Enid Tapscott was dying. She knew this with a certainty that felt congealed within, thick and visceral. Like marrow itself. The odd thing was that she felt removed from it all, as if the inevitability of her dying had robbed the concept of power. Instead she was utterly relaxed, her blood warm, limbs heavy, mind deliciously foggy. Enid thought that she hadn’t felt this tranquil for years. Certainly not since the seventies anyway, when for a brief period of time she had floated through life on a cloud of weed.
Even if awareness of her own imminent demise hadn’t been curled within, it was easily discerned from the attitudes of those around. Fatalism wafted into a miasma that hung from the ceiling like mist. The hushed voices of the nurses, the shiny-eyed solicitude of her children, and especially the sudden appearance of her mother. This last had been a dead giveaway, in every sense of the term, as her mother had been cremated nearly half a century ago. Yet there she was, superimposed on the IV drip stand, gazing beatifically down on her daughter. Clearly death had done wonders for her personality.
Under normal circumstances, as in when she wasn’t busy dying, their defeatism would have irritated Enid. But then, she supposed, if she wasn’t dying, then it wouldn’t be an issue. She blinked slowly, trying to unravel this philosophical enigma. Soon it too drifted away. Her mother sighed. It was the soundtrack of Enid’s childhood. She wondered if at some point her life would flash before her eyes. Maybe it already had and she’d missed it. Typical. It would have been a short feature anyway. Childhood, marriage, motherhood, death. Hopefully reincarnation was actually a thing, and she got another shot.
Her mother sighed again. It occurred to Enid that she was being judged not on her lack of achievements but on the detritus left behind. She wanted to explain that she’d had no warning.
Otherwise she would have spring-cleaned the house and scrubbed the casserole dish from last night’s stew. She would have done that load of washing. She would have also pre-purchased one of those funeral plans, chosen the songs (anything but ‘Amazing Grace’), prerecorded a stoic goodbye message and written her own eulogy. She would have put together a will. And she most definitely would have burnt that old diary, destroyed the letter hidden in her wardrobe, culled her memorabilia box, and discarded the vibrator nestled amongst her sensible white underwear.
Actually, she probably would have thrown out the underwear also. Soon people would be literally rifling through her smalls…
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