Hear Me

by Julia North

  My mahogany coffin with its golden handles rests beneath the altar draped with red roses. The priest steps up to the pulpit and speaks in a sonorous voice about the resurrection and the life, and of how death is not the end. I hope my family take comfort from those words, but I wish it could have been Pastor Jorge taking my funeral, not this nameless priest who didn’t even know me. I’m flooded with an overwhelming desire to pass through the doorway and tell them I’m still here and that death is just an illusion, but of course I can’t.

  The priest leads them in the singing of Psalm 23 followed by Amazing Grace before Dr Pillay goes up with slow steps to the front and tells of how efficient I was in the lab, what a good colleague and treasured employee I was, and extols my untapped potential. I smile at his kind words. He was a really good pathologist and a true gentleman. I remember Monica Moodley, his unrequited love: ‘Don’t pillay with me; I’m not in the moodley’, Mia and I used to joke when she rebuffed him again and again.

  The church falls into a sombre silence until the priest gives the final blessing and my mourners file behind the slow-paced penguins and my coffin. The hearse leads them down to Red Hill cemetery, and I watch them drive through the red brick gates of the wide, tarred driveway. Cement tombstones with chipped angels and crosses are dotted around the green expanse like stone flowers. New graves with mounds of red earth line one of the boundary fences. I remember friends of ours who lived nearby telling us about the AK-47 bullets which cracked through the air during the ANC burials of the early 1990s. At least now, only four years later, things look peaceful. The procession winds along the drive like a heavily fed python. It stops near an open grave which lies like a wound in the red soil.

  The penguins carry me with serious faces and set steps. They look like something out of Oliver Twist and for a second I want to giggle. What a job! They must spend their whole lives walking around with miserable faces, looking like they’ve just swallowed a hive of wasps, but my amusement quickly fades as I look at my family and friends just as miserable and their bodies hunched. Loss is such a hard thing to deal with and don’t I know it.

  They stop a little way from the empty hole and wait while the robed priest moves, clutching his Bible, to the head of the grave. The poker-faced pallbearers hoist me onto the wide straps straddling the grave and begin to carefully lower me down. Nat, Elsa, Yvonne and Mom break into sobs as I disappear in my mahogany box, deep into the open arms of the damp earth. Dave stands stick straight, his arm tightly held around Nat to support her. Greg shifts from one foot to the other and bites his bottom lip as clods of damp earth drop down on my coffin.

  Eunice ululates while the priest intones, ‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.’ He sprinkles a light rain of red earth down onto my coffin. Nat helps Mom, her shoulders hunched and her eyes hidden by dark glasses, throw down a red rose. It lands like a spilt drop of blood on the top of my coffin. Mom moans and turns around to clutch at Nat, while Nat looks over at Elsa with pain-filled eyes. Elsa’s face grows grim and then crumples as she throws in her rose. Greg goes to put an arm around her but she stands immobile, staring down at me, while Nat, Yvonne and Eunice add their roses. The petals spread their crimson across the mahogany top for a few minutes until the soft, damp earth smothers them.

  Karlos stands stoically to the side. He waits until they’ve finished before moving closer and picking up the bouquet of red roses which had sat proudly on my coffin in the church. He walks to the top end of my grave, kneels and places the bouquet on the soft earth. The rest of the funeral party stand, heads bowed, as the miserable penguins pile the earth over my coffin so that it becomes one with the red soil. I smile. Just as well I’m not really in it. I don’t think my claustrophobia could take it.

  The last clod seals my grave and penguin-man pats the hump of earth smooth with the back of his shovel, taking care not to upset the roses. The finality of my earthly end shudders through the still afternoon air. My family stand in front of the newly covered grave with lowered heads. Nat lifts hers after a while and looks up for a brief second at the empty blue sky. I see her shoulders shudder and her deep sigh echoes through the surrounding silence. Elsa keeps her head lowered. She takes Mom’s limp hand and gives it a squeeze. Eunice and Yvonne stare down at the humped soil with Thabo behind them. My spirit aches. It’s such a painful last step, this ritual of closure. I remember the bullet holes in my own soul when we lost Dad. I had to take it one day at a time, wrapped in numbness, until one day the tide of sorrow was unleashed. I’m so sorry I’ve caused them so much pain.

