dalia's memory

Sunlight streaked through the blind slits, landing on the wall opposite. The random papering of the wall was first dark, then light, then dark – Dalia counted the stripes as voices filtered in one ear and out the other. She may be able to hear you … We can’t be sure how much longer … Dalia, do you remember that story …. Papa cracked that rainbow lolly right over her butt – she was red with spite … Dalia? Dalia? Dalia?

Dalia wasn’t listening. She stared at the wall, counting the stripes, the swatches of colour, the texture of the paper. The hand in her own was stiff, puffy. It wasn’t fine and slender anymore. It was pink, like it was under too much pressure. She ran her finger across the knuckles – they were so dry. The nails were strong and white. They’d said that was a good sign. They’d said it like it was a sign from God. And here they were. Some God.

Maybe if she’d been there all along she wouldn’t have been so shell shocked. She regretted that now. All the kid who cried wolf things and warnings and tears. They were nothing to her now. When her grandmother edged up to the bed and patted the woman’s thick black hair, she didn’t make a sound. Go to the Lord, honey. We’ll see you there.

The cries sounded fake. Everything sounded fake. How did one respond to something like this? A heady, nauseous feeling made Dalia double up. She turned to the sink and gagged, but nothing came up. Someone patted her back and hugged her, wiped at her face. Was she crying? What was the use in crying? She looked grudgingly at the form in the hospital bed. We’ll be taking her to the morgue now. She looked up at the doctor, dazed. He looked sad, sympathetic. But they were in such a hurry to clear a bed. One more bed. One more spot for someone else to take.

The light outside was too bright. The birds still whistled and fluttered, the daffodils still turned their yellow heads to the sunshine. Someone ushered her into a car. She was frozen. Her eyes were puffy, her gaze blurred – it was hard to see. Her lids closed over her empty gaze. It hadn’t happened yet. It hadn’t realized in her mind, that she was gone.

She’d never borrow her clothes again. They’d never go for doughnuts at Krispy Kreme’s. Black Friday wouldn’t be the same anymore. They wouldn’t watch the stop motion Christmas shows together. They’d never catch Bare Essentials on QVC again. It was over. Their time had passed. The only thing she had left was gone. The only person who understood her. The only person she truly, deeply loved.

Did it matter? Was it real. Now, more than ever, she had the sense that she was not really there. The leather of the seat beneath her was a mere imagination, and the people crying around her were only pigments. She was numb to it all – or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she simply wasn’t really there.

Dalia escaped from the others, and made her way up to her room. They’d painted the hall walls yellow, two years ago – in the summer. The bathroom they’d painted blue. Robin’s egg blue. Light and airy – lively. She sunk onto her bed and pulled her knees up to her chest, heedless of how it might crinkle her dress. Everyone sounded far off. Chatter filtered up to her room, muted and monotonous.

They all watched her, like she might do something drastic. She’s been that way since Sunday. They shook their heads at her, all of them. The poor girl. She has her hair. I never noticed. Damn bastards. Shut up. They didn’t know what they were talking about – they didn’t know how they sounded.

Everything was in patches. She remembered nibbling at a watercress sandwich. This morning someone had brushed her hair. Mimi wore periwinkle. Alice wore yellow. Yellow, like the halls they’d painted that summer. Yes, everything was in patches.

She didn’t mind, though. She’d get past it. There wasn’t any call to break down. There was nothing one could do. Maybe it was better that way – maybe it was stronger. Maybe it was what she’d have wanted.

Dalia sat up. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there anymore. She made her way over to the mirror, her hands running across her face like she might smooth it. The once olive skin was now pale and washed. She pinched her cheeks. The colour surfaced, but began to fade. No. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there anymore.

Dalia headed out the door, down the stairs, and across the foyer. No one noticed. They were all plunged into their own grief, discussing how they were affected. Showing off. I’m worse off than you are. Yes. she thought. You are obviously worse off than me.

Dalia didn’t want to be one of them. She wouldn’t fight to show that she was worse off than any of them. It was all fake. It was terrible – traitorous. She’d always been worse off, and now she was gone, people were falling in line to take her place. Like they didn’t care. Because they’d been her best friend, always, like she’d trusted them most. They knew all the stories. They knew how she laughed and what her favourite film was. Just because they’d been there for the worst of it.

Dalia would ring true. That was the plan. She wouldn’t grieve – she was done with that. She would be strong. She would live on, unaffected for once. There would be no soiling of memory. There would be no dwelling - not for her.