Her mother was wearing one of her favourite dresses, red with a blue floral print. Her hair was short, as it was when she last saw her, and aside from a slight pallor—or what Beth recognised as a thinness of the skin—she looked surprisingly well. She was forty-seven, still slim-waisted, but with generous hips and the full breasts that Beth so loved to play with as a kid. She held the biscuits out. Shortbread! said Beth, taking one from her. You know, she said, that I kept that recipe book and made the biscuits for Dad and Chris every Christmas after you went. But then, later, after I’d moved out, my housemate—Pip, you never met her—borrowed it without asking. Then she moved out without giving it back. I asked for it plenty of times and eventually she confessed: she’d loaned it to another friend and that friend had loaned it on too. That’s wrong, don’t you think? Mum? Her mother nodded. Next Christmas, said Beth, the seventh Christmas after you died, I tried making them from memory but they didn’t turn out the same. But these, Mum, she said, holding one up, these are just perfect. Her mother was smiling, and eating too. Did you warm the butter to room temperature? she asked. Yes, said Beth. And the bowl? Beth nodded. I don’t know, she said, licking the crumbs away, I thought I did everything right. I’m so angry with Pip, even now. That’s a bad thing for a friend to do, don’t you think? But that doesn’t mean you should hold on to the anger, said her mother. What good’s that going to do? Especially now. Beth agreed, and took another biscuit from the tin. How’s your father? her mother asked. Crankier than ever, said Beth; they’re opening a new home soon, I’m thinking of transferring him. You should, said her mother.
Do you think I should accept? asked Beth. Her mother kept her silence. Jeez, Mum, said Beth, turning aside, I don’t see the point of you appearing here now, at this moment, if I can’t ask you for advice. Isn’t that what mothers are for? I think you should do what your heart tells you, said her mother. You always say that, said Beth. And is that a bad thing? asked her mother. You did what yours told you, said Beth, and look at the mess you made. Her mother laughed. It’s no good being timid, Bethy, if you want to live life to the full. But I am timid, said Beth, it’s my nature, you know that, and my experience lately has been that when you make a big noise it doesn’t necessarily improve matters, in fact it often makes them worse. There was a pause. That husband of yours, said her mother, he’s pretty timid too. He’s good for me, said Beth. But not good enough to stop you jumping into bed with the glazier. Mum! I needed love, said Beth, I felt a long way from home. You’ve only been gone three days, said her mother. Well, it feels like longer, said Beth. And anyway, you can’t talk. I always rang, said her mother, and let your father know I was okay. I’m not sure that helped, said Beth. It’s so easy to pass judgment, isn’t it? said her mother. Much harder to understand. Life’s complicated, Beth, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, it might have a smooth surface but it can be messy underneath. Who can possibly know what you’re going through now? Not your timid husband, that’s for sure. I’m not sure I know what I’m going through myself, said Beth. Some tests, said her mother. True, said Beth. Sometimes life tries you. That’s true, too, said Beth. God, it’s good to talk! Mum?
What do you remember of my death? asked her mother. Beth had to think. Well, you died of a brain tumour, she said—it happened quickly but Dad always said afterwards it had probably been there for months. Chris found you on the kitchen floor. You’d been out shopping, you still had the receipt in your hand. He called an ambulance—he was twenty-two, I was fourteen; he looked so confident and mature—and they raced you to the hospital. But you never woke up. You died three days later. I was with you—Dad and Chris were in the corridor talking to the doctor. We were up on the sixth floor, the curtains were open, I could see the lights of the suburbs all the way to the hills. The moon was rising, that’s the main thing I remember, and I’ve been moon-conscious ever since. No, don’t laugh. I was still a kid, and I thought the moon was coming to get you. And, the thing is, Mum, when I turned back into the room, it had.
What were your father and brother talking about? asked her mother. Unplugging you, said Beth. And your father said it was a tumour? A dark spot on the brain, said Beth. Her mother considered. Well, in a way he was right, then, wasn’t he?
