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 15th
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 10th, 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 4th 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 8th,
1994- August 19th, 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?
