by Susan Duncan
'Would you like to?'
'Only if it doesn't disturb anyone.'
'We'd all love it. Be the talk of the bay for months.'
When I ring Bob and tell him to expect the 'blind Buddhist nun', as she inevitably becomes known, the day after tomorrow, he panics: 'It's too quick. We need to think about it a bit.'
His response punches the thrill out of me. Why should there be a delay? What's the problem? I say nothing, though, and hide my disappointment. Maybe Barbara's struggling. For some reason, I delay calling Adrienne. She was so excited I don't have the heart to tell her the visit has to be postponed.
The following morning, there's a knock at my door. Bob stands there looking as though he's forgotten to comb his hair.
'Barbara's thrilled.'
'So it's on!'
'Yeah.'
In the afternoon, Bob returns with a printout of a map to Adrienne's front door.
'You pick her up. I'll drive her back,' he says.
'That would be fantastic, thank you. You'll like her, Bob, she sounds really great on the phone. Full of life and energy. And she knows the situation with Barbara. It will all be ok.'
I had begun this for Barbara, thinking in some idiotic way that when someone is dying she deserves to have every wish fulfilled. A kind of mad rush to make life film-script perfect because it's what we all dream of and it's never like that in reality. But it was giving me a large dose of happiness, too.
I'd done the same thing for what we all knew would be my husband's last Christmas alive. I'd rushed around madly trying to find everyone's dream gift which, in the case of his daughter Lulu, was a border collie puppy. I eventually found one in country Victoria and arrived home with a stinking, piddling ball of black and white fluff. At the time I thought it was madness but Lulu adored that dog, Bella. She put a new structure in Lulu's life when the framework centred on her father collapsed.
It is the Christmas she remembers with the most fondness: 'The best ever,' Lulu still says, often with her armed draped around Bella's neck. It was worth the effort.
Of course, the one wish that really mattered to Barbara was impossible to arrange.
Finding Adrienne's home is confusing at first. Because there is a large sign announcing Lorn Learning Centre on the front verandah that I think belongs to her house. There's nothing about Buddhism. So I sit in the car a moment and check street names and numbers. While I'm fiddling with Bob's directions, the door opens. A woman appears wearing the deep maroon robes of a Tibetan nun. Can't be too many Tibetan nuns in Newcastle, I think.
I scramble from the car and fight with the latch on the front gate. 'Adrienne?' My voice is overloud in the still, tree-lined street.
She nods.
'I'm Susan.' I walk up to her and put out my hand, which is unseen and ignored.
She is small but not frail. Except for her skin. Which is paper thin, the veins blue and close to the surface. Her hands are slim, with freckles to match the ones on her face. Her eyes, the part of her that has almost given up, are bright blue. Although she is well into her seventies and cannot see, she moves quickly and gracefully.
'Come in, come in. I have tea and biscuits, if you like. Or perhaps juice, or iced tea.'
'If you don't mind, we'll get going.' I am anxious to move on. To get back before dark.
I follow her down the wide, dark hallway, her robes rustling like a taffeta ball gown. No lights are on and it is almost dark enough to stumble. But then, Adrienne has no need of light.
'Sorry to be in a rush,' I mutter.
'I'll just put the cat in his cage. The vet is down the street,' she says.
She takes a tidbit from a box and calls gently. When an old grey cat saunters inside she scoops her up, gives her a quick caress around the ears and places her in the cat box. Which makes her very bad-tempered. She throws herself against the bars, splayed like a spatchcock on a grill. Adrienne clucks soothingly until she subsides in a grumpy, furry heap.
'I'll take the cat to the vet, if you like,' I offer.
'Thank you. I am not good at crossing roads.'
'Oh, ok.'
But I'd only wanted to pay for the overnight stay. Hadn't even thought about how blind people manage to cross roads in suburban areas where there are no traffic lights or pedestrian crossings.
On the highway, a light, misty rain blows in random waves. Oncoming cars, with their headlights on full beam, loom out of the grey weather like giant insects.