  ‘Hamba kahle,’ says Eunice, showering the grave with another sprinkle of fine red earth. She gazes down with soulful eyes until Thabo pulls her away.

  My family walk away with a mourner’s pace.

  ‘We’ll see you at your Mom’s house.’ Yvonne takes Mom’s arm and steers her towards the Land Rover.

  Karlos turns to Nat and clears his throat. ‘I won’t come to the house … it’s too sad.’

  ‘Okay,’ Nat says, and she and Elsa watch him with narrow eyes as he makes his way to my Golf and drives off.

  They walk towards Nat’s Honda.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ says Nat as they reach the car. She snatches a small white piece of paper which is tucked under her wiper. She reads it and turns open-mouthed to Elsa. ‘This is weird …’

  Elsa examines it with a frown. ‘Is it some kind of sick joke? She turns and looks around with fierce eyes at the now deserted cemetery.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asks Greg.

  ‘It’s a blank prescription from Dr Clark …’

  Greg snatches the paper. ‘So?’

  ‘He was our childhood doctor. He’s dead.’ Elsa says.

  ‘He’s been dead seven years …’ Nat says.

  ‘It’s probably another doctor called Clark,’ interjects Greg, crumpling up the paper.

  Elsa’s brow furrows. ‘It’s our Dr Clark’s address …’

  ‘Come on, enough, let’s go,’ says Greg, opening the back door and ushering Nat and Elsa in. He exchanges a look with Dave who quickly heads for the driver’s door and seconds later they speed out of the cemetery.

  I feel a moth of unease flap through me as I look down at the crumpled piece of white paper lying on the path. What if it is our Dr Clark? Why’s there a blank prescription from him on Nat’s car?

  The fluttering in my spirit grows in intensity. ‘Absent from the body, present with the Lord’ the Bible says. Mine was no normal crossing over. This is not how it’s meant to happen.

  Chapter 24

  I blink and shake my head. I’m in Elsa’s hallway, just outside her closed dining-room door. One minute I’m watching my funeral and now instantly I’m back on earth.

  I run my fingers through my hair. Fine strands break free and nestle against my cheek. My fingers are warm against my skin. I pinch a small area of flesh on my arm and flinch. The sensation is no different from when I was alive – or whatever alive really means. I guess I’m some kind of paradox. Alive and dead at the same time – a ghost, spirit, ethereal being, but one which still has a beating heart. The only real difference is that my senses are heightened. I can both see and hear the buzzing energy of the life around me.

  I think back to those burnt-out addicts from church Elsa had tried to help. I remember eavesdropping from the bedroom window while one of them sat in the back garden telling Elsa how acid had changed his perception and helped him see into an unseen world of spinning colour and energy. His brain was so fried with acid he thought he was a peacock in a pear tree instead of a partridge because of the vivid colours and energy he saw. Maybe he was seeing a glimmer of this exciting reality? Perhaps the acid in some weird way freed his spiritual eyes? Except, of course, instead of waiting for death, he frizzled his brain and turned into a cabbage.

  The low mumble of voices penetrates the door. I move through it as easily as through air. I smile to myself. I might be somewhere in space but I’m obviously not bound by it. I can move throu
gh things, just like the risen Christ. But the joy of wonder at my new-found being evaporates as soon as I set eyes on Nat and Elsa.

  They’re hunched around the dining table, both their faces carved deep with pain. A surge of longing mixed with sorrow swamps me. I can’t believe I’m actually seeing them again, face to face, but their terrible distress is my fault. Why am I back? There’s no clear answer. Maybe it’s a gift, a small slice of time back, for us unlucky few who’ve been torn away before our time so that we can guide our loved ones in their grief and lead them down the pot-holed road to closure?

  Nat’s fingers fiddle with the linen placemat in front of her.

  ‘Do you think it was some kind of sick joke?’

  Elsa tucks a strand of long blonde hair behind her ear and gives her head a small shake. ‘It’s probably just another Dr Clark, like Greg says.’

  Nat pulls a face. ‘It’s pretty strange, given the circumstances.’

