-
- 'There are pictures of you, scattered all over
the world. Thousands of them. Whenever you pass a monument and you see a
flash. Or you dodge an overexposed Japanese tourist, or you sit at the table just
behind the celebration, a... a shape of you is captured. And this shape becomes the
background of a memory... and you exist to more people, in more ways, than you can
ever know. And you always will.'
This was what my daughter told me the day I found out I had cancer. Hardly
Shakespeare, but she never was. She was an artist. Her strongest voice was paint
and clay. Not the idle words her mother used. That I so relied upon. But Anna,
that's my daughter, she could never say 'I love you', or 'I'm angry, and this is
why.' And after a while I stopped expecting her to. She probably feels terrible
about it now, but it wasn't her fault really. Just the way she was. And at least she
never pretended to be anything else. She never tried to hide who she was. Or act
like she cared when she didn't.
I'm not boring you am I? I'm sorry, it's just nice to have someone to talk to really. I'm
not even sure you can hear me, but it doesn't matter. What was I talking about¡?
'Inoperable.' Now, that's another idle word. One that just hangs there. Blissfully
unaware of the havoc it wreaks. Anna was trying to comfort me, in her own way,
but it didn't help. I died all the same. We never made peace.
Miriam, of course was an entirely different story. Anna found herself detached, cut off
from me. She had been for years, largely through choice. But it was like suddenly
she realized all that that meant. She seemed to diminish somehow, became...
vulnerable. Still defensive of course, nothing really changes, but fragile. I saw my
little girl in her again.
Miriam, however, was insufferable. Silly girl. When she was born the umbilical cord
almost choked her, and to be honest it sometimes felt like it had never been cut. Far
too emotional. Far too dependant on me, or rather her idea of me. That I needed
her. For all Anna's distance, at least she was tolerable.
Oh, now... I don't wish to seem cold. But death changes you. You might need to know
that. At some point they stopped being my children. Cold facts emerged where
tears had stopped me sleeping. Love became a speed bump next to the Great Wall
of China. I still think of them of course, I still think, but the emotion, it's changed.
Death was... well, maybe I should start from the beginning.
April 12th. That's the day I found out I was dying. I told my daughters -I had no one else-
and I fixed my affairs. I'd like to tell you I climbed a mountain, or I went to
Disneyland, or married the man I'd always loved. But I was 62. Arthrithic. I was
already having trouble climbing the stairs, never mind sodding Everest. No. I saw
some sunsets. I wrote a will. It was over very quickly on any account. Anna tried to
get close. Miriam pulled away. I raised two very selfish girls. Their father died
young and I made some mistakes. They turned out too like me. So on Tuesday -
that's all I remember, Tuesday, not the date, not even the year now- on Tuesday, on
Tuesday, on Tuesday I died. I don't want to forget that, so I repeat it. I forget the
little things too easily. Death does change you. I was in my room, Anna was
outside smoking, and Miriam was making her 90th cup of tea. The doctor had been.
In. Pulse. Morphine. Whispered words. Out again. Sodding meter man would've
had a better bedside manner. I heard Miriam knock a cup. I heard it smash, I heard
her swear. And then I felt myself die. It was... odd. Like lying in a bath while all
the water drains away. Something moves over you, you close your eyes, but you
can still see. The last thing I heard was the rasping breath in my blackened lungs.
Then, I don't know, life, the water in the bath, whatever, whatever it was that held
you, it slowly let go. Left you cold. But it was all very gentle, very even, almost
conscious, like the way the tide climbs back down the shore. Death is not nearly so
violent as you might think.
So I was dead. And what then, you might ask? Growing up I had been led to believe that
dying led you somewhere. To heaven, in fact. Or, to hell. I like to think I lived a
good life. I certainly missed out on a lot of fun. But when I died on Tuesday,
nothing happened. No choir of angels, no bounding tide of demons. I lay on my
bed. The pain was gone, but I couldn't move. I could see, even though I knew my
eyes were closed, and the colours were different. But I could still make out my
room, and after a while it got better. I lay there, and I watched my girls find my
body. I saw them cry. Saw them hug awkwardly. And I thought about how odd it
was that I didn't have to blink anymore. There was no emotion. I might as well
have been watching a bad school play. It was a while before I could feel anything
at all again, and even now I wonder if it's not just a memory of feeling. Some
emotional echoes, reacting to whatever's left inside me.
