Anna
This time of day always has a serene kind of quiet to it, when it’s not quite day and it’s not quite night, either. The last muted rays of sunlight are streaming down through the trees above, filling the park with an ethereal yellow glow. Anna’s caught in one such ray, the fading light illuminating one half of her face. Her eye is a translucent pool of blue when caught in the sun, and for a fleeting moment I get the sense that I’m staring straight into her soul. The light is making her auburn hair burn a brilliant red, speckled with flecks of radiant gold. Her mouth curves with the hint of a smile, and she takes my hand in hers. But the sensation of her squeezing my fingers is numb and distant. There’s nothing I wish for more than to truly feel her touch.
I suppose, in a way, Anna and I were always set on a crash-course, like two planets circling a star on the same orbit. And our collision was everything you’d imagine it to be; fiery, chaotic, and infinitely beautiful. I’d been eighteen at the time – a freshman – still grappling with the awe of my first year at college. The first time I saw her she’d been hard to miss. She was drenched in red paint, as if someone had spontaneously tipped the can over her head. And yet she breezed through campus as if nothing was out of the ordinary at all. In her wake she left a trail of scarlet footprints, snaking from class to class. When I asked her about it later, she claimed it had been a demonstration of the decay of modern society. In all reality, she’d more likely done it simply because she’d felt like it.
It wasn’t until the next week that I finally worked up the courage to speak to her. She’d been sitting beside a small man-made pond, methodically plucking pebbles out of the water and skimming them across the surface. There were still traces of crimson paint in her hair, clinging to the few remaining strands as if they truly didn’t want to be washed out.
“Can I sit here?” I asked, indicating to a nondescript patch of grass at her side.
She hesitated for a moment, her fingertips resting in the shallow end of the pond. “If I said no, would you sit here anyway?”
“Probably.”
“Well then, by all means, sit.”
At first we didn’t speak at all, and she continued to skim pebbles as if I wasn’t even there. It’s strange, the details of a person you only notice when you view them up close. With Anna, the feature that fascinated me most were the delicate, pale freckles that adorned the bridge of her nose. For most people freckles are a blemish, markings to cover with make-up, but Anna seemed to wear them like a badge of honour.
“I’m Ezra,” I offered, mustering a forcefully polite smile. “And you are?”
Her mouth twitched. “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together,” she said, turning to me. Her cyan eyes seemed to be burning with a mischievous sort of amusement. “I. Am. The. Eggman.”
I didn’t know what to say. This was proving to be very different from other conversations I’d had with other girls. We were silent again, but she never broke her gaze with me. Her stare was unnerving and entrancing all at the same time.
“So you like The Beatles?” I asked, fighting hard to keep my voice steady, and failing.
“So you like Einstein’s Theory of Relativity?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re excused.”
I broke our seemingly endless eye contact to stare at the palms of my hands. She was playing with my mind, and I didn’t particularly like the feeling of her toying around up there. And yet I didn’t leave. It was almost as though she had her own gravitational pull, but I was the only one it lured in. Just being in her presence made me feel content. Just to be near her was enough.
We sat together for the rest of the afternoon, long after the shadows around us lengthened and were eventually chased away by the onset of twilight. But to me, it felt as if a few mere minutes had passed, not hours.
“I like you,” she said, rising to her feet. She ruffled my hair slightly, as if teasing a child. “I’ll see you around.”
“Wait!” I called after her, awkwardly scrambling to my feet. “I still don’t know your name. Or your number! Wait!”
She turned to face me again. “Just let it be,” she said, flashing me a cocked smile. “Everything doesn’t have to be so black and white.”
The way she spoke in riddles frustrated me to no end, but it only seemed to make me want to see her more.
From that day on, we saw each other almost daily. At first we’d just sit by the pond together, basking in each other’s silence. From there we moved onto Gary’s Grill—the most critically acclaimed café on campus—or the boardwalk that lined the beach, or the steps of her dorm, or the room of her dorm, sprawled out on plush violet cushions and debating the meaning of life. And despite the fact we never engaged in getting-to-know-you small-talk, I felt like I knew every intricacy of her personality, and she mine.
