‘Can I get you a drink of something?’
‘I’d love a scotch.’
‘I’ve got a bottle of red open?’
‘That’ll do.’
When I return, she’s staring out the front window. Smoke is rising in soft tendrils from her cigarette. She takes a wineglass from my hand and rests it on the windowsill. ‘Great house,’ she says. ‘You here by yourself?’
‘Yes.’ I take a sip of my wine.
‘Must get pretty lonely,’ she says and draws a line through the fog on the window. Her nails are chewed to the quick. ‘Old houses freak me out a little. Bumps in the middle of the night.’
‘I know all her noises,’ I say, lighting a cigarette for myself.
‘I’ve only ever lived in the family shithole and a bunch of student share houses.’ She taps some ash into the ashtray. ‘I’m just thankful when the roof’s stuck on and nobody’s used up the hot water.’
I grunt empathically.
‘So,’ she says, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘Shall we do this?’
I’m glad she is the one to say it, not me.
‘You are paying me by the hour, after all.’
I offer to leave the room while she undresses. ‘Here,’ I say, passing her Lola’s kimono, a gift from one of her Japanese students. ‘You can wear this.’
‘Thanks,’ she says and takes it from my hand.
I wait outside, imagining her eyeing the kimono, smelling it—wondering who it belongs to, why it stinks of mothballs—and then unzipping her boots, sitting down to take off her socks, pulling her jeans off…
A photo of Lola on the hallway table catches my eye. I must have walked past it a thousand times before, but I’ve never really looked at it. I pick it up and look at it now. Lola is running away from the camera—she would have been a few weeks pregnant with Bea at the time—but her head is turned. For once her blond hair is loose and free, and she’s laughing. Really laughing.
Daniella pokes her head through the doorway, holding the kimono tight around her neck. ‘I’m ready,’ she says. I go in again and stand by the easel at the window.
‘Where do you want me?’ she asks.
‘You’d probably be most comfortable near the fire.’
‘What about on the lounge?’
‘If that suits you.’
Silently she moves to the chaise longue and slips out of the kimono. Her shoulders slouch and her hands gather around the triangle of hair between her legs. She lies down, her skin luminous against the red velvet of the chair. She rests her head on the nest of her arms and places her pink feet on the tufted cushion.
It’s luxurious to have her here, all to myself. I pick up my pencil and draw. I start with her shoulder and follow the arch of her back down to her waist and then up again along the rise of her buttock. I sketch her breasts falling limply down, and her eyes looking up and out through the window. Time passes. Daylight surrenders to the warm glow of the table lamps. Shadows settle on the page like ashen moths.
‘Evan?’
‘Hmmm?’ I murmur.
‘I’ve got a cramp.’
I hold up my hand. ‘Can you keep still for one more minute, please, Lola?’
‘Lola?’ she says.
At the mention of Lola’s name I lose all concentration. ‘Sorry?’
‘Who’s Lola?’
‘Lola’s my wife.’ I put down my pencil. ‘Ex-wife. I mean, not ex-wife. She’s dead. But how did you—’
Suddenly Daniella is sitting up and the pose—and all hope for my drawing—is lost. ‘Was this hers?’ she screams, throwing the kimono across the room. ‘My boyfriend was right. This is fucked up!’
‘Daniella,’ I say, trying to stay calm. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’
‘Don’t you realise? You called me by her name.’ She spits as she speaks. ‘You called me by your dead wife’s fucking name!’
I feel my insides churn and spasm.
‘Did she pose for you too?’ she says, pulling on her jumper.
I plead for her to stay, but when I see her tear her coat from the hatstand I know she’s made up her mind. It’s over.
‘At least let me pay you for your time.’ I hold out two crisp fifty-dollar bills. She looks at them, and for a moment I think she will refuse, but then she rips them from my fingers. She walks through the front door and slams it as hard as she can in my face.
I go back to the front room and look around at the butts in the ashtray and the kimono on the floor with its arms outstretched. I can just see the trace of her lipstick on the rim of the half-empty wineglass.
