Water Under Water

by Peter Rix

  Peter Rix is a teacher and writer. He lives in Sydney’s inner west with his photographer wife, Jenny, and Joanna, their daughter with Down Syndrome. Water under Water is inspired by his daughter and her friends with intellectual disabilities, their love of life, their humour and courage.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Water under Water

  ePub ISBN 9781742744407

  A Vintage book

  Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  First published by Vintage in 2011

  Copyright © Peter Rix 2011

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Rix, Peter.

  Water under water / Peter Rix.

  ISBN 978 1 86471 160 8 (pbk.)

  Father and son – Fiction.

  Families – Fiction.

  Down syndrome – Fiction.

  A823.4

  Cover image: ‘Abyss’ from 2006 © Narelle Autio, courtesy of Stills Gallery

  Cover design by Nada Backovic

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Imprint Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dedication

  Discussion points

  Random House

  One

  His first thought was, This has to be a mistake.

  He was already a bit shaky. And why not? He’d witnessed – a lifeless word for the experience – the birth of his second child. Two boys. He could see it stretching out before them. Jim Campion and his sons, the three musketeers. He’d get his new son booked into his old school first thing Monday.

  He’d come waltzing along the corridor from the delivery room – side-stepping that other young couple, the wife hobbling, the husband looking every bit a first-timer, and then there was their obstetrician, the diminutive Dr Chatfield, darting from a doorway to furtively tug at Jim’s sleeve.

  Jim held out a list of phone numbers. I’m just off to make some calls, he said cheerily.

  But Chatfield insisted. In here, he said, pointing.

  Jim squeezed past him and stopped dead. It had to be a mistake. It was such a small space. Hardly room to draw breath, as if he’d been ushered into a cupboard. A little desk, a chair, no other signs of occupation. Chatfield was close behind, pulling the door shut.

  What is this place? Jim asked him, mock wide-eyed. Is this where you give the new dads the invoice for services rendered? Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide!

  The little medico grimaced, but was it the joke or a more general disapproval?

  That had always been Jim Campion’s MO: keep the jokes coming and you can stay ahead. All through Fran’s pregnancy, he’d had Dr Chatfield’s voice off pat. Oh yes, important business, this giving birth, he’d mimicked. A very important business. Just wait till you get my bill!

  His wife, eight months and counting, had supported the great burden in her arms. You fool. Do you want me to go into premature labour?

  Good god, no. He probably charges double for express deliveries.

  He’d been at it again in the delivery room, even before the nurse lifted the baby to Fran. Hey, babe, you said it felt like a girl. This kid’s got a willy just like the other one.

  It was too early for her, he’d known it, but he couldn’t stop. Look, all the right numbers of fingers and toes, he’d said. I counted, just to make sure. First full sighting at 5.17 am. He’d written it on the back of his hand, along with the date: 8.11.80. I’ll have to check who won the sweep at the office.

  She was exhausted. He’d bent to kiss her. You’ve made another perfect one. I love you.

  Really, though, it had to be a mistake. This room that Chatfield had virtually kidnapped him into could not possibly have been on the plans. No architect with a sense of balance would have allowed it. Someone must have stuffed up, right here, at the centre of the maternity ward, just where the corridor changed direction.

  Chatfield couldn’t make eye contact. Jim looked around. If he stretched his arms, he could touch the walls on either side. A mistake, surely.

  Or a joke. He saw himself telling it at the dinner party they’d throw to celebrate the baby’s arrival. Okay, so maybe they’d built this ward from the extremities – you know, two wings, working towards the middle, like those old photos of the Harbour Bridge under construction? The bridge was a perfect fit, but perhaps here at the hospital they’d missed. Not by much – a few feet, insignificant in the overall scale of things. Not worth making a fuss over. Someone might have said, Ah, whack on a door, we’ll call it a room, make the best of it. These things happen. They’d squeezed in the tiny desk, a tiny chair … yes, of course, and a tiny doctor to keep it all in scale!

  It was all too absurd. Jim got an attack of the schoolboy giggles, which could have been why the doctor’s words came out the way they did.

  Mr Campion, I have to tell you, this baby of yours …

  Still clever Jim missed it.

  You should have seen our first one, Doc. A big, red bruiser our James when he came out. At least this kid’s neat and tidy.

  Almost missed it.

  The doctor stuck with the facts.

  Small features are a characteristic sign, Mr Campion.

  It all fell into place, later. There’d been months of Chatfield’s frowns and furrowed brows, his myopic peering at the ultrasound scan he’d ordered at seven months, his scribbled notes and mutterings: We’ll just have to wait and see.