My reverie fades, and I’m in the park once more, my hand still clasped in hers. A breath of wind catches in her hair, and I notice a faint bloom of goosebumps on her arms.
“You’re cold,” I say.
Despite the fact my words are beginning to slur, Anna still understands me with ease. “Don’t accuse me of such things!” she says, letting out a soft peal of laughter. “But maybe I’ll put my jacket on, just to please you.”
She helps me to my feet, a necessity these days after lengthy periods of sitting. I reach down to pick up the picnic basket while Anna folds up the blanket. I wrap my fingers around the handle, but each time I try to lift, they slip away. I try with both hands this time, and I manage to get the basket a few feet off the ground, but without warning my hands go slack and it falls away, half-eaten sandwiches spilling out onto the summer grass.
I don’t think Anna notices, but every time I drop something the furrow between her eyebrows grows deeper. But when she looks up at me it’s gone, her face radiant once more. The momentary knitting of eyebrows is so fleeting I doubt it’s even voluntary.
“Don’t worry about that,” she says, her voice light, but laced with a hint of forced laughter. She picks up the basket and nestles it in the crook of her arm.
I’m staring at my hands, willing them to work again. But the harder I try to flex my fingers, the more leaden my movements become.
***
I eventually stumble into wakefulness, clinging to the last remnants of my dream as they fade from my mind. I’ve never been able to understand why this room has to be completely white; I’ve always thought waking up to a subdued, pastel colour would be more soothing.
Doctor Tipton is leaning over my bed, clipboard in hand, clutching a read-out of one of the monitors to my right. He mumbles something inaudible to no-one in particular, before ripping off the sheet and tucking it into the clipboard’s back pocket.
Doctor Tipton is a peculiar man, with a broad, dominating moustache and thick, black-rimmed glasses. He rarely speaks, unless it’s to a nurse or a visitor. I suppose he doesn’t see the allure in conversing with a patient who can’t reply.
The sensation of having air forced into my lungs is something I’ve never quite gotten used to, and the machine responsible wheezes dutifully beside me. I’ve been here so long that the repetitive beeps and whirring of machines is almost a comfort. I see them as my mechanical allies, although sometimes I don’t always feel that way.
I barely even notice my mother sitting in the visitor’s chair until she clears her throat. I wonder how long she’s been here.
“How are you feeling today, sweetie?”
She insists on asking me this question every day, even though I have no way of responding. I can’t even look at her in a way that would suggest my irritation. I am blank.
She gets up and walks to the bed, hovering at the end of it. She’s staring at me with morose eyes, and I can only hope she doesn’t start crying again. I’ve found it’s a lot harder to be around someone you love in distress when the only thing you can do is witness it, not comfort.
A nurse bustles in, and I vaguely recognise her. I can tell she’s worked a long shift; her face is flustered, and tufts of blonde hair have fallen out from her tight bun.
“There’s a phone call for you, Doctor Tipton,” she says.
As usual Doctor Tipton doesn’t say a thing. He merely tucks the clipboard back into its place at the foot of my bed and breezes from the room.
“How’s he been today?” the nurse asks softly, placing a hand on my mother’s forearm.
“Much the same,” Mom sighs, flashing a strained smile. “Doctor Tipton says he doesn’t have long.”
It always amazes me that no-one seems to realise that I can hear every word they say. It’s almost as though they assume I’m a vegetable, because I can’t speak or move. In all reality, it’s just my body that doesn’t work.
Just as I thought she might, Mom starts crying. The nurse slings an arm over her shuddering shoulders. I wish more than anything that I could say, ‘It’s going to be okay, Mom’ but I can’t. Instead my respirator wheezes in place where my words should be.
“He’s going to be twenty-one next week,” she says, wiping the tears from her creased face with her fingertips. She pauses to examine the tears glistening there, as if she’s surprised to see them. “It’s just not fair.”
The nurse nods. I suppose she realises there’s not a lot she can say to help the situation. Everyone knows I’ll be dead soon. My body’s failing me.
Without warning, a wave of fatigue comes over me; I’ve been sleeping a lot lately, probably because my body’s growing weary of this fight against itself. I drift off to the sounds of my mother’s sobs.
