The Keeper

I don’t exist. I did, but I don’t anymore.

At least not in the world that you know. My heart still beats, I’m still breathing the last I checked and I can see you. You just can’t see me.

If you walked out of the hairdressers with a spring in your step and a sparkly new do, I wouldn’t be your best audience. Through my eyes, every colour is faded. I can barely distinguish different shades of lipsticks. I see the world as an old watercolour painting that was stored in a basement for too long. The vibrant Jacaranda trees that line the coastal street where I used to live are almost grey like the colour bleached coral of the Great Barrier Reef.

I had a life which I thought was vibrant. As vibrant as the blue skies and cerulean ocean, my favourite place to be. The ocean grounded me. It still does, but reduce its colours and the thrill of swimming in a home full of unpredictable sea life, take away surfing the pulsing ripples of the ocean’s irregular heartbeats and it’s simply not the same. What’s left. A sting in my stomach. A drab reminder of the memories that make me who I am.

Memories that I don't belong in anymore.

I was thirty years old, single and didn’t have a family yet when all this began. When my life was removed. My friends were my family and that was all the beautiful love I needed. I lived my life guided by my own timelines. I didn’t care about conventional milestones. I took pride in steering the course of my own destiny.

Now the concept of time that I once knew is entirely different, and like some cruel joke, my destiny was just fate in disguise.

There is a pungent smell of antiseptic and a familiar discordant beeping and thumping sound echoing off the walls. How many heart monitors I’ve been around now, I could probably work one of them myself. Its tempo changes. It becomes faster. More unrhythmic. Sporadic sounding.

I hate hospitals but I’m always at them.

I’m exactly five minutes away from taking an essence, or what some might describe as a soul. It’s bittersweet because although this is somebody’s life ending, this is the only time in my new existence where I can see real colour again and the radiance astounds me every single time. Selfish I know. But the awe of taking someone’s soul and setting it where it belongs ranks higher than a million mesmerising Balinese sunsets.

Just like fingerprints are vastly different, the beauty of each essence is a unique sight of its own. Right before their time is up, I must hold one of their unsuspecting hands, palm facing upwards to the sky. A black, pinprick hole appears and gets bigger and bigger until it reaches the size of a ten-cent coin. I grip my forefinger and thumb in the way that I’d fish out a big splinter. Careful concentration. Steady hand. The same precision used to beat my little sister at the Operation boardgame when we were eight years old. These essences strangely feel solid between my fingertips. Their cylindrical, rope-like presence protrudes out of the open palm into a cordage of rich marbled galaxies. Some of them more extravagant than the Milky Way.

I’ve always been fascinated with the universe as a kid and this feels like a glimpse into space every single day.

I coil up each essence the way my father once taught me to coil ropes on his boat and I throw the multicoloured rings to the sky where they belong and will shine on for us to see. A higher order process marking the great expiration. That’s one positive, I guess, in this lonely job that I never asked to do.

We are known as the Keepers and we work alone. I coordinate the predetermined. Regulate the paths that are always meant to happen. I’ve been doing this for a while now and I’ve come to notice that the thickness, length and colour combinations of each essence varies based on the length and kinds of lives people have lived. This essence I’m patiently waiting for will be magnificent because I know her and she was always warm and kind and just continued to try her best.

A cool breeze wafts through the open window of St John’s hospital and rustles the bouquet of dried native bush flowers. There she lies, grey fuzzy hair and pale leathery skin. As I gently sit on the bed next to her, I swear our gaze connects. For a split second, a flicker of recognition. But I don’t know this for sure. Whether she’s looking at me or straight through me. I can never really tell when they do that.

***

When Eden and I first met, I was the new girl in high school. Although I was used to being the new girl because our family moved around so much, I could never seem to shake the shyness that always overcame me. I started making friends quickly, but Eden wasn’t one of the first girls to talk to me. Make me feel welcome. In fact, she was actually quite standoffish within the group. A hard exterior that cracked open little by little as time went on until one night as 15-year old’s at a house party, over the cheapest champagne swiped from a parent, she had cracked open completely. We became inseparable from that night onwards, a budding friendship that blossomed over fifteen years.

