Indelible Ink

by Fiona McGregor

  But she could idealise her own life as easily as the lives of others. Like her mother, she had fallen pregnant only a few months after she and Hugh got together. She was thirty and working seventy hours a week at Huston Alwick and loving every minute of it. She had presented Hugh with her decision to have an abortion as a fait accompli and though he accepted it, his grief had niggled her. On her way into the clinic, she had been surrounded by people with placards chanting, Murder, murder. She didn’t haemorrhage as she had when she was eighteen, but the procedure drained a joy from her life and marriage that took a long time to refill. To this day the sight of right-to-lifers made her tremble.

  She went into the kitchen and moved Hugh’s present, an electric hot-chocolate maker, off the counter. He came in and wrapped himself around her. ‘Why don’t we try it out?’ He was attempting to suppress his jubilation at her pregnancy, unsuccessfully.

  ‘We don’t even drink hot chocolate, Hugh.’

  ‘That’s why I got it.’

  ‘There’s no room for it.’ Blanche indicated the benchtop, crammed with a barista kit, toaster, jaffle maker, juicer, food processor and microwave. The cupboards were stuffed with gadgets for everything from stopping bottles to opening them. Blanche poured herself a glass of Evian. ‘I’m going to bed. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  The hiss of the new machine travelled up the hall, then the nauseating smell of hot milk. A few nights ago it had been the smell of white wine and peanuts tormenting her. She could hear Hugh walking down the hall, bearing a gift she would refuse. ‘I can’t do it,’ she said when he came into the bedroom.

  He put down the tray. ‘You mean this is making you sick too?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Hugh, but I can’t even handle the smell.’

  Hugh picked up the tray and made his faltering way back to the living room. She heard the television go on. An English football match. Did you hear me, Hugh? She lay there desperately thinking, I can’t do it.

  He returned half an hour later. Blanche said again, ‘I can’t do it, Hugh.’

  He lifted the covers and climbed in beside her. ‘You’re not going to have another abortion, are you, pooky? How could you even consider having a third abortion?’

  ‘Jesus, Hugh! You know how hard it was! Do you think I want to? And how can you talk about what I did when I was barely eighteen in the same breath? It’s easy for you.’

  ‘It’s not that easy. I didn’t find it easy at all!’

  ‘Stop shouting at me!’

  ‘You’re shouting at me.’

  Blanche grabbed at something. ‘We’ll have to sell Ultimo.’

  ‘No we won’t. Child endowment isn’t means-tested. And we’ll get the baby bonus.’

  ‘Hugh, I want to work.’

  ‘We’ve always said we wanted kids and you’re in your late thirties. The agency will have you back.’

  ‘The way things are now they’ll be thrilled to have an excuse for my permanent departure.’

  ‘No, they won’t. I believe in you, pooky.’ Hugh wrapped himself around her.

  She dreamt all of the usual dreams. A helpless expulsion then innocent tears over the red toilet bowl. She dreamt of a family barbecue where her baby slept peacefully in a pram, her husband was ten kilos lighter, and everybody got on. She dreamt of Hugh announcing he was leaving, taking with him all responsibility for their separation; or falling ill and she nursing him through to his demise, her loss, her grieving legitimised. But what would it really mean, death, the ultimate absence? Mothers were different. Husbands could come and go but mothers were unique, mothers were forever. The death of her mother was a wound gaping invisible beneath the path ahead. All through the night she crashed through the jungle of her uncertain future.

  The next morning Blanche made an appointment with the abortion clinic. In the afternoon she cancelled. The following day she made an appointment again.

  All week Marie concentrated on the new arrangements, organising Fatima to come more often, giving Mopoke her medication, taking her own. How unreal her life seemed. She didn’t realise until now how much one lived in the future: perusing university courses online, buying a new house, even reading the news seemed pointless. The relief at not having to house hunt was so great that Marie found herself smiling at the mere thought of it. She would not even have to do her own packing. The only household chore she retained was washing her clothes. Leon had a limited cooking repertoire — pumpkin soup, salade niçoise, steak, pesto — but Marie’s tastes had become austere, so this didn’t bother her. Susan had asked Leon to come and work in her garden and, having no income, Leon accepted.