***
The first thing I become aware of is the sound of sirens. The glaring, shrill scream of them all around, bearing down on me. There’s a warm breeze on my face, and the acrid stench of car exhausts fills my nostrils. I feel something fleshy and hard collide with my shoulder, and I’m jolted into opening my eyes.
I’m standing on a street corner, surrounded by a sea of people weaving all around. By the time I realise I have control over my body, I’m already walking down the street, swept away in the human tide.
I never thought I’d be able to feel my feet connect with concrete again, or feel the rush of wind on my face. Just the feeling of being able to breathe on my own is a revelation. I’m grinning like a maniac, and don’t really care about the stares I’m getting.
And then I see her. In fact, I don’t know how I didn’t see her earlier. She’s standing at the edge of the street, but for some reason she’s all alone. Everyone around seems to be giving her a wide berth, giving the impression that she’s Moses parting the Red Sea. She’s smiling at me, her hand outstretched. I rush to take it, and for the first time in a long time, I can feel her hand in mine.
She’s my Anna, and yet she’s not. Her hair is dyed jet-black, and looks like she’s hacked at random sections of it with a pair of scissors. She’s clad in black jeans that are shredded all the way up the legs, a black singlet and black Converse sneakers that have silver studs glued to them.
“You took your time!” she says, her eyes wide and rimmed with smudged eyeliner. “I have so much to show you.”
“Why are we here?”
“Where’s here?”
“Where we are.”
“New York?”
“Yeah. Why are we in New York?”
“I told you I wanted to go someplace! And here we are!”
There’s so much I want to ask her, so much I want to say. More than anything I want to say how sorry I am, but I can’t bring myself to utter the words. Instead I pull her in for a long embrace, marvelling at how strong I feel. She smells like jasmine.
“If you’re going to be a wuss I simply won’t be able to be around you,” she says, but the tone of her voice chides rather than stings.
I pull myself away, taking my time to simply observe her. She starts to back away, tugging me along by the hand. Despite the fact she’s walking backwards, she seems to know exactly where she’s going.
“Name one thing you’ve always wanted to do in New York,” she says, her eyes bright.
“I’ve never really given it much thought,” I shrug, again marvelling that I can actually make solid, definable movements.
She glares at me. “You are, without a doubt, the lamest person I have ever met.”
She continues to tug me along the street, her jagged, onyx hair caught in the ceaseless onslaught of the cool, mid-afternoon breeze. She’s gripping my hand so tightly I can feel the soft rush of her pulse in my palm, pounding rhythmically to the beat of her heart. There’s a part of me that knows I’m dreaming, a part of me that knows I could wake up any moment, trapped again in the fleshly prison my body has become. And yet, I choose not to dwell on that. For now, I could very well be traipsing the streets of New York, Anna’s hand in mine. The impossibility of dreams doesn’t really matter when your reality is a waking nightmare.
I’ve never been able to see what draws people to big cities like these. Every street seems to look the same to me, a never-ending blur of concrete and garish, neon signs. Anna must remember my distaste; before I’ve even come to grips with where I actually am, we’ve ended up in Central Park. It’s like stepping into an alternate universe, so seamless is the transition from city to nature. I pause every now and then to run my hand down the bark of a tree, almost ravenously drinking in the different textures and sensations it brings. I’d taken things like this for granted, back when I could still touch, still feel.
Anna’s pace has slowed now, and she winds her arm around mine. Our elbows interlock, and we fall into a gentle, meandering rhythm. The silence between us is perfectly comfortable, and I think it’s what I need.
We come to a stop in the middle of a bridge, or rather; Anna pulls us to a stop. She gazes out across Central Park Lake, a look of ineffable serenity on her face. She unlinks her arm from mine, and drapes them across the stone railing.
“You know, when I was a kid I used to think water was like a portal to another world, and if we searched hard enough we’d be able to find it,” she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. She uses it to hoist herself up onto the ledge of the bridge, her legs dangling over the side. “I think that maybe I was right. Maybe there is another world.”
“What, like Atlantis?”
“No, nothing like what our imaginations could ever conceive. Something utterly alien and unknowable,” her eyes are burning again, like they always do when she has an idea. “I think we should try and find it.”
