The "D" Word

Sometimes, my mind drifts off from my body when I'm in the middle of doing something or talking to someone. Not because I'm bored, but like my spirit belongs somewhere else. I'll fall off into this haze where I can hear and see but only distantly, as if through a strange reflection of my life. How did I get here? It's just like that floating feeling that happens when I'm on the cusp of deep sleep, then the impact of the great fall yanks me from my haven. It feels the same way when I snap back to my life from those moments; like I didn't really expect it though I knew I couldn't stay away forever. Sometimes, though, I really wish I didn't come back.

This thing is scary. I can't swat it away like a flea, or run from it as though it were a dog. I can not tell it to leave me alone or switch it off. No matter who I'm with, how many lights are on, what song I listen to, what specialist I talk to, what pill I take or what activity I try to occupy myself with, it's always there. Trapped within me, inside my mind, tangible only to me. It's like an annoying, condescending person constantly following you around steering your thoughts. Like your shadow, you can never separate yourself from it no matter what you do. It's a big, invisible suffocating blanket that paralyzes me on the inside. It is a tall, dark, looming, sick version of myself that I can't sift through to be me, exclusively.

I feel like all the drugs do is distract me from the clouds for a while, muddying my thoughts up, inhibiting my ability to focus. They numb my pain and my joy, my sorrow and hope, my suffocation and imagination, my regret and ambition. They send my mind on a wild goose-chase of random thoughts that never go anywhere, like a train-track with levers that switch at will. But once the train stops, the cloud is still there. It takes up the whole sky, and railroads across entire continents are no match, because they are enveloped in the fog that is the Earth's atmosphere. And when I'm alone, there it is, bouncing around inside my head, and I can't let it out. Spheres have no doors. The problem is inside my mind where I can't control it, but it can control me. That's what's so scary. I can't be free of my shadow no matter what I do or where I go. It weighs on me heavily, thick black smog, every day.

When the pills aren't doing their job, that is.

The Woman Who Loved the David

Her name was Rachel.

On her trip to Italy, she made a special point of visiting her favorite remnant of Renaissance sculpture- Michelangelo's "Statue of David". She had always felt a special attraction to this mysteriously emotional and flawless masterpiece. Photos of him had caught her eye, but nothing could prepare her for experiencing his largeness in person. No replica, drawing, or video of this sculpture compared.

Rachel paid no mind to the throngs of fanny-pack-bearing tourists weaving around her. She just stood still, her jaw hung loose. At first, her eyes jumped from one muscle curve to the clenched jaw to a relaxed calf to his intense gaze. She was surprised by his intensity and her own desire to cry. One she was past the initial shock, Rachel was able to appreciate the details of this otherworldly figure.

David's strong, lean left arm reached up, half-ready to make use of the slingshot hanging over his shoulder. His right hand rested by his thigh, loosely holding the rock he would shoot to defeat Goliath. Young, unsure eyes gazed up through a strong, furrowed brow at his opponent. His body was half-turned away from the direction he was looking. One knee was bent, as though David was stepping back, frightened. Or was he preparing to shift his weight to the front foot and confront the beast? He himself didn't seem too sure of what he was about to do. Maybe this was his moment between anticipation and confrontation.

How could something as stationary as an 18 foot block of marble be transformed to represent such an ambiguous and terrifying moment? Teetering on the edge of conquest and victory, David has no idea what the future holds for him. Rachel felt the urge to tell him, "Don't worry! I read the story, you won! Don't be scared!" He was so much larger than she had expected, yet so vulnerable. The statue appeared to be standing of its own volition, like a real human being. He could move at any moment if he wanted to. Yet he was trapped, forever frozen onto that marble base. He could not leave, even if he wanted to, just like he could not escape the Goliath. For if he rejects the reality of his marble prison, he would surely fall and break.

Rachel felt moved at the tragic and awful state of this centuries-old boy, forever in an impossible dilemma.

And what of the young man who posed for Michelangelo? Rachel pictured someone of slightly less generous proportions, but the human quality to his face could not have been invented; it must be real...

Past and Gone

Catherine was 20 years old the first time she witnessed death. Like everyone else, she had been aware on some level that everyone had to die. But until she saw that Spanish homeless man get run over by a train, she had never considered what death really meant.

She was really close with her mother and sister, Kristen. Catherine loved to draw, and she read as often as she could. Occasionally, when she met someone new, like when she first met Ben, she felt a rush of exhilaration and felt as bright as ever. But like everything else, it would eventually pass.

