“After all you did-” she began heatedly.
“Oh, come on!” Jarrod threw his hands out. “This old drivel again? Get a clue, Izzy, the world doesn’t revolve around you and your pathetic moaning and whining!”
Moira groaned. “Jarrod!” Quickly she stood, reached out to take Izzy’s hand. “Izzy, he doesn’t mean-”
“He does.” Izzy stepped back out of reach. “And I’m telling you now, my money is mine. All I have left is mine. You had several chances and your last cheap shot was taking what was mine after we’d all agreed. Then you lost that as well.”
Rolling his eyes, Jarrod flopped back on the sofa.
“You can be like that, Jarrod,” Izzy snapped. “But where were you two when I needed you? When Mum needed you?”
“I visited,” Moira said stiffly. “I brought food and stuff.”
“Stuff?” Izzy shook her head. “Whatever. Now get this. I’m not handing you one red cent. If I had the money I wouldn’t give you even a sniff.”
Jarrod’s head shot up, his eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you don’t have the money?”
“I’m saying no. You two can learn to look after yourselves. Here’s a helpful hint, Jarrod. And Moira. Get a job like everyone else and earn your way. It’s what we all do at the bottom of the pond.”
Jarrod leaped to his feet, the brandy in his glass sloshing dangerously. “You bitch!”
Swinging on her heel, Izzy made for the door.
“Think of me!” Moira wailed. “Your nieces! We’re family!”
Opening the door, Izzy looked over her shoulder. “The day we were family died the day the will was read. Goodbye. Don’t contact me again or I will get that restraining order.” Turning, she pointed at Jarrod’s furious face, Moira’s equally angry one. “And if I get a restraining order, I’m going to let everyone in the social circles you used to move in know why.” With that, she slammed the door behind her and walked down the pathway, forcing herself not to run.
Behind her she heard the crash of glass against a wall, Jarrod’s swearing, her nieces demanding to know when the money was coming, and Moira yelling at them to shut the hell up.
No way to bring up kids. But no way could Izzy interfere. They weren’t family to her.
Getting into her car, she willed her shaking hands to turn the key in the ignition and drive off. Only when she was well away did she pull over in a quiet car park of an equally quiet shopping centre, lean her forehead on the steering wheel and let the shaking consume her.
But she wouldn’t cry. Damn it, they couldn’t make her cry anymore.
She told herself this even as the tears spilled over. Leaning back in the seat, she wiped her eyes but more tears came. Swearing softly, she popped open the glove box and grabbed some tissues from the little packet she kept in there. Blotting the tears helped, but more replaced them.
Confrontations. How she hated them.
Taking a deep breath, she wound down the window for some fresh air, gulping it in gratefully, only to find herself face to face with Lora Dawson.
“Hi, Izzy.” Laying a work-roughened hand on the windowsill, Lora leaned down to look in at her. “Want to talk about it?”
Talk about mortifying discoveries. Her boyfriend’s mother finding her in an almost deserted car park blubbering and wiping her face.
“No,” Izzy replied, and burst into tears.
Completely unfazed, Lora said, “Okay. Now unlock the passenger door.”
It wasn’t like she could just refuse. Well, she could, but Lora’s acceptance of her answer was just…and the woman herself was just… Tears blurring her vision, unable to even pretend to be all right, Izzy flipped the switch and the passenger door unlocked. Lora walked around, opened the door, slid into the seat, and then just sat calmly looking out the windscreen at the traffic beyond the car park.
Self-consciously, Izzy tried to stop crying, wiping her eyes and casting sideways glances at her boyfriend’s mother. Geez, could it get anymore awkward?
The silence between them was broken by Izzy’s hiccups, the occasional sob, and finally her blowing her nose before dabbing one last time at her eyes with her sleeve, mostly because she’d run out of tissues. Stuffing the dirty ones in the little plastic bin bag hanging off the gearstick, she cleared her throat and sniffed.
“Feel better?” Lora followed the progress of a group of push-bikers riding down the street.
“Not really.” Izzy gave a small laugh.
