” 

I don’t know how much later it is by the time we’re finished, but the sun has set entirely. The windows are dark, and Bernard’s spectorality is more apparent now. His skin shimmers and ripples like water. 

 “Alright, so just sign here and here,” he says. At one point, he had conjured up some forms out of what seemed to be thin air– forms about insurance, maintenance, the whole lot. It didn’t occur to me until maybe halfway through that I would actually be buying the car from Bernard.

I assumed he would just help me with some bargaining strategies and send me off to the dealer, but no. He’s got all the paperwork here, except for the actual car. I’m not sure how that part will work. Or how money works in the spirit world. 

I sign. George grins. He’s been having the time of his life here, happier and more animated than I’ve ever seen him. He kept interjecting, to talk to his brother about remember-whens and to add in new updates about his life, his shoulder injury, Tally. Bernard answered everything he said with a peaceful countenance, calmly dismissing each subject before they went any further. 

Bernard picks up the form. “Excellent,” he says. “Well, I’ll be going now to get the car all set up for you.” 

“Oh, it’s been so good to hear your voice, Bernie,” George says. “I’ll find another person soon, I promise,” 

“Another person?” I ask. Using the term ‘person’ to refer to me makes me feel like I’m some sort of sacrifice. 

“For his unfinished business,” George says. “This is his unfinished business. The way the state of the economy was when he died, he’s gotta stick around a little longer and help people buy the cars. That’s the only way he can cross over.” He tries to tousle Bernard’s hair but fails, due to the fact that it’s only semi-present. “Otherwise, I’d be calling this guy up all the time just to hang.” His voice has an emotional quality I don’t often associate with him. He must really miss his brother. 

“Goodbye for now, George,” Bernard says, looking fondly at him. George looks close to tears. “I’ll be seeing you.” 

He fades away. The candles extinguish on their own. 

After I console George, which is weird, I walk outside to see a skeleton holding a clipboard leaning against the side of a brand new green Kia Soul. 

“Cash or credit?” it asks.