Heller's Regret

by JD Nixon

  There were a lot of things requiring discussion within the family, but as they all mostly involved ‘what-ifs’, nobody wanted to broach them at this point, least of all me.

  I tried to shake off the little black cloud following me around the next morning so I could be cheerful for Agatha. Plastering on my best smile, I knocked and knocked on the door to their suite. Nobody answered. Confused, I went back downstairs to the foyer. I explained to a sympathetic reception staff member I had an appointment with Mrs Namoy that morning, but it didn’t appear that anyone was in the suite. Had she left me a message?

  The staff member, who turned out to be obliging as well as sympathetic, though perhaps not as discreet as she ought to have been, checked the hotel records. “I’m sorry. You’ve missed them. They checked out earlier this morning. I believe they were picked up by the airport shuttle bus.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked in stunned disbelief.

  “Yes, I’m positive,” she responded, a little less polite than before. “I read that directly from our records.”

  “No messages for me?”

  “No, I’m sorry. There’s none.”

  “Thank you.”

  In my car I phoned Mrs Namoy. She may not have asked for my phone number, but the first thing I did was to request hers.

  To my surprise, she actually answered. Sounds of muffled announcements and a general buzz of conversation and people moving around in the background confirmed they were still at the airport. Perhaps their plane had been delayed.

  “Yes?” she snapped. I wondered if this was her normal way of answering her phone as I’d never phoned her before, so she couldn’t know it was me ringing.

  “Mrs Namoy, this is Tilly Chalmers.” A blank silence followed, during which I drew in an impatient breath. “The security officer you hired to look after Agatha.”

  “Oh, yes. Look, if you’re ringing to enquire about your pay, I’ve already settled the fee directly with the company you work for, so I’m afraid you’ll need to take it up with them.”

  “I’m not ringing about that. Yesterday you agreed I could take Agatha to the zoo today to celebrate her success in gaining a place at the academy. I turned up to the hotel to find you’d departed for the airport.

  “So?”

  I swallowed down my annoyance, but it left a bitter taste in my mouth. “I wanted to know why you disappeared instead of allowing Agatha to go to the zoo.” And all without bothering to let me know, I thought, my anger building.

  “I changed my mind, as simple as that. Agatha is far too busy now to waste a day looking at animals. We have a million things to do before we go overseas to settle her at the academy. I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced in any way,” she said with snotty insincerity.

  “You promised Agatha. You broke a promise to your child. You lied to her. I hope you’re ashamed of yourself. Let me speak to her. I want her to know this wasn’t my fault.”

  “I most certainly will not let you speak to her. And I don’t appreciate you ringing me up to harangue me. I will be complaining to your boss about this incident. Very poor professionalism in my mind.”

  “While you’re at it, you can tell him I told you that the biggest competitiveness Agatha has to fear in life all comes from you!”

  “How dare you? You’re unbelievably impertinent.”

  “And you’re unbelievably –”

  She hung up on me, which was probably a good thing, saving me from ruining my career at Heller’s again.

  Poor Agatha – not even allowed one day of fun and freedom. I didn’t even get the chance to wish her all the best for her sojourn at the academy. None of this was fair.

  I stomped bad-temperedly up the stairs of the Warehouse to my flat. Daniel intercepted me as I passed the office.

  “Tilly, I’ve had a very irate phone call from Mrs Namoy. She demanded to be put through to Clive when she heard Heller was unavailable. I’m so sorry to have to do that to you.”

  I wasn’t going to take my temper out on him. “It’s all right, Danny. She said she was going to complain about me. Nice to know she barely drew a breath after we spoke to do it.”

  At my flat, my phone rang as soon as I stepped inside. It was Clive, just to make my day that little bit brighter.

  “Get your arse down here now,” was all he deigned to say.

  Damn those stupid cameras everywhere, I thought, stomping even harder back down to the ground floor.

