Vera

I thought about my grandmother and her struggles with arthritis, her mobility steadily decreasing until she died. I pictured her as a child, fit and robust, capable of all the joys of movement restricted to the young and healthy, and how, with time, her body fell apart. However, the one thing she clung to while suffering the ravages of disease was her capacity to love. I smiled to myself—perhaps Descartes was wrong: We love; therefore, we are.

Yet what about poor Vera, lying cold in a casket? So much precious time had been snatched away from her. And by whom or what had she been heartlessly robbed? By God? My Faith had been cruelly stolen, and in return, I had little faith to give. By the randomness of the universe? Were the bits of stardust that made her beautiful body, mind, and spirit destined to combine and mutate into an ugly, early death? In the scheme of eternity, the difference between 23 and 83 years is insignificant—indeed, non-existent—but that thought provided little comfort.

In her brief time here, Vera loved and was loved, and I was thankful to be part of that sphere. Nothing else made sense.

But my amateurish philosophising was shattered by the wails and sobs from poor Nada. She was inconsolable to the point that her doctor had pumped her full of tranquillisers. But they had no effect at the funeral. Her howls—echoing throughout the church, drowning out the service—were those of a trapped, wounded animal pleading for an end to the pain. Every one of her cries ripped through the church and stabbed at my heart.

At the end of the service, people queued to pay their last respects. I approached the casket with a sense of dread. A body lay in front of me, but she was gone. Her spirit had vanished. The body was dressed in an outfit that I'd never seen her wear nor could I imagine her wearing it in life. Thankfully, the green scarf that I'd bought for her wasn't part of the ensemble.

Nada's final farewell with her daughter was something that I didn't want to witness. I said my goodbye's in my own way, left the coffin, and headed outside. The cold, fresh air was a relief. That was when I saw him, and my blood boiled instantly.

I marched over to Gavin and loudly confronted him. "So you can finally make it now that she's dead? A little fucking late, I'd say. What would it have cost you? A few hours a week—that's all! You fucking, selfish prick! What the fuck are you doing here? Go to hell!"

He grabbed my arms, trying to quieten me, but it had the opposite effect. I screeched at the top of my voice, "Let go of me! Don't touch me, you fucking self-centred asshole!"

People rushed over to separate us. I fell in the process, scraping my knee. Blood seeped out, making a strange pattern on my ripped nylon. I'd made a spectacle of myself, but I was too stunned to care or feel shame. I stood, felt the brick wall at my back, and slumped against it, sliding down to sit on the cold pavement. Finally I started to cry without contrivance or regard for what others thought. The sobbing lasted for days.

For the next month or two, I went a little crazy. One of my stranger accomplishments in that time was to dye my hair bright green. Vera wouldn't have approved.

Ten weeks had passed since she died. My depression eased; similarly, my brunette roots overtook my chartreuse locks. I was preparing for a move and was in the process of gleaning the essentials from my belongings. My few photos of Vera were among the first things I placed in my trunk of indispensable items. The phone rang while Blonde On Blonde twirled on the turntable, with Dylan in the middle of nasal proclamations about guilty undertakers, weeping mothers, and fast asleep saviours.

"B? It's Gavin. Please, don't hang up. I can't stop thinking about her. You were right. I had no excuse. I should have found the time. I should have been there for her."

I'd thought about Gavin since my theatrics at the funeral. He'd flinched in the face of death upon realising that it looked nothing like a Hollywood actress. Even so, who the hell was I to tell him what his actions should've been?

"Bert, you there?"

"Yes, yes. Sorry Gavin, I was lost in thought."

"Hey, Bertille, I know that you're going away soon. I wanted to wish you luck and tell you that I have that green scarf you bought for Vera. She left it at my place one night. She also loaned me your paperback of Lord Jim. I thought you might like them back."

I paused and reflected about the scarf and book. Finally, I said, "Thanks, Gavin. But, no. I don't want them. Gavin, listen: I really think you should hang on to them."

I moved the phone away from my head and heard him speaking, his voice thin and colourless, as I lowered the handset into the cradle.

"Mum? Mum? Why are you crying? Who is she?"

Oh, God. How could I tell her this story? Not yet. "Her name was Vera," I managed to blubber, "She was a close friend, Faith. A very close friend who died too young."

"What happened? How did she die?"

I fought the urge to break down and bawl, wiped away my tears, and croaked, "I'll tell you about her some other time, sweetheart, I promise."

I walked to the CD player and, with all the strength I could muster, asked through my constricted throat, "Hey, do you mind if I put on some Stones?"

I didn't wait for Faith's approval. With the volume cranked, the Let it Bleed disc slid into the machine. Eerie, ghost-like howling flooded over the speakers, like a wolf mourning for a lost mate or like the lamentations that echoed throughout a church long ago. The intro alarmed me, prickling my skin with fear. Keith's guitar was ominous and foreboding. After a few bars, the bass and drums crashed in without warning, like fate does in life. Finally, Mick belted out his plea, "Please, someone, anyone, give me shelter from the mad incomprehensible world."

But then I saw her! She was dancing, grooving to the Stones, happy and unafraid. With her shoulders hunched, arms close to her sides, cigarette in hand—shaking her breasts and wiggling her ass, feet sliding effortlessly—her eyes narrowed and lips pursed, head thrown back in ecstasy, she remained young, beautiful, and pure.

I'm indebted to Global Carol, Katherine H, Lee Martin, Rikastashia, Sexywriter (Charlotte), and The Writer for reviews and proof reading. Their sharp eyes and thoughtful suggestions helped to improve the story immensely. Remaining deficiencies in the story are, of course, solely my responsibility.

Criticism, comments, and feedback are always welcomed.

CC