Mary Hades: Beginnings: Books One and Two, plus novellas

by Sarah Dalton

  She wipes tears from her eyes and continues. I’ve never been as proud of my Aunt Izzy as I was in that moment, brave enough to control her voice long enough to tell the story to her dead child.

  “But even still, I didn’t think you would come that night. I’d had some pains, but I thought they were the practice ones everyone talked about. It was a week before your due date and I’d spent the last nine months having everyone talk down to me and treat me like I was stupid. I didn’t want to go to the hospital and have them send me away with a roll of their eyes. I know now that they would never do that. But at the time it seemed important. So I ignored all the warning signs and I went for my walk amongst the fields and stars, waiting for the comet.

  “When I got to the top of the hill, right over there in the distance”—Izzy points to a faraway mound—“my waters broke, and I knew I was in trouble. Everyone told me that you have hours until the baby is born, even after your waters break, so I hurried back towards the house, hoping I could make it in time to have Dad drive me to the hospital. But as I hurried, those pains grew worse and worse until I couldn’t walk.” She laughs. “Oh, Lila, you were as impatient in birth as you were in life. You wanted to come out to this world so bad.” Izzy chokes up, and Lila presses her face into her knees. I wipe the tears from my cheeks. “I dropped to my knees and I pushed and pushed and pushed, and then you were crying, and I was pulling you from me, and there you were, this squirming little thing, this gooey and gross little shrivelled baby. And as I lifted you up in my arms, you opened your eyes and stared up at the sky. And at that moment, the comet raced through the dark, with its tail gleaming behind. It was the first thing you ever saw.”

  Izzy’s shaking hand clutches her mouth as the story ends.

  “Then it will be the last thing I see, too,” Lila says. She turns to the sky, but before that she stops and looks at her Mum. “I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I put you through this. I’m sorry for the partying, and the boys, and for not telling you where I was. I’m sorry for the things I put you through. But most of all, I’m sorry I took that pill. I wanted to live so badly, that I burned myself up and died. Mary, tell her. Tell her I’m sorry.”

  I tell Izzy, who only nods, still holding herself with shaking fingers, her red eyes filled with water.

  We all look up to the sky at the same time and there it is, the comet, almost hanging in the sky like a large star. We become transfixed, consumed by the vision of this thing, this celestial being.

  “It’s beautiful,” Lila says.

  For a brief moment, the light from the comet lights up all of our faces. I watch Lila’s eyes, filled with awe. I’d known she would still be here, but I don’t know why. Perhaps I had sensed it. Perhaps it was coincidental. Either way, I’m glad I got these last few moments with her, and I’m glad Izzy did too. We gasp as the comet brightens for just an instant, revealing the long stretching tail, and then a cloud shifts across, obstructing it from view.

  “I wish it had stayed longer,” Lila says.

  We stare up at the sky, but the clouds are heavy and unmoving.

  Lila stands up and turns to me. “It’s time.”

  Izzy notices the change in my demeanour. “What is it? What is she saying?”

  “She says it’s time for her to go,” I relay.

  “Are you going to stab her through the heart?” Izzy asks.

  “Yes,” I reply. “But she won’t feel a thing.”

  Izzy lets out a sob before she composes herself. “I love you, sweetheart.”

  As I work around my cousin, drawing the same symbols from the circle of protection, Lila begins to light up brighter. Izzy gasps as her daughter comes into view.

  “You look so beautiful,” Izzy says. “I’m so glad I got to see you one more time.”

  I position the knife, but hesitate as I look into my cousin’s eyes. I see the girl I grew up with, the girl who brought me her last gummy bear. This is not how it should be. I should be at her children’s births, and visiting her when she’s old and grey, not looking into the young eyes of a teenage girl who made one mistake that took her life from her. This isn’t fair.

  “Do it, Mary,” she says. “It’s okay. You were right. I don’t want to end up a shadow like that man. I want to go now, while I still have the ability to choose.”

