Living Voice

by Karen West

  Richard raised his hand, and within seconds the boys were seated with their earphones in and their heads bobbing.

  ‘Willow’s brother, Greg, said that you were turning into a computer geek,’ I told him, and he laughed.

  ‘Just because you’re into IT, it doesn’t mean that you’re a geek.’ He wrapped his arm around me, and held me a bit too tight.

  ‘Relax,’ I said, wriggling.

  His hold softened. ‘Are … you sure you don’t mind doing this?’

  I detected a nervous shake in his voice. I closed my eyes. ‘I’m fine. Keep me warm.’

  Dad’s risotto flashed through my mind. I woke with a jolt to see that the old couple and the boys were gone.

  I stepped off the bus and walked back into the warmth of Richard’s coat.

  ‘One more bus,’ he said, and I was regretting having not told Dad where I was going.

  When we arrived at Waverley Cemetery the gates were closed. Richard jumped over a low white fence. ‘Here,’ he said, reaching out, guiding me over.

  The air was so cold it made my chest ache. The moon was like a giant light bulb, illuminating a sea of graves and towering sculptures. A chill ran through my veins as I stared up at a marble angel. I slipped my arm through Richard’s as we made our way along a bitumen path towards the sounds of the waves smashing against the headland.

  A colony of bats flew across the sky, a backdrop for the ornate mausoleums, white-winged angels and tall white crosses.

  Richard aimed the torch on his phone to a headstone dated 1798 but kept walking before I had time to read the inscription.

  ‘Henry Lawson is buried here,’ he told me, and I felt a sense of intrigue.

  We cut across the well-lit path that read Section Seven, then Richard stopped in front of a grave that had a massive bronze sculpture of a wave. A dried bunch of gumnuts had been placed in the centre of the grave. I watched him gently snap a nut from the branch and roll it between his fingers. At the base of the wave the epitaph read:

  Michael Delaney

  2000 – 2018

  Aged 18

  A loving son and much-loved brother

  Your memory will stay forever in our hearts

  The words made me question if hearts, like minds, held memories.

  When Richard knelt beside Michael’s grave, I wanted to ask how he died, but I didn’t. I just stood there, numb and helpless, listening to his words. ‘I miss you mate … happy birthday.’

  It was midnight when we arrived home. We walked around the back of the house to the steps that led to the kitchen and heard sirens cut through the laughter from a party boat on the water below. It always surprised me how we humans were more vocal than the animals in the zoo.

  Richard reached out, placing his hands around my waist, and pulled me closer. ‘Thanks. I couldn’t have gone there tonight without you.’ He shook his head. ‘It helped seeing Michael’s grave. It was peaceful, don’t you think?’ I nodded. ‘I should have gone sooner, but …’

  I didn’t tell him that the visit to the cemetery made the possibility of losing Mum more real. ‘I’m glad you asked me,’ I said, and my voice broke.

  Richard’s eyes met mine. ‘You’re crying?’

  ‘No, I’m not, it’s cold.’ I lied.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow …’ His words trailed off as he kissed me.

  I was too restless to sleep, so I figured why waste time trying. I switched on my computer and brought up Google.

  I typed in the search bar: how many heart transplants are performed in Australia yearly? A list of organ donor links to websites came up. I clicked on the first one and started reading.

  In 2016, Australia had 20.8 donors per million people. At any one time, there are between 1,400 and 1,600 Australians waiting for an organ transplant. I slipped my thumbnail between my teeth and started gnawing at it. 503 donors gave 1,713 Australians a second chance of living a full life.

  That’s 503 hearts, right? I read on. Wrong!

  In 2016, there were 95 heart transplants. Most patients will wait between 6 months and 4 years for a heart transplant.

  I flopped on the bed and tried to comprehend that there was a chance that a compatible heart might not come in time to save my mum, but surely the doctors would prioritise. Yet how do they get it right? Maybe they don’t. There’s no real way of telling when her heart is going to stop. I screamed on the inside and sobbed outwardly.