When she had been having second thoughts about Ben, she went to the train tracks near the ice cream store and faced the tracks as a train was approaching. She liked to do that whenever she was making a decision. She closed her eyes, and thought, if the train passes me by the time I count to ten, I’ll stay. If the train is still in front of me, I’ll break up with him. It happened to be a very long cargo train that day. She never even told Ben why it was over.

It was one evening after a career consultation in June that Catherine decided to take the long way home. She would be applying for university soon. It was a nice night, and she wanted to walk along the old train tracks again. It was time to decide whether to study Law or to go to trade school for Digital Media.  Catherine popped her daily Zoloft and washed it down with iced tea (Drugs.com). As she was throwing pebbles across the tracks, weighing her options, she heard a sound. It was a raspy, distressed voice of a man. She glanced to her right and saw him, hunched over in tattered clothes, hauling garbage bags. Empty cans were spilling out of one.

The man noticed her, and in his worn-out voice, he called “La puerta está abierta.” (Seinfeld, David). Catherine struggled to remember what she had learned in Spanish 101 the previous semester. She heard the train chugging in the distance. The man started towards her, and said it again, forcefully. “La puerta está abierta!” The door is able? Catherine thought. Clearly this man was unwell. The train was much closer now, and sounded its whistle. Catherine shook her head and said, “No hablo español!” The man stood erect, threw down his bags and ran for her, screaming, “LA PUERTA ESTÁ ABIERTA!!!!!” The train was a few meters away, moving quickly. Catherine panicked as both neared her. The train's whistle pierced through the air, rattling her brain. The Spanish-speaking man was upon her. She struggled, pushing him away as he grabbed chunks of her hair. He teetered on one foot, lost his balance, and fell onto the tracks an instant before the train rolled over the spot where he landed.

Catherine wasn’t the same after that.

She spent weeks that summer in her bedroom, thinking about the man. She kept going over the event in her head. What had the cops said to her again? Something about irreparable skull trauma… (Carter 187). The whistle kept ringing in her ears. Her involvement in his demise haunted her. Was she a guilty party, or simply an innocent bystander? Could it be self-defense? Soon, she stopped going outside or speaking to anyone. For the first time in her life, she attended church. Though she didn't believe in God, she thought searching for answers in a centuries-old institution might be of some help. Mostly, though, she felt a greater mystery and hopelessness towards death than before (Britannica). Sometimes, she would go back to the tracks and relive the whole thing. Images of the man’s liquefied body polluted her mind. Staring at the splintered wooden beams, she tried to make sense of what she had seen. She even bought a book of Spanish poetry and read aloud there, as a kind of salute to the anonymous homeless man. Her favourite one was by Jorge Manrique, a 15^th century poet from Spain.

Cuan presto se va el plazer, como después de acordado,

Da dolor, como, a nuestro parescer,

Cualquiera tiempo pasado

Fue mejor. (Turnbull 48)

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, our hearts recall the distant day,

With may sighs, the moments that are speeding fast

We heed not; but the past- the past-

More highly prize (49).

           

            Soon, Catherine’s Zoloft dose was tripled, but the meds were not enough to keep the guilt from consuming her. She couldn't focus on any one sentence even in her favourite books (Help Guide). One day, when she was parking at the church, she noticed a large group of people all dressed in black. The hearses outside started up and people got into their cars. Hers still idling, she decided to follow them. She had nowhere to be.

            Turning left, she pulled up behind a cemetery farther behind the hearse.  Catherine decided it was a good idea not to be seen, so she ducked behind some trees and observed the proceedings.  “… Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life…” (Book of Common Prayer 602).  A gust of wind muffled most of the prayer.

            That night, at home, Catherine leafed through the newspaper until she found the obituaries. The scattered black-and-white photographs swirled in front of her. She noticed one for a woman named Maria Isabel Botelho, born in 1926. (Gazette B13) There was no photo, just the text; “Visitation on Friday, April 10^th, 2015 from 7 to 9 pm at Rideau Funeral Home”. That was tonight.

            Catherine dressed up in black, and let her hair down around her face so people couldn’t look too closely. On her way out the door, she spotted the camera Ben had given her sitting on its shelf. Just in case, she told herself, stuffing it into her bag.

