The Last Word
Posted on | November 5, 2009
‘Sic Transit Gloria Mundi’
IT WAS COLD. So cold ice crystals began to form round Deborah Levy’s fragile heart, freezing it, till at last she thought she’d never feel anything ever again. Little did she realize it had stopped beating in that moment somewhere between the light of day and the dark of night, when her mother had breathed her last breath. She just hadn’t noticed it yet. She hadn’t noticed anything, walking in some strange twilight world, caught between life and death, screaming silent witness to the pain she felt.
For the last nine hours of her mother’s life Deborah had held her mother’s hand, quietly singing to her, crooning away any vestiges of fear. She was the mother singing to the child, who had become afraid of the dark.
“Don’t be afraid of the dark,” she had whispered into the candle-lit gloom, “don’t be afraid, mum—” while in fact it was she who was afraid—afraid to let go of her mother’s frail hand.
I’m not ready yet! She’d wanted to scream aloud as her mother’s face had turned into a mask of serenity.
Now, stood by the graveside, Deborah looked up and saw her mother’s housekeeper, Helen Hanley, weeping. It made the constriction in her chest all the more painful. She knew this woman almost as well as she had her own mother.
Offering the only comfort she could, Deborah slipped an arm through that of the older woman and clasped a chilled hand.
Helen turned to her with a wan smile streaked with tears. They shared their sorrow and silence together as the minister continued his lamentations.
“Scotland has lost one of its most distinctive voices, while the world of Opera has lost a great Dame—”
Deborah looked up, wide-eyed, and had to stifle a manic laugh. She thought the man had said ‘Great Dane’. She was loosing it.
“—And so we give this body of our beloved sister, Emily Halley Robertson, into God’s loving care—”
Four strapping men, strangers, lowered the coffin into what Deborah considered oblivion. She ached inside as she watched the minister throw dirt in behind the coffin and cried silently in desolation.
The woman who had come to be her closest friend, her mother, was gone. The once-vibrant woman had suffered in stoic silence, her strength, stamina and vitality melting away with cancer, till there was nothing left but the shadow of a smile.
It was a shadow that would haunt Deborah for a time to come.
All the people who had meant anything to her were now gone. Dead.
No. That wasn’t quite true. Deborah corrected herself. There was still Helen and, of course, the irascible if not passionate Bernard Walsh.
She turned now to the woman at her side not sure who was leaning on whom. It didn’t matter.
What does matter? She didn’t know anymore.
“You’ve been moping around this house with a face like the Grim Reaper himself. Humourless. I shall not have it, do you understand…I don’t want it anymore.” Her mother had chided her, early on in her confinement. The familiar Scottish lilt diminished to all but a ragged whisper.
Cheering up, however, was difficult to do under the circumstances, but for the sake of her mother, and bolstered by Helen’s presence, Deborah had done her best. Doubting whether she could have coped with her mother by herself. The quiet resilience of Helen, she concluded, should be etched into a plaque. Though the woman herself had brushed it all aside without a thought.
“I’ve been with your mother for the best part of thirty-five years, seeing to her needs…” the woman had stated firmly, “and I’m not about to change my ways, just because she needs a wee bit more of a firm hand.”
Deborah watched Helen wash and clean her mother. Who had hated being incapacitated and had raged at it at first, till she could do nothing but accept Helen’s ministrations. Of all things, Helen maintained her mother’s dignity, and for that alone Deborah loved the woman.
It was a few days after Doctor Franklin’s confirmation of cancer, that her mother dropped her first bombshell, and confided in Deborah what she feared the most. And it wasn’t death.
“Death comes to us all, whether we like the idea or not.” Her mother had stated as a matter of fact with a soft sigh. “No. It’s not him I fear. It’s something far more insidious.” The woman had shuddered at a personal thought.
“What?” Deborah had asked into the ensuing moments silence.
“Loosing my mental facilities.” Her mothered had whispered with a faraway look.
Senility? Deborah looked surprised. She hadn’t imagined her mother being afraid of anything, least of all something like this. A big robust woman with a personality that could steamroller the weak-kneed did not give out such information. Deborah had hugged the frailty that was her mother.
“Don’t crush me.” The woman had responded in typical fashion. Then added. “Just promise me one thing, Darling?” Her mother’s eyes had pleaded.
“What?” Deborah had drawn the word out, unprepared.
“That if I do go, you know—” Her mother waved her hand in a tight circle at her temple, its interpretation obvious by anyone. “That you, or Helen, or both of you will ease me out of this world, quietly.” She continued with such conviction, that Deborah felt the colour drain from her face. Her mother had squeezed her hand and found a wane smile, but it did nothing to cushion the shock.
