“How did you manage to come back at the right time?” the nurse asks. She’d been on duty when we’d said goodbye a few hours ago. Then it hits me. He can’t talk. He can’t have been asking for me. His good hand rests in mine while my fingers stroke backwards and forwards thinking about whether to ring his mother, or not. His eyes close, and he’s gone again.
Two hours later, I wake up hungry. The pillow I’ve stuffed between the chair and the bed has fallen through enough to make the position no longer viable. It’s eight o’clock, dark outside and home beckons like a warm grandmother. Haven’t spoken to Gabriella. Sandro’s deeply asleep, but I kiss him out of guilt for abandoning him and drag myself back into the street. I’m almost on a tram before I think of food again and trail back into the hospital to buy what’s left of their Asian noodles. While they pack it up for me I’m dialling his mother’s number. Jarrod answers the phone, and we both decide to leave her sleeping. When she’s fresh in the morning, she’ll be handle it better.
I go for a bus, since I’ve missed that tram now. Anyway, it breaks the monotony to go to and from the hospital different ways. This mode of transport takes just under half an hour and requires a change at Sydney Road. The short walk in between wakes me enough to get on the correct bus for Clifton Hill. Going to sleep when travelling can result in unwanted journeys to far away destinations, and, while I like to explore, there are times when that’s the proverbial straw. At Clifton Hill station, where the bus pulls up to let me off, visions of rubble and huge insects flood my head bringing with them waves of anxiety and confusion. That was the turning point. If it hadn’t happened, Sandro wouldn’t have had the accident, and my life wouldn’t be in such a mess. The strongest image is the one of a horrible madman screaming at me. Now, he’s lying in that hospital bed unable to speak. Fortunately, a deep sleep captures me as soon as my head hits the pillow.
My phone’s ringing. Ten o’clock. The Migrant Resource Centre want to know if I’m still coming in today. Nooo!! I completely forgot to cancel. But, they’re lovely and wish us both all the best. Study, research, interviews all seem part of another universe. After hanging up, I notice the message light. Gabriella’s been awake for hours. She’s overwhelmed. It’s hard to tell what’s happening at her end because she can’t get the words out.
It’s not like I don’t want to see Sandro today, because I do. Obviously. But the thought of the trip again is giving me creepy feelings. It comes to me suddenly to get my bike out. Exercise is supposed to help with stress. The bike could be useful during the day. Could even contemplate going into Uni or something. There have to be breaks, exercise, food and normality, no matter what’s happening with Sandro, otherwise we’ll collapse.
After staggering out to the bathroom for a shower and then back to the kitchen for breakfast, things feel marginally better. If the plumbing hadn’t been fixed, the shower would have trickled, but today it’s strong and hot. A wave of self-pity hits me again. I have only just found someone to look after me the way Sandro does, fixing the water problem, driving me around, paying for things, and now all that’s gone again. This is horrible thinking. As though I’m only going out with him because he’s got money. I shake off that stuff. Food shopping is a must. It can’t be put off forever, but today there’s oats for porridge.
A knock at the back door startles and frightens me, bringing me swinging around from the cupboard. My heart lifts and drops at the same time.
Tall in human form, his straight, silvery grey hair falls softly to his shoulders and always reminds me of running water. While his clothes appear normal, there’s something distinctive about their way of falling over his shoulders and hips, and it’s a turn on. Today, he’s wearing a soft grey, loose t-shirt and silk looking pants in the style of martial arts clothes. He looks strong and safe. But he’s not safe. We haven’t seen each other since the accident. I’m mad at him for leaving me alone, and I’m mad at him for the way he treated me that night. Even though I know he had to do it.
“How about a swim today, Bridey.” I glare. There’s no way I’m going swimming with Torrenclar in the middle of winter, so I stare at him, waiting. “Come on,” he says. “We haven’t seen each other for a while.”
My words sound snappy. “It’s just, there’s been a lot happening, and I can’t take any more challenges.”
