“Hi son,” said Dad.
“Hi Dad, knew it would be you.”
“Getting warm isn’t it?” Pleasantries first, softening me up for the sales pitch, that’s how these call centres worked.
“Yeah, a month to Christmas eh? Where has the year gone?”
“So you’re not at work today then?”
“Yes, they called me in, but I got the home phone diverted to my desk in case you called.”
“Really?”
“Just kidding Dad, I’m at home. Have to leave in fifteen though. Got to pick up Charis.”
“How’s she going?”
“Good, good.”
“Your mother?” he asked, narrowing in.
“The usual. How’s Georgie Best after his ankle injury?”
“Eh? Oh, Jesse’s fine. He’ll be on crutches for another week or so, but no soccer for at least a month.” Gracie’s having to drive him to school.
“Didn’t you grow up near George Best’s family on the Cregagh Estate?”
“Used to dribble rings round him. Mind you he was only two at the time. Anyway, fancy bumping into you at the hospital.”
“Yeah weird.”
“And you were in seeing Bevan?” The sales pitch at last. “Is he okay?”
“Not really Dad, he’s in having chemotherapy.” Silence. “Dad?”
“He’s got cancer?”
“Leukaemia. Acute myloid leukaemia it’s called.” More silence.
“That’s serious,” he said at last, picking up on the acute bit. “When did this happen?” He sounded out of breath.
“About six or seven weeks ago, he’s on his second round.”
“What are they saying?”
“It’s a pretty aggressive form, but they got to work on it early, so he’s got a good chance of beating it. He’ll be home in a fortnight or so when his count is up again and he’s well enough.”
“How’s your mother with it?”
“Pretty much how you’d expect. Bearing up, but has her days.” I remember saying that about her whenever I’d bumped into someone at the shops just after Dad left. Since then Mum’s life seemed to be about bearing up and having her days.
“Was she there on the weekend?”
“She was Dad.” I wondered why it mattered to him so much. For twelve years he’d known where she was every weekend and he hadn’t done a thing about it. Now all of a sudden one weekend it mattered. Besides, asking about Mum made it less about Bevan and more about him.
“Bevan’s looking like you on top,” I countered.
“Losing it is he?”
“Yeah, we shaved it for him early on.”
“Do you think he would mind if I went in to see him sometime?” He’d been building up to that, I could tell.
“I’ll have to check on that one Dad. I’ll ask him.”
“Will your mother be okay with that?”
“She doesn’t need to know. We’ll make it at a time she’s not in.” I’d never meant something so much in my life. If there was a sales pitch to Dad’s call I wasn’t buying. “Look Dad I need to go. Got to pick up Charis at four-thirty. I’ll check with Bevan if it’s okay and phone you back.”
“Could you phone Sunday afternoon?”
“I’ll try.”
“It’s just that Gracie and the kids visit her mother Sunday afternoons.” It was starting to sound too much like a conspiracy.
“I’ll phone you around two.”
Thanks son. Gotta go, someone’s at the door.”
“Bye Dad.”
“Bye.” I hung up the phone with the feeling that whatever it was Dad was selling I would end up buying it whether I wanted to or not.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stuart came through the arrival gate at Perth International Airport late at night with a fancy leather suitcase, a camera-bag, and fifty-two kilos of hand luggage called Susannah. He’d been one of the last through. Charis and I had offered to pick him up because he was arriving late. For once Mum had accepted the offer, not having the energy to organise the whole family to be there for the rent-a-crowd thing.
“Where is he?” I fretted, as the families and friends thinned out. These things always start off so well, like a really good party with lots of laughing and catching up. Kids in pyjamas are running everywhere as extended family members who only get see each other at airports and funerals boast about how good business is, or moan about how the new stainless steel kitchen is taking months to get put in. But as time passes and the arrivals door churns another tired marathoner into the stadium glare the mood turns surly. The medals and kudos have been handed out long ago and the also-rans are fronting the press, making excuses about where it all started to go wrong. Meanwhile extended family members realise just why they’re so extended, and wander out for a smoke, or reduce their conversation to a grunt or disapproving “tsk-tsk” at their loved one’s stubborn refusal to come through the door.
