Sleep Story - A River Of Crystal Light

A River of Crystal Light,

A short story by Chantal Daughtry.

To see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.

William Blake Old Year's Eve.

Amsterdam gathers to give 1947 a resounding send-off.

The first snowflakes fall on Wilhelmina Street.

An empty lot catches the wind.

Around the city there are still gaps like missing teeth in a six-year-old's mouth.

A family of four hurries past frozen over canals.

My seven-year-old mother shivers as she remembers being taught how to swim in a knitted costume that held her down.

A first-floor apartment's lace-framed window,

Washed yellow,

By the electric light burning inside,

Beckons.

She bounces up the stairs towards the warmth.

They fall into the flat.

Her father's family are already gathered around the upright piano.

Grandmother Rumpje,

A piano teacher,

And a tiny woman all of four foot,

Sits on a raised stool,

Her small hands stripping across the keys with practiced ease.

The party turns mid-song,

Cheeks glowing,

As Grandfather Jan grabs coats and sweeps them in.

Pea soup warms on the coles-stow,

Then apple fritters and puffer chests with coffee after the meal of croquette and meatballs and mashed potato.

On such a special evening,

The hardships that still bend the backs of those much older are forgotten.

A tiny glass of adfocat is placed in her mother's hand,

Its rich yellow body topped with a hat of cream.

It is so thick that it has to be eaten with a spoon small enough to have belonged to an elf.

Her father,

A drummer in a dance band,

Has the night off.

A man of slight build but big charm.

His mother plays La Donna e Mobile,

A piece from Verdi's Ricoletto.

He lightens up the aria by making up a bawdy song.

My mother blushes and giggles.

Little does she know that this will be the last time her family comes together in the city for such a celebration.

Before the new year is out,

She will be on a ship,

Sailing south.

Winkin',

Blinkin' and not one night sailed off in a wooden boat.

Winkin',

Blinkin' and not one night sailed off in a wooden shoe.

Sailed on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew.

Winkin',

Blinkin' and not one night sailed off in a boat.

March 1999.

I sat in the cavernous boardroom on Bramfontein Hill.

Alone at the oversized table,

I waited.

The fluorescent lights washed a sterile gaze across the space.

I shivered.

The wallpaper,

Corporate and proper,

Had soaked up hours of conflict and boredom and said nothing.

A plant sagged in the corner.

I know how you feel.

I might as well be in the woman's prison down the road.

My office,

With its leather couch and Persian carpet,

Lay down the passage across from the section.

A position that commanded attention,

Removed from the daily grind of the foot soldiers behind glass doors,

But ready to welcome generals from upstairs and further afield.

A Borodino print of a Napoleonic battle hung on the wall.

A chaotic violence of chestnut warhorses with flared nostrils and shiny rumps and soldiers in red coats rattling sabers.

Selected for someone who had already moved up a rank.

The daggers were drawn before I had warmed the faux leather chair.

Someone else felt it was his place,

That space I occupied for barely a month.

Let him have it.

I withdrew a white scarf fluttering at my neck.

He marched in and spread his stuff around,

Marking his territory boldly.

It smelled of pipe tobacco and pompous opinions.

Only two more weeks,

The I would be gone.

Bradley had already left to Australia two months ago with his pregnant wife and toddler daughter.

I was still angry at him.

Winkin',

Blinkin' and nod one night,

Sailed off in a wooden shoe,

Sailed on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew.

Where are you going and what do you wish?

Where indeed?

I saw how history repeated itself.

How the next great thing was merely a rehash of the last great thing that would grow stale when the next great general galloped in.

No real heart.

Could they bleed if you cut them?

I had my affairs in order,

My files neatly marked.

If I ever get run over by a bus,

You'll know where everything is.

I waited to brief Vange on the last of the loose strings to wrap up the 10 years I had dedicated to this place and give it as a gift to those with more stamina than me.

I'm so sorry I'm late,

Panted Vange as she hurried in and sat down opening a file.

I had to wait for Kayleen to arrive.

I couldn't leave the department on its own.

The bus she was on was in an accident.

Drove into a car,

Driver badly injured.

They had to wait for the ambulance and the police.

We started.

I ticked off the third item on my checklist,

Four more to go.

My cell phone rang.

I answered.

I never answered a call when in a meeting.

Panic burst into my ear from the other side.

