by Michael Gow
The DOCTOR has come in.
DOCTOR: Aha. Hullo. Sorry to interrupt.
He shrugs.
WILL: I was, sorry, come in. Merry Christmas.
DOCTOR: Merry Christmas. And sorry for the coffee. To keep going. Too many people coming in. So many accidents, already, accidents. Car accidents. Kids fall off bikes, new toys, they hurt themselves, swallowing plastic. Already people too much alcohol.
WILL: When do we start?
DOCTOR: Okay, I draw diagram. Not such good draw—
WILL: You already did that.
DOCTOR: Ah yes! Stupid. Sorry, sorry, tired.
WILL: I get that but I want to know. When are you going to get started?
DOCTOR: Okay. Okay. We thought maybe we could insert stent. This is small like, tube—
WILL: I know what a stent is.
DOCTOR: To open passage from stomach.
WILL: Yes.
DOCTOR: This helps empty her stomach. Make her more comfortable.
WILL: Yes.
DOCTOR: But no good.
WILL: And, why?
DOCTOR: Your mother, her blood pressure, very, very low. We start to take her to theatre, one a.m., two maybe, but stop. Blood pressure falling, falling. Bring her back here, quick, raise feet to help with pressure. We do this just in time. But. We cannot operate.
WILL: When will it be stable? When will she be ready?
DOCTOR: No.
Pause.
WILL: What are you going to do?
DOCTOR: Try and make her comfortable.
WILL: Until the operation?
DOCTOR: Which is this operation?
WILL: The Whipple Procedure.
DOCTOR: Aha! You have been on internet. Whipple? This huge operation, huge. Heroic. We cannot do on many people. We take out pancreas, we take out part of stomach. Part of colon. Then begin radiation and chemotherapy. People who are young, much, much younger than your mother, too big for them.
WILL: So when will you do it? When her blood pressure is stable?
DOCTOR: No. We cannot do this. She is not strong enough.
WILL: How do you think my mother even got here? As weak as she is? As sick as she is? She dragged a copper frying pan home from the shop, she dragged it to the airport, flew up here, dragged it off the plane again. Is this a woman who is not strong? She felt terrible but she kept going. She has always kept going. My father had three strokes. After the strokes his balance was gone. He’d fall over, anywhere, the house, the yard, in the street, on a bus. And she’d always put herself between him and the ground. Or the stove, whatever. And he was heavy. People would think she’d been in a car crash, the bruising. Not a strong woman? Then cancer, he had two years of that. That exhausted her, but she kept going. He died, then the funeral; still, she kept going. Then this, what, a month of pain and being sick and yes, sick as she was, she drove eight hours to see her oldest friend, there and back. Then she got here. In the state she’s in, at 76 years old. A 76-year-old woman, she did that. She is not a weak woman. Do you understand?
Pause.
DOCTOR: Okay. Very strong mind. Like you, I think. But strong mind will not help. Her body is weak. I already say you. When we find this disease, is already, in most cases, nothing left to do. We only discover when it is too late. We can do nothing but control pain. Is hard. But.
WILL: You have to try.
DOCTOR: We move her now she die anyway. You cannot control this. You would like to. But you cannot. You must prepare. Anyone who should be here, you tell them. Family?
WILL shakes his head.
This friend she visit? If she is close, call to her. Say, come now.
Pause.
Sorry news is grim.
The DOCTOR watches WILL for a moment. He goes.
Silence.
WILL: I’m going. Yes? Just for a while. I might go for a walk, just a walk, won’t be long. You get some rest and I’ll be back. Can you hear me? I’ll be here. I won’t be long.
Pause. He doesn’t move.
ACTOR: Christmas Day.
Pause.
Noon.
Pause.
Thirty-nine degrees.
Pause.
Sitting in a bright green park under a blinding blue sky staring at a brown river.
WILL moves to be in a park.
Eating Christmas lunch.
