Water Under Water

by Peter Rix

  At uni, his friend Andy Mayfield had regaled them with his theory about the mathematics of balance. Was that it? Had he and Fran been too lucky? With James, their health, careers, friends? Their love? Maybe they’d used up their quota. Was it something they ate or drank? Did Fran stay on at the radio station too long? He’d seen, hadn’t he, how much pressure they put on the current-affairs research staff. Andy and he had smoked their share of dope. Was Jim reaping what had been sown back then? What about a religious explanation for their being chosen, their sins revisited? Which sins? How many were you allowed before you had to pay? Their new baby; the boy in the institution: were these children deliberate creations, sacrifices for a great but unknowable good? Or was the problem buried deeper, in their genes, the Campion veins running with ‘bad’ blood?

  If I just knew, Fran.

  She had put the day behind her, laid a hand on his knee. What would it change, Jim?

  Nothing, he said. Or everything. I’d have somewhere to start.

  They had one week to make the decision. The baby stayed at the hospital; Jumbo was true to his word. Fran stayed too, against his advice. They found her a private room; only happy births are for sharing.

  They don’t want us to dampen the spirits in the main ward, she said bitterly.

  By midweek, her room was filled with flowers.

  She tried to laugh it off. It’s amazing, Jim. For James, every man and his dog streamed in but no one sent flowers. The other mums had all these lovely bunches. This time, I’ve hardly had a visitor except for the family, but there are so many flowers I’m getting hay fever. This is more like a funeral than a birth.

  Fran’s mum had kept James at her place for the week. Holding on tight to his grandma’s hand, their older son came for his first visit to see his new baby brother.

  This is not a good idea, Jim had told Fran. Why not leave him be until we’ve decided?

  She insisted. Whatever we do, they’re brothers.

  Not yet four, but James still knew. Everybody crying, whispering. Like Fran, he checked for signs. It’s a baby, Dad. I’ve seen them at my pre-school. Mothers bring them. We have to say how beautiful they are.

  For months, they’d built up his big-brother role. I’ll look after him. I won’t drop him.

  What could they tell a three-year-old? The baby wasn’t made properly? Isn’t normal? Has some problems?

  We’re sad, little mate, because the baby will never grow up into a big strong boy like you.

  Is he sick?

  No, not exactly.

  Can I still play with him like you promised?

  I’m not sure if he’ll be strong enough.

  I’ll be gentle so I don’t break him.

  Gradually, a few more friends and family arrived. Jim read their stricken faces – pity and fear, or worse, a sickening, hollow confidence in their smiles and congratulations. After their phone call on the morning of the birth, he was sure Andy would stay away, but one evening, just as the nurses were clearing the mob for the end of visiting hours, he turned up. Jim wondered whether he was deliberately late. They gripped each other in a gasping embrace, extended long enough for both to rearrange their expressions.

  Fran scolded him. Have you been at the pub to get up the courage to visit me, Andrew Mayfield? She forgave him, though; at least he’d come. For Jim, it was more complex. In an odd way, his old friend wandering in, late, drunk, was a connection to something the past few days had threatened to tear away from them. Andy being Andy like this was so ridiculously out of place it felt normal and whole, while they and everything else around them seemed fractured.

  Compulsive rule-breaker Andy complied without protest, though, with the staff’s request for him to leave. Jim walked with him to the lifts.

  About the other morning, Jim said.

  Andy held up a hand that might have signalled either an apology or protest, but then the lift arrived, he said a quick goodbye and Jim hurried back to say goodnight to Fran.

  On the seventh day, a scruffy fellow – a bouncing ball of a man – poked his head into Fran’s colourful and fragrant room of condolence.

  Hi, you guys. I’m Martin. The Association gave me your name. We visit new parents to help them get started. You know, with information, a few useful contacts.

  You have a Down Syndrome child?

  What did Jim expect, a tattoo?

  Martin plonked himself on the end of Fran’s bed like he was just another visitor to a happy maternity room.

  Our Michelle is seven. I brought a few snapshots.

  They gathered around the photo album. Jim didn’t want to look, like he was being set up for some practical joke. Then someone was turning the pages.

