Haunted

A picture tells a thousand words. Isn’t that what they say? I wonder who “they” are. I also wonder if they got it right. Well, let’s see, I have two pictures so by rights I should have two thousand words. I don’t think even that would be enough. Maybe it doesn’t matter. After all, words can lie. People lie. And so do appearances. I hold two pictures in my hands and they tell such different stories. One is everything I believed. And the other is everything I don’t understand. I wish I had two words, one word even, anything to help me work out what happened; to tell me what’s real. Because how do I know? Well, I guess I know the answer to that one. The answer is I don’t. And I never will. 1

Tara was my best friend and I loved her more than anything. We grew up together and she was more like a sister than a friend. I knew her better than anyone else did. At least, I though I did. I had known her all her life. I knew her hopes, her fears, and her secrets. All but one I guess. And even now I don’t really know anything. I realise now though that I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. It’s been a month since she died. The newspaper called it “a tragic accident”. And yes, it was tragic. She was young, beautiful and she had her whole life ahead of her. Everyone loved her. And somehow, everyone knew her, from one thing or another. She was vivacious. She was beautiful. Her laughter seemed to echo and linger in the air sounding like the silver wind chime that hung in her window. It was infectious; if she laughed you couldn’t help but find yourself doing the same. When you saw her, no matter when it was, her deep green eyes would be sparkling with happiness and laughter. I think that’s what made people fall under her spell, those enchanting eyes; one look at her and you couldn’t help but love her. Her dark hair, almost black, fell past her shoulders framing her face. And then there was her voice; who could forget her voice? Just like her eyes it was enchanting. No one could resist her voice; it could break your heart and mend it again all in a second. That was Tara. And that is the way everyone remembers her. That’s how I want to remember her. But I can no longer blindly believe that that girl was real. The last time I saw her changed that image forever. Now, instead of being enchanting, her eyes and voice only haunt me. They leave me to question once again what really happened. 2

I like to take photos. I used to think that the images I could capture on film were real; true. I had never had reason to question that. All my photos hung on my wall and it was a collage of images; everything that to me represented love and beauty. I had pictures of everyone I loved. My mum: sleeping, laughing, yelling. My favourite was a picture of her with flour in her hair and a rolling pin in her hand, her head thrown back in laughter at something I’d said. There was one of my parents kissing on their eighteenth wedding anniversary last year. There were pictures of my dad: surrounded by dolls and playing with my little sister May and another of him yelling in excitement when The Wallabies beat the Kiwis in the rugby world cup. I had photos of my dog, of May asleep under the tree in our backyard, dressed as a mushroom for a party. I had pictures of the beach, waves, sunsets, flowers, grasshoppers and butterflies. They were all things I thought beautiful or that held memories for me. And of course there were pictures of Tara; because of all the people in my life she was the one who most represented love and happiness. I had photos of her dancing in the rain when she was fourteen, arms thrown wide and head to the sky with her hair wet and flying, another of her busking in the plaza. And my favourite, of the two of us with our arms around each other. I can’t really say I took it because it was on a timer but I put it on the wall anyway. We had our arms around each others waists and her head on my shoulder. It was taken on Christmas day last year, just after we’d been swimming.  A week after she died I took all my photos down and put them in a shoebox. My wall still remains bare. The problem is I don’t – no, I can’t believe in those photos anymore. I know now that things aren’t always as they seem; you can’t always believe what you see. The world is just one big rabbit hole. And I am Alice. I simply don’t know what to believe anymore. What can I believe in if not my not my judgement where those I love are concerned? I thought I knew Tara but I was wrong. I still take photos sometimes, for my parents mostly, of May and family occasions. I don’t put them on the wall. I don’t believe in them anymore and that makes me sad. Everyone needs to believe in something and I’m not sure I do anymore. Tara once told me she loved my photos. She said it was like looking through my eyes and it made her feel free. I look at two photos and they just make me feel trapped. I doubt she would still feel free if she saw them. 3

