Perfectly Preventable Deaths

41 Betony

We stride through the castle, up the stairs and in through Brian’s wall – the cave, when we reach it, is leached of life, all freezing dim and dust motes, grey and beige. The black sheets hide the blood. Mam’s holding Catlin on the speckled bed. I think of snow, of ash. Of fairy tales and princesses and endings. She’s telling her that it will be all right. That Mammy’s here. That help is on the way. That she’ll be fine. Such gentle, loving lies.

Catlin’s eyes are open, dull and dim. She’s staring beyond Mam, gaze out to nothing. She isn’t making noise. The light around her is faded next-day ash. The barest little ember clings. If I couldn’t see it, I would think that she were fully dead. She’s stretched out cold. Mam strokes her hair. Brian isn’t back. We don’t know where he is.

Nobody has come to help my family.

‘Get her undressed,’ Mamó says to me. I start to move. ‘Sheila, have you called an ambulance?’

My mother nods. ‘They said that … forty minutes … maybe longer …’

Mamó’s glare is strong as strong can be. ‘Call them back. You need to cancel. Tell them it was someone playing pranks. That everything is fine.’ My mother shakes her head. Mamó blinks at her. ‘You need to do this Sheila. NOW,’ she barks, and Mam takes out her phone, walks towards the cave mouth. ‘Come back when it is fixed,’ Mamó says. She looks at me. ‘We could be here all night. It will be hard.’

I’m unbuttoning my sister’s dress. She moans so weak. I think I’m hurting her. Mamó opens her big doctor’s bag. She takes a jar of something clear and dark. A thick, soft liquid. She takes a swig and hands it to me. I drink down some as well. And then try to give some to Catlin. Most of it just trickles on the bed. She’s not responding.

Mamó lights a candle. Says some words. I feel the click of something slowing down. And everything is bright. I see the shimmer on me and on her. I did not feel it furling out of me. It has always been here, I think, invisible. I just didn’t know. If I am bright, then Mamó is incandescent. It’s hard to even blink at her right now.

‘You started it yourself. You didn’t know.’ She looks at me, and nods. Then she reaches her hands towards me, grasps my light, begins to pull and tear. Pinching is the best way to describe it. She pinches fists of light and weaves them into threads towards my sister. Like a blood transfusion. Or a graft. I’m dimming as Catlin brightens, just a touch. But you can see it. I can see it. There! She pinches and she pinches and moves and moves and spins and winds and pulls. Her hands are busy, lifting, dropping, smoothing, taking, helping, giving. Hurting. This is the real stuff, I think. This is the kind of thing that kills or cures.

I stagger over, look at Catlin’s face. Her eyes half-open. And then, my vision pinching out of me, I’m dimming, dimming. It starts to hurt properly and I get cold. I get very cold. I lie beside my sister on the bed. My hand curls out to hers. Before I fade away I feel her take it. Just a little squeeze, but she is back. Her hand is cold. It isn’t stiff though. The wax of her is warm enough to mould. Pliable. And that’s a sign. I take that as a sign.

I close my eyes. When I open them again, the world is black but I can hear the movements of her hands, the little gaspy breaths that come from Catlin. Hearing’s next. It’s weird to moan and not to hear your voice. I know I’m making sounds but I can’t hear them coming from my throat. I murmur things. I keep on saying things in case she hears me.

I love you, you’re my sister. It’s OK. I love you, Catlin. It will be all right.

Then

smell.

I

hardly

notice,

except relief.

The tin of blood,

the dull stone-rot of cave I do not miss.

Then there’s speech,

then I can’t move at all,

and lastly touch.

The soft fur of the blanket on my face,

the pinch of light,

the warmth of Catlin’s hand.

I can’t feel warmth or cold inside my body.

It’s only blank.

It’s only faded nothing.

Did it work?