The Barbara files. She was funny, brave, dangerous and beautiful. You didn't ask her a question twice. She never asked a question she didn't know the answer to. Her best friend was a police officer from the old days. "I used to catch 'em and Barbara would lock them up" she would say. There was a photo of her after she won her first case, long brown hair sans gown and wig, sitting in a chair smiling, enormous slit up the side of her skirt, heels, fierce and knowing smile. The Cousin thought it was risqué, louche even. It sat, in The Matriarch's house, on the wall of love & pride, where all of our graduation and wedding photos lived.
She was smart and brave and brilliant but she was not well. She was plagued, her whole life, by a disease that wanted to kill her, by a disease that told her she didn't have it. After years of incidents, Christmases of dodgy boyfriends and bottles of vodka in the Chanel handbags everyone else knew she had it. She kept it in remission for many years, was strong, didn't speak about it to any of us. Showed up to Christmas with her alcohol free champagne, acerbic wit in place, to everyone's unspoken relief.
She lost her mother in the spring time. Estelle was a beautiful creature, graceful in every way. She died really old, I still don't understand why none of us were 'ready' for it or dealt with it terribly well. Barbara went into a manic state. One night things were bad and she picked up, or she picked up because things were bad, or something like that. That was just the nature of the disease.
She left a bunch of vitriolic messages on everyone's voicemail around midnight. I was given the invidious task of telling my mum. We were having a cappuccino when Nicky called. My mum couldn't get her head around it. When we reached home mum heard all the messaged through thick and tangled sobs. "Why??" she asked. "What is she saying?" She replayed the messages a few times.
"You don't need to know" I said, pressing 'delete'. My mum disliked her sister for the disruption and unrest she had caused over the years, but she loved her still. Barbara left several messages that night, for several people, none of them nice or warm.
Her husband was sleeping in a different room at the time. He found her hanging from the light fitting in the morning. The funeral was a dry and subdued affair. There was a whole lot not to speak about.