It was only the second time in her life that Deborah could remember being speechless; the first time had been at Ruth’s funeral when she had tried to give her eulogy.
“I…”
“Promise me?” Her mother asked at length. Deborah did, never once telling Helen of the commitment she’d made on their behalf; hoping fervently she wouldn’t have to keep such a promise.
Thankfully, she never had to. Her mother had stayed lucid almost to the end and, when finally she couldn’t cope anymore, her shell became comatose as the soul departed and within a few hours, had ceased functioning altogether.
That moment now seemed a lifetime ago.
It took Deborah a few seconds to realize the minister had finished talking and feel the tug on her arm, as the mournful wail of bagpipes brought her back to the present.
Helen led her to the edge of the grave where they bent in unison and scooping up a handful of earth, each sent it cascading into the depths. Others followed suit; some threw in flowers while others, tokens of their affection. Deborah mentally ticked their names off in her mind, doing roll call, and was pleased to note that all the brightest and the best were there.
It was difficult to receive the nods and words of sympathy all the while wanting to be elsewhere. The last thing she wanted to do was make polite conversation to people about to invade her mother’s house. Knowing of course she had little or no choice in the matter.
Deborah let Helen lead her away from the grave, as the four strangers guided people to waiting cars.
It was strange how the biting cold became irrelevant.
Many of the guests had already been at the house for the last week or so. Friends, who had come to pay their respects, joining in the wake her mother had so vocally insisted upon having.
“Phone Douglas as well and tell him to come.” Her mother had commanded from her bed as if sending out invitations to a grand ball. Not that some had needed the invitation. They had come regardless. Singing, joking and bearing gifts. They arrived at the door in a constant stream of joviality till Deborah thought she would hit someone.
She was bewildered by the spectacle. It took Helen’s intervention.
“You’ve got to understand, this is your mother’s last great performance. They know it, she knows it and what she wants is a party. She wants to see everyone having a good time, laughing, singing and enjoying themselves.” When she had looked unconvinced Helen had continued. “Your mother wants that last precious image of everyone having a good time, with a smile on their faces.”
The last statement, Deborah was sure, was for her benefit. She had bared her teeth in a comic-book smile and earned herself a disapproving look from Helen. Then the woman had hugged her. She’d frozen in that embrace.
Deborah did her best. And tried to understand, but it left her feeling dislocated. It was alien to her and emotionally draining. She was without reference points.
Her mother got her wish, though. Everyone made merry.
Even though a thousand years came and went, reality confirmed only three hours had elapsed. Deborah desperately wanted to make her escape. People were swarming through every room, literally singing her mother’s praises. The house was filled with so much noise and laughter it offended her sensibilities.
Deborah wanted to scream. Couldn’t they all just go away and leave her alone?
She made it into the hallway from a room but found her exit up the stairs blocked. A large corpulent dandy sat clutching one of her mother’s treasured whisky decanters. The temptation was to wipe the smile off his face, take the decanter and smash it over his head. But considering the coiled spring tightly knotted in her stomach, Deborah remained remarkably calm when she spoke.
“Excuse me, Jared.”
Helen lurked off to one side of the hallway and watched the exchange, watched Deborah ready to pounce on the unsuspecting chap. One wrong word, gesture, or movement and the man would lie in tatters at the foot of the stairs. As it was he rose solemnly stepped down and bowed in deference to Deborah, letting her pass without another word being spoken. Helen let out a quiet sigh of relief.
“Problems?” Someone to her left asked.
Helen recognized the voice immediately and turning, looked into the well-lined face of Bernard Walsh, Director of Scottish Opera. She smiled.
Bernard had been Emily’s closest confidant since her husband, Jack, had died. And had made it quite plain to Emily, and to nearly everyone else in their large circle of friends, that he would far rather be more than just her closest male companion. Having asked Emily on three occasions to marry him, only to be politely but firmly turned down.
“Yes and no.” Helen said softly.
“Anything I can do?”
Bernard had been an honorary uncle to Deborah for as long as he could remember and then? A surrogate father when Jack had died. He had been just as shocked as everyone else, when the man had died suddenly from a massive coronary. Deborah, he remembered, had just turned fifteen. It had been terrible enough seeing the effect of the loss on Emily, but Bernard doubted Deborah had ever recovered from loosing her beloved father. Now the child had been dealt a double-blow.
“Lots and nothing.” Helen slipped an arm through his pulling him back into the drawing room.
“Deborah is going to need us more than ever.” She guided them through the throng. “Especially when she realizes we’re still here.” They made for the picture window decorated with stained glass panels of exotic fruit, dating from the inception of the house in 1888.
