One Heartbeat

by Bowes, K T

  “You and yer boy have been da joy of me life and don’t you forget it. I’ve delighted in ye, truly I have. I’ll see ye soon in da twinkling of an eye. Know dat I love you, Hana Du Rose. If I had a daughter, she’d have been just like you.”

  Hana cried and the old man comforted her with gentle pats on her bowed head. Her tears splashed on his bed sheets like summer rain and he replaced his mask with a shaking hand. “I’m being selfish,” Hana hiccoughed, “but the thought of you not being here is too much to bear.”

  “Hush,” the old priest soothed. “One day we’ll all be together in heaven and you’ll be amazed at what a dashin’ wee fella I am. I’ll get me legs back and me eyes. D’ya know I’ve never seen yer pretty face? I’ll see if me imaginings are close to da real thing.”

  A pair of strong hands gripped Hana’s shoulders and she turned, hurriedly wiping her hand over her eyes. Matron’s eyes were blurred by tears and she nodded to Hana. “Thirty years of running this home and you’ll be the hardest to let go of, Father,” she whispered and the old man tried to chortle, choking on the sound. “You’re the godliest man I’ve ever known, a walking confessional and a fount of extreme wisdom.” Matron gulped as the old priest didn’t answer. “You should go,” she said to Hana, patting her shoulder.

  Hana’s eyes widened in dismay. “No, let me stay, please? I’ll stop crying, I promise.”

  “Is that all right, Father?” Matron asked, sadness filling her eyes at the lack of response.

  Hana texted Bodie, but he was on duty and didn’t reply. Phoenix slept through the massive event unaware as a great and powerful man of God departed the earth. Hana cried soundlessly as the old man’s breathing became shallow, each shuddering movement of his chest a valiant effort to cling to life. Matron turned up the oxygen and sent for the doctor but Father Sinbad had made up his mind. He was ready to go home.

  As Hana sat with him stroking his hand beneath hers, his breathing became regular and normal and a beautiful smile played on his lips. Hope filled Hana’s heart and she watched as Father Sinbad’s eyes opened wide with wonder as though the blind man could suddenly see; his useless pupils dilated and his gaze fixed on something unseen near his wheelchair. Hana pressed the buzzer for Matron, believing the old man was reviving and hearing the woman’s feet pound along the corridor.

  With joy in his powerful voice, Father Sinbad stretched out his arm towards the empty wheelchair bathed in sunlight and said, “I knew ye’d come for me.” The smile on his face looked ethereal, disappearing as his hand fell limply onto the bed and his soul shucked itself free. Free of the increasingly inadequate body, free of eyes blinded too soon and free from the extreme pain of living.

  Hana felt sure she heard a whisper in the breeze, a gentle male voice saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” The voice was there and then gone, drowned out by the sound of her own sobs.

  The doctor arrived and shook his head, removing the mask from Father Sinbad’s face and laying the old man’s hands gently across his stomach as he failed to find a pulse. “Goodbye old friend,” he said, his professional demeanour temporarily slipped.

  Matron led an inconsolable Hana to her office and kept her there, plying her with tea and rocking the pram to keep the baby asleep. “Let me call your son,” Matron said. “I can’t let you leave like this.”

  Hana shook her head. “He’s not answering. I’ll be fine.” She cut a pitiful figure pushing her pram like an automaton, not even sure in what direction she walked. Her mind went over and over everything and a quote from Shakespeare’s Anthony and Cleopatra rang in her ears. That the world should continue with such ignorance seemed incongruous. The words of Octavius, “The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack,” ran through her head like a mantra alongside the awful realisation that Father Sinbad was no longer a heartbeat away from eternity anymore. He was already there. “Oh, God,” she sobbed all the way home. “Oh, God.”

  Hana arrived home in a dreadful state. Phoenix was awake and hungry but unusually for her, not creating a scene. “What’s happened?” Tama gushed, already reaching for his phone.

  “No,” Hana begged, “don’t call Logan. I just need time.”

  Tama made Hana a drink and held the wriggly baby while she got ready to feed her. Hana’s ashen, tear streaked face made him afraid. Her breaths came in agonising hitches and her halting sentences gave him no comfort. “Let me get Uncle?” he pleaded, handing the child over. “He’ll know how to make you feel better.”

