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The room grew darker as the candles began going out one by one. She was the last. She and her fake sister were going to communicate. The medium began her incantation, she swayed back and forth in her chair. Her assistant, a sharp-nosed woman with a severe chignon and steel-gray housedress mopped her brow and offered sips of water and ice chips. This kind of work was clearly more strenuous than she had anticipated.

    Finally, the medium became still. Silent. Her voice was that of a young girl—high-pitched and squeaky. A voice she did not know. The spirit of the young girl said, I am here I am here I am here I am here I am always here I am here I am not leaving I am here . In her own voice, the medium asked, “Tell us about the drowning.” For a moment there was only a low hum in the otherwise silent room. This spirit girl, if she was one, couldn’t talk about the drowning because she didn’t know about it. The medium began screaming. She would not stop. She continued and continued and would not stop. Everyone at the table became agitated and looked at each other not knowing what to do. Some moved out of their chairs in an effort to help her assistant who was trying to shake the medium out of her trance, “Madame, Madame, come back to us Madame!”
    Calmly, as though nothing were happening, she got up from the table and gathered her things. She left quickly and without a sound.

    I am driving on a rocky road that cuts through the middle of the island. I drive the old car with caution. It is lush here, green and full of ancient trees. I am driving to the mainland so I can go to the post office—I have several letters to mail. One is from the woman who looks like me. She has written to an old friend. The letter is on top of the stack and is unsealed.
    Dear_______,
    I’m not sure if I’m coming back. I have been on the island for a while now and it is pleasant— the isolation. It is good to be free from other people, from the business of the city, all the demands, all the unnecessary conversations. I feel as though my whole being has moved back into an elemental state—I am once again hungry for meals, I can sleep easily, I find I can spend hours gazing at a shadow. I have never felt such clear joy. In my old world, I am sure I would be completely unbearable. Please let me know your news and don’t forget about me here, surrounded by water.

    She awoke in the middle of the night and felt as though she had been submerged in a pool of water. Her face was wet, the pillowcase dripping, the blankets heavy and damp— everything was soaked. She reached to touch her neck and found her hair drenched. It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of water on her. She was confused. But rather than get up, she stayed in the wetness, her dream calling her back under. Before she was waked, she had been dreaming of a long bridge inside a massive mansion. When she returned to the dream the bridge was gone and only the scaffolding was left in its place. Nothing could pass over this bridge, although everyone continued to try, which resulted in everyone plummeting to the ground several feet below. When she woke in the morning, she was completely dry. There was no trace of water anywhere.

    A ghost recovers itself, gathers its veil, its frost and fog, and descends the staircase and goes to wait in the car. It had been left sprawled on the floor, left to consider monuments, the monumental. It had been left outside the vortex and next to the wall. What could house this thing—with its variable temperatures, its moist and heavy movements? It clings to its nearest possession, hoping to descend into a vase like a genie. The days of horse-drawn carriages and finger bowls and calling cards and dressing gowns and forget-me-nots and that particular haze that used to cling to the city were over now. This past was gathered, warped, and straightened. It was ready to move on.

    The floor is spread with