She could feel she was caught in the vortex of a busy, cold system spinning her down a path that led to entire worlds of tragedy. Who could tell what the damage was to Archie’s little body from the impact of the bull’s skull? Since arriving, he had been whisked away to theatre in some other part of the hospital, and now all they could do was wait.
Desperately Rebecca tried to keep the demons of terror and panic at bay. She tried to tell herself to hold onto hope. That things would be fine. But the peaks and troughs of fear seethed inside her as she looked at the haunted, fearful faces of the other parents who passed her by, a terrifying reflection of her own self. Still wearing the old work clothes she had dragged on this morning, Rebecca suddenly realised how exhausted she was.
The exceedingly long day had been a blur. The triple-zero call. The bush ambulance. The roaring engine of the Flying Doctor’s light aircraft at Bendoorin. Archie’s terrifyingly still little body and white face as he lay on the trolley and the Angel Flight doctors spoke quickly into their headset radios to the waiting surgeons in the city hospital.
Something about a splenic rupture and pneumothorax trauma. Rebecca had to look away when the nurse told her they were going to have to insert an emergency chest tube to keep him breathing. The last thing Rebecca recalled vividly was the stillness of Archie’s tiny rib cage and his white, white skin. Then the nurse was urgently asking what blood type he was. Rebecca had felt like the worst mother in the world. She didn’t know. All she knew was that he was her flesh and blood. The knotted feeling of terror caught in her throat that her little boy, her little angel, could die. Bec had held his limp little hand when the medicos would let her near him, and somewhere in the fog of it all she could hear Dr Patkin’s voice from the Bendoorin hospital on the radio as he gave details from Archie’s health file.
And now as she waited in the emergency room for news, Bec hung onto the words the dour surgeon had left her with.
‘He should make it,’ the surgeon had said.
‘Should?’
She hugged Ben to her, wishing her mother, Frankie, who lived not far from here, would answer her phone and come to collect him. It was typical. So caught up in her world of vet science. Even her second husband, the bumble-footed Labrador of a bloke, Peter, still had to leave messages for Frankie at the front desk. She barely had time for him either.
Between the rows of waiting-room seats, Charlie paced, still wearing his farm work clothes too. Rebecca felt like throttling him. It was because of him they were here. It was because of him she could lose her little Archie. She’d never wanted him to buy that stirry line of cattle. She’d argued with him over it, saying they should stick to a line they knew. But those cattle, Charlie had argued, were cheap. Bec felt the guilt grip her again. She had just wanted a moment’s peace from the boys. And now look. She should never have sent them out with their father.
Rebecca pulled Ben even closer to her. Eventually Charlie came to sit beside her in a chair, his fingers laced together, one knee jiggling up and down, eyes staring at the wall. He kept glancing at his phone to see the time. A minute in this place felt to him like a week.
‘Stop doing that,’ Rebecca snapped.
‘What?’ Charlie turned to look at her. A look of defensiveness. She shut her eyes.
‘What?’ he repeated.
Bec just shook her head. She was too tired of everything and too scared.
He glanced about the hospital, assessing how many people were in earshot. ‘You’re blaming me for this, aren’t you?’ he hissed. ‘You think I did this.’
Rebecca turned her face to him. In this moment, she could scream at him. Tell him to leave. Tell him, yes, it was his fault. She knew she ought to. She knew it was over. But instead she watched herself, as if hovering above her own shoulders, as she reached out to squeeze his hand. She thought of the time when she believed he had loved her, when he’d given her such solace and comfort after Tom’s suicide. She looked into his eyes, tears welling.
‘Please, just don’t let him die, Charlie,’ she said. ‘That’s all I care about. Please.’
And the next thing, Charlie was crying too, his arms encircling both her and Ben, and he whispered over and over again, ‘I’m sorry, Bec. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you.’
As she held him back, Rebecca vowed that if Archie lived, she would make everything right again.
Nineteen
Rebecca’s mother swept into the waiting room, bringing with her the waft of the outside world of cities and petrol and pollution. Her hazel eyes were lively with concern and her auburn hair, as always a riot of waves, framed her elegant face. She was now greying more than slightly at the temples, always too busy with after-hours emergency work to keep hair appointments.