“I love watching people meet at airports,” said Charis.
“Well you’ve had plenty of chance tonight, nearly a whole planeful.”
“He’ll turn up. Probably declaring something to Customs.”
Declaring something was Stuart’s forte, he could have done a PhD in declaring things if he wasn’t so busy with his Physics.
“Don’t be worried about it,” said Charis.
“I’m not, I’m just tired, need to get to bed.”
“I meant his visit in general. He’s mostly here to see Bevan. You’ll get on fine.”
Stuart had met Charis when he was home last Christmas. We’d only just started going out, and I could tell by the look on his face when he saw her that for once in our lives I’d bettered him. He could tell by the look in mine that I’d thought the same thing too.
“There he is,” said Charis, “And it looks like he’s picked up something at duty-free.”
“Rob. Charis,” he said, kissing Charis and doing the pat-your-brother-on-the-back thing with me, “I’d like you to meet my fiancée Susannah.”
“Well?” queried Mum on the phone the next morning. We’d dropped them off at Mum’s and stayed around long enough to for the initial shock to wear off her face. Mum had phoned me to make sure we were still coming to dinner that night.
“Stuart’s full of surprises.”
“I had to make up another bed for her in your old room.”
“I’m sure they loved that.”
“What?”
“Separate rooms. They’re living together at university you know.”
“They can do what they like at university. Under my roof it’s my rules.”
“So what do you think of her?”
“She seems nice enough. I haven’t really met her properly, they’re both still asleep.”
“She seemed to get on well with Charis. They had a good chat in the car.”
“It’d be hard not to get on well with Charis,” she said. It was Mum’s admission that she had tried not to, but had given up.
“Never thought I’d hear you say that Mum!”
“At least she treats me with respect,” she replied, as if to contrast her with the other “she”: Vicki. “Now if we can just get her to take out that eyebrow ring.”
* * *
“C’mon folks, eat up,” said Mum, putting her Enya CD on for background music.
“Enya?” laughed Stuart, “that takes me back. I remember when you got that. Drove me mad playing it”
We were in Mum heaven: Enya on, all the family around the table talking over each other, and condiments criss-crossing the table like baton changes in a drunken relay. This was the closest thing to being home that Mum could get these days. She’d been planning a trip back for the past year, but had put it off with Bevan sick.
I couldn’t remember the last time the four boys had been together for dinner and Mum stood there looking as complete as she ever could in Australia. Last year Stuart was only over for two weeks and Bevan and Vicki had gone to Europe with Vicki’s p
arents for Christmas. Now you could see the pleasure in Mum’s face as she hovered with drinks and vegetable side-dishes. “I’ve done it,” she seemed to be thinking, “I’ve actually done it. I’ve brought the four of them up, they’re still all on side with me, and here they all are tonight for me to enjoy.” Stuart might have been overseas, Bevan might have been seriously ill and with that Vicki, Chris might be jumping from one girl to the other, and I might be whatever Mum thought I might be, but the important thing for her is that we were still all talking to each other. Like the good and faithful servant in the parable Jesus tells, she had invested what she’d been left with, presented it back with interest, and was now entering into the joy of her reward.
Meanwhile, Prodigal Dad, who apart from that lousy dollar, had taken the money and run, was living with swine in a faraway country, having spent everything in licentiousness and riotous living. Mum was even financially better off than she’d been with Dad and his comfort-shopping. Perhaps she’d framed that dollar he’d left her and now, like Dorian Gray’s picture, it was mouldering away in the back of a cupboard somewhere, while her bank account grew robust and strong.
