The Impossible Resurrection of Grief

Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Stelliform Press Info
Publication Information


Octavia Cade
Stelliform Press
Hamilton, Ontario


1
The Sea Witch lived in an abandoned saltwater pool. I knew her when she was called Marjorie and had the office next to mine at the university, but when the Grief came on her she stopped coming into work and set herself up at the derelict public pool with a stack of useless journal articles and a lifetime supply of plastic. The only reason she let me in the door anymore was when I brought her more.
“I don’t want this,” she said, shoving plastic bowls back at me, plastic bottles, even a plastic hairbrush. She hesitated over cling-wrap. “I only want the bags,” she said, but the cling-wrap disappeared into her pockets anyway.
The bags were getting harder to find. Not like the old days, when everything was packed into them at supermarkets. But plastic endures. It always had, and asking around netted me the odd stash shoved in the back of cupboards and forgotten.
“Marj,” I started, but she hissed and flinched, hunched in on herself. “I’m sorry. Sea Witch, is there nothing else I can get you? Nothing else that you want?” We were friends, once. Still would be, if I had my way, but friendship is a mutual choice and the Sea Witch had forgotten mutuality. I’d brought her so many different objects but she rejected them all, discarded everything from a former life she didn’t want to keep. I tried blankets, because it was cold at the pool with the roof fallen in and rubble scattered over the space below, but the Sea Witch shook her head and huddled into corners, out of the way of the worst of debris and indifferent to the cold night air and the rain that fell through the remnants of roof. I tried books, because there’d been a time when the Sea Witch had loved to read, and the journal articles she kept in small neat piles even now spoke of a fingertip hold left to literacy, but she never so much as glanced inside their covers. Even the collection of fairy tales she’d had since childhood, the Andersen which had once been her favourite, failed to move her. I left it anyway, balanced on the pool edge over the old intake pipe that had once filled the pool with ocean water. I’d tried food — which she didn’t eat — and medicine — which she didn’t take — and I’d dragged other people there, doctors and psychologists, every sort of therapist I could think of. They all shrugged and turned away, weariness etched into the small sloping shelves of shoulders. “She’s a great deal better off than most of them,” said one. “Even the plastic … I suppose it’s a sort of therapy. And I’m sorry, but we just don’t have the beds.”
I even brought her, once, the charred remnants of a ship’s wheel, picked out of the fire she’d set that night on the beach. I thought it might remind her. She’d stared at it for a long time, looked through it as if into a past ocean, and turned away.
“Sea Witch,” I said again. “Is there nothing I can do for you?”
She looked at me then, with empty eyes. “Can you bring it back?” she said.
It’s the one question they all ask, and the answer is always the same.
We met on an overseas trip, Marjorie and I. Both of us were travelers, and we both preferred to travel alone and make friends as we went. Truthfully, I wasn’t looking for a friend at the time — for the duration of the trip, I’d decided to consider them a distraction. I’d wanted to visit Palau for so long, to swim with the jellyfish for so long, that when I was finally able to go I wanted nothing to interfere with my focus. It was to be a concentrated experience, and one that might never come again.
Jellyfish Lake was a small saltwater lake clouded with migrating cnidarians. The golden jellyfish, isolated from the outside world, posed no danger to humans. Although they possessed the stinging organs of other jellies, theirs were so weak that people could swim through the soft, billowing clouds of them without fear. The jellyfish migrated through the lake during the day, and snorkelers could swim with them, with thousands of jellies, with millions of them, and see in their lovely, delicate forms the histories of another life. They pulsed around me like little golden hearts, shimmering in the surface layer of waters, and it was as close as I’ve ever come to religious communion. Insulated from the world above by water, it was as if the jellyfish and I were the only creatures alive that mattered, and their bells beat in time with my heart.
We weren’t allowed to do anything more than snorkeling. The lake was layered, and below the oxygenation of the upper waters, the thin surface of visibility, was hydrogen sulphide, which was toxic when absorbed through the skin. Moreover, the bubbles from scuba diving might have damaged the jellyfish, which was a reason more important to me than perhaps it was to the other tourists — with the exception of Marjorie.
“Though it’s funny,” she said afterwards, making conversation as our hair dried in ropes around us. “That danger beneath, and the way we refuse to go there. To see for ourselves. It would be stupid, I know, but how good are we at ignoring something that’s only a few metres away? Something close enough, almost, to reach out and touch?”
I paid small attention. Truthfully, I’d forgotten the toxic layer as soon as I saw the jellyfish around me, that enormous silent swarm. They were so beautiful, and so present, that anything that wasn’t them had been wiped clean out of me. I couldn’t think of anything else, and I