As I strode from the stage, I caught Stuart’s eye. He winked at me, proud and relieved. I embraced my program colleagues, including Hugh, as we stood together for our graduation group photo. Finally it was over. After a challenging eighteen months, the demands of the program would no longer keep Stuart and I apart. We returned from the graduation buoyant with the prospect of a new epoch in our relationship.
As I put my key into the lock, pushed open the apartment door and called out ‘Stu?’ instinct told me that something was wrong. All was in darkness, except for the illuminated lights of my stereo – Stuart had obviously been playing music earlier in the day.
‘Stu?’ I called again, feeling my way along the wall.
Finding the light switch, I snapped on the lounge room lamp. Nothing out of the ordinary – newspapers spread across the coffee table, my mail propped up on the mantelpiece, cushions stacked neatly next to the lounge.
But no Stuart.
My eyes fell on a trail of paper near my bookcase. My diary – recording my eighteen months of travels – lay open on the carpet. Pamphlets, notes and photos I’d collected throughout the program lay scattered about. On top of the pile, face down and unfolded, was my letter to Hugh, penned five months previously.
‘Oh my God,’ I gasped, sinking to the floor. I scanned the letter’s chaotic contents, which were never meant to be read by Hugh, let alone Stuart.
‘No, please, no,’ I whispered, hoping against hope that Stuart hadn’t seen it.
My letter to Stuart, written on the very same evening as the letter to Hugh, lay untouched in the back of my diary.
As I picked anxiously at the papers strewn around me, I noticed a small, crumpled note cast to one side. My heart sank. Angry words were scrawled across it, in Stuart’s unmistakeable handwriting:
You are now free to act on your feelings for Hugh. You are not a nice person.
I slumped on the floor, rocking with pain.
Over the following weeks, I attempted to contact Stuart repeatedly. He flatly rejected all overtures, refusing to pick up his home or mobile phone. He ignored my numerous voicemail messages. Emails were left hanging in the ether, unacknowledged and unanswered. I sent flowers and gifts, wrote letters and poems and snivelled into his answering machine.
I vacillated between abject contrition (for hurting you so profoundly, for allowing my friendship with Hugh to become so intimate, for failing you so thoroughly), desperation (but I was disturbed by the growing distance between us … surely you felt that too?), and white-hot anger (why did you open my diary, anyway?). Irrespective of the tenor of my communications, Stuart ignored them all. He was systematically erasing me from his life.
Finally, a hollow resignation settled over me.
Weeks became months. The demands of work distracted me, during daylight hours, from the emotional turmoil that consumed me at night. Over and over again I played out in my mind the evening of my graduation from the ethics program. All it takes to be unethical is to just do nothing. How smugly triumphant I’d been, even at graduation, incapable of seeing my own inconsistencies. So much for gaining deeper self-awareness during the program; only now did I realise the extent of my own guilt by omission.
It was now clear that something deep within me had been corroding our relationship for months, something bigger than distance and drought. Stuart had sensed it, long before he discovered the fateful letter. Hugh had probably detected it, too. I’d been conscious of this thing – and its constricting, suffocating power – but I’d recoiled from inspecting it closely. It smarted under scrutiny; I wasn’t brave enough to excavate it. Instead, I stepped carefully around its edges, describing it to Stuart as ‘confusion’ and ‘ambivalence’. I even believed myself as I said those words. It wasn’t until after the conflagration of the breakup, with nowhere to hide and no-one to blame, that I finally came face to face with this thing.
One night, after months of no contact with Stuart or Hugh, I sat alone in my apartment, staring out the window at the Sydney skyline. As the sky darkened, I lit a candle and focused on the flame. Suspended in a meditative calm, I slipped beyond a sense of time. Eventually I closed my eyes and sank into the refuge of hypnotic half-sleep.
Suddenly, something rose like a black vapour next to me. It billowed into the figure of a man with a hat, comprised of millions of tiny dots swirling en masse. The dots emitted a grating, metallic sound as they whirled and bumped against each other.
