Butterfly Fish Read Free Page B

slid down my spine propelling me forward apprehensively at first to touch her. She did not move, not even when I began shaking her body as hard as I could. I don’t recall phoning the ambulance, but I must have done.
    When they came, I was clinging to her, holding on so tightly, it took two of the crew to pry me away. Mentally, I recorded every detail. The slight dent on the bridge of her nose I used to rub the pad of my finger against as a little girl. The pointy chin that jutted out defiantly, the faint lines fanned out at the corner of her eyes and above her full top lip, a few stray hairs I’d never noticed before. Those and the beauty spot on her neck, right where her toffee coloured skin became a little lighter. Her perfume competed with the more insistent aroma of old, cold food nonetheless it reached me, the thin, sweet scent of peach she’d worn my whole life. In primary school, when she picked me up, I’d leap into her arms as she raggedly hoisted me up, resting my head on her sweet-scented shoulder. Then I’d tuck my hand under her jaw and try to carry her small oval face gently, as if it were an egg.
    Inside the ambulance the crew stayed silent as they attempted to resuscitate her. It was the law . I wanted to touch her face again. They let me hold her hand. Her skin felt cool. Why hadn’t they let me pack an overnight bag? She’d want to get out of those clothes in the morning. I made a note to myself to bring her some fresh underwear, her Shea butter cream, her comb and house slippers.
    I said to her, “You know how much you hate hospitals.” The silence seemed to concur.
    â€œWe’ll be there soon,” I murmured, watching for any sign of movement. “I’ll make sure you’re put in a nice ward, I’ll speak to the doctor.”
    â€œIs there anybody you want to call?” the female crewmember asked. “It may make things a little easier for you. It’s a lot to take in, finding her like that…”
    â€œWhy would I need to call anyone?” My voice rang out shrill in the small moving space.
    Then the ambulance stopped and the back doors opened. A woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform rushed to us at the ambulance bay area.
    The female crewmember (Ann I think her name was) came over and touched me gently on the arm. “I’m sorry Miss but you have to let go now.”
    Sudden cardiac arrest. Gone. No explanations. There was nothing in her medical history to suggest that this could ever happen. The autopsy failed to reveal anything and I wondered angrily what the point of it was. All I knew was that when she really needed me, I wasn’t there.
    My last meeting with her was etched deep in my memory. I’d felt human again because of it. It had been a rare day off for us, both from our jobs and our roles even, as mother and daughter. We were barefoot on the park grass, she, casually sipping from a box of Mr Juicy orange juice, while I chased the ice cream van, my hat falling off in the process. Later we took turns to push each other on the swings, even though she didn’t want to, kept on about being too grown for that and then once on the swing, she forcefully gripped the metal chain-link arms that anchored her to the weathered wooden seat and there had been something so childlike about the way she’dkicked her legs in the air as I pushed her as hard as I could so she could fly, her voice flailing high above, full of laughter and happy fear. Then, the rain came down like a curtain on a final act, and we walked arm in arm in quiet contentment while raindrops kissed our noses and the wet ground tickled our bare feet.
    My hands are full and as I return to the hospital to be with her body, I hold this memory gingerly, frightened in case any part of it should fall and scatter over the ground. If it did, how could I rebuild the dripping ice cream, or her mouth widening in shock at the coolness of it against her teeth and us