  “What do you want?” I asked belligerently, leaning on his doorway with my arms crossed in a very non-submissive way. If he expected me to apologise to Mrs Namoy for what I’d said, he’d end up a pile of dusty bones sitting in his chair, waiting for something that was never going to happen. And even with no flesh on his face, I bet his would be the only skull in human existence that didn’t grin.

  “You’ve been rude to a client and upset her. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t suspend you. Is there any job you don’t fuck up in some way?”

  “Get stuffed, Clive,” I said angrily, turning on my heel and pushing through the crowd of men that always seemed to materialise when I was getting into trouble.

  “Get back here now!” Clive thundered. “I’m not finished with you.”

  “Tough shit.”

  Putting my job – and probably my life – on the line, I ignored his further rants, returning to my flat. I barred the entrance with my ever-trusty chair, ignored every phone call and knocking at my door for the rest of the day. I turned my stereo up to ear-splitting volume and cleaned my flat from top to bottom in an exhausting frenzy. I thought about having a little party with myself, but decided that lunchtime was too early to begin drinking. And besides, I didn’t feel like any alcohol, wanting to be able to drive to the hospital to visit Dad in the afternoon.

  It was another somber visit, Dad not showing even the slightest sign of improvement. A couple of Dad’s friends and relatives dropped by while I was there, but I had no good news to share with them.

  Heading home again that evening, exhaustion hit me in a tidal wave. That night I dreamed of a forgotten incident that happened when I was about eight-years-old. Mum had been angry with me for breaking one of her favourite vases, one of a matching pair my parents had received as a wedding present from a long-deceased family member – perhaps an aunt or great-aunt. She’d warned me at least five times that morning not to kick my soccer ball around the house, but to go outside instead. I hadn’t listened, and though in my mind I’d kicked a winning goal, I’d also kicked myself into a lot of trouble as Mum’s rarely-seen wrath descended on my head. Her harsh words shattered my jubilation every bit as much as I’d shattered that precious vase with my (imaginary game-winning, crowd-thrilling) goal.

  Normally a loving parent who dealt lightly and sensibly with childish transgressions, I knew I’d really upset her when she threatened to ban me from all television viewing for a month, as well as stopping my pocket money for two months. Dad, the peacemaker, had stepped in between us. He’d reminded her that the vase was just an inanimate object, whereas I was a living, breathing vessel who would one day display the benefits of all the love and lessons poured into me during my life by the two people I trusted more than anyone. Those had been exactly the right words to say to her, and she’d left the room, softly telling Dad to deal with me himself, however he saw fit.

  He’d sat me down, and in his serious, calm voice pointed out that Mum and he didn’t set rules to make my life difficult, but to keep me safe and to help guide my behaviour. He reminded me it was important for me to abide by their rules, because it was respectful to them and beneficial to me.

  His gentle reprimand left me in a flood of tears. I tried to make it up to Mum afterwards by being her helpful little assistant around the house whenever I wasn’t in school. And when I was older and had some rare money jingling in my pocket after one of my infrequent gigs, I’d scoured second-hand stores and online auction sites until I found a replica vase to match the lonely remaining singleton of
the pair. Mum was thrilled with my gift and I felt proud that I’d finally been able to right the wrong that I’d done all those years ago.

  My phone ringing at two in the morning dragged me from sleep. I sprang up, reaching for it, fearing it was something to do with Heller.

  “Tilly,” said Brian in a broken watery voice that chilled me to my bone. “Come to the hospital now. It’s Dad. It’s . . .” He struggled to speak for a moment. “It’s bad. Really bad.”

  Chapter 22

  Not even stopping to brush out my bed hair, I threw on some clothes, slipped a note under Daniel’s door and stumbled down to the garage. Later, I couldn’t remember the drive to the hospital, or parking the car, or racing to Dad’s room.

  When I arrived, everybody was already there, standing or sitting around Dad’s bed, red eyes all around. Mum hunched over the bed, her face full of desolation.

