The Unspoken

by Don Zelma

Chapter Forty-nine

  Someone moved in front of the window and Dan felt light flashing across his face. He could hear the noises of the ward and remembered where he was. His eyes slowly opened, he squinted in the sun, and saw Joe Judd across the room holding his cap, calmly looking out the window into the street.

  Joe slowly turned and saw him. ‘Hey, Danny,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Hey,’ Dan said with a weak voice.

  Joe looked back out the glass. He remained still for a moment. ‘I came to see you this morning,’ he said. ‘But you were fast sleep.’

  Dan winced in the light. ‘I can’t see you, lad,’ he said. ‘Move away from the window.’

  Joe turned and slowly walked towards the bed. Dan listened to his footsteps and followed him until he stopped at the foot of the bed. He was painted in orange light from the window and squeezed in between the bed and the wall. He slowly sat on a chair and Dan noted his large, sasquatch-like shadow on the white paint.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Dan said. He felt very weak and unable to stay awake long.

  ‘Try not to talk so much,’ Joe said. His elbows rested on his knees and he put a hand on the bed. Dan worked his fingers free from under the sheet, laying them close by. Joe calmly looked around the room and eventually squinted in the light.

  ‘Quiet little place you got here.’

  ‘I guess,’ Dan whispered.

  Joe turned and looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Except everyone here has little time left,’ Dan said.

  Joe looked at him and his eyes moved slowly across his face. He waited then looked down at his cap. ‘It’s not so easy seeing you like this,’ he said then was silent for some time.

  A wall clock ticked softly in the room.

  ‘Hey, where’s Ned?’ Dan asked. ‘Is he working?’

  Joe showed no emotion. ‘You haven’t heard, have you?’ he said.

  Dan waited, gazing at him. ‘No. I haven’t.’

  Joe looked down and began bending the peak of his cap. ‘Ned’s gone,’ he said calmly.

  Dan hesitated. ‘Where?’

  Joe reached up and nervously scratched his ear. ‘No, Danny,’ he said. ‘I mean, he’s dead.’

  Dan just stared. The comment didn’t make sense.

  ‘The cops went to his house,’ Joe said, ‘and Ned came out with a gun. He wounded a copper.’

  Joe slowly looked away at the door and Dan knew it was true. He glanced down at his feet making tents under the sheet. He slowly shook his head, exercising the image of Ned’s lifeless body on the ground. He squeezed his eyes and felt his face contorting. A tear popped out, trickle down his temple and his throat began to tighten.

  ‘Why’d he do that?’ he said. He looked up at the ceiling. A tear dangled from his earlobe and he could feel the cold line down towards his jaw. He did not have the energy to wipe it. His heavy head turned towards the window and he looked at the light.

  ‘You know,’ Joe said casually, ‘after you left in the ambulance, Ned told me he had a crazy idea. He wanted to break you out of the hospice. He said no man should live caged like that.’

  Dan knew what Ned meant. Another tear leaked from his eye.

  ‘Gettin’ me out wouldn’t have made any difference,’ he said. He looked up at the ceiling, ‘I’m dead. There’s nothing surer.’ He was feeling weak and began to cough. He coughed and continued coughing, his head bouncing up and down on the pillow. The attack lasted almost a minute. After it passed he was so exhausted he knew there was little time.

  Joe looked down at his hat. ‘Danny,’ he said, gently picking at his cap, ‘the stuff Ned was going through… I kind of felt something, but there was nothing I could do, you know. Everyone has their own story.’

  Dan gazed at the white paint, void of expression.

  Joe calmly looked over his shoulder at the reception. Two young nurses were chatting and one looked up at him. She smiled and looked away.

  ‘I was talking to them while you were sleeping,’ he said. ‘I got her number.’ He looked back at Dan and almost smiled. ‘I guess some things never change.’

  Dan studied the fissures of his face then the stubble on his chin. He pictured Ned again and felt he had failed them both. He bit his lip, sniffed and started to cry. His tears began running down his temple and he heard their quiet pattering on the pillow.

  ‘Don’t get soft,’ Joe said. ‘Ned wouldn’t like you getting soft about him.’

