That was the tulle. And below that, more silk. A knot began to clench in Laura's gut. Under the silk was spread the back of her linen skirt. She drew that into the pile, now barely contained in her arms, and felt her nails scrape the stone floor of the temple.
Laura retched. She let go of the fabric, which sprang out of her arms to cover the impossible view of bare stone, an empty mountain of linen and silk and gauze.
Her head was light and the statues were stirring around her. She heard the rustle of their skirts and, in the distance, an agonising shriek that could have been the monkey.
The RisingRiver by Daniel Kaysen
The pressure started in August with a long-distance call.
"We'd all love to have you here, Amy. It would be great if you could come. Really great."
I didn't say anything, I never do. Not when my brother gets on to that topic. I just stay silent, when the pressure starts.
I listened to the hum of the phone line.
He didn't give up. He never does. "Sarah and me. And the girls. We'd all love to see you. I mean it."
I hung up the phone.
"Bad news?" said Tish, my flat-mate, from the couch.
"Christmas," I said.
"Christmas is bad news," she said. "When you're older than eight it always sucks."
She'd been my flat-mate for a whole two weeks and we still knew little about each other, but we both knew we were going to get on.
"Hey, want to do Christmas together?" she said. "Here? Just the two of us?"
"Tish, it's
August. It's a bit early to be making plans."
"You think you're going to get a better offer? Think about it-Christmas here, no family, no forced smiles at crap presents, just drunkenness and back-to-back DVDs. What's not to like?"
"Who's going to cook?"
"The Indian down the road will be open. We'll get a takeaway. Curry for Christmas lunch, what could be better?"
It didn't take much thinking about.
It was a prior engagement. It was a ready-made cast-iron excuse.
"Done deal," I said.
"Good," she said. "Just don't buy me bloody candles."
In September my brother called again.
For once I had an answer.
"Look, I'm really sorry, but I've got plans already."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. It's firm. I'm sorry, but-"
"It's just… "
"I know," I said.
We hung up awkwardly.
When he rang in October he gave me bad news, and a different kind of pressure.
I couldn't bear to go to the funeral. I hate funerals. I always have done, ever since I was a child.
My brother insisted I went to this one, but I pictured my favourite grandmother looking down from heaven and telling me: "You stick to your guns, girl. Don't take any rubbish from him." She said things like that. It's why she was my favourite grandmother.
That and the fact that she'd said in her will that she wasn't fussed about a funeral but she definitely wanted a wake. My brother hated the idea. That added to the appeal.
So I skipped the funeral and drove instead to the designated pub.
Inside it was cosy and warm and already well-filled with saddened friends of the deceased. They were all in their eighties and nineties and couldn't possibly have made the church service, given that they could barely walk unassisted. But the pub, well that was entirely different. They gained new life, when it came to the pub.
I got a drink and found a table with two familiar faces. The old man's eyes lit up at the sight of me.
"It's the little'un!"
"Hello, Mr Nash," I said.
"Eva, she remembers my name! Come little'un, sit down, sit down."
"Is there room?" I said.
"Room? Sure there is, sure there is. Move yourself over, Eva, let the little'un sit down next to me. Not often I get to sit next to such a pretty young thing."
Eva, distant, moved over.
I hesitated, wondering how brave I was feeling, but I sat down between the two of them.
"Hello, Mrs Nash," I said to Eva.
Her hearing's not so good. Most times she doesn't hear you and stares into space, preoccupied.
She died five years ago, but she had gone through and beyond and retained her Eva-ness.
And she recognised me. "Oh my. The little'un! How lovely."
"See!" said Mr Nash, to me. "See!"
We smiled at each other, me and Mr Nash, like the living do in the presence of ghosts.
"But-" said Tish.
I knew I was gabbling, but I couldn't help it. I just wanted to get it out in the open.
After the funeral I had taken a risk and told her everything. The unabridged version.
Tish was under her duvet on the couch.
Looking scared.
"Amy," she said, "are you on anything?"
"No. This is real."
"You spoke to a dead woman."
"Lots of dead women. And men."
"But… "
There were further questions.
We talked some more.
Then another question.
"Is this like
The Sixth Sense?" she said, brow furrowed. "Am I dead too?"
"No. You're not dead. I'm not dead. No one is. I mean, lots of people are, but none that you know."
"Right," she said. "Okay," she said. "So. You talk to dead people, that's all." She tried to look alright with the idea.
"It's just good manners," I said. "Like: speak when you're spoken to."
She nodded, slowly. Taking it in.
"And those pills in the bathroom cabinet?"
"Thyroid," I said. "Promise."
We talked some more.
Then another, worse, thought struck her and she pulled the duvet tight around her.
"What?" I asked her.
"Are they here? The dead?" She looked round, frantic. Thin air was suddenly a threat.
"No," I said. "No dead here. No ghosts. None."
"Promise?"
To be honest, a home always has the dead in, but they're usually very faint. Far too faint to see. Just a sense of a whisper, here and there. I didn't tell her that, though.
"No, there's no ghosts here, at least none that I've seen," I said, wording it carefully.
"Thank God," said Tish. "So who knows about your sight?"
"My family. A few very close friends. You."
Then she looked at me a long time, making up her mind. "Okay. You have spiritualist tendencies. I've heard of it before, and I sort of believe in it and I can live with it just about, but don't do it anywhere near me, ever. I'm serious. No ghosts here, promise?"
I nodded. Sober and trustworthy.
"And you promise me we're all alive?"
"Totally alive," I said.
"There's no twist at the end?"
"None," I said, "I swear."
We survived it, Tish and I.
Useful, that.
Because in November it was back to the pressure from my brother.
"Why does it get to you so much?" said Tish, holding me as I wept after the call.
"Long story," I said, when I could speak. "Long fucking story."
"One of those long fucking stories which has such a happy ending that it makes a girl cry for half an hour?"
"No," I said. "Not one of those."