If I was still alive, I would be able to
feel the smooth pebbles in the early morning tide brushing against my feet. I
would know that there were a few stuck between my toes as the waves washed them
up onto the shore. My skin would soak up the early morning sun like the ripe
fruits of the raspberry bushes growing in the nearby gardens, rather than remain
blue and lifeless to the touch. It is a comfortable resting place that I made
for myself. I wriggled my body around a little once I was lying down, shuffling
the rocks beneath me into place, a perfect imprint of my body. The pebbles and
stones have formed a soft cushion, and it is here that I will lie until the time
I am found by the beach comber, his dog excited and eager to share such a
finding as he sniffs around me and barks his excitement. What a find I am. The
beach comber will not know what I am at first. I will look like just a small
mound in the distance. I could be rubbish, or discarded clothes, the scent of
which has sent his companion into a sensory frenzy. Even upon seeing me, he
will not believe his own eyes. He will walk cautiously towards me, certain that
I am asleep and scared to wake me. He will convince himself that I cannot be
that which his mind is telling him. He will see the items at my side, and my
feet in the water. He will tell himself over and over that I am asleep, but he
will know that I am dead. Waking up this morning he had no idea of this fate
before him as he pulled on his summer walking shoes. He dressed whilst his
Golden Retriever excitedly paced back and forth standing up onto his hind legs,
front feet scratching high up on the door and nuzzling at the cracks as if he
can already smell me, my scent drifting along on the early morning breeze. I do
not know this man, but I know he will do the right thing. I have learnt to
trust my instincts. He will put the lead on the dog. He will quickly struggle
his way across the beach to call the police using the coins that he had stowed
in his pocket for the morning newspaper, and which instead would now be pushed
with shaky fingers into the metallic slot of the payphone at the end of the road
where it sits like a lighthouse before the stormy ocean of sand dunes beyond
it. He will return to my body and guard me until the police arrive. Of this I
am certain, for I have watched him every day this last month. He is always
here. He is a good man.
I am dressed in my mother’s clothes. My
skirt is loose and blowing around as the wind has whipped up underneath it like
an expectant parachute. The edges have become wet and look dark against the
light mocha brown material. I have tucked the shirt into the high elasticated
waist, a cap sleeved flower print vest. I am also wearing her necklace. Just
cheap beads, white, large and chunky, like bone fragments strung together and
draped across my neck as a voodoo talisman for my sacrifice. They look old and
out of place against my face. I would have been thirty three in a month’s
time. I would not have celebrated my birthday. The last time I celebrated was
for my twenty-eighth birthday: I ate dinner with my family and friends; I drank
wine; I had a cake and blew out the candles. I stopped celebrating after this.
There is no celebration alone. Perhaps I would have cooked my dinner, sat on
the settee, and watched the television. Later, when I missed her, I would have
taken out the photographs. I have only a few now, but I look at them each day,
enjoying them as if they are new and just picked up from the developing shop in
that moment of excitement when they are still warm and stuck together, and still
smell faintly of chemicals. I lived for such memories. I keep them safely in a
drawer and look at them each day. I do not display them. I do not want this
house to be mine. I shouldn’t pretend for it to feel like home.
I have placed my mother’s sandals neatly
to my side. They match my bone necklace with the white leather crisscrossing
across their open toes. My mother always wore these sandals. They were her
favourite pair and she would wear them in the house, shopping, school sports
day, and to the beach. She didn’t let things go to waste in a cupboard. There
was no day to save for. No Sunday best. Every day was for living. What did
she know?
In my left hand I am clutching a
photograph. It is old and tatty, battered from its daily use. In it my mother
sits, staring at the camera with blank eyes. She always tried so hard not to
blink. I am sat opposite her. My face is open, wide-eyed with a big toothy
smile, too young to be self conscious about my crooked teeth and before I was
old enough for braces. There are candles on the table too. We are
celebrating. You are sitting next to me, propped up with a frilly cushion. We
are wearing the same dresses. Red corduroy A-line dresses with a small white
frill at the neckline. It is too childish for me. You are only four years
old. You are not looking at the camera. You are too interested in the toys
that Santa Claus has brought for you. I am trying to get your attention; I am
grabbing at your arm trying to get you to look in the right direction. He got
fed up with waiting for you and took the photograph anyway. He will scold me
for this. I love you so much already.
Next to my mother’s shoes there is a
packet of cigarettes. It’s a small white carton with a blue band across it. It
has an emblem of a sailor, a fine looking man standing proudly with his blue
sailor’s hat on. The cigarettes inside are different. They are my
cigarettes. In my right hand I am holding a bus ticket and a key. It is dated
April fourth, two thousand and six. It’s the day you think I
died.
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