Dark Oasis

by Dulcie M. Stone

  Stepping from the shadows of the church into the stark sunlight at Jake’s side, watching the coffin slip into the hearse, she impatiently counted down the decreasing minutes until she could again escape.

  Rolling clouds of red dust stirred by car wheels jouncing over the deeply rutted unmade road, stained the white-hot sky. Creeping through the haze, the solemn line of cars advanced towards the tall sentinel pines that circled the outlying cemetery.

  Having rejected Belleville Funeral’s limousine, Jake was at the wheel of the Mercedes. She was at his side, their children in the back seat.

  She shivered.

  “Mum!” Jess was alarmed. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course she’s not,” Jake snapped. “How could she be?”

  “I just thought …”

  “It’s your grandfather’s funeral!”

  Alison nudged her sister. “Shut up, Jess. You’re only making it worse.”

  Despite exhaustion from the long journey, the inescapable tension of temporarily reunited family, and the unbearable desperation to return to her quest, she’d dressed carefully; no one should be permitted to guess her turmoil. Not a hair was out of place, not a tiny flaw marred her grooming and not a single wrinkle crumpled her elegant black dress.

  “Are you okay, Mum?” Jess fruitlessly repeated.

  “You mustn’t worry, Jess.”

  Jake turned into the car park, assisted his wife from her place and escorted his family to the graveside where Amy was with Ryan and the officiating priest.

  Opening his prayer book, the white-robed Anglican dolefully intoned the lesson. The dehydrated pines bristled, the late sun fired the dead horizon, a lonely bird chirruped, and the slick mechanical device powered the coffin into the yawning hole at their feet.

  As the bugle ended the haunting Last Post, the two hundred and more mourners relaxed, turned from the grave, and ambled in solemn groups back to the car park. Amy lingered, until Phoebe and Jake escorted her to the waiting car.

  She stole a glance at her watch.

  Angus took her arm. “This way, Mum.”

  “Not yet.”

  “We should be getting back to the house with Gran,” Jess urged.

  “Not yet.”

  “Dad’s waiting,” Alison warned.

  “You go on ahead.”

  “But, Mum!”

  “Would you please leave me alone.”

  “I’ll talk to Dad,” Alison whispered to Jess. “Something’s wrong.”

  Turning away, she walked between the headstones of the older graves. If Rick had died, this was where she’d expected him to be.

  But he wasn’t here. She’d looked. Often. Unless she’d somehow missed it. As so many times before, she examined each inscription on each Anglican headstone of the last two decades. He could have been cremated, or buried somewhere else. In the religious world, suicides were taboo. She’d never asked. But today she must look one more time. Before she went back to Sydney and the battle she intended to fight, she must be absolutely certain he was not here.

  Jess and Jake followed her.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Jake was furious.

  She ignored him.

  He grabbed her bare arm.

  “You’re hurting.”

  “For God’s sake, Gail. Pull yourself together.”

  “Let go of me!”

  His grip tightened.

  “Dad! You’re hurting her!”

  He released her. “You must stop this, Gail. Get back to the car.”

  Ignoring him, she closely inspected each fading inscription.

  “What’s wrong with her, Dad?”

  “I’m damned if I know. Go back to the car, go on home with Gran. Tell Alison and Angus I’ll get there as soon as I sort this out.”

  “If you’re sure? What’ll I tell everybody?”

  “Tell them the cemetery reminds her of her parents. I’ll be there soon. Tell Gran I’ll be there soon.”

  Reluctantly, Jess left.

  “Whatever’s going on, Gail,” Jake ordered, “Get over it. I’ll be waiting in the car. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  Rick was not here, he’d never been here. Where was he? Was he still alive? What was the truth? Who would tell her the truth? Had Gus known? He’d said nothing. Could he have told her? She returned to Gus’s open grave.

  “Gail!” Jake had driven the car through the gates. “Gail! Get in!”

