by Tim Pegler
Pip is mute.
I wait, fearful that I’ve gone too far. In front of me, where the gravel path enters the scrub, a Willie Wagtail nabs unsuspecting insects.
When Pip replies, her voice is timid, tiptoeing around tears. ‘It was…it was awful and special and horrible and frustrating and, I dunno, sort of spiritual and… absolutely devastating.’
She bites her bottom lip and closes her eyes, as if returning to a darkened room in her mind.
‘When we found out about the cancer…’ Her voice trembles. ‘At first he was all gung ho and “I’m going to beat this thing.” He and Mum, they both hit the ground running, talking to cancer experts and researchers and anyone who would listen…and spending all night on the Internet looking for magic cures.
‘The initial treatment was awful. He was so sick. He couldn’t eat but he was so optimistic and positive that it seemed, I don’t know, bearable. Then we got the news it hadn’t worked and he’d have to do it all again. He turned angry, really angry. And despairing. He was like that for months.
‘And Mum, she was all stoic and standing by her man and getting shitty with us if we complained that Dad was yelling at us all the time. She was all “Leave him alone. You don’t know what he’s going through.”’
I nod, making a mental note not to whinge about a pissy little broken foot ever again.
‘But we did know. We were there too. We were there when he decided to stop the chemo and radiation and try the herbal stuff. We waved him goodbye when he went off to the hills to Cancer Camp.’ She snorts, her face red.
‘We were there when he came home all blissed out and determined to make the most of what time he had left. But while he’d made his peace with the world, he’d left Mum behind. She changed, practically overnight. She acted as though he’d given up, that he was abandoning her. That she’d been short-changed and would miss out on all the stuff he’d promised for their lives together, holidays and home renovations and everything.
‘And then he died. And we weren’t ready, none of us. I’d waited, you know, waited to say goodbye because I didn’t want to look like I was giving up on him. But the sicker he got, the more medication he needed. He slept most of the time, like he was in a coma. And I kept waiting, hoping he’d wake up and be alert and we’d know it was time to talk. I…I think I left it too late. I don’t know if he ever heard me say it: “Goodbye Dad. I love you.”’
I whisper. ‘He knew. He knew.’
Tears come like a summer hailstorm and I hold her as she rocks with each sob. A cloud nets the sun. The wind curls around the cottage, sending grass seeds tumbling along the verandah.
Pip swipes tears away with the back of her hand. ‘Do you know what the worst of it is? I mean, I miss him, every day, but that’s not it…I still feel so, so guilty. Because there were times when I felt so impatient, I couldn’t stand it. I just wanted it over. Dad’s illness—sometimes I wished it would happen quicker because I couldn’t face day after day of sickness and sadness and suffering.
‘And then Mum. After he died it was like…she acted strong and kept working and we all ran the household together, but she was just this ghost. She barely existed. She stopped yelling and laughing and smiling—and living. She barely ate anything.
‘At first I thought we had to respect her grief and everything—give her space and time. But then I got really, really over it…so fed up I wanted to scream at her, tell her I knew she missed him—we all missed him—but she was still alive and we needed her, the old Mum, back for Shaun and me…I feel so totally wrong for thinking that way. And so, so guilty.’
I hold her, swimming in her thoughts. I’d never thought of her dad’s illness being so different for each person in her family—like they all caught the same lift but ended up on different floors.
I think of Carlo’s family, Aaron’s and big Boris’s. And Phan’s—they must feel like they lost their son and brother too. Do they have good days, when they don’t so much forget as get a break from remembering? Do family members ever get back in sync again? How long does the aching absence last before the blessed, horrid numbness kicks in? When do they stop asking themselves what might have been? How many birthdays, Christmases and anniversaries rip their wounds open all over again?
I’m getting pins and needles in my arm when the Cruiser rumbles onto the driveway. Pip straightens up and rubs her eyes. ‘I’ll stow the logbook back up at the lighthouse,’ she mumbles and crunches up the path as Mum, Dad and Mel bundle out of the car.
I stretch out my arms and cup my hands at the three of them. ‘Spare a coin for an injured man?’ Mum whacks me with a newspaper. Dad chuckles and reaches over to help me up.
