by D. L. Hicks
Sighing, she stared up at the night sky. The stars seemed especially bright tonight, perhaps trying to make up for the darkness that had descended on her little portion of the planet. Flicking the butt into the waiting ash tray, she exhaled smoke for the last time that night, white fog clouding the sparkling sky.
Exhausted, Charlotte got to her feet and walked back inside, polishing off the glass of wine on her way. She meandered down the hallway to the bathroom, her aching feet slapping on the polished floor. She disrobed as she went; pants off, top discarded, bra gone, until she found herself standing in front of the bathroom mirror. The stress of the day exaggerated the lines already carved into her weary face. She ran her fingers down her jawline, taken back to a moment in time when, as a teenager, she had made a comment about her mother’s wrinkles.
‘I’m proud of them,’ her mother had said, her eyes twinkling as if she knew a secret young Charlotte was yet to learn. ‘They give my face character.’
Middle-aged Charlotte examined the image of herself. She wasn’t an old woman by any stretch, yet there were days she felt like she was – especially when she had to cope with personal problems as well as the horrendous stuff work dished up. It didn’t help that no one in the office knew, but that was her choice.
Her eyes said it all. In the deep pools of green, she could sense the desperation, the diminishing hope.
Sliding out of her underwear, she remained in front of the mirror, completely naked. Her arms crossed over her abdomen self-consciously, as if someone were there, watching. But she was alone.
Not even Oscar was around.
Only then – only after she had shed every ounce of clothing that had adorned her body – did Charlotte reach up to her head. With both hands either side of her skull, she eased her hair off the back of her head in one smooth motion, revealing the bald skin beneath. The beautiful auburn ringlets tumbled out of her hands in bunches, all secured together by a flesh-coloured skull cap.
Bare and exposed, she stood before the mirror in her complete and natural beauty. Bringing her eyes back up to her reflection, she watched a single tear run down her face. Although never overly vain, Charlotte had always felt like an attractive woman, particularly fond of her luscious hair, which she – and many others – believed to be her finest feature. She had been warned by the oncologist, but nothing had quite prepared her for the moment when her locks began to fall out, first in strands and then in clumps, plucked out by her trembling fingers like weeds from fresh soil. It was all she could do not to break down and crumble right then and there. The memory was burnt into her mind of standing in this exact spot, before this exact mirror, pulling out bunch after bunch of her beautiful red hair, watching it float to the floor like autumn leaves until it lay in piles at her feet.
She ran her hand across the top of her head, rubbing at the skin. It resisted, shifting slightly before sliding back to its original position. She was used to it now; even though she would never admit it, there was a small part of her that quite liked it, in a bizarre way.
‘Time for your pills, old lady,’ she mumbled to herself, reaching into the cabinet drawer and pulling out the zip-lock bag containing her various medications: painkillers, anti-nausea tablets, multivitamins – a plethora of oddly shaped tablets, each one helping to ease her through this process. She gulped down mouthfuls of water, slipping two or three tablets into her mouth through pursed lips each time until the small pile was gone. It was something she hated almost as much as the chemo itself: some people hated needles; some heights; others spiders; but for Charlotte, the mere thought of swallowing pills made her skin crawl.
Still, she had learnt to get them down somehow; it wasn’t like she had a choice.
Leaving the wig hanging on a towel rail, Charlotte made her way to bed. It wouldn’t be long before the tablets kicked in, dulling her senses and sending her into a deep sleep she hoped she wouldn’t stir from until morning. Then, when she woke, it would be time to do this all again – downing the morning tablets, reapplying the wig, constructing the same facade she had for the past two months.
Her colleagues had enough on their plates without worrying about her, as did her family. Her half-brother Joe had to carry the burden of a parish full of problems, a mountain of misery that the confessional drew out from those who sought absolution. The last thing she wanted was to add to that.
