by Jane Riley
When I was a child, Mum would have made me eat chocolate, and anything else sticky, gooey or messy, in the bath, if it had been deemed respectable and acceptable. But right then, it made little difference to her that I’d not been eating chocolate and that I had taken off my shoes and hadn’t damaged the inside of the coffin. She should have been pleased that I’d left no sign of my presence when I dislodged myself and that I had resolved to lose weight. Instead, she bemoaned who would eat her chocolate oat slices if I wasn’t going to. I told her to stop making them. She wasn’t happy. After dusting and distributing boxes of tissues around our rooms, she left and I googled ‘exercise for beginners’.
Yoga tickled my fancy. It required slow movement as opposed to high cardio exertion, employed stretching as the main activity and balance had always been one of my fortes. Wasn’t there a yoga studio nearby? I was sure I had seen a sign recently for one in the neighbourhood. And there it was. A lovely website with images of lithe brown bodies contorting into shapes I didn’t know were possible. I checked the timetable. There was a beginners’ class at lunchtime – soon – and a discount offer if you pre-bought ten classes. I imagined a sea of clothed bottoms mooning me in my discreet spot at the back of the class. I imagined my own bottom adorned in sweat-absorbing sports shorts the likes of which I’d not worn since high school. I decided to go for a stroll instead.
It took every ounce of self-discipline to avoid the kitchen when I walked in the door at half past six. To not think about the dribble of wine in the bottle in the pantry, the dips in the fridge and the cheese straws in a tin. I walked with determination to my bedroom and changed into an old T-shirt and long board shorts I’d not worn for at least two years. They were the only vaguely appropriate exercise attire I owned. I drank water from the tap in the bathroom – as thirsty as I was, I couldn’t risk entering the kitchen at any cost – and left the house, heading in the direction of a nearby park.
The heat of the day hadn’t dissipated and there was no wind. Only very occasionally did I wish I lived by the beach, and now was one of those times, which was ironic, considering I was wearing board shorts. But instead of a fresh sea breeze wafting inland I had to contend with still air thick with car exhaust, gusts of grime, Chinese takeaway fumes clawing at the footpath and tightly knit, paint-peeling buildings gasping skyward.
I should have gone the back way. Nevertheless, I pushed on, swinging my arms towards greenery and open space. I weaved my way through commuters just disembarked from a bus, dodged a large dog turd and avoided tripping on uneven pavements. Glancing down a laneway, I felt a pang of envy seeing tattooed teenagers kissing. It wasn’t their youth or their tattoos I particularly cared about. It was how long it had been since I had kissed. It didn’t bear thinking about. And yet here I was thinking about it. The barrenness of my lips, their lack of romantic attention, my mouth that was good only for consoling others, which was fine for everyone else, just not for me. It was a selfish thought, I know, but that’s what happens with envy. The only thing these thoughts were useful for was making me speed up, hurry away from the kissing teenagers and get my lungs working, my forehead sweating.
By the time I arrived at the park, I was so out of breath I sauntered in at a slower pace and found a bench to sit on. A girl who looked too young to be a mother pushed a baby on a swing while texting. A crisp packet flapped around in the sand at her feet. A light breeze had picked up and tickled the trees but did little to cool me down. I got up. I shouldn’t be sitting. I had weight to lose for Marie. I power-walked around the park’s perimeter and I thought back to what I could give her, having dismissed my previous ideas of a rose or a book.
What about jewellery?
I bought Claire a bracelet once. But that had been easy because she had pointed it out to me in a shop in the city and I went back to buy it for her without her knowing. It was a surprise of sorts. Then I bought Jean a brooch for her fifty-second birthday thirteen years ago. I spent hours googling brooches, unable to decide between an antique jewel-encrusted piece or something more modern. In the end, I gave up and went to the shops, taking Claire with me for support, even though she was as befuddled as I was.
‘I don’t like the pressure of having to choose,’ she said. ‘You’ve known her longer.’
‘Yes, but you’re a woman. You wear jewellery,’ I said.
‘Not brooches. No one wears brooches.’
‘That’s not the point. Jean loves them and wears one every day. She must have dozens.’