  But she’s riding a bike, he said stupidly. And swimming.

  Yeah, Shelley loves the water. She’s a natural.

  Fran laughed. I can see she is.

  The sound of her laughter took them both by surprise, eyeing each other across the bed as they might on waking. The baby was brought in to Fran. Martin bent over the crib.

  Hey, your son’s a cutie. What’s his name?

  We’ve called him Tom, Fran said quietly. She turned to the new father.

  Yes, Jim confirmed it. His name is Tom.

  The next day, they took him home.

  Four

  Hey, Tom’s asleep. Wake up, Tom.

  It was his friend, Lizzie. Tom sat up quickly like you have to when someone gives you a fright. But then he remembered he was at the meeting place for the trip to Wassford.

  Sucked in, Lizzie, he said. I wasn’t asleep. Only my eyes were.

  Lizzie and his other friends thought it was so great to catch Tom out because he was the main one who did the jokes and teasing. All the group knew that. They tried to tease him back, but then he said one of his special things and they couldn’t tell if he was teased or not teased.

  It was hard not to fall asleep – his mum said it was because he sat up half the night with his collections. Being early could make him fall asleep. Long train rides too. He might fall asleep in the van this time. The friends would all laugh then, even if he said one of his special things.

  Tom watched Lizzie’s mother unload a backpack from her car and put it beside Tom’s bags. She was different from the other parents. She looked at all of Tom’s bags and said, Goodness, Tom. You don’t travel light, do you?

  It’s my stuff. He grabbed his supermarket bag. Do you want to see my train-ticket collection, Lizzie?

  Yeah, sure.

  I think you may have already shown Lizzie your tickets, Lizzie’s mother said. Remember when you came to our place for the barbecue?

  Lizzie’s mum put her hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. For a whole hour, she said, but she didn’t say it to Lizzie, or to Tom. Maybe her words came out of her mouth even when they were meant to stay in her brain. Maybe she was worried that Lizzie would be bored looking at the tickets. That’s what Tom’s brother said all the time at home: boring, boring. Then he’d stick a finger down his throat to make the noise. Agghh.

  I’ve got more tickets now, Lizzie, Tom said.

  He’s got more now, Mum. I like it when Tom shows me his collections.

  She likes it, Tom said.

  He handed the first train ticket to Lizzie, who looked at the front and the back, like she always did, then put the ticket in her lap. Lizzie’s mum watched Lizzie looking at the tickets. Even though it was a hot day, Lizzie still wore jeans because of her leg. Hey, and Tom saw she was wearing the Backstreet Boys T-shirt he gave her for her birthday last year ago. When Lizzie wore her uniform for the supermarket where she worked, she looked important, but Tom liked her better in these clothes. Lizzie’s hair looked cool in a ponytail. Not sexy like Virginia, but friendly, like a proper teenager on TV. When Lizzie took each ticket, her head did a little nod – Tom loved that – and then her ponytail swung from side to side. Sometimes, Lizzie’s mouth stayed open even when she wasn’t talking to anyone, but when she looked at Tom’s collection she ke
pt it shut tight because she had to concentrate on the tickets.

  Lizzie’s mother smiled at the swinging ponytail, then she looked away. You couldn’t tell if she was worried or not worried. Lizzie’s mother was brittle – Tom’s mum had said it, so it wasn’t rude. Tom’s mum said that Lizzie was different from the rest of the group and that was why it was hard for her mother. Lizzie fell out of the tree in her front garden when she was fourteen. Now she was seventeen. Her eighteenth party was next.

  One day when they were visiting at Lizzie’s house, Lizzie’s mother told Tom’s mum, Lizzie loves being with Tom and the group, but it’s easier at home somehow, with just the family.

  Mums think you’re not listening. She had her worried look and she was crying. Do you have that moment in the morning, she asked Tom’s mum, that one little moment just before you remember?

  That was the day Lizzie showed Tom where she broke the branches and the ones that didn’t break.

  Is that your blood and guts on the branch?

  No, it’s just sap.