  Chapter Eleven

  IT WAS 5 AM when I parted from the warmth of the bedcovers. I stood in the shower with my back to the water, sketching Michael’s headstone in the glass with my finger. Every movement of the bronze wave was engraved in my memory: the explosion of whitewash, the bronze, so cold, so final. Tears came, not for Richard, but for Michael.

  The taps in the kitchen controlled the water in the bathroom. The water went cold, hot and cold again. Dad’s way of telling me to get the hell out of the shower. ‘Stop doing that!’ I yelled, and remembered that Mum was sleeping. As I cut the water, I recalled switching my phone off when Janice called last night. I freaked, snatched a towel from the rail and fled to find a zillion missed calls from Dad, Libby, Willow and Richard.

  While dressing, I convinced myself that Dad would understand when I explained that my phone being off was an accident.

  I tiptoed past Mum’s bedroom and smelt menthol.

  When I entered the kitchen, Dad was at the stove stirring a pot. ‘How was your night with Libby?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  I reached into the drawer and pulled out two placemats. ‘Yeah, not bad,’ I replied, placing them on the bench.

  ‘Not bad?’ he continued. ‘Did you take your phone? Was it charged? Did you happen to check if it was switched on?’ Dad’s words were laced with sarcasm.

  ‘Why ask if you know that it was switched off?’

  Dad walked over to the bench, holding the pot by the handle. He scooped up a humongous ladle of porridge, dropped it in a bowl and slid it in front of me.

  ‘Errrk, Dad, what are you doing? You know I hate that stuff.’

  ‘I tried to call you last night. I wanted you to pick up a script for your mother from the late-night pharmacy on your way home. I had to leave her alone and do it myself.’ He moved away from the bench, placed the pot back on the stove, and faced me with his arms crossed over Mum’s apron. ‘How many times do I have to tell you how important it is to be contactable?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad, it was an accident. Is Mum sick?’

  ‘Your mother was running a temperature last night, but it’s back to normal. Where were you?’

  ‘Richard called. He asked me to go to the cemetery with him to visit his brother’s grave. He was upset!’

  I saw compassion in Dad’s eyes, and watched it fade.

  ‘Your mother is our priority. What if the hospital called your mother in for a transplant last night? What if something went wrong? Is it too much to ask that you keep your phone on?’

  Tears filled my eyes. ‘It won’t happen again, I promise.’

  Dad uncrossed his arms. ‘Do you want toast?’

  ‘No!’ I said, snatching my backpack off the floor. ‘I’ll say goodbye to Mum.’

  ‘Let her sleep,’ he ordered, sliding a lunch box across the bench towards me. I went to walk away and stopped. ‘Have you forgotten something?’

  ‘You never mentioned that there aren’t enough donors, and that Mum could miss out and die waiting.’

  ‘Why would I take you there?’

  ‘Because I’m not a kid – because you want me to take responsibility, but you keep things from me.’ Dad went to speak and changed his mind.

  ‘I’ll check on Mum before I leave, she might be awake.’ I stood in Mum’s doorway to find her curled up in a small ball. I zoomed in on the black phone on her bedside table. The coordinators of the heart transplant unit at St Vincent’s Hospital were the only ones with access to her number. I hated knowing that it might never ring.

  Mum stirred and o
pened her eyes. ‘Steph – ’.

  ‘Dad said you were sick. I didn’t receive his calls. He’s so angry.’

  ‘Your father gets anxious, but he loves you.’

  I struggled to swallow the lump of frustration that had built up in my throat. ‘I’ll try not to be too late home. Maybe we could watch a video or something.’

  ‘Sounds like a good plan.’ Her voice was weak.

  I arrived at work to find that Jo was late as usual. The smells within the stalls reminded me that I wasn’t alone, but it didn’t take away the guilt for not being there for Mum. Boris the goat rubbed his head against my thigh. I wrapped my arms around his neck and sobbed.

  Jo walked into the stall. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes and lifted the lid to the feed bins. ‘Seed, in my eye,’ I lied.

  ‘I hate seeds,’ she informed me, and moved in closer.

  I dropped my head. ‘It’s cool – I think it’s out, but thanks.’

