PHOTOGRAPHIC MEMORY

Like Dorian Gray and his painting, I just knew that if I even glanced at the photograph, all the happy memories we had ever shared would vanish, and I’d be left to my misery, or to die, whichever punishment was deemed to be the worst.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, said a silent prayer for strength, and entered the room. Someone was playing soft music on the baby grand and the quiet hum of subdued conversation sounded loud to my over-sensitive ears. I tried to ignore the incessant buzzing in my head which was threatening to overtake me completely. I focussed on the seat I chose, making a bee-line for it, not intending to stop for anyone or anything.

I had nearly made it when someone called my name. I groaned inwardly, summoned my strength and lifted my head to acknowledge the speaker. Pete, a jolly, rotund friend, enveloped me in his customary bear hug, crushing my body to his. His hug had forced my head up, level with the photograph and I squeezed my eyes shut, shuddering at the nearness of my escape.

“How are you holding up?” he murmured, gently stroking my tense shoulders.

It was an intimately platonic gesture, and usually his hugs were just what I needed. Today I just didn’t want to be touched. I needed to be alone in the crowd I knew would gather. I murmured some meaningless response and extricated myself from his grasp.

I averted my eyes as I passed the stand where I knew the photograph had been placed, but it was impossible to avoid it altogether. I had almost made it before I thought I detected a movement out of the corner of my eye and narrowly avoided being turned to stone, or worse, being consigned to eternal misery as I fought the urge to turn and gaze on such beauty. Of all the photographs we had ever taken of her, why did he have to choose this one?

I closed my eyes. Memories of that day came flooding back, threatening to open another floodgate I have firmly closed against such an occurrence. So far it was working, but the painful lump in my throat told me the deluge was threatening. And I knew it wouldn’t take too much to release the torrent.

*** **** ***

Sara stood on the platform, poised to make the dive that would give her the national championship. Well, not really. We were just having a bit of fun in the local pool and the ‘diving platform’ was merely one of the starter blocks at the deep end.

“Watch me!” she shouted, and, like I had so many times before, I did. She was so graceful as she bent to take the dive, toes curled over the edge, hands hanging loosely by them, gently swinging. Then she stood up.

“Pretend I’m in a race!” she squealed. “You tell me when to go.”

I indulged her.

“Ready!” I yelled, and she returned to her starting position, toes curled, arms like a ragdoll’s.

“Steady!” A little slower, building the tension. I paused for effect and was rewarded with Sara’s blue eyes peeking at me from her curtain of soggy ash-blond hair. I grinned at her.

“GO!” I shouted.

Sara flung herself forward with all the gusto of an Olympic swimmer, her body flying through the air for a few seconds before cutting a neat swathe in the water, slicing down, her legs together until the last moment when she lost control and they flopped into the water to create an inelegant splash. If only she had the style of an Olympic swimmer, I remember thinking. Still, her joie de vivre was her style and it was infectious.

I watched as she swam the length of that pool so many times that day. I had to cajole her to stop for food, drink, to put on her sunblock, and she never showed signs of slowing down or tiring. I grew tired just watching her boundless energy. If she wasn’t racing imaginary competitors, she was swimming around in a make-believe water kingdom where she was the mermaid princess.

I’m not sure what role I played in all this, but I do remember taking a few snaps, capturing the princess to immortalize her as she was. I didn’t know that was what I was doing. I thought I was just providing her with scrapbook fodder, something to show the kids in days to come, a long way off in the future.

When the sun finally began to set and the lifeguards had blown their last whistle, Sara conceded that she was really just a human earth child after all, and the water fantasies of the day melded into reality. She showered the chlorine off her skin, dried herself, and dressed in her flowery sundress, even though the sun had now long gone to sleep and the coolness of the evening descended. Still, she wanted more. Did her energy not have bounds? I was beginning to despair of ever finding my bed that night.

“Let’s go to the flicks,” she suggested.

“You’re not tired?” I asked, stifling a yawn and trying to stretch muscles aching from disuse.

“Nah.”

“Hungry?”

“A little, maybe.”

“How about a Subway sandwich then, and maybe a video when we get home.”

She was disappointed, I could tell, but I just couldn’t face another couple of hours sitting somewhere that wasn’t home. She must have known because she conceded and we ate our Subway sandwiches, drank our juice, nibbled our deliciously warm and fragrant Mrs. Field’s cookies that simply melted in our mouths, and made our way back to the car.

I wish now we’d gone on to the movies.

I can honestly say I didn’t see it coming. One minute we were crossing the road, seconds from where I’d parked the car, and the next minute, I was flat on my back in the middle of the street.

Sara was nowhere to be found – at least, from my lack of vantage point, I couldn’t see her.

“Sara!” I screamed, but the only sound to escape my tight throat was a hoarse whisper.

From out of a misty dream, I could hear voices.