“You know she hasn’t cried yet?” Helen stated. She didn’t know what to expect from Deborah, who was not one to show her emotions easily.
Bernard looked concerned as they sat on two stiff-backed chairs under the window.
“I can’t begin to imagine what’s going on in her mind.” She continued. “It may be all we can do is be here to pick up the pieces.”
“You don’t think it’s a good idea to go—” He jerked his thumb heavenward. “I’ve never defused a ticking bomb before.”
Helen shook her head adding quietly. “No, I’d hate to see you blown up too!”
“Ah! Concern.” Bernard made to take Helen’s hand with a smile. She slapped his away playfully.
“But seriously. Better it be one of us than a stranger?”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, but…” Helen let her words hang, unfinished. She was emotionally and mentally tired. It had been a long couple of months. Though not once had she shirked from what she had seen as her duty to her friend and companion of so many years. To help Deborah, though, required something else. Someone professional. Someone skilled in the art of emotional bomb-disposal. She certainly didn’t feel up to it, and she doubted whether Bernard had any real idea of the effort or risks involved. There could be irreparable damage to both parties involved.
“I feel I’ve got to do something other than the banal trivialities.” Bernard confessed. He knew it would be like playing Russian roulette, but he looked upon Deborah as the daughter he had never had. It was Helen’s turn to take his hand. He squeezed it in return.
“Yes, I know, all I have thought about is taking her in my arms and squeezing it all out of her.” Helen sighed. “But she’s not a child anymore and I don’t know what to do. In comparison, nursing Emily was far easier.”
Bernard nodded. “How about a two-pronged attack then?” He smiled trying to make light of the situation, “you squeeze one side and I’ll squeeze the other?”
They made no further headway when Bernard was called away to do a turn at the piano, leaving Helen to wish Deborah were upstairs trashing her room, screaming and crying, and in the throes of any display of emotion that would in someway defuse the time bomb ticking away inside of her. Helen couldn’t help but wonder in whose face it was going to go off?
The reality was a thin veneer of calm.
In the relative sanctuary of her room, Deborah made straight for her computer, taking up position as one ready to give a concert performance at the piano. Her fingers took over; there was no need to cry, no need to think, no need for pain—
Information had begun to pile up the moment people had found out she had stopped one place long enough for them to contact her. E-mail arrived; post came, as life went on elsewhere in the world.
Deborah played her keyboard like a virtuoso, calling up data from the four-corners of the globe. Tracking through a number of web sites and URLs, she collected together information left for her. She had discovered this particular form of madness courtesy of the very persistent Washington Jones, a fellow inmate of Williams College, Williamstown—a quiet, leafy, college-town, hidden away in the northwest corner of Berkshire County, Massachusetts, at the foot of Mount Greylock.
What a revelation that first day turned out to be for Deborah. No, not how cute Jones had been, but the Chapin library’s science collection, including first editions by Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, Johannes Kepler, Galileo, and Isaac Newton, which Jones had proudly showcased to her. First editions that were her sole reason for being at Williams in the first place.
Deborah had met Jones not five minutes after arriving on campus, a quiet understated six foot two athletic side of beef with, she was happy to find out, a dry wit and brains. He had taken it upon himself to be her guide and then her protector for her entire stay. Though Deborah was never sure just whom he was protecting her from. Probably the other sharks circling in the pool, no doubt.
Jones, she could never bring herself to call him Washington, as it sounded well, too dumb, gave her the grand tour of the campus that first day. And when her eyes had gone out on little stalks at the sight of so many Apple Macintosh computers in the library, Jones for one knew he’d picked the right subject to study, computer sciences.
It was Jones who introduced Deborah to Kim Bruce, head of the Math and Science faculty, someone else who would ultimately shape her thinking, and the future.
Deborah momentarily stopped what it was she was doing with an audible sigh, remembering these people, before turning her attention to immersing herself for the next few hours in an electronic world. Tapping out e-mails that winged their way in a matter of moments around the globe. She slowly worked her way towards speaking to Mother.
Mother was currently the most important contact she had in the cyber-world of the Net. And now, fighting inertia, she called him up.
It had taken her a few months to discover Mother was a man. And only after they had strayed into a discussion on movies late one night. Well, late for her anyway. It turned out his moniker derived from the character played by Dan Ayckroyd in the movie, Sneakers. He’d been at pains to point out to her that he didn’t look like Dan. All of which led Deborah to believe Mother was either vain about his looks, or was paranoid, and loved conspiracy theory. Of the latter, he was in good company.
Whatever, she couldn’t doubt his material. It was faultless.