Mel shakes a shopping bag. ‘Barbecued chicken, fresh bread and salad. Get in here and help, slacker.’
Pip’s quiet at dinner. When the others aren’t looking, I give her shoulder a quick squeeze and see a glimmer of a smile in return.
I go to bed still thinking about what Pip’s seen, how Death entered her home and, over time, stole her father and changed her family forever.
And I think back to a day with my dad, a day when understanding and awe and terror rushed like a king tide, the first time I appreciated that life and death can pivot on as little as the direction of the wind.
Dad had been asked to photograph an old plane crash on a tiny Bass Strait island. When he asked if I’d like to come along, I figured it would be more exciting than a day at school. Exciting didn’t quite cover it…
It’s a single-engine aircraft with barely enough room for the pilot, Dad, his camera gear and me. Pressed against a wall that’s as thin as a soft drink can, I clamp my molars together as we lift off.
When we reach the island, the pilot grumbles through our headphones. ‘There’s the wreckage, just down from the cliff top. It’ll probably get a bit bump—’ The plane leaps and plummets, stealing his syllable and leaving my stomach a hundred metres behind. ‘Told ya,’ the pilot grunts. ‘No wonder they crashed. When the wind hits that cliff it goes straight up…There it is. Twin engine Cessna. Prob’ly didn’t allow fer the wind.’
Dad lifts his camera, aiming it at the shredded metal below.
‘I’ll try and hold ’er still,’ the pilot offers. The engine’s baseline drops an octave. The lone propeller spins so slowly we’ll surely fall from the sky. Come on, Dad! Take your photos and let’s get the hell out of here. Now.
I yank my gaze from the steel carcass below and stare out to sea. A tantrum of dark clouds is approaching from the south.
‘Don’t have much time,’ the pilot mutters. ‘Storm comin’.’
Moments later, Dad says he’s done and the plane swings away. My jaw aches with tension. I strangle the handgrip beside me and watch the storm race us to the mainland.
Raindrops pound the windows. Wind gusts punch the fuselage. Then, as we descend towards the aerodrome, grey smoke starts streaming from the engine bay.
‘Bloody fuel line must be leaking again, damn it.’ The pilot grimaces. ‘Bear with me, lads. We’re gunna have to switch the engine off…coast in.’
I discover religion. Ask favours of a God I’ve never called on before. Argue a case that my time can’t be up. Not yet. No way. Please.
We fall, careening towards a seam of pine trees and clipping the upper branches. Nosedive.
The runway pounces at us. I brace for impact, only to be whipped back as the pilot wrestles us skyward. We jag sideways, the ground in the wrong place. There’s a crunch and screech as the right wing carves the bitumen, showering sparks. The plane pirouettes and then slams onto the tarmac.
A fire truck hurtles across the runway.
The pilot hisses like a punctured tyre. ‘Bugger me. Better buy a lotto ticket tonight.’
IV
QX: REQUEST PERMISSION TO ANCHOR
New Year’s Eve is a total waste of time. Every. Single. Year. At Easter the chocolate compensates for any social events you have to suffer through. At Christmas, even if your family
is off the Richter Scale for paper-hat-wearing, cracker-pulling dagginess, at least you know what you’re in for. You can psych yourself up for the cousin who cries every time you get him out at cricket, the uncle who farts and falls asleep at lunch, and the unidentified salad that looks as if it’s been recycled from another event. When you yarn to your mates you talk Christmas down, as if it’s a chore. ‘We’re doing the family thing…all going to Aunty Sue’s place.’
Everyone talks up New Year’s Eve. Each year it’s going to be bigger and better than before, which, in theory, should be a shoo-in given how much the last one sucked. Seriously, it’s the one night of the year that is guaranteed to over-promise and under-deliver.
Experience tells me I shouldn’t get my hopes up but I can’t wait for tonight. The sky is clear and windless. New Year’s Eve ripples with possibility.
Mum and Dad have hit the road again, motoring off to a secret beach where they reckon there’s a chance they’ll spot a greater speckled something or other. They actually asked if I wanted to come with them. I made like I was thinking about it and replied, ‘Maybe next year.’ There’s a certain greater freckled someone I’m much more interested in spending the evening with.