“I don’t follow.”
She reaches down for my hand to pull me up, and I clamber up onto the railing beside her.
“If we find the water world, we’d never have to leave this place. You’d never have to go back, and neither would I.”
“Go back where?” I can’t tell if she’s speaking in riddles again, or genuinely losing her mind.
She locks eyes with me, communicating an unspeakable truth between us. In a way, I know where she has to go. I know where I have to go, too. But I don’t want to face that reality right now.
Anna rises to her feet, and beckons for me to do the same. She takes my hand in hers, lacing our fingers together. Her eyes are burning even brighter.
“Woah, woah, woah. No way! No WAY. I am not jumping in there.”
“Aw, don’t be such a wimp,” she says, laughing. “Live now, while you can.”
“Have you seen the state of that water? I don’t… That’s disgusting. That water must be swimming with diseases!”
“Is that really on your list of priorities right now?”
She bites her lip, squeezing my hands. And without another word, she steps off the bridge. I tumble off after her, acutely aware of the scrape of my shoe as it falls from the stone, the feel of wind tearing at my clothes, and the eventual slap of skin on water as we collide with the lake.
The water envelopes me, cocoons me, smothers me with the sweet simplicity of its omnipresence. It’s cold, the biting chill setting little flames of sensation up and down my body. It’s overwhelming. It’s beautiful. But most of all it's just cold.
I burst to the surface, drinking the air into my lungs as though I was afraid I’d never breathe again. Anna’s already here, her hair clinging to her face like wild, black rivers. She’s alight with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.
She swims toward me, the water lapping at her neck and mouth as she bobs along the ripples our bodies had made. She winds her legs around my waist, and together we float there, face to face, body to body.
“You’re right, it’s filthy in here,” she laughs. She wipes a patch of green scum from my cheek.
“I don’t mind,” I say, truthfully.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispers, resting her forehead against mine.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and she presses her icy fore-finger to my lips.
“Don’t.”
All thoughts of the secret water world in Anna’s mind evaporated. All that mattered was being here, together, right now.
She leans in to kiss me, her warm breath a stark juxtaposition to the chill of her touch. Her lips are just as soft as I’ve always remembered, and have always longed to feel again. I can feel her fading as we embrace, I can feel myself fading. Bit by bit, I disappear from this world like grains of sand through an hourglass, no matter how hard I try to hold on.
***
It’s night when I awake, the bright glow of the full moon filling the room. The sheer vividness of the dream still grips me; I can still the caress of water on my skin, the feel of Anna’s lips against mine. And yet, they are but memories. My body is, as ever, unresponsive. Numb. A prison.
My mother is still here, slumped in the visitor’s chair that has become her home. I wish I could tell her I love her, how much I appreciate her constant vigil by my bedside. I feel like I never told her enough, while I still could.
I can still remember the day I was diagnosed. It seems like a lifetime ago, and yet it’s only a little over two years. If I was able, I’d probably laugh at how quickly the disease spread through me, robbing me of everything I once took for granted. But alas, I cannot laugh. I cannot cry. I cannot live.
Motor neurone disease, that’s what the specialist called it. His head was tipped forward as he hunched over my notes, an ominous shadow spilling over his face. Motor neurone disease.
Anna had gripped my hand so hard I thought it might break. Was she crying? I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. Instead, I fixated on the clipboard clutched in my doctor’s hands.
The specialist—Doctor Samson—finally raised his face. “I’m afraid it’s not a good prognosis.”
“What are… Motor neurone disease… What is it exactly?” Had I asked that? I felt numb.
“Motor neurone disease, or Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis as it’s formally known, is a degenerative condition where the nerves – or neurones – that control muscle movement weaken, due to the deterioration of myelin sheaths. Eventually you’ll lose all muscle control entirely.”
“What, like walking? Picking things up? We can work through that, can’t we, Ezra?” Anna’s voice was like a bell tolling through darkness, but it still sounded distant. Muffled.
“I’m afraid it’s a sight more serious than that,” Doctor Samson said. He took in a deep intake of breath. “All muscle control will be lost, including the ability to speak, swallow… Even breathe.”