There was a pause. I should have cared more for you, Mum, said Beth, and when I realised I hadn’t you were gone. But I was young. And with Dad that much older than you, his heart was doubly broken. I should have cared more for him too. We can only care so much, said her mother. She put the lid back on the biscuits. Anyway, don’t think about all that now, she said, you need to start thinking about yourself. That’s what Loren said, said Beth. Even though I’m appearing to you now from out over on the other side, said her mother, you need to remember that any decisions you make, with whatever decision-making powers you have left, must come from no-one else but you. But is the situation that bad? asked Beth. How would I know? said her mother. You worry too much. I know, said Beth. She looked down to think about it—and her mother disappeared. Beth stared for a long while at the spot where she had been.
Next in the chair was her Aunty Julie, her father’s older sister—she had died the following year and Beth took the double loss hard. Aunty Julie had always been her favourite. Hello, Bebe, she said: look at you, who would have thought? Not me, Aunty Joo-Joo, that’s for sure—when I woke up on Tuesday morning this was the last thing I expected. Do you have any pain? she asked. A little, said Beth, but I’m mostly just tired and confused. That’s understandable, said her aunty. But that’s the problem, too, said Beth; it doesn’t feel like anything’s horribly wrong. Compared to a terminal-cancer patient like you, for example, one breast already removed, I’m fine, but compared to the woman who used to walk around the park three times every lunchtime with Georgia I am not well at all. But sick enough to say I won’t get better? It’s a hard one, said her aunty, I sympathise with you, I do—that’s why I’m here. But, like your mother, what help am I, really? I must have said at some point, Time to go—but, said Aunty Julie, do you think I can remember when that was? Beth was crying again. Oh, don’t, said Aunty Julie, digging into her pockets for a tissue; don’t cry, Bebe, don’t cry. Beth took the tissue from her, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. When she looked back towards the chair, Aunty Joo-Joo was gone.
There came after this a ragtag procession. Most were relatives and all had died within a few years of her mother—she was sure her schoolmates hadn’t had to deal with such an assembly of souls, crowding the door, asking for out. There was Grandpa Pete on her mother’s side and his wife, Grandma Jean, taken just three months later. There was Dean, Aunty Joo-Joo’s son, Beth’s cousin, a mechanic who fell from a ute while out pig shooting—Beth never really liked him anyway—and her father’s cousin Craig, who got leukaemia at forty and whose funeral service, she remembered, now, fondly, took place under the trees at Ringwood Lake. There was Pop Arnold, her dad’s father, in a high-care facility for as long as she could remember and who had never once recognised her or for that matter his son in all the times they’d come bearing barley sugars and flowers. There was Brian, her dad’s younger sister Sharon’s first husband, and their eldest daughter, Mardi, and, tragically, little Matilda, Beth’s niece, Craig’s sister Sophie and her husband Dom’s daughter, who got hit by a car at the back of Coles. She did a tap dance—she’d only just started tap—and that made Beth cry even more. Last was Chris, her brother, twenty-four, silent as the grave, pale from the tablets and still with pine needles stuck in his hair.
Yes. Five years, maybe seven, a decade at most after her mother’s going. She’d never thought of it as a curse but now she couldn’t help wondering if that was the key she’d missed. Death had not just touched Beth in her teens and twenties, it had got its awful hands all over her. Was it any surprise, then, that a short while later she took a job caring for those on their way out?
Just as she thought this, and as if on cue, there came a parade of dead residents from the home. They filed through, jabb
ering, all saying more or less the same thing: the doctors were incompetent, the nurses thieves, their families vultures. Beth watched them go. Finally, like a little coda, there appeared before her Jai, the nineteen-year-old son of the woman she used to work with in the medical centre before she married David—he’d wrapped his car around a tree in Upwey and seemed wise beyond his years. I’m here to tell you, Mrs Own, he said, that it’s not that difficult; you just uncouple yourself, like with a carabiner, one click and it’s done.
Beth held up her hand; she had to call a stop. Listen, she said, thank you all, but that’s enough: if there are any more out there maybe you could come back later? The room went quiet. Beth tucked a hand under her head and closed her eyes.
