by Mel Jacob
‘There are worse punishments. In some countries, people can be sentenced to death,’ I told them, and then instantly regretted it. I knew my kids and knew they’d never been exposed to such a violent concept as capital punishment.
‘In Horrible Histories’—an historical sketch show the kids loved and knew by heart—‘they said that in Tudor times, if you steal more than eleven pence, they sentence you to death. In one episode a lady gets money stolen and a policeman says he’ll chop the robber’s head off.’
‘Tudor England was a long time ago,’ I said.
I found these conversations hard. I wanted to be open and honest with the kids, but since Patrick’s incarceration, so many of our discussions opened a veritable Pandora’s box of issues that even adults had a hard time wrapping their heads around. Sometimes I felt like I told them too much; other times, I worried I wasn’t open enough. Most of all, I wanted them to understand that Patrick had made a mistake.
‘Dad made a mistake and everyone makes mistakes. You make mistakes and I make mistakes,’ I said, as we pulled into the shopping-centre car park. ‘Remember when I got that speeding ticket?’ I said to Nick. The kids hadn’t been in the car at the time but they had relished the fact that I, the CEO of the Fun Police, had finally done something wrong. I’d hoped that by reminding them of my very expensive traffic offence, I could rekindle their enthusiasm for my mistake.
‘What if you get another speeding ticket and you have to go to prison? Who will look after us?’ Nick asked, worried, still tapping.
‘You don’t go to prison for getting a speeding ticket.’
‘But who would look after us . . . if something happened?’ Nick asked, suddenly burdened by the prospect of orphanhood.
‘Most likely, Grandma Laney.’
‘What if Grandma Laney dies? She is very old.’
I loved Nick with all my heart but sometimes he made Woody Allen look optimistic. ‘She’s not that old, she’s not even sixty.’
‘She does have a wrinkly neck and wrinkly hands,’ said Lexie.
‘If Grandma Laney dies, Aunty Fiona or Aunty Cathy, but it’s not very common for both parents to die.’
‘It is in Roald Dahl books,’ Nick said, and his questions finally abated. He was satisfied, for the time being. He could be so gloomy. Not that I’m in any position to criticise; he gets it from me.
Two days later, his ominously silent room roused my suspicions. ‘You in there, Nick?’ I asked and the sound of rummaging immediately followed from his bed. His head extended up from beneath the quilt, like a meerkat. His eyes were red and puffy from crying. He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a box of tissues and a mass of snotty ones under the quilt. I shuddered at the thought of this and reminded myself to pick my battles.
‘You okay?’
‘Something’s in my eye,’ he said, turning away from me. I knew he didn’t have anything in his eye, except the things he was supposed to have, like corneas and pupils and other bits that were too scientific for me to know about.
‘Want me to have a look?’
He shook his head, confirming there was nothing in his eye, given he has the lowest pain threshold of anyone I have ever met.
‘Are you feeling sad about Dad?’ Once again, he avoided my gaze. ‘It’s okay to be sad, you know. It’s a very big thing, a very hard thing that you’re dealing with. I’m sad sometimes, and angry and frustrated . . .’
‘You are?’
‘Absolutely. And that’s okay, that’s to be expected. I miss him. And even though I know in my head what’s happened, sometimes I come home and I expect him to be here, or I’ll go to call him and then I remember. Yesterday, when it was time to leave for school, I was waiting for Dad to say, in that really bad English accent, “You’ve got your bag, you’ve got your—”’
‘“Lunchbox, you’ve got your jumper,”’ Nick said, finishing the sentence for me, and laughter momentarily replaced our solemnity.
‘What do you miss?’ I asked, sitting on the bottom bunk next to him.
‘I miss computer games and wrestling and . . .’ His voice was suddenly tremulous.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ I said, as he collapsed into me, sobbing.
‘It’ . . . s . . . all . . . my . . . fa . . . ult,’ came out in bursts between the sobs.
‘What’s your fault?’
‘D . . . ad go . . . ing to ja . . . il.’