  And for all that he’d been late for the birth. Chatfield had snuck in at the end, slipped between the nursing sisters who did his work for a fraction of his pay, made a perfunctory inspection of Fran, peered at the baby and glared at that young nursing aid. She had been out of the loop too. Oh, it’s a boy, she’d squealed, a fine boy!

  Jim was putting it together now, as if getting t
hings in the right order might make some sense of it. The baby had hardly seen the light of day and Chatfield had disappeared from the delivery room. They’d asked a nurse where he’d gone. Don’t worry, she’d told them, he’ll see you later. And the new mum and dad had been left there shaking with the power of it, left to cry and laugh like all parents who forget the millions, the tens, hundreds, thousands of millions before them, forget just how unremarkable this is and they are. There was only this new life, this baby, our miracle child.

  Yes, Chatfield must have come scurrying along the corridor to wait in this little room, door ajar, like some fidgeting, ferrety animal at the mouth of its hole, waiting for the fool who would come striding past to make the phone calls that fathers make. Full of himself.

  Sign? Sorry, Jim stammered, I don’t quite …

  Then it was a black tide racing to fill the places in his belly, arms and legs that a second before were not even there but in that instant of knowing, of not knowing, were suddenly weighed down so it took all his strength just to stay upright. The doctor’s face drifted off into the distance, features twisting and turning as if to avoid recognition, his voice oddly metallic beneath the surface.

  Jim leant back for the support of the wall. Now Chatfield’s face was in clear view. Look at him, smug little bastard, like he’d … ah – now Jim saw the truth of it: Chatfield suspected all along. And kept it from us. The little shit! Jim could be at him right now, ripping and tearing, hurling him right through the walls of that stupid room.

  No! Concentrate. This was a mistake. Had to be. He’d seen the baby, his son. He was fine, perfect. Jim’s eyes chased around the room for a way back. It would only take a minute, a simple exchange, past for present, fresh air for drowning. One minute, less, and just through this door. What about that other couple, the ones in the corridor? Find them, check this out.

  Chatfield looked suddenly old and tired. He gave the new dad the basic facts in a flat monotone, as if he were lecturing to a room of med students who’d heard it all before. Jim pushed past him.

  Mr Campion, I would like to say …

  But to be in that room a single moment longer was not possible. Besides, he knew; Fran didn’t. No one else could bring this to her. Half an hour since the birth – at least she’d had that. He hurried back to the delivery room. Fran was there with the baby, smiling.

  Jimmy, I know you were hoping for a girl after James, she told him, but this one is so, so beautiful. Easier than James, too. I feel great already. No need to look so worried, honey. Really, I’m fine.

  He came to the bed. She was overflowing with it, ecstatic; why not let her have this a little longer?

  A girl? It doesn’t matter, Fran. And then he said their first son’s name, James, and, standing before her, said it again as if there might be some redemptive power in the word itself.

  James.

  Through the window of their tiny beachside flat, the first suggestion of dawn had lent shape to the dark outside. They were wide awake in bed, jetlagged, faces almost touching. Ah, whispery, sweet secret, the cosy, coddled knowledge Fran had held to herself over the last weeks of their two years in Europe. She was pregnant, carrying their first child, James – yes, the son who would bear his name. Perfect. They’d loved their time away, but they’d been ready to come back and get on with things, as Jim had put it. He’d already lined up a good position at the same firm of financial consultants he’d joined straight from uni. And now his first child. He would start looking in the real-estate columns the very next day. Somewhere nice. Room for kids. Safe. Her hair fell onto his neck; her lips brushed his ear.

  This is a moment of our continuous present, Jimmy. I can add this now to the other.

  The what?

  Remember that time we drove out to Barrenjoey Lighthouse to watch the sun come up? You, me, Andy Mayfield and some girl. I’d only been out with you a couple of times, and there you were, knocking on my bedroom window. It was four in the morning. I was half-asleep: who does this boy think he is?

  Of course I remember, he protested. He pulled back the sheet to trace the line of her stomach. It was Andy’s idea, he said.

  As if I didn’t know that, she said, frowning. Who else?

  They slept then, right through until evening, the secret tucked in between them, safe and warm.

  Now he couldn’t hold her eyes.

  Hoping for? It doesn’t matter, Fran, he said again. I’ve been with Chatfield. There’s something I have to tell you.

  And time stood still, held its breath, froze, stopped dead. Useless words. How could he get a moment like that into words? There was no telling it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her face – one of his silly jokes? – disbelief, shock, the realisation that came irrevocably, the accused forced to read his own conviction.