The swarm of dots floated towards me. Desolation gripped me as the figure spread itself across my shoulders and chest. The force of its downward pressure constricted my breathing. I knew that the spectre was attempting to enter my body, to take up permanent lodgings. Opening my eyes in panic, I lashed out wildly at the shadow.
‘Get out! Get out of me! I’ve had enough!’ I flailed at the air around me.
I fell forward onto the carpet and sobbed. It was as though an internal plug had been pulled free. Years of loss flowed from me: my father’s ongoing suffering; the misery of my mother’s grief; the repetitive self-sabotage of my personal relationships. It all cascaded out of me, a flood of sadness unleashed by the worst loss of my life to date.
My tears eventually subsided. In that moment of catharsis, the swirling black mass retreated. In its place, a small point of light emerged, hovering like a star above me. I pulled myself up from the floor and found my diary in the bookcase. I tore a new sheet from its centre and sat down at my desk. It had been six months since my separation from Stuart. I resolved to pen one final letter to him. Unlike my previous missives, the letter contained no entreaties, reasoning, apologies or explanations. Instead, it was a letter of hope.
Stu, I’ve had an epiphany. I don’t expect you to believe me, and I don’t expect you to respond. But I had to tell you, because you unlocked this revelation. With a childhood attenuated by grief, I’ve spent most of my adult life cultivating distance in relationships. My fear of loss is irrational and powerful; it’s a little like my fear of flying. It has led me to undermine any chance of real love in my life.
Since the moment I realised you were The One, more than two years ago, I’ve been quietly terrified. Of loving you completely, only to potentially lose you. Predictable, but true. So instead of embracing our love, boots and all, I’ve stalled and vacillated under the banner of ‘confusion’ and ‘ambivalence’. I now know that it was fear of loss, not confusion, which prevented me from fully committing to you.
In a profound act of omission, I failed to face this fear. It has cost me our relationship, and the chance of true happiness together. The next time around, I won’t believe my own stories about ‘ambivalence’. I won’t withhold myself from love. Instead, despite the risk of loss, I’ll take action. Fear-defying, sweeping action.
During our relationship, you helped me overcome my fear of flying. By breaking up with me, you’ve helped me overcome my fear of loving and losing. My life – and my future relationships – will never be the same. Thank you for this gift, Stu.
For the first time ever, I’d laid bare the full extent of my flawed, wounded self. Unlike my Malaysia missives, I put this letter in an envelope, stamped it and sent it. And as I did so, I never expected to hear from Stuart again, however much I hoped I might.
The following week, I received a terse email:
So now you say an ‘epiphany’ has kicked in for you. Well, sadly, I had my own epiphany in your apartment on the afternoon I left. Mine was, I can’t continue like this.
You seemed confused all through the program – I’d even warned you to watch your friendship with Hugh. I’d given you time to work things out for yourself, but this only seemed to amplify your confused feelings. Instead of letting our commitment to each other see us through the difficult times, you chose to move further away from the relationship. When I read that letter to Hugh, I made a judgement call to leave and I stick by it. It was the right thing to do.
So where do we find ourselves now? Part of me wants to be forgiving an
d to take chances, but the other part wants to protect a badly damaged place in my heart. I am used to living life to the fullest, giving myself completely. That is my identity; that is who I am. Deep down you are used to protecting yourself from life and this has rubbed off on me. Who would have thought your approach was contagious, and mine wasn’t?
Yes, I now understand the reasons why you acted the way you did, and they are valid ones. But your demons have sapped my strength. You are not totally to blame for this: the drought has played a major part. But the end result is this: we have swapped roles. You may be ready to demonstrate your commitment, but I want to shut down and protect myself from future pain.
I can assure you of one thing, this whole bloody ordeal has changed me, and not into a better person. You have said to me countless times during our relationship that you ‘just honestly don’t know how you are feeling’. Part of me used to feel that was a cop out, but now it typifies my mental state. This relationship has taught me the lesson of self-doubt. I absolutely detest self-doubt and now I have to live with it. I am not happy about this at all. You at least have clarity now. I envy you.
It is raining, but not hard enough.
