Voices

Voices

Jean stepped onto the verandah of the weatherboard cottage, frowned at the squeaking floorboards, shook her head at the fragments of glass strewn here and there, remnants from

the broken window. The cottage held her memories, of the Grant family, who lived on one side, and Josie Jones who lived on the other, of paddling in the murky, brown river at the end of the street. A lifetime ago, before the illness which wrenched three-year-old Lizzie from the family, and left her, seven-year-old, Jeannie not understanding what had happened, just that her little sister had died.

Jeannie missed her little sister, and often pretended that she and Lizzie were playing together. Jeannie talked and laughed with Lizzie, until the day Mumma asked, "Who are you talking to?"

'Lizzie, I'm talking to Lizzie." When Mumma heard Lizzie's name she shouted, "Don't be so silly. Lizzie's not here. Don't ever say her name again." After that, Jeannie stopped talking to her sister whenever Mumma was around.

One day, when playing, she heard Lizzie's voice. Jeannie looked around but she was alone. The voice called again, Jeannie turned her head to one side, smiled at the voice and returned to her game knowing Lizzie was there.

Jean grew older; Lizzie's constant calling began to annoy her, until she ordered her sister to stop. She pushed the voice deep into her subconsciousness where it remained silent and submerged. At rare times Jean spoke to her younger sister, telling her how wonderful their lives would have been had Lizzie stayed with them.

One day when shopping, Jean heard someone calling her, "Yes?" She turned around but she was alone. Jean frowned, recognizing Lizzie's voice, grown in volume, urgent in tone as it drummed in her head. It strengthened over the next few weeks, increasing in frequency. Jean pushed the voice away, back into the past, still it prevailed, louder, demanding, until like a hammer blow, it pounded her, "Jeannie, Jeannie."

"What do you want?"

All she heard was a constant, "Jeannie, Jeannie, Jeannie," her childhood name. Sweat beads broke out on Jean's skin. Why would Lizzie, dead from croup and stridor, at three years of age, call to her now? Jean shook her head. She remembered how scared she felt when she arrived home from school, to find Mumma crying, and Dad sitting in his chair shaking his head.

"Where's Lizzie?" Fear knotted her stomach.

"Oh, Jeannie, Lizzie's gone to heaven. She was too sick; the coctor came but he could not save her."

It was her fault, Jeannie knew it! Had she not dawdled home from school, picking dandelions and making chains, she could have run to the doctor and brought him back before Lizzie became so sick. Mumma always said, "Hurry home from school," but that day she dilly-dallied along the way.

The family changed. Mumma became quiet, sorrow etched on her face. Dad worked away, and she, Lizzie, played by herself, careful not to upset Mumma. And all the time she knew she had sent Lizzie to heaven.

Now, all these years later, the voice was back. Day and night its volume increased until if filled Jean's head and body. "I am going mad." Jean railed against the sound, yet it remained, overpowering, dominating. Jean's eyes grew dark and troubled, her face paled.

"Are you O.K. Mum? You're looking peaky," Shelley, her daughter, asked when she called to visit.

Dane, her son, wanted to make a doctor's appointment,

but Jean refused.

Her anxiety and anger grew. "Ridiculous! The dead don't talk!" she shouted to the walls, after one demanding and insistent session. But the dead did talk, often. "Leave me alone," Jean's shrill voice echoed throughout the house, "I will not do it. I must think about my family." Still the voice persisted. "You want me to tell my children that I hear your voice? They would think I am mad." Jean knew she was not mad, the voice was real.

Lizzie's demands overpowered Jean, filled her hours, spoke words to which she screamed, "I am not going to do what you want." Jean resisted, the voice persisted, pounding at her.

The day Dane came, Jean did not hear the door open. Dane heard his mother's raised voice, he looked around for a visitor. "Mum, who are you talking to?'

"Son, I do not know how to tell you, but you must listen. I might go away, but I do not know if I will return..."

"What do you mean?"

"Sit down, I have something to tell you."

Dane frowned, sat opposite his mother.

"For years my sister has been talking to me."

"You don't have a sister, Mum. She died when she was little."

"Yes, Lizzie died, but she has always talked to me," and Jean told him about Lizzie's constant calling.

Dane shook his head when she finished. "Mum, you are sick. You need to see a doctor."

"A doctor cannot help me, what I have said is true."

"Sorry Mum, I do not believe it. Voices from a dead child calling to you? That is stupid. What would Shelley say?"

Jean knew Shelley would ring the doctor, and if Jean refused to visit him, her daughter would bring the doctor to her. "I don't want you to tell her."

"This is serious. You must get help."

"Dane, I know what I must do."

He son left, promising to return the next day.'

Jean pulled out dusters, connected the vacuum cleaner, and scoured her house. She withdrew documents from the safe, placed on the table, her will, insurance policies, jewelry, and money she had squirreled away. Next to the documents she placed a journal full of her conversations with Lizzie, and a file, her research into voices from the past. Dane and Shelley would read everything; she hoped they would understand why she did not need a doctor. Jean added photos of herself as a child, of her parents, and a picture of Lizzie, added more to the collection, a picture from her wedding, another of Dane and Shelley as children, and a final one of her grandchildren.

By the time she finished, the night sky had given way to a salmon pink dawn. Jean looked around, nodded and for the last time walked through the spotless home.

She smiled wistfully, knowing that her time in this dimension had ended, but maybe in another life there was a way to help her sister. Satisfied, Jean kissed each photo before replacing them on the table. Yes, it was time.

In the early morning sunshine, Jean drove to her childhood home, all the while smiling. "I'm coming," she replied to the voice. "I'll be there soon ."

The door to the derelict house was unlocked, as she knew it would be. She hesitated, turned to look at the glorious morning, smelt the sweetness of old roses, and breathed in the fragrance of the blossom from the lemon tree, all free from the fumes of city motors. Her throat ached; she fought the tears which welled in her eyes. She hoped once Dane and Shelley read her journal, she would continue to love her as she did them.

Jean stepped through the doorway into the familiar rooms of her childhood home.

***

Seven-year-old Jeannie screwed up her face, the smell of Friars Balsam caught in her nose and throat. "Mumma, I'm home. Where's Lizzie, I want to play with her?"

"Quick Jeannie, Lizzie's sick. Fill up the kettle and saucepans, put them on the stove. When they are steaming bring them here. I need lots and lots of water. Be careful not to spill the pans when carrying them."

"What's wrong with Lizzie, Mumma?" Jeannie could hear the high-pitched crowing sound as her sister struggled to breathe.

"She's got croup. The doctor will be here soon."

Jeannie ran to the cupboard, grabbed all the saucepans she could find, filled each one and placed them on the wood stove. Already hot inside the house, she ran outdoors, collected more wood, stoked up the fire, poking each piece in with the metal poker. When steam rose from the saucepans, she picked up a cloth and, careful not to spill them, carried each pan to her mother.

"Good girl. Now hold Lizzie in your arms, while I pour the water into the bowl. We need lots of steam."

Jeannie continued to fill the saucepans until the doctor arrived. After examining Lizzie, he nodded, " She's still very sick, keep up the steam. She will be well in a few days." He turned to Jeannie, "And you, young lady, have helped save your sister's life."

Jeannie smiled at the doctor. She looked at Mumma, who nodded to her, "Such a special girl." She drew Jeannie in to hug both of her daughters. Jeannie knew that although Lizzie was still very sick, she would grow up to be big and strong, "Just like me," she me, she muttered.

***

Somewhere in another world a son and daughter sit, leafing through a journal, stopping frequently to look at each other, shaking their heads, before ringing the police to report their missing sick mother.

The end.