Vigil

CW: Death, illness

The candlelight is restless tonight. On the wall, above the oil lamps, shadows dance over the icons’ faces. The Saints frown, severe and judgmental. 

Another candle melts slowly in its saucer on the nightstand. Grandma turns in her sleep. 

I took the night watch, lying in a bed across from her, while Mom and Grandpa rest in the other rooms. The air smells like smoke, medicine, and incense. 

My aunt will come tomorrow. My cousin, after she takes her last exam at the Uni. Three of Grandma’s sisters will be here with their families by the end of the week. One of her brothers arrived today and already visited, spending all fifteen minutes teasing her for getting ill before him. He then went outside to talk to Grandpa while turning his hat in his hands until it looked like a crumpled rag. The other brother needs to fly home with his son. He told us he hopes to make it in time, as the next flight is in four days. 

Grandma is the youngest of them all.

She turns again, mumbling something. I sit up in my bed, watching her closely in the dim light. The old ticking clock shows it’s 3 am. 

Dying without a candle makes the Saints cry, she told me when I was little. Fire lights the way to the other world. Without it, the soul becomes trapped in the in-between, destined to wander endlessly and without peace. I hope that when the time comes, Grandma finds her peace. 

“Mommy,” she calls suddenly. Her voice is crystal clear, nothing like this morning's strained raspiness, when she could barely talk. She sounds younger too, much younger than I remember her from my childhood. 

“Granny?” I whisper. “Do you want some water?” 

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are still closed. I realize she was talking in her sleep. 

“Daddy. Mommy. Tatyana. Matei. Vasylika. And the kids. The kids. You’re all here.” Her fingers move over the blanket as if counting. “Five I gave you. Oh, they’re beautiful.” 

I sit still and listen. No window is open, and it’s the middle of August, but a cold gust of air, like a veil, brushes my skin. In its wake, goosebumps rise on my arms. 

Grandma dreams on. She calls many other names. She talks to them; tells them about events from before I was born. About the land she worked and lost, about the soldiers who took everything twice. She tells them about her three children who survived. Mom is one of them. She talks about this year’s crops, about the new priest in the village, and about us, her nieces. How beautiful we are, and how smart too, studying in the big city. No hard life for us, God willing, she says. 

 I should light another candle on the nightstand. This one spends itself too quickly. 

“Granny, who are you talking to?” I whisper again, afraid to startle her. I heard it’s not good to wake people in the middle of a vivid dream. 

I check her temperature. What if she’s delirious from fever? 

My hand pulls back as soon as I touch her forehead. She is cold as ice. Her eyes, sunk in their sockets and still closed, move rapidly under her thin eyelids. 

Above her bed, a gallery of glass-framed photographs covers the wall. Most of them are black and white. Here and there, my cousin and I, in color. When I was little, I used to examine the sepia photos and ask Granny about the people in them. I recognize my mom as a teenager, my aunt in her factory uniform, and my uncle in his wedding photo. 

The biggest and oldest one depicts Grandma’s family: her mother, father, and all nine of her siblings. And she, of course. One of her brothers died in the war. Her mother caught typhoid fever; her father had a heart condition just like her. Two sisters left this world when they were just eighteen and nineteen. Younger than I am now. What were their names? 

I light another candle just as the first one dies. Instead of replacing it on the nightstand, I move it closer to the photo. The glass reflects the light, but by placing it just so, I can distinguish all the names written in the corner. 

“Tatyana. Vasylika. Matei.” I barely utter the words. 

Granny’s eyes fly open. 

“They’re not here for you.”

I jump back, almost dropping the candle. Grandma fixes me with her stare. My throat works, but no sound comes out. 

“Quiet, girl! Don’t call them. You’re not ready to go yet,” she says, then her gaze shifts to something behind me. Her eyes widen. The chilly breeze is back, seeping through my shirt. Cold fingers caress the nape of my neck; my hair blows in my face. I am frozen on the spot. My breath fogs the air, and the candle in my hand flickers wildly. 

 On the walls, shadows dance and run. The people from the photographs move. Their bodies grow bigger, their limbs lengthen, their mouths open wide, agape in silent screams. The icons watch, useless. 

Heavy invisible shrouds fall over my shoulders, weighing me down; the walls are closing in; my ears pop with pressure, as if I’m sunk underwater.  

“She is not yours!” Grandma shouts. She pushes out of bed with unnatural strength, hastily makes a cross in front of my body, and the last thing I see is her thin hands snuffing out the candle. 

*****

In the morning, I wake up in the bed across from Grandma. She sleeps peacefully, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The sun is barely rising, but I feel like I’ve been sleeping for many hours. The ticking clock has stopped at 3. My body feels foreign and hurts as if it’s been pricked by thousands of needles. I stumble out of bed, my uncoordinated legs almost tripping me. My throat is sandpaper dry. I can’t clear my head. 

Mom comes into the room. She checks on Grandma, takes her pulse, and tucks her in. 

“How was last night? Everything alright?” She asks. I nod, unable to talk. What would I say anyway? That Grandma talked to her dead in her sleep? That I almost died? Was that what happened? In the bright light of day, what I experienced last night seems impossible. 

I must have been dreaming too. 

Mom busies herself tidying up and opens the windows to let in fresh air.

The photographs look normal again. The two candles on the nightstand are burned out.  

“That’s strange,” Mom says, examining the lamps. “There’s soot everywhere. Maybe the oil has gone bad. I’ll change it.” She brings them down from the icons and exits the room. I step closer and look at the Saints’ faces. They are not frowning anymore. Instead, black tears stream from their eyes.