Everything is white. I can’t escape it, this whiteness. White walls, white-tiled floors and a white waffle blanket with a blue trim draped across my withered legs. They feel weird, my legs. I can’t move one of them. I must be in a hospital, I think. I spent the last six months of Lola’s life going in and out of hospitals.
I look around. There’s a white bundle across the aisle, but it’s hard to tell if it’s just a couple of pillows or a living, breathing human being. A drip hangs from my arm, and on the board above my bed is written: nil by mouth.
‘Well, well, well…’ a nurse says as she enters the room. She drags an intravenous pole behind her. ‘Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead!’ I go to speak, but all that comes out is a grunt, and it’s louder than I had intended. ‘Be with you soon, Mr Bailey,’ the nurse calls from the other side of the room. She hooks a bag of fluid up to the white bundle across the aisle.
I must have had a stroke. It’s the only explanation I can find for why half of my body feels like a lead weight, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. The nurse looks at me from the end of the bed. She is plump in a reassuring way and has a lanyard around her neck that tells me she is the nurse unit manager and her name is Cheryl. ‘Mr Bailey,’ she says, smiling. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.’
We? Who’s we?
‘Your daughter, Bea, has been in here every day. She stays for as long as visiting hours will allow.’
Bea, of course. Forgiving Bea. There is a wetness on my cheek. Is it blood? Am I bleeding?
‘Don’t cry, Mr Bailey—she’ll be here soon. Now, lift up your gown for me, there’s a good man, and we’ll give you your injection.’
I can only see glimpses of Bea’s face through the bouquet of yellow tulips she holds in front of her.
‘I couldn’t bring you chocolates,’ she says. ‘You’re being fed through a drip in your arm.’ Behind the flowers she looks awful. Her eyes are raw from crying and her face is full of pimples.
I try to say something—something comforting—but the words refuse to come. Instead, she reassures me. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. Today’s scans were looking better.’ She holds my hand. ‘Now it’s time to rest.’
It’s not so bad, having all these people fuss over me. At first I fought it, but that was partly for show, because I know I can’t do it alone. The days begin with a shower. I can just about stand now, but in the shower I have to sit on a plastic stool as Cheryl waves the showerhead over me like a wand. Cheryl tells me what to do. She tells me when I need to stand, and when I need to stretch my arm to take the sleeve of my robe.
Breakfast is next. I have a bowl of porridge and a mouthful of canned peaches. I watch the Today show on the telly—a tiny one that Bea pays a ridiculous daily rate for—and sometimes I make small talk with Giuseppe across the aisle (who wasn’t a pile of pillows after all).
Mostly, I enjoy being touched. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me. Now I have Cheryl, who dresses me and moves my legs into a respectable position on the bed, and Bea, who combs my hair and shaves my shabby beard. Even Edwina kisses me on the forehead and pats me on the knee. It’s through their hands that I’m healing.
It is my second week in hospital and Bea is sitting in the chair beside my bed, playing on her computer.
‘How did you find me?’ I say.
She looks up from the screen.
‘I want to
know.’
Bea closes the lid of her laptop. ‘You were lying unconscious on the floor.’
‘How long had I been there?’
‘Hard to say. The fire in the grate was out, and your body temperature had dropped by the time the ambos arrived.’
I nod.
‘I feel terrible I didn’t find you sooner.’
‘Don’t be stupid. How were you to know? And what does it matter now anyway?’
‘Yeah, well…The physio seems pretty happy with you today. He seems to think you’ll make a full recovery.’
‘That’s what he says,’ I say, but I think she senses my scepticism. ‘Have you told Dr Jay?’
‘He’s been away. I spoke to him last night.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That he was sorry.’
‘Not I told you so?’
‘Dr Jay’s not like that, Dad,’ Bea says and rubs her eyes. She still looks tired. Woefully tired.
‘All doctors are the same.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You know how they are. We’ve got enough in the family to know.’