It's Lolly.

Something has happened to him.

He's been taken to hospital.

Melissa,

Stay where you are.

I'm coming to get you.

No,

No.

Jen will take me.

Just please phone your parents.

I can't get hold of them.

I'm sorry Vange.

I need to find out what has happened to my brother.

I phoned Randall at the factory,

The same place Lawrence was bound for.

The two brothers worked with our father at the family business.

I was proud of them.

Yes,

Yes,

I know,

He said in this short manner,

Like this was getting in the way of doing his job.

I'm trying to get hold of mom and dad.

They're not answering their cell phones.

What the hell do they have a cell phone for?

No one could tell me what had happened,

Only that Lawrence had been taken to Garden City Clinic.

My parents were in a combi somewhere between Beaufort West and Langsburg on their way to the Argus.

An eternity in an hour.

I walked into the admin area to Vange's desk.

Where is Kayleen?

In the bathroom,

Still in shock.

I caught Kayleen coming out of the ladies.

Kayleen,

I'm so sorry.

What happened?

I stood with her in a shadowy alcove away from inquisitive eyes.

A new bus driver.

He didn't know the route.

We had to tell him where to go.

He went straight through the red light,

Said he didn't see it.

We hit a car.

I saw the man's face,

The shock.

He saw that bus come for him and he could do nothing.

I don't know that he got out of the life.

Kayleen shook her head,

Wiped an invisible tear.

Where did you have the accident?

On Main Road,

Outside the Phillips factory,

Near the Sapphire Town police station.

I went cold.

I crossed the bridge at the dam wall.

My breath swept away by the broom of red and gold that framed the far bank.

Surprised out of my sadness,

I looked at the trees standing rich and silent in the dipping sun.

The grass shrugged a beige,

Shining,

And the trees were still green.

I could not resist the invitation and pulled into the parking lot of the botanical gardens,

An unplanned stop.

The smells of curling leaves and dusty undergrowth called my name.

I was in a state of shock.

I was in a state of shock.

I was in a state of shock.

An unplanned stop.

The smells of curling leaves and dusty undergrowth called my name.

I locked the car,

Waved to a dozy car guard with a gnarled,

Sun-baked face poking out of an oversized grey hat,

And walked to the edge of the water.

Ducks waddled up to me expectantly,

Then squawked in irritation,

Pecking at mud when I waved them away with empty hands.

I sat on a peeling wooden bench and watched a lone canoeist dip,

Pull,

Dip,

Pull his paddle through the water.

His muscular shoulders flexed,

His arms danced a slow and methodical dance around and around the circumference of the dam.

An autumn moon rose,

Teasing the sun's unhurried journey west.

The old moon laughed and sang a song as they rocked in the wooden shoe,

And the wind that sped them all night long ruffled the waves of dew.

Did Lawrence ever paddle?

His broad shoulders were ideal for water sports,

But he had always been a little uninspired by competition.

We called him Lazy,

Lazy Lull.

He kept in shape at the gym.

Less hassle,

More mirrors.

To admire himself and smile that smile and make more friends.

What a beautiful boy.

Man.

Man.

Brother.

When I was four,

We moved from the quiet,

Leafy suburbs to Honeydew outside Johannesburg.

A place of open spaces,

Long gold grass and blackjacks.

Some people kept horses.

We had chickens.

Until the builders ate them.

And two cows that gave us warm milk and butter we hated.

The sprawling house,

Built on an easy design of pacing outrooms and digging foundations,

Lay at the end of a long gravel driveway flanked by cypress trees and felt.

When we moved to these five acres of open land,

There were three children.

By the end of the first year there,

There was a fourth.

One sister,

Three brothers.

Each night,

My father set two children on his lap.

The others flanked on either side and read us a story.

His monotone drone calmed us to stupor as we fell into an easy sleep.

In amongst the lap large Richard Scarry and Rupert the Bear books,

He had a peppermint cover with illustrations of children playing in a park with boats and bicycles on the front.

A book of children's poems given to Lawrence by his Dutch grandmother on his birthday.

From this book,

My mother drew her inspiration.

Winter.

My brothers and I are scattered around the enormous lounge.

Outside the wind moaned dust across the sand-coloured grass.

The anthracite heater housed in the old fireplace tried valiantly to warm the massive space.