Anna made a strangled noise. My ears filled with the deafening roar of my heart-beat, hammering out of control. “Treatments, what are our options?”
Doctor Samson paused again. I wish he’d just spill it out. What was he trying to preserve with those few moments of hesitation? “Currently, there is no cure for ALS—Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis—and treatments are limited. I can prescribe a course of riluzole, but I’m afraid it’d only extend your prognosis by a few months at best.”
I suddenly felt very cold, as if all life had drained out of me. “How long do I have?”
“The average lifespan of a person with this condition is two to three years.”
It felt as if my heart actually stalled, shuddering to a shocked pause. I couldn’t stay in that room any longer. I couldn’t look Doctor Samson in the eye and thank him. I couldn’t continue to sit there clutching at Anna’s hand, pretending to be brave. It all felt so suffocating. I had to leave.
Doctor Samson had called after me as I fled, pleading with me to wait. But I needed air. I needed to feel the cool rush of winter air in my lungs, while I still could. But the hospital hallways had turned into an impossible labyrinth; it was an endless maze of stark white walls and grim-faced doctors. I was trapped, like a beast in a cage.
Anna caught up to me, eventually. She was out of breath. Had I been running? She grasped at my arms, touching me all over. Tears misted the brilliant blue of her eyes.
“Ezra, stop. Just please… Come back to me.”
I was crying, too. My face was tight with crying. I didn’t want Anna to see me like this. I tried to pull away, but she gripped harder.
“I’m here for you. Please don’t push me away. Let me be here.”
I stopped resisting and felt my body go slack. She pulled me into her, her arms wrapped around my quivering shoulders. I buried my face into her shoulder, wanting more than anything to stay there for all eternity. Or, at least, the two to three years I had left.
Telling my mother had been the hardest. Being her only child, she depended on me. Now, I depend on her.
Her hands are twisting in her lap as she sleeps, and I fleetingly wonder what she’s dreaming about. Is it my father? Does she dream about him the way I dream about Anna?
Dawn is still hours away, I know. The prospect of lying here in this frozen silence all that time is suddenly very exhausting. I figure I have nothing better to do than sleep. At least when I sleep, I’m free.
***
Anna’s hands are on my face, smooth and soft. I can hear the gentle roar of waves crashing onto sand, the rush of a tropical breeze rustling palm fronds. I can feel the sun warming my skin, and the soft kisses of the sea as it brushes against my toes.
I open my eyes. Anna is leaning over me, her face bright. She’s my Anna, and yet she’s not. Her hair’s a delicate shade of honey-blonde, and falls in cascading waves half-way down her back. Her tanned skin is dusted with a coating of fine sand, as is the vibrant teal sarong draped over her shoulders.
“Wake up, sleepy head.”
“I am now.”
She smiles, that face-encompassing smile I’ve always loved so much. She rests her head on my chest, and it rises and falls to the rhythm of my breathing. I run a hand through her hair, surprised to see my skin is just as bronzed as hers.
“How long have we been here?” I ask her, tracing a fingertip along the bridge of her nose.
“Here?”
“Where we are.”
“Honolulu?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been here for a long time now, waiting for you. You always seem to take so long to get to me.”
I smile. “Sorry about that. I have to make appearance in the real world every now and then.”
She props herself up on her elbow, her golden locks spilling over her shoulders. “So, how do you like it here?”
“Better than New York, I must admit.”
She laughs, the faint hints of dimples creasing her cheeks. “I thought you might. I told you I’d take you traveling, didn’t I? This is just the beginning.”
She gets to her feet, a silhouette against the sun’s glare. She unties her sarong and it falls to her feet like a waterfall, deep and blue. Beneath she wears a simple white bikini, adorned with little shells.
She makes her way into the ocean, every now and then casting a glance back at me over her shoulder. The water is up to her waist by the time she asks me to join her, but for now I’m content basking in the sun’s rays. I never knew how much I had missed the simple pleasure of warmth until now.
Anna reaches an arm into the crystalline water, her face furrowed with concentration. She extracts a small blue starfish, and holds it up to the light. She’s almost childlike in her curiosity, and I can’t help but feel a surge of adoration as I watch her examine it.
