The Dead I Know

by Scot Gardner

  The receptionist did a double take when she saw me.

  I asked where Mam was. She looked it up on her computer and sent me off to room 206.

  Mam had her eyes closed. Propped on a small tower of pillows, she looked as if she’d fallen asleep watching TV, but the screen was empty, as were the two other beds.

  ‘Mam?’ I whispered as I took her good hand. No response. The other arm had been covered in plaster from the wrist to the elbow.

  ‘Hello?’ said a nurse. ‘Ah, Mr Rowe. Doctor wanted to talk with you earlier and there was no number to call.’

  ‘Is Mam okay?’

  ‘Yes, she’s fine. We’ve had to keep her medicated for the pain, so she’ll be sleeping for a few hours this morning. She’ll be awake again this afternoon.’

  I sighed. Felt like I’d been holding it for days.

  The nurse noticed and smiled. ‘What happened to your lip? Do you need—’

  ‘Nothing. I slipped in the bathroom. It’s fine.’

  She seemed unconvinced. ‘Wait here and I’ll go and get the doctor.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t. I have to go . . . to work.’

  ‘Is there a number the Doctor can call you on? He wanted to talk with you about your mum’s condition.’

  I handed her the JKB Funerals card.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see. Are you a funeral director?’

  ‘In training.’

  She nodded reflectively, reading the small print on the card. ‘I’ll give this to Doctor and he’ll probably give you a call before he leaves later this morning.’

  Mam made a noise. A little throaty sigh of contentment.

  The nurse patted my hand. ‘She’ll be okay. We’ll look after her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘When she wakes . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When she wakes, let her know I’ll be back after work to pick her up.’

  ‘Doctor may want to keep her in a while longer.’

  ‘I’ll be back this afternoon, tell her that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  John raised his eyebrows at me by way of greeting. He stared at my lip, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘Slipped. In the bathroom.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said dramatically.‘How is Mam?’

  ‘Resting. They’ve put her arm in a cast. She’s still at the hospital. They’re taking good care of her.’

  It wasn’t until the words passed my lips that I realized the gravity of that truth – they were taking care of her. Even if they noticed a foible or two, they could blame them on the shock of breaking her arm or the medication. The reassuring thing was that someone would be there to stop the beetroot from burning.

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ John said. ‘I . . .’

  He seemed suddenly pensive.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, to deflect his thoughts. ‘For last night. I don’t know how we would have got to the hospital otherwise.’

  ‘Probably walked, knowing you.’

  I smiled, but couldn’t help feeling that the statement was loaded.

  ‘I had a pick-up from the hospital in the wee hours. I popped in to see Mam. The nurse said you’d left.’

  ‘Had to clear my head,’ I said.

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Not really.’

  John smiled, touched my sleeve. ‘You don’t have to do it alone.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, a little too swiftly. The full stop hung in the air for a long time.

  His pick-up was an elderly gentleman named Karl Stevens. If I had been asked to guess at his cause of death, I would have said skin cancer – his head carried scars and small craters where parts had been removed. I fitted out a Crenmore Imperial with its chrome handles and ornate finials. John washed the body.

  ‘That box is a work of art,’ he said when we were done.

  I buffed it with the soft, open-weave cloth reserved for that purpose. It seemed absurd that the coffin would at best be buried; at worst burnt.

  ‘Almost six thousand dollars,’ he said, and I coughed. He rubbed a spot with his sleeve. ‘Not the most expensive coffin in our range but it’s up there. Each to his own. My golden rule when choosing a coffin with a family is to provide them with the one they want to buy, not the one I want to sell.’

  Clothes arrived for Karl Stevens late morning. My guts rumbled as we dressed him in an old paint-spattered Hawaiian shirt, faded jeans with holes in the knees, and rubber sandals that had conformed to the shape of his soles with wear. I could see the pale V tanned on his feet where the sandals had sat. The people left behind knew him well enough to honour his personality before honouring tradition, or perhaps they were fulfilling his final wishes. Either way, the body of Karl Stevens spoke of a life lived. In my mind, he was an arty beach bum. Casual in life and casual in death.