‘No, no, it’s not your fault.’
Nick cried long and hard. So hard that he couldn’t speak, he just gasped for breath. I held him and stroked his hair and his back, and told him that it was okay and he didn’t have to say anything yet. Finally, when he stopped crying and had used up the remaining tissues, he told me that importing archery equipment had been his idea.
It took me a very long time to explain that his suggestion was perfectly viable and legal, and that importing archery equipment was how we made our living. I also went to great lengths to explain that just because someone gives you an idea doesn’t mean you have to run with it. Like my mother always said to me when I was a kid, ‘If such and such jumped off the Harbour Bridge, would you do it too?’
Eventually, Nick stopped crying. He was exhausted but lighter in heart, and he smiled his beautiful, crooked, wry little smile that never fails to melt me.
‘Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?’ I asked.
‘Can we wrestle?’
SIXTEEN
It had been seventeen days since Patrick had gone. It was the third week and it had been the hardest by far. I knew, intellectually, that my husband was in prison and that he couldn’t come home, and yet, every time I heard the front door open or a car pull into the drive, part of me hoped it was him. But he did not come home, and as each day passed, the painful and inevitable truth of what had happened began to sink in for all of us. The kids began to grieve. And grief changed them.
In grief, as in life, Lexie was bright and explosive—a short fuse. Nick was a slow-burning flame. Lexie’s behaviour regressed to the bed-wetting and tantrum throwing that she had begun to grow out of. Nick’s bouts of melancholy were deeper and darker than ever before.
Life was already frantic with school drop-offs, work, music lessons, play dates and weekend visits to Patrick, and now their new behaviours had to be factored in. I had to learn how to manage things on my own. Everything was so delicately balanced that I clung to our schedule like a raft on the deepest part of the ocean.
The alarm would wake me at six. I showered and dressed, and made the school lunches. I drove Nick to the bus stop and waited with him and then dropped Lexie at preschool or, at least, tried to drop her there as she clung to my leg like a barnacle: ‘I’m begging you, don’t leave. Please don’t do this to me!’ On the way to the warehouse, I would ring the preschool and they would assure me she was perfectly calm and happy. Meanwhile, my mother guilt was off the scale.
I usually worked at the warehouse until midday, headed home for lunch, and worked there until it was time to pick up the kids at four. But that day I left the warehouse early, because I had woken with pain in my ear and by midmorning it was so intense I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I was certain I had an ear infection but couldn’t get in to see the doctor until later that afternoon, so I went home for a Panadol and a lie-down. I would have been in bed for no more than ten minutes when the doorbell rang.
‘Nicola,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t have!’
Our neighbour from a few doors down was holding a homemade cake and some flowers. A lovely gesture, considering we weren’t really friends. We were acquaintances at best, linked only by a mutual friend and our shared street.
‘It’s awful, just so awful!’ she exclaimed. ‘People out there doing real crimes, and Patrick gets this. He’s not a criminal.’ But by very definition, he was. He had broken the law.
‘When I heard, I said to Steve, “I’m going to pop round there and encourage her.”’
‘Thank you . . . but you shouldn’t
have, really,’ I said, unsure what to say to this woman and perplexed as to how she even knew about what had happened. I kept standing at the door, expecting her to leave. As I turned to put the container on the buffet near the entrance, Nicola walked in, muttering something about a vase.
‘And I thought my place was bad,’ she joked, referring to the pieces of brightly coloured craft and glitter that looked like they had been thrown, confetti-style, across the back end of the house.
‘I haven’t had a chance—’
‘It’s just so awful, isn’t it?’ she continued.
‘Not what we were hoping for, no.’
Nicola unwrapped the flowers, and grabbed a pair of scissors that were on the table with Lexie’s craft things, cutting the stems. ‘I mean, if the same thing happened to Steve, I just couldn’t cope. Lying in bed at night, hoping he doesn’t . . . slip in the shower.’ Her last words were whispered, as though that somehow diminished the horror of talking about my husband getting raped. I shuddered to think what it would have been like if she’d popped around to discourage me. Perhaps Nicola could visit the sick and the elderly—cheer them up as well. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t feeling well but she’s not a listener. She didn’t once pause to listen to my answers; a drunk student at schoolies had more boundaries than Nicola.