It was good that the dead had come to her like that, to let her know they were out there, but it was a bit overwhelming too. She was still in the land of the living—she pinched her arm to be sure—and while she understood that things had taken a serious turn since arriving at Panchal’s today, wasn’t it only yesterday that she was picking up the tablets from CommPharm, tablets designed, she reasoned, to help her get well? Or had they been palliative all along? She took out the packets and read the labels but in the end she was none the wiser. She punched the pillow and made a place for her head.
Later, she awoke with Dr Panchal holding a thermometer to her ear—she also had a blue clip on her finger. He listened to her heart and lungs; Beth looked up forlornly into his face. I’ve been watching, said Dr Panchal, just to make sure. Am I dying? asked Beth. Tch, tch, he said, but otherwise maintained a stony silence. Rest now, he said, and he went out again. Of course, thought Beth, the mirror beside the door: he’d been watching from there all along.
It was early evening and the light on the blinds had weakened when Indra came in with dinner. She put the tray on the bedside dresser, raised the blinds and went out again. The sun had almost set, leaving behind it a vivid glow; the window of Dr Panchal’s room across the yard was alight and the things out there—the old car, the washing machine, the diesel drums—were gilt-edged and glowing. Beth took the cover off the tray: vegetable curry and naan. She took her evening pill and washed it down with the water. The dinner was good. The light outside was changing again: pale straw now mixed with blue, then orange, salmon, pink.
When Beth had finished, Indra’s two children came in to take her tray away. (They must have been watching through the mirror.) Could you ask your mum if I’m allowed outside? she said. They were holding one side each of the tray, crab-walking back to the door, trying not to trip. I have two little girls too, said Beth, to Indra now standing in the doorway. There was a sad silence between them. Of course you can go outside, she said: come.
I do feel a bit light-headed, said Beth. Then go slowly, said Indra. They walked from the sunroom into the yard, Indra a step behind. Beth could see Dr Panchal watching from his window. How strange, she thought, that I should end up here. She shuffled to the fence, beyond which the twilight faded. The sky was a deep violet now and, directly above, a single star was showing. Two rabbits appeared from a clump of gorse and hopped around on the grass.
Beth waited out there until it turned dark and the moon above shone bright. That damn moon, she thought. Round and round the Earth it goes and the Earth goes round the sun. Wheels in wheels and there’s nothing you can do. But what about when it’s your body, she thought, this little universe here? Surely I can affect it? Aren’t I affecting it now, with these thoughts, sending signals to some faraway part and asking it to respond? I get anxious and my breathing shallows, scared and my skin prickles. Surely I am still god of it?
The moon, three nights waxing, aluminium-coloured, the dark spots visible, was coating everything with its sheen. Beth went weak at the knees again and put a steadying hand on the post. Yes, I am god of my body, she thought, but who is god of me? Indra came up beside her. She was carrying a torch. I’m sure I could have put up a bit more fight, said Beth: dug in my heels, stood my ground. But it’s all so much bigger than you, isn’t it? You feel very helpless and small. Somewhere far off was a gunshot, or a backfiring car, then the melancholy low of a cow. Indra remained silent. Do what your heart tells you, said her mother. One click and it’s done, said the boy.
Call Manura, said Beth, suddenly. Indra, please, call Manura—wherever it is I have to go next I want to go there now. In the morning, said Indra, calmly, and she put a steadying hand on her shoulder. And if I go where he takes me, asked Beth, I won’t have to have any more of these tests? Indra nodded. They stood together, staring at the sky. Come in now, said Indra, and she took Beth by the hand.
GOING NORTH
That night Beth slept a deep, restorative sleep, her body untroubled, her conscience clear. In the morning Indra brought tea and toast. She opened the blinds. It’s a little grey today, she said. Beth could see her two daughters watching from the door. Would you mind if I gave them a cuddle? she asked. Indra waved them in. I’ll take your envelope from you now, she said, you won’t need it any more. She got on her hands and knees and took the big envelope out from under the bed. Beth let the children go. Later, once she was dressed and ready—a grey skirt and white cotton top—she heard low voices in the kitchen. Manura appeared and asked if she was ready to go. Yes, said Beth. Very good, he said, smiling. She pulled up the handle on the suitcase. In the doorway Manura took a piece of paper from Indra and folded it into his pocket.