  Walking down to the cove with a towel over her shoulders, every little step felt like a victory. She walked into the water and breast-stroked out as far as she could, knowing she wouldn’t be back here for at least a fortnight.

  She parted the cottonwool of memory and codeine to peer again at her conversation with Blanche. She was amazed she hadn’t mentioned the possibility of Blanche carrying the baby. Was she too focused on death? No, no, she wasn’t going to die, Dr Wroblewski would have more news for her today. As she stepped from the shower into her wardrobe, Marie thought of her own lost children. Her abortion would now be a teenager, her miscarriage twenty-five. Their ghosts drifted around the house, wearing her clothes, watching television, leaving dirty plates lying around.

  ‘I have your ultrasounds here.’ Dr Wroblewski went over to the wall of light boxes. He flicked the switch and her insides were illuminated in black and white. They looked eerie and somehow distant, like meteorological satellite photos. Marie could discern nothing but two large concentric shapes that she assumed were her lungs. Where in those clouds and rushing black oceans was the storm that was coming to destroy her? Dr Wroblewski used a pen to indicate her organs. Then he pointed to a spot below the lungs. ‘This is one tumour. This is another. And this patch here needs to be watched.’

  He switched off the light and bade her sit on his couch. The cool disc of stethoscope moved across her back. ‘Breathe in? Breathe out. Breathe in?’ Dr Wroblewski moved around to Marie’s side. ‘Lean back. Unbutton your shirt, please.’

  Marie obeyed. He cleared his throat, and looking up inserted the stethoscope beneath her shirt. He repeated the breathing commands then walked back to his desk.

  ‘Can I get dressed now?’ Marie asked.

  ‘Right,’ he said when she was seated opposite. ‘What we’re aiming to do is prevent this tumour from penetrating the stomach wall and reaching your pancreas.’

  ‘What will happen if it does?’

  ‘Your indigestion will worsen.’ He scribbled something on a pad. ‘I’m going to prescribe you more painkillers, stronger ones.’

  ‘Is there much point to this chemotherapy?’ Marie said to the top of his head.

  ‘It will shrink the tumours. Your heart’s sounding strong. Blood pressure’s good. I think you’ll cope fine with a course of chemo.’

  Marie grinned. ‘Well, yes, I am feeling good. I had a swim this morning. I’m eating well.’ She looked at a painting on the wall of a red fish with a spiny outline and one blue eye, signed Anna with a child’s hand. ‘Is that painting by your daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous. How old is she?’

  ‘She did that when she was seven.’

  ‘It’s very good for a seven-year-old.’

  ‘Actually, she copied it from a book.’

  Marie took the script. ‘So the chemotherapy will get rid of the tumours?’

  ‘The idea is to give you a little more time.’

  The coldness of his tone landed like a punch in her stomach. She stared at him, willing him to make eye contact. ‘How long have I got? Is it really only six months?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t plan my Christmas holidays.’ Dr Wroblewski pressed his lips together in a polite smile. ‘I wouldn’t plan any more tattoos.’

  Marie took her leave. When she turned at the door she found his grey eyes
staring at her.

  ‘This is going to be a very painful tattoo, Marie,’ Rhys said to her an hour later. ‘You’re going across ribs and lower back. And I’m going to be using a lot of needles for that colour.’

  ‘I trust you.’

  Rhys unrolled the design. The angophora was to begin on the top of Marie’s left thigh, one branch reaching up her ribs, another across her lower back. Its foliage would support the moth like a nest; on the side it brushed against the flames. The differing perspectives melded perfectly, like a Japanese woodcut, but the picture had more light, the usual spaces of Rhys’s work opening around bare skin. ‘I think I could do the outline in a couple of long sessions, maybe less.’

  While Rhys drew up a stencil, Marie pushed down her trousers, lay on the couch and looked around the room. Nothing had changed in here.