When she finally left, a good hour and half later, she promised she would come around again soon. I did my best to say that I was on a pretty tight schedule but she just bulldozed right over me.
The medical centre was packed. ‘Can you read this?’ Lexie whined, waving a children’s book in front of me.
‘I’m reading a magazine.’
‘You’re not reading, you’re just looking at pictures of people without any clothes on.’
‘They’re bikinis,’ I corrected her and Lexie rolled her eyes. It had been ages since I’d read anything, and looking at stars without make-up and at celebrity cellulite was proving to be very good for my self-esteem.
Nick amused himself with his tapping but Lexie persisted with her whining, so I eventually succumbed and read her the shortest book on offer from the slim pile in the waiting room. Soon afterwards, another little girl approached me with a book. My ears were throbbing, and I was exhausted from the morning and Nicola, and life in general. I didn’t feel like reading a book to my own children, let alone someone else’s.
‘Maybe your mum can read you a book? I suggested, looking over at the woman whose genetic traits declared that if she wasn’t her mother, she was somehow related.
‘She doesn’t read me books.’
‘I’m sure she’s read you a book.’
The little girl just shook her head and looked up with hopeful eyes, her arm stretching the book out towards me. Reluctantly, I started to read the book and when punctuation allowed, glared at the mother. As we neared the end of the longest book in the history of children’s books, my mobile rang and I asked Nick to answer it.
‘You are about to receive a phone call from an inmate at MRRC Correctional Centre . . .’ announced the recorded message. Nick had put the phone on speaker.
‘Nick, give me the phone. Nick! Take it off speaker, take it off speaker,’ I raised my voice as he held it away from me.
‘. . . receive this phone call, please hang up now,’ it continued, for the listening pleasure of the entire waiting room.
‘Dad!’ Nick said, as the never-read-a-book-to-her-child-mother glared at me as if to say, ‘I might not read books but at least my husband isn’t in prison!’
‘Hey, buddy,’ Patrick said.
‘Mum said we can have frozen yoghurt!’ Lexie shouted.
‘Mum’s got an ear infection,’ said Nick.
‘That’s great. Can I talk to Mum? I need to talk to Mum.’ There was urgency in his voice. I took the phone off speaker and walked towards the entrance.
‘They’re moving me—six hours away. I’ve been classified as C2 and they are moving me to minimum security. I told them I’d refuse. That we can’t survive as a family—they said I’ve got no choice. And if I don’t sign the paperwork for Mannus, they’ll send me to some other place nine hours away.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know.’ The beeps sounded and the call ended.
Six hours? Life was already busy enough. I didn’t have time to drive six hours and back. Weekends were spent shopping and cooking and cleaning in preparation for the following week. And we all relied on the continuity of the weekend visits to try to maintain some semblance of a family relationship.
‘Melissa Jacob,’ the doctor called. I didn’t respond; I was still floored by the news.
‘Mum, that’s you,’ Nick said.
I went in to see the doctor, who said there was no sign of infection. The pain was being caused as a result of grinding my my teeth.
‘Feel this,’ she said, and I ran my hand over what felt like a metal rod in the back of my jaw near my ear. She gave me some medicine to relieve the pain and suggested I buy a mouthguard to relieve the pressure.
In the weeks that followed Nick morphed into a distant and angry child.
‘How was your day?’ I asked as he walked in the door one afternoon.
‘Brilliant,’ he said, clearly having got the hang of sarcasm. Then he kicked his shoes off, sending one of them flying into the bookcase which caused a row of books to cascade to the floor.
‘Pick them up,’ I said to Nick, who was already en route to his bedroom. ‘Come back here.’ He ignored me. I marched up to his room, and, as I opened his door, trod on a marooned piece of Lego. Nick just sat there, which infuriated me even more. ‘Get up, get up!’ I yelled like a madwoman, grabbing his wrist and trying to force him to his feet. He was skinny but he was strong.