Bea sighs. ‘You can’t lump them all in the same class as Grandpa, Dad.’ She picks up an old magazine from my bedside table. ‘Grandpa was a bastard.’
And just like that, in one fell swoop, she lops off the professor’s head.
Lola died on a Wednesday. I was standing on the front verandah, watching hot air balloons and waiting for Dr Jay.
‘Dad.’
I turned around to see Bea, in her pyjamas, clutching a mug of Milo. She’d pulled down the sleeves of her pyjama top to cover her blue and trembling hands.
‘She’s not looking too good.’
She’s dying. Your mother’s dying.
‘I know,’ I said, swallowing my tears and turning back to the floating balloons.
‘Dad?’ she said again, but this time she put a cold hand on my forearm. I see now that this was a plea—a plea for me, her father, to do something. To just fucking do something. And I still can’t explain why, at this pivotal moment, I didn’t show my daughter some compassion. Why didn’t I take her hand in mine? Why didn’t I pull her into my embrace? Why was it so impossible for me to shake the guilt I felt when I saw her beseeching face?
‘I’d better go in,’ I said. Bea let go of my arm, but for a long time I could still feel the touch of her cold fingers on my skin.
*
It is my fourth week in rehab. It’s nearly five and the light is beginning to wane. Lisa, the kitchen lady, will be round with dinner soon, and she’ll give me two bread rolls because she likes me.
‘Dad?’
‘Hmmm?’ I open my eyes.
‘They’re talking about discharging you.’
I nod.
‘How do you feel about going home?’
I’m petrified.
‘Okay,’ I say.
Bea looks at the Who magazine in her lap. She flicks through the pages without interest. I can smell the trolley of food coming down the corridor and my mouth is flushed with saliva.
‘How would you feel,’ she asks, ‘about me and Edwina moving in?’
I’d feel guilty, horribly guilty.
‘You don’t have to do that. You’ve both got your own lives,’ I say.
‘But what if we wanted to?’
I look at the television. Some old man with a posh accent is telling an excited woman her vase is worth two hundred pounds. ‘And Edwina?’ I ask.
‘It was her idea.’
Why wasn’t it your idea?
‘It’ll be good for all of us. We’ll save on rent,’ she says. ‘Not to mention we could do with the extra room.’ She looks at me expectantly, but I don’t know what else to say. I keep watching the television.
‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pregnant,’ Bea says. I must look confused, because she quickly adds, ‘Sperm donor.’
Say something. Don’t just sit there like a stunned mullet.
‘Congratulations.’
Bea smiles. For once I’ve said the right thing.
‘And Dad?’ she says, rubbing her swollen tummy, her pregnancy suddenly apparent. ‘It’s a boy.’
I turn off the television.
‘That’s great, Bea. Really great.’
A knot is forming in my throat.
‘And he’s going to need a man in his life.’
The tears are streaming from my eyes.
‘Don’t cry.’
But I can’t stop, because I know what it means. I’ve wanted it for so long—a second chance.
The house is full of fresh flowers. Edwina’s paintings adorn the walls. The fridge is packed with exotic cheeses and homemade pesto and jams. The rooms look lived in, with undies and socks strewn across their floors.
It’s summer and the days are long and hot. Bea and I take evening walks and, with her heavy belly and my bad leg, we fall into a comfortable pace. Today I lead her along Glenlyon Road and down towards Merri Creek. We sit by the water. I feed the ducks. Bea talks about how sick and tired she is of being pregnant. Her fat ankles stick out beneath her skirt. I smile at her. She closes her eyes and lets the sun warm her face.
I never believed it could be this way.
It’s the middle of the night. I look at the clock. Two-thirty. I can hear their feet on the creaking floorboards. I can hear their whispers on the stairs.
‘Evan?’
I sit straight up in bed.
‘What? What’s happening?’
‘I’m taking Bea to the hospital,’ Edwina says. ‘Her water just broke.’
I jump out of bed and nearly trip over my cane, which has fallen to the floor. Edwina switches on the light.
‘You don’t need to come,’ she says, helping me up.