My mother sat on the stool in front of the baby grand piano,

Mostly silent apart from my feeble attempt at chopsticks and twinkle twinkle little star.

I,

The oldest at six,

Stood in front of her reciting.

Good morning,

Mary Sunshine.

How did you wake so soon?

You chased away the little stars and shone away the moon.

Lawrence stood watching me with his thumb in his mouth.

His other hand twirled a scrap of hair on the crown of his head.

He was five and content.

We called him Lollipop.

My mother fretted about that thumb and wondered when he would discard the habit.

She taught him a poem.

Stand with your hands at your side,

Lawrence.

Owl and the Pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat.

They took some honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five-pound note.

I learned it too,

Echoing his words in the background.

They dined on mince and slices of quince which they ate with a runcible spoon.

And hand in hand on the edge of the sand they danced by the light of the sun.

They danced and sang a lullaby.

To dance and sing they ate with a runcible spoon and hand in hand on the edge of the sand.

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

I danced around the Turkish carpet,

My dress swaying around my knees.

Bradley,

The third,

Sat on the floor,

A tower of blocks between his chubby legs and a wooden hammer in his hand.

See what I made,

Lol.

It's nice,

Hey,

Lol.

Hey,

Lol.

" No answer from the plugged-up mouth.

Bradley scowled at his handiwork and whacked the topmost block,

Sending its siblings scattering and bouncing across the stone floor.

Bradley,

Stop that!

You'll wake the baby!

Now come say after me.

" Winkin',

Blinkin' and nod one night.

Randall,

Only one,

Slipped obediently in his cot down the passage.

We were paraded in front of friends and family to recite passages,

Patiently or impatiently drummed into our blind skulls.

To repeat,

Arms to attention,

Faces suitably animated,

Two rows of tea-drinking,

Cake-eating,

Beehive-hairstyled mothers.

One evening,

We gathered at our Lyft Club neighbors for dinner.

The brothers,

Angus and Duncan,

Played the recorder and the violin.

Lauren,

The younger sister,

Pranced about in a pink tutu that I envied to the point of hating.

I scratched through a trunk overflowing with discarded clothes reworked and strung with beads and baubles.

I turned a skirt into a flowing cape and layered more into cascades around my waist that I tripped over on the way down to the sunken lounge to dance and perform.

Good morning,

Merry sunshine,

How did you wake so soon?

You chased away the little stars and shone away the moon.

I saw you go to sleep last night before I ceased my play.

What did you get back overhead to shine on me today?

To shine on me today.

But the boys stole the show.

Lawrence,

Bradley and Randall acted out a scene from Kelly's Heroes.

Lawrence discovered a wig and retrieved a sun hat,

Wide brimmed and floppy,

Made glamorous with a bright sunflower.

Heaven in a wildflower.

The claps and hoots had encouraged him to be more daring.

The wig sat lopsided,

The fringe hanging in his eyes.

The hat balanced jauntily on top as he sashayed down the stairs,

Hand on jutting hip,

Feet wobbling in someone's high heels to spoof Barbara Streisand's On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.

The laughter was loud and stomach jostling.

Whether at us or with us,

It didn't matter.

We were the center of attention,

Applauded and nodded at,

The stars of our own making.

A film clip,

Silent,

In shaky color.

Late summer,

1970.

We were swimming in the reservoir across the driveway from the Honeydew house.

My father held his Yashica 8mm Cine camera to his right eye as he shouted directions and pointed with the other hand.

We climbed over the reservoir's iron walls with a short ladder.

Three children in the corrugated,

Edged womb,

Randall still in my mother's belly.

The water was shallow and warm.

My mother was there,

Her hair set in a short,

Puffed-style,

Hairspray-stiff.

Her white,

Baudre Anglais bikini top was fitted with a huge skirt to hide her stomach mound.

I skipped and splashed across the water.

My hair,

Straight,

Dark,

In a china doll cut,

Bounced as I moved.

Bradley stood next to my mother's flapping skirt.

He hung onto her hand.

His eyes slits against the sun.

His hair shone bright in its whiteness.

A tiny smile played at his clamped,

Tight mouth.

It could only have been because my father was behind the camera.

Lawrence was not nearly as happy.

He stood ignored to the side,

Mouth open wide,

His stomach pumped in and out under his flared ribs as he yelled a silent howl.

My mother moved to cajole him forward into the water,

But he would not budge.