Mother implied he worked for one of the Internet service providers like CIX, AOL, or Compuserve. But that didn’t tell her the half of it. Like where he sourced his material. For the short time she’d known him, he’d never been wrong and that made Deborah think that maybe, just maybe, he had connections with something more than a few people on the Net. People who worked in places known only by initials. The FBI, the CIA or the NSA.
Fanciful? Maybe. But something else that had never been wrong was that little voice that occasionally spoke up in Deborah’s head. It revelled in its own form of paranoia.
Having found Mother, they moved into a ‘room’ where they could talk on-line in real-time without being disturbed.
They discussed their usual topics, as they did most times: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse–death, famine, pestilence and war–ravaging the world. Somehow though Mother seemed to know she needed to talk about other things and their conversation moved to more personal topics, culminating in Mother asking her what she wanted out of life.
Deborah took her time answering.
That was one to look up in the dictionary, she thought dourly. Sometimes, Deborah mused, that if Mother were in the same room as her, she would cheerfully thump him. He reminded her somewhat of Jones, and though she wanted to smile, she suddenly felt tired, very tired. The emotions of the day were catching up with her, and fast.
Deborah thought about telling him, and then dismissed the idea quickly; she couldn’t bring herself to think about her mother least she fell apart.
Mother did it again. Deborah stared at the blinking cursor next to the words on screen. Was he really that perceptive of her mood?
There was a momentary silence in which Mother responded.
Deborah wondered did he speak from experience? She couldn’t imagine any man crying, let alone this one.
Ever practical Deborah thought dourly and responded. They talked for a few moments more before Mother left her, as he always did, with a pearl of wisdom.
When Deborah sat back from her console, feeling exhausted, she wondered about it all. What did she want, really?
What she wanted was quite simple, but hard to find.
Deborah wanted love just like anyone else. Was she really that different? She didn’t think so. The words themselves, though, were just as hard to say as finding the elusive emotion. And though Deborah thought she might be able to say them to someone, some day, the prospect seemed as distant now as it ever had. Of course she had told her father on many occasions that she loved him. Though it had taken the death of her father for her to become close to her mother. And then it had taken her mother’s illness for her to finally admit and say those words, to her mother, that had for so long lain dormant in her heart.
Blurting them out, her mother had looked genuinely surprised, considering they were having another of their non-arguments, as her mother liked to call them. It was a shock to both of them. A shock to Deborah when she realized how long she had waited and how much she had wanted to say those three little words, to her mother.
I love you.
She would never, she promised herself, wait that long again. Ever. Telling herself that she would always, no matter the consequences, say what she felt. After all, she had never had that much difficulty in saying what she thought.
The love of a parent, though, was different. It was a love that had never quite filled that gapping hole that, in her reflective state, Deborah now found deep within her.
She was completely alone.
There had been a few who, along the way, she had called close friends and some she thought she may have even loved, but there was no one past, or present, who she had given that commitment to. When she had made it out of university she had been too preoccupied to take that last step and fall in love, and somewhere along the way she had missed it all.
Why?
Deborah suddenly felt the warmth of tears begin to cascade down her cheeks.
What the hell had she expected? What the hell had she really wanted?
What she had wanted was adventure. It had driven her all through her life. From the moment she opened her first comic book to watching wide-eyed as a child when man landed on the moon. From the first black and white pirate swashbuckler she’d watched, to seeing John Wayne sit tall in the saddle. The thirst had grown in her, even through puberty, to do something heroic. It had pushed her in a direction opposite to the one her mother had envisioned, that of becoming an opera singer and following in her mother’s footsteps.
Sure she had the ability. And there were more than just Bernard who would have signed her on the spot, given half the chance.
“You have the voice of an angel!” Bernard had once remarked.
Well angel or not, she had wanted, from her earliest memories, to swoop down out of the clouds, guns blazing, to vaporize the bad guys. To tramp through snake infested jungles to find the lost tribe, or go in search of the Holy Grail. She wanted to be a space pirate, or the hero who destroyed the Death Star.
Deborah had made her choices and taken not the easy path, but one that had expanded more than just her mind. She had trained her body in many disciplines, because she concluded, ‘you never knew when you were going to need a particular skill.’ She wanted to be prepared for every eventuality. As a result, she had learnt to ride from a very early age, could fence aptly, swim like water was her natural habitat, shoot with an accuracy that had appalled her father, had taken to canoeing as a cliché, and become creative in three forms of martial arts to the point of confounding, and sometimes worrying, her Sansei.
But nothing, nothing at all, had prepared her for the reality of death.
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- The Last Word
- The Last Word
- The Last Word
- The Last Word
- The Last Word
- The Last Word
- The Fall of Carthagia
- Twist Of Fate
- Finley’s Last Chapter
- Obituary
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