I want Adrienne to be the source of all wisdom on this trip, to magically show me the path to happiness and contentment. I want to ask her all the questions under the sun and have her give me answers that will guide me for the rest of my life. I'm looking for a good fairy to come along, tap me on the shoulder with her wand and make all the bad bits dissolve into dust, leaving in their wake only joy and happiness. I've always been tempted to hand over responsibility for my life to someone else, maybe because it's a lot easier than growing up. And I've always imbued with magical qualities anyone who chooses a spiritual way of life.
When my husband was ill and the priests wandered down the driveway to see him, I expected them to have all the answers, to whip a quick little miracle out of their prayer books. But they never did. When an old priest who loved a bet and who called my brother for racing tips, rang to say the priests were praying for John, I had a wild hope for a while that the force of good men would prevail and my brother would be spared. But he wasn't. And yet here I am again, hoping against hope that someone will show me the way when I should know by now that I have to find it myself.
Adrienne does not play that game as we sit enveloped in the car. Instead, she tells me about how, as a child, she saw her mother stab her lover in the eye with a pair of scissors. She tells me about being diagnosed with cancer and sailing around the world with a mad sea captain, waiting to die. Five years later she realised her imminent death was taking a long time, so she abandoned ship and returned to Australia where she eventually studied Buddhism.
When I ask her why Buddhism, she says with unexpected vehemence, 'Because nothing in my life ever made any sense. I wanted to try to make sense of it all. The meaning of life, if you don't mind the cliche.'
We talk in short bursts on that drive, taking turns in an odd little mental soft-shoe shuffle that, as trust grows, leads us closer and closer to telling the truth about ourselves. I am so intent on our conversation that I get hopelessly lost and go round and round in circles, passing a cemetery about four times before Adrienne leans over to pat my knee:'I think, dear, we are not moving forward.'
For a second I assume she means spiritually, but it is only my wretched navigation.
'Do you have some sight, then?' I ask. I peer through the rain, struggling to find the right road to Sydney.
'I am what is known as legally blind but I have a little peripheral vision.' She smiles, her face softens and it's easy to see that she's been an extraordinarily beautiful woman. 'I don't miss out on much even though my sight is nearly gone. But I wish I could still read books. I miss being able to read quite dreadfully.'
Her laugh is loud and packed with irony when I ask whether she has found the meaning of life. 'What I have found is the ability to live life in a way that is useful. And that has made some sense of it all.'
When she tells me she works in palliative care, I wonder again at the hand of fate. If Barbara wants to talk about death, Adrienne will know how to handle it. Barbara never discusses her health or the future and I suspect it is because she doesn't want to upset anyone.This is an opportunity for her to open the door.
For a while we are silent, just swooshing through the rain, the wipers thunking rhythmically in slicker and slicker swathes of muck as trucks and passing cars kick up oil from the freeway onto the windscreen. Every so often I glance across at her. She is always in the same position with her hands folded neatly, her back straight, a slight smile on her lips. Only her eyes change – sometimes they are closed, sometimes open.
I
want to ask Adrienne a question, but do not know how to begin. It is about right and wrong. Not the easy black and white stuff. I want to understand how you figure out what is harmful – or potentially harmful – behaviour, when wading through the murky wastelands of everyday life. I think I want to know whether cancer is my punishment for every selfish act, every morally wrong choice. I have never asked 'why me?', but I am beginning to ask 'why?'. Cancer has a way of forcing you to look at your life and the way you have lived it. The simple fact of getting older gives you the understanding that whatever you do, whatever actions you take, stay with you forever. How much more peace of mind I would have had if I'd put aside what I believed to be important and instead focused on what mattered.
'Is there a way,' I finally ask Adrienne, 'to learn to make only the right decisions?' I am, of course, thinking about the ex-lover.
'Ah,' she says, a smile playing around her mouth. 'What is right? What is wrong? When it's all added up at the end, how do we know?'
She is silent then, for so long that I stumble into an oversimplified explanation of my enquiry because I feel I cannot mention the ex-lover. 'Am I doing the right thing by Barbara by trying to give her little goals, moments to look forward to, distractions, if you like? Am I making it easier or harder for her?'
