Wife on the Run

by Fiona Higgins

Hamish rushed after her, his bag clipping Toni’s legs as he passed.

  ‘Don’t go, Hamo,’ Toni called.

  He galloped down the stairs after Lisel.

  By the time he reached her, she was already at the front gate of the unit block.

  ‘Lisel,’ he puffed, winded by the running, his left knee screaming.

  He put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she yelled. ‘My mum’s mentally ill, you know. She can’t help what she does. But the men who come here, you’re all the same. Thinking with your dicks, taking advantage of her.’

  She picked up a fluorescent-pink skateboard that was leaning against the front fence, and threw her bag over her shoulder.

  Then she took three long running strides and skated away down the road, her red hair trailing behind her.

  ‘Hamo.’

  He looked up in the direction of the voice.

  Toni was leaning over the balcony, three storeys up, dangling the keys to the hatchback from her fingers.

  ‘Keep the bloody car,’ he said.

  He strode away with his bag, as fast as his weak knee would carry him.

  ‘Hamo, are you there?’

  Hamish grunted into the phone. Grateful to God, if there was one.

  ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying, mate. Where are you, Hamo?’

  He could hear Doggo whispering to Tina.

  Can’t keep a good man down, Hamish was trying to say.

  ‘What’s that?’ Doggo sounded anxious.

  You worry too much, Hamish mumbled.

  ‘Where are you, Hamo? Can you tell me slowly?’

  Pervert. Perfect. Pert. Perth.

  ‘Did you say Perth, mate?’

  Yesss.

  Hamish reached for the wine bottle and, finding it empty, threw it away.

  Then he lay his head on the grass. The earth was pushing up against his right ear. Spiky green lines obscured his vision, but he could still see the sky. A flawless ceiling for an imperfect planet.

  ‘Keep your phone charged and on, Hamo.’ Doggo’s voice was persistent. ‘Hang on, Tina wants to say something.’

  Hamish couldn’t reply. The air was pressing down on him so hard, he wanted to puke.

  ‘Hamo.’ Tina’s high-pitched voice. ‘I’m not letting Doggo get on a plane until you tell me exactly where you’re staying.’

  A two-storey sandstone box, the youth hostel in the city.

  ‘You’re mumbling, Hamo.’

  Backpackers on Wellington Street.

  ‘Did you say a backpackers? Where?’

  His tongue wouldn’t wrap itself around ‘Wellington’.

  A street like gumboots, he tried to say.

  He’d never been so pissed in his life.

  Pissed newts. Bum roots. Cum toots. Gumboots.

  Yes, gumboots.

  Only a different word for them.

  It’s a city in New Zealand too, he wanted to say.

  Ah, bugger it, I give up.

  Thank you Doggo, thank you Tina.

  Thank you ball boys, thank you linesmen.

  He pushed the phone away into the jungle and closed his eyes.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Hamish tried to sit up.

  ‘It’s Doggo, mate.’

  Hamish began to cry.

  Doggo’s hand closed over his. ‘You’re in hospital now, buddy. It’ll be alright.’

  ‘Hospital?’

  He couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to see Doggo, but he could still feel his friend’s hand.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘That was some bender you went on, mate. Gave yourself alcohol poisoning. The youth hostel found you unconscious on their nature strip on Friday night. Thought you were dead. Luckily you called me before you passed out. I got here as quick as I could.’

  There was something that Hamish felt he needed to know, but his mind couldn’t pinpoint it.

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Been two days since they found you. It’s Sunday afternoon. You’re on IV fluids now.’

  ‘Where’s Tina?’ Hamish had a feeling he’d spoken to her recently.

  ‘Back in Melbourne with the kids.’

  ‘Where are we, Doggo?’

  Doggo paused. ‘Mate, this is Perth.’ His tone was disbelieving. ‘You’re in Royal Perth Hospital.’

  Suddenly it all came rushing back.

  Chasing Paula and the kids across the Nullarbor Plain. Losing them in Eucla, and again in Norseman, after Marcelo did him over. Looking up Lisel in Mandurah. Wanting her more than anything. Screwing her crazy bitch mother instead.

  Bile rushed into his throat.

  ‘Mate, I’ll call the nurse,’ Doggo said.

  The vomit sprayed out of Hamish’s nose and mouth.

