Just Like a Musical (13 page)

Sarah left after the funeral. She promised to write me – not emails but real letters, those which make you run to your mailbox every morning. I’m not sure that she will keep her promise, though. Not because she looks like a person who doesn’t keep promises, but because people just lose touch. Life goes on and those you used to know slowly become a memory, a blurry image in a corner of your mind where you store faces and events from the past. I asked Sarah whether she wanted to visit Mrs. Wheeler’s house before she drove away. She just smiled and said, “I don’t have the heart.” I couldn’t blame her. She probably did more than other people would do in her situation. It’s good that Sarah hadn’t inherited Mrs. Wheeler’s gray eyes. If she had, I wouldn’t have been able to look at her when she waved goodbye.

There was one more thing left to be done. I had to shut off the light in Mrs. Wheeler’s house. The keys were cold and heavy in my pocket. I was ready.

“I have something for you,” my mother said when Sarah’s car engine growl faded away.

“Can that wait? I really have to go to turn off that light now.”

“No, it can’t actually,” she answered. “Just wait a second, I’ll go get it.”

I leaned against the gate and looked around. There was still a crack in the pavement that resembled spider web in the middle of the street, the air was still saturated with luscious early summer scents,
even the clouds seemed to look just like when I left on Wednesday. But there was a fine layer covering everything around me, an evidence of change hidden from the eyes of everyone else but me.

“I promised Mrs. Wheeler I would give this to you after her funeral,” my mother said when she returned, handing me a white envelope. “It’s a letter from her.”

A letter from a dead person! Can you beat that? An envelope with my name on it, written in purple ink, with a sad little loop on the letter “Y”, promising something that can’t be delivered.

“What? She knew that she would die?” I asked, grabbing the letter.

“I guess she did,” she said, caressing my cheek. “She already had two heart attacks last year. Her heart was very weak.”

“And you knew and you didn’t tell me?”

“Please, Ruby, just try to understand. It was her wish.”

I ran across the road, past the magnolia bush, and inserted the key into Mrs. Wheeler’s lock.

“I’m sure you would do the same thing,” my mother shouted behind me.

***

How do you describe the feeling that captures your soul when you find yourself among your dead friend’s belongings? You try to open your senses as wide as you can and absorb every little piece of her that is carried on their surfaces – you look for her fingerprints on the window pane, you blow the dust off the gramophone and put her favorite record on, you slip your fingers into her black satin gloves. They’re big, but they fit you – it’s the paradox only you can understand. And you know, you just know, no matter what they tell you, that time won’t heal this wound, and you will miss her forever. You sit on the sofa that still holds a trace of her perfume, and you open her letter.

My dear Ruby,

There’s something magnificent about death that most people don’t realize – death freezes things, it makes them eternal. It is terrifying, but it is also wonderful. And as it approaches, you start to look at your life behind a translucent curtain made of tears and smiles, and you see all the good things and all the bad things that you had done, and your heart is filled with pleasure and pain, and you can’t take your eyes off of these scenes because that’s your life – every single step that you made is a part of that marvelous numberless-act play behind the curtain.

I’m ready to ring the curtain down now. Please don’t be sad. Our friendship was short in terms of clock-ticking, but measured by heart, it will last forever.

I want you to have all my books, records, and dresses. I’m also leaving you my trinket box, the one under the bed. It is something that will remind you to always do what your heart tells you no matter what other people think.

Now wipe your tears, tuck your hair behind your left ear like you always do, and step into life. It’s splendid, I promise you.

Love,

Eleanor

The vowels of her name clinked in my ears like scattered pearls. I raised my eyes and looked out the window. Sunset was casting shadows on the streets of my hometown. The doorbell rang.

“Your mother told me you were here,” Joshua said as I opened the door.

“I’m ready to go,” I said. “Just…” My hand reached for the light switch.

Done.

“I missed you,” he said, squeezing my hand. “You have any idea what we might do now? There’s…”

“Yes, I know exactly what I want to do now,” I said. “I want to run.”

“Run?”

“Yeah… run. Run with me!” I pulled at his sleeve and ran.

Then it happened one more time, only this time I didn’t hear the cracking sound and I wasn’t alone. It started with the drums. As my elbow brushed his ribs, and his laughter resonated
under the flaming sky, the piano joined.

“This is crazy,” he said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder.

The airy sound of the flute fondled my ears before the chorus started.

“I could run like this forever,” I said, and the beauty of the world transformed my voice into a delicate melody.

We were like two debut actors on the silver screen. And life – life was just like a musical. Sad and beautiful at the same time.

Time Spent in Los Angeles – Dawes

Pictures of You – The Cure

Wild Child – Lou Reed

Song a
bout a Star – Okkervil River

S
mith and Jones Forever – The Silver Jews

Come Pick Me
Up – Ryan Adams

Standing at the Threshold – Deer Tick

Diamond Dancer – Bill Callahan

I’ll Be Here in the Morning – Townes Van Zandt

Bug – Vic Chesnutt

Predictive Living – Damien
Jurado

The Champ –
Weinland

White Moon – The White Stripes

Up the Wolves – The Mountain Goats

Let’s Start a Family – Bonnie Prince Billy

The Black Crow – Songs: Ohia

Desperados Waiting for a Train – Guy Clark

Milena
Veen was born in Belgrade, Serbia. Her first piece of writing, a poem about a walking cherry, saw the light of the day when she was seven. She's been writing ever since.

Milena graduated from University of Belgrade with a degree in psychology. She lives in a little European town with her husband and a mute cat. When she's not writing, Milena spends her time reading, riding her bicycle, and listening to music. She prefers clouds to sunshine and coffee to tea.

You can find more information about Milena and her books at
www.milenaveen.blogspot.com

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