Tara’s funeral was four days after she died. It was hard. I knew it would be. How could a funeral ever be easy? But I didn’t realise just how hard it would be. My parents were with me of course, and they tried but there just wasn’t anything they could have done to ease the pain I was feeling. And it wasn’t really fair to expect them to. They were dealing with their own grief. They loved Tara too; because just as Tara’s parents were a like a second pair for me, Tara was a third daughter to mine. She really was like a sister to me. I’ve known her my entire life. As far back as I can remember she’s just been there. Our families went on holidays together every year and that’s just how it was for us. We were a part of each other. Tara was like my twin; she was my other half. And I lost her. Sometimes I wonder if I’d already lost her. Maybe I had. I don’t know. In any case it doesn’t really matter how I lost her, I did and in losing her I also lost a part of myself. I refused to wear black despite tradition. She would not have wanted it. I knew Tara and even though many of my illusions had been shattered I still had faith in many of the things I’d known about her. And that day I knew I could not wear black to something that was supposed to honour and celebrate her life. She would have hated it. She couldn’t stand the colour black. She said it made her unhappy. It was too lifeless and if Tara was the opposite if anything it was that. She was full of life. Even on the last day I saw her, whatever else may have been there, there WAS life, that I am sure of. So that day I wore what I thought she would have liked; the red dress. I knew it would remind her of one of her happiest days. It wasn’t really my style, it was long and floaty and hippie-ish. It was Tara. It wasn’t me. She had talked me into buying it just months before, for our school talent quest. It was the only time I’d worn it. We won of course. I wasn’t at all surprised. She sang and that’s all anybody heard. The moment she began all the other entrants lost any hope they had previously had. We performed River by Joni Mitchell. I played the guitar and she sang. I’ve never heard anyone come close to singing as well as the original but when Tara sang it that day I think everyone forgot it had ever been sung by anyone else. She was amazing. And she was so happy that day. That’s why I wore the dress. I guess it was, in a way, my way of telling her that I remembered the good times too. Her parents had asked to speak but I had no idea what to say so in the end they agreed I would read her favourite poem. I don’t know what it’s called only that it’s by Christina Rossetti. It goes like this:4

When I am dead, my dearest, 5

Sing no sad sons for me;6

Plant thou no roses at my head,7

Nor shady Cypress tree:8

Be the green grass above me9

With showers and dew drops wet;10

And if thou wilt, remember11

And if thou wilt, forget. 12

I shall not see the shadows13

I shall not feel the rain;14

I shall not hear the nightingale15

Sing on, as if in pain;16

And dreaming through the twilight17

That doth not rise nor set,18

Haply I may remember,19

And haply may forget. 20

I sang as everyone said their goodbyes by placing a sunflower on her coffin. Her parents asked me to and who was I to deny them? For some reason watching everyone put their flower on her coffin pissed me off. I felt like it was such a cop-out. It wasn’t good enough. I wanted to say goodbye out loud. I wanted to make it real, make it count. But I couldn’t. How could I stand there in front of her parents and demands answers? I wanted to ask her who she really was. What was her secret? Why the hell didn’t she trust me enough? But I couldn’t. Instead I stood there and sang the song by Wendy Mathews her parent had requested. 21

There’s not a cloud in the sky22

It’s as blue as your goodbye23

And I thought that it would rain24

The day you went away25

There’s not a cloud in sight26

It’s as blue as your blue goodbye27

And I though that it would rain28

The day you went away. 29

Actually, it was raining the day she died. That’s why he didn’t see her til it was too late. Or so they say. 30

In addition to the necklace I’d bought I was planning on giving Tara a photo album of us for her sixteenth birthday. It had taken me weeks to get my hands on every photo I could find: pictures of us at school, as babies and toddlers playing together, on holidays and messing about on the weekends. The result was a photo album filled with our lives together from the beginning. I did feel it was missing something though. It looked just like every other photo album and I wanted it to be more than that. Three days before her birthday I decided what to do. I would start and finish the album with two photos I would take myself. To make them stand out from the rest I used black and white film. I guess I had this vision that I would take a photo that would really capture her. I wanted to create an image that would speak so loudly and clearly that anyone would be able to see who she was with just one look. Instead I created two conflicting images. I stood outside her window, looking into her bedroom window and I took two photos both so different from one another. And both speak so strongly that I still don’t know which is real. 31

You are looking through a window. The frame is white and you can just see the sunflowers that are growing below the sill. The room is quite large and there are posters on the wall. You can’t see what they are of because the images in the background are blurry. The focus is on the girl in the centre of the room. Directly behind her is a shelf on which stands a CD player. If you look closely you can also see an open CD case, the cover booklet lying next to it and a photo in a frame of two girls with their arms around each other. The girl in the room wears a singlet and a long flowing skirt. Her hair is flying as she twirls around. Her eyes are dancing and she is laughing. She’s beautiful and carefree; she’s happy. 32

You are looking through the window again but this time all you can see of it is the lace curtain, as this time you look at the opposite wall. There’s a silver framed mirror on the wall and in it’s reflection you see the back of her head. Once again the focus of the picture is the girl. Her arms are crossed and cling to her shoulders. Her falls over both, framing her tear streaked face. Her head is bowed slightly and her eyes look almost directly at you. And in them you see the most overwhelming look of sadness; of pain. This time instead of being happy she is alone, afraid and in terrible pain. 33