  “No,” Hana insisted, certain her husband couldn’t possibly understand her grief. What she’d lost couldn’t be explained with words.

  Father Sinbad’s funeral took place in the catholic cathedral in Hamilton two days later. Hana attended in a pretty purple dress in his honour, distraught to find the beautiful church empty. Bodie met her at the door in full dress uniform and remarked on the absent congregation. “Bloody Christians,” he said. “He gave them his whole life and they couldn’t even show up to say goodbye.”

  “Father Sinbad loved purple,” Hana whispered tearfully, smoothing her dress and denying herself a vent for her feelings. “He always said God was purple.” She fingered the silky material which was far too thin for such a blustery day and shivered in the cool of the church interior. Bodie sat next to her, holding her hand and wishing he’d seen the text that would have allowed him a personal goodbye.

  The church laid on a small wake for their old priest and a few people stood around eating and talking about his influence on their lives. Loved and revered by Hana, she wished she had known his true value before it was too late. It was her ridiculous fantasy that his funeral would be a huge affair, attended by the grateful masses of Hamilton humanity keen to reward his lifetime of service. It was a foolish dream and the blind priest had been left to rot. “Nobody cared,” she whimpered to Bodie as silent tears ran off the end of her chin and stained the silk of her dress with darker lines of purple.

  “I know,” he whispered back. “I never realised we were the only people who went to see him. I always believed there were others.”

  Hana stood with Matron during the wake, chatting about nothing and desperately trying to contain the waterfall of tears which threatened to burst forth and wash everyone away. Bodie made his excuses and went to work, leaving Hana to walk home. She clip-clopped along the street in her high heels feeling bereft, as yet another of her tent pegs wrenched from the ground leaving her shaky and vulnerable.

  Hana felt numb for the next few days as though her heart stopped at the same moment as the old man’s and waited to begin again. She was on autopilot and couldn’t seem to touch reality. It eluded her, like a knitter trying to make a sweater from fog.

  Logan and Tama showed their concern but Hana shut down and refused to communicate, walking from day to day in a lost dream world. “I’ve invited Robert and Elaine to the hotel for the first week of the holidays,” Logan said, taking the washing basket from Hana and laying it on the ground. “I thought you could have some quality time with them when they get back from Auckland.”

  “Thanks,” Hana nodded, her tone dull. She pressed the top of her stomach again and winced.

  “You should get that looked at,” Logan said, noticing her movement. “Want me to come with you? It might be an ulcer.”

  “No, thanks.” Hana shook her head and let her husband draw her into his chest, breathing in his masculine scent and aftershave and feeling nothing but emptiness. “We’re all one heartbeat away from eternity,” she whispered.

  “What?” Logan pushed her shoulders so he could look at her, his eyes filled with sympathy.

  “I’m not crazy!” Hana snapped. “Don’t look at me like you examined your mother. I’m not mentally ill.”

  “I never said you were.” Logan dropped his arms and took a step back, cut by Hana’s biting remark. He strode from the laundry and she heaved a sigh of relief, receding into the peace and safety of her own misery.

  “All good?�
� Tama asked as Logan strode into the lounge and hurled himself on the sofa.

  “No,” he replied. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to invite Hana’s olds home.”

  Tama nodded. “Know what you mean. She seems really fragile at the moment although it’s not surprising. She’s lost pretty much everyone who ever showed her friendship. Does she look real skinny to you? She does to me.”

  “I don’t know how to sort this,” Logan told Tama, grateful the teenager seemed happy to hang around Hana like river mist. “Thanks for taking care of her. I just tried to get her to see the doctor and she bit my head off.”

  “Friday and the end of the term can’t come soon enough, aye?” Tama said with a smile and patted Logan’s shoulder.

  “True dat,” Hana’s husband replied.

  Hana sat on the bed an hour later, twisting her wedding ring and staring off into the distance. Logan sought her out to say goodbye as he went to his next class. “Hey,” he said gently, knowing how futile his words of consolation would sound, clanging into the vacuum of pain. But he tried. “I love you, Hana Du Rose,” he whispered into her hair. “Just hold onto that for now.” He lowered himself onto the bed and put his arm around her, trying to absorb the negative misery through physical contact.