The two of us were like chalk and cheese, but somehow it seemed to work.

To me, she was a beautiful psycho. She drank black coffee and always asked for it hot. If we had a sleepover, she couldn’t sleep without the fan turned up to the highest setting, while I tried to ignore the constant slapping of artificial wind in my face and shielded myself with pillows. I used to think she could probably sleep with her head out of a moving vehicle on the highway. She was one of those people who watched the TV with subtitles on even though there was nothing wrong with her hearing and she could speak perfect English.

But I wouldn’t have her any other way.

We helped each other through family breakups, breakups with boyfriends, we cried to each other. Hell, Eden even went through a divorce. But not alone because we had each other.

I was halfway through planning her divorce party when the dreams had really started to take their toll.

“Ok, so I was thinking it would be funny if we all wore black. Of course, I’m picturing long black lace and potentially red lipstick and I’ll buy red roses to decorate. Make a witchy ceremony of it.”

I was scrolling through my mood board on Pinterest. I had been known to go overboard with creative details.

“What?” Eden laughed.

“No, hear me out. Your party needs a theme." I used my theatrical hands for emphasis.

"We are in mourning for your marriage, but you have to wear white because it will symbolise your rebirth. A new Eden. A sexy divorcee in her prime of thirty.”

“But I wore white at my wedding.”

“You had three outfit changes and ended up in a pink sparkly dress.”

Beads of sweat started to form on my upper lip. It’s true what they say about Queensland, it really is the Sunshine state. I slipped into the pool and took a sip of my mojito. Afternoon backyard drinks listening to Angus and Julia Stone were a regular occurrence in our coastal life.

“So I was also thinking…” I swam a little closer to Eden who was sitting on the edge, draping her feet in. She raised her eyebrows, happy to entertain me. If I was lucky, she’d go for half of my party ideas, so I liked to highball her. Aim big, settle on reasonable.

“Remember that time I made you swim with me at the beach at night when we were drunk?”

“Yes. It was a little treacherous.”

“We could end the party with all of us girls going down to the beach, bring some drinks and the speaker, take off our dresses and swim under the moonlight.” I splashed backwards, excited at my own creative vision.

“Trust me.” I said, “I did this one New Year’s Eve and none of us drowned.”

Eden giggled, sipping her drink. Fully expecting her to say no way, she cocked her head sideways and said, “What the hell. I’m ready for anything now.”

A fallen Jacaranda flower dropped perfectly on her nose and she smacked it off thinking it was an insect. Eden held the purple petals in front of her, inspecting them.

“Mum told me that back in the early settler days, Jacaranda trees were given as gifts to young mothers, so the trees could grow up with their kids.”

Unsure of what to say, I dunked my head underwater and considered whether this was an opportunity to ask her how she was really going. Ask her if she was glad that she wasn’t trying for a baby anymore. But if it’s one thing I’d learnt over the years, Eden would speak her mind in a brutally honest way when she was ready.

I resurfaced smiling and replied with, “Aw that's cute.”

I often shake my head at that insignificant response. The missed opportunity for meanignful words of spoken support. Support that would soon stem from silence.

Later that afternoon, sun-drenched and three mojitos down, the wind carried lots more of these newly blossomed flowers over the fence. The fallen lilac petals floated with us in the pool and we had joked about how it reminded us of that scene from American Beauty.

As Eden was leaving, she studied my face when we hugged our goodbyes. She must have noticed the dark circles under my eyes.

“Have you been having those dreams again?”

I hesitated, but nodded anyway. “They’ll pass don’t worry.”

I assured her that I had a doctor’s appointment the next day, determined to play them down. "I’m hoping he’ll prescribe me something to help me relax and sleep that's all.”

