A Whisper of Before
by JP Relph
I hate how time leaves tracks on Nellie’s flesh. Barely a year, but the change is terrible. Her frigid skin ravaged by fernlike brown veins. I miss how she used to be. Fresh from the bath, steaming, glowing, like a sweet apricot against my cheek. Peachy-pink like the inside of the dog’s ear when he sat in the sun. Nellie would lift the big flap of his curl-topped skin, expecting to find a jewel or dazzling candle inside. It’s shiny Daddy, she’d exclaim. Just the sun, baby, I’d say as the dog shook off her exploration. I miss the mornings when she’d slipper-slap into the kitchen, hair scruffed, skin bed-wrinkled and musky. Barely a year.
-o-o-o-
The smell hit us first. Despite the pristine, plasticky white of everything, the intense lights screaming off steel. A smell of fever, of bodies leaking. Hot raw meat. Ushered through tunnels, our fear squeaked like the walls. Then, a room evoking a morgue beyond a thick transparent screen. Nurses, identifiable only by names scrawled on tape stuck to their protective suits, squelched from bed to bed in white wellies. A chaplain wrapped in orange plastic haunted the corners with a rosary. We scanned the room for Nellie: she’d thrown off her covers, limbs splayed. A sign of such aching normality, we dropped to our knees right there.
-o-o-o-
Nellie eats dinner, chewing unhurriedly, barely spilling. I’m glad. In the early days, she ate like a feral dog. Destroying slabs of meat, snarling, spitting. The kitchen stank of bleach. Before the Sickness, Nellie was an adventurous eater. A rainbow of raw veggies her favourite. Cross-legged in front of a movie, she’d crunch through carrots and green beans like a rabbit. The fridge contains mostly red now. Any vegetables for me, fluffed with mould. While she’s eating, I gently brush and plait her hair. It used to be Amy’s job, something she loved until she couldn’t bear the sound of bloodless scalp pulling free.
-o-o-o-
We met an American couple in the tunnels. Vacationing when the Sickness came. They have two boys in the room. At least they have each other, the father said, making the mother howl like a trapped cat. The noise woke all the children from their narcotic slumber. Metal beds shook, IV stands toppled, nurses scattered clumsily. I pressed my forehead to the screen, called my child’s name. Green-black spittle flew from Nellie’s mouth as she growled, thrashed against hard restraints. Nellie! I yelled, and she looked at me. Blue eyes ruined, her mouth a wet wound. But she looked at me.
-o-o-o-
Amy went home after five months, no longer able to live with unfulfilled grief. Our baby girl died, Mike, she said. In that room. I filled with red pain, paced, spitting like my corrupted child. I pointed to Nellie – seeming peaceful in her bed, long nightdress hiding her truth –She’s there! I shouted. Amy shook her head, That’s not Nellie. She took the photos with her. A baby in mouse-print onesie; a toddler filling a bucket with shells; a girl cross-legged on a beanbag, nibbling a fat yellow pepper. I didn’t miss the photos. They’re of a different girl.
-o-o-o-
The American couple opted for euthanasia yesterday. A nurse called Sam told me they couldn’t do it anymore. I look at Sam’s face and wonder if it reflects mine; shadowed, sagging, strained. No mirrors anywhere in the complex. Nobody bothers with protective suits anymore. Only the kids got sick. Only the kids died. Only the kids came back biting.
I ask Sam how many kids are left, see the answer in his hollowed eyes.
I remember all the parents that first day, crammed into tunnels, panic hot and stabbing. There was hope then, lemon-sharp within us. All the doctors offering confidence with their serious smiles and scientific jargon. White-coat lying – they had no idea what was happening – now they just test and test. Pass blood samples to men in uniform. I still have hope, even if it’s blunted.
-o-o-o-
I give Nellie her daily bed bath with cotton pads and tepid water. It barely controls the stench, often results in grey flesh sloughing off. Still, I strive for normality. For a whisper of before. After, I lie down beside her, sing a lullaby; she snaps at my neck as I pull her close. I’m desperate for a waft of that sweet apricot against my cheek, but instead, decaying breath rages from Nellie’s mouthguard. In time, she calms, stills beside me. I miss the rise and fall of her chest, the beetle-kick of her heart.
I lift my hand to check my watch, overhead light haloing my skin pink-orange. I hear Nellie’s jaw click, click, something being forced from her mouth. Her awful eyes stare at my hand.
‘It shimy Darry.’ Her voice is a dreadful whisper.
I break, cry into Nellie’s dust-dry plaits, feel hope sharpening like a flensing blade. ‘Just the sun, baby. Just the sun.’
The Molotov Cocktail 