  The car horn blared. The red sky was purpling, the light dimming. She’d learned nothing here, she hadn’t expected to. But moving was impossible, even moving to Jake’s commands.

  The sound of a quickly approaching car, its speed an unsettling intrusion, shattered the silence. From the distance, a cloud of red dust raced across the unmade road until it halted in a fiery balloon at the cemetery gates.

  Jake called, “Get a move on, Gail. The workmen are here.”

  The dust cloud thinned.

  Doctor George Walker, having left his dark blue Jaguar in the car park, was walking through the gates.

  “George!” Jake strode to meet him. “I thought you were the diggers.”

  “Sorry I missed the service. This was more important.”

  “The family’s expecting you at the block.”

  “How’s your mother bearing up?”

  “You know Mother.” Jake frowned. “It’s not her we’re worried about.”

  “I see your wife’s still here.”

  “Did the girls talk to you? She’s …”

  “George!” A blue-suited man opened the Jaguar’s passenger seat door. “Is that Jake?”

  She turned from the grave. The passenger’s voice – lightly crisp, clipped vowels, sibilant consonants!

  “Excuse me,” George Walker returned to the car, spoke to his passenger, and called back, “Take your wife home, Jake.”

  “What the hell have you done?” Jake surged forward.

  “It’s okay.” George Walker barred his way. “He wanted to say goodbye to his father.”

  “He doesn’t know his father.”

  “He wants to see the grave. We thought coming back might jog his memory. We drove around town a bit. Nothing …”

  “Jake!” The passenger exited the car. “You’re still here.”

  He was alive.

  Thin and grey and frail, the smooth flesh of his face tautly stretched on sculptured bones, the full mouth sweet and innocent, he might once have been Jake’s twin.

  “Are you Jake’s wife?” Though he spoke softly, the clipped vowels and the sibilant consonants were achingly familiar. And his questioning eyes were without guile. A child’s eyes.

  She tried to speak and heard no sound. She reached out, to touch him.

  “You’re a very pretty woman. Jake’s a lucky man. I’m happy to meet you.” He took her hand. A child’s response, courtesy to a stranger.

  His skin was parchment thin, the bones arthritic; a fragile hand.

  “My father’s death has shaken you,” he sympathised. “I am sorry. I should not be keeping you out here.”

  Her hand still rested in his. By the light of the dying sun she searched his face and saw only innocence and concern for the sister-in-law he’d just met.

  He released her. “It was nice meeting you.”

  He must remember! She’d make him remember. She reached out.

  He stepped back, the response of a stranger.

  Not to discomfort him, she withdrew her outstretched hand.

  “I am sorry.” He was formally polite. “We should not be keeping you out here.”

  “I’ll get her back to the house.” Jake took her arm. “Will we see you there, Rick?”

  “No,” he answered. “Not at the house. George says there will be too many people. I’d like to have seen Mother.”

  “Don’t let it bother you, Rick,” George Walker reassured.

  “It does bother me,” he gently scolded. “I should see Mother.”

  “You will. You’ll see her in a f
ew months. She’ll keep up her visits. You know that. We’ve talked about that, Rick.”

  “Then you’re not considering coming home to live?” Jake asked.

  “I’m sorry, Jake,” he was quietly resolute. “I can’t. My home is there.”

  “Times have changed, Rick,” George Walker suggested. “Perhaps you should reconsider? Your place could be here, with your family.”

  “My family is not here.” Though he was gentle he remained, as a moment ago, uncompromising.

  She must delay him. “You have a family in Sydney, Rick?”

  His serene eyes, innocent and polite and distant, met hers. “A community house, yes. There are several of us. We are family.”

  The hot evening was chill; she was shaking.

  “Your wife is cold, Jake,” Richard Campbell was solicitous. “You shouldn’t keep her standing around.”

  Jake balked. “Why have you come here, Rick? To the grave?”

  She quailed. Jake was confronting, offensive.

