Free The Disappeared by Vernon William Baumann Page B

A suffocating decades-old Waltz of apathy – consisting of the same
old steps repeated ad nauseam in mindless repetition.
    That
evening as a restless Estelle watched the bland flickering images on her TV in
its cabinet with the tapered legs she felt the same way. She wished for Lindiwe’s
company but she knew the young girl was in her caravan reading. Lindiwe never
watched TV. For a brief moment, Estelle felt like going to the backyard and
spending some time with her. In the short period that she had been there,
Lindiwe had become precious to her: a daughter. But she didn’t want to bother
her. Not tonight. Tomorrow was a special day. Lindiwe’s first milestone. Six
months was a long time for anyone. But especially for a recovering alcoholic.
She was proud of her and she wanted it to be a special day. Three weeks of planning
and collusion with Lily had ensured it would be.
    The evening
news played out behind the ancient ashen anchor with the striking chestnut wig.
It wasn’t just the soapie. Estelle felt her restlessness grow. And with it an
inability to concentrate on anything the old Pioneer television flashed at her.
Eventually she stood up and switched off the TV – the Pioneer was purchased in
a time when there were no remotes – and closed the cabinet doors. Then she drew
the curtains and made sure all the doors to the house were locked. She walked
the stairs to the top floor.
    Already the
emphysema was choking her lungs with a thousand tiny strangleholds. She paused
as she reached the landing, trying to force oxygen into the damaged alveoli.
    How was
that for irony? Estelle had seen a thousand of them. The old tannies ( Afrikaans ladies ) with Courtleigh Satin Leaf or Dunhill Menthol dangling from
their quivering lips. Forty sticks a day – for thirty, forty years. They die of
tumours, diabetes, pneumonia, complications arising from a horde of conditions.
Everything except smoking. And here she was – not a cigarette in her entire
life and she couldn’t walk even a dozen steps without clutching at her chest.
She paused a moment longer, then entered her large bedroom. She sat down on the
double-bed and reached for the oxygen mask on the bed stand. The mask hissed to
life as she turned the knob on the bright green oxygen tank, nestled in its
trolley next to her bed. Estelle placed it over her mouth and lay down on the
quilt on top of her bed. She relaxed as the sweet gas inflated her lungs.
    It was
early still. She thought of reading her Bible but her early restlessness had
transformed into tiredness and she just lay there appreciating the life-giving
gas. She turned the flow down – as low as it could go without ceasing altogether
– and stared at the ceiling as loose smoky thoughts drifted through her mind.
    And then
she fell asleep. The oxygen mask still clasped over her mouth. Hissing ever so
softly.
    Then.
Suddenly. She was awake. The world was swimming before her eyes. Bright painful
explosions of light obscured her vision. She was retching blood. And the mask
was strangling her.
    Dear God. What
was happening? What in God’s name ...
    Then.
    The light faded
into a splotchy darkness. And she gave up.
    Much much later – through serrated edges of light – she saw them. Strange shapes. Alien
and foreign. She watched them. Watched them as they came to get her.
     

Chapter Five
     
     
6:35
     
    Lindiwe walked
briskly. The soles of her leather sandals tapped an anxious rhythm on the rough
tar of Marula Street. She walked past the auto-shop owned by Mr McIntyre and
then turned the corner. She cut a quick shortcut through the old Shell filling
station – also owned by him. As she crossed the cracked and oil-stained
concrete she noticed the premises were empty but gave no thought to it. There
were much bigger things on her mind.
     The sun was
already up but lay shrouded behind the thick cloud cover. There was a pallid
grey hue that clung to everything. The pretty main street of Bishop, usually