I nervously laughed and made a point of visibly crossing my fingers to dismiss her concern.

A thin veil of pretending.

I didn’t tell her that the dreams had gotten so much worse. That my colourless dreams were seeping into reality. That when I was waking up, my rich scarlet blankets seemed to appear almost a light pastel, as though I’d bleached them overnight. My olive skin looked fair and lifeless in the mirror and it wasn’t until I’d drink three morning coffees and nervously smoke two cigarettes that I could see the grass return to a deep green again, the sky turned from overcast to bright blue. That some mornings, I would drop to my knees and feel the blades of grass between my fingers and cry until the colours came back.

No, I didn’t tell her that, because even I was questioning my own sanity.

I don’t think it would have made a difference anyway, because one morning and two therapists later, the colours never came back at all. The scary thing was, on that fateful morning, the bed I woke up in was completely different. My wardrobe was a different shape.

I was in my room, but none of the things around me were mine.

I remembered that day vividly because it was the day of Eden’s divorce party. I was not only grappling with the notion of being invisible to every passer-by on the street, but Eden’s party was when all the pieces fell together. When the truly sobering realisation sunk in. Firstly, the party was nothing like I’d planned. Not even an attempt at a theme or decorations. Maybe Marnie took the reins on that one. The whole thing was baffling and I was waiting for it all to be one of my horrifying dreams and I would hurry up and drink my cups of coffee, smoke two cigarettes and be able to get on with my life and figure out what the hell was happening to me. But what caught my eye was Eden pouring champagne into her glass.

Her sleeve had etched up above her wrist, which revealed part of our matching tattoo. Our tasteful line-art drawing of two small butterflies that Eden and I got together on my 25th birthday. Eden laughed at something one of the girls had said. I began circling around her like a strung-out piranha. Invisibly waiting for her sleeve to move and reveal the matching art once again.

My pacing stopped.

Just like that, there was only one tiny butterfly inked on her skin and two remained on mine.

That was the moment I realised that nobody knew I was missing. They would never even know I existed.

I was in shock when I felt a large hand grab my shoulder and I spun around so abruptly at the possibility of a real, physical touch that I fell backwards onto the grass. The man was large in stature, well a little fat if I’m honest and as bald as a baby. His steely eyes showed little sympathy. He tossed a book to the ground next to me. It was a diary.

I didn’t even get up to talk to him. I just sat there like a frightened child staring up at him even though I’m a grown ass woman.

“Where am I? What’s going on?” I managed.

He huffed.

It’s as though he was annoyed with my valid questions, which rubbed me the wrong way.

“All I can tell you is that your appointments are in there.” He grumbled, pointing to the diary.

Before I could open my mouth and protest, he explained, “All you do is face the palm upwards, pull it out and set them free.”

Like a flight attended doing a safety demonstration he methodically holds his outstretched hand palm facing upwards. Then pretends to pull an imaginary string from the hand and throws it above his head to the sky. It felt odd seeing a burley fellow perform such dainty, choreographed movements that reminded me of a rhythmic gymnast and her ribbon routine. In the blink of an eye, he evaporated into thin air and all that was left was me, my diary and an aching dread for my future.

That was supposed to be my mentor, but I hardly ever saw him. He threw me straight into the deep end with this new role. This new responsibility. Some mentor. He never even introduced himself.

I was angry at this nameless man and decided I'd have to call him something to help make sense of it all. Eventually, I picked him for a Devan or a Bevan, something along those lines. I found myself calling him Bevan-Devan. Or his nickname Bevo. Obviously not to his face. I never saw him enough to ask for correction. Besides, he was one part annoying, two parts freaky. For a long, lonely time, I was sure this simple man belonged here more than I did. That there must be some mistake because we were so damn different. What could we possibly have in common to be selected for the same purpose? I will never know.