They all had their own lives to live, their own problems to deal with. Maybe they weren’t as life threatening as her battle, but she had to face this sickness on her own. Defeating this disease was something she would succeed or fail at by her own method, in her own way.
Lying her head back on the pillow, Charlotte closed her eyes. As it did every night, her subconscious transported her back to the moment her world had spun off kilter – the day she had been diagnosed.
It had all begun with a lump – a tiny, pea-sized mass that had seemed so innocuous.
Standing in the shower, soap slipping between her fingers, she had felt the miniscule bulge hidden in her breast again and again, each time trying harder to convince herself it had disappeared. Then the fear had crept in, building to a crescendo a week later as she sat in the doctor’s office – alone – waiting for her results.
‘Charlotte Callaghan?’ The doctor’s voice had reverberated around the room, competing with the sound of the advertisement for incontinence pads coming from the television perched high in the corner above her head. It was mind-blowing what irrelevant details still stuck in her mind.
As the doctor had gestured for her to take a seat in his examination room, she’d smiled at him, hoping for an indication of what was to come. She considered herself an expert at reading non-verbal signals, but it didn’t take a genius to decipher the doctor’s averted eyes. The chill had rocketed down her spine like a mogul skier on a gold-medal run.
‘How are you feeling?’ he’d asked, shuffling papers around on his desk.
Bloody sorry for you, she’d thought, biting her tongue. ‘Nervous as hell,’ she’d said out loud. The clipped tone of her voice had been odd, even to her own ears. ‘Just tell me the results, please – I can’t bear the bullshit.’ Unable to bring herself to see the discomfort in his eyes, she had looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap, as he revealed the depth of the challenge that lay before her. Her only reaction had been the smallest shudder that a passer-by might not have even noticed.
She squeezed her eyes shut as pockets of the doctor’s words broke through the fog of her mind.
‘… stage two breast cancer … triple negative … aggressive chemotherapy treatment … significant chance of survival …’
She had cancer.
She had fucking cancer.
Lying in the dark as the memory washed over her, Charlotte scuffed at the crook of her left arm, pressing until she felt the dull pain of the bruise, the scab at the puncture site a constant reminder. The days and weeks since that horrible day were a blur of nausea, needles and nurses.
But now was not the time to wallow in self-pity. She had a chance, which was more than a lot of people had in her situation. She was being treated; there were medicines coursing around her body at that very moment designed to give her the greatest chance of survival.
She was a fighter, and she wasn’t about to give up without one hell of a brawl.
For one family tonight, there was no such hope – theirs had been snuffed out when some sick bastard had decided to take the life of their beautiful daughter. Charlotte shed another tear then, followed by a few more – not for herself, but for that young woman, who would never see the light of day again, and for the family who now wished that day had never dawned.
CHAPTER 7
That same Sunday morning, 1987
Ben and I were whispering to each other, the only form of communication we had any faith in.
Faith – now that was a word Father used often, both during Mass and when he spoke to us alone. I thought it was a bit of a funny idea – believing in something
so completely without any real proof; not that I would ever let on to Father that I was thinking that way. He told us faith was ‘the cornerstone of our relationship with God’. To be honest, I wasn’t even that sure I had a relationship with God. I had faith in Ben – he was my best friend, after all – but any kind of belief I may have had in anything else to do with the church was quickly fading. As I sat in the small windowless room, alone apart from another ten-year-old boy, I knew what it was like both to have faith, and to lose it completely.
‘I’m scared,’ Ben said, panic flashing in his eyes.
I reached over and patted his hand, doing my best to reassure him even though I felt exactly the same way. ‘It’ll be okay,’ I said, lying through my teeth. It wasn’t going to be okay – not then, not ever. But I could tell by his eyes that I had to lie or he’d just about vomit on the spot.
‘But you heard what Father said. If we want our families to go to Heaven and not rot and burn in Hell, then we have to suffer like Jesus did. He suffered for us, and so we must suffer so that our families can escape the devil.’