Swim,

Lawrence,

Jump in the water,

Play.

He remained a stone in the sand.

Water wings hugged to his ribs,

Water tickling his tummy as it expanded and contracted with each sob.

I continued to splash and play,

Trying to get Bradley to frolic and laugh.

My mother picked Lawrence up and handed him to my father over the reservoir wall.

Safe on solid ground,

He pushed his thumb into his mouth,

Straddled an abandoned tricycle and smiled.

A pool with a celesto border eventually replaced this tub.

My father,

Very brown and muscular,

Helped dig it and collected the Pellandaba rock that decorated the raised section along the length of the one side from the side of the road near Hartpiersport Dam.

A white pool fence enclosed it.

No one was allowed to swim without an adult watching.

My father patiently held us up in the shallow end as we kicked and splashed and doggy-peddled our way to buoyancy.

He showed us how to master the crawl.

Turn your head to the side and take a breath,

Then back into the water,

Kick,

Kick,

Kick,

And to dive.

We sat at the white,

Concreted edge,

Legs dangling into the water,

Arms raised above our heads,

Arrows pointing the way,

Slowly leading forward until our weight pulled us into the pool.

Next,

We stood and fell through the water to touch the marbleite bottom,

Then jumped off to fly skimming under the surface,

Slipping up into a steady stroke.

Look at me!

Look at me!

All of us,

Except Lawrence.

He stood shivering and crying at the edge.

He refused to fall in,

Refused to let go.

My father,

In a fit of frustration,

Threw him into the water.

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand.

I looked on,

Swallowing water in shock.

Eternity in an hour.

My mother,

Knitting at the side of the pool,

Laughed softly when the boys surfaced,

Spluttering and splashing and swimming.

Yes,

Swimming at last.

Later that night,

I sat in my bed after story time.

All three brothers were safe asleep,

One with a thumb plugged mouth.

I opened the peppermint green book.

Where are you going and what do you wish?

The old moon asked the three.

We have come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea.

Nets of silver and gold have we.

Now Lawrence lay in intensive care,

Comatose.

His one arm secured to the hospital bed to prevent him pulling out his feeding tube,

The other bent and useless at his side.

Bradley stood by his bedside,

His blonde hair more mousy than white,

His cheeks angular and drawn,

His deep set eyes tired after the flight from Sydney.

I know you didn't want me to immigrate,

But did you have to go to these lengths to get me back?

He whispered.

You'll be okay.

Hey,

Lol.

Hey,

Lol.

No answer.

No blocks to knock over,

Just the hum and tick of the machines that kept his brother alive.

All night long,

Their nets,

Their through to the stars and the twinkling foam.

And still Lawrence did not wake.

Bradley needed to return to his infant son.

Thousands of kilometers across the sea,

His brother's namesake,

Gabriel Lawrence,

Hurled.

I visited every day.

No job to go to.

Before I entered his room,

I dressed for a performance.

Washed my hands twice,

Three times.

Donned a long green gown that tied at the back.

Covered my head in a paper-like hat.

Slid a surgical mask across my nose and mouth.

Slipped booties over my shoes and pulled on surgical gloves.

To the beat of his heart rate monitor,

I danced into his isolation ward.

Only two at a time,

Which meant one at a time,

Because Melissa was in constant vigil by his side.

Bird-like,

She held his hand,

Whispered into his ear,

Come back,

Loll.

Come back to me.

Come home to the couch we will lie and watch TV and listen to music and talk and laugh like we used to.

Come back to me,

Loll.

So many visitors.

I went in when others had left and smiled through the mask and hugged her.

Looked at her tiny frame.

I sat on the other side and crooned the same song.

Come back,

Loll.

Come back to Melissa.

Your home,

The warm sun on your face as you lie on the couch watching rugby while Melissa brushes her hand through your hair.

Come back.

It was all so pretty a sale,

It seemed,

As if it could not be.

His body shrank.

Somebody came to pray at his bed unasked.

Reiki masters,

Reflexologists,

Massage therapists,

Physiotherapists,

All corralled in to help.

I read and frowned and threw away the descriptions of what he could be.

The books advised against overstimulation.

Melissa clamped headphones on his ears and pumped Mozart and Bach into his brain.

I waved lavender oil unto his nose and put satin scarves and toiling cloths in his bound hand.