'What is your motive?'
'To create hope.'
'That is a good motive.'
'Is that enough?'
'Yes. But of course, often there are many motives in any single decision.'
'I get a surge of hope and confidence when people include me in future plans,' I explain. 'If they believe I have a future, perhaps I do.'
'Do you believe you have one?' Adrienne asks.
'Some days I do, some days I don't. Some days a headache can send me into a spiral of anxiety. Is it a brain tumour? A pain in my chest makes me think of secondaries lying in wait. Sometimes, I think feeling hope is a kind of emotional torture because, of course, all it takes is a single badly chosen word or some thoughtless remark to shatter it.'
'That's because,' Adrienne said, 'you are trying to find hope in the words and actions of other people.You must have it yourself.'
By the time we reach Church Point, the rain has stopped. I call Bob and he arrives in his boat. Two little tan and white faces stretch their necks to see over the side. The puppies are still too timid to ride the bow of the boat like all the other dogs on Pittwater.
Adrienne steps into the tinny like a teenager and settles in the only passenger seat. The puppies immediately jump all over her and, in seconds, blood is gushing down her arm. I'm appalled and can't think what to do.
'Here,' Bob says, pulling out a handkerchief. He wraps it around the scratch and Adrienne holds it tight.
'My skin is thin – from too many years of being in the sun,' she explains. 'But don't worry, the bleeding will stop soon.'
The water is smooth as a polished floor, the wind almost nonexistent. It's turned into a soft day in shades of grey. Light grey sky, deep grey hills, silver grey sea. We set off for Tarrangaua at a slow and easy pace.
'You'll be staying with me,' I tell Adrienne. 'I hope that's ok. Barbara gets tired really quickly.'
She nods and then we are all silent. Adrienne is entranced. She breathes in the sea air as though it is a delicate perfume. She turns her face to the stern to catch the gentle drift of sea spray and closes her eyes, bathed in the physical world.
In their eagerness to be off and running, the puppies leap out of the boat before we're even alongside the pontoon, risking a fall into the watery gap. They are learning to judge rocking surfaces well but the tide is as low as it ever gets and the ramp rises steeply to the shore. They slide on the planks like declawed cats on a slippery bough until they reach the fixed jetty then, with a skip of relief, they roar off into the bush. No amount of calling or the promise of treats can lure them back. Noses to the ground they follow their silent, secret signals and disappear from sight.
'Don't worry about them,' Bob says. 'They'll come back when they're tired.'
'But the phone calls will start.'
'Everyone knows you're trying.'
Adrienne climbs the ramp as though she's been doing it all her life and waits onshore while we tie up the boat. The rain starts to fall lightly again so I thank Bob, grab Adrienne's arm and lead her to my house.
'We'll have dinner at home tonight and then go up to Tarrangaua tomorrow morning. Is that ok?'
'Of course, dear.'
'I've invited a couple of friends around to join us. Do you mind? I've told them it's a quick dinner, over early. Bob too, if he feels he can leave Barbara for a while.'
'Sounds lovely.'
Stewart is coming with a visiting friend from our days in New York, a writer who uses a lot of colourful language. I've asked Stewart to tell his friend to hold back the swearwords in front of Adrienne.
'I think you'll enjoy these blokes. They're a lot of fun. By the way, I've got steaks for dinner but if you're vegetarian, I can cook up a frittata.'
'If I were cooking for myself, I would eat vegetarian, but Buddhists must eat whatever is put in front of them – and I love beef!'
Stewart and Kinky arrive at 6.30 pm and Kinky opens the conversation with a few choice words. I'm ready to faint but Adrienne laughs.
'I'm unshockable,' she says when I tell Kinky to ease up. 'And I've read all his books. I'm a big fan. And my son loves his music. He has all his albums.'
Bob comes in looking a little wet and bedraggled, his face crevassed by lines of worry.
'Barbara ok?' I ask.
'Yeah, she's fine. She sent me down here.Told me I needed a bit of new company for a while.'
'But you didn't want to come, did you?'