  Dad’s shirt had been cut off and he lay above the blankets and sheets, dressed only in a hospital gown. Most of the electrical devices monitoring his signs had been disconnected, as had the IV bags. An oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose was his sole remaining piece of medical assistance. All colour had drained from his face, and his hands felt cold to the touch, appearing a waxy yellow in colour.

  “Why is everything turned off?” I demanded.

  “Dad had another major heart attack about midnight,” Brian explained, pulling out his hanky to wipe his nose. “His vital signs have considerably weakened since then, some of them are now almost imperceptible.”

  “Tilly, there’s nothing more the staff can do for him,” Sean said gently.

  “There’s always something they can do,” I insisted. “Get them back in here and make them do something!”

  “Tilly,” Brian said, looking away.

  “And what’s all this bruising on his feet?” I asked him, distressed. “What have they been doing to him? They haven’t been trying to make him walk, have they? He’s unconscious, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Tilly,” he choked out. “Dad’s blood’s coagulating in his extremities. See, his fingers are starting to show that bruised effect as well. His body’s shutting down. All his oxygen and blood is being directed to his essential organs like his brain and his heart. It’s his body’s last attempt to keep him alive.”

  I clamped my hand over my mouth, tears stinging my eyes. I kept shaking my head in denial.

  Dad laboured to breath, even with the assistance of the oxygen. He weakly reached a hand out into the air a couple of times as if trying to capture something.

  It was a long, and yet far too short, couple of hours watching him, none of us daring to step out of the room for a second. One of the nurses closed his door, giving us some privacy. That cut out the general clatter of the hospital, but only emphasised the rattle of Dad’s chest as he found it harder and harder to breathe. The mottling of the skin on his feet and hands became more pronounced.

  Brian grasped his hand, leaning down to say to him, “It’s okay to let go, Dad. You’ve done the most wonderful job as a father and a husband and we all love you. Don’t worry about Mum. We’ll look after her.”

  Dad’s breath hitched as though responding.

  A doctor came in with a sympathetic face to check on him. “Nothing indicates your father is in any pain or we’d give him some morphine. Please ask one of the nurses to page me if you need me or if your father seems to be in any distress. Otherwise . . .” He made an expansive gesture with his hands. “I’m sorry.”

  One of the hospital’s social workers came in after him to speak a few consoling words that none of us listened to. He assured us again that Dad was in no pain and briefly explained the post-mortem process at the hospital. I wanted to scream at him to leave us alone and stop talking about things like that, but Brian listened attentively, even though he probably knew more about post-mortem processes than any of us.

  An hour or so later, Dad spoke, very distinctively saying, “Margie.”

  My mother cried for the first time since he’d been admitted, huge gulping sobs that shook her body. She kissed his hand and his lips. He gurgled a breath, sighed deeply, and then there was silence. We waited for him to take another breath, but none followed.

  And in that humble way, every bit as modest as the way he’d lived every day, my father’s precious life slipped away from us.

  We were all a mess of tears afterwards, hugging each other. It was a good couple of minutes before Brian was able to buzz the nurse. She came into the room, took one look at Dad before telling us she’d page the doctor.

  His body began to change in front of us and when I touched his hand, it was icy cold. I knew I’d never erase that deathbed image from my mind.

  When the doctor returned he asked us all to leave while the nurse and he conducted the examination allowing him to officially pronounce Dad as deceased.

  We filed out to the ward hallway, not really knowing what to do with ourselves. Sean led us to a nearby visitor’s lounge. Gayle and I sat either side of Mum, our arms around her as she wept quietly into a dainty old-fashioned lace-bordered handkerchief.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with the rest of my life without him,” she said, her voice cracking. “We were married for over forty years. We did everything together.”

  Once the doctor had finished his examination, we were allowed back in to say our final farewells before Dad was taken to the hospital morgue. That was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do in my life.

  And that was it. Brian told us that he’d discuss the funeral arrangements with Mum, letting us know the details. With nothing more to say or do, we split up, Brian and Gayle taking Mum home to their house. I told Brian I’d pick her up tomorrow morning and stay with her until after the funeral.