  Jo was a constant talker, but today of all days when distraction might have taken my mind off Dad’s anger, she chose to be quiet.

  My phone rang. I reached into the side pocket of my work pants. Richard’s name was on the screen. ‘Hi,’ I whispered and turned my back to Jo.

  ‘Steph,’ he said, ‘Libby rang me. She said that your father was trying to contact you last night?’

  ‘He was, but it’s all good,’ I lied. ‘I’m going to spend a bit of time with Mum after work.’

  ‘Libby asked if we wanted to catch a movie – Willow and Grant are going too.’

  I smiled at the thought of Willow dating Grant; he was her trophy. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Bye,’ sang Jo as she closed the gate.

  I strolled along the path behind her and her boyfriend to give them space and veered off towards a group of visitors waiting for the giraffes to be fed. I heard a child squeal, and another broke into uncontrollable laughter. It was good to see that happy families still existed.

  The noisy crowd gathered around the elephants’ enclosure sent me fleeing across the road to the restaurant, where I could see Libby busily wiping tables. I tapped on the glass. She glanced up. Wait, she mouthed, and came out carrying a garbage bag in one hand and a bottle of spray in the other.

  ‘You look terrible,’ I told Libby, gazing at the black rings around her eyes.

  ‘If some dumbarse hadn’t spiked my drink at the party, I would have come over,’ she said, turning her gaze back to the restaurant. ‘Where were you? What happened? Your dad called. When he found out that you weren’t with me, he was like – so angry.’

  ‘Richard asked me to go with him to his brother’s grave. He hadn’t been back since the funeral. I couldn’t say no.’

  ‘Wow,’ she said, ‘that wouldn’t have been easy.’

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘But you should have mentioned that to your dad.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that.’

  ‘Maybe Richard’s getting too needy,’ she said, collecting rubbish off a nearby table, squirting blue soapy water and wiping it off with a cloth.

  I shrugged off her concern. ‘Libby, my mum might miss out.’

  Libby stopped wiping and stared back at me confused ‘Miss out? Miss out on what?’

  ‘I read on the internet that there’s a shortage of donors.’

  Libby rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t trust everything that you read on the internet.’

  ‘It was a government website. The stats were real.’

  ‘You have to stop obsessing,’ Libby suggested. I realised I was grinding my teeth. I had to accept that everything going down was my reality, not hers. ‘Did Richard tell you that you’re coming with us to the movies?’

  ‘Yeah, he did, but I’m not sure yet. I’m heading off home to spend time with Mum.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said, taking out her phone, checking the time. ‘I’ll be finished in an hour. Meet you at your house.’

  When I arrived home, the rooms were dark and quiet as if the house had lost its energy. I didn’t want Mum to be asleep. I made my way up the hall towards her bedroom, but found that the door was closed. I lifted my hand to knock, then changed my mind. The video could wait.

  Words filled my head as I painted: the boy is dead … dead … dead, the girl is on life support … I stood back from the canvas, questioning if the words were real or my imagination. I walked from the attic into the hall and listened for the sound of the radio in the kitchen, but the house remained quiet. I walked back to the easel, picked up my brushes and dropped them in the turps.

  I was scanning Dad’s newspaper for critical accidents when Libby and Willow walked into the attic. ‘That’s so not healthy,’ said Libby, taking hold of the paper.

  I tried to yank it from her and it ripped. ‘I don’t need your permission,’ I hissed.

  ‘Hey, you guys,’ said Willow frowning. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but you’re freaking me out.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell Willow what you’re doing?’ Libby ordered.

  ‘It’s none of her business.’

  ‘It’s sick collecting that stuff, Steph.’ Libby sighed. Willow reached for one of the clippings and started reading. ‘Steph’s been tracking dead people,’ Libby told her.

  Willow’s face twisted. ‘Steph, why?’

  ‘It’s okay for you, your mother’s not sick,’ I snapped, pulling the lid off the tin and tipping the clippings onto the mattress. My voice shook. ‘Ninety-six cuttings,’ I said, and scooped up a handful to show them. ‘Drownings, motor accidents, suicides, murders, and my mum’s still waiting for a donor.’ I slumped over the cuttings. I had gone too far, but I didn’t care.