‘I’m so, so sorry, I was in surgery. The phone was off.’
She stooped and kissed Bec on the cheek, Rebecca catching the familiar imprinted scent of the veterinary hospital that lingered on the fabric of her clothing. Charlie rose to meet his mother-in-law and delivered a perfunctory kiss.
Rebecca tried to search for comfort in the fact that Frankie had arrived, but she couldn’t help feeling the familiar bubble of resentment rise up in her. She watched Frankie shrug off her coat, revealing the grey uniform shirt with its vet-surgery logo embroidered on it. The uniform prompted a rush of memories for Rebecca. Her struggle at boarding school, the times she had come searching for comfort over her father, only to find her mother called away to an emergency. The weeks of Tom’s slow demise when Rebecca wished her mother had just downed tools and done more for him.
And now nothing had changed. It wasn’t unusual for Rebecca not to hear from her mother for weeks on end. Even with her grandchildren there, she was still a rare visitor to the farm. It was no surprise today that Rebecca hadn’t been able to reach her, despite the urgency.
‘Any word from the doctors?’ Frankie asked.
Rebecca shook her head.
From where he snuggled in Rebecca’s arms, Ben slowly woke and blinked at the realisation that his grandmother was standing before him. He slid from Rebecca’s knee and went over to hug her.
‘Hello, pumpkin,’ Frankie said to Ben, cuddling him back.
Rebecca felt another tug. She remembered from the fog of her childhood past that it was the nickname Frankie had used for Tom when they were little.
‘I called Mick and Trudy,’ her mother said, still holding onto Ben’s little hand. ‘They’ll be here soon.’
Rebecca flashed her a look. ‘What for?’
‘They can help. Trudy is good in a crisis.’
Suddenly anger reared in Rebecca. ‘My son could be dying and you are calling this a crisis and treating it like some kind of family gathering!’ Her voice was loud and tense like a wire about to snap. ‘What is this to you? A family shindig? I only asked you to pick up Ben,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘That’s all I needed, Mum. Not frigging Turdy Trudy coming in here and blowing hot air out of her self-important arse.’
‘Bec,’ Charlie soothed, laying a hand on her shoulder.
She shook off his touch aggressively. Frankie looked momentarily hurt, her angular cheeks flaming red. Instantly Rebecca felt guilty for her outburst. Though, in the last crisis, hadn’t her mother left them all? Left Mick, Tom and Bec at Waters Meeting to struggle under the weight of their father, while she had got on with her career?
The hurt of the past swamped her, and the possibility of Archie dying further drowned her. Rebecca felt something inside her give way and her whole body began to shake.
‘Come here,’ said Frankie, and she swept her up in a hug and held her closely. ‘I’m sure everything will be OK.’ Bec let herself be held, but her body was still rigid, every sinew taut, ready to snap.
‘Mum. I’m scared. What if —?’
‘Shh …’
At that moment an earnest, young-looking doctor sailed in, his hair swept forwards, trendy-boy style. He came to stand before Rebecca. She looked up at his face, tryin
g to read every nuance of his expression before he spoke.
‘Mrs Lewis?’ Rebecca nodded. ‘I’m Paul Cartwright, the emergency surgeon. Dr Thompson sent me in to let you know we’ve operated. Your son has had a serious splenic rupture, along with six broken ribs. The imaging is showing there’s no major head trauma. So the gods were on our side there. For now, we’ve done what we can,’ he said, looking more at his clipboard than Rebecca’s eyes. The anger bubbled again.
‘Is he going to be all right?’
Paul, the surgeon, didn’t give a straight answer. ‘We are keeping him under for a little longer until he stabilises. All we can do is wait.’
His string of clichéd answers caused the anger to spark within her again, lifting her fury to a roaring furnace deep inside her. Did he not understand that her little boy was her whole universe? ‘Tell me! Is he going to live?’ There was hysteria in her voice and she felt Frankie and Charlie hovering near her.
