Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  ‘All right, but please come back if you need to. And good luck with the back operation.’

  She thanks him and takes the prescriptions. Just having them in her hands makes her feel stronger as she heads home to write a eulogy.

  13

  Sam’s funeral is big, of course. Too big. A sea of dark blue; solemn glances, respectful nods, sweaty armpits, too much supermarket deodorant, TV cameras. Heat radiates from the footpath out the front. It would have been a nice day for the beach or the zoo. Brigitte hasn’t attended many funerals, but they’ve all been on cold, bleak days — appropriate weather. Sam was an atheist, but Maggie and Doug Campbell have insisted on a religious service. They forbade the police band from playing anything by the Foo Fighters, but reluctantly agreed to ‘Into my Arms’ by the organist at the church.

  Brigitte looks towards the domed wooden ceiling, and wishes she could collapse from the heat, be taken away in an ambulance so it would all be over. Maybe she should have started on Doctor Rhys’s meds to help her through this. Or at least had a drink. No, she’s not like her mother. She stands, sober, at the altar when it’s her turn, and pays tribute to ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Sam Campbell, my kind, generous husband who was the best father there could be for Finn and Phoebe.’

  A few coughs, sniffles, and scuffs of mourners’ shoes.

  ‘He loved his job and gave it everything he could offer, and I believe this is why he was so successful in his chosen profession.’ She glances at the coffin draped with the Australian flag, and at Sam’s bravery medals — useless now — displayed on a small table, bathed in golden, stained-glass light.

  ‘He was courageous,’ she says, ‘deeply respected by the community, a good bloke who devoted his life to — as our son Finn would say — keeping the good people safe.’ She looks out at Finn, who’s sitting on Ryan’s lap in the front pew; she struggles to smile, takes a breath, and clears her throat. ‘He died protecting the community, and this shows the dangers our brave police officers confront every day. Sam’s death is a reminder of how precious and fragile life is.’ Her eyes fall on Aidan, and she averts them quickly. ‘Sam, we love you; you will always be in our hearts.’

  After the service, the police band plays, and officers form a guard of honour along the street. A police helicopter does a fly-over as the mourners walk to the cars.

  Tears have left streaks on Phoebe’s face, and Finn has dried snot smeared across his cheek. Aidan finds some bottled water and tissues in their car; he wipes Phoebe’s tears and cleans Finn’s face. Joan, in her bright-red suit — the colour for mourning in South Africa, apparently — smokes a cigarette on the footpath.

  ‘Can you be our daddy now?’ Finn says to Aidan.

  Joan coughs on her smoke, and Brigitte grips the car seat. Aidan explains to the twins that their daddy will always be their daddy.

  A police escort leads the mourning cars, through a heat-haze shimmer, to the cemetery.

  At the gravesite, Aidan flashes intense, concerned looks at Brigitte over the coffin. She ignores him. A carer pushes Papa up next to her in a wheelchair. Joan pats her arm and asks if she’s all right. Phoebe keeps asking how Daddy is going to get out of the coughing box. Ryan shoulders Joan out of the way, and Brigitte squeezes his hand — too hard. She must be hurting him, her fingernails in his flesh, but he doesn’t flinch.

  After the final goodbyes, Brigitte and the twins lead the mourners in scattering rose petals over the coffin. What would their next child have looked like? Would it have been a boy or a girl? Surely not another set of twins? Ryan coaxes her away with an arm encircling her waist. ‘You were very brave at the church,’ he whispers.

  The private wake is at Maggie and Doug’s house. Brigitte sits in a corner, hoping her brown suit will help her blend into the brown-leather chair and brown-brick feature wall. It doesn’t work. She nods politely at all the words of sympathy and the offers of help, but she doesn’t really hear. It’s as if she’s watching herself from far away. Her head feels heavy, drowsy, as if she could nod off in the chair. Aidan brings her a plate of sandwiches and a glass of whisky. She takes the whisky.

  Joan has taken off her jacket to reveal a see-through blouse. She swishes the amber liquid around in her glass. It’s probably brandy, without lime or soda — she gave up mixers long ago. She’s perched on a stool at Doug’s leather-and-timber bar, her legs crossed, circling a skinny ankle around and around, slipping a heel in and out of a red stiletto — flirting with Doug.