'Don't like to leave her on her own.'
'She wouldn't have pushed you out the door if she didn't feel ok. Relax for a while. Have a break.'
I push a glass of red wine into his hand and tell him to sit down.
'Dinner's ready. It's going to be an early night.'
During dinner, Stewart is solicitous and polite. Bob is quiet and withdrawn. Kinky is in full flight and debates Adrienne furiously about religion, morality and everyday values. She is in her element.
'So is there life after death?' Kinky asks at one point, his black eyes suddenly hard and flat. Stewart and I know he is baiting Adrienne and I take a breath to leap to save her. But she is quick.
'How many people do you know who have returned from death to tell us what to expect?' she asks.
'None,' Kinky responds.
'So what good does it do to wonder about something we can never know?'
Bob puts his knife and fork together and pushes his chair back from the table. 'Thanks for dinner. I'll head home if you don't mind.'
Bloody insensitive Kinky, I think. Then I realise he probably doesn't know Barbara is dying. I jump up to see Bob to the door.
He turns to Adrienne. 'See you tomorrow. Barbara's really looking forward to meeting you.'
When I open the door, two scruffy wet puppies quivering with happiness dash inside, leaving muddy paw prints all over the floor. They're panting with exhaustion. I dry them off with a towel, check for ticks, and plonk them on their own bed. They stink of wet wool.
Stewart and Kinky get up to leave and by 9.30 pm Adrienne is asleep and the puppies have fallen into an exhausted coma. I lie awake for a long time, listening to Adrienne's breathing.
I've been thinking about studying Buddhism for a while, and Sophia has told me about beginners' classes held every November in Katmandu. I ask myself, that night in early spring, why I want to learn the philosophy. What is my motive? Is it to find a way to become a better person? Is it to find a way to lead a more harmonious life? Or is it because I hope God will grant me a longer life if He sees I am making an effort to be a more compassionate human being? Was I silently bartering for a future with my very nebulous idea of a bigger power? Was self-interested gain the motive or was I really looking for enligh
tenment?
Without too much mental prodding I realise my motives are unclear. I decide to delay making a decision until I am sure that I am not searching for some kind of quid pro quo from God.
Adrienne and I make our way to Tarrangaua around eleven the next morning. Adrienne moves slowly but firmly, never stumbling.
The sky is blue and the bay even bluer. It is high tide and there's just enough swell to send corkscrews of light shimmering from one shore to the other. Everything smells new and fresh after the rain and the earth underfoot is soft. The shrieks of cockatoos rend the air like the grand finale of a bad rock band, and the stairway to Tarrangaua is slippery and damp. When I try to hold her arm, though, Adrienne smiles and pulls away.
'I'm quite all right, dear. Quite all right.'
Halfway up the stairs, the cockatoos go berserk, flapping around a towering spotted gum like an army of mad archangels.
'There's a goanna trying to get up the tree,' I tell Adrienne,'and the birds aren't happy about it.'
'Probably a nest somewhere,' she replies.
The goanna, its black and pale green body blending neatly into the colours of the tree trunk, whips its tail back and forth but it's no match for the frenzied cockatoos that swoop on it in an almost military attack. One, two, three . . . there are eight of them and they each dive-bomb the giant lizard until – defeated – it climbs down the tree to the ground. The birds fall silent. Hunched on branches like white-robed, black-eyed guards, they watch the goanna lumber into the scrub.
The sudden stillness is eerie. The cockatoos' heads are all turned in the direction the goanna has taken, each bright yellow crest clenched in a tight curl like a question mark. Not even the normally irrepressible noisy miners make a sound. Adrienne and I stand, waiting, although we have no idea what for. After a few minutes, the cockatoos calmly fly off. The threat is over. We begin our climb to the house again.
Adrienne lifts her robes to step over a large branch fallen from a spotted gum. Her face twists sideways for a better view. She looks, for the first time, like someone with a disability.
At the top of the winding stairway, where the workshed looms, Adrienne stands still. I don't know what she sees or how clearly, but I will never forget the rapture on her face that morning.