“Thank God you were here for the surgery. I don’t know how I would have coped without your help.”
“Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away.”
A thoughtful expression played across Drew’s face. I decided to allow him time alone with his thoughts. I unwound my legs and stood up. “I’m going to make some tea, can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks I’ve got paperwork to catch up on. If I can get through it tonight hopefully it’ll free me up for the weekend.” He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose – his mind caught up in a distraction.
“I’ll see you in the morning. Try not to work too late,” I said knowing my cautionary words would fall on deaf ears.
. . .
Ross padded barefoot and bare-chested into the room. Dark blue tattoos adorned his body like some form of modern day hieroglyphics. He pulled back the cover, climbed onto the bed and grabbed a motorbike manual from the stack of magazines that seemed to grow daily on the bedside table.
“Look at those little fingers go. What kind of murder and mayhem are you planning now?”
“Yours, if you don’t be quiet. I’m on a roll here…”
It’s real scary when I have moments of temporary sanity.
*****
The house was a gray ranch-style with charcoal shutters and trim; and a chimney rising at the back.
Danny grabbed his bag out of the trunk and followed Nicola inside. As she dropped her keys and sunglasses on a small table by the door, he took a moment to look around.
Off to the right, a set of stairs led down to what Danny assumed to be another level of what appeared at first glance, to be a single level bungalow.
“That’s where I keep all the junk I should get rid of but never seem to get around to doing. I’m sure you know what it’s like,” Nicola said and headed down the hallway.
Danny fell into step beside her. “Yeah, I’ve got one of those but mine’s filled with a jungle of motorcycle parts that will hopefully grow up to become shiny new Harley Davidson motorcycles.”
Nicola smiled as she stopped in front of an open door on the right, and said, “You can put your things in here.” She wasn’t sure what he expected – but then, neither was she.
Danny dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and looked around.
“This is nice,” he said as she caught his eye with a smile he wanted to own.
“Bathroom’s through there.” Nicola’s voice dropped away as they stared at each other for an awkward moment then took a step back.
“Come on I’ll show you the rest of the house.”
Danny followed her down to a partially open door on the left where a light breeze drifted in through an open window and stirred dust motes bathed in golden light from a large skylight set high in the ceiling, above the bed.
“That’s my room,” Nicola said. She hoped he wouldn’t look inside.
Danny ducked his head around the partially open door and peeked in.
It was a pleasant enough room that revealed little by way of furniture or furnishings, except for a photograph in an ornate frame that sat on the nightstand next to the bed. Although there was nothing particularly remarkable about the picture the fact that it sat facing the bed, spoke volumes. It was the passport-size snapshot he had sent her last May –enlarged and framed in silver. He looked at Nicola, and smiled.
Nicola felt the heat of embarrassment bloom over her features. “The main living area’s down here.” She turned on her heels and hurried down the polished wood floor to a large open doorway at the end of the hall.
Danny followed Nicola into a room that was bright and airy, and was surprised by the size. It had high ceilings and tall windows. At one end a modern kitchen and dining area where crystal vases filled with long-stemmed yellow roses created a striking effect on the black marble bench top and polished burr-wood table; a dozen roses in each vase.
He smiled. “I see you got my roses.”
“Yes. They’re lovely. Thank you. How did you know yellow roses were my favorite?”
“I remembered you mentioned it some time ago.”
Set in a wall a gas fireplace was surrounded by white-wooden shelves that housed books, a hi-fi system and collection of miniature sculptures made from colored glass. On either side of the shelving were large windows trimmed in white wood where lamps with silk shades sat on small tables.
A laptop sat on a desk next to a telephone, a lamp and small stack of books beneath a window that looked out onto a garden. Beyond the desk stood a baby grand piano, the bright sun reflecting off the polished white surface.
“Do you play?” Danny asked.
“No. It belonged to my mother. She was a wonderful pianist. When she played the music would carry you away. She’d sit at the keyboard and play for hours. Mozart, Chopin, Strauss, Bach, and Bacharach were her favorite composers.”
“But you don’t play?”
“No. Mom tried to teach me when I was about eight, but I was impatient, I hated having to practice every day for hours. Eventually we both gave up.”
“So you don’t play at all?”
Nicola shrugged. “Occasionally I’ll sit at the keyboard and tinkle but I’m not very good.”
“I’m sure you’re a much better pianist than you give yourself credit for. I’d love you to play for me some time.”
Nicola laughed. “Then you’ll need to buy a set of industrial earplugs, because, believe me, you are going to need them.”
Suddenly the shrill of the telephone cut through the air. Nicola smiled an apology walked over to the desk and picked it up.
“Hello,” she said distractedly. Her eyes followed Danny to a pair of Ansel Adams photographs that had belonged to her father.
“Hello?” she said again–and waited. “Is anyone there…? Hello…?” Nicola listened a moment longer but all she heard was dead air. She shrugged and returned the hand set to the cradle.
Danny glanced over his shoulder. “No one there?”