  The bell clanged from the main building like a death knell, calling him back to work. Hana felt like a tiny bird under his strong arms and Logan felt a frisson of fear. Hana didn’t react as he stood to leave, looking up at him as though noticing he was there.

  A bus stocked to bursting with staff travelled from the school to Larry Collins’ funeral the following day. The very same Catholic Church which echoed emptily with the sound of the priest’s voice for a gentle, worthy man, was packed to the rafters with well-wishers for a man whom everyone hated. None of the Du Roses attended, despite Angus insisting Logan must go for the sake of appearances. “I’m telling you to go!” Angus shouted as the final car departed. He fiddled with his tartan tie and bristled with anger. “It looks bad if you don’t! I want a show of solidarity from all my department heads.”

  “We’ll be late, Mr Blair,” Amanda interjected, straightening her skirt and jangling her car keys. Angus ignored her, raising his bushy red eyebrows to Logan.

  “Sack me if you don’t like it.” Logan’s voice sounded low and powerful, causing the older man’s eyes to bug in surprise. Logan leaned in towards Angus’ face stating calmly, “I’ll be a hypocrite for no man!”

  “I’ll see you when I get back!” Angus spat and Logan gave him a sarcastic wave as the principal spilled from the front reception like bubbling lava.

  Hana wandered aimlessly around the school grounds with her pram the following day, faking a smile for two female teachers supervising sports classes. “Hey, Hana,” the blonde woman said. “Didn’t see you at the funeral yesterday. The flowers were beautiful and the church was packed.”

  Her colleague nodded. “It was very moving.”

  Hana’s jaw dropped in misery and she made no comment, pushing her pram through the middle of a dangerous game of moon-ball. Three Year 9s narrowly missed her as they hurtled by after the enormous ball, shrieking and giggling with a joviality Hana didn’t even notice.

  Tears coursed down her face as Hana strode home, incensed at the unfairness of life. Arriving home in a state of high agitation and misery, it was left to Tama to pick up the pieces. “It’s not fair,” she sobbed. “How can such a loving, godly man be celebrated by so few when a hated, spiteful, crooked drug pusher gets falsely lauded by so many? They’re all liars!” she wailed.

  “I know, Ma,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and holding her trembling body. “It sucks; it’s not fair.”

  By lunchtime on Friday, Logan was ready to leave and loaded the car with Tama. “Don’t you have a class?” the young man asked as they lugged suitcases down the front steps.

  “Angus said I could go during my free. School ends early today and the boarders have gone already.”

  “Did he ball you out for not going to Collins’ funeral?” Tama asked, frowning.

  “Yep,” Logan replied. “Do I look like I care?”

  Tama snorted and shook his head. “You sound like me, Uncle.”

  Logan stopped for a moment, fingering a ridge on the metalwork around the rear door. He narrowed his eyes and smiled at Tama. “No, son, I think you probably sound like me.” He bit his lip and laughed as Tama’s eyes twinkled.

  Hana played with her baby on the lounge rug, finding the unquestioning nature of her daughter safer than the furtive looks and worried faces of her men. “Time to go, babe,” Logan said, lifting Phoenix into his arms. “Let’s go home.”

  Tama locked up as Logan stuffed Hana and his child into the back of the Honda and they arrived at the hotel before afternoon tea time, coasting down the long mountain road and crunching onto the welcoming gravel within record time.

  Hana emerged from the back of the vehicle and inhaled fresh mountain air. She closed her eyes and tasted peace and cleanliness, breathing properly for the first time since the old priest left her behind. She touched her right palm to her lips, remembering how he passed onto the other side while holding her hand. It felt sore as though he’d left a scorch on her flesh. Surrounded by the green of the mountains and the azure blue sky, Hana drew in a huge, life-giving breath which went deep into her lungs and exhaled in a rush.

  “You ok?” Logan watched her, his grey eyes bright as he struggled to mask his inner concern.

  “Yeah. I am now.” The shroud lifted and Hana felt the numbness tumble away as the Logan’s ancestors rallied around her in the earth, bringing healing. “I feel the tangata whenua,” Hana said, her voice sounding distant.

