“Did the cleaner come on Friday?” mum asked nanna who was sitting
in the back seat of the car. I looked in the rear view mirror anxiously, as a
messy knot formed in my stomach. I saw a lifeless figure whose head was tilted
to the side. Her lips bubbled urgently with saliva, like a kitchen pot left too
long on the stove.
I don’t remember how I had managed to safely pull over. All I can
recall is mum’s incessant whimpering accompanied by the sound of passing cars.
Paralysed with fear, I stared blankly into the sea of cars that ebbed past us.
A dream. Unable to run. Frozen in time.
“Wake up,” I cried
as I shook her soft body still constrained by a seat belt. I thought of when I
slept over nanna’s; the way she would eagerly wake me for her French toast. No
response emerged, only delicate murmurs, which had escaped her clenched jaw.
The sun glinted at the garish pink sticker on her top. I gave it to her that
morning in her mother’s day card. It read, “World’s Greatest Nanna” in a
cursive blue font.
I noticed the gushing vehicles. The indifferent voice on the phone
told us to lie nanna down in the back seat. I unbuckled her and with mum,
lifted her legs onto the greyish leather upholstery like two lumps of led. I
counted her every precious breath as the toneless voice told me to. One. Two.
Three. Twelve minutes passed until I heard the wailing siren and watched the
awaited vehicle sail from the stretched road behind us.
School the next day was normal; at least as normal as it could
have been after almost losing nanna twice. I walked through the black gates, as
overbearing as the ones at the cemetery, noticing every face I passed. It
struck me that each had different experiences; each had secrets and demons that
made them perceive the world differently.
At lunchtime, we gravitated to the cold, damp pavement and sat in
a circle. I continually clutched the phone in my pocket, checking for any
updates on nanna’s state. I listened as they spoke about food; about the little
calories in a low- fat, carb- free snack they had discovered. A part of me
selfishly wished they would analyse me like the packet of rice crackers.
I tried to shut out the sound of the ruffling packaging, and the
passer-by’s feet shuffling on the concrete. I looked across at my friend, who
was engrossed in the homework she forgot to do for her next class. I observed
her fingers willingly forcing down each key, creating a pulse- like pattern.
I walk
home from school. I imagine I am in a movie; one of those scenes following the
climax, where the protagonist experiences a dilemma. I see the darkening sky as
the camera hones in on me- or maybe zooms out. I walk along the dark cracked
path, where brown autumn leaves are piled. None but the Lonely Heart plays, “ a classic” as nanna said- though
would she want a classic? Perhaps Unchained Melody from Ghosts; a movie I had
caught her watching so many times. As I walk along the footpath, flowers bow-
no bend- towards me, becoming remnants of what once was. End scene.
The walls
are pale, just like the inanimate figures they hold. Lifelessness echoes
throughout the halls. I observe the businessman beside me, whose hair is
dishevelled and who clenches a crusty tissue in his wrinkly hand. I wonder whom
he is here for. Without talking, we understand. Ding. Level 2. I have to ring a
doorbell to enter the ward, and when the doors open, a uniform leads me to her
bed. I see a man with a swollen crimson eye, the size of a golf ball and feel
repulsed. I quickly turn away.
I
immediately notice her lying on a bed devoid of inclination. I look at mum who
avoids eye contact. She breathes deeply, and composes herself as the doctor
steps in. My thoughts are obstructed by the blurring sound of hospital
machinery. My eyes are magnetized to the changing figures of her heartbeat.
141. 154. 130. 161. “And this must be
your granddaughter,” he says. I stare at his handlebar moustache.
Impressive. I wonder how long it would have taken him to grow it. He takes my
nanna’s coarse hand and caresses it. “How
are you feeling though?” he asks. She almost nods as tears fill her
despondent eyes.
A stale
odour permeates the waiting room. I notice a flashing red light on the worn espresso
button as I sit on the warm, saggy couch. Es-press-o,
I widely pronounce under my breath. It puzzles me; how people can stand the
taste of coffee. I stare blankly at the wall, which is of a yellow colour, the
shade of a residue, which was once something brighter. It’s not quite white.
It’s not quite cream, and it’s not quite yellow.
Thump, I
hear as the lady sits down. I see an
extensive dent on the wall where the top of the chair must hit every time it is
used. The man across from me doesn’t even flinch to the sound, but is consumed
by his crossword puzzles. It seems all too familiar, as though he has been here
before.
The
rhythmic sound of the machinery can still be heard. “The coffee is terrible”, a lady says to me as she holds a white
foam cup. I politely laugh. Maybe she was the wife of the man with the
distended eyes. Though she could be the wife, daughter, sister, friend, or
cousin of anyone. Who even cares.