  Brigitte feels nauseated. She puts her drink on a table and rushes to the toilet.

  She sucks in a few short, shallow breaths in her parents-in-law’s cool, peaceful bathroom, with its gold taps, floral feature-tiles, fluffy purple toilet-seat cover, and lavender air-freshener. She lies on the floor, her head resting on the bath mat — it smells of talcum powder and mould. She bends her knees to relieve her lower-back pain, and stares at the ceiling. In the corner, a small grey spider traps a fly, paralysed by lethal venom, in its web. Sunlight glints on the silvery net as the spider wraps its prey in sticky threads of silk. Does the fly feel comfort now? Warm, anesthetised, swaddled, the end near? Brigitte marvels at the intricacy and sardonic beauty as she closes her eyes.

  Joan bursts in. ‘What are you doing? Get up, silly girl.’

  ‘I feel sick.’

  Joan pulls her up by an arm. ‘It’s just stress.’ She turns on a gold tap. ‘Splash some cold water on your face.’

  Brigitte looks at her white face in the mirror: dark circles under her eyes, make-up smudged, hair frizzy from the humidity and escaping from its chignon.

  Joan fishes around in her knock-off Louis Vuitton handbag. She hands her a tablet.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Xanax. Now pull yourself together and get back out there.’

  It’s time to leave when Maggie starts confiding in Brigitte about what a violent bastard Sam’s biological father had been.

  Brigitte finds Aidan talking to Sam’s sister, and asks him to take her and the twins home. She doesn’t say goodbye to anybody, not even to Ryan.

  That night, Kerry brings over a bottle of Johnnie Walker.

  Some sorrows have floated and some have been drowned in half the bottle when Aidan comes into the living room and asks if Brigitte’s all right.

  ‘What do you reckon, mate?’ Kerry says, slurring.

  ‘I wasn’t asking you.’

  Brigitte stares at the striding man in top hat and tails on the Johnnie Walker label, as though he’s an old friend.

  ‘Where’re the twins?’

  She shrugs. She’s not capable of putting them to bed, so Aidan does. When he comes back, she’s nodding off, holding the glass in both hands as if warming herself over a hot drink. She shivers.

  ‘That’s probably enough for tonight.’ He takes away the bottle.

  ‘Hey!’ Her eyes snap open. ‘I buried my husband today. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do.’ There’s too much of Joan in her voice.

  She stands, sways, lifts her face to him, thinks about kissing him, is angry at herself for the thought, angry at him for even being here, angry at Sam for leaving her and the twins. She balls her hands into fists, and beats his chest. Kerry sneaks out. He lets her take out her anger on him for a while, then holds her hands, lowers them to her sides, and lets her fall against him — again.

  ‘It’s OK, Brigitte. You’ll be all right.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘You’re stronger than you think you are.’

  ‘Because of Eric Tucker?’ She pulls away from him, suddenly sounding sober.

  ‘Let’s talk about this later.’

  ‘You think I had something to do with killing him, don’t you?’

  ‘I was wrong to discuss that investigation with you.’

  ‘Will I go to jail?’<
br />
  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘I can’t go to jail. I have two babies to look after.’

  ‘Then be strong for them.’

  She takes a step back, steadies herself against the table, and walks away towards the twins’ bedroom.

  14

  ‘Good kick, Finny!’ Aidan kicks a soccer ball back to Finn down the sideway.

  Brigitte goes outside and watches for a minute with hands on hips, tapping a foot. ‘Time for kinder, Finn.’

  He complains, wanting to keep playing.

  ‘I have to go to work, too, mate,’ Aidan says. ‘But we can play again this afternoon.’

  ‘Inside, Finn, and get your bag.’ She turns to Aidan. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You’re not their father.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  She doesn’t have a point. She folds her arms across her chest. ‘When are you going to talk to me about Eric Tucker?’

  Aidan glances at Finn dawdling in through the back door. ‘Not now.’ He picks up the soccer ball and bounces it. ‘I have some good news for you, though.’

