by Janene Wood
It was a noise that woke her, she realised. Not the sound of her mother’s exhausted snoring in the folding bed beside her, nor the familiar creaks and groans of the old house as the timbers contracted in the cool night air. It was something outside. Without deliberate thought, Heather pushed back the covers and dropped her feet over the side of the bed. It was only a couple of steps to the window seat, but she felt the energy drain from her body like sand through her fingers. Still, she was pleased to have done something for herself. For so long, she had done nothing but what she was told: sit up, lie down, breathe in, breath out, eat this, drink that. Until finally, as the tumour grew to the size of a golf ball, she had trouble doing even the smallest thing for herself. She was now reliant on others to wash her, feed her, even clean her after going to the toilet. The small part of her that was still Heather was quietly humiliated.
Sitting on the padded window seat, feeling the breeze on her face, Heather realised she had forgotten how much she loved the stillness of the night. There was a quiet joy in being the only person in the world awake to experience it. At least that’s what it always used to feel like.
Pushing the flimsy curtain aside, she took a breath of life-giving air. It was an amalgam of so many things: the scent of Nona's roses on the trellis outside her window; the freshly mown lawn, cut in anticipation of the family’s safe arrival home; old manure from her mother's empty chicken coop; the faint trace of brine, borne in on the breeze from the distant ocean. It was the best smell in the world. The smell of home and family and everything that was good in life. And she knew, deep down, in the dark place where she hid her secret fears and shameful thoughts, this was the last time she would ever smell it. She had grown used to the idea of dying, but tonight, it was unutterably sad that she would never again get to inhale the most beautiful of scents.
Heather’s eyes overflowed with tears; she could feel the tumour stirring. It wouldn’t be long now.
The weight of something pressing down on her brought her back to semi-consciousness. Her eyes fluttered briefly, but then closed again of their own volition. The weight shifted, but it wasn’t unpleasant, not compared to the pain. She was impatient for the sensation of foggy nothingness to envelope her once more.
Something smooth and warm was pressed into her hand and she explored it with her finger-tips, glad to have something to distract her from the pain. Yes, she recognised it now; it was almost like an extension of her own body. She clutched it tightly, aware exactly how precious it was, and knowing she couldn't afford to let it go.
A little while later, she passed out again.
Rosa Colacino awoke a little after dawn and for the briefest second felt adrift in an unfamiliar world. The sun was warm on her face, but she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember where she was. Yet the most terrible feeling of dread tugged at her mind, and as soon as she opened her eyes, it all came flooding back in an overwhelming wave of despair.
Grief was her constant companion these days, as familiar to her as Heather’s sweet face. How was she supposed to make it through even a single day without her little girl? Tears, never far away these days, began to well in her eyes. No! she chastised herself, no tears today. It was Christmas and her baby deserved at least the illusion of happiness.
A smile fixed on her face, she awkwardly raised herself from the narrow folding cot that had been slotted in beside Heather’s bed. Heather had been surprisingly quiet last night. Lately, she was so restless, it was a wonder she got any sleep at all. Unless, thought Rosa in sudden panic, there was a reason for her silence.
Steeling herself for the worst, her eyes drifted toward the bed.
It was empty. Oh God, Heather’s bed was empty!
What did that mean? Rosa's mind worked frantically to find some explanation for this phenomenon, but she could think of none.
“Joseph! Lucy!” she cried, flinging open the bedroom door and running into the hallway. Shouting hysterically for her husband and eldest daughter, Rosa threw open the door across the hall, then checked each and every upstairs bedroom, bathroom and closet, waking the entire household in the process.
Joseph stood tousle-haired and confused in the hallway, trying to determine what the commotion was all about. “Calm down Rosie and tell me what happened.”
“Heather’s gone!” she cried, anxiously wringing her hands.
Joe’s tanned face turned the colour of curdled milk. “That’s impossible. She can’t even walk to the bathroom by herself.”