This morning, after Mel convinced Mum and Dad to drop her at the farm-stay so she could bond with her favourite tour guide, I went back to bed. Well, back to sleep. No point getting up when I could be recuperating horizontally.
After a late breakfast, Pip and I took her camera gear down to the rocks to get some shots of the seals. Okay, Pip hid in the rocks and photographed while I lay on the boardwalk and snoozed some more. Now we’re back at the cottage, locked in combat over a Scrabble board, waiting for the others to cruise in.
We hear a vehicle muttering as it crests the hill. Pip stands and, in a mock-elderly voice, says, ‘Visitors. Better put the kettle on, love.’ I laugh, thinking of us as an old married couple. Right this second, I kind of dig that idea.
Turns out it’s not the bus but a dodgy-looking campervan that lurches and grinds down the gravel track to the cottages. Hiroshi shrugs apologetically from behind a bug-blasted windscreen as a beaming Mel swings from the seat and kisses me on the cheek. Wow. Mel’s had crushes before but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her bubbling like this. It’s…kind of cute.
‘Hello you,’ she says. ‘Had a good day? Rosh and I picked up stuff for a picnic but Pip and I need to get changed before we go anywhere.’ And then she skips off inside, leaving me to rub my cheek and wonder when was the last time I hugged my twin. Better put it on the To Do list, Dan.
Hiroshi and I circumnavigate the van, borrowed from his boss, who needed the minibus. It looks like it hasn’t been washed since...ever.
‘Maybe it would go faster if you weren’t carrying half the island in mud.’
Hiroshi chuckles and slaps an arm around me as we wander inside.
Buggered if I know why the girls want to dress up for New Year’s Eve. I mean, it’s just the four of us having a picnic.
Laughter leaks from the girls’ room as Hiroshi and I flop on the lounge chairs. There’s an awkward silence that jars with the festive mood. Time to make an effort, Dan. Get to know Hiroshi better. Do some detective work about him and Mel.
‘Hey Rosh…’ He looks at me as if he’s glad I spoke first but he’s apprehensive about what I might ask. Here goes nothing…
‘So were you and Mel together when she was in Tokyo? I never really asked her about the trip.’
He looks at me, an eyebrow cocked. Then he grins. ‘No. I want to. I am interested…but she is younger… my sister and her friends they don’t let me near. And my father—he wants me to concentrate on studies—no time for girlfriend. So, I was just…you know Jack Johnson music?’
I nod, surprised.
His eyes glint. ‘I was like that song with Ben Stiller… Sitting, Waiting, Wishing.’
‘So what did your dad think when you got the job as a tour guide?’
‘Aaah…he was not happy. Said, “Guide is not a job to make a career of.” He says I should go to the university instead. I told him practising my English will make me better businessman—make more opportunities. I did not tell him I needed a holiday, a break from him…It is tough for him. Expectations are very high for the first child in Japanese families. His friends tell him I have made bad choice.’
Hiroshi stares at the ceiling. ‘I feel sad for him…He wants what is best for me. We live in small apartment and he works extra hours for us to go to good school. I do well with my studies but I dream of…different things.’
Nice one Dan. Change the topic. Fast.
‘So did you know we were going to be here? Did you get in touch with Mel about meeting on the ferry?’
‘No!’ A smile spreads across his face. ‘That was… we say “umme”. Ah, how do you say it…“fate”. I was hoping, being in Australia, but when I saw her it was like…the gods are on my side.’
‘Ta dah!’ Mel sashays into the room. She’s wearing an inky-blue cocktail frock, a backless, halter-neck thing that she’s teamed with high heels. Beats me how she managed to cram formal wear in her backpack when I barely squeezed a change of jocks into mine.
Mel spins on the spot. Hiroshi gawks at her, openmouthed. He has it bad for her. I’m sort of glad for him. Sounds like he’s earned some luck.
Then Mel is at the door beckoning to Pip. She enters, treading as cautiously as a kitten and blushing. Her embroidered cotton dress is white and strapless with a flowing skirt. I take in her bare shoulders and feet and wonder if I’m gaping like Hiroshi. Pip does a self-conscious twirl on Mel’s command, sending the skirt floating up. She’s put her hair up, with some feathers beside her left ear. She looks…spectacular. Suddenly I feel underdressed, like I should have made an effort. It didn’t occur to me that I might need party clothes…
‘Hiroshi and I thought we’d drive down to the bay,’ Mel says. ‘You right to come, Dan?’