“Sometimes that saying that a good cry makes it all better can be utter crap.”
That took Izzy by surprise.
“Whoever said that has never cried and then turned around to be in the same exact situation with no chance of change.” Resting her elbow on the windowsill, Lora trailed her fingertips along the handle above the passenger door.
“Sometimes it changes nothing.” Pulling the sleeve of the cardigan over one hand, Izzy picked at a loose thread.
“Every time my husband hit me, I’d cry in private.” Lora’s expression remained calm.
Surprised that Lora would broach that particular subject so soon, Izzy pulled the loose thread more, slipping her finger into the loop that formed.
“No point crying in front of people, they’d just tell me to walk away, to be my own woman. Those who have been through it, they know, they understand how hard it is to leave. How beaten down you become, how you start to believe that you’re as worthless as your old man tells you you are.” Lora shifted her arm, traced the windowsill with her finger.
Izzy saw now that her fingernails were short but painted a pretty pearl pink. Work-roughened hands with nail polish. Honest hands.
“You keep hoping that one day it’ll all get better, you tell yourself it will get better, you pray it will get better.” Lora’s face remained tranquil, her quiet voice steady. “And then one day you know it won’t and you’re planning on leaving, and then you get pregnant. And you don’t want to go back home pregnant and beaten, so you stay because now you’re having a baby and it will have to stop, won’t it? And it does…for awhile. The beatings stop, but abuse comes in so many forms.”
“It does,” Izzy agreed softly.
Lora still didn’t look at her. “People take and give abuse differently, Izzy. One person can take more verbal abuse than another, one can take more emotional abuse than another, some the violence. It’s all abuse that destroys us. Those who think they know better say we shouldn’t take it at all. But we’re all individuals. Abuse in all its different forms hurts each of us in all our individual ways.”
“I’ve never thought of it like that.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think. I married young with stars in my eyes, didn’t listen to my family, so why would I crawl back to them with my tail between my legs? No. And did I become used to the abuse? Would I be wrong if I said I came to accept it, to know when it was coming?” Lora tilted her head back ever so slightly. “No one can tell you what is right or wrong. No one can tell you what to do, make you do it. I could leave but mentally I wasn’t prepared. I grew accustomed to being beaten down, living my life in my own narrow little world, surviving day-to-day. Bringing up two sons, tied to the farm, tied to my husband through my boys. Should I have taken them away when they were younger? Yes. So why didn’t I? I wasn’t ready. Shamed, embarrassed, but not able to leave.” She rubbed her thumb along the door handle, her quiet voice drifting through the air, soothing Izzy though the subject was one that made her inwardly cringe.
“People mean well. They give you pamphlets, their cards with the numbers of services to help you, but you can’t bring yourself to ring them, can’t bring yourself to reveal your shame, your life, so you just keep going, keep your head down. And when you see your sons go down a pathway you wish they wouldn’t, you know you’re a coward for not leaving, for letting it happen.”
Izzy swallowed. What was she supposed to say? That Jason had turned out good even though the other son, Brand, hadn’t? So she stayed silent, twisti
ng the lose thread around her finger, unwinding it again.
“And then one day you see your husband in your son,” Lora murmured. “He raises his hand, he looks at you with that same expression, and it’s his father all over again. And you’ve failed.”
“Mrs Dawson, you didn’t fail-”
“My story, Izzy.” Reaching out, Lora lightly brushed Izzy’s hand away from the thread. “Don’t do that, dear, you’ll ruin your cardigan.”
It was the same thing her own mother would have done in Lora’s place, and it left Izzy both speechless and surprised. It was also, oddly, strangely comforting.
“Good girl.” Lora smiled slightly, looked back out the windscreen. “Jason came to my rescue. I’ll never forget his expression - the shock, the disbelief, the fury. My husband and Brand both beat Jason up, you know,” she added conversationally, as though it was nothing out of the ordinary. “I started seeing a change in Jason. He got into several fights with his brother over something he wouldn’t tell me. But this beating, it was brutal, unfair.”
Jason’s father and brother had beaten him up? Izzy blinked.