  “To say goodbye to my father,” Rick readily responded. “Though I still don’t remember him. They thought it might stir my memory. It doesn’t.”

  She must delay him. “I don’t understand,” she asked. “You remember Jake, but not your father?”

  “I’m sorry,” he was confused. “I don’t know your name. Do you mind?”

  “No..” A lie.

  A terrible lie. He should know her name. He should know her. Did she mind? She wanted to take him in her arms and tell him the truth. She wanted to take him out of here. She wanted to care for him, no matter what the cost, no matter who she lost, what she lost. He was her life. He should know it.

  “I’m sorry I don’t remember.” His eyes were vaguely troubled.

  “Have I upset you?”

  He’d walked into the cemetery looking only for memory of his father. Nothing more. He did not even know there was more. He was at peace.

  “No, Rick,” she lied. “You haven’t upset me.”

  Satisfied, he turned to the doctor. “Where’s Father’s grave, George?”

  George Walker led his docile patient to his father’s grave.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Jake led her to the car, gunned the motor, spun urgent wheels in the churning dust, and flew from the cemetery.

  Looking back, peering through the dust haze, she saw doctor and patient kneel at the open wound between the lonely headstones.

  He is alive and I see him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Mercedes slipped across the uneven dust and out onto the highway. Dusk quickly turned to night. The headlights lit thin scrub, a skittering rabbit, a kangaroo’s eyes, a shuttered wayside fruit stall.

  An oncoming car angrily sounded its horn. Jake belatedly lowered the glaring headlights. He, too, was shaken. They’d not spoken. There was much to be said – but not yet. She must be very cautious. He must not suspect she was not surprised to see Rick alive. He must not suspect she knew why Rick had no memory. He would be expecting her to be outraged, to ask questions, to react – to say something, to do something. She must. But not yet. She couldn’t trust herself. The consequences of a single miscalculated word could be catastrophic. She must speak. But then, so must he. Why didn’t he?

  She needed time. She needed time to fully comprehend what had just happened. In the few moments at the cemetery gate, her life had ended. Nothing would be the same again. He is alive and I have seen him. He is alive and he does not know me.

  She’d seen him for the last time. To be with him, she’d wanted to sacrifice everything, money, power, security, even Jess. But the sacrifice had been to leave him in peace, to let him go. And so she’d let him go. She’d finally done what she should have done when he’d first asked her to. If she had listened, would it have made a difference? Of course it would.

  The house was brightly lit. Tables were loaded with refreshments, the rooms filled with guests from faraway places, rowdy children, chattering women, boozing men. Prospective buyers of the property unashamedly mingled with the mourners. Jake’s priority – the buyers. Amy, Ryan and Phoebe, performing as was expected of them, had temporarily suspended grief.

  Time. She needed time. Meanwhile she resolved, as ever, to play their game. From her seat in Amy’s crowded lounge-room, she endured the wake with agonising impatience. She had to speak to Amy, but when? Amy was not talking to her and Jake, who’d still made no attempt to discuss the revelation at the cemetery, was being careful to keep them apart. When she offered to help in the kitchen, he told his mother and Phoebe she was ill. It was true.

  She shouldn’t have come. Sitting in this room where she’d first seen Rick, unable to entirely accept the harrowing choice she’d just made, she was ill. Sitting in this room, hating the hearty boozers and the country cousins and the tight-knit family, she wondered if she’d ever outwit Jake.

  While he played the room with ease, her children hovered nervously. Acutely aware that their mother’s inexplicable distress had not abated, they built a protective screen around her. Even Alison warded off intrusive strangers, courteously coped with well-wishers, and turned away solicitous waiters.

  Jess squeezed into the seat at her side. “You should have gone straight home from the cemetery, Mum.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You keep saying that,” Alison protested. “But you’re not. Anyone can see you’re sick.”

  “Stop fussing, Alison. I’m not sick.”

  “Have it your way.” Alison was enviously watching her friends on the outside lawns.