  Lizzie told him that it was a very hot day when she fell, which was why their neighbour was sunbaking with no clothes on. Her mum had called her in to lunch, twice, and then she’d stood underneath the tree and yelled at Lizzie to come down this very minute. Lizzie came down this very minute, but she didn’t climb down; she fell down instead.

  Why didn’t your mum catch you? Tom asked.

  I don’t know, Lizzie said.

  Then Tom climbed up to see if he could see Lizzie’s neighbour sunbaking by the pool with no clothes on, but Lizzie’s mum screamed, so he came down. It’s rude to look at people – he didn’t need his mum to tell him over and over.

  If you fall out of the tree again, Lizzie, Tom said when he and his mum were leaving, just let me know so I can catch you.

  Thank you, Tom, Lizzie said.

  The next car arrived at the meeting place. Lizzie stood up, resting on Tom’s shoulder to help herself, because only one side of her body worked well. Tom’s mum said you always have to look on the bright side, and Lizzie’s one half of a working body was better than his friend Karen’s body, which didn’t even work at all. The tickets spilt out onto the grass when Lizzie stood up. Her brain must have been on the side that hit the tree because it didn’t work well either. Karen’s brain worked really well, but people didn’t even know because of her body that didn’t work at all and the wheelchair and the not talking.

  I’ll look at the rest later, Tom, Lizzie said.

  You can look at them in the van.

  Tom liked showing his collections to Lizzie. He liked showing them to his dad and Virginia even better, but they hardly ever let him so it was always special with them. Tom took the one-way ticket from his pocket and put it in the supermarket bag with the rest. He watched Lizzie do her funny walk up to the car. Virginia was already out of the car.

  Hi, Virginia, Lizzie said. Is that your brother driving the car?

  Mum said he could have the car to go surfing if he dropped me at the meeting place first, Virginia told her.

  Lizzie reached through the open window and shook hands. Hello, I’m Lizzie. I used to be Elizabeth, but after I fell out of the tree I became Lizzie.

  Lizzie! Lizzie’s mother said it loudly, and she had her worried look again. Then Lizzie’s mother said, Don’t you look pretty, Virginia? That’s a lovely dress.

  It has puffed sleeves, Virginia said. I like puffed best.

  It’s very nice, dear. I wish I could get Lizzie into dresses. She used to love pretty clothes.

  Lizzie just said, Yuk.

  It gave Tom a funny feeling when Virginia held out her arms to show, and that was because it made her tits go up and then down and he wanted to reach out and touch them. It was no good having funny feelings in your stomach about puffed sleeves and tits, so Tom called out, Hey, it’s my favourite Down Syndrome. Take my advice, Virginia. We’re going camping on a river, not to a disco.

  That’s not very complimentary, Tom, said Lizzie’s mother. Just ignore him, Virginia.

  Sucked in, Tom said.

  Virginia poked her tongue at him – cool. I always ignore Tom when he teases, she said.

  Tom’s mum said opposites attract and Virginia was a princess and he was just a lair.

  One day Lizzie’s mother was watching the group play basketball and she asked the group leader Kaylee about Tom and Virginia.

  Virginia’s much more like Downs kids are supposed to be, isn’t she? Lizzie’s mother said. You know, quiet, easy to manage. Do you think Tom’s just got a touch of it?

  Like a weaker strain of flu? Kaylee said. No, it doesn’t work that way. They’re different, that’s all.

  I already had the flu ages ago, Tom told Lizzie’s mother.

  Virginia drove Tom crazy.

  She’s playing hard to get, his brother said. Take my advice, Tom, you spunk. Play it cool.

  Play it cool. Yeah.

  You go too, Mum, Lizzie said, as Virginia’s brother hooned away in their mum’s car.

  I might just stay until Kaylee and Russell arrive with the van, Lizzie’s mother said. And which other group members are coming?

  Tom looked at his digital watch. Now it’s 8.46. Nine next. Amit will be here at nine. He’s always here at the time the notice says.

  Well, being on time is good, isn’t it? Lizzie’s mum asked Tom.