  He couldn’t stop retching.

  14

  The waiting room at Royal Perth Hospital was swarming with suffering humanity.

  While Marcelo squirmed with discomfort, Paula helped fill in the required forms. Discovering along the way that his surname was Fernandes, that his birthday was on Christmas Day, that his blood type was the rarest in the world. All small pieces of information that helped her to feel closer, somehow, to Marcelo Fernandes.

  When a nurse finally hurried over to see them, Paula almost hugged her. It had been nine hours since they’d left Norseman in the dead of night and, as far as she could tell, Marcelo’s appendix hadn’t ruptured—although they’d pulled over several times and watched him disappear into the scrub to vomit. The nurse checked his vital signs, all of which were normal. But given his obvious distress, he was triaged to high priority and taken for clinical assessment soon after.

  ‘I’ll wait here and mind your backpack,’ Paula said, when a doctor called his name. ‘No, no. I take the bag with me. My mother’s urn is in there.’ She nodded, understanding.

  ‘Don’t wait for me.’ Marcelo smiled weakly at her. ‘Take the others to the campsite first. They are tired.’

  There was sense in his suggestion; everyone was overwrought from the long pre-dawn journey. She really couldn’t ask them to wait much longer in the hospital car park.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Have you got your phone?’

  Marcelo looked anxious. ‘The battery is dead, I forgot to recharge.’

  ‘No matter.’ Paula tore a small piece of paper from her diary and scribbled down her number. ‘Just call me on one of the public phones in the foyer, as soon as you’ve seen the doctor.’

  She held out an envelope of money she’d withdrawn from the hospital ATM, her maximum daily limit. ‘Take it.’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘You’re not covered by Medicare,’ she explained. ‘You’ll have to pay. This won’t be enough if you need an operation, but we’ll talk more once the doctor’s seen you.’

  ‘I can call my father,’ he objected. ‘He can transfer money.’

  ‘Just see the doctor first.’

  She pushed the envelope into his hands.

  ‘Thank you, Pow-la.’ His brown eyes were grateful.

  She watched the nurse escort Marcelo beyond the opaque doors.

  Twenty-four hours passed; she assumed Marcelo must have undergone surgery.

  At the forty-eight hour mark, with still no word from him, she telephoned the hospital.

  ‘How do you spell the surname?’ asked the operator.

  Paula spelled it out.

  The operator’s fingers tapped at a keyboard. ‘We have no record of a patient of that name.’

  ‘But I was there in emergency with him,’ Paula insisted. ‘He had appendicitis.’

  ‘Was he admitted to the hospital, ma’am?’ The operator sounded irritable.

  ‘Can you check for me?’ asked Paula. ‘He was definitely seen by a doctor in emergency, but I don’t know if—’

  The operator interrupted. ‘Are you a relative, ma’am?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry, I can’t disclose that information.’
/>
  Paula struggled not to snap. ‘He’s a friend from overseas, he has no family here. I’m travelling with him. Please, can you help?’

  The operator exhaled. ‘Ma’am, patients come in to emergency and they’re seen by a doctor. They’re either admitted to hospital, or they’re treated for their complaint and sent home.’

  ‘So he was sent home?’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t disclose that information.’

  Paula hung up.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Sid, setting his newspaper aside. Caitlin pulled out her earbuds and Lachie looked up from Moondroids from Uranus.

  ‘Marcelo’s gone.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Caitlin.

  Paula’s eyes began to smart. ‘They’ve got no record of him at the hospital. Well, they do, but they won’t tell me what happened because I’m not a relative.’ She felt like kicking down a door. ‘He was seen by a doctor, but he wasn’t admitted. So we can only assume . . .’ She shook her head, unable to fathom it. ‘He was sent away.’

  ‘But why didn’t he call you?’ Sid looked concerned. ‘You gave him your number, didn’t you? And he had money?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I gave him some.’ Paula frowned. ‘But maybe it wasn’t enough? I should have just waited for him at the hospital.’

  She began straightening the beach towels on the makeshift washing line, fighting back tears.

  What could have happened to Marcelo?

  ‘I hope he’s not in trouble,’ she said, after a moment. ‘I mean, he’s not used to our medical system, he doesn’t know anyone—’

  ‘Maybe he just doesn’t want to travel with us anymore,’ Lachie interjected. ‘Maybe he’s over us.’