We coaxed,

Negotiated,

Then demanded that he not slip deeper into that dark place he was visiting.

Come back.

Come back now.

I stood by his bed and recited his poems.

To remember.

Do you remember,

Loll?

I choked back the tears,

Dissolved into sobs and ran out so he could not hear.

Because he could hear,

Couldn't he?

I returned,

Laughed through my wretchedness.

If Loll had to suddenly wake,

He wouldn't be able to recognise anyone,

Trust up as we are in all this green smelling of antiseptic.

There were all the dress up clothes,

The funny hat,

The silly wig,

To make him laugh when he woke up.

Wake up?

No.

To dive to the bottom of unconsciousness and turn and slowly kick and pedal back up.

One day,

Lawrence's eyelids opened a bit wider but the eyes remained unfocused.

Days later they moved,

Followed shadows as they swayed around his bed.

His feeding tube came out.

He smacked his lips and blew bubbles like a baby.

His thumb found its way back into its old home.

All the while.

Then his body could be positioned on a chair or propped upright.

He grabbed for a spoon or a bowl,

Missing his mouth.

He ate meat.

Beef steak.

Even in his floppy,

Lolling state,

He still managed to charm the nurses.

Lolling lol.

He must be getting better.

The doctor said,

Don't be too optimistic.

His injury was severe.

He may never walk again.

His personality will change.

He could become epileptic,

Even violent.

My mother sat knitting by her oldest son's bed and watched him swim softly back into consciousness.

Take your thumb out of your mouth lol.

So shut your eyes while mother sings of wonderful sights that be and you shall see the beautiful things as you rock in the misty sea.

My father sat at the factory head in hand,

Orders were shrinking,

Short weeks,

No Lawrence to help with a strain,

No water to splash lol's face with,

No pool to throw him in.

Then one day.

Hello Chantal,

Hello mom,

Hello Melissa.

How are you?

We held our collective breaths.

He could speak.

He was going to be okay.

Well maybe.

Greetings are deeply embedded habitual reflexes that mean nothing much and say less about recovery.

That word that each of us layered with meaning so heavy and full of hope,

Grasping at each minute change in behavior,

Each tiny improvement in ability.

Where he is at three months is as far as he's going to get.

Accept that.

Stupid doctor.

They called her manic Melissa.

I want my lol back.

You are asking too much for yourself and for Lawrence,

You have to accept.

Stupid doctor.

Rehabilitation an ugly gray block of a building in an ugly gray block of a city.

A room full of moaning men in various states of something called recovery.

Lawrence was taught how to walk,

How to wash,

How to dress.

Thrown into the deep end,

He always surfaced kicking and splashing.

Endless friends continued to call.

Watching the Cricket World Cup on the TV over his head,

Laughing with lol.

Who are we playing?

Monas?

Is it the first team?

He was still at school.

In the army.

We listened to his stories of parades and camps as if he had just come home from the bush and left his browns at the end of the bed.

Where he is now is where he will stay.

There will be no more improvement.

He has done extremely well,

But this is it.

Stupid doctor.

One ugly gray morning he is released from the ugly gray building.

And down from the skies came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fisherman home.

Your home,

Lolly.

Come lie in the couch with me in the sun.

Brave Melissa.

Home?

He smiled.

Is this really my home?

A mystery of passages and rooms to paddle through,

Getting lost between the shower and the kitchen.

But he smiled.

I visited.

Hi lol.

What did you do this morning?

Um,

I don't know.

And he swam.

To recover.

His stomach pumped in and out under his ribs.

But he didn't cry.

He breathed and blew and grew stronger.

A year later,

Back at that hospital to show off to the doctor,

Nurses all.

A miracle.

Then a drive back the way his journey had begun,

Where the paths of strangers had collided to that sterile building on the hill.

Kayleen,

My brother.

Lol,

Kayleen.

She was in that bus that hit you.

A miracle.

It was all so pretty a sail it seemed,

As if it could not be,

And some folks thought it was a dream they dreamed of sailing that beautiful sea.

Back at Lol's home,

Looking for something to read,

I found the peppermint book.

Its spine,

Ribbons of plastic and paper,

Waved a greeting.

I opened it to a picture of a girl kneeling on a beach,

Holding sand in two hands.

She stared at the trickle of grains falling through her fingers to meet the rest of the million trillion at her knees.

To see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.

The end.