  Tom laughed before his brain remembered about not teasing. Yes, Amit will be here at nine. He doesn’t like to be early and he doesn’t like to be late. He only likes to be on time.

  Then his brain had a thought. I hope Newton is on time. Otherwise, Amit will have to wait. He might go crazy.

  Amit would be on time because he couldn’t help it; that’s what Tom’s mum said. Amit’s family couldn’t help it either. They had to be on time too. Amit had to do everything on time – go to sleep, wake up, play his Abba CD on his Discman, watch TV, everything. You’re better than a watch, Amit, Tom’s dad said one day when he did the pick-up from the meeting place. Then he said to Tom’s mum, Down Syndrome is hard, but autism must be a nightmare.

  Amit’s mum had a great story about Amit. Even Amit liked the story. When he was eight, his mother drove him in her car to an appointment with a doctor. To get to the appointment, his mum drove them along the Pacific Highway. When they came back home, his father asked, How was the appointment? Amit didn’t say about that; he just told his dad the names of all the streets they passed. More than thirty streets! Amit’s mum laughed when she told the story. Amit said all the streets in the right order, too.

  Another night, Tom’s dad did the pick-up for Tom and Amit from the meeting place and took a wrong turn in his car and got lost.

  I live at number fifty-three, number fifty-three, Amit told him from the back seat.

  Tom’s dad said, Calm down, Amit. We’re just taking a short cut.

  Amit didn’t calm down; he went crazy instead. I don’t like short cuts. No short cuts. Number fifty-three, number fifty-three, number fifty-three.

  Amit didn’t like that story. When Tom and his dad got home from dropping Amit at number fifty-three, his dad did ranting and raving until his mum said, Do you remember the first time we were in Europe and you needed to check every five minutes that someone hadn’t got your wallet? We were petrified of losing our passports, couldn’t understand a word anybody said and didn’t even know we were on the wrong train until we woke up with the sun on the wrong side. That’s how it is for Amit, but a hundred times worse. Tom and the others, too. They try to get it right, just like you did, but they’re in a foreign country, Jim. It’s like they don’t speak the language, and they don’t have the right currency in their wallets either.

  Tom’s dad didn’t say anything then; he went into his study to do work.

  Newton wasn’t late to the meeting place. The group leaders, Russell and Kaylee, arrived with the seven-seater van at 8.56 on Tom’s watch, and Newton’s father drove in behind them, said hello to everyone and took N
ewton’s backpack from the boot. Newton stayed in the car. He always did stuff like that. Lizzie’s mother waved to him through the car window. She hadn’t learnt about Newton. Not properly. Newton’s father opened the car door.

  Hop out of the car now, Newton.

  Newton said, Yes, I’ll hop out of the car now.

  Newton talked better than anyone else in the group – such a lovely, cultured voice, Tom’s mum said – as if his brain could really think about things like getting out of the car. But it couldn’t, even though Newton was four years older than Tom and Newton’s dad was a maths teacher at uni. Newton stood beside his father’s car and watched the others load their gear onto the van.

  How are you, Newton? Are you looking forward to the river trip? Lizzie’s mother asked him. Adults were always fooled by Newton. Sometimes, adults talked for minutes or hours like he was a case manager or someone’s big brother. Newton was tall, and all of his body worked, and he always wore nice clothes. He used good manners too.

  I’m very well, thank you, Newton said. I’m looking forward to the river trip.

  Lizzie’s mother said, I understand the river levels are a little low for rafting, but hopefully there will be enough water for you.

  Newton tried to make his brain do thinking, but then he just said, I don’t know about that.

  Perhaps you can wait and see, said Lizzie’s mum. Perhaps that’s wise.

  I’ll wait and see, Newton told her. I think that’s wise.

  She didn’t know anything at all about Newton.

  When the loading onto the van was finished, Newton’s dad turned him to face the van. Get into the van now, Newton.

  I’ll get into the van now, said Newton.

  He put one foot on the step then turned back to Lizzie’s mother and said, It certainly is a shame that Karen is unable to come on this trip. It would have been extremely difficult with her wheelchair. Perhaps we could have managed, but it would have been difficult.