The Lightkeeper's Wife

by Karen Viggers

  Then there was darkness. The light extinguished. Everything collapsing. Her scaffolding was gone. A cry, the whoosh of air escaping.

  She had fallen from the cliffs again. Only this time there was no ledge to stop her fall.

  29

  At midday, Emma is on my doorstep. As I open the door I hear the rough sound of a poorly tuned engine and see an old crimson Commodore rumbling down the hill.

  Emma looks messy, red-eyed and pale. Probably not feeling particularly good after last night. ‘You left,’ she says.

  ‘Yes. I waited, but you needed to rest.’

  ‘You didn’t look after me properly last night then, did you?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  I stand back and she scuffs inside and collapses on the couch. Jess jumps up and lays her head in Emma’s lap. They lie there together, limp and lifeless, while I fill the kettle. There is a long silence as I wait for it to boil.

  ‘You said you’d been reading my journal,’ Emma says eventually.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I place the teapot and two mugs on the coffee table. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘So why did you do it?’ She’s prickly and hungover.

  ‘I don’t know. It was lying there and I just picked it up. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘That was an invasion of privacy.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. As soon as I realised I put it down.’

  ‘What did you read?’

  ‘Just a few references to Nick.’

  ‘A few references? I thought you put it down straightaway.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she says flippantly, ‘don’t believe everything you read.’

  I wonder what that’s supposed to mean.

  ‘Everyone has a few lapses down south.’ She flicks at Jess’s ears. ‘Did you enjoy the party?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m not much of a party person.’

  She laughs, disbelieving. ‘I don’t know how you survived on station then.’

  I pour the tea.

  ‘Nick wasn’t very happy about bringing me down here,’ she says. ‘But you know I don’t have a car.’

  So the Commodore was Nick’s. I hedge carefully. ‘I told you I’m happy to help find a car for you.’

  She ignores this. ‘He was pretty cranky about it, actually. I don’t think he likes you very much. I think he’s jealous of you.’

  I pass her a mug, but she sets it aside and pulls me down to her and kisses me. We make love on the couch, our bodies pressed together, her mouth still tasting faintly of beer. It leaves me breathless and confused.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t up to that last night.’ She wipes her mouth absently.

  I roll onto my back among the cushions and stare at the ceiling. What does this woman want from me? Without speaking, she gets up and puts on her clothes. Her mood has changed in the blink of an eye. ‘Can you take me home now?’ she asks.

  I reach forward to stroke her knee, but she pushes my hand away.

  ‘I want to go right now.’ She walks out onto the front verandah while I dress.

  ‘Can you tell me what’s wrong?’ I ask, coming outside, keys in my hand.

  ‘You ought to know,’ she snaps.

  I follow her down to the car and open the door for her. She’s hostile, not looking at me. ‘It’d help if you’d tell me,’ I say. ‘I’m not good at these things.’

  She gets inside and slams the door and we drive back to Hobart in silence. She stares out the side window, her face tight and closed.

  When we pull up outside her house, I try again. ‘Are you all right?’ I attempt to place my hand on her leg, but she pushes me away. Then I realise she’s crying. Her whole body is shaking with it, tears running down her face like water. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, not knowing why I’m sorry or what I’ve done.

  She bursts out of the car then comes around to my door and yells, ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’

  I wind down the window.

  ‘You can’t set boundaries for me, can you? You can’t tell me to keep away from Nick. I need a man who will fight for me.’ She begins crying again and turns away, covering her eyes with her arm, and staggers up the path alongside the house.

  I sit in the car with my head against the steering wheel, mind spinning with emotions.

  I wonder what to do. Should I go in after her? Try to find her? Talk to her? I’ve been sitting here for some time already, and Nick’s car is parked just in front of mine. What if she has already gone to him?

  I start the car and sit with it idling for a while. Then I turn it off again, and sit some more. Eventually I get out and walk along the side of the house, knock on the door of the bungalow. There’s no answer. Maybe she’s gone up to the main house.