He meets my eyes, and as his look lasts, my body begins to squirm. “Okay, I know I’m annoying.” It sounds petulant and a whine creeps into the next words. “I’m completely stuffed, and I can’t take your challenges.” You never know whether you’re in for pleasure or pain when they appear suddenly like this; which they always do. His eyes soften, and he asks me to meet him around lunchtime, outside the hospital. “It will be good for you.”
“I hate things that are good for me.” I slump down at the table dropping my head into my hands. “What are we going to do?”
He steps towards me and I stiffen, but he only comes around behind and places his hands on my shoulders. Then, deep, warm vibrations begin running both ways, up my neck into my head and down my spine all the way to the base. It feels something like a massage chair, but way more satisfying. There’s a sense of connection deep inside, although it’s not clear what that connection is. After some groans and more slumping, my head hits the table. He leans over me and takes hold of my hands passing warmth into them. The sense of his presence behind me threatens to become overwhelming as I fight the desire to lean back into him. Gradually, my hands unclench and too soon, it’s over. He slips back around the table and sits opposite me waiting for my head to lift and then regards me with his cool grey eyes which used to make me want to melt into them; now the worry about what that look means is uppermost in my mind.
“Will you meet me at lunchtime,” he asks again.
How can you say no? He leaves as abruptly as he arrived, and is replaced with a sense of dread. This is rapidly locked into the box where you deal with things later. At this moment, it should be all about seeing Sandro again and hoping he can speak.
Back on the bike, I’ve forgotten how cold it is riding in winter in Melbourne. My second attempt to leave sees me dressed for the snow, a hat pulled well down over my ears and a long striped scarf wound round and around my neck. My coat’s thick and warm, so the only part of me still freezing is my legs. Once I’ve pumped them up and down for a few hundred metres, I have to stop and unwind the scarf a few layers. The bike path runs through the park at Hoddle Street and along the bike tracks into the hospital. My energised and bouncy self reappears and pretends it’s ready for facing ‘whatever’ in that horrible room into which too much of the past week has disappeared.
All the gear stuffs into the pack okay, despite its bulk, and the bike looks safe enough chained to a bike stand. It’s been stolen once, and that was devastating. The corridor, though, is still too long, and my heart starts doing that thing it did yesterday. It rises and flops over inside my chest like a seal. Again, his face lights up when he sees me, as though he’s been waiting and watching. No one else has arrived! All the staff are busy. He puts up his lips and they taste almost like they should, but dry and cracked. Risking trouble from a nurse, I sit on the edge of his bed and put my arm around his neck to draw his head towards me. We are kissing when a voice behind me says, “That could be some very good medicine you’re getting there Sandro.” His lips smile under mine.
A doctor, not much older than him, asks a stream of quiet questions, and still Sandro can’t answer them. Although you can see the muscles in his neck working away, nothing comes out of his mouth. Doctors don’t tell you much. This one uses his stethoscope and then stares into Sandro’s eyes with a light and says he’s making good progress. He checks his fingers and toes and leaves us alone again. Sandro’s eyes are frightened.
“It will get better,” I say, even though I know nothing about it. “The side of your head which smacked the pavement’s still swollen. That must be it.”
He tries to smile, and because we can’t
talk, we cuddle and kiss, all of which is awkward and frightening. His leg is a nuisance, swinging in the air. The opposite arm keeps attempting to join the action and only succeeds in making him wince with pain. When the nurse comes in and catches us, she decides to strap it to his chest. Her plan, she explains, is to hold off on the pain relief for a little and check how alert he can remain and for how long. Apparently, he’d been restless during the night and had had to be sedated, which, she assures me, is a good thing. “But if we can keep him awake for his visitors this morning, I think it will do you all good.”
A while later, his eyes go soft and his smile widens slightly.
“Well, hello darling,” Gabriella says behind me. I can hear the tears and her voice cracks. “Welcome back!”
I slip out to get coffee. My legs are trembling and need a walk.
