No Reception

by Maisie Porter

  “Yes, Chantel, I’m lying down in my hospital bed.”

  “Okay, I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t fall over once I told you what I just saw,” Chantel says. “Do you remember when I told you earlier today, John was taking me on his collection to pick up mail from the post boxes this afternoon?”

  “Mmhhh.”

  “John and I were driving down High Street because he had to empty the mailbox in front of Timeston’s Café for the afternoon collection; it was then that I saw Zody leaning on her crutches on the side of the road.”

  My hand tightens its grip around the receiver. I know where Zody is headed – the gallery opening of my photos. I was surprised to read how quickly the opening has been organised, my pictures printed and brought to life. I thought about calling the gallery and informing them that I took the pictures they are about to exhibit.

  “John stopped the van at the collection box, and because I wanted to watch what she was doing, we sat in the van and waited. After a while, a car pulled up in front of her,” Chantel breathes into the phone. “Helena, it was Archer that stepped out of the vehicle. He put his arm around Zody and helped her into his car.”

  I press the receiver into my ear. “It couldn’t be Archer, he said he was going to work. Maybe you are mistaken, I’m sure she’d have had an Uber driver,” I say firmly.

  “It was Archer, we weren’t parked that far away, I could see him clearly,” she confirms, then adds, “I didn’t know Archer works as an Uber driver.”

  I grit my teeth, “Chantel can you come to the hospital and pick me up? I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. I will be at the front of the hospital waiting for you.”

  It sounds like Chantel has covered the receiver momentarily as I hear two muffled voices.

  “Yep sure, we will be there in twenty minutes.”

  I put down the receiver. The time is 6 pm; unfortunately, the doctor won’t be checking out patients until tomorrow morning so I’ll have to check myself out unofficially. I look down at my clothes. Earlier I had changed from the white hospital gown into my grey tracksuit pants and a green polo shirt, minus a bra because I didn’t need one in the hospital bed. I grab hold of the bag containing my other hospital clothes and sling it over my shoulder.

  Archer forgot to bring me shoes, so I am barefoot. I stand on the tips of my toes to make myself lighter; a pain shoots through my ankle. I lower myself back onto the flat of my feet. I walk past the woman who’d been bitten by a dog, through the doorway into the hallway. I can smell roast chicken and hear the clinking of cutlery. I turn left and stay close to the wall.

  The nurse working at reception lifts her head but looks at me with a disinterested expression. I want to tell her that I am running away because my husband is escorting that photography thief to my exhibition, but she answers the phone just as I’m about to speak. I push open a glass door that takes me to the lift. I summon the elevator pressing the button to go down; I have to remember not to use my wounded hand because the doctor said an infection could develop from overuse.

  I step into the lift; an unfortunate lift fitted out in mirrors. I can see myself from all angles. When a standard neat bun isn’t constraining my thick hair, it tumbles down my back in a disorderly fashion.

  The doors slide open. I blend into the array of hospital visitors and patients walking in the foyer, nobody tries to stop me from leaving the hospital.

  The crisp, fresh, air is invigorating; I haven’t been outside since I was admitted to hospital after my cataclysmic snake bite. I stand next to a no smoking sign while listening to no smoking announcements playing on the speaker. I know whose arse is going to be on fire when I get to them. I had been right from the beginning, Archer and Zody had been having an affair all along. I was going to give Archer a chance to appreciate me more and in turn I would have been a better wife. But what does he do, while his wife lays suffering in hospital? He palms his daughter off on a babysitter for the whole evening to go and party with his disabled girlfriend. I bet he didn’t even check if Marla had been picked up from day-care. I take my phone out of my bag to check if he had done his job, I imagine him getting the message from me while he is having sex with Zody in the gallery toilet.

  A postal van stops in front of me. They have arrived to collect their parcel. Promptly, Chantel opens the door and jumps out of the front seat. Her hair isn’t in the neat ponytail any longer, and her T-shirt is crinkled.

  “Hi, Helena”, John says gruffly, waving his ample hand.

  “You will need to sit in the back, there’re only two seats in the front,” Chantel says, sliding open the van’s side door. I climb up onto the back seat, which is surrounded by plastic boxes containing letters. The seat is too close to a metal rack that separates the front of the van from the back. Because I can’t stretch out my legs, I position my bare foot and bandaged leg into a box of mail, and it sinks amongst the rectangular letters.

  Chantel slams the door shut, the only available light comes through the front window screen. Once she sits back on her seat all I can see from my position behind the metal rack is two body shapes.

  “What are you going to say to Zody and Archer when you see them?” Chantel asks from her front carriage.

  “I will tell them that they can have each other, I am done,” I reply.

  “You deserve to be treated better. Everyone needs someone that treats them well,” Chantel says leaning over to John and biting him on the ear.

  “Which gallery are we taking you to?” John asks.

  “It’s the Paizale Gallery, you can take a shortcut if you drive down Spring Street then turn right onto Best Road,” I reply as John starts the engine.

  I place my bandaged hand in my lap to secure it from flapping around during what’s going to be a bumpy ride.

  My phone buzzes in my bag and I’m grateful for the distraction. I read the message from Archer. Yes he did check in with the babysitter a few times. Marla is being looked after. He hopes I am feeling well; he’s hoping I can come home tomorrow so he can spend some time with me. I shove the phone back into my bag. There’s not going to be a tomorrow.

