By: Patricia Anderson I walked into the quiet bedroom and stepped back in time to a memory as warm as the afternoon sun streaming over me. Lace curtains breathed in and out as a breeze trickled through the open window. Tiny stars of dust danced in the sunshine. The same now as it was then. Only the woman who lived here was different, lying still on the high four-poster bed, her eyes closed in lasting sleep. The same breath that moved the curtains drifted across the peaceful face stirring a stray lock of hair and giving the impression of almost life where life had not been for a good twelve hours or so. Other times, other memories began to crowd in. The furniture here was as I remembered it; a crocheted rug covered the bed beneath the body, another - folded - waited on the chair nearby. A maple dresser covered with lace doilies and crystal ornaments stood beneath the window. I saw there the collection of crystal animals I had given the woman for birthdays and Christmases during my teenage years. A side table by the bed held an old record player. I knew without looking the record sitting on the turntable and smiled as more memories came. Can a person know how and when they are going to die? And if they did, would that knowledge change the way they looked at things? Would it affect the way they felt things? The way they lived their lives? Alicia Zenora Bray knew. Knew it and accepted it, and, I think, lived how she would have lived anyway; quietly content with everything else life offered her - steady friends, a sister's family, nieces and nephews that filled her home with chatter, laughter and the occasional tear. She lay on her bed now, quietly content, and the many conversations we'd shared as I moved from childhood through troubled adolescence to an uneasy adulthood came tumbling back. Alicia Bray is, was my grandmother's sister, though older or younger I never knew. She was the last of that generation. My grandmother, the second last, died years ago riddled with cancer and all its ills. I wondered at the time if she still would have smoked her pack-a-day if the dangers of tobacco were as widely known then as they are now. Aunt Alicia thought it was highly probable and, in any case, it wasn't the cigarettes or cancer that killed her, it was falling down a flight of stairs with only cold, hard concrete to stop her. Perhaps she too knew the secret of life and death. I wish one have them could have told me. I traced a line through the thin layer of dust that had settled over the wardrobe doors. Alicia had the same furniture for most of her life. Disliking changing trends, happy with the solidity of the past, she would close her mouth on conversations that included suggestions for updating anything in her room. She liked it just fine she'd say and then turn the tables on whoever she was talking to by asking a pointed question or two about their 'situation'. Whether you had a situation or not, it became one in Aunt Alicia's eyes, if you dared to suggest she should let go her firm grip on the past. Today was the first time in ten years that I'd seen her. My tenuous grip on being grown up had led me to other places, other people, and other conversations. I'd lost touch as one does thinking that loved ones will always be where you left them. I kicked off my shoes to stand barefoot on the sun-warmed carpet. Full-petalled roses bloomed beneath my toes, leaves vined out from the flowers as they would never do in real life, to produce varying shades of similar blooms; a faded jungle of rose bushes, as much a part of my remembrances of this room as anything else. There was a heavy trunk at the base of the bed, Alicia's treasure chest. Her glory box as a young girl, her box of memories as she grew older. I lifted the thick cream rug that was folded over it and sat down, cradling the rug in my arms and closing my eyes to let the memories run. 1942 was Aunt Alicia's best and worst year. She met her husband-to-be that year. They fell in love dancing to Glen Miller's latest tune. The big band sound carrying them from strangers to lovers within a handful of trumpeting beats whilst the dark-suited singer crooned of twinkling stars and love-struck hearts. In 1942 she gained a husband, gave birth to a beautiful son, and then lost them both from one heartbeat to the next. Her rosy future also lost in the blare of horns, the screech of brakes, and the truth of a dream. I'd set her up in my mind as a tragic heroine agonising over lost loves and told her so. I can still hear her laugh the day I waxed lyrical, felt her warm, amused embrace, and secretly knew that I was right. Aunt Alicia was my hero. That's why I was here. It was not long after that she'd sat me down and told me about her dreams. That was our next to last conversation, the one about dreaming, the one I remember as clear as if it were just yesterday that we spoke. 'I dreamt of you last night, Kitten,' she'd said. 'You'd come to visit me and see things were put right.' I must have looked blank, perhaps a touch scared, because she took me in her arms and set me down on the trunk as she'd done so many times when I was a child. 'It was just a dream, Katherine. Nothing for you to worry about, but it's time to tell you. No telling what might come in the years ahead.' It occurs to me now, that, even back then, Aunt Alicia knew a great deal more than her own long-distant death. 'I want you to know that when I die, precious, it will be the right time. My dearest ones will be waiting for me and I'll go to them knowing I haven't let them down.' It also occurs to me that she rarely just came right out and said what was on her mind. Conversation was an art form and she considered every word before allowing it past her lips. 'When my husband and son died, I wanted to die too. I didn't think I could possibly go on living without them. But that night, I dreamt of them and they reminded me that life goes on, as I must. It was their time, not mine and no matter what I thought or did or cried, there was nothing that could change that.' |
