Silver Wattle by Belinda Alexandra Page B

later the doctor came down the stairs. He was nothing like doddery old Doctor Soucek who usually attended Mother. He was younger with black hair and long sideburns. Aunt Josephine was surprised not to see Doctor Soucek and I quickly explained why Milosh had chosen someone new.
    ‘The girls had better come up now,’ Doctor Hoffmann said.
    The smells of iodine and blood pervaded the air of Mother’s bedroom. The priest had finished administering the last rites and the expression of pity on his face made me buckle at the knees. A nurse stood in the corner washing and wiping instruments. Paní Milotova hovered beside her, weeping. When she saw us she reached out her arms. ‘They opened her up but it was too late,’ she whimpered. ‘They could do nothing but sew her up again.’
    In the dim light, I saw Mother lying on her bed with a sheet pulled up to her neck. She was so pale she looked like a marble statue on a church crypt.
    ‘Mother?’ I sobbed, moving towards her.
    I was not sure if she heard me, but then she murmured, ‘Adelka, come here.’
    I pressed my cheek to hers. It was cold. ‘Chest,’ she whispered to me. ‘Look in the chest.’
    Mother turned to Aunt Josephine and tried to say something to her, but lost her strength. She was fading before our eyes.
    The doctor sat down on the bed next to Mother and listened to her chest. ‘Her heartbeat is faint,’ he said. ‘She is close to death.’
    Mother’s eyes closed as if she had fallen asleep. Suddenly they opened. ‘Emilie,’ she said. ‘Look, Emilie is here. She is as beautiful as ever.’
    Mother gasped for air, but as quickly as the spasm started, it finished. Her eyes glazed over and the breath rushed out of her in what seemed like a long sigh.
    My legs shook and I pressed my palms against my forehead, trying to stop myself from fainting. ‘What’s happened?’ Klara cried. Aunt Josephine sank into a chair and buried her head in her hands. I returned my attention to Mother’s face, desperately searching for a sign of life. Doctor Hoffmann pressed his fingers to Mother’s throat, feeling for a pulse. He found nothing and closed her eyes.
    Then the surreal became the real and the walls pressed in on me. The doctor gave Milosh some instructions, and the priest began a prayer, but their voices sounded distant and hollow. The nurse stepped forward, made the sign of the cross, and folded Mother’s arms across her chest. I felt the veil of separation slip between us and Mother. The person on whose bosom I had drawn my first breath had breathed her last. I turned to Klara, who was trembling from head to foot. I wanted to throw my arms around her, to comfort her and have her comfort me. But I was frozen to the spot.

THREE
    M other was laid out in a dress of shimmering indigo. The windows were draped in black curtains and the Delftware porcelain replaced with candles in silver holders. The exterior of our house was still blue with white trimmings, but inside it was as gloomy as night. Milosh, Aunt Josephine, paní Milotova, Klara and I, all dressed in mourning attire, took turns sitting with Mother who lay in her rosewood coffin for three days before the funeral. I stared at her impassive face, not able to believe that her eyes would not open at any moment and that she would come to life again.
    Despite my grief, I held to my promise to watch over Klara, who had reacted to Mother’s death with stunned silence. She had barely said a word since the terrible event. On the second night after Mother’s death, when Aunt Josephine and paní Milotova watched over her coffin, Klara and I lay in bed together, listening to a storm brewing. Drops of water slid down the windowpanes. I ran my fingers through Klara’s river of hair.
    ‘Mother is with Father now,’ she whispered.
    I wrapped my arm around her. Her skin smelt sweet, like vanilla cream, and I thought of the cake Mother had intended to make for the following day, which was Klara’s birthday.