  “Why don’t you join them?” she snapped. “Don’t waste your precious time on me!”

  “I should be here with you. You’re …”

  “I’m not sick!”

  “Sh!” Angus was embarrassed.

  Too late. The outburst had alerted Jake.

  Swiftly negotiating the crowd, he confronted Angus. “What’s going on?”

  “Mum’s sick. She should be home.”

  He looked at his watch, at his children, but not at her.

  “Take her home, Dad.”

  “I can’t leave. I’ll be hours yet. She can take the car. I’ll get Ryan to drop us off later.”

  “She’s not well enough to drive,” Jess protested.

  “Jess’s right,” Alison agreed.

  “I’m not sick! Give me the damned keys!” Shakily, she eased from the chair.

  “You’ve been drinking!”

  “Give me the keys!”

  “Sh!” Angus begged.

  Jake took the keys from his pocket.

  “Mum shouldn’t drive!”

  “She hasn’t been drinking!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me!”

  “I don’t think you should drive, Gail.” Acutely conscious of a gathering audience, Jake was superficially conciliatory. “You’re not at all well.”

  Careful! She lowered her voice. “Give me the keys, Jake.”

  He gave the keys to Jess. “Take your mother home.”

  “I can take care of myself, Jake.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  “Meaning?” Momentarily off balance, he was preparing for battle. Even here. Even now.

  ‘No, Jake! Not yet. Not here. Not in this room.’ Turning away, she strode past the intrigued spectators, and outside to the car.

  Jess caught up with her. “I’m coming with you, Mum.”

  “You don’t have to. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She drove slowly. The headlights probed ghostly shadows that held only his face. And Jake’s face. The purring motor hummed and she heard only his voice, Jake’s voice.

  Pulling to the roadside, she turned the driving over to Jess. The car sped through mid-evening Belleville and stopped in the driveway of the two-storey mansion on River Drive.

  “I didn’t expect you so early.” Flo was at the
front door. “What’s wrong?”

  “Talk to Jess. I’ll be in my room.”

  “Are you all right? Can I get you …”

  “I’m all right!”

  He is alive and I have seen him. Why didn’t he remember? How could he not remember? Because of the lobotomy? Was it truly so simple?

  Why hadn’t she confronted him? Because she loved him? Because she’d betrayed him?

  He is alive and I will not hurt him.

  The telephone at her side jangled.

  Jake! He’d not been prepared to discuss Rick. Why? Because he feared her reaction? Because he feared Rick would come home?

  She reached for the receiver, but did not lift it. She had to think. She had to try to think clearly and objectively.

  Jess’s gentle knock disturbed her.

  She opened the door.

  “You haven’t even changed!” Jess was worried.

  “I fell asleep.” Smooth smooth lies.

  “Dad’s been phoning. I told him you were asleep.”

  “I didn’t feel up to talking to him.”

  “I brought you a snack.” Jess set a tray on the bedside table. “You’ll feel better.”

  Iced lemonade and cheese crackers. “I’m not hungry. Really.”

  “You have to try, Mum.” Jess’s beautiful face. Guileless – Rick’s child. She sipped the icy drink.

  “You have to eat, Mum.”

  She obeyed.

  “See!” Jess was happy. “You are hungry.”

  “It doesn’t take much to make you happy, love.”

  “Why aren’t you happy, Mum?” Jess’s bright eyes clouded. “You’re almost never happy. Alison says.”

  “You take too much notice of what Alison says.”

  “It’s what Gran says, too.”

  “What does Gran say?”

  Jess backed off. “I shouldn’t. It’s not important.”

  “So why start this conversation?”

  Jess flushed. “Alison wants me to talk to you. She’s worried about you. We’re all worried about you.”

  “Because of what Gran told you!” Amy’s influence was powerful. “How long has this been going on?”

  “We’re all worried about you!”

  “You’re talking about me behind my back!”