WILL holds up a half-eaten ham sandwich.
A BOY on a skateboard rides past, rides back again, circles WILL, stops.
BOY: How are you?
WILL: [nodding] You?
BOY: Yeah, good.
Pause.
Merry Christmas.
WILL nods.
Okay if I sit?
WILL: Sure.
BOY: Me mum’s ex turns up. For Christmas. Ten minutes and they’re screamin’. ‘You bastard you bitch you bastard you bitch you’re an arsehole you’re insane.’ Then me dad rings up from Perth and I’m talkin’ to him and he hears them yellin’. Wants to come straight over and sort the ex out. Me little sister locks herself in the bathroom, she’s spewin’ in the shower.
Pause.
Peace on earth. If the little baby Jesus knew what was gunna happen at my place he never woulda come. Took me sister down the road to me nan’s, rode this for a while. Got it for Christmas. From Santa. Not bad actually.
Pause.
Nice to just sit.
WILL: It is.
BOY: Quiet.
WILL: It is.
BOY: So how’s your Christmas been?
WILL: Not as good as yours.
The BOY laughs.
BOY: Okay if I sit here a bit longer?
WILL: It’s okay.
They sit there.
ACTOR: He goes back to the hospital.
They sit there.
He goes back to the hospital.
They sit there.
He goes back—
WILL: We get the picture. [To the BOY] Gotta go.
BOY: Sweet.
WILL: Thanks. Thank you.
BOY: No worries. Take it easy.
SONG: ‘Once in Royal David’s City’.
[Sung] And through all His wondrous childhood
He would honour and obey,
Love and watch the lowly maiden,
In whose gentle arms He lay:
Christian children all must be
Mild, obedient, good as He.
WILL: I’m here. I’m back. Can you hear me? I’m back. Had some lunch. Went for a walk. You’re still asleep. That’s good. I think. I wish I knew if you needed anything. Do you need anything?
Pause.
I should have been here. I should have been the one hearing all the things you said. They said you’d be resting. I believed them. Never believe anything you hear and half of what you see, you’ve always said that. But I should have been here with you, instead of the counsellor, whatever she is. And the other one, the churchy one. I hope he hasn’t snuck in again. And they haven’t put the Christmas tape back on, good. All this talking to you. Does it help? Does it work? I don’t mind doing it, no. But what is there to say? Really say? That’s dishonest. I know what I want to say, but I can’t say it. That’s the truth. How is it I can make an audience silent, on the point of tears with a simple gesture from an actor, or a pause in a line? But I can’t do this for you? Afraid of sounding like bad television? Of acting out a scene that has only one ending. And I don’t want to reach that ending. And if I say what I think you’re supposed to say I’ll sound like a fake. I’m afraid I’ll sound like I’m ready to let go of you. And I’m not. The truth is, this is the greatest disaster that ever happened. This is the end of the world.
GAIL’s at the door.
Come in.
GAIL: The doctor’s talked to you?
WILL nods.
I saw him on this floor.
WILL: You knew it was this serious, this bad?
GAIL: When they move them into a room by themselves…
WILL: She’s supposed to be
a widow for years and years.
GAIL: I’m sorry.
WILL: We had Christmas. I did that, at least. I brought this tree. And she gave me this copper frying pan. She was desperate to still give me something for Christmas. For some reason she thought of this. She lugged it all this way. It’s very heavy.
Pause.
I gave her a calendar.
He shakes his head in disbelief.
A calendar. And this. She has a cabinet full of these women. She loved them. Maybe she dreamed of being like them, admired, set apart somehow. In control. My father sometimes called her a Tahitian Princess and that made her angry. I wondered if there was maybe some kind of non-Anglo, non-white strand in her life. Another reason she liked these women. Maybe she wanted to be all white. I don’t know. My father always gave her one of these figures on birthdays and anniversaries. I thought I’d give her another lady this Christmas. I thought she’d see the underlying meaning. Which now is pretty much lost on me.