I re-read the email countless times; such words seemed alien coming from the Stuart I knew. Where was his trademark resilience and indefatigable optimism? I’d done more harm than I’d ever imagined. Although the tone of Stuart’s email frightened me, his bitter words demonstrated all I needed to know: he still cared. On some level, he had not forgotten about me or moved on. He was angry, deeply angry, but a kernel of hope remained.
There was no room for further discussion; it was time for me to walk the talk of my epiphany.
Three days after receiving his email, I picked up the telephone and dialled Stuart’s home number. His aloof tone crushed me.
‘Stuart,’ I stammered, ‘I won’t keep you long …’ I struggled to maintain my composure. ‘I’m coming up to Queensland.’ The distant sound of an engine whirred in the background.
‘Stuart?’ I persisted, ‘are you there?’
Stuart snorted an acknowledgement, somewhere on the continuum between distrust and disbelief.
‘I know I’ve done untold damage,’ I said. ‘And I know it’ll take time to rebuild trust. But I’m sure we can do it, if you’ll let me come.’ I paused, desperate for a response. ‘I’ll start packing tomorrow. It may take a few weeks to sort out with my work, but …’
Stuart interjected, ‘What, are you just going to come up for a weekend again?’ I reddened at his accusing tone, recalling the single weekend I’d spent on the farm in our entire relationship.
‘No,’ I replied, my voice catching. ‘For good.’
After a protracted silence, Stuart finally coughed. ‘Look, Fi, do what you want,’ he said. ‘If you come up here, there’s no guarantee it’ll work out for us. There’s every chance it won’t, with our track record. And your career will be over.’
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. In the 72 hours since receiving Stuart’s email, I’d wrestled with that unpalatable prospect. I’d invested years of time, energy and passion into my philanthropic career: was I really prepared to throw it all away? On the third day of deliberations, I’d arrived at my conclusion. The world would always need changing: true love wouldn’t always wait.
I cleared my throat. ‘It’s a risk I’m prepared to take,’ I replied. ‘We’ve only got one chance, Stu, and it’s now. I want to make it right. Please let me try.’ Tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping onto my blouse.
‘Why, Fi?’ Stuart asked, the pain in his voice palpable.
‘Because I love you, with all my heart,’ I replied softly. ‘And I do believe in the fairytale.’
‘Ballsy,’ said Genevieve over coffee the next week, when I revealed my plan to move to country Queensland. ‘That must’ve been some epiphany you had. About bloody time, too. But you do realise what you’ve gone and done?’ I nodded, my soy latte untouched before me.
‘He’d better believe you’re sorry,’ she continued. ‘This will destroy your career.’
‘I know,’ I said, deflated. ‘I’m going to talk to my employer this afternoon. If we can’t work something out, I guess I’ll be looking for a job in Jandowae.’ Genevieve arched an eyebrow.
‘Hmmm,’ she said, ‘maybe the Queensland Country Women’s Association needs a new president after all?’ I rolled my eyes and hailed a waiter for the bill.
Three hours later, I put to my CEO an outrageously ambitious proposal that the bulk of my Sydney-based job could actually be achieved from anywhere in Australia.
‘So take me through it again,’ said Geoffrey, absorbing my news with growing disquiet. ‘You’re moving to rural Queensland?’
I swallowed and nodded. ‘And you’d like to take your job with you?’ I nodded again, wincing at the audacity of it all. Geoffrey glanced heavenward, possibly appealing to the Powers That Be.
‘Well, it’s highly irregular,’ he said. ‘But if you’re determined to move, I suppose we can trial a satellite arrangement. After all, we’re a philanthropic foundation that claims to support people in the bush. I suppose that’s the least we can do.’ I beamed at Geoffrey and thanked him for his generosity.
‘But we’ll need to review it regularly,’ he cautioned. ‘We don’t want you twiddling your thumbs up there.’
Later that evening, I telephoned Stuart to convey the news of my reconfigured work arrangements.
‘You’re really serious,’ he muttered, confounded. ‘Well, I’d better sort out an office for you then. I’ll find you a building, but you’ve got to arrange the telecommunications. I refuse to deal with Telstra.’ The primary telecommunications provider in rural Australia was notoriously hit-and-miss with its customer support.