  ‘We get it,’ said Willow, placing her hand on my back.

  ‘I’m tired,’ I told them.

  Libby glanced around the attic. ‘You spend too much time up here, Steph. You need to get out, take your mind off the waiting.’

  ‘I wish we could help,’ said Willow, and I believed her.

  ‘Really, I’m tired. Can you go? I’ll call you later.’

  ‘My mum said that warm milk helps you sleep,’ Libby suggested.

  ‘It’s also good for a hangover,’ Willow added.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll remember that if I’m ever drunk.’

  Libby was right. I was spending too much time in the attic. I packed away the clippings and headed for my bedroom. I reached for my laptop, but changed my mind, giving into the tiredness.

  An alien light hovered above a person lying motionless under a light-blue sheet. My hand shook as I peeled the sheet back, unveiling my mum. Her eyes were closed. She was dressed in a hospital gown; the ties in the front were undone. Her long auburn hair fell around her shoulders like fine strands of silk. She was wearing her favourite cherry-red lipstick. There wasn’t a doctor or nurse in sight; we were alone. Beside the bed was a blue Esky, the type that people take on picnics to the zoo. I wanted to part Mum’s gown to see if she had a new heart, but I was too afraid. I started to whimper.

  ‘Steph, it’s all right. I’m here,’ I heard, and opened my eyes to find Mum sitting on the bed beside me, gently sweeping my hair away from my face. ‘It’s only a dream.’

  I sat up. ‘Mum, I’m afraid,’ I confessed.

  Mum reached for my hand. ‘You’re trembling,’ she said, her forehead creased. ‘Afraid of what?’

  ‘I’m afraid that … I don’t want you to die.’

  ‘Oh, Steph, I’m so sorry. I hate seeing you upset because of me.’

  I couldn’t believe that Mum was apologising to me for her being sick. It wasn’t her fault. ‘I think winter makes everything darker.’

  Mum nodded, reached for the bedcovers and snuggled in beside me.

  I had no idea what Dad was preparing for lunch, but he cut a packet open with a pair of scissors and poured the contents into a pot of boiling water.

  ‘Guess what?’ said Mum, her elbows on the kitchen table holding open a page of the l
ocal newspaper. I loved the enthusiasm in her voice. I stopped my homework and Dad closed the pantry door. ‘There’s an art competition,’ she continued. ‘The first prize is five thousand dollars, money that could go towards art school, Steph.’ She held out the page for me to see the entry form. ‘It’s twenty dollars to enter, along with a photograph of your current work in progress. Take it, have a read.’

  I reached for the paper. ‘Mum, my work isn’t good enough yet.’

  ‘Aunt Cass said it is. There’s no harm in trying. There’s nothing to lose. Promise me you’ll consider entering?’

  The pressure made me cringe. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

  ‘That’s all I’m asking.’

  The pungent smell coming from the stove stole my appetite. ‘Dad, I had something to eat at the zoo for lunch, I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Suit, yourself,’ he declared. ‘You’re missing macaroni. The packet mentioned special spices and a rich cheese sauce.’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  There was a tap on the attic door. ‘It’s open,’ I called.

  Dad walked in holding a bowl with a spoon standing up in the centre. ‘The light’s good up here,’ he noted, as he placed the bowl on the table next to the easel.

  ‘Yeah, it is.’

  ‘I thought you might be hungry.’

  I took the spoon out of the bowl, reached for the palette and placed it on top, locking in the smell. ‘I’ll keep it warm for later.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he agreed, and made his way over to the chair. ‘Do you mind?’ He sat down before I had time to answer.

  I stood in front of my canvas and gave him my full attention.

  ‘I’m sorry for coming down on you this morning.’

  I shrugged. ‘Don’t be, I deserved it.’

  ‘No, you didn’t deserve it. You’re living with an unusual situation, and I just wanted to say that I’m proud of you. Going with Richard last night wouldn’t have been easy. I’m going to try to be more understanding, and I want you to come to me with any concerns. Will you do that?’