Pause.
Thanks for listening, you’ve been really, I appreciate what you’ve done. You do a great job.
GAIL: I don’t work here.
WILL: But you’re a… you’re some kind of… counsellor, psychologist, aren’t you?
GAIL: No. I’m not.
WILL: ‘I’ll drop in’. You said that, like you worked here. ‘Talk to them, they can hear you’.
GAIL: I’ve been here in this place for so long, waiting for something to end. Or begin. I saw the two of you and I wanted to do something.
WILL: But who are you?
GAIL: My mother is in a ward at the other end of this floor. This time she’s been here two months.
WILL: Yes but. Who are you? You’ve been in here getting things out of her. You had me blathering on at you, letting you in on things, sharing things, confessing things. All that time, leading me on, pretending, just passing the time?
GAIL: Both of you needed to talk.
WILL: You’ve been in here draining her energy, her will, her memory, her time. You’ve lied, pretended, invaded my mother’s life. You had no right, no business to come in here.
GAIL: She woke up in the middle of the night and she didn’t know where she was, she was frightened, so I talked to her, calmed her a bit. The staff are so busy and I’m used to this place. I asked her things. About herself, her life. You. She loves you. And I wanted to know what that’s like.
WILL: What is this?
GAIL: My mother had a baby when she was seventeen. With this boy. He left, the baby was adopted. I found out five years ago. And I understood why I’d always had this feeling, this sense of not being enough. I know she loves me, but there’s always a… a gap. Three years ago she got sick. So I decided to find him. I tracked him down. I didn’t think I’d get there but I found him. And I’m going to bring him back to her. I’ve even been to his house, knocked on the door, pretended I was looking for someone who maybe lived there once. I looked into his face. You can’t imagine what that was like. Standing there, talking to him. A lost part of yourself.
WILL: Jesus, you sound, you carry on like someone on television, like some TV show. Like you’re already crying on television and everything will be better. This is not TV, my mother is not a television character, she is a real person dealing with her life, not your life, your mother’s life, anyone else’s. I’m sorry you feel second best—
GAIL: Two days ago I rang I him. I phoned him and told him. Everything. About his mother being sick here in this hospital, about me, his sister. I gave him the number to ring her for Christmas. He was very angry. Said he had a family that loved him and who’d cared for him and he would never betray them or hurt them in any way. Then he hung up. It was a lot to take in, so he was upset, I understand that. It was the wrong the thing to do. He might never come. I’m going to tell her. I think I’m going to tell her, that I’ve seen him. That he’s happy. And that will have to do. I’m sorry for what I did. But. I see so many people just sitting there, by the bed, staring at the floor. Out the window.
JEANNIE makes a little sound. He turns and sees her clutching at the air, he goes straight to her, takes her hands. GAIL leaves, looks back once then goes out.
You’re awake. What is it? Pain?
JEANNIE: Tea.
WILL: Tea. You want a cup of tea?
He races out. She grasps at the air. Tries to sit up, can’t, keeps trying. He comes back with a mug of tea.
It’s tea bag. It’s rubbish. But it’s tea.
He lifts her as best he can, holds the mug for her. She grips it. Takes a few sips.
JEANNIE: Bliss!
She takes a few more sips, lets go of the mug.
Enough?
She falls back onto the pillow, turns to look at him, raises her hand, strokes his face.
A teacher.
WILL: You heard?
JEANNIE: A teacher.
WILL: Well, we’ll see. You can watch the video, see what you think. I want you to know this. Listening? That you have been wonderful. Always.
JEANNIE: No need, no, no.
WILL: I mean this. You did everything any parent could do. Any mother could do.
JEANNIE: No, no, no. Don’t be serious, always so serious.
WILL: You were amazing. You gave me such a life. That’s all that matters, that’s all I have to say.