Her voice was soft, the floor warm beneath my feet and I could hear the drone of summer bees in the bushes outside her window. I looked to where that bush once stood; gone now, its garden bed turned over to make way for near-perfect lawn. I'd noticed, on my way in to the house, it was turning brown at the edges - nothing should be too perfect. The bees were gone, like Alicia's husband and son, and my grandmother were gone, like Alicia was gone. The only thing that remained the same was me. That didn't make me feel any better. Cars were pulling up outside, voices calling greetings, chatting as if arriving at a family picnic rather than a wake. The doorbell rang and footsteps hurried up the hallway to welcome family and friends - refreshments in the next room, shush now, her niece is with her, tea anyone? My uncle's wife was ever the gracious hostess. The voices and footsteps faded into the living room to become a dull murmur - easy to ignore, easier still to forget. I stood and went to her. Someone, probably the uncle's wife, had dressed Alicia in a staid brown skirt suit, a pale pink blouse with puffy tie at her throat and a deep pink rose pinned to the lapel. The rose was the only thing I liked. Alicia had worn colours - purples and greens, blues and reds mixed together or separate depending on her mood for the day. She lived quietly, but she dressed loudly. 'You can't dance in old woman's clothes,' she told me once as she dropped a record onto the turntable and pulled across the arm - the needle jumped once every time and then settled in to play the scratchy music that Alicia loved so much. Her fingers would click and her toes tap, hips swinging, skirts swishing around her legs as trumpets blared and saxophones crooned. I tried to buy her a new stereo complete with special sound effects and a CD player - top of the line, excellent sound, but she told me no, she liked her old player just fine. 'But the sound is so scratchy,' I'd complained. 'Nothing should be too perfect,' she'd said pulling me up to dance what could be mistaken for the jitterbug on a truly bad day. I was never much for letting go and dancing. I walked around the bed, to the record player and stood a moment just looking down at the record. It was her favourite. Did she listen to it last night before she went to sleep? I knelt down in front of it. The power was on, the speakers turned toward the bed. I reached across for the arm and let the needle down as gently as I could to the vinyl. It jumped anyway. The soulful sound of horns oozed out the speakers. I had a decent collection of Glen Miller tunes on CD that I like to play when I'm cooking. Glen Miller and a glass of white wine- cooking dinner was the only time I ever let my body listen to the music. Listening to Alicia's record player, her lying on the bed as dead as a person could get, I had to admit, the music sounded better through the old speakers than it had ever sounded on my expensive stereo. I stood up again and reached across to touch Alicia's cold hand. I'd loved her so much when I was a child. Alicia was the epitome of wisdom and wit, a Queen in my eyes. What I wouldn't give to be able to dance around the room with her like we used to, but I gave all that up when I left and never looked back. Until last night. I walked back to the trunk as a no-doubt dark-suited crooner began pealing out lyrics, and lifted the lid. It was filled with gift boxes and cards, a swatch of yellowed lace, a pair of baby's hand knitted booties and a bundle of oversized handkerchiefs and scarves. We'd once spent hours going through her collection of scarves; my ten-year old self trying on each one and parading around the room in a way I wouldn't have been caught dead doing anywhere else. Nestled amongst the scarves was a gold locket. Its engraved pattern was tarnished, worn smooth in places from being rubbed, but I recognised it straight away. She'd shown it to me the day she'd talked to me about dreams. Inside, I knew, were two snips of hair tied together with a narrow blue satin ribbon. Father and son. I grabbed a bright red scarf and the locket, and closed the door with my elbow. Aunt Alicia hadn't wanted to go out alone, hadn't wanted people to be sad at her passing. She wanted to be remembered for who she was, not for some facsimile in a brown suit and nothing blouse you couldn't dance in. I tucked the scarf around her neck, tying it in a presentable knot at her throat and almost hiding the puffy line of the blouse. The locket I laid to rest in the palm of her hand weaving the heavy chain around her stiff fingers. The curtains blew out in a sudden gust of wind and I could almost imagine I saw a breath from her lips. I bowed my head and covered her hand with my own. The tears would come later. Perhaps as I uncorked the bottle of wine and prepared to cook dinner. I listened to the music, let the voice wash over me - the scratches in the sound seemed to fade away. 'How do you know when you're in love?' the singer asked. It's not the birds in the sky, not the stars up above, it's not the season; the reason's as plain as the moon. It's just Elmer's tune. I gathered my shoes and the shoulder bag I'd left at the door. Alicia would understand why I couldn't stay for the funeral - I only ever paraded for her. Last night, I had a dream so vivid it felt real. I was at a nightclub dancing, the sky outside dark except for the single glowing disk of the moon. Someone swung me around and I was face-to-face with Alicia, as she must have looked back in 1942. 'My best year,' the words floated between us. She pointed out the door where the night had greyed into morning and was already turning to a new, sun-filled day. 'That's where you're going,' she said and then she swung away again and kicked up her heels. I walked across the dance floor, the music still playing, and looked out into the new day. I saw where I was going, turning, I saw where I'd been and I was quietly content. It was my last conversation with Alicia Zenora Bray. I sauntered down the path, hips swinging, fingers clicking. The last words of Alicia's favourite song drifting through the open window. I lifted my face to the sun and sang, 'They all sing Elmer's tune. They... all sing Elmer's tune.' |