  I cried all the way home, my vision sometimes so blurry that I could hardly see. I didn’t care. Nothing seemed important compared to the immense pain of losing Dad.

  I’d barely stepped on the landing of the ground floor at the Warehouse, when Clive shot out of the security section, ready to accost me. The sight of my red, tear-drenched face pulled him up briefly, but unwisely, he charged on.

  “We haven’t finished our discussion about your lack of professionalism with Mrs Namoy. It’s a serious matter that goes right to the heart of Heller’s reputation with prospective clients. You know a lot of our business depends on word of mouth from satisfied clients. What are the chances that she’ll recommend us to anyone now?”

  My temper erupted. “Sack me and kick me out of this building for good. I don’t give a shit anymore. And I don’t give a shit about what Mrs ‘Mega-Bitch’ Namoy is whining about. So just get the fuck off my back for five seconds.”

  Leaving him lost for words, I made my way to my flat, barring my door again and flopping face first down on my bed, crying until I thought my heart would burst. At some point I fell asleep, my face crusted with tear tracks.

  The next day, I packed a bag, left another note under Daniel’s door and drove off to Brian and Gayle’s neat suburban house. Though it was early, Brian and Mum were awake and in the kitchen, Mum keeping him company while he ate a hurried breakfast. Both were polite enough not to mention the unattractive after-effects of my huge crying jag.

  Brian made me a coffee and topped up Mum’s cup of tea.

  “I was just asking Mum if Dad had expressed any preferences in terms of flowers, songs, hymns or prayers for his funeral. Of course it will be held at St John’s Church.”

  That made sense as it was the church Mum and Dad had been married in, and had been their preferred location of worship ever since. Brian, Sean and I had gone to Sunday School in the adjoining hall, Sean being a particularly mischievous attendee, almost driving the poor teacher into tearing her hair out in frustration.

  Mum and Brian spoke for a while about the funeral, Brian jotting down notes.

  “Do you have to work, Brian? Is there anything I can do to help organise the funeral? I’m going to take some time
off.” Actually, after my altercation with Clive yesterday, I might end up taking a lot of time off.

  “I’m taking a few days personal leave to deal with everything. Dad nominated me as his executor, so there’s a bit of work involved in freeing their joint assets for Mum to access. Thank God Dad was organised. It makes things a hell of a lot easier for me.”

  “Gee, you have so much to do. Perhaps Mum and I can deal with the invitations to the funeral and the announcement in the paper. If you let me know the details, we can get the invitations in the mail or email today.”

  “Okay, I’m meeting with the funeral director this morning to discuss the service and coffin.” He looked at Mum. “I thought you might want to choose the coffin?”

  “No, Brian darling. You do it. Tilly and I will write up the invitations. They’ll take a while to finish. I trust you to choose something respectful. I don’t care how much it costs.”

  Brian bowed his head. “Thank you, but I’ll try to keep the budget under control until we can sort out your financial position.”

  These matters were important to discuss, but it all struck me as a little cold when we’d only lost Dad yesterday. It was probably best for someone as capable of detachment as Brian to deal with everything.

  I took Mum back to her house and spent some time cleaning and washing for her. She went through their address book deciding who to invite to the funeral.

  We had a busy day, purchasing the invitations and booking the newspaper announcement once Brian confirmed the time and date. With all the invitations written up and either posted or emailed, we settled down watched some TV in the evening. She’d kept it together all day, but a retirement plan ad broke Mum. I shifted over to the lounge next to her, my arm around her shoulder.

  “Dad and I used to sit here on the lounge watching the news together every night. How am I going to live without him, Tilly?”

  “I don’t know, Mum. We’ll just all take it one day at a time. It’s all we can do.”

  The days flew by before the funeral. Mum and I planned our outfits for the funeral. She declined to go shopping with me, deciding the black dress and low heels she already owned would be suitable. I was in a different boat though, with nothing black in my wardrobe apart from my Heller’s uniform, and I sure wasn’t wearing that.