Death on Behalf
by Natalia Liron
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
It turns out that burying someone is much harder than dying yourself, especially when you know that when you die, you do not die forever, while your brother on the other hand... But then again, who knows? Eternity is infinite and multifaceted.
“It will be given to him, by his faith...”
Amen to that.
I was devouring my morning breakfast, throwing calories inside myself like wood onto a fire; I’d need my strength today. The morning paper lay before me: August 27, 2015. I skimmed the headlines, not really paying attention to the content.
Friends and relatives will join the funeral procession. Half of them aren’t relatives at all, and the other half are certainly not friends, but they’ve all come out of the woodwork and flocked to the wake’s buffet. Funerals are troublesome, troublesome and expensive.
I gulped down the rest of my coffee. Goddammit, what kind of trash was this?! I stared reproachfully at the nearby barista and didn’t immediately hear the sound of my cell phone.
“Yes,” I snapped, picking up the unfamiliar number, “Yes, today at three p.m. Dress code? A ball gown, dammit. ”
The person on the other end hung up, and I chucked the blameless smartphone into my briefcase: “Idiot!” Yet another one of my crazy brother’s exes.
* * *
When he first bought that motorcycle, I already knew how it would end. Not because I didn’t like bikers; I felt ambivalent about bikers. I knew it because Alex was the one behind the wheel. Useless, reckless Alex.
His guardian angel relentlessly kept him safe for five whole years, and I was beginning to think his track record had misled me, but the cherub got distracted for a split second, and a massive truck crushed my brother’s chopper under its steel stomach like it was nothing.
Three days ago, I was talking to him from New York, complaining about my terrible jet lag, half-listening absentmindedly, greeting the sleepless American dawn. We agreed to see each other when I returned and...
And here I have returned. Straight to his coffin.
I tried not to think about our distraught mother because, when I did, even though he was already dead, I wanted to smash his face in. To be fair, his face was the only part of him that was left intact; the rest of his body had been dragged along the road. But since his head was in his helmet, there it stayed.
Never mind, I just needed to survive this day.
* * *
I went out into the St. Petersburg rain and, before I could open my umbrella, my Uber pulled up. I had to go from Vasilyevsky Island to Zanevsky Prospekt, and I was in a hurry. There were still a ton of things that needed to get done before three p.m.
What the hell was with my luck today? The wipers tapped rhythmically on the windshield, smearing gray rain across the glass. The car was hopelessly stuck in a traffic jam on the Blagoveshchensky Bridge.
The rain poured and poured, its stubborn droplets drumming on the hood. I leaned my forehead on the glass. My watch was ticking, the driver was breathing hoarsely, raspy blues were streaming out of the car radio. The sounds grew clearer, closer... Would I really fail again?
I jerked my head but knew it was no use; such bad timing! I clung to the seat, knowing nothing would help. It was not under my control. Ever. Reality loosened its grip on me, becoming a blurry glassy surface, a disappearing hologram, a void...
* * *
I opened my eyes. Above me was a white ceiling; wherever I was, it smelled of hospital sterility and spilling fear. An IV bag was measuring the tight seconds of my life, filling my body with the illusion of recovery.
Today, my relatives would visit; tomorrow, my friends. But the former were not my relatives, and the latter were not my friends.
Their faces froze in a welcoming mask as soon as they crossed the threshold of my hospital room, a kind of crypt for the not-yet-dead, but also the no-longer-alive.
I deliberately extend my arm to the men and see how they, overcoming themselves, shake my moist, weak hand and then secretly wipe theirs on their pant leg. I am more merciful to the women. Yes, my dears, death is revolting.
The neighbor lying next to me never bothers me, because he’s in a coma. His name is John Watts, and he is forty-seven years old. I learned that from the Russian nurse, Dasha, who occasionally writes something in his medical record. Well, that’s an osteosarcoma for you! He has had visitors only once: an elderly couple, that’s it. We talk occasionally, or rather, I talk while he listens. A great roommate; I couldn’t wish for a better one.
* * *
Very slowly, helping myself with my hands, I sat up, lowered my legs down, and, leaning on the IV pole, peeled myself off the bed.
When I almost reached the bathroom, a girl flew into the room like a whirlwind. One light push was all it took to send me crashing to the ground, painfully hitting my bony ass on the hard floor.
“Sorry, I’m sorry... I, I...” she babbled incoherently.
“Look where you’re going!” I barked.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. Let me help you,” she said, looking down at me.
“Come on.” I was lying helplessly on the floor like a wet rag. Stupid jerk! What is she even doing here?
She reached her hand out to me; I grabbed it and pulled. We ended up close to one another. She put her arm around my waist so that her chin and her pink ear were over my shoulder. She smelled like fresh crunching snow and rosemary. The young lady picked me up and, grabbing her shoulders, I got back on my feet.
“Oh,” she said, raising her head, “you are... tall.”
“Very keen observation.” I looked at her sternly.