  I open my mouth to say goodbye, but it seems such an insignificant word to use. I don’t know how to verbalise everything in my mind.

  “It’s all right,” she says. “You can do this. You can do everything you want and more. I always knew you were the special one.”

  There’s no malice, no bitterness in her voice, only hope.

  I plunge the knife into her chest. She leaves us in a bright flourish of hair and teeth, her eyes closed, her face in ecstasy.

  The tears come thick and fast as she leaves us in the dark. It’s like we’re empty without her presence. The night sky is devoid of its light.

  Izzy reaches for my wet cheeks, her hands shaking and frantic. Her fingers hook around the back of my neck and she pulls me forward so that our foreheads touch and our tears almost mingle.

  “We know—you and me—that there’s something… that something happens after we… We’ve seen Lila, we know there are at least ghosts. We know that much. But this world, this world, is worth fighting for. Don’t you ever forget that. There is so much beauty here. Don’t you ever let the dark take you away from love, and nature, and people. Don’t ever let it make you give up.”

  “I know… I know, Aunt Iz.”

  She grips my neck tighter until it almost hurts. “No, you don’t. This calling you’re answering, it’s a heavy responsibility for a young girl. I worry about you, so caught up in death, it’s not healthy.”

  “I’m okay. Really, I don’t think about it like that.”

  “Just don’t ever give up. I want to believe my daughter is at peace. If only I know for certain that she’s in heaven right now. To me, heaven has always been on earth. It has always been in the sunset and the wonders of the world. I don’t want you to miss out on any of that.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Izzy releases the back of my skull and leans back to full height. She wipes the tears from her eyes and picks up a bottle of beer from the picnic table.

  Lila lived her life like the trail of a comet, burning fast and bright, and disappearing from sight in an instant. We’re not all comets, but when we see one, it reminds us of how fleeting, and how dazzling life can be. Lila has always been my comet. Every time we were together, I felt as though some of her vibrancy rubbed off on me, lighting me with her spotlight.

  Now I know the truth. We all have a spotlight—we just need to know how to find it.

  Sister

  A Mary Hades Short Story

  Sister

  Sarah Dalton

  EBOOK EDITION

  Copyright © 2014 Sarah Dalton

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Design by Sarah Dalton

  Stock images from Istockphoto.

  Letter to Susan Hades from Isabel Quirke. May 1997.

  Sister,

  Remember when we first moved to the sea? You said it was too cold, but I thought the thrashing waves and the grainy sand were so exotic and wonderful. Everywhere smelled like salt. In a rare moment of energy Mum chased us along the lapping waves, laughing when the tide splashed over her bare feet. I remember how you insisted that you hated it because you missed your city friends, yet I’ve never seen you smile as widely as our first day on the beach when Dad taught us to fly that kite. You laughed so hard when the kite blew out of my hands and up the beach. I tripped and fell as I chased it, and you gripped your tummy and do
ubled over in a fit of giggles.

  I was four. You were eleven.

  You and I never really got on, did we? Sometimes I think it all stemmed from that awful week, but somehow I think it went even deeper. Was it before I was born? Was it when you saw me in the hospital all wrinkled and red? When did you decide that you hated me?

  I never meant for any of it to happen. You must believe me.

  Mum had a bad eighties perm. Sometimes I look at the photographs to remind myself she was young once, that I was a child once. I’m still a child, I suppose. But not many children carry the burden I do. I’m afraid that if I don’t grow up fast enough I will wreck everything, like I always have.

  Don’t ask me why I’m writing this letter. I’ll never give it to you. Never. I’m sure I’ll end up burning it, or when I die, whoever gets my stuff will find it hidden away amongst a pile of old newspapers or something. Oh, you can guarantee that I’ll be batty when I’m old. I’m one of those people. I’ll kill all my brain cells with vodka and fags. Maybe I won’t even reach old age. You’ll probably outlive me. In fact, I’m sure of it.