            She walked into the funeral home slowly, and went off to a side wall right away. Early comers waited in the lobby for the hall doors to open. The sheer number of dark figures moving about the floor was dizzying. Black veils and jackets seemed to flow about her like smoke. Loved ones of Maria were gathered, greeting each other, kissing one another, and offering condolences. Greet, kiss, sympathize. Greet, kiss, sympathize. Catherine thought of the Spanish homeless man. Did they even have real funerals for homeless people? Who would attend? She thought of his mangled body in the cheapest casket the city could find, sitting un-ornamented in an empty hall. (Little)

            It was too much; the whistle in her ears was back. Careful not to draw any attention to herself, she snaked alongside the crowd of people in the lobby and into the nearest hall.

            She shut the door behind her, her heart pounding. What had she been expecting? She knew what a wake was. People gather to cope with the loss of a beloved family member in this large, cold room that smells like flowers. Why was that so frightening all of a sudden?

            Catherine looked around the quiet, empty room and noticed the open casket at the far end. She felt her stomach drop. Slowly approaching, she felt her hand reaching for the camera in her bag. The face of Maria was now visible, in its beige mask of makeup. She became aware of the muffled hum of voices outside the door. What would they think of Maria's stillness in the casket? Would it upset the family to see her with all the makeup and lace, knowing it was all a ruse? (Viewing of the Body)

            Catherine brought the viewfinder to her eye, adjusted the lens, and snapped. Just as the flash dissipated, she heard the door to the hall click. She ducked behind a huge floral arrangement, waiting for the room to fill up before she could blend in. The voices grew louder, and she could see black shoes shuffling around the carpeted floor. Now, she decided, would be the time to make her escape. On her way out, she paused to grab a red rose from the wreath next to the door.

            As she drove home, Catherine could not suppress the ache in her throat.  The moment she got to her bedroom, she printed the photo of Maria’s body and stuck it in a page of a brand new notebook she had been saving. Next to it, she wrote Maria’s name, birth year and death. She taped the rose next to the photo, closed the book, and slid it under her bed among half of her other possessions. Then she lit a candle.

            Crashing funerals and photographing the corpses became a weekly tradition. It was calming, in a way. Driving to one home or another, she would recite her Spanish poetry and think of the homeless man. This ritual moved from obsession to a practised meditation. She no longer felt sad, but as though she was performing some kind of duty. In fact, after Maria’s wake, she decided to conduct an experiment. She was at her 4^th funeral that summer, for a man in his 80’s, and thought it might be interesting to stop hiding. She approached his daughter and son and offered her condolences. To Catherine’s surprise, they accepted! No one questioned her presence. These funeral homes had a surprisingly low security level. Consoling the bereaved became a regular part of her attendances. Photograph, sympathy, flower. Photograph, sympathy, flower. It almost became like a game. And she nearly always felt better on her way home, with the words of Jorge Manrique on her lips. She read so much Spanish poetry; she was even starting to understand the language.

            She never realized how many people died. Was it normal for so much death to be around her? The obituaries in the newspaper seemed more packed than usual. She began to think that maybe her ritual was welcoming death in a way. The poetry could be her spells, summoning the Grim Reaper. It crossed her mind that she could even be causing the extra deaths. The sneaking out, the train tracks, the black clothes, the candles... If this were Salem, she was sure she would have been hunted down long ago. (Kagan 244)

            By the end of July, the notebook was filled with photo after photo, flower after flower. If there was a funeral in her area, Catherine was there. She wore her hair up, and even put a little lip gloss on when she went out. Her mood had lifted considerably. She stopped taking Zoloft, and her mom suspected she had a new boyfriend. Catherine’s Funerary Scrapbook, as she called it, became her biggest kept secret. She liked having it with her on days when she had no funerals to attend. She rarely opened it, but felt comforted by its presence. It bulged with the photos and roses packed between its pages.

            Catherine received her acceptance letter from the Faculty of Law at the University of Ottawa. Her mom was elated that she made such a turnaround. Her mom and Kristen were planning a surprise party for her at the end of August. (University of Ottawa)

            The day of the surprise party, Catherine decided to go shopping for a new black dress for upcoming funerals. Wandering through the mall, she stopped at a store with a large SALE sign in the window. She went inside and rooted through the racks of dresses. Her hand landed on one, where another hand was already resting.

            “Catherine?” said the owner of the hand. Catherine’s eyes followed up the arm to the girl’s face.

            “Sarah…. Hi.” She could feel the surprise in her face. She hadn’t seen Ben’s sister in a long time.  Sarah studied her closely. Catherine felt herself fidget. “H-how are you?”