“I think I’ll come back later,” she muttered and ran out.
About forty minutes later, she came in again, this time very carefully. She looked at my bed, lowered her eyes and said, in a strained voice, “Hi.”
I didn’t reply.
“I won’t be long,” she said, approaching the comatose guy’s bed.
She pulled up a chair and sat next to him.
I stole glances at her. She was tall, her fair hair in a ponytail, large gray eyes. She sat nearly motionless, gazing at the face of the immobilized person, shifting her gaze to the window or to the softly beeping equipment, then back to his face.
She sat like that for half an hour, then got up silently, walked towards the exit, paused in the doorway, and turned around. “G... g-g-g-et well soon, and forgive me, I can be awfully clumsy sometimes. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Bye,” I called after her.
Huge, frightened eyes... the way she touched me — as if I were a normal person — her cold hands, which I felt through my hospital pajamas. Her face didn’t have that squeamish grimace, concealed under feigned compassion.
Who was she?
Okay, dear Michael, what is this nonsense? Who cares who she is? It’s time to die, not to pine after girls.
I turned on the TV and channel-surfed mindlessly till evening, remembering her cheek and her ear so close to me that I could feel her warmth.
Just before kind Dasha was about to wheel in my nightly dose of painkillers and sleeping pills, I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed my face with cold water and stared in the mirror. What I saw in it was me now: almost two meters of rattling bones, bald, without eyebrows, with a sharp bony nose, dull gray eyes with circles of the same gray under them. So handsome!
“Freak,” I whispered sincerely to my reflection and went to bed.
She came the next morning. Through my slumber, I felt someone tugging on my shoulder and opened my eyes.
“Excuse me,” she said, standing next to my bed.
“Wh-wh-what?” I asked hoarsely, half asleep.
“Are you allowed to drink coffee?” She was holding two plastic cups.
“You? What?” I tried to figure out what she wanted from me.
“Latte.” She put the cup on my nightstand. “I bought it for you, in case you like coffee.”
She’s crazy or something. The thought flashed in my mind. I looked at my watch: five minutes to six.
“I’ll be leaving soon.” She sounded sad. “I shouldn’t have woken you up. It’s just, the coffee will get cold and then it will be impossible to drink. I personally prefer it hot. There’s a coffee shop near the hospital. They open early, and their coffee is quite decent.”
I watched her wide-eyed as she went on talking nonsense.
“I was thinking, which one should I get for you? I myself like a mochaccino, it’s coffee with chocolate. My friends say that everything I drink is trash, but I like it. Lattes are not bad, either. Do you like lattes?”
She was wearing jeans, a black sweater a few sizes too big, her narrow hands were peeking out of the rolled up sleeves, a huge scarf was wrapped around her neck.
“I stopped by before class, I probably won’t have time during the day.” She pushed a chair to John Watts’ bed, sat on the edge of the covers, put her boots up on the chair, turned away from me and stared at him.
I pretended to fall asleep again, but silently watched her from under half-closed eyelids. High cheekbones, long neck, sloped shoulders, and that scent that drove me wild: cold and snow, mint, rosemary, coffee and chocolate.
Just like yesterday, she sat there quietly for about twenty minutes. Then she got up and came up to my bed. I pretended to be asleep but felt her gaze on me, attentive, clinging.
“It seems like you’re pretending.” I heard her voice, but I didn’t open my eyes. “Get well soon.” The door clicked shut behind her.
The latte remained, growing cold on my nightstand.
I sat up slowly, picked it up and tried to remember the last time I’d had coffee. I opened the plastic lid and breathed in the magic smell, the smell of an early weekday morning, jogging, upcoming lectures. I used to put a similar cup of coffee on my lectern while telling my sleepy students the topic of the day’s class.
This coffee smelled like a different life. It smelled like life.
I warmed my hands on the warm cup, not daring to take a sip, and remembered the past, measured out to me by fate, falling into place over twenty-nine years.
I won’t live to see the thirtieth.
* * *
The next time, she came after skipping a day; peeked through the door, smiled.
“You don’t mind?” She entered the room briskly. “I won’t be long.” She said this every time she came. “I have to prepare for a lecture.”
“What kind of lecture?” I asked.
“On Thermospheric Safety,” she said, smiling again.
And suddenly, I was acutely aware of my own scent — the scent of sickness, weakness, medications — and the abyss that separated us revealed itself before me with absolute clarity.
“Hmm... serious subject,” I coughed.
“Can I sit down?” she asked and, without waiting for an answer, took a chair and sat beside me.
What did she want from me?
I thought it strange that she was talking to me as if we were sitting not in the hospital, but in some kind of a café, sipping lattes, chatting, discussing lectures, laughing, knowing that soon we would part ways to tend to our respective errands. I would look at her covertly and think about kissing her.
Okay, stop!
“Are you okay?” She looked at me with alarm.
I was red to the ears...