  Logan nodded with instant understanding. “Good,” he said. “You go in, I’ll bring the gear up with the boy.”

  Hana sought Leslie in the laundry room and the Māori woman whooped with pleasure, embracing her in a bone crushing hug. “Now then my kōtiro, come and talk with old Leslie and tell her what you’ve been up to.”

  “I don’t know where to start,” Hana admitted as the reappearance of her father, the kidnapping and Father Sinbad’s death played across her vision like a soap opera.

  “At the beginning,” Leslie said, patting the upturned bottom of a laundry basket. Hana sat and poured out her woes to the housekeeper while Leslie loaded huge washing machines with white towels and sheets. While the industrial machines clanked and rumbled they spoke with their heads close together like co-conspirators, drowned out by the noise. “I can’t tell Logan how I feel,” Hana sighed. “He still hasn’t dealt with Miriam’s death and what happened with Reuben. I can’t load this on him too.”

  Leslie nodded. “Foolish men,” she agreed. “Dealing with stuff isn’t the Du Rose way. They bottle it up and then one day it hits the ground like a molotov cocktail and everythin’ around ‘em goes boom!” She clapped her hands to mimic an explosion and Hana smiled at the childishness of the old lady’s imagery.

  “It doesn’t help he feels Alfred’s abandoned him too. I think that’s the ultimate cruelty. It’s one thing to lose a father you never knew you had, but to lose the stand in too is dreadful.”

  “I hear ya,” Leslie replied, “I’m workin’ on it.” She gave Hana one of her hundred watt smiles and the other woman felt reassured.

  In Logan’s childhood bedroom with its blue wallpaper and big double bed, Hana laid on her back feeling hopeful for the first time in days, her sanity partly restored.

  Chapter 27

  “I’ll take you up to your room,” Logan said, smiling at Robert. “You must be tired.”

  “I’ll take them, Mr Du Rose,” Leslie said, bustling forward. “Mr Michael’s old room?”

  “Yeah.” Logan nodded. “Next to the lift.”

  “Thank you, Logan,” Robert said appreciatively, taking Elaine’s arm. Her face channelled an unhealthy grey and her breathing sounded hoarse.

  Hana sat in the family dining room next to the k
itchen, feeding Phoenix and staring through the long sash windows onto the driveway. Cars buzzed in and out of the car park as guests arrived and departed, keeping the hotel staff busy and in employment.

  Logan left to talk to Jack and Tama was around somewhere. Hana browsed the tourist magazine on the table as Phoenix fed herself to sleep. Every time Hana thought she could safely stand, the baby disturbed and suckled again. Hana flicked the page over to a review of Logan’s hotel and reread it. The photographs were stunning. ‘Definitely a five-star destination,’ the journalist had written. ‘Where natural beauty meets unequalled quality.’

  There was a picture of a bush walk Logan’s men spent last summer putting in and the gravel path up to a stunning lookout over the valley. It was a good write up and had already drawn international visitors. The business was thriving and Hana felt a flicker of pleasure for her husband, coupled with jealousy at the journalist. Hana suspected she fancied Logan, reading between the lines and detecting the sense of awe and fascination with the imposing Māori. “Bad luck,” she sighed. “He’s taken.”

  Hana looked up at the sound of footsteps on the gravel driveway, surprised to find herself looking into the face of a pretty Māori woman, smartly dressed and on her way to the hotel entrance. She looked familiar, smiling and waving at Hana, who couldn’t get her hand up in time to wave back. “I bet I looked a right idiot,” she commented to the dozing child, “gormless, sitting at the table goggling out of the window.”

  She laid the baby over her thighs under cover of the table and fastened her bra, waiting for a minute. She dreaded nipping into the corridor and running into the pretty guest. It would be awkward, far too late to smile and wave. When the kitchen door opened, Hana assumed it was Leslie returning to prepare lunch and ignored it.

  “It’s all different!” exclaimed a confused male voice and Hana turned, seeing Michael and the guest standing in confusion inside the kitchen door. She stood and laid Phoenix over her shoulder, walking through the new archway to greet her brother-in-law.