  Maybe you will read this one day, when you’re sitting prim and proper in your shiny house, with your hair set into some perfect do and your well-behaved grandchildren at your feet. You will have grandchildren, sister. I know you will.

  What will you think of this letter? Will you be nostalgic? Will you tear it into tiny pieces? Or perhaps you will shed a tear and raise a glass of chardonnay in tribute to the sister who could have been your best friend if she hadn’t fucked it all up with Ricky Fuller. I’m sorry for the language, but whenever I think of his stupid face, my blood boils. He brings out the worst in me. I should have known better, I guess.

  You were going out with Ricky during the… event. He came to pick you up that night. It’s a good job Dad was away on one of his business trips, because he would not have approved of those ripped jeans, or the leather bomber. But I thought he was dreamy, and I thought you were the luckiest girl in the world. I was jealous of you, Su. I know you will never believe me when I say it, but I was. I mean, I know I was nine, but I’d already been indoctrinated by the cult of Disney and he was like the prince and the villain. A lethal combination.

  See, even now. Even though I hate him, I can’t stop talking about him.

  I’ll talk about you instead. You were lovely that night. You let me play in your room as you preened yourself for the date. You were so excited that you forgot to be mean to me. You showed me your dresses, and you asked me to help pick out your nail varnish. We both agreed on black, and then decided you should wear a lot of denim and eyeliner.

  “Are you going to kiss him?” I asked.

  You held up a tartan mini-skirt and then tossed it away. “I don’t know. Maybe. Don’t you go kissing any boys. You’re far too young.”

  “As if!” I exclaimed in horror.

  There was a knock at the door and you shoved your feet into tight kitten-heeled shoes. “That’s him!”

  When Mum answered the door I heard his gruff, monotone voice. I dashed into the living room for a glance. Mum had a big grin on her face and fussed over him like the Queen had stopped for a cuppa. You bustled through, stomping your feet and swearing under your breath.

  “You ready?” Ricky asked, brushing his blond fringe out of his eyes.

  “Sure,” you replied with a voice so smooth it could cut butter.

  Oh, Susan. You sly dog. You were such a heartbreaker then, tall, pretty, dark hair with bright pink stripes. You wore make-up and you swore and you danced. It’s not like now. I never see you smile anymore.

  After the two of you had left the room, Mum hooked an arm over my shoulder.

  “Hot chocolate and a movie?” she asked.

  “With marshmallows?”

  She prodded my nose with the tip of her finger. “I’m glad you’ve not grown up yet. Your sister is almost an adult now.” Mum leaned down to me before heading to the kitchen, so I got a good look at the lines around her eyes, and a good whiff of the powdery smell of her make-up – you know the one, the good stuff, the Estee Lauder face powder she uses on special occasions. I swear she’s had the same compact for ten years.

  “Is she going to kiss him?” I asked, following Mum into the kitchen.

  “Maybe. But no more, I hope.”

  “You mean like fucking?” I said, knowing full well I’d said a bad word.

  Mum gave me that hooded look she reserved for moments when we were ‘very naughty’. And in that instant, tears began to fill my eyes because I knew full well that I wouldn’t get my marshmallows anymore. “Go to your room,” she told me.

  Why did I say it? When I got to my room and shut the door, that’s all I could think – why did I bloody well say it? It was stupid, especially when Mum hardly ever made hot chocolate and sat down with us. And yeah, I’m aware of how self-pitying that sounds, but let’s face it, neither Mum nor Dad was there that much, were they? Dad works all the time. Mum is in her own little world. Pristine on the outside with her mid-priced cardigans and fake pearls, but on the inside there’s something missing. Remember when she stood holding the phone for ten minutes after her friend hung up? She stared into space, not talking, not moving. And remember when she had that migraine that lasted a fortnight? She lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, her hair and eyes a mess, muttering words in Irish that we couldn’t understand.