Without warning, I feel myself being yanked from this world. I try to call out to Anna, but my voice is gone. I drift away from the beach, from Honolulu, from Anna.
***
“I’m so sorry to wake you,” my mother says, voice soft. “But I wanted to let you know that I have to go for a little while. I didn’t want you to wake up and not know where I was.”
It’s still early morning out, the sun muted and distant as it rises. The room is filled with a soft yellow glow, and the rays light the outline of her head like a halo. She slings her leather handbag over her shoulder, pursing her lips. “The woman I have house-sitting at the moment has had to leave unexpectedly, so I have to go and feed Tiddles and then try and see if the neighbours would be able to watch over things for a little while. I should be back by tomorrow.”
I don’t know why she’s telling me this. I’d rather she’d have let me sleep, let me sleep and be with Anna. I suppose she’s only trying to imbue as much normality into the latter days of my life as she can. I shouldn’t be angry with her for trying to be normal.
She leans down and pecks me on the cheek, even though she knows I can’t feel it. I can see she’s trying not to cry. I wish I could speak and say, ‘I’ll try not to die while you’re gone’, if only to make her laugh. It’s been so long since I last heard her laugh.
She rushes away, not even pausing at the doorway like she usually does. I hope she isn’t crying. She really shouldn’t feel bad about having to leave me. She hasn’t even been gone a full minute before I give in to sleep once more, so excited am I to delve into the joy my slumber produces.
***
When I awake—and that’s what I call dreaming now, being awake—I’m struck by the intense aroma of lavender. I seem to be standing in a sea of it, rows of purple waves stretching out over the horizon. The heady, fragrant air fills my lungs, making me feel light-headed and giddy. Anna is by my side, our arms inter-locked. Her brunette hair is swept up in a high bun, a string of pearls adorns her neck. She smiles at me, her lips the deepest shade of crimson I’ve ever seen.
“I hope you don’t plan on leaving me again so soon,” she says. “I have so much planned.”
“What is this place?”
“Plateau de Valensole,” she says, casting a glance back over the lavender ocean. “Isn’t it extraordinary?” She plucks a lavender stem from the sun-baked ground, and runs it along her lips.
“Let’s stay here forever,” I say, winding my arm around her waist. “We can have a house made of lavender. Our clothes can be woven from lavender. You’d never feel unhappy then, would you?”
“I never do,” she smiles. “Are you ready?”
“For what?”
“We’re going to Fontaine de Vaucluse.”
Before I have a chance to ask what that is, we’re there. The rows of lavender fade into a picturesque, medieval town. It’s so pristine it looks as though it’s come from a storybook .
Together we eat lunch on stone steps by a river, accompanied by the sounds of a slowly churning water wheel. I watch Anna’s reflection shimmer in the emerald-green water.
“When I die, this is what I want Heaven to look like,” I say. I instantly regret my words. Neither of us wants to talk about death, not here. Anna pales.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” she says, taking me hand.
Fountaine de Vaucluse gets swallowed up by Milford Sound. We drift across the still lake in a small wooden canoe, our laughter echoing throughout the deserted fjord. From there we’re transported to a full moon party in Thailand, where we drown in a sea of flailing, neon-painted limbs. Onward to the Taj Mahal, where we kiss beneath a marble dome. Then we materialise in the bustling Otavalo market, where we learn the true meaning of vibrancy. In the next moment we’re in Kenya, being steely observed from afar by a pride of drowsy lions. We’re whisked away to Buñol then, where we pelt one another with tomatoes at La Tomatina.
The entire world flashed before my eyes with its multitude of tastes, scents, sensations. And everywhere we went, Anna was different, and yet she was the same. I experienced the world with my Annas, and I never wanted to wake up. Never wanted to, but I did all the same.
***
The room’s crowded, crowded with faces I can’t distinguish, let alone recognise. Everything around me is a blurred mass of subdued colours; whites, pastel blues, the occasional hint of a brown clipboard. I can sense that my tenuous grip on life is slipping, and I don’t try to fight it. I want to be gone, more than anything. The fear of death is nothing compared to what my life has become.
