Bats

When I was six I wanted to be a bat. I draped my bed in towels and sheets and made it into a cave. I left the kitchen tap dripping to create a lovely clammy sound and tried to hang upside down from the side of my bed (see this stitch here? That’s how I got it). My friend Henry didn’t want to be a bat. He slept with the light on. I asked Mum why. She just said, “Some people are different.”
Some people are different. It’s true. Like you. You were different weren’t you? You didn’t get worried about normal worry things like the new government raising tax or the power shortage or the rain drowning your parsley. You would just smile and say, “What comes will come.” And boy, come it did.
Look at you now, all neatly dressed and buttoned up. You look like you’re going to town, to the movies, what will you see tonight? (Not one of those silly horror movies you’d say; ridiculous things.) But you’ve seen the final act. Now its time for the credits.
I know who you’d thank. You’d thank Jeremy wouldn’t you? Yes, Jeremy was good to you. When he was little always making cards for you with your picture on the front. ‘I love you Mum,’ they said. And when he was older ringing you all the time and sending you things from England, newspaper clippings he thought you’d find funny; those giant glasses with the holographic eyes. He flew in last night. I met him at his hotel and took him out for a drink. He looked different. Jet-lagged and unshaven, but something else too. Something in his face. Was it his eyes? No, no it was his ears. That’s right. Remember we always used to joke about his ears being too big for his face? Called him jug-handles. Seems he finally grew into them. He asked me how you and I met. Do you remember? It was at that taxidermist in Bell Street. You were in there with Jeremy; he was in a stroller back then. You were talking to the taxidermist (the one we later decided looked like a stuffed weasel); you wanted Dougal the little black rabbit stuffed. The taxidermist went into the back room/snuck back into his weasel hole.
“How did he die?” I asked you.
“My son, Jeremy,” you said with a smile, “tipped a bottle of weed killer into his water dish. “
“Ah,” I said.
“Where’s your animal?” You nudged Jeremy backwards and forth in his stroller.
“I’m trying to buy a stuffed moose for my friend’s 21st,” I explained, and you laughed. Looked at me shrewdly for a second, and said, “I know this might sound a bit crazy, but would you come to a dinner with me? It’s for my counselling group. We’ve been asked to bring a guest. My husband died three months ago. Fell off a ladder trying to get the boy next doors ball.” You paused for a second. “ He was always helping people.” Jeremy had got out of his stroller by now and had managed to push over a stuffed ferret. “Normally I wouldn’t go around asking strangers out to dinner with me, but I don’t really know anyone here.” (You picked up the ferret by its glassy eyes and propped it back up on the shelf.) “We had to sell the house when Hector died.” Your eyes so hopeful.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Myrtle. Myrtle Meyers,” you said. “And you?”
“Arthur Lloyd. Well then Myrtle. I’d be delighted to.”
That was 20 years ago, and look at us, older, wiser and all that, but still friends. Still. Should I say ‘still’? Still is now a word that describes you. Your eyes are so shut, open them won’t you Myrtle? Flash me those shining hazel pebbles. Still not moving. Still, not moving. Come on Myrtle. Sit up and laugh. You don’t have me fooled. Sit up. I said sit up Myrtle. God this room is cold. And grey. And dreary. It doesn’t suit you Myrtle, come on, let’s get you home, back to your scarlet kitchen with its yellow polka dot blinds. I remember when we made those blinds. You bought that paint on special at the supermarket, and we laid out the calico on the kitchen floor. As we painted, we listened to pitter-patter rain outside and you told me that story about your grandmother and the bull. And just as we’d finished, Jeremy made a lunge at the cat, which yelped in fright and streaked across the room. Over the wet blinds. You just laughed at the tiny yellow paws all over the blinds and said it was artistic.
I wish you would laugh now. Why are you so stationary, so motionless? (My memories waver back to a bright room, mirrors, scissors, tuneless music. You are getting your hair cut, the stick insect hairdresser is getting frustrated by your constant wriggling and fiddling. She cuts your hair uneven.)
You are invincible. SuperMyrtle we called you after you fell down that cliff in Breaker Bay and didn’t break so much as a bone in your body. SuperMyrtle wouldn’t let a mere bus stand in the way of her life. What am I going to do on Sunday mornings? What about our Sunday brunch Myrtle? You haven’t missed one in years; don’t start now. Who am I going to speculate with about Mrs. Caldera across the road and her doings with handymen? Don’t leave me Myrtle.
Now is the part where you are supposed to sit up and say, “Of course not Arty old boy. Don’t be silly.” And then we can explain to the people waiting outside to see you that its all just been a big mistake, you’re fine, and we’re going back to your house to finish making our piñata. Amongst glue and shredded newspaper we will laugh about the mix-up. But you’re not sitting up. Everything is not going to be fine.
You’re really gone aren’t you Myrtle?