Prayer For Alana
He awoke at dawn.
The faint gray light seeping through the edges of his blinds, with the sound of birds chirping away in a nearby tree. It annoyed him. He needed all the sleep he could get, and why did they have to nest right next to his window? But chirping away they were, and it had been hard enough just to get to sleep, because . . .
Alana Robinson lay cold and alone on a stainless steel gurney in a murky green hallway of the Ensenada coroner's office. One more dead body in a murky old government building filled with them, until some overworked/underpaid government employee, who saw too many lonesome dead people to care, would roll her into a refrigerated drawer, and . . .
He couldn't stop thinking about it. About her. A smart, ambitious, and attractive young woman of twenty-four, on a weekend cruise with friends to celebrate a twenty-fifth birthday that she would never see in this world, and . . .
He just wanted to drift back into sleep and be well rested for the coming day's work, but the chirping of those birds was so persistent, driving him up the wall with their "tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet," and . . .
It upset him. The loss, the stupidity, the absurdly fragile nature of life, but there was no point in going on about it—the possible circumstances, the people or persons involved—that culminated in Alana's overdose of what substances he didn't know, because the Ensenada coroners did the autopsy and they weren't giving out any details, and . . .
Those damn birds—sparrows, wrens, or whatever the hell they were—just wouldn't stop, as if it were some matter of urgency, and as much as he wanted to just roll over and get back to sleep, he found himself listening closer to their chirping of "tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet," and . . .
To make matters worse, the coroners were unable to get her over the border in time, so she had to spend the night in a mortuary in Tijuana. First thing in the morning she'd be driven over and met by his people in some parking lot for the exchange, and it bothered him that she had to be handled to such an impersonal degree by so many strangers, aggravating her family's grief, but the Mexican officials (although, in all fairness, any other officials, whatever the nationality) could care less. She was just one more dead body slowly finding its way home on a phlegmatic sea of official procedures and paperwork, and . . .
The longer he lay in bed, half-asleep, listening to the birds' insistent chirping, it became more evident to him that the usual "tweet, tweet, tweeting," may have been something else, and . . .
He had to stop thinking about her. Because Alana, as smart, ambitious, and hungry for life as her family and friends proclaimed her to be, was a complete stranger to him. All he could and should do was wait for her body to arrive at his mortuary, then arrange a date for the cremation and graveside interment of her remains, but . . .
Could it be the insistent chirping was more of an . . ."if, if, if?" How odd and certainly not. He was only half awake and not hearing things coherently, and he really should just roll over and get back to sleep because he would have so much to do at work, preparing for that poor girl's arrival, and . . .
He couldn't get her off his mind—and it was unlike him. He did nearly four hundred funeral arrangements a year with a professional, compassionate, yet distinct buffer zone for overt emotions that made the job both possible and enjoyable. But this Alana woman—young, engaging, and having drifted in with the wrong crowd, if not the wrong behavior, resulting in her lying cold, poorly embalmed, and wrapped in a flimsy white sheet in a cardboard box in goddamned Tijuana of all places—had broken through that barrier, and . . .
"If, if, if, if, if . . ." they chirped on. He sat up, his eyes wide open, his breathing abnormally distinctive, and why was that? But he was distracted by those damn birds and wanted to scream at them to shut the fuck up regardless of what they were chirping, and . . .
He wanted to tell himself that on some level neither he nor anyone else could not possibly comprehend, everything would be alright, and the essence of Alana would somehow go on in a positive manner that would not be lost, wasted, or judged, and . . .
He seriously doubted it. He suspected, as was his cynical nature, that as beautiful and full of life and so many good things Alana surely had been, she was hopelessly and permanently dead, with nothing good or meaningful to come of it, and . . .
Abrupt silence. How odd. As if the birds heard him and complied? Well, he certainly wouldn't go there, but what a relief to have them stop their infernal chirping for whatever the reason, allowing him to relax into the pillow, get back to sleep, and . . .
He could see, so clearly, in such unfortunate detail, Alana, lying in that Tijuana mortuary drawer, and he had to do something about it; he had to hope, to believe, to—my God—pray, in the true sense of the word, that she would be alright, that her young life had not been so foolishly squandered, and . . .
A sound. Small. From the kitchen? Of what significance could it be at that hour? So he just rolled over, closed his eyes, determined to nod off, and . . .
