Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  Simeon has been unbelievable, not just with the news about mum, but since New Year’s Day. He hasn’t treated me differently despite how much I must have hurt him. I admire him so much. If we had met at some other point in time, before Ethan, then I really think we might have had a chance of a good life together. That is not to be.

  People continue to come and go at our casa. Gisele left, and Ryan, Carmel, and Frances moved in. Ryan and Carmel are doctors from Canada, and Frances, from Ireland, is a nurse. We need more medical staff with the Marburg virus spreading up north. Jan is staying on a while longer until it has been contained. He is a good man, and a good friend. That will be my most treasured memory of my time here—the friendships, and Simeon.

  Journal Entry: 6 February 2005

  The Marburg outbreak is stretching everything and everyone to the limit. It is the worst outbreak in recorded history, and most of those who have died are children. It is an awful death—victims bleed from every organ and orifice in their body. Jan has just come back from Uige that has seen the worst of the outbreak. He is still quite shaken by it all—they come in, he says, covered in feces and vomit. There is no cure, other than death.

  The virus is transmitted through contact with body fluid, blood or feces, so anyone who will have contact with the patients, or the vomit or feces, must wear a disposable suit with rubber boots, double masks, and double gloves. In some places, the only suits available are the ones we have, so medical assistance has been limited to what we can offer. Jan says it takes two hours to put the suits on and even longer to take them off because of the decontamination process. It is like a sauna inside so he is suffering dehydration, and everyone has been working sixteen or more hours every day. The diarrhea and vomiting is so frequent that a lot of time is spent cleaning the patients and the beds, with the suits on.

  When they are nearing the end, the patients get very agitated and have to be restrained or they can rip the suits. Jan says they all worry, the doctors, not about death or dying, but of dying in this way.

  Apart from establishing isolation units and maintaining hospital infection controls, we have been overseeing burial practices to ensure the virus accompanies the dead and not the living. It is hard on the families, but harder for the victims—as if it is not bad enough that they die such a death, they are denied a human touch when they need it most. It makes you want to reach out and hold their hand, and look into their eyes so they can see caring before they die. Imagine facing death alone, like Ethan, in the black, cold ocean, dragged down into his grave while life still pulsed within him. I wish my hand had been in his.

  Journal Entry: 18 March 2005

  My time here is almost at an end, and I have been blessed to have this opportunity, thanks to Sister Mary Catherine’s brilliant suggestion. The people I’ve met—what can I say? They come here, giving their hearts and devotion to people they did not know, and risk their lives doing so. How can I one day inspire someone the way they have inspired me? When I find the answer to that question, I think I will have found the place where I can live, freed from the visions that haunt me, and the love that drains me.

  The Angolan people are scarred more so than me, scarred with the red-dirt stain of poverty and lost limbs. The buildings are scarred with rust and bullet holes, but there is a sign of a new life emerging. The filthy streets are being cleaned, hospitals and schools are being built, and decayed buildings restored. The city now bustles with foreign banks and investors, and trade missions—everyone looking for a piece of this country with its rich oil reserves and bountiful diamond mines. Cranes testify that progress is in fact underway, but I see no change in the shantytowns where life is stagnant, where people just want a roof, walls with windows, running water, and food. The food supplies from the World Food Program will run out next year, and then what? Imagine if there was peace on Earth, and all the money spent on armies was spent on poverty—there would be no poverty, only peace. But that is not our destiny—we are all on the fast train to Armageddon, and it passes through Utopia without stopping.

  This is a beautiful country with rainforests, waterfalls, and miles upon miles of pristine beaches. One day, it might also be a great country. I’d like to come back—perhaps I could practice law again, help the poor to own land or receive what is just, not justice—they are not the same thing.

  Saying goodbye to Simeon will be difficult. I do believe I love him in my own way, but that is all there can be. I want to lay with him again, but I won’t ask—it’s not fair to treat him this way. After tomorrow, I will be gone. It is raining again, still.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  March 2005

  AS the plane circled in anticipation of a descent, the dichotomy that was Angola and Maine became more evident: from pervasive red to contained green; from desecrated land to sanctuary; from death to life, worldliness to ignorance.

  Carl shifted in her seat as she had done for most of the arduous journey. A bloated stomach pushed at her lungs refusing to subside even though she had not eaten for nineteen hours. The swelling was normal now—the flat board that had once ruled her mid region, displaced by a permanent protrusion without the promise of a confinement to end it all. Her empathy for the malnourished children of Angola was complete in every regard.

  There was no sign of Helena when Carl stepped through the plastic floral arch into the Arrivals lounge at Maine’s domestic airport. The letter announcing her return must still be in transit, she concluded, but anxiety welled anyway as she stretched out in the back of a Black & White taxi headed for her first home.

  She tried to turn her mind away from what she had left and what lay ahead by spotting any change along the route: a house painted a new shade, a new building, tree, garden, anything. She saw nothing as the scenery scuttled by, until the cab rolled to a stop in the leaf-filled curb out front of Orchard Road. The house was un-resplendent in its disrepair.