Stuart couldn’t hide the shock in his face when Bevan had walked in with his bald head and gauntness, and his eyes kept flicking between him and Chris. Chris and Bevan had been so alike; fit, built up, and brown from working outdoors. Stuart’s driven nature extended beyond his studies, but he had the white fitness of the gym that was no match for the stringy sinew of builders’ arms. Chris and Bevan had both gotten barbed-wire tattoos around their biceps one year, much to Mum’s horror. While Chris’s arms were tanned muscle--the wire straining so much when he flexed you could imagine it zinging--Bevan’s arms had withered, and now his tatt sagged like a fence on a run-down farm. Stuart’s go-get-em demeanour was shaken and even his introduction of Susannah was muted, while she, sensing her own intrusion, kept her answers short, never initiating any conversation. You could see the shock in her eyes too.
“Geez mate, you’re getting married then,” said Chris, washing down a mouthful with a well-practiced draw on his stubbie, “When’s that gonna be?”
“Not sure yet, are we Su?” She shook her head. “Sometime after I finish my PhD.”
“2015 then?”
“Before I die anyway,” laughed Stuart, unable to help himself looking at Bevan again. Vicki’s face was strained and tired, like she didn’t want to be there, and for once I could see her point. There was Stuart doing his PhD, fiancée at his side, me and Charis sitting there all cosy, while she was watching her man waste away in front of her.
“Su and Stu, it’s got a good ring to it,” said Charis, trying to keep things moving, and smiling at Susannah. She smiled back. Good old Charis.
“A bloody expensive one too by the look of it!” joked Chris, knocking back the rest of his beer. “How much did that rock set you back?” Vicki shot a glance at the platinum-set white solitaire, made even paler by Susannah’s hand, translucent white from winter and study. “When you gonna get one of those on your finger Vick?” demanded Chris, grabbing another stubbie.
“Excuse me,” said Vicki, getting up. Her voice was dangerously cracked, ready to shatter. She walked out and we could hear the bathroom door lock.
“Chris,” sighed Mum, getting up to go after her.
“What did I say?”
“Don’t mum,” said Bevan, “She’ll be better by herself.”
“She’s finding it tough?” asked Stuart. So far we hadn’t spoken much about Bevan and it was like he was hedging around the conversation to see how open we were to it.
“It’s been a rough ride for her,” said Bevan, “In and out of hospital, platelet counts, me puking up.”
“Yes, we’re all finding it tough at the moment,” said Mum, speaking for all of us. She made it sound like closure. She’d been looking forward to this evening for weeks, and wasn’t prepared to surrender it so early on. “Right, who wants cream or ice-cream with their apple pie?
* * *
When Mum said we were all finding it tough she had no idea she might be speaking for Dad too. When I’d asked Bevan if Dad could visit him I wasn’t expecting his yes.
“I can’t remember him anyway,” he’d said lying back on his bed watching the one-day game between Australia and the Windies, “It’s not like it’s going to be emotional or anything.”
“Maybe not for you,” said Charis, “But he’ll be going through some pretty heavy stuff.”
“Sorry, didn’t realise this was about him.”
“It’s about both of you,” countered Charis, and I remember wondering why she was doing the talking here and not me.
“As long as he doesn’t cry,” he countered.
“You’ve got a problem with men crying?” she asked, looking at me and smiling.
“No, it’s just that everyone who walks into this room for the first time thinks it’s their duty to cry for me. People I haven’t seen since we were growing up come in and act like I’m their best friend. It makes me puke.”
“And here we were thinking it was the chemo!”
“Funny girl!”
Bevan hadn’t seen Dad since we were growing up, but I doubted whether Dad would walk in and act like his best friend. I doubted whether he’d cry either. I’d never seen him cry, but Dad did cry when he saw Bevan. He welled up, which for Dad is the equivalent of ripping your shirt, thrashing around on the floor wailing, and rolling in dust.