“He was beaten pretty badly. And then he waited until they were out and he grabbed me. We didn’t have to talk, didn’t have to say anything, we both knew we were finally leaving. On our way out of town he spotted Brand heading behind some shops, Jason knew he was going to threaten someone, someone he liked and admired, and he stopped and helped her. Got another beating, but he helped. My boy,” Lora said with quiet pride. “My good boy.” She stretched her neck from side to side to ease some hidden tension. “Jason checked out of hospital that same night and drove us all the way to the city with busted ribs and in so much pain, but he wouldn’t stop except for fuel and food until we got safely to Harris’s place. Our lives started again, new place, new beginnings, new hopes, and new direction.” Serenely, Lora linked her fingers on her lap. “My story.”
“I’m sorry,” Izzy said. “I mean it. But I’m glad it’s okay now.”
“Thank you, Izzy.” Lora smiled. “So am I.”
Wondering if Lora expected Izzy’s own story, Izzy started fiddling again with the loose thread. Confiding in people wasn’t easy for her. Oddly it kind of was with Jason, but then she hadn’t told him what had happened, thinking it too soon.
“Are you hungry?”
Surprised, she looked up to find Lora picking up her purse. “Um…”
“There’s a lovely little café on the other side of the car park that sells the most delicious curries and spaghetti and things. Not expensive, either.” She opened the car door. “Join me for a bite to eat, Izzy.”
It’d be rude to refuse, especially after Lora didn’t push for the reason behind Izzy’s tears and telling her own story, so Izzy nodded even though she felt more like going home, grabbing Arnie and curling up on the sofa for some mindless drivel on TV.
She was still wishfully thinking of home when they crossed the car park and entered the café. Lora led her to a table at the back of the room and sat down in one of the booths. Sliding onto the bench seat on the other side of the table, Izzy placed her shoulder bag beside her.
Not feeling very hungry, she opted for a toasted ham and cheese sandwich while Lora leisurely perused the menu before settling on the beef curry.
“Harris is going out tonight.” Lora handed the menu to the waitress with a smile. “No one to cook for, so I’ll have my hot meal now seeing as I’ll be home alone.”
“I like being home.”
“Your house looks cosy. I like what you’ve done with the garden.”
“It’s not the home I was supposed to have.” Izzy bit her lip. Cripes, she hadn’t meant to say that!
Chapter 8
“Really, dear?” That unruffled smile curved Lora’s lips.
Her face was lined, but the pretty woman she’d been when younger was more than evident. She had kind eyes but a direct gaze, and for the first time Izzy realised where Jason had gotten his hazel eyes for the exact same shade was right opposite.
Lora was quiet, pleasant, but something about her reminded Izzy of her own mother, and before she knew it the words were spilling out. “I was supposed to have Mum’s house when she died, our childhood home, but it had to be sold.”
Linking her fingers, Lora rested her hands on the table as though she had all the time in the world to listen.
About to start picking at the thread again, Izzy stopped, instead fisting her hands beneath the table and gently knocking her knuckles together in a soothing rhythm, tiny little bumps that no one would notice.
“My sister, Moira, married Jarrod. He had big dreams, came from a well-to-do family, and inherited his father’s company when his father retired. They had two girls. I guess we kind of grew apart, we didn’t see them often and when we did they always stayed elsewhere. They said the house was too small for them all, that they were just thinking of us, but I know it was because we weren’t good enough for them. That was okay, I didn’t mind.” And after the first initial anger and sorrow, Izzy really hadn’t cared. “Mum and I were happy doing our own thing. We lived in a big town, I worked at the local dress shop, and Mum cleaned homes. Gradually, however, she kept getting sick and…well…” Izzy shrugged, though the memory hurt more than she was prepared to show. “She had cancer. We went through radiation therapy, chemo, the usual things. Turned out she couldn’t be cured.” Izzy rubbed her knuckles together. “As she got sicker I had to cut my hours to care for her until finally I resigned altogether to become Mum’s full-time carer. But I cared for her, you know? She was my Mum.”
Lora nodded.