‘No one could ever accuse you of being thoughtless, Oliver,’ she said. ‘It’s admirable, you know.’
I remembered her words exactly, word for word. I looked at her then and felt saturated in warmth, as if I’d gone from standing in an air-conditioned cheese room to having my head in a heated pizza oven. That’s when I pictured us buying a ring together – Claire peering eagerly into the sparkling glass cabinets and me holding her hand, not bothered which one she liked, just that she was eager for one. It was a careless assumption, as it turned out, for I was to discover later that in Claire’s world you could be too thoughtful. When our relationship hung together by a thread like a coat button about to fall off, she said more words I remembered equally as accurately but wished I didn’t: ‘I like that you think of me, Oliver, but sometimes you care too much. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I feel suffocated by your niceness.’
That was the start of the end. There was no reneging on the nicety. That’s just who I was. Anyway, how could you complain about someone being nice? As Andy said, I was better off without her if she couldn’t handle niceness. Yet her comments had hurt, as any sort of criticism, warranted or unwarranted, does. Once it’s out in the world and seeded in your head, it’s hard to remove, like cooking oil stains on your favourite shirt. In hindsight, the whole affair really affected me and I retreated, sheepishly, from the world of relationships at age twenty-seven. Then, with Dad dying and my new business responsibilities, I had enough on my plate as it was.
Once before all of that, during Marie’s four-month dating hiatus during her beginnings at Clock & Son, I very nearly asked her out. It took me the first three of those months to realise I fancied her – that the sweaty palms and heart palpitations I was getting in her company were not indicative of some serious illness but a crush. I spent the next month concocting ways to ask her out. But it was my over-diligence in trying to come up with a sound dating opportunity as well as procrastination that made me miss out. Because not long afterwards she announced she’d met a guy – Henry – who appeared to be everything I didn’t think I was: spontaneous, charming, charismatic, good-looking, and she had fallen for him like a religious devotee falls to their knees in blind adulation. Those four months of in-between-ness was a lost opportunity I only realised in retrospect. It was a banging-your-head-on-a-wall moment. But only hypothetically. I met Claire a few months later and, even though I threw myself into that relationship with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, those feelings for Marie never entirely went away.
I was in a good rhythm now, my arms pumping and my legs at full stride. I clocked in at the swings twice and on my third circuit the girl with the baby had gone. I was the only one there. I continued for a fourth round, which sounded impressive and I was impressing myself, but in reality it was a small park and even the word ‘park’ was too inflated a word to use. It was more of a green space tucked between terraces like the hyphen between two words. I picked up my pace for a final walking sprint to the finishing seat, where I collapsed for a minute’s breather.
I got up from the seat as the day’s light was dimming and the street lights were turning on. A fresh wind made the loose bark on the trunk of a gum tree flap, as if applauding me for a day well done. I made my way back home wondering if I could justify eating last night’s chicken Parmigiana on the basis that it would be wasteful to throw it in the bin, and if I would ever decide what to do about Marie.
As it happened, I didn’t have to choose. Marie decided
for me. A few days later she called.
Something to Say
I was eating a ricotta, tomato and lettuce sandwich on multigrain bread when Marie phoned. She wanted a catch-up. Naturally I said yes, but felt my waistband and wondered if there was any noticeable change. It was doubtful. I hadn’t been dieting for long, after all. I put the sandwich down, thinking I’d only eat half.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked, wondering if the arrangements for a local councillor’s funeral were proving tricky, given his wife’s mahogany taste on a plywood budget. ‘You haven’t run out of flowers or anything?’ I laughed.
‘No, not at all,’ she said, but she didn’t laugh along with me or allude to anything further. ‘Five o’clock this evening?’ She was uncharacteristically brusque.
‘Sure,’ I said.
Marie was definitely sad, I decided. Perhaps things really were bad on the home front. Maybe she does want my ‘ear’ this time, and all the advice and soothing words of consolation I can give her. I will be her devoted ear, the one who listens as she wants to be listened to, the one who can stroke her hand and help her in a time of need.
‘Will I stay or should I leave?’ she’ll ask, and I’ll tell her that she must act upon her heart.