The coffee for Gabriella makes Sandro grimace a question at me. It’s unlikely he’s allowed to have coffee, but my second trip to the cafeteria produces an espresso in one hand and some hot milk in the other just in case. He can’t swallow more than a sip or two which is a relief, and the milk comes in handy, but just the thought of having coffee with him fills me with excitement and makes me babble. Gabriella puts her arm around me, and we hug. This all lasts about three quarters of an hour, and then he begins to flag. The nurses put him back to sleep.
We go on a search for more information. The intensivist had done her rounds earlier, and the registrar is busy with someone else, so we wait in a small room and talk softly about my experience of knowing to return last night. “Gabriella,” I begin, “we’ve had some strange visitors, Sandro and me.” Well, how do you begin this stuff? She nods. “You’ve met Flagran.” I wince, at the picture of her encountering Homarta yesterday.
“Flagran and I had a good chat the other day.” she responds. “And then there was that woman in the garden with your mother.”
Explaining the Caretakers is challenging. As the story unfolds, she asks lots of questions, some of which are answerable, but others too deep. “This is all new to me, this spiritual stuff,” I tell her. Then, thoughts of Josh return from wherever they keep running off to. Torrenclar is mentioned, but he’s harder to describe. We begin to talk about Earth, Wind, Fire and Water.
“Who is the Caretaker for wind?”
“That’s Elaris,” I say. There’s nowhere to go with that one. It’s far too complex for me to explain. Weariness swamps me.
Eventually, the HMO comes in to talk to us. He explains about the area of the brain which has been bruised and how it’s in the region controlling speech. They have no idea whether the loss of capacity is likely to be temporary, or permanent. “Don’t get too worried at this stage. It’s very early days.” As he’s going out the door again, he says, “Just give him some more of the medicine I saw him getting earlier, Bridey.” Gabriella raises an eyebrow when I blush, and she smiles.
We pay him another visit, but he’s deeply asleep. She offers to take me food shopping, and after a half-hearted attempt to refuse the offer, we set off to buy supplies and deliver these to my house. The cupboards are enormously cheered, which reminds me of Josh again. He’s easier to explain to Gabriella. She gets the house thing where Sandro has insisted I shall be a squatter, and is pleased Sandro is helping him study. Once everything looks neat and tidy, she takes me back to my bike. My mother isn’t mentioned, and that’s fine with me. I have plans for lunchtime, and she’s going home to her garden.
The park area almost juts onto the hospital. Wandering there seems peaceful in contrast to my agitated internal world. Fortunately, it’s not even five minutes before he appears at my side. I glance around to see if anyone’s noticed, but there’s no one in sight. He flashes me his glorious smile. “How about we go somewhere refreshing?”
“Torrenclar, the weather’s freezing! And I’m human.”
The look he gives me is hard to read, but it isn’t happy, or playful. More like, challenging. When we come to a bench, he sits, his head tipped back to watch my face. “How about we stay here then?” The suggestion’s quite clearly the coward’s option, but the plea in my eyes begs him to make me feel safe. It’s a stand-off. Too overwhelmed to fight him, I shrug.
Those eyes seem hard, but perhaps they’re not. I turn away, ashamed. That’s mostly how I feel with him now. He sits watching me, then he stands and takes my hand. Here we go again. When it lies passive in his grasp, he drops it. We stand, apart, waiting for Godot. Some walkers, too cold to pause, stare at us as they pass. Tears spring up, but I shake them away, there’s no reason to be crying. It’s always like this, even with Sandro. I get myself in a twist about something, and they get frustrated with me. How do normal people do this?
“Bridey, would you like to fly?”
I stare at him. “How do you mean?”
“I fly, and you hold on.”
“To where?”
He shakes his head slowly from side to side.