‘I wish you were in jail,’ he said. And it wasn’t just what he said that stung, it was the way he said it—cold and calculated.
I felt so wounded; I had to leave the room. I made a cup of tea and went out onto the deck, and when I had finally calmed down, I took some biscuits in to him.
‘There’s a name for what you’re going through right now, it’s called grieving.’
He looked up at me, forlorn.
‘It’s what happens when you lose something, and you feel a mixture of all different emotions, like anger and sadness and confusion. It feels like it will last forever, but it won’t.’
‘How long does it last?’ he asked, he asked, lips quivering.
‘There’s no set time, it’s different for everyone. I’m grieving too.’ The numbness I’d been feeling had been replaced with a physical ache in my chest. I tried to block it out and not focus on it, and then when it momentarily subsided and I felt like I had turned a corner, it would resurface and crash-tackle me to the ground. My friend Jen, a psychologist, had told me that the term ‘waves’ has been used in a lot of literature associated with grief and loss, but that more recently the term ‘chaos theory’ has been being used to explain the more haphazard way we experience it.
Nick cried and I soothed him like I had when he was a toddler. ‘You will get through this,’ I said, and tried to convince myself that this experience would make him more resilient and empathetic. But, as his mother, I wanted to shield him from every kind of heartbreak and disappointment, big and small. ‘Sometimes, it can be helpful to think of other people who are having a tough time,’ I said.
‘What’s worse than prison?’ he scoffed and I berated myself. It was a stupid thing to say—I wasn’t consoled by other people’s suffering either—but I’d already started down that track.
‘It’s got to be hard for Caleb, with his dad moving out.’
‘He gets to see his dad every single weekend, not for just an hour!’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ I didn’t have a clue; I was still flailing about in my own grief. I rubbed his back in soothing circular motions.
I wiped his tears away and he blew his nose, and then, as though he had a say in the matter, he said, ‘I would choose divorce over
prison.’
I smiled. It was interesting that Nick had started thinking about divorce. After Patrick’s arrest, I just kept thinking we need to get through the court case, and then it became we need to get through the sentencing. As though I was waiting to restart my life. And now it was still going on. Perhaps Nick was right and divorce was easier than being a prison wife. Recently, thoughts about divorce had started to creep in and I wondered how long I could sustain a relationship which felt like it had been suspended in time. But that wasn’t something for Nick to worry about. He needed all the support he could get.
‘Will asked if you want to be on his soccer team,’ I said to change the subject.
‘My cousin Will?’
‘Do you know any other Wills?’
And he laughed and shook his head.
First thing Monday morning, Patrick called to say he would be leaving sometime during the day. I rang Visits and made a booking, rang the school bus driver, collected Nick from the bus and Lexie from preschool, and drove straight to Silverwater.
‘I’m very sorry,’ the woman at the reception counter said. ‘His profile says “Transit”.’
‘He just called. We wanted to see him, say goodbye.’
‘He’s probably somewhere on the grounds but once they’ve been moved, there’s nothing we can do.’ She was very sympathetic but the situation was clearly out of her hands.
‘I wish the sniffer dogs were here,’ Lexie said on the way out.
‘I wish we could see someone busted for drugs,’ Nick added, followed by, ‘Not all drugs are bad. You take drugs, don’t you, Mum?’ much to the interest of passers-by.
I ordered hot chocolates in a nearby coffee shop. When they arrived, they were too hot to hold in the paper cups. I warned the kids not to touch them, but while I was at the counter collecting serviettes Nick, for some inexplicable reason, mimed drinking his hot chocolate and told Lexie to drink hers. She blindly followed, burning her lips and spraying chocolate milk all over the chairs and the table, and their clothes and my handbag. The morning had been so fraught and filled with so much expectation, and I was completely out of patience. ‘You knew it was hot! I told you it was hot! Don’t you ever think?’ I yelled.