  With that show of disobedience I deprived myself of a nice evening of watching films with Mum. What a little shit I was. I think it’s that self-destruct button that hides itself in some convenient part of me. When something good is about to happen I can press it and yell: Abort! Abort!

  I ended up in my room, staring at that creepy grandfather clock in the corner. I was glad when Dad decided to sell it. I always hated the way it tick-tocked in a relentless rhythm. Tick-tock-tick-tock. And it never kept time. No matter how many times I wound it on, it would end up ten minutes slow the next day as though someone had tampered with it.

  But you know something? Something I’ve not told anyone… I still see the shadow of that clock in my room. There are times when I wake up in the night for no reason whatsoever. It feels as though I’ve had a bad dream, but I can never recall the details. I sit bolt upright in the night. There, in the corner, where the stupid clock used to be, is a shadow. It’s like a patch of nothingness, a dull black, like coal.

  It makes me cold all over.

  And that night, while you were out with Ricky, I lay on my bed and I listened to that ticking, and it matched my heartbeat. For some reason my heart wouldn’t settle. It beat so hard and so fast that I wanted to run to Mum, but I was worried about her still being angry with me, instead I lay thinking that if I kept still, it would calm down. I don’t know why. Maybe it was some cardio problem that sorted itself out. Maybe in ten years I’ll drop dead of a heart attack because I never told anyone. Or maybe, my body sensed the change. It sensed how things would never be the same again. Whatever the reason, it meant that I was awake late. On that night. When you were on your date.

  Ricky was a year older than you, so he could drive. Long after Mum went to bed, I heard the faint sound of the tyres coming up the path, and the quiet hum of the engine. Then I heard the engine cut out. I’d been in one of those strange dream-like states, where you’re somewhere between being awake and asleep. When I heard the noises, I opened my eyes, and the grandfather clock ticked on.

  I hadn’t undressed for bed. Instead, I’d laid on top of the covers without moving. Mum hadn’t checked in on me once.

  I opened my bedroom door and listened down the corridor for the soft sounds of Mum’s snoring. You know she only snores when she goes to bed drunk. And when she goes to bed drunk, she doesn’t wake up for an earthquake.

  Now, sister, I still don’t quite know what compelled me to do what I did next. Maybe it was sheer curiosity. I was a nine-year-old girl, old enough to know something was going on, but not old enough to understand. For some reason,
I wanted to know what you were doing in that car with Ricky. I had to know.

  It was the first time I had ever climbed out of my window. I guess growing up in a bungalow has its advantages. You could also call it a disadvantage, seeing as climbing out of that window has got me into all sorts of trouble since that night all those years ago. You could say that it got you into trouble, too. I know you think it triggered some bizarre chain of events. During the times I hate myself and hate what I’ve become, I share that belief.

  With my heart still beating fast, I snuck out of my bedroom window—in my socks—and dropped onto the path around the house. It was a cloudy night, cool for June, but not too cold for my long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. The wind blew in off the sea, and the grass between our house and the cliffs bent low, rippling like waves. The motion detector floodlights from our house bounced over the reeds of grass like a lighthouse beam on water. I stopped and stared for a moment, my breath taken by the sea air.

  Then I hurried on around the corner. Ricky had pulled up not far away from the front door. It didn’t surprise me then, but it does now. If you didn’t want to get caught, why didn’t you tell him to park down the street? There’s a long driveway with no one around. You could have gone there. But no, you parked right under the house lights. Why? What were you thinking, Su? Was there something wrong with you even then?

  And your motives are not the only ones to be questioned. You could ask why I stopped and stared for as long as I did. I knew straight away what was happening, and I should have turned around and run away, but I didn’t.

  I’ll never forget what it looked like. It was almost like he was attacking you. It was dirty, and embarrassing. Your shirt was thrown back, your bra pulled down, revealing your breast. I saw some of his body as it squirmed and pulsed on top of you. Then, I saw your face. I saw your eyes, Su. It wasn’t you. I’ve always thought that.