  I knock again. This time, I hear a noise. Tentatively, I let myself in, and walk through to the bedroom. Emma is curled up on the bed, turned away from me, quivering with sobs. For a long moment, I stand awkwardly at the door, then sit beside her and stroke her hair. She doesn’t turn around.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’ And I wish I could stop saying it. Not all of this is my fault. She’s hungover and miserable and irrational. There’s nothing I can do to console her.

  She rolls over, finally, her face tear-streaked, and looks up at me. ‘I’m ruining everything,’ she sniffs. ‘I’m messing up everything between us.’

  At least she’s acknowledging she has a role in this warped sequence of events. I help her sit up and she leans against me heavily, burying her face against my chest. Her cheeks are wet on my shirt.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head against my shirt. ‘No. I’m a mess. It’s so damned hard coming back. I forget each time how awful it is.’

  ‘You’ll get there.’

  ‘Oh God, I hope so. I can’t cope with being like this for long.’ She lifts her head and snorts into a handkerchief stashed under her pillow. ‘Can we try again?’

  I nod helplessly, but my heart is churning with doubt.

  She kisses me on the lips and pads into the bathroom, leaving me sitting on the bed. I glance at the picture of her at Béchervaise Island, standing outside the field hut. She looks so incredibly alive in that photo—so wild and released and open. She’s wrapped in layers of thick windproof gear and her face is alight and vibrant. That’s the Emma I want. The girl that grasps life. Not the one who shies from it and creates complications where there don’t need to be any; a bit like me.

  When she comes back, I offer to make tea, but she smiles tiredly and says she needs sleep. She’ll be more rational tomorrow, she promises.

  I watch as she undresses and tugs on pyjamas. Then she turns to me forlornly, like a child. I wrap her in my arms and she snuggles against my shoulder briefly before wriggling under the doona. I tuck it around her, and after I kiss her on the forehead, she rolls away, cosily drifting towards sleep.

  I feel more like her father than a lover.

  When I get home the answering machine light is blinking. I play the message; it’s Jacinta, and she sounds distressed. My mouth goes dry with fear as I listen.

  ‘Tom, I’ve been trying to call you, but you’re not answering . . . It’s bad news. We took Nana to the lighthouse today and she had a turn. We wanted to get her to hospital, but she won’t have it, so we’ve brought her back to the cabin and now she’s recovered a bit. Unfortunately, we can’t stay here tonight because we have a commitment back in Hobart. Nana keeps insisting she’s all right, but I don’t want to leave her on her own. Given that I can’t get onto you, I’m going to ring Leon now and see if he can keep an eye on her till you get here. Hopefully, you’ll get this message and make it across before the last ferry.

  I’m ringing from the carpark at the end of the beach because this is the only place you can get reception without climbing a mountain or driving for miles. Ring me as soon as you get this message, will you? We’ll probably be on our way back to Hobart by then.’r />
  I look at the time. Four o’clock. I ring Jacinta’s number.

  ‘Tom, thank God it’s you.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘We’re on the ferry.’

  ‘What about Mum?’

  ‘Leon’s down there with her, and he says he doesn’t mind staying the night, which might be just as well, because the wind has really come up and they’re talking about shutting down the ferry.’

  ‘I need to get down there.’

  ‘Tom, I think she’ll be okay. It was pretty scary when she had the turn, but she brightened up at the cabin, and we left her tucked in bed with a hot cup of tea. She should be better after a rest.’

  ‘I feel like I need to do something.’

  ‘Maybe you could make some phone calls.’

  ‘Gary and Judy are away at some hospitality conference in Melbourne. Should I leave a message on their mobile? Or will that just panic them?’

  ‘Gary will be fine. Leave a message. We should let him know.’

  ‘Do you want me to ring Jan?’

  ‘Could you? I don’t feel up to it.’

  She gives me Leon’s mobile number in case I need it. Then I hang up and call Gary. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a tactful message explaining what has happened to Mum. Next, I ring Jan. She answers the phone quickly. She must have been sitting on top of it.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Jan. It’s Tom.’