“Have you checked downstairs?” asked Lucy calmly, emerging from her childhood bedroom in a long, pink nightdress. She absently caressed her belly, round and heavy with child.
Rosa pursed her lips and turned wordlessly toward the stairs. Lucy and Joseph followed closely, leaving confusion in their wake.
“The back door’s open, Mum,” called Lucy from the kitchen. “I’ll go and look outside.”
Stepping onto the wide, tiled verandah, Lucy squinted through the glare of the early-morning sun, looking for anything out of place. She frowned in consternation. There was a large lump of...something – she couldn’t quite make out what it was – heaped on the grass beneath Heather’s window. Also, the trellis, still abloom with white climbing roses, had come down off the wall.
The grass was cool beneath Lucy’s feet as she ran across the lawn. Despite her reason for being there, she wasn’t prepared for what she found. Her sister lay face-down, either asleep or unconscious – she prayed it wasn’t the other – on top of another body that looked like her friend Kate. They were holding hands, their fingers tightly entwined despite both girls being dead to the world.
Lucy got down awkwardly onto her hands and knees beside the oddly posed bodies and swept the hair back off her sister’s face. She felt the intake of breath and the exhalation of warm air as Heather breathed, and was immediately relieved. Asleep, she looked almost like the old Heather. Softer, less angular. Asleep, her face wasn’t contorted with pain. The dark, bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes weren’t as apparent in the soft, post-dawn light. She looked almost healthy.
“Heather!” screamed her mother, running out of the house toward them. “Help me, Lucy! We need to get her back to bed.”
“Wait, Mum! Let me go and get Dad. You can’t lift her, and I certainly can’t.” Lucy began to rise, but a thin hand grabbed hold of her wrist.
“Lucy! Wait!” croaked Heather, woken by her sister's voice. Letting go of Kate's hand, she sat up and smiled. Lucy and Rosa were stunned by the sight of her, looking so much like the old Heather. Even so, they insisted on helping her to her feet and keeping a tight hold so she didn’t fall. When it became clear their support wasn't necessary, they stared at her in confusion. Heather continued to smile at them, all trace of infirmity gone from her face. She was still as thin as a rake but the waxy, insipid cast to her skin was gone, leaving a healthy glow in its place.
“Heather?” whispered her mother. There was no relief on Rosa’s face; if anything she looked more afraid than ever, as if fearing this might be a last-minute rally before the inevitable end.
“It's okay, Mum,” beamed Heather. “The tumour's gone. Kate healed me.”
Rosa stared blankly at her grinning daughter, but Lucy immediately recognised the truth. Reaching for her sister, she hugged her tearfully.
“I don't understand,” said Rosa, shaking her head. “How...? What are you talking about, Heather?” she demanded more sternly than the situation warranted. “What you're saying is impossible!”
“It's true!” insisted Heather. “Kate has a gift! This amazing gift!”
“Sweet baby Jesus,” whispered Rosa, all colour draining from her face. “Your father and I told her to leave you in peace. We wouldn't even let her say goodbye!” Rosa's knees buckled suddenly, as the near consequences of what she had done hit her.
“Well, that explains why she resorted to climbing up the trellis,” said Heather. “I think she hurt herself when she fell. I heard her groaning from my win
dow. We should call a doctor.”
Attack from an Unexpected Quarter
December 1964
The operation to set Kate’s broken leg went well, according to Dr Franklin, who happened to be on duty in the emergency room when Kate arrived by ambulance several hours earlier. Remembering her from her previous admission several months before, he had taken the time to speak to the surgeon personally after the operation.
“It will take a while for the anaesthetic to wear off,” he told Jane, “and she’ll be in pain for a few days, but once the cast comes off in six weeks, she should be as good as new.”
Jane stroked her daughter’s blonde hair and thanked Franklin for his help. It was déjà vu, being back in the hospital, waiting for Kate to wake up. The doctor's familiar face and calm manner were reassuring, but Jane would rather be anywhere else than here, at the bedside of an injured child. On Christmas morning of all days.