It sounded stupid even as Ben said it, but if Father insisted my parents would burn for all eternity unless I did what he asked of me, then I knew one thing: I would do exactly what he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Deep down, I knew it was wrong, but I also knew that sinners were punished – and if I disobeyed Father, then I would be a sinner.
That was something I didn’t ever want to be.
The latch on the door clicked open. Father was back, only this time he wasn’t alone. The second priest was there; the younger one who always seemed to be hiding in the shadows. They stepped inside and closed the door behind them. In an instant, the room became stuffy, as if all the air had been sucked from it leaving Ben and I struggling for breath.
Father and the second priest sat opposite us, both in the same way: elbows propped up on either arm of the chair, fingers resting together in front of their chins in a perfect triangle. It was Father who spoke first.
‘What lessons did you learn from today’s Mass then, children?’ His voice was a lot quieter now; a lot nicer, too.
I hesitated before answering, not wanting to say the wrong thing. ‘It was about forgiveness.’
‘Correct. And what is forgiveness?’ He stared at me, those eyes boring a hole through to the back of my head.
‘Um … It’s about understanding that people make mistakes and … When they say sorry, accepting that and then forgetting about what happened in the first place.’
Father chuckled, his laughter bouncing off the walls. The other priest just smiled. For a second, it seemed like he was almost as uncomfortable as I was.
‘Out of the mouths of babes, eh?’ Father’s smile was full of teeth. ‘Couldn’t have said it better myself. Jesus was treated horribly for the last part of his life – beaten and spat at by those who wanted him dead – and in the end, they crucified him. But still he found it in his heart to forgive them. Even those responsible for his death. Compared to that, anything you or I have to forgive people for seems pretty ordinary, don’t you think?’
I nodded, seeing Ben do the same out of the corner of my eye. He never said much; left all the talking up to me, which I hated, but I had no choice.
‘So …’ Father continued. As he spoke, he reached behind him into the cupboard and pulled out a glass decanter. Liquid sloshed around in the decanter like when Mum let me play with my toys in the bath. ‘You boys have been very good today, and it’s time you were rewarded for your exemplary behaviour.’
I didn’t really know what ‘exemplary’ meant, but I could tell from Father’s face that it wasn’t a bad thing – whenever he got angry his whole face went red like a tomato, and I swear I saw smoke coming out his nostrils once.
Sliding back the top of the small table next to his chair, Father selected four glasses from within – one for each of us. They were proper grown-ups’ glasses – short and round and thick on the bottom – not like the ones I normally drank from at home. Without pausing, he poured the liquid into the glasses, only about a third of the way, then he reached into his pocket before rubbing his hand above two of the glasses. He passed them around, giving one to the other priest first, then one to Ben, and the last one to me.
‘Ah, now this is the life,’ Father said, raising his glass high. ‘Cheers everyone.’
Ben and I raised our glasses like we thought we were meant to, clinking them with the other two before taking a tiny sip. The liquid burned my throat, almost making me cough and I could tell by Ben’s watering eyes that he felt the same. I never could get used to that drink – it made my face screw up like one of those apple cores we made into wrinkly old women at school.
Father drank nearly all of his in one gulp. The other priest was much the same, although he didn’t seem as keen on it – he still had some left in his glass like us. Father poured himself some more straight away. ‘Now remember, this is our little secret,’ he said, winking at Ben and me. ‘Everyone has secrets with their priest, don’t they? Even your mum and dad have secrets they tell me and nobody else, because that’s what priests are for. If you tell them, it breaks the confidentiality agreement priests have, and that can get everyone in trouble, especially the people you tell.’
Father kept on talking, but as time passed his words became fuzzy. Something strange was happening with my eyes, too. It was as if I was looking through one of those holes in someone’s front door and everything was all topsy-turvy. Just as my vision started to darken, I glanced at Ben and saw his head flop down on the arm of his chair, his eyes closed.
That was the last thing I remembered.