  Elsa gives an angry shrug. ‘Maybe.’ She falls silent and stares ahead, her blue eyes washed with sadness. ‘I think we’re just making a connection which probably means nothing.’

  Nat pushes her lips together and traces a circular pattern over the placemat with her finger. I move forward until I’m standing right beside her. I only need to put my arm out to touch her, but she continues to trace the pattern, completely unaware of my presence. The rasp of her breath assaults my heightened hearing and I can see the darkness of her sorrow. I reach out my hand and rest it lightly on her bare forearm. She flinches as if aware of my touch and looks down at her arm with twitching nostrils. I watch as a swallow of fear sticks in her throat. Her nostrils twitch again, like a rabbit’s, while a deep frown etches across her brow. I continue to stand there with our faces barely a foot away from each other. If only she knew.

  ‘Els …’ she whispers.

  Elsa looks up and narrows her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t you smell it?’ Nat’s voice is low. She sniffs again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lissa’s perfume. I’m sure I can smell it.’

  Elsa’s nostrils twitch. She frowns. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’

  I let go of her arm and she rubs the space as if conscious of my disappearing touch. She turns to Elsa with wide eyes. ‘I can definitely smell it … it’s really strong, and I’m sure … I can sense her.’

  Elsa pulls down her mouth and gives a slow shake of her head. ‘It’s just your mind playing tricks because you miss her so much.’

  ‘No, it’s not … I …’

  ‘You’re imagining it,’ snaps Elsa.

  Nat frowns and clenches her fists under the table. She breathes in deeply and continues to stare straight at me.

  Am I wearing Royal Secret? I don’t remember having it on in hospital and surely they don’t spray you with perfume in the morgue? I lift my wrist to my arm and breathe in a strong whiff of its signature sandalwood scent. Nat’s right, I am, although how it got there I have no idea, but at least it’s a subtle sign of my presence, a scent of my ongoing life for her to know, and I’m so grateful she’s spiritually in tune to smell it.

  Elsa’s scowls at her. ‘Nat, when you’re dead, you’re dead. You have to accept that.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  Elsa sighs and shoves her hair behind her ears. ‘You need to.’

  Nat’s mouth turns to scorn as Elsa utters each empathic word and she shakes her head as soon as Elsa finishes speaking.

  Elsa stares at her in silence for a few seconds. ‘I miss her too. In fact, I miss her like hell, but we both have to accept she’s gone and is never coming back; it’s important for closure.’

  Nat ignores her and stares straight ahead.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Nat. We all want to believe in immortal life, but it isn’t real, it doesn’t exist! Liss is never coming back. Can’t you see that?’ Elsa’s face reddens with intensity and she bangs her fist down on the table.

  Nat clenches her lips together and continues with twitching rabbit nostrils to stare straight at me, while ignoring Elsa’s irritated gaze.

  ‘Oh, stop being stupid,’ says Elsa. She gets up and flings back her chair. ‘I’m going to make some tea.’

  Nat says nothing, but as soon as Elsa leaves the room she whispers, ‘Liss, are you here? Are you …? I can smell your perfume. I can sense you. I really can.’

  I hesitate. I want to ease her pain and show myself, although I’m not sure how. At the very least I want to speak to her and tell her that I’ll always be here with them all, whispering into their thoughts, lingering with them in the forests of our shared memories, but how’s she going react if I do? It’s all very well to wish someone back but quite different, I’m sure, if you actually see them manifest in front of you. Nat’s nostrils continue to flare. She shifts uncomfortably on her chair so that the leather squeaks. She rubs her hands against her jeans and a mottled pink rash breaks out across her chest.

  ‘I’m here, Nat,’ I shout before I can stop myself. My words echo in my ears, but Nat’s expression remains unchanged. A heavy sensation lodges deep in my belly. She may be able to smell my perfume and sense me, but she can’t see or hear me, so why have I been sent back? What the hell is really going on?

  Chapter 25

  I find myself in Nat’s bedroom, watching her deep in sleep. Where have I been since seeing her and Elsa in the dining room? Why is it just a blank? As a buzzing covers my ears I don’t need an answer. I’m entering Nat’s dream and this time I’m sure she’ll hear me speak.