‘If you’re dreadfully unhappy, then you mustn’t stay,’ I’ll tell her. ‘It’s not like you have children to think about, only yourself, and you must be true to yourself.’
I’ll tell her I’ll be there for her every step of the way. I’ll offer to take her to the movies and out for dinner to take her mind off the demise of her marriage and make her feel better. I will not kiss her or ask her on a date. None of that. Not yet. It will all be platonic, all above board. I will be the perfect gentleman friend. Until she is ready.
I was so pleased that not only had I resolved what to do but had made an honourable decision in line with the man I liked to think I was that I gobbled up both halves of the sandwich in delight. There was not a wilted leaf of lettuce spare. It didn’t matter. My decision afforded me more dieting time so I could transform myself from chubby friend into chiselled beau. Well, chiselled may have been pushing it, but there was no harm in fantasising.
I urged time to speed up, but we had no new customers and no last-minute call-outs. The afternoon dragged. I forced myself to do paperwork. Mum reorganised files. Jean paid bills. Roger left early after polishing the embalming instruments.
Finally, it was four thirty. I combed my hair and redid my tie for no other reason than I wanted to look as good as possible. At four forty-five I drove to the café-bar where we often met to discuss work. Unlike other meetings, this time I was nervous.
I saw Marie sitting at a table by the window. I waved from the footpath. She raised a hand. I had to compose myself and finger-comb my hair before walking over to her.
‘I’ve ordered some wine. Hope you don’t mind,’ she said.
‘You know I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘So, how are the flower arrangements going?’ I asked, but before she had time to answer I found myself continuing to natter about how Mrs Dalgleish, the councillor’s wife, could be tricky, or rather pernickety, about the finer details, how dry the weather had been and how I hoped it wasn’t affecting flower quality, and whether or not I should be worried that this week was proving to be one of the slowest weeks in the industry that I could remember. It was simply nerves. Thankfully, Marie interrupted me.
‘Oliver . . .’ she said.
‘Yes?’ I felt a fool for going on.
‘I didn’t really want to talk shop,’ she said.
Of course she didn’t.
‘You see, I have something to tell you,’ she started, but then the waiter came with the wine. She turned to look out the window, her chin resting on a hand, her jaw stiffening. The waiter placed two glasses of wine on the table, reached for the water bottle and poured two glasses. The liquid sloshed in slow motion then settled to a gentle surface spin. He asked if we’d like anything else and I said to Marie, ‘How about some olives?’ but she didn’t respond so I ordered olives for us, pleased with my self-restraint at not requesting nuts as well. When the waiter left, she faced me again.
I smiled then clinked my wine glass against hers. The olives arrived. I passed them to her but she declined. She still hadn’t taken a sip of her wine and I’d already had two large gulps. I felt I had to say something, as she seemed reluctant to begin, but I wanted her to know that I didn’t mind, that I was her friend and that anything she told me would be in strict confidence.
‘I don’t know how to say this,’ she said.
I instinctively took her hand and gave her a napkin. ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Take your time.’
When she had regained her composure, she began again. ‘The thing is, I can’t quite cope with all this talk of other people’s funerals when I’m going to have to discuss my own.’ She emitted a laugh – well, in retrospect, it was more of a sardonic snigger – and chewed a trembling lip.
I stared at her. This was not going to plan. She couldn’t make jokes about her own funeral.
‘I’m sick, Oliver. Really sick. Like, they can’t do anything about it sick.’
The words coming from her mouth were confounding. This wasn’t going to plan at all.
‘What do you mean, you’re sick?’ I said.
‘It’s what everyone gets these days. I can’t even say it.’
That’s when I noticed. How had I not seen before? The dark rings around her eyes, her sunken cheekbones, the hollowness around her clavicles. Make-up couldn’t cover it all. I clenched her hand and took a napkin for myself. I said every possible phrase of consolation I knew but the words sounded vacuous and wanting.
‘I am so sorry, Marie, so, so sorry.’
‘I know,’ she said, squeezing my hand.
‘You’ll be getting treatment, though, won’t you?’ I said.
She shook her head, shrugged. ‘It’s too late.’
‘Too late?’ I choked.
She shook her head and shrugged again.