  They entered shock-time. This had happened to others, of course. Much worse. It meant nothing. There was no one else, nothing else. They cried, became numb, woke and cried again. Sitting on the bed – Fran refused to be under the sheet – they wound into each other as if there might have been strength in one that was beyond two. The horror of the words pressed in like something physical: mongoloid, retarded. What was a syndrome, exactly? Fran studied the brand-new, ancient face.

  You poor sausage. You silly, silly little sausage.

  She was at her weakest; the labour, the birth, the bad news.

  Take him, Jim, please! I’m frightened I might drop him on the floor.

  He held the baby in his arms for the first time.

  First time always counts; it was one of his own father’s favourite epithets. There’d been a first time for that, too. He and his dad, fishing off the beach at dawn. His father held out the big cane rod. Young Jim shook his head.

  You do it.

  Whatever you want to do well, Jimmy, his father said quietly, you have to do for a very first time. There’s no other way.

  Young Jim hefted the rod. He knew he would never be able to make the cast.

  Now, he made a close study of the baby’s face. It had to be a mistake. So many of them in here, it must be easy to mix them up. Everyone makes mistakes. What about him? Look, he’d admit it – there’d been a complacency to his fatherhood with James. And why not? His future, their futures, were assured, underwritten by confidence, by the blue-chip certainty of everything he and Fran had, by everything they were. In this very ward three years before, baby James yelled for hours. Strong, lusty. The first-time father had brandished cigars right there in the ward. He’d be better at it this time, he promised. More careful, mature. He knew about the risks now, how you shouldn’t take these things for granted. Just give him another chance, that was all. And look at this child, see how peaceful it was in his father’s arms. None of his older brother’s birth stress on the perfectly rounded face. Just look at him, for god’s sake!

  Jimmy? Please …

  It began right then, didn’t it? The father, found wanting, held the tiny body warily – not up close, skin to skin, but out in front of him like some ceremony of unfamiliar forms. With James, those first minutes were a noisy, glorious beginning, but this awful quiet was more like a bereavement.

  Later, he passed again by the little room to call his parents, Fran’s mum. They would be awake, and waiting. He made the calls that fathers make. Different calls now, though, with silences and tears, questions he should have been able to answer. His mother cried. His father came on the phone, then left a silence as if he dared not speak.

  Life can be hard, Jimmy, but it always leaves something, he got out finally. Stay close to Fran. Good luck, son.

  Jim worked his way through the phone list. The chairman, his boss, answered on the second ring. Not a good result, Jim, he said, cutting it short. I’ve got London on the other line. Take a couple of days … I know some people. I’ll see what can be done. Then came the call to his best mate, Andy Mayfield … once best mate, not that they saw much of each other these days, but, of all the people Jim knew, Andy would be the one
with an answer, a way through this. Jim made that call, and then wished he hadn’t.

  Fran stayed with the baby. Chatfield did not reappear, but the nurses found trifling reasons to flit in and out. In whispers, they passed on to her the small pieces of information she was beginning to need, helped her to read the signs in the baby’s hands, fingers, toes, ears. See here, and here. Here too. To enter this new, foreign land she needed to learn the language. A crash course.

  Signs? How can you burden tiny, tiny things like these with signs?

  Shock gave way to understanding, and she feared the worst of herself … Take him, Jim, please …

  Would she reject the child?

  … please, please!

  In the end, she simply found no reason to hold the baby away. She cradled him just as she had James. No, not the same. With this child, she could not allow the falling away into joyful relief. In its place, a defiance flooded through her, renewing her energy as if the very fibres of her body understood that the struggle they had gone through was only the beginning. She cried bitterly, but she had already taken the child on; he was hers. She called for a cup of tea to burn away the acid in her throat. The baby’s peaceful sleep helped. She remembered James bawling his lungs out, his skin all blotchy. This one was so peaceful, with his solemn little face, like he knew too: Well, it wasn’t quite what I expected either, but here we are.

  When the nurses finally left her alone, she lifted the baby to her, drew the faint, familiar smell of him into her nostrils, lay back, closed her eyes and knew even more powerfully than with James that whatever, whoever, this child was, he had come from her, was of her: the oneness of pregnancy; the desperation of labour; the separation of birth. And now, the two of them alone in the room, she accepted the impossibility of separation. Mother and child gave themselves up to their tiny place in the cosmos, began their journey and completed it in one step. Mother and child. Fran and Tom.