She couldn’t pinpoint when the fascination had begun. Had it been when she overfed her first goldfish and was transfixed by its bloated body, bobbing upside down at the top of the tank? Or when she had seen a crow, once a shining black jet streaming through the sky, now a flattened, dull grey blob on the bitumen ? Where did they go? When bugs and fish and animals and people closed their eyes for the last time, what happened to the life within them?
She remembered when she was five, and they had been in the loungeroom watching TV. She was sitting next to her mother in a comfortable cuddle on the double seater. Each of her brothers claimed a single armchair of their own, the right of the “men” of the house. A thud at the window made them all jump. Her mother reached the front door first, and the rest of them followed. On the outside of the window was a smear of pigeon, breath, feathers and a red stain. Below the mark on the window the bird lay on the ground. The feathers of the underbelly were a soft cream-caramel, and the wings were spread open in a mock-greeting. Some of the feathers were bent out of shape and the bird’s head lay sharply to one side. The rise and fall of its tiny chest was barely noticeable, but the magic was still there. Whatever the “life” was, it was still there in the bird and she could see it. Her mother spoke to John who ran inside and came back with something in his hands. Taking the tea towel from John, her mother bent down and gently wrapped the pigeon in its shroud. This proved to be too much for the bird and as it closed its eyes for the last time, the magic left. The bird still looked the same. It was still a beautiful, soft fawn colour with its head still bent to the side. But without the magic, it was different. Where before there had been a whisper of a clear sky and breeze, warmth and freedom, now there was a blankness. A silence. It was hard for her to think of words to describe the transition. The bird was just different. Gone.
She remembered the summer holidays at the end of Grade Three. John and Peter were already in high school, and while they all had the normal squabbles and spats, they had agreed to team up against their mother on a campaign of harassment. They wanted a dog. There was resistance in their mother’s questions.
“Who’s going to feed it? Who will take it for a walk? Who will love and care for it?”
“I’ll feed him, and use my pocket money to buy his food!” John was the most generous.
“I’ll walk him every day!” Peter could never sit still.
“I’ll hug him and pat him and love him to bits!” She could already feel the soft fur under her fingers.
They were the age old arguments, lies and emotional blackmailing. But it worked, and they piled into the car with their mother and drove to the pound. She felt the pressure and sadness of choice as each set of bright eyes looked hopefully at them all, walking up and down the concrete runway between the two rows of cages. At home, they released their prize into the small backyard, a tiny dog of unknown origins. As she was the youngest, she was given naming rights and called the brown, wiry-haired little fur rocket Bud.
Bud was her buddy. He was so full of the life, running mad circles around the yard when she got home from school, whining for ages at the door when her mother wouldn’t let him inside if he was smelly, licking her face until she had to push him away, laughing so hard she was almost breathless. Where had Bud’s magic come from? Who put it there? Why did Bud have a different type to other dogs? Dogs who just lay there all day on a doggy bed and only moved when their owners brought them food? She remembered thinking, who decided which dog would have the jumpy, licky magic and which would have the sleepy, eatey one?
When Bud closed his eyes for the last time, she was in her final year of high school. Homework and boys and shopping and gossip and friends had meant spending a bit less time with Bud over the last few years, but he still watched over her from his well-worn doggy bed, a fixture in the corner of her room since his arrival. As long as he was close to her, Bud was happy. He had slowed down a lot, and his jumping and licking was now reserved for only very special occasions. He was old and tired, so she was not surprised one day when she came home and saw Bud in the corner of her room and knew that he was changed. Transformed. He was Bud, but not Bud. The life inside him had gone away to a place that she did not know, and even as she stroked his tiny brown body and ran her hands through his cold, wiry fur, she knew that whatever had made him Bud was not there. There was no whisper of running and dirt and panting and warmth. But something happened with Bud, that had not happened with the pigeon. Part of Bud transferred to her, and she could conjure up pictures in her head of him jumping and licking and whining. There was pain in her chest but she could also smile. Bud’s magic had been strong. But not as strong as her mother’s.
She remembered she was just starting to make her way in the world when her mother got sick. The word for this sickness had always been swirling around, a shadow lurking in the minds of people throughout the whole world. It was everywhere. It was on the news and in books and in movies, and it happened to other people but never to her or those close to her. And then it did. Her mother had been to the doctor for a test, another test that did not have anything to do with the sickness, but it took the doctors on a trail which led to its discovery. Her brothers stood stock still when their mother told them about the sickness and gave it a name, making cancer something that did not just happen to other people or those close to them. Their faces were pale. She also froze at first, trying to process this unwelcome information, and even though she had not fully accepted it yet she moved towards her mother and held her. Tight. Life continued but it was not the normal life. Now it was filled with hospitals, nurses, doctors, tests, results, pain, anger, sadness, and acceptance. She, John and Peter pretended to know what to do and made appointments and took their mother to them and spoke with the doctors and tried to look after her as best they could. First at home, and then when the cancer started to win, at the hospital.
When her mother’s eyes closed for the last time, they were all there. John and Peter stood against the plain white wall of the hospital room, watching and waiting. She held her mother’s hand and looked at her face, trying to pinpoint the moment when her mother changed. Just like with the pigeon and Bud, she knew when it happened. Her mother transformed before her, and then she was no longer there. The life had gone. Her mother still looked the same, though her hair had become greyer and her face thinner over the last few months. But her hand was cold and hard, and there was no movement or sound about her. It was her mother, but not her mother. There was no whisper of caring and cooking, perfume and laughter, warmth and love. The life had gone, and her heart ached because she could not follow as she did not know where it had gone.