CHAPTER 8
Charlotte rose early, more out of habit than need. Twenty years of shift work had done that to her internal body clock. She slid from the bed and drew back the heavy curtains, letting in the morning sunlight. It was dazzling, causing her to flinch and recoil; a vampire exposed to a little more than she could handle.
Oscar sidled up to her leg, purring and running his sandpaper tongue up the curve of her calf, tickling her. She reached down and scruffed his neck. ‘Morning, my friend,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘It’s time to get moving.’
A quick coffee and a fluffy croissant later, Charlotte was slipping out of her pyjamas and into shorts and a V-neck tee, her bright-green Nikes adding a touch of flair. Grabbing her sunglasses, she paused at the dining table, face knotted in concentration. ‘Gotcha!’ she exclaimed so loudly that Oscar ran for cover behind the couch. Charlotte leant over the table, selected the final edge piece of the jigsaw she was working on and slotted it into place.
Not renowned for her ability to relax, she was definitely not one to engage in pointless pursuits, but her oncologist had suggested jigsaw puzzles as a way to spend her time while recuperating from her treatment. Not only would they force her to relax, he had said, but they would also keep her mind active and functioning. Whatever.
The funny thing was, it had worked. Like a hopeless junkie, she was addicted to the things, halting every time she passed the table to sift through the pieces, refusing to move on until she had slotted another one into place. There was something fulfilling about whittling down the messy pile of pieces and transforming them into a complete image. Putting in that last piece was uplifting in ways she couldn’t truly explain.
Perhaps it was just like work, only safer.
‘And … boom!’ Charlotte yelled, congratulating herself as she slotted in five consecutive pieces to create two distinctive yellow cabs, side by side, in the bottom-right corner of the puzzle. The New York cityscape at night was a belter at 2000 pieces.
Tearing herself away, she opened the front door and welcomed the morning.
Despite the glorious sunshine, dew was still thick on the ground, Charlotte’s footprints exposing the grass with every step, forming a weaving trail behind her. She walked to the end of the street, the familiar houses of her neighbourhood leaving her with a sense of security that she often relie
d on. Living alone – as a single female, and a cop at that – presented few fears, but at the same time she had witnessed enough of the dark side of life to avoid being blasé about her safety.
When looked at with a broad stroke, the houses were all of a similar type: weatherboard cottages, pitched roofs, picket fences, most with a front garden tended but not necessarily loved, the odd pet lazing on a front porch.
It was only on closer inspection that variations emerged. The more neglected displayed the effects of the salt air through peeling paint; window corners were caked in dense spider webs; a picket or two smashed or missing, like a meth addict’s teeth. Front lawns swung from either pristine and perfect, as if cut using a pair of scissors, to unkempt and wild, flagrantly abandoned.
Still, it was a quiet area mostly, and one she was happy to live in. The people she lived among provided a happy medium between complete anonymity and enough curiosity that everyone would notice anything out of place. A microcosm of Gull Bay itself, the neighbourhood housed residents who were welcoming and without judgement – at least at first.
After waiting for a large grain truck to pass – the only vehicle out and about at this hour – Charlotte crossed the main road that ran all the way into town, and followed the dusty path through the short span of bushland that separated sand from suburbia. The dry smell of the eucalypts prickled her nose as she crushed the leaves beneath her feet. It was a track she took every second day and most often shaded – a small relief before the path exploded out onto the bare expanse of the beach, bright and glittering.
As she emerged from the wind-blown shrubbery, the ocean sparkled at her like a sapphire, the gentle sound of the waves crashing into shore welcoming her back. She stretched, taking in the vista, unable to suppress a smile.
Twenty or so seagulls stood together fanning their wings in the soft breeze. Only one agitator was spoiling the serenity, stretching his neck up and squawking at the others for no apparent reason. As she watched – grinning – Charlotte squatted down on her haunches, the image of the boisterous seagull taking her back to another day, on this exact stretch of beach, almost five weeks earlier.