            “Good. I mean, okay. You know our grandmother?” Catherine remembered the sweet old lady who used to pinch her cheeks and call her Ben’s little friend. She nodded. “Well she, um, she passed away yesterday.”

            “Oh, Sarah, I’m sorry… What happened?” Catherine could feel her own hands shaking.

            “She had pneumonia, but no one knew. You remember how she was always saying, ‘I’m fine, fit as a fiddle’.” Catherine felt the familiar sting of tears in her eyes. Poor Ben, she thought. She wondered if he still resented her.

            “The funeral is tonight... Anyway, I’ll leave you to your shopping. It was good to see you.” Sarah walked away without the dress.

            Catherine ignored the little voice in her head that told her she was only thinking about Ben because his grandmother died. He was a really nice person. Would it really be so wrong to go to the funeral? She had a sinking feeling in her gut at the thought of his grandmother in a casket.

            With a shaky hand, she fished around in her purse for her phone. She dialed her mom's cell, but she didn't pick up. Catherine didn't know, of course, that her mom's hands were full with her cake. She left her mom a message; “Hi mom, it’s me. Listen, I won’t be home for supper tonight. I’ll call you later to let you know when I’m coming back. Love you.” Leaving the mall with her new dress on, Catherine prepared herself mentally for the night she had planned ahead of her.

            In the car that grey evening on her way to the funeral home, Jorge Manrique found his way into her head:

Cómo se pasa la vida,

Cómo se viene la muerte                    

Tan calando;    

How soon this life is past and gone,

And death comes softly stealing on,

How silently. (48)

               Catherine’s heart pounded like the rain hitting her windshield as she pulled into the parking lot. Over the past few months, she had realized that what she was doing wasn't exactly right. While she knew she wasn't defiling the bodies in any way, it hit her that sneaking in and taking a picture might be an insult to the family. Shouldn't they decide how to remember their loved ones? This will be my last one, she told herself.

               She decided to skip the consolation phase of her ritual. She ducked past the bereaved, praying no one would recognize her. Catherine nearly crashed into a pillar as she clumsily skirted around a table with a vase on it. She gasped as it rocked, threatening to throw itself to the floor. In a panic, she grabbed it before it could fall and ran into Salon B. And Ben walked into the funeral home just in time to see her close the door behind her. The nervousness she felt that night was much like her first funeral that summer. Still holding the vase under her arm, she started towards the casket. Catherine felt mechanical, like it wasn't really her there in the room with Ben's grandmother.

               “Who was that?” Ben asked Sarah. She was too busy greeting her aunt, so he decided to investigate himself. He walked up to the door of Salon B, pushed it open a crack, and peeped in. What he saw led to a series of events that would invariably deter Catherine from her surprise party at home.

               The flash of her camera is what did it. He burst into the room.

               “Catherine?!” he exclaimed. She whirled around. Both in shock, they just stared at each other. He, with a dumbfounded expression on his face, and she in pure panic.

               “Ben. I, um, ahh...” she had nothing to say.

               “What are you doing here? What was--” he motions to the casket and notices the camera hung around Catherine’s neck. He looked up at her slack-jawed. She stared at the floor, fidgeting. “What... is... that?” he demanded, fuming now. At this point, some of Ben's relatives had become curious by the commotion and peeked in.

               “Catherine? Wha-- what are you doing here?” Sarah asked, confused. Her aunt next to her was wiping a tear.

               “Sarah, I... I don't-- I'm so sorry,” stammered Catherine.

               “She was taking a picture of Grandma!” Ben shouted. His relatives all turned to her in an audible unison. Sarah stepped forward with genuine hurt on her face. Catherine couldn't stand there anymore with these grieving people staring at her. She pushed past Ben and his sister to a side door, leaving her bag behind. Sarah followed. Catherine ran through a maze of hallways and stopped at what she thought was an exit. She pushed the door open, only to see a funeral worker stuffing cotton into the anus of a body on the embalming table. The worker looked up in surprise, and ceased the cotton-stuffing. (Alirangues) Sarah screamed. Catherine could do nothing but escape.

               I'm such an idiot, she thought as she ran, tears streaming down her face. The realization of her intrusion hit her and she couldn't stop sobbing.  How could she think it would be okay for her to just show up at Ben's grandmother's funeral? Her feet stomping into the ground, stride after stride, shook her brain. A whistle reverberated in her head. She made it around a corner and stopped to rest aside an old car dealership.