‘All right,’ I agreed, undeterred.
One month later, all was in order. I’d cancelled the lease on my beloved apartment, packed up my life into cardboard boxes and said farewell to my Sydney friends. Goodbye office with a harbour view, sayonara seaside apartment.
Destination: Jandowae.
CHAPTER 6
I’ve got too much baggage.
I stood alone at a bustling coach terminal in Brisbane city, awaiting a Greyhound bus. Three large suitcases and a backpack were balanced next to me, bearing tell-tale ‘Heavy, Use Your Knees!’ stickers slapped on them by surly airport staff in Sydney. I’d been awake since 5.00 am and craved a reclining seat on the four-hour bus journey ahead of me.
I opened a map collected from the coach terminal and studied it. Its highways and thoroughfares were almost entirely foreign. I recognised a few place names from my previous trip to Jandowae, some eighteen months earlier. But my vague recollections weren’t assisted by the fact that I’d completed both legs of that journey under cover of darkness – flying in on a Friday night and departing Sunday evening. At that time I’d been disinterested in the landscape flashing past my driver-side window – the road to Jandowae had simply been an unavoidable means to the end that was Stuart. When I’d stopped for a takeaway coffee at a 24-hour service station en route, I’d stared vacantly at the unremarkable terrain beyond the cafeteria window. I’d never imagined for a moment that one day I’d call it home.
My reverie was broken by the bus driver, wearing white knee-high socks and carefully pressed shorts, tapping me on the shoulder. ‘You on board the 490, luv?’ he asked. I nodded, motioning towards my luggage.
‘These are all mine, sorry,’ I said. The driver reached for a bag and theatrically staggered under its weight.
‘Strewth! S’pose it’s all shoes, ay? Women!’ He winked.
I smiled through gritted teeth and filed onto the bus.
As we waited to depart, I tried to ignore the country muzak assaulting my ears through the public audio system. Is that Dolly Parton or Linda Ronstadt? I leant forward to determine the whereabouts of the toilet – I’d be needing it, I guessed, at some point over the next 350 kilometres. Craning my neck, I glanced around at my fel
low passengers. Seated across the aisle from me was a mousey boy of no more than sixteen years, poring over a pornographic magazine ineffectively concealed by a brown paper bag. Towards the front, a buxom young woman was already fast asleep, while her companion, a twenty-something man with heavily gelled hair, listened contemplatively to his iPod. An assortment of elderly passengers in the middle of the vehicle brought the median age on the coach to roughly 60 years.
Three rows behind me a muscular middle-aged man wearing a Jackie Howe singlet proceeded to bark into his mobile phone.
‘No, I said six o’clock,’ he insisted. ‘That’s six-oh-oh tonight. You need to pick me up.’ He ended the call with an exaggerated flourish.
Catching my eye as he jammed the phone back into his jeans pocket, he announced in disgust, ‘The missus.’ I nodded in an I-Should-Have-Known way and turned towards the front of the coach, avoiding further eye contact.
The coach pulled away from the kerb and the public announcement system crackled into life. The bus driver, coughing loudly to command attention, offered an energetic but almost unintelligible greeting: ‘Goodarvernoon ladiesngentlemen. Welcomeonboard the490servicetoDalby. Toiletsrlocated underthestairs. Pleasekeeptheairventsopen toensureoxygenis-circulated. Thanksnenjoythetrip.’
I reclined in my seat and closed my eyes. It had been a long journey for me to arrive at this point. What would it be like, living in a tiny rural town? How would a resolute city slicker like me adjust to life on a farm? During my previous trip to Jandowae, giddy with amore, I’d failed to fully appreciate the implications of Stuart’s vocation. I didn’t care for the machinery in Stuart’s shed and I didn’t stay long enough for an introduction. In fact, the greatest detail I could recall about the farm was the muted décor of Stuart’s bedroom. More importantly, would Stuart and I be able to rekindle our relationship on the farm? Or would it all end in humiliation, with me fleeing back to the city just weeks after my arrival?
Love in the Age of Drought Page 6