I nod. ‘Don’t think I can match you ladies for glamour but give me a sec.’
In my room I rummage through my pack for shorts, a clean T-shirt and a towel. Then I attempt to tame my hair. The trick now is to look like I haven’t bothered.
Before I lock the cottage I call out to see what we’ve forgotten. ‘Anything else you need me to grab? Shark repellent? Emergency beacon? Wet weather gear?’
Mel smiles. ‘You are such a boy scout. Dad would be soooo proud…I’ve already brought the swags, just in case. All you need to do is haul your arse on board, you great goose.’ She winks at Hiroshi and he turns the key in the ignition.
The road from the Cape climbs through dense mallee scrub. Dad reckons the first vehicle to make it to the lighthouse by land, a mail truck, didn’t find a way over the sandy, forested dunes until 1930. The keepers had been at the Cape for more than seventy years, completely dependent on supply ships.
After the second ridge we drop into a valley where the forest changes, morphing from gnarled, hunchbacked trunks to taller eucalypts with bark draped over their branches like trench coats.
Hiroshi and Mel are giggling up front, speaking Japanese. I catch Pip’s eye. ‘You look great,’ I mutter, hoping Mel doesn’t overhear. ‘Really fantastic.’
She mumbles, ‘Thanks…You too.’
With Mel and Hiroshi so clearly paired off, it’s kind of awkward for Pip and me now—like there’s pressure for us to get together too. Part of me is dead keen on the idea and hoping like anything that Pip feels the same way. Another part of me has cold feet.
A thought hovers like a mosquito, making me question whether I’m an unknowing participant in one of Mel’s cunning plans. A stooge in an elaborate set-up. Surely not. And even if it is the case, why not relax and enjoy whatever comes? I can’t, of course. Mel reaches across and puts a hand on Hiroshi’s shoulder. I grit my teeth and stare out the window at the dusky landscape.
After half an hour or so, Hiroshi turns off down a gravel track. ‘This is where we take surfers,’ he calls back to
us. ‘Good safe beach.’
‘Where are they tonight?’ Pip asks.
‘Hotel in town,’ he says, smiling. ‘Lot of dancing. Lot of drinking.’
We stop in a dusty alcove among tangled ti-tree scrub. Between the branches I spot a narrow path with steps down to the sand. On the right is a small surf beach, the moon echoing across the waves. On the left, separated from the sea by two hundred metres of white sand, is an estuary. A jetty pokes out into a serene tidal river, sequined by the moonlight. The scene is postcard perfect.
Mel and Pip each take an end of the picnic basket. Rosh lugs an esky. I grab the beach towels and drag my cast through the sand. I eye the water—I’d love a swim.
The picnic is delicious. Crusty bread. Cold chicken. Salad. Strawberries. Chocolate. Watermelon. Cider. We’ve got the beach to ourselves and I soak up the moment, musing over what the New Year might bring and where we’ll all be in twelve months’ time.
Mel and Hiroshi crash my daydreaming when they stand, stretch and announce that they’re going for a walk along the beach. Pip and I watch them go. They disappear over a dune and then there’s silence, apart from the steady wash of waves and a gull cawing in the distance.
‘I’m wondering whether, if I dug a trench from the estuary, I could make a pool where I could swim without getting this cast wet. A half-body spa sort of thing.’ I know it’s the wrong conversation and I panic. This is supposed to be a magical moment and I’m talking about digging holes. Just keep on digging, Dan, until you bury yourself completely.
Could Pip be as nervous as I am? I’m wallowing here, completely unsure if I’ve imagined there was-is-could-be anything between us. Phan would know how to handle this. Even Carlo would have said something suave. Well, something, anyway. The silence is killing me. And Pip’s not making it easy. She’s lying back, looking up at the stars. Waiting for me to…
I speak in a rush, like a tap turned on too fast. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? You and I spend the day together and it’s great. No pressure. And then we come here with those two and they disappear and it suddenly feels…different. A bit like we’ve been set up. Um, I mean I…’