  With the first prick of needles her glands opened, releasing moisture from her armpits. She pressed her face to the pillow. The iron felt like a hot knife cutting into her flesh: it was the most extreme pain she had ever known. She asked Rhys for something to bite on. Rhys rolled a hand towel into a tight tube, and Marie clenched it between her teeth; Rhys also gave her a pillow to hold. Panic surfed high in Marie’s chest and she began to pant.

  ‘Breathe.’ Rhys paused. ‘Just breathe.’

  Marie removed the towel from between her teeth. ‘I’m cheating today. I’m on painkillers.’

  ‘That’s not like you. Are they making a difference?’

  ‘No. They’re strong ones too.’

  ‘I could have told you that.’ Rhys’s tone was disapproving. ‘It’s nerve pain I’m hitting you with.’

  ‘I need to tell you something, Rhys. I’ve got stomach cancer.’

  Rhys sent Marie a startled look and put down the iron. ‘God,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s what the painkillers are for.’

  Marie kept her eyes shut, face pressed to the pillow. She could hear the creak of Rhys’s chair.

  ‘You knew last time you were here, didn’t you.’

  ‘I’d just found out. I couldn’t speak about it.’

  ‘Fair enough. Jesus, Marie, I’m really sorry. Are you starting treatment soon?’

  ‘Chemotherapy next week.’

  ‘Is the pain bad?’

  ‘It’s getting worse.’

  ‘But it’s benign, isn’t it? That’s what the chemo —’

  ‘It’s malignant. I have six months. Five and a half now, to be exact.’ Marie looked straight ahead at Rhys’s knees, clothed by green Bermuda shorts. A fly had landed on the left one and was busily rubbing its forearms together. Marie was astonished by the clarity of her sight, and the urgency of the fly’s task. A surge of respect for the tiny insects in all their profligate industry moved through her like grief. She was surprised also at the brutal truth she was giving to Rhys: everybody else’s versions had been edited. She wanted to say all of this: the fly, the eyesight (what a waste; why couldn’t she bequest this remarkable gift to someone who would need it?), the varieties of prognosis. But she couldn’t speak.

  Rhys sprayed a paper towel with antibacterial and pressed it to Marie’s back. ‘Is there anything I can do, Marie? What can I do?’

  ‘I want you to keep tattooing me.’

  Rhys threw the towel into the bin, looking upset. ‘Do you realise how much energy you’re going through dealing with this? Don’t you want to save it to fight the pain? Do you really want to exhaust yourself getting tattooed considering the ordeal you’ll be going through in a few days?’

  ‘Please, Rhys.’

  Rhys lifted her glasses and rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. ‘Okay. But with a short cut.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only one branch. I have to stop after this session, Marie. You have to rest.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  ‘Good. I need you to turn onto your side. Further. That’s right. Are you comfortable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Looking down, Marie could see the colour travel across her flank. She watched her body move with her breath, the rise of blood and ink, the trunk feeding into branches, and all of it seemed like a miracle. ‘I can’t believe I won’t be coming here anymore.’

  ‘You can still come and visit us,’ said Rhys. ‘You’re always welcome here.’

  He remembered walking home down these shady streets, schoolbag whacking against his legs. He wore a helmet of cicadas beneath the brushbox. The blazing sound was almost unbearable, but at night when his parents began to drink and fight, Leon longed for it again. He still loved the secrecy of the cove, its steep twisting roads and fairytale names. Mistral Avenue, Kallaroo Street, Magic Grove. He remembered Blanche’s stories of her piano teacher there. She used to smack Blanche’s hands with a ruler when she made mistakes; she made her hot chocolate with water. Blanche only lasted a few months. Leon drove up the hill with the window down, looking out at the suburb. The cicadas still rang, the walls were taller and, in place of the rambling Federations or mock Tudors, every second house was new, built to the boundary with surveillance cameras and intercoms.

  He braved the heat to drive to Richmond for nursery supplies. On the plains it was ten degrees hotter than by the harbour. He bought up big, as though he were working full-time. He even dropped in on his old rose grower for Susan’s sake. One week back here and his skin was itching, his lips cracked. He was looking forward to working in Susan’s garden in spite of himself. He was completely over roses, a native purist now, but he would humour her. He didn’t care whose place he was working in; he just wanted to lose himself in earth, seed and mineral. To submit to cycles and species other than human.