Jane had always been fond of Heather, but after last night, well, she really didn’t want her children having anything to do with the Colacinos again. At least until Kate was back on her feet and the events of today were less raw. She was glad Kate managed to heal the girl, but was angry at the lengths she’d been forced to go to. Part of that anger was directed at herself, for allowing Kate so much freedom, even though she knew Kate would never have forgiven her if she had tried to stop her.
Sometimes, being a parent was the hardest job on earth.
Kate’s eyelids fluttered open at last and she smiled weakly. “I did it, Mum,” she whispered happily. “I healed her.”
“I know, baby,” Jane murmured, blinking back tears and squeezing Kate’s hand. At that moment she knew she had done the right thing by not interfering. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” They gazed serenely into each other’s eyes, sharing a moment of perfect harmony.
“You do know you broke your leg, though?” said Jane at last.
Kate groaned. “I was afraid of that. How long till I can start running again?”
“Let’s just get you walking first, before we worry about running,” laughed Jane. “And don't forget it’s Christmas, which should take the sting off having your leg in plaster.”
“Oh!” Kate’s smile died. It was immediately apparent how much it had cost her, physically, to heal her friend. Her skin was pale and lustreless and dark shadows underscored her eyes. “I’ve ruined Christmas, haven't I? I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Don’t be silly; you haven’t ruined anything,” scolded Jane gently. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever, and not just for Heather and her family. You’ve reminded everyone what’s really important, and it’s not presents or turkey or pudding. It's family and friends, and what we can do for each other. You did what you did out of love for Heather, and the fact that it's Christmas makes it even more special.”
Kate nodded thoughtfully, her frown turning to a smile. “Okay,” she said agreeably, her good mood restored. “When are we going home?”
Jane grimaced. “Sweetie, about that…”
“We’re still getting presents, right? Even though it’s not what Christmas is really all about?”
Her daughter’s childish enthusiasm made Jane smile. It was easy to forget sometimes how young she was. “Yes, there will be presents, but I’m afraid the doctors need to keep an eye on you until tomorrow.”
“No way!” exclaimed Kate. “I don't want to stay here by myself!”
“You won't be by yourself, sweetie,” her mother assured her. “I'll be right here with you. I’ll sleep on the floor if necessary. Right now, I'm going to go home and get Frank and the boys, and tomorrow when you come home, we’ll have turkey, pudding and the works. Just like always.”
Kate sighed with disappointment.
“I know that’s not what you want to hear, baby, but just try and remember why you’re here in the first place and how miserable you’d be if things hadn’t turned out the way they did.”
Kate took a moment to think about that. “You’re absolutely right, Mum,” she said at last, her lips turned up in the genuine smile of someone who knew how truly blessed she was.
Jane couldn’t hide her surprise. “Okaaay,” she said uncertainly. “That’s settled then. I’ll grab everyone and be back in an hour or so.”
It was closer to three hours later when Jane finally returned to the hospital, accompanied by Frank, Simon, Sam, Jack, and Holly, laden to overflowing with brightly wrapped gifts, flowers from the garden and carry-bags full of snacks and drinks.
It wasn’t just trying to organise everyone that had taken longer than expected. The phone hadn’t stopped ringing from the moment Jane walked in the house. Word of Kate's injury and Heather's incredible recovery had spread like wildfire, and friends, acquaintances, and even total strangers wanted to know the details of what happened at the Colacino’s. Most of them were well-meaning enquiries after Kate's health, but after the first half dozen calls, Jane couldn’t face having to repeat herself yet again, so she took the phone off the hook.
Holly turned up at the house just as they were about to leave, laden with gifts, and Jane realised that in all the confusion, she had forgotten inviting her to Christmas dinner. To everyone’s surprise, Holly was completely ignorant of Kate’s ordeal, having come straight from Cairns, where she’d spent Christmas Eve with her brother, the Bishop. For possibly the first time in her life, she was the last person in town to hear the latest gossip. It took even more time to answer all her questions, at the end of which Holly insisted on coming to the hospital.