  Carl waited for the taxi to pull away then struggled through the autumn foliage that covered the driveway. Her suitcase rocked from side to side on the cracked concrete, and shards of overgrown Paspalum slashed her ankles like barbwire. She left the suitcase on the bottom rung to the back stairs for later, when she might have more strength and enthusiasm. The back door—a mosaic of bare wood, chips of the once white undercoat, and olive paint—was wide open as usual. Carl called out from the threshold then continued despite the silence.

  She passed through the kitchen stopping at the sink to gasp at the pile of dishes coated in gravy streaks, and caked-on remainders of a meal long ago passed. Ants feasted on the Formica bench top, the brown mass frantic to consume or move the unattended sandwich. The dining room table was a dune of newspapers with no sign of a surface or tablecloth.

  “Who’s there?” Helena called out.

  “It’s me, Mum. It’s Carl.”

  “I’m in here, love, in the living room.”

  Carl walked through to their coat of many colors, the carpet that had once been Helena’s great pride, and a tribute to her fiscal genius. The bright floral satellites were thread-barren after thirty years of footprints, and the carpet no longer overpowered the room as it had done in its heyday.

  “How was work today? Where’s Ethan?” Helena asked.

  “He’s…away…” Carl began. “I thought I’d stay with you for a while, if that’s OK.”

  “Yes, of course, love. Come in, come in.”

  The magnitude of the crisis struck when Helena rose from the frayed armchair wearing a mismatched ensemble to accommodate every seasonal change. A loose, summery blouse accentuated the striped finger gloves with matching knee-high woolen socks, and a pair of stained shorts revealed the deepest wrinkling of dehydrated skin.

  Tears wanted to fall, and Carl fought to keep them controlled. She glanced at her watch, expecting to see how much time remained before the end, or where to start with its beginning, then she hugged Helena tightly hoping it conveyed the requisite apology without the need for words.

  Not know
ing what to do amidst the sea of pressing issues, Carl settled for what was immediately manageable—the extermination of the ants in the kitchen. Helena watched on as Carl defeated the army, immobilizing the mass with Baygon, then with an egg lifter, carried the bread, jam, and dead colony to the rubbish bin.

  “I couldn’t find the peanut paste,” Helena whispered and Carl thought of Matthew—he had said she was OK, no need to rush home, his touted journalistic observations flawed for clearly that was not the case. Carl finished with the kitchen, washed the dishes, and brought some semblance of order to the room that had once buzzed with extraordinary skill during the reign of Millie’s Home-baked Treats.

  Helena was next. Her hair, a once sensible, flawless bob straggled now, passing her ears for the first time with enough oil through the strands to run a car for an entire day. She could not be comfortable, Carl thought, for even at her largest, Helena had always been neat and clean with a lapse in hygiene never previously witnessed. Carl contemplated the right words to say without offending a fragile mind.

  “Mum, you need a bath,” she said.

  “I can’t remember,” Helena whispered.

  “You can’t remember? What can’t you remember? Come on, don’t cry.”

  “The bathroom…what to do.”

  “You can’t remember how to have a bath? It’s OK,” Carl said with a hug. “Come on, we’ll work this out. Let’s make a list of all the steps—you love lists, remem—”

  Carl sifted through Helena’s writing desk for paper. It was a monument to notes at all stages of completion. A bank statement was marked up with an attempted reconciliation, its numbers ridiculing a former master. Carl cursed Matthew again.

  They sat down together at the dining room table. Carl cleared enough space for the sheet of paper so Helena could write the bathroom list—the words that would guide her written by her own hand while it still worked, and before everything became an involuntary scroll.

  Carl washed Helena’s hair, twice, prepared lunch, and talked until she could do no more. She returned for her suitcase at the bottom of the back stairs, and was able to stand just long enough to shower before she collapsed onto the old foam mattress that had supported her as a child. The time had come to resume a ritual established after Ethan died—crying until her head throbbed, but this time there was no medication to tame the pain and bring about the wonderland where anything was possible once more.

  Carl woke late, not knowing where she was. She struggled to the bathroom then on to the kitchen that hummed: pans sizzled, toasters popped, and kettles whistled.

  “Sit, love, I’ve made your favorite,” Helena said as she placed a full plate of pikelets on the dining room table in front of Carl.

  Carl stared at it, too sleepy to correct the error—pikelets were William’s favorite. It was Coco Pops for Carl, cinnamon toast for Brian, and Matthew had favored vegemite, most likely because it was black like his artwork and his writing.

  “Today is a good day,” Helena said.

  Carl smiled and felt some fear dissipate. She sliced the corner from a pikelet to celebrate. “Are you keeping these for any reason?” she asked, nodding at the pile of newspapers that covered the rest of the table. “You have more newspapers than the news agency.”

  “I…I’m not sure.”

  Carl reached for the broadsheets, all folded in the same way: into halves then quarters with the crossword at the forefront, partially completed. She checked a clue, seven across—super-predator, the largest and most powerful living cat. T-O-O-T-H filled the boxes. She tested another—a civil wrong. G-O-O-D was the answer. At least the words fit, Carl thought, but a seven-year-old would have done better.