  ‘I think we’d better go and eat something before your stomach leaps out and has a nip at me!’ John said.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, and patted my belly. It had been a day since I’d eaten. The protests were justified.

  I’d expected a plate of sandwiches but I got roast beef, as though Mrs Barton had somehow sensed the ravenous beast inside me.

  ‘Good Lord, what happened to your face?’ Mrs Barton asked.

  ‘Slipped in the bathroom.’

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ she said wryly.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ I lied. Well, it was only a little lie – more an omission of facts than fabrication.

  She paused, midway through serving peas, and regarded me intently.

  I’d protested too much.

  I tried to smooth it over with a manufactured smile and she continued spilling the peas onto the plates, the table, the floor.

  ‘Look out,’ John said. ‘Now you’ve made her pea on the floor.’

  Mrs Barton dropped the spoon in the pot and slapped him on the arm.

  ‘Ow,’ I said.

  ‘Did you hear that, dearest?’ John said. ‘You slapped me so hard, you hurt young Aaron.’

  ‘Bah,’ she said. ‘He’s made of tougher stuff than that.’

  I had to wonder.

  The doubt stayed with me right through the meal. It hovered at the back of my mind and spat out images from the nightmare. From the morning. How tough was I, exactly? I couldn’t really call what happened with Westy a ‘fight’. That implied there were two parties actively involved. I did nothing – nothing to deserve it and nothing to provoke it, short of being unconscious and drawn to the wrong place at the wrong time. Why was I drawn there, of all places? I did nothing to defend myself, either.

  All those fiery thoughts I’d had about protecting Mam had amounted to nothing. She’d hurt herself and I’d thrown my hands in the air, content to pass the responsibility of her care to someone else.

  The phone rang. I’d been in a stupor and the ringing cut through it like a two-handed blade.

  ‘It’s for you,’ Mrs Barton said, puzzled.

  I took the phone, my hand shaking. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Rowe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Doctor Chandra here.’ His voice was sonorous, accented. ‘I’ve been looking after your mother, Mam Rowe, and I wondered if we might have a little chat about her wellbeing.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Her arm will be fine. We undertook some reconstructive surgery very early this morning to repair the fragmented bone in her forearm and the operation went well. She will probably be in plaster for a couple of months but we’re expecting her to make a full recovery.’

  ‘That is . . . that’s great news, thank you Doctor. I—’

  ‘A more pressing concern has been Mrs Rowe’s state of mind. She seems disoriented and confused.’

  ‘Probably just the accident. Medication. She sometimes seems confused even when she isn’t,’ I said. I sounded insane.

  ‘She has also exhibited signs of being agitated. I wonder if her wellbeing has been assessed recently? By Mental Health, perhaps?’


  ‘No,’ I said. It was a flat and sharp response and it frayed the edges of the conversation for several seconds.

  ‘I see,’ Doctor Chandra eventually said. ‘Maybe it would be a good idea to have her assessed while she’s here? Mental Health regularly visit the hospital for psych evaluations and triage. It would be no trouble at all for them to make a bedside call.’

  ‘No,’ I said again. I could hear the fear in my voice. ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll take her and have her assessed when she’s able.’

  Another long pause.

  ‘Of course that’s an alternative,’ Doctor Chandra said. ‘I’ll write a referral.’

  ‘When can Mam come home?’

  ‘I’d like to keep her in for one more night to make sure there are no complications; after that she’ll be free to go.’

  ‘I can keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Are you a doctor, Mr Rowe?’

  ‘No. But —’

  ‘I think Mrs Rowe would benefit from the professional care given at the hospital. If you’re willing to take the responsibility, I can get the release forms ready for you to sign.’