My turning back towards the hospital is inexplicable, but it’s about having to hold on very tightly not to start sobbing, and he lets me go. By the time my feet have carried me to the hospital, it’s clear he isn’t coming after me. A wave of despair hits grabbing me in its cold fingers. Is this the stuff Josh is going through? Anyone else at all, in the entire world, would not have given up the chance to fly with an angel, especially a gorgeous one like Torrenclar. There’s no point in going in because Sandro is sleeping a drugged sleep. Sitting on the grass and howling doesn’t work either, and it’s too cold. There’s only one thing to do and that’s to make my way back along the path and apologise to him for not trusting when he’s never given me reason to doubt he would keep me safe. Adventures just aren’t my thing.
On reluctant feet I push along the path to where we’d been, but he isn’t there. Aimless wandering, and making plans to collect my bike, go to the university and study, go home and sleep, all take up a miniscule amount of time. Just as I turn into the path leading to the Zoo, he reappears triggering a wave of relief, and not because flying suddenly seems delightful. He steers me away along another path staying quiet for too long. Frustrated with his silence, I grab at his arm which makes him turn and stare, surprised.
“Well?”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“Just like that,” he says.
I stare at him, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Bridey. You were offered you a chance most mortals would jump at, and you turned away.”
My tongue runs over my lips without bringing any relief or, for that matter, any ideas.
“Are we friends, or are we not?” he asks me.
What a question! There are no useful answers. He’s been here through everything, but not always kind and friendly; especially lately! Embarrassed and ashamed, I say, “I’m not sure what I am.” My feet in their sneakers look huge and awkward. “A coward?” I peep up at him sheepishly and try a small smile. He steps towards me catching me in his arms for a hug, then, lifting me up, throws me over his shoulder.
“No, Torrenclar.” My hands pound on his back.
“What? You decided to come.”
“Put me down and carry me properly,” I order.
He spins me off his shoulder and holds me in front of him, arms around my middle to bring my face level with his. “You’re a bit bossy this afternoon.” His smile melts the tension between us. “Let’s fly!”
This time he swings me onto his back and takes off over the hospital leaving all the trouble behind, and the wind sweeps away my self-disgust. It’s frightening, but there’s no way he would drop me, so surrender is the best option. While we fly over the bay I pray he won’t dive into the water, and of course he doesn’t. It’s warm against his back. The speed picks up quickly becoming spirit speed. This is more of a flash than a cruise. The air against my face warms and the sun appears, light fluffy clouds kissing my cheeks as we fly through them. He slows enough for the long, clean beaches below to become visible, instead of a blur.
&nb
sp; The island, somewhere in Queensland far above the Gold Coast, has no inhabitants. We find a deep pool the colour of dark grass, but you can still see its clear sandy bottom. He deposits me onto the white sand. Then, without pushing me at all, he dives in and swims way out deep into the water. When he surfaces for air, he’s sparkling and happy. Joining him is not a difficult choice. My winter clothes fall to the sand and I fall into the lake in my t-shirt and underwear because the ground immediately drops away below my feet. Swimming is a total joy. Because the bottom’s visible, and Torrenclar’s in a good mood now, I swim far out into the middle without worrying about getting back, or about places to rest. He holds out his arms, I hesitate, then he grabs me and immediately tips me back into the water and catching my hands pulls me up into his chest, smiling his softest, most winning smile. He’s trying to make up with me.
“I’m very happy to be here with you like this, Bridey.”
You have no idea how much this means to me. Warmth and lightness spread all through me. That’s all I want really. To know that he wants me; even after my shocking breakdown, he still wants to be with me.
He’s is completely in control of himself. It’s something like what I imagine it would be to have your father (although he’s certainly not in the father category) as a loving, faithful friend, rather than a stern disciplinarian. When he wants me to rethink my responses, it’s awful, shaky ground, and the fear of his displeasure and disapproval’s unbearable. But he’s back.
We play with each other in the water for eons, rolling around, diving and exploring deep into the bottom of the lake. He comes to me placing his mouth over mine giving me air so I can stay longer, and then when I have the way of it, he repeats this over and over. When I’m tired, he lifts me onto his back and swims around while I rest there on a floating raft.
Eleven Hundred Sand Dunes Page 4