But the imaginary narrative I created about Bevo stemmed out of anger and bitterness for my life getting ruined and being stuck in this in-between landscape with him. I was angry that the only person I can actually talk to hardly ever talks to me. Sees me. I truly believed he deserved to be here more than I did because I had friends. I had dreams. I had Fun.

For years I was certain his old life consisted of him living in his mother's basement. Perhaps Bevo was a butcher at the local supermarket. Probably somewhere rural. Just a man slicing meat all day and then bleaching his workstation clean ready for the next day. They were always quiet and a little strange those butchers. I remembered a few from my first ever part-time job as a check-out-chick at the local Woolies supermarket.

It wasn't until five years later when an appointment forced us to cross paths. Bevo. A chance encounter, one of few.

He was sitting beside a young woman on a bench who was crying. She looked troubled. I learned that Bevan-Devan had a daughter and it pained him to watch the mistakes she was making. That he tried to leave her subtle signs of guidance.

Signs he hoped would help her understand that there is a father out there who loves her. Even though it may not seem like it.

I felt a pang of guilt in my stomach that day. Bevo's name was Alexis and he had a vibrant life too before his world was put through the washing machine too many times and turned upside down. Just like mine.

My diary says I have exactly three minutes and thirty four seconds until her essence passes over. It reads: St John's Hospital: Room no. 243: Bed no. 2.

Never any names or ages. So it's always a surprise.

My heart had nearly stopped beating when I first caught a glimpse of Eden in the room.

Sitting on the hospital bed by her mother's side. On her own, eyes wet with grief. Eden's mahogany hair usually shoulder length and angular, seemed softer. Quieter. A little dishevelled from the summer heat and her roots were now peppered with greys. I knew this was a sign of having no time for hair appointments between caring for Mrs McAlister, but it really suited her.

Eden's adult twin brothers had just left the room to go and get everyone some vending machine snacks. To give her some space.

But she isn’t alone because I am with her. I just wish she knew that. The amount of times I have tried to write little notes to her, but written communication to the living turns to ash immediately. We can communicate non-verbally though, Alexis informed me. So the love hearts drawn in the sand are from me. So are the frangipanis on your doorstep.

I want to tell her that I’m always watching over her between appointments. This awful time of losing your mother, you need your best friend. I rest my head on her shoulder for a moment. A weightless presence before her movements change.

I begin to study Eden's face and plead with her to remember me one last time because something really does feel different than all the other times.

Eden looks in my direction and pauses.

A gust of wind eerily blows through the room and brings with it a purple Jacaranda flower that gets caught in her hair. She plucks it out, perplexed at how such a delicate flower could find its way up from the street when we’re so high in the building. She stares at it closely for a long, drawn-out moment.

I find that I’m holding my breath.

Hopeful.

I can feel the recognition clawing out of her brain, trying to resurface our afternoons in the sun swimming with hundreds of the very thing she’s holding close to her eyes and scrutinising for so long. The afternoon I wished I could have asked her how she was really going for the last time instead of finicking over dumb details of a party that would never exist.

The heart monitor shrieks violently and Mrs McAlister is close to flatlining. Eden stands up in a panic and the flower drops. Forgotten.

It’s time for me to begin my work now.

***

Mrs McAlister lays still and both Eden and I look tired and defeated for different reasons. I crouch down, eyelevel with the Jacaranda flower and gently blow it off Mrs McAllister’s lifeless body. I’d like to say that the wind picked it up and carried it out the window, whisking it towards the arch of a rainbow that really had appeared as if on some divine cue. Squinting, its lilac petals would remind me of tiny fluttering wings.

Two intertwined butterflies heading for colourful things.

But really, the lilac flower just floats to the hospital tiles and is squished by one of the nurses who rushes and fusses around the bed. I stay there with Eden as time stands still around us. My invisible hand squeezing her shoulder as we both silently gaze out at the rainbow together. Lost in thought and distant memories that bind us forever. Even if hers are lost in time and space.

They'll be up there, waiting for her in the stars.