Chasing Death

Bathurst 1984

The branches of trees danced to the rhythm of the wind, gentle breeze blew its breath caressing every leaves, season flipped the calendar page into the month of September, a bit chilly, but nonetheless a good Saturday to spend sipping afternoon tea out by the garden or sweating a walk at a nearby park.

A woman in her late fifties had a different idea, though. Armed with trappings of a red flowery woolen cloche which sat tilted to the right side of her head, a pair of black leather gloves found their way neatly tucked beneath her waist belt, a green long dress with dots of white complemented by a pair of red shiny 30’s closed shoes, which by the looks of it seemed as heavy as metal, too uncomfortable to be worn in modern times, and a knitted green scarf on her neck completed the picture.

She walked towards the backdoor of a rustic Victorian house, apt in her every step. Soil colored freckles mapped her wrinkled hand subtly signifying a time worn. She gently turned the knob. A jolt of coldness etched into her nerves sending chills to the rest of her body when the door swung open.

A surge of breeze rushed in, leaving her cheeks a hint of red, as it eased inside only to disperse upon colliding with the warmer part of the house.

The old woman fixed her cloche displaced by the sudden gush of wind. She wore the pair of gloves that fitted perfectly, crossed her arms, as though hugging herself would get rid of the chill brought about by the shifting climate. The red rickety western cedar plank that made up a small porch squeaked to the weight of her every step.

Crick! Crack!

The sound went on until the old wood sprung free as the grass took the load. She continued to walk towards the right side of the house to a small shed, where she was sure she would find a faintly used shovel. It laid there for quite some time, never used, after the man who owned it put it down for good.

Oh and thank heavens someone was clever enough to invent the word glove; for those pair of black leather gloves carpeted her palm, blocking the coarseness and rigidity of the handle as she picked up the object.

She turned around, scanned the surroundings, and noted what her vision showed her. There she saw at the left far end stood one mango tree. To the left side near the porch, four driftwoods stood decorated with wild orchids colored from simple purplish white to intricate sun red pink, while spaces in between those ornamented driftwoods were luscious greens and reds of elongated peppers.

On the base of the palm tree located at the center of the backyard were hues of indigo, beautiful blue, translucent white and bourbon red bonsai asters that thrived well on dirt soil and surrounded by medium to large sized cobblestones.

Her gaze shifted towards the right side where two soil beds lay. Few tomatoes had their sprouts and a couple of carrot shoots flourished.

Absolutely not there.

She started to walk again, tentative, calculating in her footsteps. Marching a bit more, she came to a halt just a few inches away from where the trunk of the mango tree stood. She looked up and breathed in.

This is perfect.

Underneath the branches where the leaves fell every time the wind came to kiss its twigs, she marked her spot with an x using the shovel at hand. The old woman started her precise excavation on the spot with whatever little strength her body possessed.

Thump! Thump!

Two pairs of eyes watched intently from the porch. One sewn to a cloth, while the other wide-open and rarely blinking with brows scrunched.

Grandma, what are you doing? A high-pitched voice caught the old woman’s attention.

The ground sighed in relief as the shovel stopped its assault. Taking a breather, Well hello there, young man, she smiled, resting her arm on the shovel.

What are you doing? The boy wearing a hand-sewn pastel jacket of green swung the cream teddy bear clutched in his hand.

Preparing my death bed, little angel.

His feet left the porch. Slowly he walked towards his grandmother and asked, Why?

For when my time to sleep comes, it’s all ready, Gertrude answered.

The boy continued to inch his way closer to the woman.

Hold it, stop. You can stay right there and not an inch closer or the shovel might catch your tiny feet and break them.

Colt abruptly stopped, hearing what the old woman had said and fearful of what could happen. He even took a step back, but didn’t cease with his questions. Is there something wrong with your bed, Grandma? You can share mine if you like, he offered, still standing on the same spot.

That’s mighty noble of you. Thank you, Colt. The old woman raised the shovel once more and successfully smashed it onto the grass.

The boy babbled on how his grandmother could share his pillow and superman blanket. And since his bed looked like a spaceship, he insisted they could both be astronauts, with him being the commander and the old woman being his explorer passenger travelling space and landing either on the moon or Pluto which he referred to as Futo.

The boy spun around, We can fight aliens and little weird green things in Futo, granny. He spread his arms, as he made a shuttle out of his teddy bear.

Pluto, sweetheart. And that’s sweet of you to offer your bed, but I’m afraid I will not fit. The slightly loose skin on the side of her mouth stretched to a smile.

Well you can sleep on my bed… And after we play, I’ll sleep at mom’s bed, said the boy.

You are a gentleman, aren’t you? But, I don’t need your bed or any bed other than this. Gertrude pointed to a small patch inches away from her feet.

He turned his head, looked at the door with his face a bit worried, then back at his grandmother.

Can we sleep on the ground, Grandma? That will be dirty. Ooooh, Mommy will get mad, yes she will.

It’s a different kind of sleep, Colt. It’s a sleep that requires you to close your eyes for a very long time, just like... There was a slight pause as Gertrude looked instinctively into nothingness. Her face now painted with the color of sadness, tears loomed in a corner not so far away. Like Grandpa, she finished her sentence with a splintered voice.