‘I’m coming,’ I say, and something in my voice must be convincing, because she doesn’t protest again.
‘Slow down,’ Bea says between breaths as we speed down Royal Parade.
‘Does it hurt?’ I ask.
There is fire in her eyes. ‘Of course it fucking hurts!’
There’s an awkward silence before Edwina and I laugh and even Bea breaks into a sideways smile. There’s no traffic at this time of the morning and we get to the hospital within minutes.
I escort Bea inside while Edwina parks the car. She leans on me and I lean on my cane. I can’t help but think what an odd pair we must make as we go through the sliding doors. I lead Bea towards a sign that reads Triage.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the nurse at the desk. ‘My daughter’s about to have a baby.’
I expect her to say congratulations and send someone to wheel Bea straight up to the ward. Instead she shuffles some papers on her desk and passes a blue form to us through the window.
‘Fill this out,’ she says.
Bea and I retreat to the plastic seats in the waiting room. I’ve forgotten my glasses and I’m useless to her, but soon Edwina arrives and takes control.
She’s good for us, I think. Like glue.
I don’t remember much about when Bea was born. Back in those days, men weren’t allowed into the delivery suite. All I have is a hazy memory of sitting outside and chain-smoking until the nurse finally called me in.
It’s cold in the waiting room. I balance a plastic cup of instant coffee on my tremulous legs. I look at the clock: five am. Another man and his two kids are getting drinks from the vending machine. I try not to imagine what’s going on upstairs. Every so often an image flashes before my eyes: Bea, hair plastered to her forehead, with Edwina holding her sweaty hand. A black head. A rush of air. A cry. Or worse, Bea being wheeled through double doors.
I must have fallen asleep. A man taps me on the shoulder. He’s one of the cleaners, and he has arrived to mop away the evening’s grime.
‘What time is it?’ I ask groggily, sitting up.
‘Six o’clock.’
The cleaner is a big man. He could just as well have made a career as a bodyguard.
‘You waiting for something?’ he asks.
‘A little boy.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You the father?’
‘God, no. I’m almost seventy years old.’
‘You never know. I see everything here. All kinds of families. Families you could never imagine.’
I think of Bea and Edwina. Two mothers.
‘Do you have children of your own?’ I ask, snatching a look at his name tag, which reads Drago.
Drago looks around the lobby and, seeing that the coast is clear, takes a seat next to me. ‘I have three children and one grandchild,’ he says, and pulls a tattered photo from his wallet. Three pairs of smiling brown eyes.
‘Beautiful,’ I say.
And that’s how Edwina finds me, with another man’s family in my hands.
She has tears in her eyes.
‘He’s here.’
I don’t say anything to Edwina. I don’t want to spoil it. I don’t want to hear anything until I see his little face. I want to see his face first, and then hers. That’s how I’ll know everything’s okay.
At first he’s just a wriggling bundle of flesh in her arms. Like the shapeless white mound that Giuseppe—now my friend—used to be. But as she unwraps his head to reveal his scrunched-up little face, I see that he is all me. Poor bugger.
‘Take him,’ Bea says, holding him out to me like a gift.
‘I can’t,’ I say and point to my cane. ‘I’ll drop him.’
Edwina drags a chair from by the window and pushes it next to the bed. She takes my cane and points to the chair. I sit down as I am told.
‘Meet your grandson,’ Bea says, and I open my arms to receive him. ‘Sebastian Evan Bailey.’ And suddenly he’s in my arms, blinking and looking everywhere and nowhere all at once. His skin is warm and pink and covered in a feathery white down. I bury my nose in the folds of his flesh. I breathe him in. Now this, I think to myself, this I remember.
*
He adores me. When others say it I deny it, but I know that it’s true. And I’ve done nothing to deserve it. Except love him, which is easy. He’s not like Bea. When Bea was little she was hard work. She was stubborn, inflexible, strong. If anything, Sebastian is too sensitive, too quick to cry, too fragile. He’s always getting sick and having fevers.
Australia Day Page 15