  ‘Have you heard anything? I’ve been waiting all day for Jacinta to call. She and Alex were going down to see Mum today.’

  ‘Jan, I’ve just spoken to Jacinta. Apparently Mum had a turn at the lighthouse, but she’s okay.’

  ‘What do you mean okay? I told them not to take her there, but of course they wouldn’t listen to me.’

  ‘They say she’s perked up now.’

  ‘They’re still down there?’

  ‘No, they’ve had to come home.’

  ‘Who’s with her then?’

  ‘Leon. The ranger.’

  ‘Why aren’t you down there?’

  ‘I’m just about to leave, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get over the channel. Jacinta said the ferry might not be running because of the wind.’

  ‘Well, if you can’t get across you should come here.’ Jan doesn’t want to be alone. She’s worried about Mum and she wants me to distract her. She wants to use me to salve her guilty conscience. I try to think of an excuse, but I’m not quick enough. ‘I’ll cook for you,’ she says.

  At Kettering, the wind is sweeping the water into breakers and the ferry has been cancelled till further notice. I stand at the landing with Jess sheltering behind my legs, and stare out across the white-capped waste, wishing there was some other way to go to Mum. This is my time to be with her, and I’m powerless, grounded by the weather. There’s no chance the ferry will resume tonight when waves like these are churning on the channel.

  I linger in the blast until the cold chills me then I go back home to ring Jan. It’s a shame I can’t concoct some adequate reason to dodge having to visit her in her lonely house. But she grasps me like a life-buoy and works on my sympathy till I agree to have dinner with her. When finally I’ve extracted myself from her gushes of remorse, I ring Leon’s mobile and leave a message to let him know the situation. Before I hang up, I provide Jan’s number so he can find me. Then I swing into the car with Jess.

  When I arrive at Jan’s place, she collapses in tears on my shoulder, and I find myself stroking her as if she’s a child. I tell her she’s welcome to come to Cloudy Bay tomorrow morning, but she’s inconsolable and her dramatics tire me. We sit in the kitchen drinking tea while she unburdens her conscience. I’d like to feel sorry for her, but Jan has created her own hell. Over the past weeks, I’ve offered several times to take her down to visit Mum, but she’s always been too busy. She makes teary phone calls to Jacinta and Gary, raking over everything and blaming everybody until my mind starts to spin.

  We’re halfway through a bowl of pumpkin soup when her phone rings. She answers it quickly then passes it on to me.

  Even though Leon’s voice is buffeted by wind, I can detect his tension. I take the phone from the room, seeking privacy from Jan.

  ‘I’m down at the carpark,’ Leon says. ‘I had to leave her for a few minutes, but I thought I should ring you. She’s not too good, Tom. She was holding it together while Jacinta and Alex were here, but she’s deteriorated since they left. I’m not sure what to do.’

  ‘I can’t get over there,’ I tell him. ‘They’ve shut the ferry down.’

  ‘I’m happy to stay with her, but I’m worried. She’s not talking any more.’

  Not talking? This is unexpected. A fist of panic clutches my throat. ‘Does she know you’re there?’ I ask.

  ‘I think so.’ He sounds hesitant. How could Mum have declined so quickly? Jacinta said she’d be okay.

  ‘Was she all right when you first arrived?’ I ask.

  ‘She was resting. But her breathing’s turned bad now, Tom. I don’t like it. She seems to be struggling.’

  ‘Look. I’ll be there first thing in the morning, even if I have to swim the channel.’

  I hang up and turn back to the kitchen, but Jan is behind me, her cheeks wet with tears.

  ‘She’s going to die, isn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, staring past her.

  ‘I can’t cope,’ she sobs.

  I look down at her, unmoved. She wants my support but I can’t help her. I have my own fears to deal with. ‘I’m going home,’ I say.

  She follows me to the front door. ‘I’m coming with you tomorrow.’

  ‘Be at my place early then. I’m going on the first ferry. Either that, or you’ll have to go with Jacinta and Alex.’ A moment of guilt grips, and I hesitate by the car. My sister is watching me, her face sagging with the burden of regret.