There it went again. Same sound. Just as small. As much as he didn't want to, he was forced to realize it was coming from his kitchen and seemed to be the subtle but distinctive sound of . . . a spoon stirring in a cup?
He was not a praying man.
In fact, he stopped going to church at the age of thirteen, never considering himself to be religious in the mundane sense of the word. He did, however, suspect there was a presence in the universe and throughout life that was the essence of what all religions talked about—although none of them had a fucking clue what that phenomenon and experience actually was or how to get to it, and . . .
While sitting at his desk at work, he was not aware of any words he was saying to himself, or any particular thoughts or images relating to those words; he respectfully closed his eyes to feel, so deeply and with such compassion, genuine sympathy for her. Was that his prayer? Upon opening his eyes, did he feel relieved, as if the burden of the tragedy and his desire to do something about it had been lifted? He had no idea.
Was there someone in his kitchen? Stirring something in a cup? How weird . . . and frightening. Adrenaline kicked in, and perhaps he should pick up the phone and dial 911, but there wouldn't be time for that, and what manner of burglar would break into someone's house, then sit and calmly sip tea (because he didn't keep coffee in the house) at the kitchen table? He amazed himself, moving slowly but deliberately toward the kitchen, and he realized the birds were suspiciously quiet, as if listening in, and that bothered him, but he didn't have time for such abstract thinking as he turned the corner to see . . .
There was someone in his kitchen. And they were sitting at his little kitchen table, casually stirring a spoon in a cup of tea, and it was a young woman and . . .
He held his breath, because those damn birds were so fucking quiet and it bothered him, but he had to focus on the woman sitting at the kitchen table who looked up him, smiled, and said . . .
"I hope you don't mind . . . I fixed myself some tea," with a pleasantly soft but intelligent voice. Oh yes, she was definitely a very special girl, and . . .
"Oh, it's alright," he said, "go right ahead, and . . ." he trailed off, having no idea what to say to her as a thousand things were running through his head and into each other, trying to ground him in some manner of reality, but the only reality present was that young woman sitting so casually at his kitchen table sipping tea, and he realized that . . .
She was draped in soft white linen, as if an ancient Roman, and she did give the impression of some manner of royalty, her face immaculately cleansed, rendering her lovely features distinct and perfect and . . .
She set her spoon down, then looked through the kitchen widow. There was considerably more light now, and you could see the rest of the apartment complex, and above that the tip of distant mountains, and . . .
"Looks like it will be a clear day," she said wistfully, and he wanted to say something to assure her. But what could he possibly say? Assure her of what? She was so beautiful, intelligent, compassionate, and . . .
She wasn't breathing.
"Are my parents alright?" she asked, turning to him with the hopeful eyes of a child.
He had trouble speaking. His own breathing was pronounced, and he experienced a moment of guilt for that, and the apartment was abnormally quiet, as if existing in a vacuum, with him and that woman isolated within it, and he knew those damn birds were listening, but she was looking up at him so sweetly, and a great sadness washed over him, as he managed to whisper to her: "Yes, they . . . love you very much."
"That's good," she smiled. "I love them too." She took another sip of tea, then turned to the window.
The morning light reflected softly in her eyes, and he knew that if he looked into them, his reflection would be lost there. It was a beautiful and terrifying possibility he was incapable of embracing, so kept himself from doing so, although . . .
He wanted to. So much. Because her presence was still, and soothing, and addictive, and she was not cold or embalmed or breathing as she turned back to him and smiled, and he found himself . . . looking into her eyes and it did frighten him, because he knew it would be a long, thick descent through the beautiful but terrifying nature of her presence, and his breath—no, what breathed him—was absorbing into it as her eyes . . .
Closed.
He moaned out in his loss, having to catch his breath (literally) before he fell, so luxuriantly, into where she had to go with love and timeless mystery, and just as he was about to weep uncontrollably for his loss . . .
Was distracted by the sound of birds chirping wildly outside his window, and he wanted to scream out with the offense, turning from the kitchen, running to the window, throwing back the blinds to see . . . a great fluttering of wings of so many of them—sparrows, wrens, whatever—as they burst into the sky with a passionate chirping of . . .
"Alana, Alana, Alana, Alana, Alana . . ."
And when he turned back to the kitchen, she was gone, leaving only the echo of her name behind, and he realized, as delicate yet profound as the miracle that breathed him . . .
His prayer had been answered.
Copyright 2006 by Jerry G. Erwin
Jerry writes:
