Lysette's Gift

Mike sat huddled in his own private world, trembling with fear for his beloved Lissa; he'd thought he was scared before, now his fears were realised, and he knew with stomach-wrenching certainty what real fear was. Lissa was somewhere near, the thickness of a few walls away, and she was dying; he was here, and there was nothing he could do about it, no action that could make this not have happened. Now it was reality time, and the reality was that she was dying.

All he could do was blame himself; he should have driven her, he'd never have taken the Bath Road, it was a death-trap, an accident black-spot because of all the heavy lorries and tankers thundering along it, using it as a rat-run to bypass the chaos of the M4 motorway in the morning rush-hour.

How long he sat there brooding he didn't know; at some point the doctor came in and had a whispered conversation with his father, who then called him closer.

"Michael, they're moving Lissa to...to the Critical Care Unit, they can only allow one visitor to stay with her, so while Mum's in there with her, I'll wait here. You go home and get anything of hers she left at your place; I know she only took important things with her last night; I think she'll want them near her when...when she wakes up. Please, Mike, do this for her. I'll call you if anything changes, I promise..."

Mike nodded, not trusting himself to speak, kissed his mother, and pulled his coat around himself as he went back to his car. He drove home almost on automatic, driving mechanically, his body doing all the right things while his mind ranged up and down the morning's events, trying to find a way for this day to not have happened, for it to be yesterday, where Lissa would still be waiting for him to come to dinner and there was no possibility of this day happening, for him not to have given her cause to come after him and so set this dreadful day in motion.

Once home, he moved like a man in a trance, picking up clothes and folding them carefully before laying them on the bed, and putting each of Lissa's things in a bag to take back to the hospital; her green paste and turquoise earrings, the fine gold chain with the 'Lysette' pendant he'd given her on her eighteenth birthday, her 'Death's Head' biker ring that had always pissed off John, and then the last straw, the bracelet, made of cheap, garish Love-Beads and cast tin letters spelling out 'Lysette' he'd made for her in school when he was seven and she was ten, her good-luck charm that she'd worn every day for the last sixteen years...

Mike slumped down in a chair, wracked with sobs as he held her luck in his hand, unwilling to hold it, yet unable to put it down; she'd always said her bracelet was her best and only lucky charm, because it was from her Mikey-Boy, and it was one of the few things she'd treasured; now she'd left the house without it, and this had happened...

Mike cried until he couldn't cry any longer, and the sorrow slowly drained away, numbness creeping in as he contemplated his life without her; she'd been the mainstay of his life, more so even than his mother, and she was leaving, more and more of her slipping away with every passing minute. He leaned back in the chair, his eyes far away, as he riffled through his memories of her: Lissa always there at every school sports day, cheering for him, teaching him to swim, helping him to take his first solo on his bike; as he thought about her he smiled as realised that she'd been there at his side almost every day of his life, holding him up, cheering him on, making it better when John put him down yet again.

He smiled wistfully at the memory of that first night they'd become more than simply brother and sister; the 'Fresher's Party at university, almost three months after his eighteenth birthday, and how he'd been too shy to ask any of the girls he knew, and how intimidated he'd been to ask any of Lissa's friends; had he but known it, any of them would have jumped at the chance; Michael Sheridan was a very good-looking young man, and Lissa's influence had made him respectful and well-behaved in the presence of girls.

Eventually, Lissa, with an entirely fraudulent show of reluctance, had volunteered to be his date, just to avoid the embarrassment of him turning up alone at his first important university function. She'd danced exclusively with him all night, her attention riveted on him, her contact with him increasingly intimate, and his body had reacted predictably enough, much to his embarrassment; Lissa however, had just smiled, and held him even closer, and after the party had taken him back to her flat, rather than his own poky room in Halls.

And there, right then, they had moved seamlessly to the next part of their lives, as Lissa took him and showed him what it was to make love when there was love involved. That night was the turning point in their lives, the point where they recognised what had been building all their lives, and the night they finally sealed their commitment to each other. For a night and a day they had made love, the final act of the lifetime of need that had built between them; lips and fingers, mouths and hands, nothing was ignored as they explored each other, awakening fully in each other that need always felt but never understood.

Not an angry word had passed between them in the five years since; they had no way to disagree, to differ, their souls and hearts so closely intertwined they were now one. Now, after five years, it had all come to nothing; he was losing her...

"Mikey!" whispered a soft, sibilant voice, and his head snapped up in bewilderment, looking around wildly.

"Mikey!" came the voice again, and this time he spun around, to see Lissa standing in the doorway, her eyes sparkling even as her lips curved in her familiar, mischievous smile. His eyes widened in shock, denial, disbelief.

"Lissa? No it can't be! How...when...?"

Lissa touched her fingertip to her lips.

"Sshhh Mikey, listen, this won't take long, but you must listen!"

Mike nodded silently, his mouth hanging open. Lissa walked soundlessly across the thick carpet and knelt beside him. Once again she smiled, her smile bright and beautiful and her eyes lighting in their old way even as tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Michael, I have loved you from the day you were born; my whole life has been for you. Now I have to go, but before I do, I have a gift and a message for you. You're the one for me, you were always the only one for me, and now I claim you for myself, remember that. My gift is my love for you; keep it safe, Mikey, it will hold you up when you need me most. Now I have to go, but before I go, I have a message for you; time is only a thing, and it's a simple thing at that; remember that, Mikey; one day it will make sense to you, when the time is right. And when the time is right, touch the stars, Mikey, you must remember to touch the stars! I will watch over you, my beloved, and I will wait for you to touch the stars; when you do, all will become clear, and all that was lost will be returned, I promise you, my darling boy! I love you so much, Mikey, and for the love I give you freely, I beg you to do that do that one thing for me; you have to touch the stars!"

Mike reached out to touch her, but suddenly she was out of reach, and as he extended his hand, she laid her hand in his. Mike gasped at the sensation as her hand sleeted though his, and, for a few seconds, seven tiny, impossibly bright points of light danced and whirled in the palm of his hand, a miniature constellation both present in his hand and simultaneously further away than the mind of man could ever envisage; he looked up at her in bewilderment, only to see her slowly fading in a pale nimbus of dancing, glittering motes.

"Lissa...!" he choked, but she was almost gone; now only her face was still visible.

"I have to go Mikey; please go to mum and dad, they need you now; and Mikey, remember; you must touch the stars!"

And then she was gone.

Mike leaped out of his chair, scrabbling wildly at the place she'd been.

"Lissa, Lissa, no, please, Lissa...!" he pleaded, then stood stock-still as what she'd just said sank home; mum and dad needed him...

He ran to his car and gunned all the way to back to the hospital, the fear leaping huge and hot inside him all over again. He skidded into a parking space and pelted into the A & E at a dead run, hearing for real what he'd been hearing in his mind all the way back here: the sound of his mother screaming. He followed that sound, his heart fluttering with dread, to find his parents huddled together, Brigitte sobbing and screaming hysterically as John tried to hold her. She looked up and saw him, and tore herself away from her husband, flinging herself into his arms.

"Michael, she's gone, my baby girl, she's gone, oh God, Michael my baby's gone!" she wailed, her arms around his neck stiff and rigid as she sobbed. Brigitte suddenly collapsed bonelessly against him, staggering him as he caught her weight, and eased them both onto a couch.

"When...how ...what happened...?" he asked John, his father looking dazedly at him.

"Michael, she just...went. She never woke up, she was just lying there, then suddenly everyone was running around and they were shocking her...she never came back, Mike, I never got to see my baby...!" his face crumpled as he too broke down, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed into his hands.

The doctor from earlier looked in on them, and Mike beckoned him closer.

"Can I see my...can I see my sister, please?" he whispered, and the doctor nodded, motioning him to follow him. He trailed Mike through a series of automatic doors and into the Critical Care Unit, indicating one of the pod-like bed-units.

"Click that switch there when you want to leave," he whispered. "Someone will have to let you out. Take your time, Michael."

Mike stared down though tear-blurred eyes, his last view of his beloved Lissa. She looked so small, so young and vulnerable, lying there in the space-age bed-pod, her features calm, composed, wax-like in their perfection. She looked like she was sleeping, like all it would take to wake her would be a light touch or the merest kiss, but he knew that was just fantasy; the monitors surrounding her were dead and cold, mute evidence that there were no life-signs left to monitor or detect, their lack of activity the surest sign that she was gone, that the world that allowed vicious murderers and child pornographers to live long and contented lives had whisked her from him in such a pointless, random way, she, who'd done nothing, ever, her entire life, except love and care for him.

He reached down to brush her cheek, and as he touched her, noted without really seeing the faint echo of a smile on her stilled lips, and the single tear glimmering in each eye, two crystal orbs trapped in the silky webs of her eyelashes.

He took her hand, but there was no warmth there; she was gone, and he was alone in the dark, sterile room with all that remained of his dreams, the mortal remains of his Lissa, her face bathed in dull blue light. He shuddered; he was exhausted, or he was going crazy, or both; Lissa couldn't have come to him; she was gone, all that had ever been her was gone, and only the shell was left behind now. Even if she had somehow come to him, what kind of message was that to give him? What kind of meaningless drivel was his mind insisting had come from her? Just what the hell did 'touch the stars' even mean, anyway?

He knelt down next to her, and brushed her forehead with his lips, her skin already cool and distant, no vibrancy, none of the vitality and life that had thrilled through her; she was gone, and all that was left was...this, the mortal remains of his dreams and shattered hopes. Mike bowed his head and rested his forehead on her chest, searching vainly for the patter of her heart, the thrum of her pulse, the sound of her breathing. Now he could cry; now his heart could finally feel her loss.

They found him still like that an hour later, kneeling next to her, his arm cuddled around her with his head resting on her breast.

*

The Wake was everything he'd dreaded it would be. The funeral was bad enough, John trying to deliver the eulogy and breaking down, and having to be rescued by Uncle Joe, and Mike too sunk in his own misery to really care; this was wrong, this wasn't Lissa, this was a dog-and-pony show for the family to gawp at. Then back at the house, the traditional Wake, insisted on by his father's family, was as dire and monstrous as he thought it would be; Lissa and he hardly knew any of these people, so what gave them the right to celebrate her life, when they had no idea what her life had been about?

And so he sat morosely in a corner, waiting for them to leave so he could, too, and never, ever come back to this place again; this was not his home now, not ever again, not now that his darling Lissa was gone forever. He stared vacantly, completely unfocussed, until a movement in his peripheral vision caused him to look up, startled, into the face of his Great-Aunt Ara, his grandmother's older sister.

"And so, what now, Michael-Fionn?" the old lady smiled at him, "Are ye gonna sit and mope 'til you've forgotten why? This is all going to pass. She'll be back one day, Michael-Fionn, you do know that, don't you, now?" she twinkled at him. Mike felt the rage douse him like a bucket of ice-water as he sprang to his feet. What the Hell did this mad old biddy...?

Fast as he was, the old lady had moved faster, her thin, spidery fingers holding him either side of his mouth in a grip he couldn't break.

"SHUT up and listen!" she hissed. Mike stared at her, nonplussed, then nodded, amazed at the strength in her withered, wiry hand, her wrinkled skin dry like parchment draped over bones of steel.

"Good, because I have something for you; I think you know where it comes from. Time is only a thing, Michael-Fionn, and it's a simple thing, too. You must wait for time to pass, time to heal, for healing must happen, but soon, soon you will know when to touch the stars. Did ye get dat?"

Mike stared at her; Lissa had said the same thing in his dream, or vision, or fantasy of her, and now Great-Aunt Ara, who'd only ever spoken to him in the past to ask him when he was getting married, or to get her a top-up on her glass of Bushmills, now she was saying it to him too.

"How did you...?" he murmured, and the old woman smiled conspiratorially.

"Much as they like to say otherwise, sometimes, Michael-Fionn Cormac Sheridan, 'The Sight' is more than just a story to cadge drinks off of American tourists on O'Connell Street! Your granny had it, your mother has it, although she denies it...and you have enough of it to make me wonder about you, oh yes! Keep your heart whole, Michael-Fionn, you will need it soon; wherever she is, Lysette-Clodagh is still part of us, Michael mac Beag, still part of you; she was always in your stars, and she's not finished with you just yet! And one more thing..."