  ‘Wait till the second ferry,’ she says. ‘It can’t possibly make any difference. I want to shower before I come.’

  I shake my head in disbelief and climb into the car. Our mother is dying and all Jan can think of is taking a shower.

  The night is dark as I head south on the highway, and it’s heavy with the weight of my concern. At Kingston, I turn the car east to the beach and walk along the sand. There’s no point going home to sit in silence when my thoughts are so heavy and sad. A cloak of clouds drapes the sky and the only light is from the buildings along the foreshore. My eyes adjust to the gloom and I shed my shoes, feeling the way with my toes. Jess pads behind me—I hear her panting in the breaks between waves. Sometimes she snuffles at invisible treasures on the sand. We walk and walk, seeking an emptiness that just won’t come.

  Some time after ten o’clock, I drive home, wishing I could fly over the channel to Bruny to be with Mum. When I see the shadow of Nick’s Commodore parked beneath the streetlight at the bottom of my driveway, I want to turn and drive away. I’m worn out and I want to go to sleep. Has Emma driven herself here, or has she brought Nick along? Perhaps she’s asleep in his back seat. I swing my car up the driveway past the Commodore and step out into the feeble light.

  It’s quiet. Jess and I slip along the path to the front door. If we’re lucky we’ll make it inside before anyone realises we’re home. But there’s a dark shape humped on the doormat. The body is too small to be Nick, so it must be Emma. Jess trots forward to sniff and lick her.

  Emma’s face is pressed against the doormat; leaning forward, I smell beer on her breath. She must be pretty drunk to sleep with her cheek on the bristles of the mat. I unlock the front door and open it. She doesn’t move. It’d be easy for me to step over her and go inside to bed. But it’s cold out here, and if she’s drunk, she won’t be thermoregulating properly. I’ll have to get her inside and find somewhere to put her. I care for this girl, but tonight I don’t want her in my bed.

  I switch on a lamp in the lounge room, then grab a blanket from the hall cupboard and find a bucket in the laundry, just in ca
se she throws up. I pour a large glass of water and set it on the floor beside the couch. Returning to Emma’s limp body I shake her gently, trying to rouse her. She moans and rolls over, her lips red and swollen, her eyes pressed shut. I kneel beside her on the mat and loop my arm around her back. Then I lift her to her feet with effort, and she staggers into the house beside me, weak and uncoordinated.

  ‘Do you need the bathroom?’ I ask.

  ‘Tom,’ she slurs, ‘is that you?’

  ‘Yes, and you’re not well.’

  She slumps against me. ‘Where were you? I made Nick bring me down here so I could see you, but you weren’t here.’

  ‘I’ve been at my sister’s place.’

  ‘Why weren’t you here? Nick wouldn’t leave, so we went down to the pub to wait for you.’

  ‘And you drank too much.’

  ‘Yes. Can you take me to bed with you?’

  ‘You can have the couch. But first we’ll visit the bathroom.’

  I half carry her down the hall, and she closes her eyes against the light. In the bathroom I lean her against the wall. ‘Can you manage?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, then, ‘I need to lie down.’

  I take her back down the hall again and roll her onto the couch, her head lolling onto the cushions.

  ‘Tom,’ she mumbles, as I turn off the lamp. ‘What about Nick?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s in the car. Can you bring him in? He’ll freeze out there.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Tonight of all nights, I don’t care about Nick. My mother is dying.

  ‘We had an argument. I wanted him to go, but he wouldn’t.

  And you weren’t here.’ She says it again as if it’s all my fault.

  ‘I’ll bring him in,’ I say. ‘Then I’m going to sleep.’

  Fortunately, Nick is capable of walking up the driveway unassisted, and when they’re both ensconced on couches, I switch off the lights and retreat to my bedroom. I move woodenly through the shadows and lie on my bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. On the phone this evening, Leon said Mum was having trouble breathing. I envisage her face, pale and strained, her lips tinged with blue. I imagine the wheezing sound of her respiration, the labour of each inhalation.