His car was in the drive. Indra was right, it had clouded over. Everything felt soft and still. Beth thanked her and asked would she thank her uncle—it had definitely been a worthwhile stay. She bent down to kiss the children; she felt surprisingly well, as if in the night she’d come out from under a heavy load. That’s funny, she thought. From somewhere there was the smell of smoke, but also soil, grass, trees. Manura opened the boot and Beth put the suitcase in. She said a last goodbye to Indra and her daughters, then opened the passenger-side door.
All right, said Manura, pulling the folded piece of paper from his pocket, good morning to you, Beth, on this special day. I hope your stay was pleasant and that things are clearer now. We will have a short drive this morning to Clarkefield Station. I estimate no more than one quarter of an hour. Please put your seatbelt on. They had already started moving but Beth was neither listening nor looking at the road—she was staring back through the rear window where she could see Dr Panchal at the incinerator, emptying what looked like her envelope into the fire.
After no more than fifteen minutes’ driving, Manura turned into a side road lined with old houses at the end of which was a gravel turning area, a small car park, an old goods shed and, directly in front of them, the station. Red brick, recently restored, with a clean new sign at the entrance. There were people gathered in the vestibule. Manura drove around in a big circle until he was facing the main road, then he left the motor running while he took Beth’s suitcase from the boot. You must wait here now, he said, and they will tell you what to do. It is a pleasure to have been your driver today and I wish you luck on your journey. (Should I give him a tip? thought Beth.) She looked in her bag for the twenty dollars Geoff had given her but Manura was already back behind the wheel.
She watched him go, then dragged her suitcase across the gravel towards the station entrance. Other cars and vans were arriving—she could see that, unlike her, most of the passengers were still carrying big envelopes. The group at the station soon grew to over twenty, some waiting in the vestibule, some on the platform, some out on the gravel turning circle and some over in the car park. But still no-one knew what was going on. Then a voice came over the speakers: Express, express, stand back, stand back. It was still calling when a passenger train—you could just glimpse the commuters inside—rushed through the station in a flurry of wind and noise. Then it all went quiet again.
Next, three people in uniform appeared from inside the station: a woman and two men. Everyone out on the gravel, please! said one, and all the people gathered out the front. (Ticket inspectors? she t
hought. Do we need tickets?) The female officer stepped forward. Everyone with envelopes, she said, you are going south; anyone here without an envelope, you are going north—over there. She pointed over their heads to the platform opposite, then stepped a few metres back. A small number of people without envelopes detached themselves from the main group and stood with her; Beth pulled her suitcase over and did the same. The wheat from the chaff, she thought: but who here is chaff and who wheat?
There were half-a-dozen people now standing with the female officer, all without envelopes, and more than twenty with envelopes being supervised by the two male officers in the yard. It took a while to winnow off the last: a young woman who stubbornly seemed to believe she was going south and who, when made to stand with Beth’s group going north, neither spoke nor made eye contact but stood with her chin raised and her thumbs hooked into the straps of her pack.
The twenty-odd people with envelopes were led back through the vestibule onto the southbound platform. All right, said the female officer, and she led Beth’s group past the goods shed towards the pedestrian crossing further down the line. No-one spoke. (I am with the ones without envelopes, thought Beth—little more could she think.) Another express train went through, and all the people in its near windows twisted their heads back to look. Like a mother with her ducklings, the female officer then led the group across the tracks.
The vestibule on the other side was not much more than a painted shed; the seven without envelopes, male and female, young and old, including Beth, moved through it and began spreading themselves out along the northbound platform. The female officer stood waiting at the gate. Across the gap the two groups looked at each other—while at the same time trying not to—until they heard a distant hoot and a clack-clack of wheels on the tracks. A single-carriage train—the express had been three—pulled into the southbound platform.
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