‘All we can do is wait,’ the surgeon said again tiredly.
‘Where is he? I have to see him.’
Paul Cartwright put a hand on her shoulder, and she felt the pulse of his weary energy and saw the exhaustion in his eyes. ‘They’re still settling him into a ward. If all goes well, you can see him soon — maybe an hour or so.’
A mix of gratitude and guilt mingled within her and she nodded her head, tears spilling over and rolling down her cheeks, the room wavering around her as the surgeon quietly left.
Ben moved over to her and slid his hand into hers. ‘Don’t cry, Mummy. He’ll be OK,’ he said.
Rebecca looked down at her eldest son and stooped to hold him tightly. ‘You think so?’ she said.
Ben nodded, opening up his tiny clenched fist. ‘Look,’ he said. In his palm lay the two crystals he and Archie had been given by Evie. ‘These magic stones will protect him.’
Rebecca felt a wave of laughter bubble up along with tears. She hugged Ben tighter and looked into his sincere brown eyes.
‘Mummy. He’ll be fine,’ he said with conviction, a tiny serious frown marking his forehead. Bec wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, then her mum stepped forwards and took Ben by the shoulder.
‘That’s nice, dear,’ Frankie said matter-of-factly, completely missing the moment. ‘Now once Auntie Trudy and Uncle Mick get here, how about you and I go find an ice-cream?’
He shook his head. ‘I want to stay here.’
Rebecca’s heart lurched. She knew he should not be witness to this trauma. Frankie should take him home. But part of her wanted him here.
‘I’m not leaving,’ Ben said.
Before they could reason with him, Trudy and Mick arrived. Trudy was wafting expensive scent; giant orbs of silver were strung about her neck with matching earrings. Her hair was styled in a chignon and she was swathed in a pashmina of tasteful chocolate hues that mirrored the colour of high boots from which her skinny legs emerged in black leggings. Behind her bumbled in Mick.
Rebecca almost gasped when she saw the size of him. No amount of expensive giant-man’s RM Williams clothing could hide the fact he had been in a very good paddock. As usual, he was plugging text messages into his phone.
‘Oh, my sweet!’ Trudy said, stepping forwards and putting both perfectly manicured hands on Rebecca’s shoulders, then drawing her into a hug. She pressed a cold cheek to Rebecca’s. ‘I’m so, so sorry!’ She swung about to pull from her handbag a brown paper bag. ‘I brought some grapes.’
Dumbfounded, Rebecca took them, her eyes darting over the people before her. People who were her family, but who now felt like strangers to her.
Charlie stepped forwards, a smile on his face. He took Mick’s hand warmly and shook it. ‘Thanks for coming, mate,’ he said. ‘How have you been?’
Mick shrugged, tucking the phone into his sagging back pocket. ‘Property development! Who needs it?’
At that moment Rebecca felt yet another wave of anger, this time mixed with nausea so strong she thought she would have to use Trudy’s recently gifted grape bag to vomit into. ‘Oh, for god’s sake!’ she yelled. ‘This is not a fucking family Christmas! My son is in there busted up by a bull because this stupid bastard thinks only of himself!’ She flung a hand out to indicate Charlie as the others stood and gawped.
‘We are only trying to help,’ Trudy said, forcing a smile, revealing polished teeth corrected recently by braces.
‘Mummy said a rude word,’ Ben said.
Another wave of nausea and Rebecca’s hand flew to her mouth. She fled from the room and ran the length of the corridor, turning the corner where a statue of a weeping Mary seemed to be keeping quiet vigil of all the sufferings.
‘What are you looking at? A little help right now would be good,’ Rebecca muttered at the statue as she passed.
In the toilets, she heaved over the bowl. It felt as if a million fingers were clawing inside her gut. Rebecca realised she hadn’t eaten all day. She at last stood, her hands and body shaking from the effort of vomiting up nothing. She swung open the cubicle door and stooped to splash water on her face. When she straightened, she gave a start and cried out. Evie was standing over her right shoulder in the mirror’s reflection.
‘Holy shit!’ Bec said. ‘You scared the crap out of me!’