I can hear the muffled sounds of hurried conversation, but I don’t pick up what they say. I’m drifting in and out of awareness, exhaustion permeating every fibre of my being. I can tell I’m nearing the end now, and I search the sea of unformed faces for my mother’s. I wish I had the ability to ask for more blankets. I’ve never felt so cold in my whole life.
***
I stumble into another dream, and I’m not sure I even registered falling asleep. I look around the all-too-familiar apartment, feeling a wave of dread wash over me. This isn’t a dream at all; it’s a memory. I can hear Anna’s voice coming from the other room, seeping through the wall that separates us. I attempt to stand, but my muscles feel weak and lethargic. Anna walks into the room, her movements leaden, a blanket draped over her shoulders. A mug of steaming tea – or is it a honey and lemon drink? – is clasped between her hands. She looks haggard, run-down. I beckon for her to come sit with me, but my fingers are slow to respond. She comes and sits all the same.
“I feel like shit,” she moans, slumping on the couch. The steam from her mug is weaving upwards, hazing her face. “This flu just won’t go away.”
“Go to the doctor,” I hear myself say. My words are so slurred I can barely understand myself. How Anna manages to is a mystery. “I’m worried about you.”
She takes a breath in, but the sound is wheezy, strained. “I’ll be fine.”
I can see she’s trembling, and she pulls the blanket further around her frame. I reach a hand out to lay on her thigh. My arm feels like it’s being weighed down by a sack of bricks.
“Look at us,” I say, mustering the best smile I was capable of. “So sick and pathetic.”
She laughs, but it’s cut short by a cavalcade of coughs. I can hear a rattling in her breath.
“When was the last time you ate?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Yesterday, maybe? I’m not hungry.” The mere act of speaking seems to have made her short of breath.
“Please go to the doctor.”
“I’ll be fine, now stop worrying,” she pauses to wheeze. “I think I might go run myself a bath. I’ve got the worst headache.”
She sets her mug of I’m-not-sure-what on the coffee table, untouched. I wonder, briefly, if she brewed it just so she could have the warmth of it in her hands. Before I have a chance to offer to run the bath for her, she’s already gotten up. Even just speaking seems to require so much energy these days.
I hear the scream of taps coming from the bathroom, followed by a steady gush of water. Steam billows through the open door; she always did like her baths scaldingly hot. Anna fetches a towel from the linen closet, and pauses to smile at me. She looks so gaunt that I feel a stab of sadness in my heart. I really wish she’d go to the doctor.
Anna leaves the door open while she takes her bath, and I listen to her hum softly as she washes herself, interrupted every now and then by a raucous attack of coughing. Outside, the sun is setting. This time of day always makes me so sleepy.
Did I doze off? I can’t remember. The sun has completely set now, the room I’m in bathed in darkness and intermittent moonlight. How much time's passed?
The bathroom light is still on, spilling into the lounge. It rests on my feet, a yellow tendril slicing through the night. I’m struck by how silent the apartment is. I can’t detect a single sound, not even the soft lapping of water clashing against the side of the bathtub.
“Anna?” I call out, but not loud enough. I try again, but to no avail.
The stillness of silence ensues, deafening me. All I can hear now is my own shallow breathing, getting faster and faster.
“Anna, are you okay?”
Silence. A cold sweat breaks on my brow, my stomach constricts. I force myself up off the couch, struggling against my own weakness. I shuffle towards the bathroom, calling out Anna’s name with every step I take.
At first, I can’t register what I’m seeing. Anna, lying in the tub, a single hand extended over the side. Her hair is suspended in the water, perfectly still. There is no movement.
I fall to my knees, the energy to stand draining from me. I drag myself towards the bath, barely breathing, barely even wanting to breathe. I cradle Anna’s head in my hands, and lift it up from under the water. She’s so pale, her lips blue. The freckles that I’ve always loved so much burn on the bridge of her nose, the most vibrant I’ve ever seen them.
I lean over the edge of the bath, hooking my arms beneath hers. I need to get her out of there, I need to get her breathing again. But no matter how much I pull, my arms always slip away, as if my muscles simply refuse to cooperate.
