The Year of the Fruit Cake

by The Year of the Fruit Cake- or, Aliens

  I’m hitchhiking through life. I can change my job when it’s boring beyond anything. I did. Freedom…

  Why does freedom feel so dull?

  The woman’s slow voice was counting again.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, fifty-three.

  I do not talk about this year. Even inside myself I do not try to remember. It’s engraved. The one year I don’t have to remember. I don’t. I don’t. Go away.

  I know it—that’s enough. I need to move on. I need to.

  The woman’s slow voice was counting again.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, fifty-three, forty-four.

  I remember. I remember too much.

  More, I need to remember more. Even though it hurts. I remember remembering. I remember why I remember. It’s not about my friends. It’s not about my husband. They’re all gone. All gone. Every time I think of any of them, it hurts. There’s the deep feeling of having found the other half of my soul. Such a human feeling. Such a profound feeling.

  There are my friends. Leanne would tell me what to think. Antoinette would understand. Trina would cheer me up. Janet would give me a daisy. Those daisies used to be the brightest and best thing about life on this planet. Full of joy. Now they make me remember.

  Oh God, why did I tell myself my memory would keep me alive? Why did I hurt myself so very much?

  The woman’s slow voice was counting again.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, fifty-three, forty-four, forty-five.

  I don’t belong here. I never belonged here. I know this. I remember this.

  The women’s slow voice was counting, shadowed by brighter, louder sounds made by the nurse and one of the cleaning staff.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…

  “No-one. No family. No friends. We think she outlived them all. She’s very old. Oldest patient this year.” They listened to her slow voice counting.

  eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,

  “She never goes past ninety-nine,” the nurse volunteers.

  “Why ninety-nine?”

  “She doesn’t always stop at ninety-nine. She just never goes past it.”

  fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine

  “She’s ninety-nine years old, isn’t she?”

  “Nearly a hundred. We don’t know why she counts. She doesn’t talk to us. She doesn’t recognise us. Sometimes she nearly does. One of her people says that she sees him and notices and he asks her advice. He’s her late husband’s great-nephew. He inherited her papers, he told me once. He came in to ask her questions and he stayed on and helps her and talks to her twice a week. Without fail. He says that was her gift to the family, was a complete reliability. Also maths. He’s a mathematician. He says that when he was a child she taught him ‘alien maths’. I never know what to believe. I’ve seen him talking to her, though. He’s imagining the response. She’s lost in her own world. We don’t know what happened. At least she has family. Just one person. Not a blood relative, but he cares. She doesn’t know. She just counts and drifts off and then counts again. She counts all night sometimes.”

  “Maybe she’s just old.”

  thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three,

  “Whatever happened, we don’t know. I hate it when she counts, because it proves her brain’s there. She’s not alert, but she’s there. She feels everything. Sees everything. She’s been confined to this bed for so long, with us feeding her, cleaning her, changing her catheter…”

  forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight,

  “The TV’s on, at least. And there’s that nephew.”

  “There’s that,” the nurse said, her tone unconvinced.

  forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine

  This is the way the world ends. Whether it’s the world of humans or the world of an individual human, it will end. With numbers.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, fifty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.

  Time’s up.

  The end.

  Acknowledgements

  Normally my acknowledgements reflect the intellectual trail I followed to write the novel and the people I asked for help. This novel didn’t follow the usual trajectory and so this page is different. The novel itself was going to be written in any case, but without 2016 it would have been much funnier and much brighter. I am so very grateful to all the people at IFWG Publishing Australia for understanding what I’m doing in this novel, and for wanting to share it with the world.

  I wrote The Year of the Fruitcake in one of the worst years in my life. The hospital research was done over twenty days. When I could get out of bed and walk to the window, home was in sight, but I wasn’t always able to get out of bed...

  The big book event for one of my novels was cancelled and the bookshop was near the hospital. Nurses dropped in on me to tell me “The picture of you in the window has ‘Cancelled’ stuck across your face.” This was the first time in my life that my face has been cancelled. It was also probably the only time in my life that the cancellation of my face has made a good lunch trip for cardiac nurses.

  The first
question someone asked me when I woke up after the operation was “Why can’t I buy your novel yet?” I’ve wondered since then if anaesthesia is supposed to give special knowledge.

  Those twenty days changed my year and led to more and more fractious time. It was the fractiousness of that time that led to this novel taking the path it did.

  Some people deserve my special thanks: my mother and the close friends who got me through the impossible. Jasmine for helping me sort some of the critical (non-hospital) aspects of the novel. Those (including Jean Weber, Jason Franks and the ACT Writers’ Centre) who realised that the university had let me down exceptionally badly and made sure I had sufficient paid work to buy food and so forth during convalescence. Everyone else I’ll thank when I see you, and buy you a drink, for my resolution since 2016 has been to defiantly avoid the end of the world.