  Elsa’s also there, the three of us sitting cross-legged on a red and green tartan blanket around a large piece of burning driftwood, on the soft sand at Beachwood, the sea air moist and smelling strongly of wood smoke and salty fish. The sun has long since fallen into darkness but a glowing full moon is throwing its silvery light in ripples across the lapping Indian Ocean. We’re holding steel skewers with pink and white marshmallows perched on their ends and prodding them into the dancing orange flames until they transform into burnt bits of sticky sweetness. We fill our mouths with them like in a game of chubby bunny, leaving our lips dotted with delicious bits of melted marshmallow.

  We look up as bright veins of lightning streak out across the night sky, setting it alight, and then hear the thunder crash and roar.

  ‘We’d better go,’ shouts Elsa, but as soon as we begin to collect our things the lightning stops. I stare up at the night sky. A host of thick, dark clouds have swallowed the moon. The blackness closes in around us and a fierce wind whips the waves into a white frenzy that heaves forward to crash upon the sand and race towards us. The foam fingers snatch at our marshmallows, drawing them back into the dark, swelling waters until they bob away to nowhere.

  We grab our blanket as more waves rush up over us. Nat and Elsa claw themselves away, but the current is too strong for me. I throw back my head and scream, my hands clutching out towards Nat and Elsa, as the wave drags me deep into the dark, roaring ocean.

  ‘Liss … Liss!’ scream Nat and Elsa in chorus as I’m pulled under only to emerge seconds later, holding high in my arms a bedraggled white rabbit. Elsa and Nat run down the beach and lunge madly through the crashing waves towards me. Their heads bob across the surface of the dark, swelling water as they try to frantically swim. Simultaneously, they grab hold of the rabbit’s foot. ‘Oh God, Liss … oh God!’ they scream, as they pull and pull at the dangling rabbit’s foot to try and get hold of my arm, but the foot breaks away and they fall backwards into the swelling waves with the ragged stump lying across their open hands. Bright red blood pumps out in a fountain. The bright red clots of blood emerge across the crest of the waves and wash over me, covering my arms and face red. I stretch out my arms to Nat and Elsa, but it’s no good. The blood is too thick and choking. Its rank stink is suffocating me and I can’t escape. All I can do is surrender as it draws me further and further back and soon Nat and Elsa are nothing more than small dark dots on the far, distant horizon.

  A second
later I’m back standing beside Nat and watching her restless movements under the sheets as she twists and kicks her legs. She lets out a low moan and half-opens her eyes. ‘Oh God, Liss …’ she whispers. Her voice cracks and a small tear trickles down her cheek. She throws her hand across her forehead and begins to sob.

  I stand shaken by the dream, the iron taste of blood still strong in my mouth and making my stomach heave. I didn’t speak to Nat like I hoped, so what the hell was all that about? Isn’t this whole experience surreal enough without having to share Nat’s nightmare? The bizarreness of it all makes me hope for one brief second that this is all just some drug-induced, bad acid trip, given by mistake in the third-world chaos of King Edward’s and none of its real. But the hope is short-lived, extinguished in one breath by my rational mind. No matter how much I might wish it, deep inside I know my death happened. I’ve seen my funeral, watched it play out across the loops of time, seen the pain of loss impressed upon my family’s faces, and I know there’s no going back.

  ***

  Nat’s dressed in black trousers and a white shirt and sitting on the couch with her arms huddled around her bent legs. I might be back in time but I’m certainly not part of it, nor can I control it. It’s moved me forward again and the sun is streaming in the window, but Nat appears oblivious to its heat. She shakes as she recounts her nightmare to Elsa.

  ‘It was so vivid. I just can’t stop thinking about it. I can still see that awful rabbit … even smell the blood …’ Nat grips her knees tighter and leans forward.

  Elsa’s forehead creases and she looks at Nat with narrow eyes. ‘Dreams are always a mix of things from our subconscious. I guess we’re both still in shock about the whole thing.’

  Nat lifts her head. ‘What do you think the blood means?’

  Elsa shrugs but says nothing. She places a strand of hair in her mouth and chews on it, eyes deep in thought. The room fills with the ticking of the wall clock.