She leaned in closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Next time you even T'INK about calling me names or showing me temper, I will lift the flat of my hand off your bare arse, Michael-Fionn, so I will!"

For the first time in what felt like forever, Mike grinned, his spirits lifted by the surreal but inspiring exchange. Ara smiled back, her hand this time coming up to caress his cheek.

"That's better, much better! When ye do that, I see your granny, my sweet Dearbhile, long gone, but still there in your smile. I know my sister is waiting for joy to come to you again; so am I, Michael-Fionn, so are all of us, for surely it will, but it must take its time! So now ye know; ye have time, Michael-Fionn, time enough anyway to go get an old lady a drink, will ye go now!"

Michael spent the rest of that mournful afternoon in a kind of daze; the exchange with his great-Aunt, an old woman he'd always dismissed as crazier than a bat in a henhouse, had spun his world on its heel; how could she have known what he'd seen, or fantasised, or hallucinated, or just plain dreamed?

Whatever it was, her words had started a process in him; he'd finally begun to heal, gentle memory and sadness slowly taking the jagged edges off that great wound inside him.

When his uncles, aunts, cousins and other, more distant kin had finally left, Mike sent Brigitte to bed; she'd sat the whole time, a stunned, faraway expression on her face, living the unreality of what was happening, that she was keeping the Wake for her child, something no parent should ever have to do.

John took her and led her away while Mike cleared away the debris of food, bottles and glasses, rearranged the furniture, and put the house back the way it should be (but how could he do that? The most important part of this house was gone forever, now.) He finished as best he could, picked his coat off the rack, and looked around one last time; this could never be home for him again. He'd call his mother in the morning, but he knew he'd never come back here, not where so much was missing now.

*

The next few months were a blur of work, work, and yet more work; if he kept himself busy, he wouldn't think about her, and true enough, his days were untroubled by thoughts of her.

Night-time was something else, though; it was then, as he drifted silently through his empty house, where she should be, too, that his mind would play strange tricks on him, and he would see her, stretched-out on the sofa and burrowing her feet under the cushions, her cat-like smirk of satisfaction at banishing him to the easy-chair so she could stretch-out, or slipping into the kitchen in a brief robe to make coffee.

The scent of her shampoo, lotion, and hairspray still hung heavy and redolent in the bathroom, or at least he convinced himself they did, and her trinkets and gewgaws still lived in the pin-tray on the dresser, waiting for her to pick them up and scrunch her hair back. He saw her out in the garden, dead-heading the rosebushes she'd planted, and her voice still lingered on the very cusp of hearing.

He dreamed of her; every night he dreamed of her, long, puzzling dreams, where she talked to him about things he couldn't understand, then finally she would see his blank expression and laugh, her silvery tinkle still ringing in his ears as he jerked awake. Then he would despair, pleading with anyone, anything that was listening, to end this torture, to let him go, or help him let her go, to give him peace, any peace.

He would fall asleep, and once again she'd be there, her body gleaming palely in the moonlight as they made love wildly, the remembered feel of his hands on her breasts, the stiffness of her nipples as he drove into her, the tight, honeyed sweetness of her as he devoured her, lapping at her as he squeezed and caressed her taut buttocks, making her mew and gasp as he pulled them apart to explore the secrets within; then memory would shift to the hot slickness of her mouth as she took him in, her tongue playing with his most sensitive flesh, until he could hold back no longer, and Lissa would suck, and lick, and take every drop of his gift to her.

Other nights would be different; those nights she would dance through his thoughts all the long night, always out of reach, and always surrounded by that halo of seven golden stars he had seen in the palm of his hand, and he would awaken to the sure and certain despair and futility of the life he must live without her, to once more try and find the will to live another day without her, to somehow put one foot in front of the other and make it through the day. His need for her weighed him down like a physical burden he couldn't shrug off even as his soul raged and fluttered like a flag in the gale of his loss, a loss that almost overwhelmed him.