“I didn’t see them. Honest.” A male voice, thick with something I couldn’t identify – emotion, drink, fatigue, or pain – pleaded with someone to understand.

My head was still taken over by a swarm of bees. The incessant humming was driving me insane, but all I could see was the twinkling lights on the inky blackness of the city night sky. Distant sirens advancing drove the bees from my brain. The numbness was wearing off and I was beginning to feel the pain.

An ambulance pulled up at the end of the street and I felt, rather than saw, the frenzied control the paramedics operated under. Two men fussed over me and I tried to communicate my need for them to find Sara. I must have seemed like a madwoman. They ignored my wishes, concentrating instead on me.

“Sara!” I whispered again, and this time, the younger of the two attending me peered into my face.

“She said something, sounded like ‘Sara’.”

“Could be the dead girl’s name.” The dispassionate delivery was almost too much. If I’d have had more control over my body I would have screamed and clawed at him for having dared to say such a thing, even in jest. They couldn’t have been talking about my Sara. She was very much alive. I would have known if she was dead. The sudden sharp pain in my arm was in stark contrast to the dull ache in my heart. And then blissful darkness. I remembered no more.

*** **** ***

"She’s coming round.”

The voice was coming from a tunnel and as I slowly opened my eyes, the room around me gradually sharpened, coming into focus. It was a sickly green color lit by the unnatural fluorescent light. An incessant pinging sound vied for prominence and the muted sound of people scurrying outside the room was like a sound-flood. I was disoriented at first, but then vivid memories flooded my mind and I think I cried out.

“Shhh!" His soothing tones should have quieted my nerves but I was tightly sprung and thrashed out, trying to escape.

“Sara!” I cried, and the man with the soothing tones smoothed my fevered brow.

“Who’s Sara?”

“We were at Subway…,” I whispered.

“What else do you remember?”

I screwed up my eyes in an effort to forget.

“Too much,” I breathed, and at that moment, I knew the paramedic was right. Sara was dead.

*** **** ***

Soft music playing a familiar tune brought me back. I was in the chapel, and right in front of me was the photograph. My eyes were brimming with tears and I had to blink them rapidly to focus, not on the photograph – Heaven Forbid! – but on the flowers, so bright and cheery, yet surprisingly scentless, a parody of their usefulness, an empty echo of a life wasted.

The preacher spoke some kind words I really don’t remember, and a young lass sang a song. Amazing Grace it was, and oh, how sweet the sound.

It was during the song when I found my gaze being drawn to the photograph. I fought it for as long as I could, but the unsaved wretch that I am could not possibly prevail against such sentiments. And so, with clenched fists tightly held by my side, I lifted my eyes to the photograph.

Sara looked back at me, her clear blue eyes boring into mine held a glint of mischief, and I swear I saw her wink. She was draped over a giant mushroom in the middle of the pool looking back over her shoulder at me, head tilted back in laughter which was now permanently etched on her face. She was gorgeous; the sunlight captured in the photograph bounced off her wet skin and created a halo around her whole body. Sara. So full of life and loving every minute of it.

I dropped my eyes again, burned by the image of such innocent beauty, feeling again the gross misjudgment that had caused Sara’s death. I felt so guilty. There were many things I could have done to prevent this. We could have stayed at home, for instance. Or gone to the movies. Or lingered over our dinner. But no. I had to rush home.

The service was nearly over. I don’t remember much more of it, so engrossed was I in recriminations. But what I do remember, and this most vividly of all the memories I have of Sara’s funeral, is the sudden sensation of someone or something brushing against me. I was alone in the crowd, and yet, not alone.

I heard Sara’s voice, muted but musical saying: “I’m gonna miss you, Leah, but it’s really okay here,” and I shivered as I felt ghostly fingers caress my cheek and drape themselves across my shoulders. I felt a real embrace and unchecked, the floodgates finally opened and the virtually unstoppable torrent escaped. Great sobs wracked my body and I know everyone there pitied me. I didn’t care.

With the tears, the memories gushed out too, and I was overcome with remembering all the good days we’d had. It wasn’t just the pool. There were the Moors, the beach, the Barbican, the Mall – even days spent at home – hers or mine. Everywhere we went Sara brought a little piece of joy with her and gave it to me, and others, so willingly. My heart ached with each memory, and there seemed to be so very many.

Finally, I was spent. The service was over and so were my tears. I risked another glance at the photograph. She was still there, smiling at me, and it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn’t been turned to stone, I hadn’t died, and I hadn’t aged any more than I was this morning. This wasn’t going to be a Dorian Gray moment after all; instead, it was a moment of healing. Sara had lived a full life and her final years had been wracked with pain and forgetfulness. And yet in her last moments, she taught me a valuable lesson. Life is for living!

Sara, my grandmother, was eighty-three when she died while crossing the road. She had given me so much for which I would always be grateful. I knew she was never coming back, but now, somehow it didn’t matter so much to me anymore. I had her photograph.

*** **** ***

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