Dead Means Dead

From The Tears of a Painter

It took me two years to learn that dead meant dead. My father wasn’t ever going to come back.

Can I tell you what happens when a child doesn’t understand death?

The summer came, and my mother and I went on our annual visit to my grandparents. They were stunned to see I hadn’t grown. My mother told them it was normal, sometimes a child doesn’t grow.

But it was more than that. I looked anaemic, absent, missing from my body. And although they fed me every sweet and pastry they could think of, I remained a waif living in the clouds, a sheet blowing in the wind. With my father gone, I couldn’t find my footing. And it was visible on every cell of my body.

At the end of the summer, when we returned to Mombasa, my mother began lying to my grandparents. Twice a month, she phoned them and told them not to worry, I was growing again.

Another summer arrived. I was ten years old by then. And this time, when my grandparents saw me, they couldn’t believe I was their granddaughter. My elbows and knees had become knobs. My arms and legs looked like sticks discarded on the earth. When I lifted my shirt, my ribs showed. I had never heard my grandfather shout as forcefully as he did then.

They argued constantly that summer. They begged my mother not to return. They said things like, she was killing her daughter. In the end my grandfather lost his temper. “I forbid it!” he shouted one afternoon.

They took me to four pediatricians at the hospital and I was checked for all kinds of tropical diseases. This was still in a time when their biggest fear was that I had contracted something ‘tropical’. In the end no one found anything. Of course not. Blood tests don’t measure grief.

It was Mark who saved my life. He was in boarding school by then, so we only saw each other in the holidays— in the summer for a couple of weeks here and there, at Christmas and the midterms.

It was on one of those midterms, we were all staying at the beach house for the weekend, when in the middle of the night, a sound woke me. Or had it been a dream? I wasn’t sure. I’d been dreaming about the monkeys we’d seen at the coffee farm two Decembers ago. It had been our first Christmas without my father, and Kirstin and Tim suggested we drive up with them.

The black and white Colobus monkeys appeared on our second night there, as we were sitting on the verandah, the parents drinking their sundowners, Mark and I lingering nearby because his grandparents expected it of us.

At first, we heard them more than saw them, their low groans drawing us to the edge of the verandah.

Colobus, Mark’s grandmother said. Over there. They’ve been coming closer and closer.

There were two visible in the tall Red Stinkwoods at the edge of the garden. But if you looked carefully enough you could see a whole troop in the trees further back.

They eat children, Mark said. They steal them in the middle of the night. By morning all that’s left is skin and bones.

Mark, don’t, that was Kirstin. She called me by her side then, put her arm around me, and I leaned against her. She loved me like a daughter. And I ate up every moment of it. I sometimes think, it was her who got me through those first two years without my father.

He’s just teasing, she said, stroking my hair. They’re monkeys, they aren’t going to do a thing.

But the damage was done. Since then, on unsuspecting nights, the monkeys appeared, echoing through my dreams, snatching me out the window of my father’s pickup or straight off his shoulders in our garden. I hated those nightmares. Twice, I wet my bed from them.

But back to the night at the beach house. Awoken by a sound, I checked the slit under the door for a sign of light. Everything was dark; the grown-ups had gone to bed.

Kovu and Koch weren’t barking which made me think it had probably been a dream after all. Those two were the best guard dogs you could have. Especially Koch.

But I needed to use the bathroom.

The order of rooms on this side of the house was— the two guest rooms (my mother slept in the first, I slept in the second), then came Mark’s room and the bathroom. The master bedroom, Kirstin and Tim’s room, was on the other side of the house.

I was passing Mark’s door, when something stopped me. A sort of whimper. Like a cat mourning her kittens. Except the Collinses didn’t have a cat. I stood and listened. From the living room, Kovu padded up to me, brushing his soft body against my leg.

Shhh, I told him. As quietly as I could, I pressed down the handle.

He slipped past me and sprung onto Mark’s bed.

What are you doing here?

I thought I heard something, I whispered. Did you hear it too? Careful not to step on anything, I felt my way to his bed. Kovu just came in, I told him.

I know, stupid. You’re not supposed to be here. Get out.

Wait. Are you crying? He sounded like it. I leant on the bed to check.

Of course not, stupid.

He shoved my hand away.

You are crying. Why are you crying?

Instantly, I thought it was my fault. That I was somehow responsible for this. And, no matter what had happened between us, no matter if he hated me, I couldn’t bear the idea that he was sad.

It would always be that way. Even years later, when the time would come where I would hate him more than I ever thought possible, there was always a small part of me that couldn’t see him sad.

I lay down beside him. Kovu was on one side, I was on the other. Her head had already found its place on his chest.

I promise I won’t tell she came on the bed, I said.

I don’t care if you do. Mum doesn’t mind and dad’s an asshole anyway.

Why were you crying? I asked again.

I wasn’t crying, he said.

Whatever I did to upset you— I’m sorry. I promise I’m sorry.

He didn’t say anything, so I went on apologizing. I’ll always be your friend even if you’re mad at me.

Kovu lifted her head and set it back down again. The way only dogs know how to.

And—

I’m not mad you, he said.

What?

I’m not mad at you.

Then why did you stop talking to me?

I don’t know. Forget it. Why are you even here?

Because I heard something. Then I needed to pee. Wait, does this mean we’re friends again?

I turned on my side to face him. Are we?

You know you should start eating. Everyone is worried about you. I heard them talking.

I do eat, I said.

No. You don’t.

Okay, I’ll start when Papa comes back.

What?

I’ll eat when he comes back.

He isn’t coming back, Anna.

He might—

No, he won’t. He’s dead. A dead person can’t come back. Once you’re dead, you’re dead.

My mum would have told me if he wasn’t.

She did tell you.

She said he’s with the angels. But maybe he’s still on the sisal farm. And she just doesn’t know it.

For a long time he didn’t answer. Neither of us said anything. We just lay there beside each other. And I thought I was right. That one day my father would return, walk in covered in dust and smelling of engine grease; he’d take me on his shoulders and tell me how much he missed me; he’d tell me that the project on the sisal farm was done, and he wasn’t ever going to leave me again.

But then Mark picked up my hand. He placed it on my chest. Do you feel that? The knocking?

I nodded.

That’s your heart beating.

I know.

It’s what keeps you alive.

I know.

And once it stops, it stops. It isn’t going to start up again. Ever. Hearts are made that way. Which means you’re dead. No matter what happens, when your heart stops beating, you can never wake up again. No matter how much other people want you to, it's impossible.

I stared into the darkness. I could feel the very organ he was talking about pounding against my chest.

Your dad’s heart stopped beating, Mark said.

Are you sure?

I’m sure.

Why?

He was driving— you know where the stone quarries are? After Voi?

I nodded.

Someone left a lorry parked on the road without its lights on. It was dark, and your dad didn’t see it in time to stop, and his car crashed into it. He hit the steering wheel which made his heart stop beating. Someone passing saw him and took him to the hospital. In the hospital they used a special machine that can find even the quietest heartbeat, to make sure his heart really had stopped, and it had.

How do you know? I whispered.

My mum told me.

Was he really in that box? I meant the coffin, which was another thing that had given me nightmares since the funeral.

Yes.

Is that where he lives now?

No, he doesn’t live, because he’s dead.

Mark turned fully on his side so we were facing each other. You have to know this, Anna. He can never come back.

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Thank you so much for reading to the end. This piece is part of a longer work of fiction which starts here. I had the joy of making up all the characters and events. If you’d like to find out what happens next, please subscribe and you’ll get the story delivered straight into your inbox.