Nicola shook her head. “It was probably just a wrong number.”
“Probably,” Danny said as he wandered down to where a comfortable looking sofa and chairs sat facing a wall of glass where the eye was held captive by giant redwoods, bay laurels, tall oak trees, and wine-colored maples. He stood with his hands in his pockets and listened to the wind rustling through the trees and the faint tinkling of a piano. “I don’t see any neighbors.”
Nicola came up beside him and pointed through the trees at the bottom of the garden. “Oh, yes,” she said, “beyond those redwoods in the back.” She stopped and listened to a ripple of notes that drifted up to them. “That's Sam playing the piano. He’s a musician. His garden backs onto mine but his house fronts the Dipsea steps.”
Nicola could feel the heat radiating from Danny’s body as she chewed nervously on her bottom lip. “Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
“Nothing to eat, thanks, but I sure could do with a decent cup of coffee and a hot shower.” He looked over at Nicola and grinned.
“I need something to get my heart started again.”
*****
I stared at the screen and listened to the sound of my sister’s restless tossing and turning from across the hall and debated whether to go to her. But I knew there was nothing I could do to take away the fears that constantly plagued her.
I felt the light touch of Ross's hand on my back.
He leaned down and whispered, “Come to bed, Bethany.”
I shut down the laptop, turned off the lamp and slipped under the covers. Ross reached out and gathered me into his arms and as I snuggled into the familiar strength of his body I felt the tears gather at the back of my throat.
“It’s okay, babe, she’s strong, she’ll come through it. Maybe a little battle scarred and worse for wear but she’ll come through it.” Ross kissed the top of my head and held me close to his heart.
SIX
As we walked through the door Rosie looked around, smilin
g. “Hi everybody. How’s everyone doing today?” she asked.
People looked up and acknowledged our presence.
At the back of the room I could see the man who sat had beside Linda yesterday and guessed the person behind the large magazine was her.
My sister honed in on him like a heat-seeking missile. The man saw the determined look on her face, grabbed his things and jumped up. He looked around the room but the only vacant chair was squashed between a large man and the refreshments cabinet.
“Hi Linda,” we both said in unison.
Linda stuck her head out from behind the magazine, said a quick hi, and resumed reading.
Rosie handed me her bag and looked around for a place to put the large parcel of fresh bones we had picked up for an elderly neighbor’s dog.
She dropped the parcel onto Linda’s lap, said, “Would you mind holding these for me?” and headed for the change room.
Linda stared at the package and noticed specks of blood seeping through the white butcher’s paper. For a moment I thought she was going to toss her cookies but she held onto them, even though she did turn a little pale. Linda was obviously made of sterner stuff than I had given her credit for.
“Don’t worry, Linda, they’re just a couple of bones with bits of gristle and meat on them. Did you know it’s really hard to get bones completely clean unless you boil them for a couple of hours?” I offered this little piece of miscellaneous information I’d picked up from watching CSI on the television while I sorted through my bag looking for the packet of mints I was sure were in there.
Linda jumped up so quickly the package fell to the floor. She kicked the neatly wrapped package and sent it sliding across the floor. It bounced off the wall, rolled backwards, and came to rest, partially unraveled, under a chair.
“Ooh,” Linda howled and headed for the restroom.
It turns our Linda is not as strong as I’d thought. A good solid kick would have sent the packages flying across the room, hit the back wall and ricochet into the middle of the room.
As I shuffled through my bag searching for mints, my sister did a catwalk twirl clutching the washed-out blue hospital gown that had only one tie.
“Have you got my mints?” I asked her.
Her eyes scanned the room. “No.”
“Are you sure? Can I check your bag in case I dropped them in there by mistake?”
“Go right ahead but I’m pretty sure you won’t find them in there.”
When she reached for her bag she noticed the slightly unraveled parcel lying partially hidden under the chair. She leaned down and picked it up.
“Where did Linda go?”
“I think she’s gone to the bathroom,” I muttered as I rifled through her bag – came up empty and handed it back.
“No luck?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Do you think I should go and see if Linda’s all right?”
I picked up my bag, upended the contents onto my lap and sorted through them. “Eureka!” I shouted when I found a loose mint caught up in a crumpled tissue. I removed the ragged bits of silver paper and popped the mint into my mouth.
“I’m sure Linda will be all right. It’s probably just nerves,” I said as I felt the sugar hit kick in. I glanced at my watch and noted the time. “It’s almost time for Judge Judy.”
I looked at the man seated beneath the old television set hoping for another glimpse of firm gluteus that could probably crack walnuts, but instead saw a gray-haired Japanese man who was so short his feet barely touched the floor. He was clutching a black briefcase to his chest, his face an inscrutable blank.
“Excuse me,” I called, and waved frantically hoping to attract his attention. A middle-aged woman sitting next to him noted my flapping, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed me out.
The man leaned forward and squinted through thick Coke-bottle lenses.