How long, Grandma? Can anybody sleep that long without waking up? Did Grandpa sleep that long? Isn’t he waking up soon? Colt persisted with his barrage of questions.

When you are a little older in the years to come, you will understand, dear child, Gertrude explained, as she carried on unearthing the spot. Dirt now started to resurface as it triumphed over the grass.

But why are you digging, Grandma? Again, Colt insisted, as though to raise the same question would earn him a different answer, simple enough for his infantile brain to understand.

So that it would be easier for those who are awake, answered the old woman, while focused on the task.

Easier how, Grandma? What do you mean?

Gertrude stopped, looked at the young boy who had basically gotten tired of standing and was already sitting on his make shift chair out of the medium–sized stone beneath the palm tree, hugging his Bernie bear. She observed how the boy stroked the grass with his right hand, so innocently inquisitive. His house slippers scattered, he had slipped out of them. His grin was from ear to ear as the soft bracts tickled his palm. Precious moments, she thought, as she watched her grandson slowly stretched his feet and rubbed his soles on the spikelet of the lawn. It was a sight to behold.

It is a complicated subject, son. Now come, let’s get you in before your teeny tiny toes turns purple, Gertrude called on the boy. She placed the shovel upright, tilted it on the trunk of the mango tree, smoothed the pleats of her dress, and extended her hand for the boy to grab as she reached where he sat.

Does every adult have to lie and tell their young ones that those who die will only be sleeping? They will go to heaven, or they will be one of the stars? If these kind of descriptions stick in their mind like glue to a paper, will it not cause a problem bigger than our stitched up answers of lies? But if we tell them the truth about dying, will they not be scared and scarred for the rest of their lives? Now, that’s confusing.

What to do? What to do? Think.

Perhaps stirring clear from untruthful answers and at the same time not giving veracious explanations would be plausible. To simply tell them that it’s not something they would fully understand just yet and divert their attention by talking about their trip to Disney land, the toy they received on their birthday, if their favorite shirt was a gift from Santa, or a chocolate cake baking in the kitchen, and other numerous things that will get their interest out of the topic. After all, kids will be kids. Surely, they will prefer sweets, dolls, or toy cars over a lengthy boring explanation.

It may just work.

And so it went, Gertrude dug into the depths of the ground and Colt played with the shovel and dirt. That will be the daily picture in the days to come; the normal Colt would be a part of, though he did not quite understand.

Whilst they were tied-up out the back, inside the house, the troubled Martha kept busy by household chores, bills, Steve’s worsening condition – and some more bills.

CHAPTER TWO

Bathurst 1984

Weeks passed, the digging continued not in secret, but overlooked by Martha’s unfocused mind. Her son was no longer a jolly audience, but a willing participant with a goal of his own.

Sunday.

Busy as she had been for the past several weeks, Martha was gathering the components that comprised their lunch on the counter, when her peripheral vision caught a glimpse of her son. He held his toy shovel with urgency and purpose.

Colt, sweetheart, can you come in here for a minute?

The boy dropped his toy by the archway and made his way to where the voice came from.

Don’t I get a kiss from my precious handsome little prince? Martha asked with a smile.

The boy puckered then started to smack his lips in the air. Come here, you… Martha scooped him into her arms then the boy gave her a few kisses, one on each cheek then on the tip of her nose. He hugged her even and then slumped on her right shoulder.

Now, wasn’t that lovely? I asked for a kiss, but I got three and a bonus hug. Martha hugged and nudged the boy’s chin with her shoulder. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against hers, a trifle of air brushed on her neck as he breathed.

Then the boy spoke, Mom, I miss Dad. When is he coming home?

Soon, my love, he needs to get better first, Martha responded shortly.

When young ones speak of honesty from their heart, most often than not, they will catch us by surprise. We forget that they would speak their truth. Perhaps it’s because when we get older, we learn how to be nicer at the cost of telling 'white lies' as we label it, to make it a little tolerable to hear. But not the children, though.

Is he going to sleep now? He doesn’t have a hole yet, the boy said, as his finger played with his mother’s hair.

Martha was flabbergasted with what her four year old said. She placed him on the kitchen counter, her face aligned with his. She looked him in the eyes, while her hand cradled his cheek. Colt, your father is okay. He just needs to rest, okay? Her voice resolute, she tried to convince someone who doesn’t need convincing. For in reality, it was herself she was persuading.

Okay, Mom.

Martha hugged him. Right now, off you go play with your toys and I will prepare lunch, alright? she said.

Mom, ouch! the boy cried out, squeezed by his mother’s tight embrace.

Oh! So sorry, my love. Martha smiled at what she just did. She picked him up off the counter top and eased him to the floor, to which the boy then sped towards the kitchen archway with such haste, only to stop by the door so he could pick up his shovel and zoomed away from the kitchen.

Martha wondered, Why would a four year old say something like that? Surely, there must be some logical explanation. If this were like those typical days, she would have probably contented herself to look at him disappearing into the backyard. For all she knew, he would play with his toys alongside his grandmother, whereas she would be in peace in the kitchen doing daily chores.

However, this time around, it was different. As if something was telling her, she needed to follow him. Colt, absolutely without a doubt, caught her undivided attention.

She left the vegetables and condiments for display on the kitchen table. The sink caught droplets of water from the veal meat as the room temperature started to melt the frost from