The hospital had a definite abandoned air about it. Every patient well enough to be discharged before Christmas had been, and staff numbers were correspondingly low. The corridors were virtually deserted as Jane led the way to the children’s ward.
When they arrived outside Kate’s room, the door was closed. A heavyset man lurking in the corridor scrambled quickly to intercept Jane when she went to open it. “You can’t go in there,” he told her firmly. “She’s sleeping.”
It took a moment for Jane to recognise the man as Heather’s uncle, Umberto Colacino, whom she had never particularly liked. She had always thought he was a spineless lay-about, and wasn't surprised he had reached his late sixties without ever marrying. She certainly wasn’t going to take any nonsense from him. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “This is my daughter’s room.”
“You can't go in there,” Bert repeated belligerently.
“My daughter is in there, and I’m going to see her. Now.” Jane attempted to step around him, but he shifted sideways to prevent her. His large girth made it impossible to slip past him.
“I can’t let you go in there,” said Bert fiercely, baring his nicotine-stained teeth at her.
Frank watched this exchange with rapidly rising ill-humour. Placing his parcels on the floor, he maneuvered Jane aside, taking her place in front of Bert. Staring the older man down, his nose two inches from Bert’s red-veined, bulbous proboscis, he told him, “I suggest you move aside now, mate, or it'll be my pleasure to rearrange your face for you.” It was no idle threat; Frank was nearly thirty years younger and hadn’t let himself go to fat the way Bert had. They were of a similar height but Bert’s larger bulk was soft and flabby, while Frank was firm and muscled from playing football and chasing kids around.
Sweat beaded on Bert’s brow, but he still refused to yield. Frank growled at him between gritted teeth, “You've got three seconds to get out of my way, or I turn your face into a bowl of mashed potato.”
“Okay, okay!” Bert finally capitulated, raising his hands and moving aside. “No need to get your knickers in a knot.”
Frank gave a low growl and lashed out swiftly, landing his fist in the middle of Bert’s substantial belly. Bert emitted a strangled “Oooof!' and sagged forward, clutching his middle. Frank stepped back to allow Jane and the boys to precede him inside. “Stay away from my family,” he snarled in Bert's ear.
The reason for Bert’s intra
nsigence was clear as soon as they stepped inside the room. The lights were dimmed, the blinds were drawn and an otherworldly glow illuminated the small room from a dozen burning candles. The air was thick with sweet, cloying incense. Besides Kate, there were two other figures present. Kate lay immobile between them, sobbing softly, whether from pain or distress, it was impossible to say. Perhaps both. Her arms were held fast at her side by cloth restraints, the sort used to stop violent patients from hurting themselves or lashing out at medical personnel.
The figure on her left, dressed in a floor-length black robe, hands clutched in supplication beneath his chin, was praying aloud. His eyes were closed and he seemed oblivious to Kate's discomfort. An open Bible sat atop the trolley table, next to a small bottle of colourless liquid. Around his neck he wore the satin stole of a Catholic priest. Jane immediately recognised Father Peter from St Agatha's church.
The second person, sitting on the other side of the bed, was smaller in stature and dressed in a navy skirt and cardigan, with a headscarf knotted under her chin. Fingering a set of rosary beads and murmuring softly to herself, Nona was far away, lost in prayer.
Jane was transfixed by the bizarre scene. The boys sidled into the room after her, huddling around her in bewilderment, like a clutch of frightened chicks. Frank and Holly lingered in the hallway, keeping an eye on Bert.
Suddenly the priest raised his face skyward and began chanting. “O lord, hear our prayers! From all evil, deliver us, O Lord. Strengthen your servants, we pray, so we may do your will.” He reached for the glass bottle, removed a silver stopper and began sprinkling the contents over Kate. “I cast you out, unclean spirit,” intoned the priest, “along with every Satanic power and spectre from hell, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Begone! Stay far from this creature of God, for it is He who commands you...” The priest paused to clear his throat, and a tiny voice whimpered in the sudden silence.