Black Chalk by Albert Alla Read Free Book Online

shadow of the pain it did then. I can still feel its contours, the shock bursting in to stay, its tentacles climbing down my arteries and up my veins, but it no longer has the power to stop my breath as it did then. Now I can think of the context surrounding my mother’s revelation, and I can think of her early tentativeness. She seemed to hesitate in breaking news that belonged more to me than to her, and then, on seeing me struggle, she seemed to revert to her maternal role. Perhaps I’m imagining this, but now that I’m thinking of my mother, my thoughts keep on turning back to this moment, as if it was then that our relationship started changing.
    â€˜â€¦She had both her sisters there…’
    Through sobs and tears, my mother’s story came together. I was feeling too slow to say anything. The only thoughts that came up had me wanting to tell her it wasn’t true, but I’d held Anna’s hand as she bled. However much I wanted to, I couldn’t believe that lie.
    My mother was adding more and more fragments to fill in my silence. She had been to see Anna many times since we were admitted to hospital. She hadn’t told me about it because Anna had been in such a bad way. This morning, as chance had it, Anna had her whole family around her when my mother dropped in on her room. Sensing the end, my mother had tried to leave quietly, but Anna addressed her directly.
    â€˜â€¦Her mother pulled me into their circle…’
    She painted an idyllic scene: drifting in and out of consciousness, Anna had emerged minutes before the end, said what she had to say, closed her eyes, exhaled, and moved to another world. She almost made it seem like a natural death: Anna ageing peacefully and passing away surrounded by her loved ones. Something about the picture, its artifice and its charm, repulsed me. I didn’t want any beauty in death. I tried to jerk my hand away, but her fingers were holding on strong. She immediately loosened her grip, as if she’d been unaware of her hand, and I felt shame. To make up for it, I mustered my strength and gripped tighter on my end.
    â€˜â€¦She asked her parents to take care of her cat…’
    Her voice was losing its shape as if she were hoping I would say something. Part of me wanted to stay quiet for fear it would all come up, but another part wanted to answer the call and cry, grunt, shout. When I spoke, it was in a whisper:
    â€˜We could take her cat if they don’t want it. It used to snuggle up to me, and I’m sure Sloppy will like the company.’
    It was a silly thing to say, and I knew that as I was saying it, but I thought about the long white fur that came off its back whenever I petted it, the way it floated gently down to the floor, and I wanted to have it purring against my leg now – warmth seeping from its slow stretches, a ball of germs in a sanitised world.
    â€˜We’ll put a basket with a few cushions by the phone,’ I said. ‘That way it’ll be able to see the whole of the living room.’
    I talked more about how it would fit into our home, and how our dog wouldn’t mind it. While I talked, my mother’s tears dried up, and her eyes, trailing over my face, went out of focus. For a few seconds, the distant eyes, the tension around her mouth, made her look as though she was grappling with a great decision. Her expression made me think of the time I told her Jeffrey’s family had invited me skiing and she decided she could put together the money to send me. And yet, it seemed far more than that. Her drying tears heightened her expression to something that made me go quiet. It continued for a few instants after I fell silent, before her gaze came back to me and found my eyes. Nodding, her long face tightened.
    â€˜Anna had something she wanted me to tell you.’
    My legs tensed.
    â€˜Are you listening?’ She yanked at my arm until I looked directly into her reddened