‘No treatment at all? I can’t believe that.’
‘Palliative only.’
I nearly regurgitated the olives.
‘I’m sorry, I think I’m going to cry again,’ she said. ‘I thought telling you in a public place . . .’
She gripped both my hands and we held ourselves together as the air around us thickened and solidified. Sounds eddied. Smells dulled. There was only me and Marie.
If only we could have stayed like that for ever.
The Ellipsis of Life
Of course, we couldn’t stay like that for ever. We couldn’t even stay like that for longer than a few seconds. Or it may have been a minute or two, I really couldn’t be sure. Just like I couldn’t be sure how I got through the next couple of months. You see, if I had to break down life as if it were a sentence, so much of my world existed at the full-stop end of life. Or more precisely, the space after the full stop. And I was happy with that. I had been around the dead so often that it was natural to me. I knew how to handle a dead person – how to slide a body, not lift it, how to insert eye caps under the eyelids to prevent sinkage, how to massage rigor mortis from limbs to help with the embalming process. These things may sound gruesome but, to those in the industry, they’re not. We understand that this is a person who is no longer themselves, that the person who was once there has gone. That what is left needs tending to, like we would a shell found on the beach whose inhabitant has moved house, which we want to keep, cleaned and washed. This is the part of life I am used to: the finale, the denouement, the punchline.
What I had little experience in was the ellipsis of life. The bit before the end that no one wants to know about, the part where words are hard to find, stumbled over or not said at all, when the act of doing is only the biding of time. When the living are preparing to die. I blundered my way through Marie’s final three months and her death like some stuttered, unfinished question, as if I were a sentence comprised of half-words, half-ellips
es and multiple question marks. A terrible sentence that was meaningless, pointless. Nothing I did could make her better; nothing I said could change the future. If only I could have stopped time.
Initially Marie carried on working, but it didn’t take long for fatigue to take over, then the pain, loss of appetite and increasing ennui. ‘Oh, Oliver, it’s hideous. I feel as if I’ve been taken over by alien forces.’
I gripped her hand and could do nothing but agree and empathise. Even when she stopped working, she still wanted to feel a part of the business. She loved what she did and never wanted to stop. The shop was her life. Sarah and I would conduct meetings at her house. I would show her photos of the arrangements Alchemy Flowers made for us and get her advice for future bouquets. ‘Remember to mix things up,’ she’d say. ‘Don’t do the obvious. You could put daisies with red wattles or baby’s breath with hot-pink gerberas and palm leaves. And whatever you do, don’t confuse the smells. For instance, delphiniums can’t go with lemon-scented gum foliage; stocks can’t go with calla lilies.’ I’m sure Sarah knew all of this, but it was like I was getting a weekly crash course in floristry. I’d get Sarah to make her a mini bouquet of every one we did so she could feel part of it all. She loved it so much I made sure it came with a safety pin so she could wear it like a corsage.
Even though we mainly talked work at her house, it felt the closest I had ever been to Marie. Not only was I in her home, I was heating soup I’d brought over on her stove, I was making cups of tea in her kitchen, even putting her clothes in the washing machine or dryer, if needed, as Henry seemed less attentive to household duties than I would have been if I were her husband. She said she didn’t want me to fuss or to think I had to become her domestic help but I sensed she liked the attention. Or maybe it was just having someone else around to talk to and making the house less quiet than it would have been, had she been alone. It wasn’t always about work, though. I occasionally dropped by on the pretence of talking shop when really I just wanted a chat with her myself – to whinge about Mum or tell her about a movie I’d seen at the weekend, or even just to drop in some artisanal chocolates I had discovered at the new deli down the road. The fact that I sat on the end of her bed – her bed, with her white linen covers – made me feel so much closer to her than I ever had been. Yet it didn’t feel wrong; it felt so very, very comfortable. One time I joked that the cover could have done with an iron and did she want me to bring over my portable garment steamer next time? I wasn’t trying to be funny but she laughed so hard she had to have a rest afterwards and I realised with sadness how there was a fine line between having fun and overdoing it when you’ve got a terminal illness. I made a note to try not to make her laugh so much next time. Better to have more little laughs for longer than bigger ones for shorter.