I took the photos within minutes of each other. One moment she was dancing and laughing and the next, as a new song played, a shadow crossed her face and tears streamed down her cheeks as she sang the song that was playing in the background. Now I can only assume that the song reminded her of something I guess no one else knew about. My first instinct was to go to her. I didn’t understand what had suddenly made her so upset and I wanted to comfort her. I hated seeing her sad. But then I saw her eyes and I stopped. I realised that I couldn’t intrude. Not at that moment. I knew Tara and I could see by then that this wasn’t something new. This was clearly a pain she knew all too well. I know if she had wanted or been able to tell me, she would have. But I guess something stopped her, for some reason she felt she couldn’t. And as much as knowing that hurt me, I also knew that going to her would not have helped. She would have turned me away and shut me out. Tara hated being thought weak and having me catch her out like that would have made her weak. I know that’s how she would have seen it. It would have been different if she had come to me because asking for help when she needed it would have been considered a strength. At the time all I could do was hope that one day she would be able to tell me. If I had known then that I would never see her again I may have acted differently. But I didn’t and the truth is I may still have acted the same. I honestly don’t know. 34

Two days later, on her sixteenth birthday I received a phone call from her father. I was sitting at the kitchen table wrapping her present. I’d realised by then that I couldn’t include the good photo of her because she may have realised when it was taken and that I had seen her cry. So I had to make do with the album as it was and the necklace. I was informed by her father in a shaky voice that she had been hit by a car and that it was fatal. The party was cancelled and we, my parents, May and I went over there immediately. I spent most of that time in her room unable to face her parents at that moment. I knew there was nothing I could say and I did not want to add to their pain with my grief. It was in her room that I realised I was still holding the necklace in my hand from when I’d answered the phone. I put the silver chain with the little angel pendant around my neck. And then I sat there in her room, amongst her things, crying for the loss of my friend. I found myself playing the CD that was in her CD player because I could not bear the silence around me. And when my mother came to tell me that we had to leave I found myself taking the CD with me. 35

It wasn’t until two days after that, that I began to think about things and wonder about her death. It was the local newspaper that did it. They wrote an article about “this senseless death” and “a tragic accident”. It was that one word that stayed with me. Accident. As I read down the page, I came to the part about the driver. He had reportedly told police that in the heavy rain that day he simply didn’t see her until he was almost upon her; that all of a sudden she was there and he had no time to try to swerve or stop. He had not been charged with anything and as far as I knew there was no investigation. It was just a tragic accident after all. Her parents accepted that, they did not blame anyone. Tara stepped onto the road without seeing him. That’s what everyone said. And what everyone believed. Except for me. Like I said, I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’ve never told anyone and I never will of course, but I can’t help but wonder if that really is the truth, that it was just an accident and nothing more. I know now that she was not just a happy, carefree girl like everyone thought. I saw another side to her life, if only for a brief moment. There was something in her life that hurt her terribly and when I look at that photo that’s what I see; I girl who was sad, lonely and in pain that day. But sometimes I think I see something new in the expression in her eyes; desperation. The question is though: Was she THAT desperate? A picture may tell a thousand words but it doesn’t answer questions for you.36

I sit here on my bed with two photos in my hands and yet again wonder which girl was real, while I listen to a song I’ve come to know so well, sung by a woman with the same name as my best friend. Maybe that’s why she bought the CD. The only thing I’ve reached a conclusion on about all of this is that maybe she was both girls. I hate the thought that everything I knew about her and her life was a lie. I can’t believe that. I still listen to the song that made her cry and me question the truth about her death. Of course the only definite about that day is that I will never really know what happened. So I sing this song and remember her, not as someone sad and not as someone happy; just as someone I loved. I know that is all I can do.37

Captured in a photograph38

In black and white39

Her hair brushes her shoulders 40

As she leans to turn out the light41

She’s warm and you can feel her42

But she can’t feel you43

No she’s just too numb to move44

Captured in a photograph45

Without a frame46

Well I see you standing tall47

But I see no face to blame48

And did she say she loved you49

Well you know that’s really nice50

Because they say that when she cries51

Her tear drops turn, they turn to ice52

Let her feel the rain53

Won’t you let her feel again54

Feeling through the pain55

Won’t you let her feel the rain56

Upon her face57

Let her feel the rain58

Won’t you let her feel the rain59

Upon her face.60

Captured in photograph 61

Inside her eyes62

She’ll wrap you in her blanket63

And then she’ll tell you some lies64

And you will kneel before her65

At her altar in the trees66

Because they say no matter who you are67

She’ll bring, bring you to your knees 68

Let her feel the rain69

Won’t you let her feel again70

Feeling through the pain 71

Won’t you let her feel the rain72

Upon her face73

Let her feel the rain 74

Won’t you let her feel the rain 75

Upon her face76

Let her feel the rain….77

LET HER FEEL THE RAIN by Tara MacLean. 78

THE END79