And even then, some emotions never came back. I haven't felt fear in a long time- not
even when they buried me. Nor joy. In fact, the first thing I felt was annoyance. At
the heaven thing. The second was boredom. I can honestly say that the first few
hours after death are the most tedious I've ever experienced. Even the autopsy
offered only a slight morbid fascination. After that little bits and pieces of emotion
floated back, but always wrapped in numbness. The numbness in itself was
something though. Pins and needles became a comfort.
But these fragments sometimes disappeared as soon as they'd come, triggered by
memories I'd soon forget.
But I'm still aware. That's important. My annoyance at God grew into anger. At his
absence, or abandonment, whatever you want to call it. Miriam is five years older
than Anna, and in between I gave birth to a still born boy. I called him Bobby, and
spent much of my life in belief I would hold him again some day. But it doesn't
seem likely now. I think I loved him more than the girls, because in a sense he
wasn't real. I hate myself for that. For letting myself be tricked.
Do you have children? But I suppose you don't, or maybe you do. They are troublesome,
I recall, but I suppose not for you. Maybe you have the best idea, although I feel
sure I haven't the slightest idea what that is. Oh... go ahead, do feel free. I can't
feel a thing, not physically, but I know where you are, and I suspect I know exactly
what you want. So don't feel guilty, or awkward at all, I don't mind.
It's funny really, this not really feeling. Just being trapped almost, in the ruins of
something that was yours for so long. And now so fallen. I'm still aware though, have I
mentioned that? I know I'm in my box, I know my head is this end, my feet that. I
know that my arms are folded across my chest. I know that the mortician had to
break the bones to get them that way. I didn't feel anything of course, like I've
said. I just saw this young man, with all his instruments. He was very good
looking... now that's something I do regret. I... well, it's silly. But I should've had
more sex. To be plain. I could've, don't get me wrong, but I didn't find it proper.
Now, if I'd known there wasn't a heaven... I used to be a lollipop lady and there
was this principal... oh he was nice. He drove a Toyota Carina, which was a very
good car, for a principal, in those days. He would always come and talk to me,
when I was out there. I could tell he liked me. Harold had been dead a few years, I
was a young widow, I was... well, lonely. But it didn't seem right. I thought they
were all watching me, you see, God, Harold, the lot. Not that they were, as it
happened... I would've paid a bit more attention to my own box if I'd known I was
going to end up in this one for all eternity.
Are you alright there? I've forgotten your name. Or did I give you one? Doesn't matter I
suppose, I'd only forget it again. But it is nice to have you here. I haven't seen
anyone since... the funeral I suppose. Now that was a shabby affair. I knew Miriam
couldn't pull it off, and Anna, well it's not her thing really is it? I remember my
mother's funeral. I've grown to think of it differently since my own. I wonder if
people would've said all those nice things if they realised I could actually hear
them. I don't suppose you've met my mother have you? Is she lying in a box
somewhere, like I am? I can't remember what she looks like anymore. Maybe I
never had one.
I never thought much about what Anna said that day, the day I told her. About existing in
mind and image, long after you're gone. At the time it seemed morbid, like she was
speaking as if I was already dead. Maybe she felt I was. But it's all I think about
now really. I don't know how long it's been since Tuesday, but I'm still forgetting.
Little bits at a time. Some colours don't seem like they ever could've existed now,
not when there's so much black. And you can jump to all the existential
conclusions you like, but I'm still here. And in some way, I'm also out there.
Not that you could grasp that I suppose, why you're such a tiny thing. But I am pleased to
see you. It's nice to have someone to talk to. There's only so much of my own
company I can take. Oh look, there's another one. I can feel, well, I say feel, such
idle words, but he's on my leg. Definitely. A friend of yours perhaps? Come to join
the party hmm? I just knew that girl would skimp on the coffin, why look it's
falling all to bits. And so soon! Oh well, come along in you, number two, do you
know you're only the second little worm to come visit me? Oh but never mind, I
expect more shall be along soon. Now settle in, I've a few stories to tell you. I'm
not sure what's left of me, but you're perfectly welcome to it.
-
|
|
 |
|
 |