  I have nothing engaging to look at so I rest my eyes into the box in front of me where my foot is placed. I wonder if the people receiving these letters will be able to tell that someone’s foot rested on their mail.

  My odd thoughts are interrupted by Chantel’s silly giggling; I look through the metal rack to see what has her entertained. I can see John’s hand on her knee. She’s wearing a skirt as she was that night in my room; actually I think it’s the same skirt. I lean my face closer to the rack and watch John’s hand travelling further up Chantel’s leg. I swallow and hold my breath.

  It’s what Chantel does next that stops my breath. She places her hand on John’s knee and walks her slender fingers up his thigh. Her hand is about to reach his groin. I can hear John moan, a loud moan that carries itself back to me while I sit on my single seat amongst the mail that people are expecting to receive. Stupid John leans over to thank Chantel for her crawling fingers. There is a loud snap in my brain as my head hits the metal bar, a flash of light is the last thing I see.

  Zody

  Archer stands in the corner of the spacious white gallery surrounded by photos taken by his wife. He’s positioned next to a framed print: an enlargement of a bride’s ear. He is texting on his phone. It’s wrong for me to want to put my arm around him. I watch him put his phone away and walk over to where I am standing next to a framed photo of a bride’s elbow. I am balancing on my crutches as I hold a beer bottle, my show-opening choice of beverage.

  “Hello, sir, are you interested in buying one of these outstanding artworks tonight?” I joke.

  “Nope,” he replies laughing.

  “Is everything all right, you looked very serious over there, texting in the corner?”

  “Just responding to Helena’s text, she’s checking up on me,” he says, scanning the room. “More importantly, has there been any interest in your ph
otos?” he asks.

  “Yeah, see that guy over there squished into the too-small black jeans, he wants to buy them all,” I whisper, leaning towards Archer.

  “I think he’s onto our plan, let me take Mr Tight Jeans outside for a little talk,” Archer whispers back.

  “But in all seriousness, I don’t know, Candice is taking care of all the sales enquiries, she will provide me with an update at the end of the evening,” I explain.

  “I don’t count minutes like some of us, but I’m pleased that the night will be over in one hour.” Archer winks at me. He looks questioningly at the photo of an enlarged blemish hanging behind me. “Honestly though, when I look closer at all these photos, I just can’t feel you in them, they are too ugly.”

  I take a swig of my beer. “Fair enough. The reason what you are seeing doesn’t look like my work is because the photos have been created out of all the trauma I have experienced.”

  If only this crowd of notable gallery dwellers knew the story of how these photos transpired.

  “Let me see what other people think. I have to work the room a bit if I want to make that sale. There is a platter of antipasto on the table over there; I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes for an update.” I start my journey across the gallery but turn back to give Archer a wink when his phone rings. When his eyes meet mine I see the hesitation on his face. We both know who it’s going to be.

  I’m about to take another step forward when I hear his words; I don’t take another step. “Yes, this is her husband.” There is a long silence before Archer speaks again. “I don’t understand, she was in the hospital, you are wrong, it can’t be her – has she been identified?” Archer’s voice is croaky, his face expressionless.

  “I will be there in twenty minutes,” he says, still looking at his phone.

  “Archer, is everything all right?” I ask moving, back towards him.

  “No, no it’s not.”

  “Archer,” I say grabbing his shoulder.

  “She’s dead,” he whispers.

  “Who, Archer, who is dead?” I ask, I don’t like the way I sound, but we won’t get anywhere if he’s not talking.

  “Helena, she was supposed to be in the hospital, but a while ago she left and was a passenger in a postal van with that friend of hers, I can’t remember her name, they crashed…” Archer’s voice trails off.

  “Archer, I’m so sorry.” I reach out to him.

  Was she really dead? After all she put me through, I can’t be sad. I pull myself into action mode for Archer’s sake.

  “I heard you say that you were going to be there in twenty minutes, where do you need to go? I will organise a cab for you,” I say.

  Archer nods. “I need to go to the hospital – the morgue at the hospital, to formally identify her.”

  “I’ll call for a cab,” I say.

  “Tell them it’s for two people, I want you to come with me.”

  “Archer I—” I start to say.

  “I need you to go with me,” he says firmly.

  I nod and dial for a cab. There is a tap on my shoulder. Candice stands in front of me with her protruding blue eyes blinking at me, and I remember those eyes from the wedding photos I took for her. It is hard to make those kind of eyes look good in photos.

  “Oh, Candice darling, I was just coming to see you, there has been an accident. Archer and I need to leave immediately. Please thank everyone for coming to the opening.”

  “Oh dear, an accident, I hope everyone is okay. Before you leave though, I just wanted to let you know that Mark, the gentleman over there in the tight jeans,” Candice stops to giggle. “Well, he would like to buy a few of your photos, the total sale coming to $22,000.”

  I look at Archer. He doesn’t respond.

  “Candice, that’s terrific to hear. Well done on putting this show together. Please give the buyer a discount though – the two photos for $19,500. I’ll make up the discount from my cut of the sale,” I say, not looking in Archer’s direction.

  “We don’t usually lower the price, Zody, that is a significant discount, but I can push it through for you just this once.”

  “Thanks, Candice, it has been a pleasure working with you, I hope we can organise another show soon.”

  I smile at Archer, and he smiles back.

  Thank you for reading this Crooked Cat novel. If you have enjoyed it, we and the author would be grateful for a review. Thank you.

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