“Um... strict professor?” I tried to hide my confusion.
“What?” She didn’t understand.
“You said that you had to prepare for a lecture, so I’m asking: is your professor strict?”
She laughed so loudly and infectiously that I, too, began to smile, but then I got scared that people in the corridor would hear her and tried to shush her with my finger: “Shhh...”
“Yes, yes,” she nodded, continuing to giggle.
“It’s me,” she answered.
“What’s you?” I didn’t understand.
“I am the professor,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand and choking with laughter.
Then I also started to laugh. I never would have thought... How old could she be? Twenty at the most? Whom did she teach? What kind of safety?
“And... have you been teaching long?” I was surprised at my own curiosity, evoked by this strange girl.
“This is just my second year.” She turned her profile, then her whole face to me. “What, do I not look the part?”
“You absolutely do not look the part.” I repeated her words.
“Many people say that,” she waved her hand. “I’m actually twenty-five,” she smiled, “and you?”
“Me?” The fun was suddenly over, as if we had returned from a sunny day into a damp haze. “I was a professor as well.”
Was...? Where did she come from, this crazy girl who was actually twenty-five? Why couldn’t she have appeared in my life earlier? Or never.
“Hm... yes.” She grew somber as well. She quickly hopped off the chair and walked up to the neighboring bed:
“I’m sorry I didn’t sit with you today,” she addressed John Watts as if he could hear her. “I’ll drop by tomorrow night.”
She came up to me again: “Get well soon.”
“I don’t suppose you could...” — I didn’t expect this from myself — “adjust my pillow? Please.”
“Of course,” she agreed easily, not noticing my trick.
She came closer and leaned over me, lifting my head with her cool hands. I inhaled her crystal scent and tried to stretch the seconds to their limit, listened to the pounding of my heart, feeling how a lock of her fair hair, escaped from her ponytail, touched my cheeks and chin, her breath so near.
She left. And I stared at the ceiling. Idiot! I didn’t even know her name. Why, why, God, why?
I’m not going to get better. How much longer? A month? I closed my eyes. Damned fool!
Fate was taunting me just when I thought I had drained my cup of life to the bottom. And in the final lap, I had to admit, God had a great sense of humor. I’d say, a unique one.
The next morning, Nurse Martha brought me breakfast, watery low-calorie porridge and a glass of milk. She put the morning paper in front of me: October 2, 2012. I skimmed the headlines, then turned on the TV and counted the minutes till her arrival but, when she came, I pretended to be asleep.
“Hi,” she said lightly in my direction, noticed that I was asleep, turned around and sat down on John Watts’ bed. She sat there silently for about half an hour, stood up, walked over to my bed and loitered there for a bit.
I froze in anticipation, trying not to give myself away.
“Hey,” I heard a quiet whisper, “are you sleeping? Or just pretending so I don’t bother you?”
And completely unexpectedly she touched my forehead. I shuddered instinctively...
“Shhh,” she said softly, running her hand over my forehead again, “I know your name now, it’s written right here,” she read the clipboard attached to my bed, “and I’m Anne, Anne Green. Nice to meet you, Michael Davis.”
I realized that continuing to pretend was pointless and opened my eyes.
“I’m just very tired.” My words sounded false and unnatural.
“I’m already leaving,” she answered sadly, removing her hand from my forehead. “You are not tired, Michael Davis, you just don’t like my company.”
She hopped up off the bed, quickly wrapped herself in a scarf and...
Come on, she’s about to leave, come on!
“Anne, wait.” I didn’t recognize my own voice.
“Yes?” she stopped instantly.
“Your company... doesn’t get me wrong, your company...” — I had to tell her — “I like it too much, do you understand? And it’s so overwhelming I can’t handle it.”
“Oh,” she smiled and flustered, and blushed.
Gosh, how beautiful she was at that moment!
“I like you, Anne Green. And I’m dying,” I didn’t have time to be coquettish.
“Right now?” she asked, frightened.
“Um... no.” As much as I wanted to keep the pathos, I couldn’t do it. “Not right now.”
“Then couldn’t we just chat with each other? Or are you not allowed?” she asked seriously.
“What for?” I got angry. “You think this is funny, Anne Green?”
“No, of course, it’s not funny.” She grew terribly serious all of a sudden. “It’s just, I like you, too, Michael Davis.”
“Good Lord!” I raised my eyes to the ceiling. What on earth was she doing to me? What was it about her? How? Why? Where from and what for?
“Do you realize that I’m going to die soon and that all of this is nonsense? And your affection is simply pity for a dying person. Don’t you understand that?” I wanted her to leave and to never open the damn door again. “Leave! Leave, do you hear me? And don’t come back.”
“I can’t,” she made a helpless gesture with her hands. “I’m John Watts’ only next of kin. He’s my father. And before he slipped into a coma, he wrote his will and named me the one who would decide whether or not to remove him from life support.”
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Natalia Liron