  Her son’s face was hidden behind his book again. Clearly he was still upset about what he’d seen in Norseman.

  ‘I reckon he would’ve said something if that was the case, Lachie,’ said Sid. ‘Remember what we agreed in Adelaide? That we’d talk, if things weren’t working out? And look,’—he pointed at the surfboard and guitar case still strapped to the roof racks—‘he would’ve taken those if he’d intended to leave.’

  Paula’s mouth went dry.

  Surely Marcelo wouldn’t have just slunk away?

  We had a connection. I know we did.

  And we shared the beginnings of a kiss.

  Suddenly she was struck by an awful thought; maybe Marcelo left because of that kiss. Specifically her behaviour following it, her aloof body language that said, I choose my children over you.

  A sick feeling gripped her stomach and she slumped down at the card table.

  Caitlin stayed perched on her chair, gazing out over Cottesloe Beach. ‘Well, whatever’s happened to Marcelo, he was . . . nice.’

  Paula didn’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘Did you have a crush on him, Catie?’ Sid asked suddenly, with a grandfatherly wink.

  ‘No,’ said Caitlin.

  She’s lying, thought Paula, avoiding her father’s eyes. Hoping he wouldn’t ask her the same question.

  ‘I think we’ve all had a bit of a crush on him,’ Sid said. ‘He’s a remarkable young man. It’s okay to like someone, Catie.’

  Caitlin blushed. ‘He was nice, but . . . no. The way he was training us was cool.’

  ‘I liked that too,’ said Sid, patting his granddaughter’s knee. ‘Had me feeling like a whippersnapper again.’

  They sat without speaking for several minutes, watching the beautiful people of Cottesloe power-walk, cycle and rollerblade their way along a postcard-perfect foreshore. In the day’s deepening light, the sky looked like a giant artist’s palette, streaked burnished gold, mauve and tangerine.

  Colours to make you cry or sing, Paula reflected, or both.

  Sid stood up and wrapped his arm around Paula’s shoulders. ‘What say we all go visit the hospital first thing tomorrow and see what we can find?’

  Paula nodded at him, grateful.

  ‘We have no record of admission,’ repeated the woman behind the administration desk. ‘And in the absence of proof of kinship, we can’t release details about his consult, either.’ She looked from Sid to Paula.

  ‘Ma’am, this boy is new to Australia,’ said Sid, with a polite smile. ‘We’re his only friends. Can you at least tell us what time he left the hospital? That would mean a lot to us.’

  The woman sighed. ‘I’m not supposed to do this.’

  She clicked through several screens on her computer. ‘Quarter to five pm on the day he came in. Please don’t ask me anything else.’

  ‘No, ma’am, and thank you.’ Sid ushered Paula back towards the waiting room.

  Lachie and Catie looked up from their magazines.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Lachie.

  Paula shook her head.

  Back in the car, they did several aimless loops of the city.

  ‘Mum,’ said Catie, after almost thirty minutes, ‘I don’t think we’re going to find Marcelo this way.’

  ‘And I’m hungry,’ said Lachie.

  ‘You’re cooking lunch, mate,’ Sid reminded him. ‘And watch that whiney tone.’ He turned to Paula. ‘We probably should head back to Cottesloe and think up a new plan.’

  Paula nodded. ‘Lachie might be right. Maybe Marcelo just didn’t want to keep travelling with us.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Sid, veering into a U-turn bay. ‘Or maybe something’s happened that none of us expected, something we couldn’t have dreamed up if we tried. Life’s like that sometimes.’

  They drove back to Cottesloe in silence.

  Four days later, after visits to all the major backpacker hostels and several tourist information centres, Paula decided it was time to move on.

  ‘We’ve done our best to find him,’ she said, gazing out at another Cottesloe sunset. ‘That’s all we can do, really.’

  ‘I reckon, Mum,’ agreed Lachie.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Caitlin added.

  She looked between her children, resenting how willing they seemed to let Marcelo go.

  ‘I wish I could be so sure.’

  Sid squeezed her hand. ‘Look, it’s disappointing to lose Marcelo. But we started out as the Awesome Foursome, right? And you know, we don’t have to stop our training, either.’ He stooped and picked up a pair of Lachie’s sneakers, taking one in each hand and pitching them at the children, chuckling at their shrieks.