  She twists her mouth and raises her eyebrows.

  ‘My wife’s been talking to me — looks like she might take me back after all.’ He turns the ball over in his hands. ‘I shouldn’t be here for much longer.’

  She should feel pleased, relieved.

  ‘Look, I know you don’t like me, Brigitte, but why don’t you just let me help out a bit? With the twins. While I’m still around. While you’re sorting stuff out.’

  She’s about to tell him to fuck off, but a thick, heavy tiredness blankets her, and any help would be appreciated — even his. She looks at a crack in the concrete, and says softly, ‘OK.’

  He bounces the ball again and throws it to her. She misses.

  ‘See you tonight then,’ he says.

  How about a kiss goodbye? Have a good day, honey? Happy families. When he leaves, she leans against the fence and allows herself to indulge in self-pity for a minute or two — to imagine the bleak days ahead, a flat line of loneliness and pain. No leaving the porch light on at the end of the day; no partner to help, to break the monotony. Her limbs feel heavy, as if they’re filled with cement. What if it’s always going to be like this? What if it never gets any better?

  ‘Let’s go to kinder, Mummy!’ Finn calls.

  Aidan’s right: she has to be strong, keep going for the twins. Sam never helped anyway. Wallowing time is over. She sighs and, with a huge effort, pushes herself off the fence.

  ***

  She takes sharp, panicky breaths, and sweat beads on her skin as she paces the living room, grasping the Di-Gesic packet. She turns it over and over in her hands. Her back pain has gone up a degree: it’s hard to sit; she can only stand or lie flat. If she sticks to the recommended dose, she’ll be OK. It has to be better than the pain, better than going back to the hospital. Fear floods her body at the thought of it. Stupid tears fill her eyes, and she rubs them away. Anything is better than the hospital. Finally, she opens the packet — breaks the seal — pops two painkillers from the blister pack inside, and washes them down with a glass of water.

  She sits on the couch with her laptop ready to work on an article but, instead, googles Kurt Cobain. His eyes were very blue. He committed suicide in 1994 — the year Eric Tucker was murdered, the year of the accident.

  She has a memory from the start of that year: furniture removalists carrying the last of Joan’s furniture out of the old pink house in Brunswick. They’d left Ratsak, mice droppings, crumbs of rotten food, and a dried-out mouse in the square stain where the fridge had stood. ‘Don’t look so sad,’ Joan said. ‘This is a new beginning, not an ending.’ Joan’s car was packed to the roof. She drove Brigitte to Jennifer’s share house in Fitzroy. Jennifer was a high school dropout — not even a real friend, just somebody whose father Joan knew. ‘I need to see the stars again, Brigitte,’ Joan said as she dropped her off with a cold kiss on the cheek. Jennifer’s house smelled of bong water, dirty laundry, and spaghetti Bolognese. Brigitte had sat on the worn, flesh-coloured couch, and looked through The Age for job ads and flats to rent.

  A memory from the end of that year (or is it from the start of the next?) bubbles up: in hospital, Sam had a partner with him, and was asking questions that made no sense, at first. Their words ran together, exhausting her. Her brain seemed to wobble inside her head. And Papa was there, telling them to bugger off and look for the bloody bastard in the blue Camry that had run her over. She slept and woke, and Sam was still there, or there again.

  She follows a link to a conspiracy-theory website dedicated to how Kurt Cobain was murdered. It speculates that Courtney Love was involved. Among other inconsistencies in the Cobain case, it says that Kurt had injected far too much heroin to have been capable of pulling the trigger. His fingerprints weren’t on the shotgun. And his suicide note was really a letter written to Courtney announcing he was leaving her.

  What is she doing? She doesn’t have time for dead rock stars. She closes the webpage and opens a Word document, but she’s too tired to work. Her head is fuzzy; she needs to rest. She puts her laptop aside and lies on the floor, calves up on the couch to take pressure off her back. She closes her eyes — just for a minute.

  In a dream, Papa and Ryan are fixing up the room at the back of Nana and Papa’s old house. It’s as big as a flat. A safe room — nobody will ever look for her here. A painting hangs on the wall: two sad, ghost-like figures embrace on a finger-painted canvas. The male figure holds a bouquet of white flowers with fresh-blood-coloured centres.