  I could still see the bone protruding from her forearm and the thought of it made me unsteady. I knew she would be better off at the hospital but something clouded my vision. I wanted her home for my sake. Keeping an eye on Mam distracted me from my nightmares, gave me purpose. The weight of domestic tasks filled the blank spots at the end of my day. Sometimes I shrank from my own company. Face it; sometimes I shrank from my own shadow.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Your care has been . . . just what the doctor ordered. Thank you.’

  He blew a nasal laugh into the mouthpiece. ‘Happy to be of service.’

  Mrs Barton spoke before I’d hung up the phone. ‘Perhaps you’d like to stay for dinner? It’ll just be soup, but you’re welcome to share with us.’

  John caught my eye. I could feel him reading my face.

  ‘Leave the lad alone, Delia,’ he said. ‘He’s got enough to worry about at the moment—’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Barton,’ I interrupted. ‘That would be great.’

  The service for Amanda Creen left me sapped. It was so solemn and quiet, with huge silent gaps where I could hear my own heartbeat again. The bereaved spilled out the door and into the hallway, leaving standing room only amid a coloured lake of floral tributes.

  The celebrant turned out to be her uncle. He choked twice – they were the times I almost had to leave – but then he breathed, straightened and spoke some more. His courage kept me at my post. When it came time to press the button and start the committal, John gave me the nod and my shaky fingers did the deed. Tears hung on my lids and crystallised my vision. As I whispered my own goodbye to Amanda Creen.

  When the last of the mourners had left and we’d loaded the coffin and the flowers into the hearse for the trip to the crematorium, I slumped into the passenger’s seat and sighed.

  John flashed me a smile. ‘You did well, Aaron. Told you it would get easier, didn’t I?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes, John,’ he sang. ‘You were right. It is getting easier.’

  ‘Yes, John,’ I echoed, using his silly tone. Then my natural voice struck through again. ‘Somehow seeing the celebrant cry made that one bearable.’

  ‘True,’ John said, no trace of a smirk. ‘He was very good. Damned sight better than Charles Walton.’

  The fat man in purple and green. Compared with Amanda Creen’s uncle, he seemed shallow and insincere, as though the reason for the gathering was as much about listening to him as it was showing respect for the dead. That didn’t explain why I’d been able to stand and watch Amanda Creen’s uncle struggle with his pain. Why I’d become teary but had not broken down. The speculation poked me in some dark, bruised places and I gave up trying to understand before I did some real damage. Knocked off a scab. Punched open an old wound.

  20

  I TIDIED THE CHAPEL while John made calls from his office. Quiet footsteps on the carpet shook me from my cleaning daze.

  Skye smiled.

  I grinned back at her, effortlessly.

  ‘Can you help me with my homework again?’

  She seemed out of place, standing there in the light from the stained glass. A little too bright for the room. A little too vital for the languid post-funeral air.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’m almost done here. Better check with your father.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ she blurted.

  ‘But I will,’ I said.‘That’s my way.’

  ‘The robot code of conduct?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘I’ll check,’ she said in a monotone. She turned on her heel and scuffed mechanically out of the room.

  I shook my head and listened.

  John murmured a greeting to which there was no reply.

  ‘Robot’s coming to help me with my homework,’ she said, and I winced.

  ‘Try again, sweetness,’ John said.

  She sighed. ‘Father dear, could I please use your robot to do my homework?’

  ‘Of course, darling. Please don’t wear him out too much. He’s staying for dinner.’

  ‘Really?’

  I’d forgotten. My breath snagged and I thought about Mam for the first time in hours. I couldn’t stay for dinner, who would look after her?

  I remembered the hospital but the panic didn’t ease. I had a sense that she wouldn’t be coming home, that they’d sink their claws in and put her in a box for broken people. The sense was so strong and alarming that I ran from the chapel and straight into Skye. She hit the floor and bounced.

  ‘I’m sorry, Skye,’ I hissed. ‘I can’t stay. I . . . I . . .’