The waitress came and set their drinks before them.
Izzy continued. “A carer’s pension isn’t much but between Mum’s sick pension and my carer’s pension, we made ends meet. Moira professed to want to help but her idea of it was to bring an expensive cake now and again. Once she gave me a fifty dollar gift voucher for the supermarket. She couldn’t even get the groceries herself, just gave me the gift voucher.” Izzy stared at the cup of steaming tea, swirls of heat coming off the surface. “When Mum first started needing help Moira said she couldn’t do it, she lived too far away, had too many responsibilities, but that was okay, I’d manage. There was a great Palliative Care team who came and visited, and I got some respite volunteers in to sit with Mum while I shopped and did the banking.” Picking up a sugar packet, she ripped the top off and poured it into the tea.
Opposite, Lora serenely sipped her coffee, her gaze never once wavering.
“When the bills came rolling in, Mum called Moira and me together, and she said that she wanted the house to come to me. I was paying all the bills, the treatments and medicines had almost drained my bank account and hers. Moira was well off and was occupied with the girls. Mum said it was only fair I had the house as I had nothing behind me anymore. Moira agreed. She never paid one cent towards Mum’s care and I never asked. When it got really hard I thought Moira would at least be there to talk to, but she rarely visited or phoned. The girls - Mum’s own granddaughters - came only twice while she was sick, said they couldn’t stand the smell. Cancer isn’t pleasant, and sometimes it shows on the outside, not just the inside. The tumour…well, it didn’t treat Mum’s face well.” Memories. The pain, the medicine, the fear. The way it ate into her mother. “She got mets in the brain, became confused, agitated. Moira saw it, Jarrod saw it, they were horrified. I never saw them after that, they’d just ring once a week. Mum got worse, we coped. With help from the nurses and volunteers, the doctor, the oncologist, the Palliative Care specialist, we coped. Then Mum died.”
The waitress appeared, placed the food on the table and left.
Izzy looked at Lora. There was compassion in her eyes, kindness. “It wasn’t an easy death, not until they sedated her enough, got her pain and agitation under control. It took several days for her to die. She was so thin, a skeleton, her wound…” Izzy drew a deep breath, picked up the toasted sandwich, put it down, picked at a piec
e of cheese.
Taking a small spoonful of curry, Lora carefully blew on the hot surface while keeping her attention on Izzy.
“She died at three in the morning. The police came as it was a home death. Even though it was an expected death, they have to attend, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
Izzy nodded, tore off a piece of toast, crumbled it between her fingers. “I rang Jarrod and Moira. Jarrod was angry because I’d woken the girls with the phone ringing. Moira was upset but said they couldn’t come down straight away, they had an event the next night that they had to attend. Turned out it was dinner with influential friends.” Izzy stared unseeingly at the crumbs on the plate. “It took them five days to come up. I didn’t have many friends, caring for Mum had isolated me, and its funny how those you thought were friends kind of drift away when things aren’t so nice.”
Lora nodded understandingly.
“Guess you know, huh?” Izzy gave a small smile.
Lora smiled back. “Isolation can come from both our own doings and from circumstances out of our control. Yes, I do know.”
A feeling of camaraderie passed between them. Izzy felt better, making it easier to continue.
“Moira told me I could make the arrangements. She and Jarrod came the day of the funeral, they didn’t bring the girls, and they left right after the small afternoon tea we put on for those who came to the funeral - just a couple of Mum’s old friends, mostly the Palliative Care team, my old boss. I paid for the funeral. But there was home. I could go back home, walk in, feel Mum everywhere, see Mum everywhere, everything she had. It was comforting and sad all at the same time, but it was familiar and I was so glad that I had a home. The next time I saw Moira and Jarrod, they came for the reading of the will. Mum had left me the house as had been agreed, as I’d paid all the bills, cared for her. As she saw it, I’d given everything up for her.” Sadly, Izzy looked at Lora. “I'd do it again. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. No regrets.”
Briefly, Lora reached out, touched her work-roughened palm to Izzy’s hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. “I know you would. It’s who you are.”
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