               Ben and Sarah were left to deal with the aftermath of Catherine’s appearance. Just as Ben finished comforting a cousin, he spotted a thick notebook on the floor by the casket, stuffed with papers. He picked it up, and a photograph slipped out. Looking down, he saw that it was a person. Lying down. Holding flowers. In a CASKET. He rushed out of the salon. Ben ran down the street, stopping when he came to an intersection with closed-down buildings. He heard a kind of strange breathing, and turned to see Catherine sitting on the wet asphalt, crying into her bent knees. He approached her slowly.

               “Catherine?” She looked up. He saw the fear and regret in her damp face. She squirmed back, her heels scraping as she tried to get up. “No, no... I just wanna, Catherine I just want to talk!” But it was too late. She took off, down the alley. He followed her around a corner, through a park, under an old, bent fence and past an ice cream store. Where was she going? Catherine stopped running, huffing.

               “Ben...I didn't mean to... I, I'm sorry I, I don't know what...” she panted.

               “Catherine, what--” he stepped towards her.

               “No! No, don't-- stay back!” She stepped backwards to the train tracks behind her. The whistling in her head was back.

               “Catherine, wait.” He moved toward her with a palm up.

               “I'm serious. Just stay there, I'm sorry”. The ringing seemed to be louder now. Gravel and dead grass crunched under her feet as she shuffled back some more.

               “Catherine, come on! Let's just talk, please!” He was shouting now, desperate.  He was more than aware of the chugging getting closer. 

               “I didn't mean to...” she backed up a little too far.

               “Ca—NOOOO!!!” He sprinted forward to grab her. She panicked and jumped backwards onto the edge of the tracks. He made one final stretch with his arm to grab her, but he didn't make it. Catherine teetered and fell, just an instant before the train rolled over the spot where she landed.

.............

               The next few hours were a blur for Ben.

               He was numb with shock. His shaking fingers dialed 9-1-1. Bits of the destroyed camera were stuck in the mess Catherine’s pulverized body left behind. He still felt the weight of her bag in his arms. He heard the sirens in the distance, and fished through Catherine’s bag quickly before anyone got there. He tucked the notebook into his pants under his shirt, and buttoned his jacket. Hopefully the notion that black was slimming was true. He would turn it in to the police later. Maybe. Yellow tape was then set up around the tracks as the Chief of Police asked for his statement. He got out of there as quickly as he could, though they were still investigating. He knew a phone call would be made any minute now.

               Ben rushed to Catherine’s house to tell her mother what happened. Better to hear it from me than some guy in a uniform, he thought. He reached to ring the doorbell, but the button and some wires were hanging out. He tried the door, which happened to be unlocked. Were they expecting someone?

               “SURPRISE!” Catherine’s whole family jumped out from behind couches and under tables, throwing confetti and balloons in Ben's direction.

...............

               The funeral was three days later. Ben had never seen a more packed room. High school classmates, teachers, relatives, priests, and even her Spanish teacher attended. This funeral was completely different from any other he had ever been to. This was not a simple paying of respects for an elderly person whose time came. Catherine’s death was a real freak accident. As far as funerals went, she would have felt the love in the room. Ben saw tears, hugs, flowers, and people getting together to face one of life's scariest, most abrupt of endings.

               At 9:00, the room was finally clear. He took out Catherine’s notebook and a Polaroid camera he had hidden in a bag behind a floral arrangement. SNAP! He pulled the glossy photo paper out of the camera and shook it, waiting for it to develop. Next, he picked up Catherine’s book on Spanish poetry and opened it to the page she had marked with her library card. He read aloud:

“Cómo se pasa la vida,

Cómo se viene la muerte                    

Tan calando;    

How soon this life is past and gone,

And death comes softly stealing on,

How silently. (48)”

               His accent wasn't very good. When did Catherine learn Spanish? The photograph finished developing. It was just a closed casket. There were hardly any remains to show, but at least there was no issue with embalming.

               He took the long way home that night. The picture went alongside all the others in Catherine’s Funerary Scrapbook. Ben inscribed her name, and dates of birth and death: March 8^th, 1994- August 19^th, 2014. The book would stay in his closet. 

               He visited Catherine’s grave a week later. He brought assorted roses to leave at the headstone, just like Catherine had in her scrapbook.

               “I guess that's it”, he said, to no one in particular. “That's how it ends for you”. He bit his lip, holding himself together. This was the second time he lost her.

               Now what? Ben stood there, looking at the stone. He glanced around at the other graves. He rocked back and forth on his heels and sighed.

               What else is there to do when someone you loved dies?