The transfer of magic from her mother to her was unbelievable in its strength and force. If Bud’s transfer had been a spark, her mother’s was a raging fire. Especially in the beginning. It seemed as though not a minute would go by that she did not think of her mother. Everything was a reminder of the gentle hands that had hugged her in happiness and comforted her in sickness. The ears that had listened patiently to troubles, doubts, gossip, complaints, and jokes. Eyes that had watched her grow from a shy, tiny kid to a mood-swinging teen and into a young woman trying to figure out what to do for the rest of her life. The mouth that had given advice when asked, sympathy when needed, laughter often and yes even sometimes shouting when necessary. The transfer of magic was so strong that sometimes she did not want to get out of bed, but stay there with her eyes shut and will back the dreams she had where her mother still had the life in her. But slowly, the part of remembering that destroyed and wounded and incapacitated had faded, and she was able to continue her not normal life. And when she thought of her mother, though her chest hurt she could also smile.
She remembered the times when it was not about departure and loss, but about creation and gain. John and Peter left the family home, found beautiful women and married, and then as the years passed they had children. Though she never married or had children, she did not feel empty or lacking, as the magic in her nieces and nephews surrounded and filled her. There were birthdays, holidays, school concerts, movies, and shopping trips. She shared the memory of her mother with her nieces and nephews and discovered that the transfer of magic, if it was strong enough, could be passed on second hand and the pictures in her mind would stay sharp and bright.
She remembered when she first met Claudette. Joining the Meals on Wheels program was almost a tribute to her mother, who had been selfless and giving. The house of her childhood, and where she lived for most of her life was filled with the memory of meals prepared for friends, family and neighbours. Though her mother had raised her, John and Peter without any help, she had never seemed too tired for others, and the house had been constantly filled with kids from the neighbourhood, cousins to play with, and people stopping by for a chat and a meal. And while she had shared her mother with so many people, it never seemed that she received anything less than the full force of her mother’s love and attention. Seeing her mother enjoy serving and being there for others made her want to experience that feeling. So she volunteered to deliver food to people who were unable to prepare it for themselves.
Claudette had been special for many reasons, and despite a large age gap, over time they became friends. It happened slowly, finding out titbits of each other’s lives, and then through the blurring of acquaintance and friendship, they came out on the other side as people who genuinely cared for one another. They talked about their lives, meaningful things and also nonsense. Claudette had loved to read, but was no longer able due to old age and failing eyesight. Reading to Claudette became a regular part of their time together. She loved how Claudette would put on glasses when she was being read to.
“Please read to me from The Book today, dear.”
At first she was confused. The way Claudette had said “The Book” implied that she should know which one it was. Then, Claudette motioned to the bedside table to the left of her, where a leather bound bible sat. From that time on, she began to think of the bible as The Book and rarely called it anything else.
As the months went by, she began to realise something as she read to Claudette. The Book, while filled with stories and teachings, was also about the magic. The more she read to Claudette, the more she paid attention and began to feel something shift inside her. A curiosity and an opening of the mind. They had many discussions about The Book, usually Claudette answering her questions.
“Do you believe all these things?”
“Why yes dear.”
“Everything? Every single thing?”
“Of course dear.”
“Why? How do you know it’s real? How do you know it’s the truth?”
“Well dear, I just use my head. There are so many theories and ideas out there. Can they all be correct when they contradict one another?”
“Well, I guess not.”
“Of course not dear. So it’s up to you and I to decide which one makes the most sense to us. This makes the most sense to me.”
It sounded simple. It wasn’t. Claudette seemed so sure. She wasn’t.
Opening her eyes in response to a touch on her hand stopped her train of thought. As the picture of Claudette faded from her mind’s eye, she looked around the hospital room and did not see anyone. This had happened a few times, sensing someone was in the room only to open her eyes and see no-one was there. She looked at the table at the end of her bed. Her nieces and nephews had been to visit again, leaving cards and flowers. They had been so wonderful taking turns to keep her company and making sure she was comfortable and cared for. It couldn’t be easy visiting your elderly aunt, not knowing if it would be the last time you would see her.
The hospital wasn’t all bad. The nurses and doctors in palliative care were nice. The food was ordinary in comparison to her own cooking, but that was to be expected. It was the waiting that was hard. Nothing to do, not being useful anymore, being totally reliant on others. What use was watching TV if you could hardly hear it, and didn’t know if you would be around to see the next episode? All she had now were her memories that played in her mind in a comforting, endless loop. There was nothing in front of her; all she could do was look back. Although this wasn’t entirely true. There was nothing in front of her in this life. But what came next? The curious thing was the lack of fear. Well, maybe there was a tiny bit, but it was insignificant compared to the anticipation. After waiting a lifetime, it would now be her turn to pass on her magic to others left behind. There would be no more wondering about what had happened to the life inside the pigeon, Bud, her mother, her brothers, Claudette, and all the others that had gone before her. She would know. She hoped that something she had done in this life, would leave an imprint on the past and into eternity. This life had to mean something, didn’t it?
When the time came, there was no-one with her. Breathing became harder and the tiny bit of fear left her like a balloon floating into the sky. All that was left was anticipation and relief. While the endless loop of memories played in her mind, Annie closed her eyes for the last time.