  Dan looked at him and slowly shook his head. ‘It’s not just him,’ he said. ‘I still don’t understand you boys. And I still don’t know why my son committed suicide.’ He reached up and wiped his face with the back of his wrist. He cleared his throat and slowly touched Joe’s hand. ‘What happened to my son, Joe?’

  Joe slowly turned away. He didn’t really want to talk. ‘The truth is…’ he said, ‘I don’t know, Danny.’ He paused and looked at Dan. ‘Before the night of the accident it hadn’t rained in six months and roads are slippery in the first wet. Maybe it was deliberate, but the fact is – you’re never going to know. Some things are just too private to talk about, you know?’

  Dan looked up at the ceiling and swallowed. Joe was dead right.

  Dan could hear Ruth’s heels coming up the hall. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or if it was real. She appeared at the door and he sniffed and blinked his tears free. She saw Joe sitting beside the bed and did not want to enter.

  ‘Well,’ Joe said. He looked at Dan. ‘I guess that’s my cue.’

  Dan waited then slowly nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps that’s it for now,’ he said.

  Joe lifted his chair and slowly stood. He waited, standing against the wall, then reached out and shook Dan’s hands. Dan felt his immense grip for the last time.

  Joe smiled warmly. ‘Don’t worry about us,’ he said. ‘Everything will be OK.’ He smiled, turned and slowly walked towards the door. He passed Ruth, nodded respectfully, and disappeared into the hall. Dan heard his boots walking away.

  Ruth watched him go then slowly stepped into the ward. She wandered up to the bed, very emotional but trying to be brave. Her small fingers rested on the back of his hand – the hand he had wriggled free for Joe.

  But he felt safe again, like he was back behind the screening hibiscus.

  Ruth started quietly singing a prayer and he closed his eyes. He thought about the old house – so much had happened there – and began listening to his breathing. In a few short seconds he started to feel OK…

  …Dan began dreaming – he was walking out of the hospice doors. He glanced back at the building and smiled. He walked quickly because he was getting away, even skipping momentarily, happy with his new-found ability. There was no hiss of the oxygen tank and he could breathe, smelling the eucalyptus in the warm air. He walked for a long time, enjoying the warm evening, and over the minutes witnesses the sun slowly dip beyond the tin roof horizon. Suddenly, he was approaching the lights of Lamington Bridge and saw the river heavy with summer rain. He was very content and slowly crossed the bridge, scaled the levee and saw the fields visible from his house. It was his favourite place and he stopped for one more look before continuing. He remembered the many evenings, watching the fires’ glow from his balcony, and recalled how his thoughts had always drifted away, like a camper watching a fire at night. It was twilight and twenty minutes before dark. The tractor towing the water cart approached from a distant field and he could see it was the usual father and son. They slowly pulled up at a block and he watched the son prepare his drip torch and the father the hose of the tank.

  The rural blackness slowly descended and Dan lost sight of the pair. He looked down, unable to see the ground as if he was suspended in space. Somewhere, out in the cane, he heard the farmer call out, looking for his son. He listened to the boy calling out from the cane, as if in great pain.

  He slowly shook his head. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he said, ‘there are so many wounded people out there, so many stories like Jay’s, Ned’s and Joe’s; Lola’s an
d Ofelia’s.’

  He remembered his role a counsellor and suddenly felt a great heaviness in his heart. He guessed, during his journey, he hadn’t even scratched the surface and now, with him gone, there would be no one for people to confide in, no one to share their secrets.

  ‘Let me not move on,’ he prayed. ‘Please, let me stay.’

  Then he thought he heard a voice – perhaps it was the an effect of the morphine. ‘Don’t worry, Daniel,’ he was told. He looked up and stared at the night sky. ‘It was like this before you arrived, and will continue after you have gone.’

  Dan had hoped for a happy ending, but now knew he wasn’t going to get it.

  ‘Remember this,’ he heard, ‘in life your deepest wounds are always nursed alone.’

  After a career of counselling Dan knew the voice was most certainly correct.

  ‘Yes, Lord – you’re right, you’re right. It is time I, too, took my advice and learned to let go. It is just how things are outside the hibiscus and there is nothing more for an old man like me to do.’