  “We should throw them out, Mum. You don’t like clutter, remem—”

  “Throw what out?”

  “The papers? We should make room on the table so we can all sit here together, especially when Matthew comes.”

  Helena crumpled into a chair—the one Walter was in when he hit the floor after Matthew’s assault. “I hate it when I can’t remember,” she cried, clasping her hands over her eyes. Carl noticed the cuts and burns to her hands, and shook her head.

  “Don’t worry, Mum. I’m here now. I’ll remember for you.”

  “I don’t want to be a burden.”

  “You could never be a burden.” The words echoed, taking Carl back to when Grandma had said the same ones, so many years ago.

  “Carla, I need to ask a favor of you.”

  “Sure, Mum, anything at all.”

  “I don’t want to live like this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want you to help me…”

  “Help you what?”

  “End it.”

  “Oh, no, Mum, I can’t do that. I’m sorry, anything else, but not that.”

  “I’m not insane, Carla. I know what’s happening to me. My mind is disappearing and I can see it going.”

  “I know, Mum, but we’ll be OK. We’ll be OK.”

  Chapter Fifty-six

  March 2005

  CARL stumbled down the hallway to collapse onto the living room sofa, her stomach distended beyond the stretch capacity of her skin. She pushed at the swelling trying to disperse it, with no success.

  “What’s the matter?” Helena asked.

  Carl lifted Ethan’s pajama shirt to reveal the source of the protrusion.

  “Are you pregnant, love?”

  “No, no, Mum, nothing like that.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Nothing to worry about. It’s just an ongoing stomach problem.”

  “You do look pregnant.”

  Carl laughed, stopped suddenly and glared at the mass remembering nights with Simeon in Luanda then foolish thoughts surrendered to the facts: the bulge had not changed its nature or dimension in weeks.

  “Can I get you some breakfast, love?”

  “No thanks, Mum, no room in here for food. Coffee would be good though.”

  Helena rushed to the kitchen, and Carl anticipated the soothing brew from her grandmother’s old coffee pot.

  “Need any help, Mum?” she called out after a while.

  Helenashe called out. She returned. “Help with what, love?”

  “You were going to make coffee?”

  “Oh, sorry, love. I forgot.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum, no urgency. Just follow the steps on the coffee-making list, one at a time.” Carl listened for the sound of the pot filling with water and the clinking of china. “Did you find the coffee list? Let me know if you get stuck.”

  Helena appeared again in the living room with the coffee-making list. “I can’t find ‘stuck’ on the list.”

  “Stuck? What’s stuck?”

  “You said to let you know about the stuck.”

  “Oh, yes, so I did. You know what? I’m feeling better. Let’s make the coffee together.”

  “Are you pregnant, love?” Helena asked, as Carl pushed her frame up from the sofa, belly first.

  “No, Mum. Just a swollen stomach, that’s all.”

  Unease had pursued Carl since that first day back when she searched through Helena’s desk for a sheet of paper to write the bathing list. While Helena dozed, Carl took a closer look.

  She found an array of final notices scattered across the surface, with some inserted into the butt section of a checkbook waiting for a check to be written. The balance on the most recent statement appeared to be the cause, a once sagacious fiscal mind taunted by sums that would not add up. Carl sorted the bills and notices, and calculated the extent of the problem as best she could. A visit to the bank became the new imperative.

  Helena did not want to go with Carl to the bank because of Mr. Chase, and took some convincing that Mr. Chase had passed on and away many years before and there were new, nice people there now.

  Carl had not yet finalized the dressing list and the oversight revealed itself, Helena appearing ready for the outing dressed like a Lilliputian in Gulliver’s clothing.
Carl suppressed a laugh. “I’ve never liked that caftan,” she said.

  “What’s a caftan?” Helena asked.

  “The dress you’re wearing. I remember Ethan asked you once if he could borrow it for the boat to use as a spinnaker. Do you remem—”

  “Ethan has a boat?”

  “He had a boat in Sydney, remem—. We went down to the marina one Christmas day and sat in the saloon area with dad and Andréa. That was a fun day for everybody.” Carl smiled. “At least Ethan thought it was.”

  “I think I can remember that,” she said. “Yeah, that was a nice day, and Matthew was there.”

  Carl sighed. “Let’s find something more flattering for you to wear. To think you tried so hard to be this thin once and now here you are.” Carl opened Helena’s wardrobe and sighed once more—another decade had passed and nothing had changed within its walls. At least sixty patterns were fashionable again, but there was no Millie now to trim the breadth of fabric for the new frame. “This afternoon we’ll sort through your clothes,” said Carl. “We’ll throw out the old stuff.” That’ll be most of it, she thought. “And organize the rest into seasons and occasions. Then we’ll go shopping for some new dresses to make you sparkle like never before.”

  “I can’t buy anything new until I’ve lost twenty pounds.”

  Carl nodded. “Yes, Mum. I remember.” Some memories would never die, tucked away beyond the tentacles of disease.

  It was a short drive on familiar ground to the main branch of the bank in the mall where Helena had held her account for decades.