  ‘We’ll get back to Gramps’s life lessons tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Next lesson is “Valuing our Bodies”. We’ll begin with a beach run along Cottesloe. You lot can jog, I’ll shuffle. Then the young ’uns can teach me a thing or two about push-ups and burps.’

  ‘Burpees,’ said Caitlin.

  Paula felt fatigued already. ‘Isn’t it time for Drinkypoos, Dad?’

  ‘But we’re swearing off alcohol for the next four weeks, love. It’s all part of valuing our bodies.’

  Paula gaped at him. ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’

  ‘Nope.’ Sid opened his esky and turned it upside down, shaking out the last of the ice for emphasis. ‘We’re all out of grog anyway. No soft drink for the kids, either. Even the diet variety is full of chemicals. Their insides must’ve been brown and frothy back at Apollo Bay.’ He reached out and pinched Caitlin, who squealed.

  Then he turned to Paula. ‘Nothing naughty in our bodies for the next month, until we get to Darwin. Marcelo started this lesson, but I’m going to finish it.’

  Over the next few weeks, Paula dropped a dress size. Sid’s ‘valuing our bodies’ lesson prescribed a stringent daily exercise routine, plotted against their itinerary.

  She’d already lost some weight en route to Perth, largely due to the change in routine. Back home in Melbourne, she’d often found herself comfort eating when she was bored or alone. She hadn’t recognised the habit, until the road trip forced her to stop. Helped, of course, by the presence of Marcelo from Adelaide onwards; having a handsome Brazilian nearby conveniently curbed her appetite. Then, after Marcelo’s inexplicable disappear
ance in Perth, she didn’t feel much like eating at all.

  ‘We’ll be fit and fabulous for Christmas Day in Darwin,’ Sid kept intoning, whenever one of the children complained about their new regimen. Paula didn’t object; in fact, this was one life lesson she was happy to embrace. Apart from the obvious physical benefits of Gramps’s Boot Camp, as Lachie now called it, their strict timetable of fitness-related activities helped keep her mind off Marcelo.

  Their days began with stints on their bicycles, taking turns at cycling in front of the ute for ten, fifteen, even twenty kilometres. It slowed down their journey, but better enabled them to appreciate the gifts of the Western Australian coastline. Long, white beaches, unpatrolled and unpopulated, with bottlenose dolphins frolicking in blue breaks. Ancient shells littering the sand, exquisite stars and spirals and fans catching the sunlight in pearly contours. Charcoal-coloured stromatolites in warm, shallow waters, strange fossil-like formations bearing silent witness to prehistoric life on earth. At times Paula felt like a time traveller, lobbed back to an epoch when Australia was inhabited only by its Indigenous people, before nature’s gifts were colonised by burgeoning populations and modern tourism.

  Most lunchtimes, they pulled off the highway wherever they found themselves, by the beach or in a tiny township. The modest contents of their sandwiches—and the freshness of the bread—varied according to local supply chains. On arrival anywhere, the children made a beeline for the general store to scavenge among unappetising displays of overripe fruit and wilted vegetables. Sometimes they discovered an unexpected treasure—a firm tomato, an unbruised avocado, or fish freshly caught from the Indian Ocean—and carried it back to the caravan like pirate’s bounty. But on days when supplies were scarce, they settled for sandwiches of tinned tuna and limp celery.

  After lunch, Lachie laid out their beach towels under the caravan’s awning, and led them through a floor routine. This was the jiu-jitsu warm-up that Marcelo had taught them at Cactus Beach: twenty burpees, thirty sit-ups, twenty push-ups and a walk along a balance beam. They improvised with whatever they could find; sometimes a low fence, an empty feed trough, or simply a line drawn in the sandy earth.

  As days became weeks, Paula found herself using parts of her body long dormant—her deep abdominals, triceps, quadriceps. And she found herself constantly thirsty; the heat of a mid-December day in Western Australia was punishing. Paula often felt so drained after their midday exercise session, she was forced to have a siesta, much to the mirth of Caitlin and Lachie. But she was also becoming stronger. Paula could feel it in her legs, comparing them to her first day on the road: that putrid unisex toilet she’d squatted over in Geelong, her thighs begging for mercy.