  Clark and Nell were due at the house around lunchtime. On his return from Richmond, Leon felt like a stroll in the garden, so he made himself a sandwich and went outside.

  His mother must have been in denial about her health for some time — so many things had been neglected. She had become territorial and, apart from the lawn man, hadn’t hired a professional gardener in years. And yet there were changes Leon hadn’t noticed at Christmas. Clumps of kangaroo paws, and the native mint he had purloined on a camping trip to the other side of the Great Dividing Range had completely taken off. It smelt fantastic. The lilly pilly was fruiting. He plucked one and ate it, a sweet vinegar bomb frightening his mouth. He set to pruning the birds of paradise. He heard a noise. Nell was outside the rumpus room staring down at him. ‘Hallo, Nell!’

  She twisted shyly and looked up behind her at the house. Leon saw Clark at the window encouraging her to go to her uncle. ‘How are you, Nell? Come and say hallo.’

  Nell paused, then set off down the path towards him.

  ‘When did you get here?’ Leon grinned. ‘D’you just fly in on your broom, did you?’

  Nell looked up at him blankly. ‘Daddy’s upstairs. Daddy’s thirsty.’

  Leon crouched and held out his arms. ‘Do I get a hug?’

  ‘No.’ Nell rounded her mouth as though considering something, or hiding a smile.

  ‘Gee, that’s a bit tough. You’re a tough lady, Nell.’

  Nell studied him for a while, then putting both hands to her cheeks announced, ‘You’re not Leo.’

  ‘Yes, I am. I’ve grown a beard, Nell.’

  She reached out and touched his face then sprang her hand back and looked at it and laughed. Leon returned to his pruning.

  Nell watched him. ‘Leo, why you doing that? You’re not allowed.’

  He loved the way she changed his name. ‘I’m helping Mum. I’m a gardener, Nell.’

  ‘Where’s your garden, Leo?’

  ‘In Brisbane. Way up north. A long drive.’

  ‘Why aren’t you in your garden?’

  ‘Because I’m here.’

  ‘Why?’

  Her questions were like little taps on the knee, prompting reflex answers but his kicks could be dangerous. Leon wondered whether or not Nell knew her grandmother was ill. ‘I’m here
to see Mum. I’m here to help her in the garden.’

  ‘Where’s your mum and dad?’

  ‘Mum’s in town and I don’t know where Dad is.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I haven’t heard from him in years.’

  ‘Why?’

  Leon stopped his work. ‘Good question, Nell. I can’t answer that one.’

  ‘Why don’t you ring your dad, Leo?’

  ‘Cos I don’t have his number.’ Leon was surprised to feel himself smarting. He changed course. ‘You know my dad’s the same as your dad’s dad? He’s your grandad.’

  Nell stared at him and Leon immediately regretted his words: what if she started wanting to see Ross and Clark didn’t want her to see him or, worse, Ross himself didn’t want to see her. Fucken hell, one innocent conversation with a child and he was in a minefield. Nell bombarded him with more questions about his parents and he tried to explain the tracery of relations in a family, how one person was a different entity to each member, and Nell grew bored, taking her hat off, trailing it along the ground.

  ‘Put your hat on, Nellie.’

  She obeyed with alacrity. ‘I like my hat,’ she pronounced it hate. ‘Daddy had cancer.’

  Leon looked down at the warped yellow canvas of Nell’s head. ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yeh, he had cancer.’ Nell squinted upwards. ‘Here.’ She touched her temple, then pulled her hat deeper over her head. ‘Then he got it burnt off.’

  Leon cleared the dead vegetation, Nell picking up a branch behind him. He hadn’t seen her for over a year, and in that time she had transformed from a chubby toddler to a disturbingly overweight little girl with a perfect bob and the vigilant nature of her father. Leon felt angry with her parents for allowing her to overeat. All the obese kids these days, the selfish parents who treated their children like another possession, not looking after them properly but ashamed when they didn’t come up to scratch. As he walked up the path with her, Nell reached out for his hand and Leon was so touched by this easy intimacy that he couldn’t speak.