  Nana steps in front of the painting. ‘It’s under the carpet,’ she says.

  Brigitte kneels and rips it up, pulls up the floorboards, digs under the room. Her fingers bleed, her nails black with dirt. It’s wrapped in the yellow bunny rug: the little blue box tied with white ribbon. A shadow falls across it.

  ‘Don’t open it,’ a gravelly voice says.

  Too late. It’s open. A bright-blue butterfly flutters out. Inside is a letter from Kurt Cobain, the red dog collar and the key attached to the letter J.

  A siren rings.

  The phone’s ringing. Sam? What’s happened? She gets up from the floor, rushes to the phone in the hallway, stumbles, trips — her lower limbs have fallen asleep, and she’s got pins and needles.

  She fumbles with the receiver, drops it, and picks it up. ‘Hello.’ Her voice is hoarse. She rubs her calves with her free hand.

  ‘Brigitte?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Yasmine from kinder.’

  ‘What’s wrong? Are Finn and Phoebe OK?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve been trying to ring you — it’s twenty past four. They’re waiting for you.’

  Shit. Twenty minutes late. She rubs her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. I got held up. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  The car keys? The car keys! She up-ends her hand bag: receipts, water bottles, pens, Tic Tacs, toy cars, pills, and other assorted crap spill out. And keys. She grabs them (and the pills), and leaves everything else in a pile on the fake Persian rug.

  Kinder is deserted. Brigitte flies through the door. It smells of pine; they’ve decorated the Christmas tree in the foyer. ‘Morningtown Ride’ rocks and rolls and rides from the CD player. She shivers — God she hates this song. She bursts into the three-year-olds’ room. Phoebe is crying, and Finn is pushing a car backwards and forwards on the rug. She crouches, and opens her arms for her babies. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says to Yasmine. ‘I had some work that took a bit longer than expected.’

  Yasmine is cheerful and polite as always. ‘It’s OK. We knew something important must have come up.’ She’s taken out her nose ring; the piercing is infected.

  Brigitte clicks Finn and Phoebe int
o their child restraints in the car, and finds lollypops for them in the glove box. ‘Sorry, guys.’ She seatbelts herself in, and looks at them in the rear-view mirror, sucking away happily: they have her nose, her mouth, Sam’s eyes.

  ‘When is Daddy coming back?’ Phoebe asks.

  15

  It’s 7.00pm. Bedtime. Here we go again. Brigitte lacks the energy for the night-time ritual and drama. She’s begrudgingly grateful that Aidan is here to help.

  From the bathroom, she calls the twins to come and get ready for bed. Finn comes immediately and stands on the step stool at the basin. She helps him put toothpaste on his Bob the Builder toothbrush. Brigitte calls Phoebe again.

  Finn brushes and rinses and spits all by himself.

  ‘Good boy, Finny.’ He lets her help wash his hands and face. She does up the top button of his Spider Man pyjamas, and he runs off. She can hear Phoebe arguing with Aidan in the lounge room.

  Please just hurry up and go to bed. Brigitte looks at herself in the mirror. She’s lost weight. She should pluck her eyebrows while she’s waiting, but she can’t be bothered.

  ‘Not tired, Aidan!’

  ‘If you weren’t tired you wouldn’t be speaking in that voice.’

  ‘Not going to bed.’

  Please, just for once, make it easy. Brigitte grinds her teeth and leans against the wall.

  ‘Then you won’t get a story or a cuddle.’

  ‘Don’t care!’ Bang. Something hits the wall.

  ‘Phoebe!’

  The sound of naughty little footsteps patters through the kitchen.

  ‘What’s going on out there, Phoebe?’ Brigitte says.

  ‘Aidan angry.’

  ‘Really? What did you do to Aidan?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It didn’t sound like nothing.’

  Phoebe sticks out her bottom lip. ‘Not tired.’

  ‘OK. Let’s just get you clean anyway.’

  Phoebe protests and squirms while Brigitte brushes her teeth and rubs a face washer over her face.