I’m crying now, the tears falling from my chin and into the bathwater. I start pleading with her, screaming for her to get out of the bath.
My arms finally go slack completely, tingling all over with over-exertion. Anna’s face falls beneath the water once more, looking ethereally peaceful.
I clamber to my feet, bile rising in my throat. I barely register getting to the phone, or calling 9-11. The woman on the other end can’t understand me, I know. I try to steady myself, I try to make my words as clear as I can. But still they slur; I worry she thinks I’m just a drunk prankster. Finally, she tells me an ambulance is on its way.
I drop the phone, not bothering to put it back in its cradle. That’s not what’s important right now. I stumble back into the bathroom, pulling Anna out of the water once more. As long as she’s not submerged, I tell myself, she’ll be okay. I press my mouth to hers, trying to force air into her lungs. But every time I do she falls back beneath the water, my wasting muscles failing me once again.
In the end I just sit there with her, her head pressed to my chest, kissing her hair over and over again.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I feel like such a failure; I can't help Anna when she needs me most.
The ambulance feels like it takes an eternity to arrive. When the paramedics finally do, they lift Anna’s lifeless body from the tub with incredulous ease, as if it’s such an easy thing to do. They lay her on the bathroom floor, and I worry that the tiles are too cold for her. I drape a towel across her naked body, but a paramedic pushes it away as he starts chest compressions.
I feel a hand on my upper arm, pulling me to my feet and out of the room. Suddenly we’re on the couch again. I’m faintly aware of a hand on my shoulder. Who is that? They’re asking me what happened. I can’t answer. I just shake my head, muttering, “I’m sorry” over and over.
I can see the paramedics in the bathroom, kneeling beside Anna. They’re looking at each-other, faces grim. One replaces the towel across her body, and as he looks up to meet my gaze, he slowly shakes his head.
What happens next passes in a blur. People from the morgue arrive, but I can’t bring myself to look at them. My eyes are closed, but I know they’re zipping Anna into a body bag. My Anna.
My mother appears out of nowhere, her face damp with tears. She says something about seeing the coroner in the morning. I nod, but her words don’t sink in.
Weeks come and go, fading into the next without so much as a glance. My mother tries to get me to meet with a counsellor, but I refuse.
The day of Anna’s funeral is the first day I need to use a wheelchair. It's also the day I start to lose my words entirely. I try to apologise during my eulogy, but no words come out. Instead I sit there at the podium, strangled whispers issuing from my slack mouth. Without Anna, I can see no point in pursuing this futile battle against my body any longer.
The official verdict of her autopsy stated that she had a mild case of pneumonia, and a concoction of pain-killers had caused her to pass out in the bath. Naturally, I blamed myself. I hadn’t been there when Anna needed me most. All along Anna had said she’d be by my side throughout my own sickness, but I hadn’t returned that favour. If only I’d been able to lift her from the bath. If only I’d had the strength.
***
The memory fades, and once more I’m awake. But I wake into a world of encroaching darkness, where sounds are muffled and distant, where I can’t discern shapes or people.
What I am aware of, though, is my mother’s presence. I can’t feel her, I can’t see her, I can’t hear her, but I know she’s there. Now that she’s back, I feel I can finally leave. I know she’ll understand. Maybe I’ll see her again one day, if there’s something on the other side of all this. Well, here’s hoping.
***
I drift away from my body like a boat sailing away from port. I can see my body lying in the hospital bed, my mother leaning over it, sobbing. I can see Doctor Lipton turning off monitors, a frown plastered to his face. I can see a nurse taking note of my time of death. She’s crying too, and I wonder why.
I sail upwards, through the ceiling, into the crystal sky. The clouds part for me as I pass through, my spirit being drawn to some unknown pull. The turquoise ocean of the sky intensifies as I approach, almost seeming solid. I can feel myself walking again, but how I came to be on my feet is a mystery.
And that’s when I see her. Anna. My Anna. She’s every Anna from my travels, and yet she’s none of them. It’s her essence.
“What took you so long?” she says, extending a hand.
“I don’t know what kept me,” I smile.
I’m home.
Impressum
Texte: © 2012
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 11.04.2012
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