“Do-you-speak-English?” I asked loudly making sure to enunciate ev-e-ry syll-a-ble clearly the way you do with people who don’t understand English.
“English! Ah so.” The elderly man nodded his head up and down like one of those plastic dogs you see in the back of cars driven by old men wearing hats. Nodding dogs we used to call them – the toy, I mean, not the men.
Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against old men−or their hats. I happen to be married to one. It’s just that they have a tendency to nod off at the drop of a hat–so to speak.
“Would-you-change-the-channel-to-Judge-Judy?” I spoke loudly and clearly.
The man nodded his head up and down. What did I tell you about old men, and nodding heads?
“Ah. Judge Judy,” he said. When he stood up and leaned over to place his briefcase on the floor, the back of his gown opened slightly displaying a hint of white flesh. Then, as he climbed onto the chair and reached for the controls, the back of the gown parted, like an old movie theater curtain, and revealed a fine line of black hair that ran down his spine and disappeared between white cheeks that put me in mind of partially deflated party balloons.
As the controls were located at the very top of the set, the diminutive man had to stand on tippy-toes to reach them, causing the gown to hitch high above his nether regions and reveal parts of his anatomy that I dare not name–for modesty’s sake.
Still standing on the chair, his arm extended high above his head, he turned and squinted in my direction and everyone in the room had a full view of what I could only describe as an overcooked, shriveled-up sausage between a couple of dried prunes. Now I can tell the girls in my mah-jongg group back home in Australia that Asian men are built that same as white men. Just goes to show what you can learn when you’re out there amongst Joe Q Public.
Shame my best friend, Hilda won’t be there when I give them the news, but she ran off with an eighty-year-old toothless man from Kazakhstan who sold her a Moroccan rug in a bazaar while she was holidaying in a Siberian Gulag last year. Last I heard, Hilda was living with an Eskimo on some remote island off Greenland– claimed her rug seller was a hot-blooded gigolo. I guess Hilda’s what you might call a well-traveled woman. However, I call her my ex-best friend.
An audible gasp could be heard from a couple of elderly women at the back of the room. This was a Catholic hospital so they may have been nuns who lived in cloisters and had never seen a male body up close−marble statues aside.
I figured it was time they got a public school education.
I’d received mine at the back of the shelter sheds in the park – aged five, when Billy Simpson flashed his willy at me and Julie, who was my best friend at the time. Little itty-bitty thing it was too–hardly worth the effort. And from what I heard from his wife, my old childhood friend, Julie, it hasn’t changed much since then.
I’ve always said there’s nothing more complete than a public school education.
“Channel-Five–C.B.S. I enunciated loudly.
The man bobbed his head up and down, changed the channel then turned and looked down at me, his hand still hovering above the dial awaiting further instructions.
I moved my hand in a twisting motion and spoke slowly. “Could-you-turn-the-volume-up?”
He looked at me strangely, and tried to imitate my action.
I could see that was not going to work. I put my hands to my ears, opened and closed them and said, “Turn up sound.”
He gave me a wide gap-toothed grin put his hands under his armpits and gave a fascinating rendition of the chicken dance, while humming the tune. At least, I think that was what it was. But I don’t speak Japanese.
I found the sight of the man’s dangly bits bobbing up and down a tiny bit disconcerting. And from the gasps that emanated from the back of the room, I figured the nuns were getting an advanced course in human anatomy. Good thing the gown was secured by a couple of frayed ties at the neck or they’d be passed out on the floor by now.
“Very nice,” I said. “But, no.”
I put my hand in front of my mouth, opened and closed i
t, to indicate speech, then rolled my hands in a circle near my ears.
The man scrunched up his eyes.
Suddenly recognition bloomed across his face.
“Me, no deaf,” he said happily, pointing to his chest.
I smiled–and pointed to my chest. “Me happy.”
“Sound… good, no good?” he asked in barely discernible broken English.
I laughed. “Sound definitely no good.”
“Me fix!” When he stood on his toes and reached for the volume control situated on the top of the set, there was a shuffling of seats in the back of the room and I figured the nuns must be going for their Masters.
The subject of their thesis turned and looked down at me, his hand still hovering up near the dial–dangly bits swaying in the breeze, awaiting approval before vacating his roost.
I grinned and gave him the okay, thumbs-up sign. “Perfect,” I said.
Just as the dear man settled back on the chair, Judge Judy’s face filled the screen ready to dole out justice–as only Judge Judy could.
The door to the treatment room opened and a figure in white, backlit by bright lights entered the room; like an alien emerging from a spaceship. The flickering light from the television reflected off glass lenses as the lone figure looked around the room.
“Mr. Takamura!” a deep voice called, loudly.
The Japanese man jumped to his feet, bowed twice, grabbed his briefcase, and hurried across the room. When he reached the large door, he turned and smiled and nodded in my direction. A look of surprise flashed across his face as he was bumped inside by the powerful hydraulic door closer that waits for no man.
Rosie looked up at the screen, and smiled. “It’s almost like being at home with friends.”
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