  I left her there and sprinted to the office.

  John stood, my own dread mirrored in his face. ‘What is it? What happened?’

  ‘I . . . It’s Mam. I have to go.’

  ‘Calm down, Aaron. She’s okay. She’s at the hospital.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I have to—’

  ‘She’s okay,’ he said again.

  ‘I can’t explain. I have to—’

  ‘STOP!’ John bellowed.

  I stopped, just for a moment. Just long enough for my eyes to focus – on John Barton, red-faced and stern.

  ‘Mam is okay. She couldn’t be in safer hands. Safer there than at home, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now take a big breath.’

  I took a breath but it wasn’t big.

  ‘Good. Now hold it. That’s it. Now exhale.’

  ‘There are things I haven’t explained. She—’

  He raised a finger. ‘Another deep breath. Fill your lungs. All the way. More. Hold it.’

  I felt light-headed. My heart thumped a death-metal groove into my temples.

  ‘Hold it.’

  Somehow the breathing and the holding short-circuited my fright. When I exhaled the next time I felt my shoulders relaxing and rational thought returning.

  ‘Well done. As soon as I’m finished here . . . one phone call . . . we’ll get into the Merc and pay Mam a visit. Okay?’

  ‘Can I come, too?’ Skye asked. She stood behind me in the doorway, apparently unscathed.

  ‘If it’s all right with Aaron,’ John said.

  I nodded, then turned and put the nod into words. ‘Of course, Skye. Sorry I bowled you over.’

  She shrugged. ‘Any time.’

  John laughed and shook his head. ‘Give me five minutes.’

  I opened the garage door and sat on the curb. Skye propped beside me.

  ‘Was that a panic attack?’ she asked. ‘It was, wasn’t it? My mum has them. Usually about stupid things like forgetting to top up the water in the vase or leaving the cat inside when she goes shopping. What was yours about? Your mum or your mam or whatever you call her?’

  ‘Mam. Just Mam.’

  ‘Why Mam
?’

  ‘That’s her name.’

  ‘I call my mum Delia sometimes. Usually when she calls me Skye Rose Barton. Two seconds before she whacks me with whatever she has in her hand. Does Mam belt you? Not now, but when you were little?’

  I shook my head. Not when I was little. She’d never even raised her voice at me. Never needed to. It wasn’t that I was an angel; anger never seemed to find purchase in Mam.

  ‘Did she hit you in the lip? Why would you have a panic attack about her? She’s at the hospital, isn’t she? It’s supposed to be the mum worrying about the kid, not the other way around. I couldn’t think of a safer—’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Why not? She allergic to hospitals? Scared she might fall in love with a doctor and leave you?’

  ‘You ask so many questions.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m a kid. It’s my job.’

  ‘And you have a theory about everything.’

  ‘Inquiring mind. Is that a crime?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was silent for a brief moment and I thought I’d found her Pause button.

  ‘Why isn’t it simple?’ she said. ‘Is it the drugs? Is she an addict like you? Oh, she’s your supplier and you’ll go crazy if she’s locked up in hospital. You’ll get withdrawals and start seeing pink elephants and have imaginary creatures crawling under your skin.’

  ‘You watch way too much television.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t stop me wanting to know.’

  She looked at me, through me, her eyes like those of a predator with prey in sight.

  ‘I have this dream. Recurrent. I’ve had it since I was a kid. Nightmare, really. Lately I have it every time I go to sleep and every morning I . . .’

  The sound of jingling keys in the garage.

  ‘Right, you two,’ John said. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘You can sit in the front,’ I said to Skye.

  She sighed. ‘I’m not allowed.’

  ‘You can sit in the back.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not a word,’ I whispered.

  ‘About what?’ she hissed. ‘You didn’t tell me anything. You have nightmares. Whoo!’

  21

  MAM CALLED ME AARON. She clunked my head with her cast as she hugged me from her bed and laughed an apology.