Being Here by Barry Jonsberg

what?’
    Lucy smiles. It is a ghostly thread within the darkness of her face.
    â€˜It’s a term my daughter favours.’
    â€˜â€œHardwired”? That’s ghastly. It makes me sound like a toaster.’
    â€˜Your petticoat is showing, Leah. Vocabulary is changing, as the world changes.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t take much pride in vocabulary that is an affront to good taste. Not all change is good.’
    The ghost smile flickers again.
    â€˜And what about your God, Leah?’ she says. ‘Doesn’t He make a difference to your feelings about mortality? I would think He should. I mean, what’s the point of having a God if it isn’t for times such as these?’
    I squeeze her hands. She is the closest I have ever had to a friend. Since Adam. The thought is almost too sad to bear. It is a eulogy on my life.
    â€˜Oh, God and I have a curious relationship,’ I say. ‘Sometimes I don’t believe in Him and sometimes He doesn’t believe in me. It’s something we are working through.’
    Lucy laughs. ‘It’s okay to be scared, Leah. It’s okay.’
    â€˜It will have to be.’
    Shadows paint the room. There is a lamp against the darkness, positioned behind Lucy; it bleeds pale light over institutionalised furniture. Somewhere, a clock ticks. Somewhere, a clock is always ticking.
    â€˜So do you not believe in God, Lucy?’
    She takes her time replying.
    â€˜I wouldn’t go that far. I think maybe I do. Or perhaps it’s as simple as hoping He exists. I was never a great fan of religion, Leah. All that earnestness and ritual. It always seemed like it was trying too hard. Do you know what I mean?’
    I do, but I don’t say anything. She rubs at her eyes.
    â€˜But now,’ she continues. ‘Now … I don’t know. It would be such a waste, wouldn’t it? If this was all there is. What would be the point? But, then again, that could simply be wishful thinking, now that time is running out. Maybe life is an exercise in futility. All of it is waste. Truth is, Leah, I don’t know. I guess the only certainty is we’ll find out.’
    She laughs, then continues.
    â€˜I used to have conversations like this when I was young. Just after the war, sitting in smoky bars. The meaning of life, the possibility of an existence beyond this one. I suppose, given what we had just lived through, it was understandable. But, God, we were all so earnest, like we were the only ones who’d ever thought such things throughout the course of human history. Such trite things. Predictable and unoriginal. And now, at the end, I come back to the banal. “I don’t know. I hope so. Maybe. But maybe not. Toss a coin.” I envy you, Leah. I envy your faith, your certainty.’
    It isn’t that. It isn’t that at all. How do I explain? I have lived with God all my years. He was the milk from my mother’s breast. Faith and certainty? It was the air I breathed. The root of my being. But dig long enough, mine to the heart of certainty, and there is always a core of doubt, nestling like a stone in the fruit of faith. I have spent years resisting the urge to examine my belief too closely. Because I am scared of what I’ll find.
    I wonder why I don’t tell Lucy my story. Now I have offended Carly, there is a good chance it will remain forever buried. I don’t think she will return. Why should she? What profit is there for her? I am old and I am rude. All I have to offer is a story she never wanted. I have nothing she needs. I have nothing she wants.
    And then I understand. It is simple.
    I cannot tell Lucy because I need my story to live a little while longer. When I die I want it to have an existence beyond me. Lucy cannot offer it time. Carly can. It is her mind that will host it. It will bury itself there and each breath she takes will give it sustenance. Even if the recording fades, if it lies somewhere