Charis and I could see him at the hospital entrance as we walked from the car. He was pacing nervously among the orderlies on smoko, the single mums with screaming kids, and the assorted crazies who hang around the doors of public hospitals like lepers at the pool of Bethesda waiting for the angel to stir the waters. I felt the thump in my chest, realising in that moment that Charis had been making all the big occasions recently; first my meeting with Dad; now Dad’s meeting with Bevan. It was her circuit-breaking thing again.
“I love you very much, you know.”
“I know you do,” she said as we crossed the road, “That’s why I’m here.”
“What did we say at Dad’s door that night? ‘Here goes’?”
“Something like that.”
“Well here goes again."
“Hi son, hi Charis,” said Dad, caught between giving Charis a hug and a handshake, “Hard to find parking round here hey?”
A Christmas tree stood slumped in the hospital foyer like it had caught something, while the flower shop, gift shop, and newsagency, that had attached themselves to the place like parasites to a host, were decked out in tinsel. Otherwise it was life--and death--as usual. When it did arrive the lift smelt of used food trays and body odour. All the way up Dad was like he was going to the headmasters.
“Do I need to wear a gown and mask or something?”
“We’re going to visit him Dad, not operate on him.”
“I just thought, you know, with germs and stuff.”
“It’s an isolated ward, but as long as you wash your hands with a special lotion, you’ll be fine.”
Dad scrubbed up like he was washing off every trace of Gracie and the kids. I had the picture of him scrubbing up again on the way out: an illicit lover trying to remove lipstick from his collar in a service station rest-room.
“This way Dad,” I said as we went in, loud enough for Bevan to hear.
“Gotta go, he’s here.” He was just setting the phone down. Conspiracy was catching.
“Hi son.” Dad was a hospital-whisperer too. He sounded choked.
“Long time no see,” said Bevan casually.
“Sorry about that son.”
“No worries Dad, good to see you.” And with that, twelve years of AWOL was forgiven. No firing squad, no demotion, no dressing-down even. Later Bevan told me that because he was young when Dad left he’d never had a fully-formed picture of him. He’d had Mum’s and mine and Stu’s, and he only half-believed those anyway, so he wasn’t emotional about it. Whilst for me Dad
had jumped mid-stream, leaving me confused and rudderless, Bevan was young enough to compensate for the absence, forming new neural networks almost as natural as the old ones. Or maybe it was just a personality thing. Bevan got over stuff in a way I didn’t.
“How’s the food?” queried Dad, as if that had been the primary question churning in his mind in the days and nights leading up to the visit.
“Fine. What I can keep down of it anyway.”
“What’s the doctor saying?” asked Charis, directing the conversation.
“My white count is as low as you can get it, which is good and bad considering. I’ll be in for another week or so to get it up, but then we’ll have to see. They’ve just gotta keep hitting it. They’re talking bone marrow transplant now too.”
“The chemo not working?” Charis again. She was trying to draw Dad into the game, but he was standing stubbornly on the sidelines.
“A bit early to tell. I feel like crap, so if it’s not I’ll be pretty pissed. It’s starting to affect my nerve endings in my hands and feet.”
“All tingly?” asked Dad, finally catching the ball and running with it. Sweet relief!
“Just sensitive. The sheets feel like lead weights on my feet. My writing’s a bit of a scrawl too.”
“Good to see some things haven’t changed,” I laughed.
“This your girlfriend?” asked Dad picking up a silver-framed photo of Bevan and Vicki, all slick and dressed up at some social function. He was into the game now.
“Vicki.”
“She looks lovely, son.”
“She is lovely Dad,” said Bevan with real meaning, “She’s been a rock.” It seemed strange hearing Bevan speak that way about Vicki. It was as if he should feel the same way the rest of us felt about her.
Dad and Bevan chatted about work, and our early holidays together, which Bevan just remembered. Dad even talked about Gracie and the kids. The pair of them took centre stage, while Charis and I stood by like extras, interjecting animatedly, and working hard to make the scene realistic. Dad was the most relaxed I’d seen him and Bevan was the recipient of it. Still, it was hard to resent Bevan for that. Dad welled up again on the way out, but with a smile.
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