JEANNIE: Tomorrow. Go home, come tomorrow.
WILL: No, I’m not leaving. I know I’m ranting on. I’ll be quiet, but I should have been here, they said you’d be asleep. But I’ll be here.
JEANNIE: Go. Tomorrow.
WILL: But I’ll sit here, I won’t say any more, I promise. But I’ll stay.
She struggles in the bed, reaches for something on the cabinet.
What do you want?
JEANNIE: Purse.
WILL: Your purse? It’s in the cabinet. Here.
He hands her the purse. She pulls money out, holds it out to him.
JEANNIE: Dinner. Christmas dinner.
WILL: I don’t need this, no.
JEANNIE: Take it. Nice Christmas dinner. See you tomorrow. Please. Rest.
WILL: But I’ll be here first thing.
JEANNIE: Tomorrow.
WILL: Yes. In the morning. You rest. Yes? Tomorrow.
SONG: ‘Once in Royal David’s City’.
[Sung] And our eyes at last shall see Him,
Through His own redeeming love,
For that Child so dear and gentle
Is our Lord in heaven above,
And He leads His children on
To the place where He is gone.
WILL sitting alone, sipping a mug of tea.
MOLLY comes in, sits.
MOLLY: All done.
WILL gets up and makes tea from an urn, brings it to her.
WILL: I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.
MOLLY: No, no—
WILL: To come all this way and not see her.
MOLLY: I saw her.
WILL: If you’d had more warning, but I didn’t know myself. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to let it all play out the way everyone else knew it would.
MOLLY: I’m glad I came.
Pause. They drink their tea.
Was it only last week she drove all that way to see me? Wasn’t it last week we were still bits of kids? The things we got up to. Could two people have laughed more? Then we were getting serious with men. Then we were bridesmaids. Postcards from honeymoons. Houses. Then we were mothers. Sick kids and school and exams and what’ll they grow up to do. Long, long times when there was nothing more than a Christmas card once a year. Then you think, ring up, just ring up and you do and you’re laughing like the old days. Grand kids. Then you’re seeing the doctor more often. Funerals. And it still all seems a week ago you were teenagers laughing yourselves sick. And now she’s left me. My darling girl.
Pause. They drink their tea.
WILL: Did you know she’d been going to church?
MOLLY: Did she?
WILL:
I didn’t know. I didn’t know that.
MOLLY: Everyone has to know everything these days. Soon there won’t be any secrets at all. But I think we’d all be better off with one or two.
WALLY comes in.
WILL: This isn’t the time. He’s been bothering us since she—
WALLY: I only want to say I’m very sorry.
WILL nods.
I am. She was a lovely lady. I just want to say one thing.
WILL walks away. WALLY looks to MOLLY for help.
MOLLY: Let him say it. Under the circumstances, don’t you reckon? [To WALLY] Cup of tea? You sit down.
MOLLY goes to the urn and makes a cup of tea, brings it back to WALLY.
WALLY: I embarrass people, yes, I live in the back half of a garage, I’m a Bible basher, ‘poor bugger’ they’re thinking as I walk away. But I do what I’m called to do, to tell my message. I said your mum had been going to church. She was looking for an answer. She didn’t get one. She told me this and this is what we talked about. We understood each other. The Kingdom is here, within, said Jesus. And He only understood at the end. My God, why have you forsaken me? He said on the cross. And no reply came and He realised, as He suffered, there’s no reply because there’s no-one to answer us. That’s the message. I’ve suspected this for a while. The more I read the bible the more I think it’s a long story to tell us no-one is there. If we think there is then it will always end in fire and brimstone. The only thing we have is taking care of each other. I said I brought the true meaning of the Gospel and your mother heard me and we talked. That’s all.
They drink their tea. WALLY finishes his tea, puts his cup back.
And here. The ward sister let me have this from above her bed. To give to you. It’s her name, her real name. Jeannie. I got them to change it.