‘Lucky you’re in a dunny then.’ Evie smiled. Bec turned to face her, the old woman’s arms already opening up to hug her.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Getting you out of here.’
Twenty
It was peak hour in the city when Rebecca and Evie stepped onto the street. The dazzle of the outside world in the bright evening light stirred a feeling of vertigo in Bec. She shouldn’t be outside the hospital. I need to be with Archie, she thought, panicked. As if reading her mind, Evie turned to her and laid a warm hand on her forearm.
‘He’ll be fine. Ben too. You do know that? If you don’t, you best start affirming it. Now, you need something to eat and drink before you go to see him. You must be balanced, calm and strong for his sake. We won’t be long.’
Like a terrified horse, Rebecca felt the calm of Evie’s touch and gradually she began to relax a little.
Evie led Rebecca across a set of traffic lights and ushered her into the den of a quiet café, the owner of which clearly liked collecting Betty Boop memorabilia, judging from the posters on the wall and the giant plastic figure that stood, big-eyed, beside the counter with a tray held aloft. Evie pulled out a chair beside the window and indicated for Rebecca to sit.
Barely present as Evie gave their order, Rebecca didn’t even take in the trendy-looking waitress’s blunt-cut dark fringe and black square-framed glasses. Instead she turned her face to the window. All she could see were horrible scenes of the past day that swirled in her mind. How could life turn so suddenly like that? But it had, and now here she was, feeling as if she had been suddenly swallowed by a hungry city and was starting to dissolve. To crumble away altogether.
‘Isn’t that bizarre?’ Evie said, nodding to where Rebecca was gazing.
‘What?’
‘That … those people.’
Rebecca dragged her vision into focus and looked at the people who were traipsing along the pavement in the peak-hour rush. They were like a huge seemingly endless mob of sheep, thirsty and walking desperately on to water in the evening light.
‘They are unconscious,’ Evie said.
‘Huh?’
‘Look at them. Really look at them. They are unconscious.’
‘No. It’s Archie who is unconscious,’ Rebecca said, emotion straining her voice.
‘Archie is fine,’ Evie said comfortingly. ‘His unconsciousness is necessary right now for his healing. Who knows what he and his Higher Self are up to out there in the ethers? But don’t worry, Rebecca, he will come back down to planet earth. He, like you, has so much good to do in the world. I think the angels want him here. I know it.’
Rebecca looked into the kindly green eyes of the old woman before her
and felt her gut unknot a little.
Evie reached out and took her hand. ‘My girl,’ she said gently, ‘one day you will look back on this dark and awful time as the best thing that ever happened to you. It will grow you and be the making of Archie — and connect you as family. It will show each of you your inner strengths.’
Rebecca squeezed Evie’s hand and clung to what she had just said, especially the conviction in her words that Archie would be all right. That life would move on from now.
‘Watch,’ Evie said, looking at the commuters outside the window. ‘It’s programmed behaviour. Bizarre indeed. They are unaware they exist as one. Instead of flowing with life energetically, they are fighting like fish in a dying stream. They are led by those things.’ Evie pointed to the television flashing images into the restaurant. A man being led from a courtroom, a woman with big blonde hair smiling from a news desk as the words toddler eaten by crocodile slid across the screen, followed by news of stabbings and stock-market plummets.
‘They are tortured and terrified by their own thoughts, thoughts that they feed with that black box in the corner. Black boxes that have grown to take up entire walls in houses.’
Both women looked again at the café television. A funeral-plan ad flicked away to be replaced by a woman smiling at her new car with such love, as if she had birthed it herself.
‘That thing feeds their thoughts,’ Evie said. ‘They are scared of not having enough money, scared of cancers, scared of broken hearts, scared of not being “someone famous”. Instead they could choose to wake up and smile at all they really have. But many of them don’t until a great tragedy hits them and tears their world apart. Then they wake up to the universe and the great beauty of it. The world and other people aren’t scary once you know the eternity of life. So don’t look where everyone else is looking. Look to Archie being well. And you, my dear, being safe and happy with your children.’
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