Missing Christopher

by Jayne Newling

Opening the shutters he stabbed the window at the spot where the sun dangled between the two palm trees. He sat down by my elbow, denting my mattress with his inflated heft. With an insipid smile he touched my arm then bowed his head to mask his tears.

  ‘Please get up,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I can’t. Not today. I probably will tomorrow. I’m sick.’

  ‘You’re not sick. You’re grieving.’

  I gave him five perfunctory nods then closed my eyes again, hoping he’d leave me alone.

  Grief. Such a big word. The very sound of it foments every ugly image I have ever seen of myself. I rolled over to hide under the greying, wrinkled sheets. He encircled my skinny wrist with his big boy hands and jerked it hard. He pulled at the sheet, forcing me into daylight. He swallowed hard, wiping his nose with his shirt cuff. His face cracked.

  ‘Do you love him more than me?’

  I gasped and shook my head.

  ‘Why won’t you get out of bed then? Why won’t you live for us? Would you rather be with him? Is that it?’

  ‘No. That’s not it. I’m just tired.’

  ‘I need you—more than him now. He’s gone, Mum. He’s in a better place. He’s dead—I’m alive.’

  I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. He dropped his head into my hand and sobbed while I stroked the lank strands of his neglected hair.

  ‘I wake up every day, Mum. Every day I hope it will get better.

  I never give up. What would you do if I told you I don’t want to live anymore? Could you live with that?’

  I sat up and hugged him tightly but he gently pushed me away.

  ‘Is Criddy more important than me and Ben? Do you love him more?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Nic,’ is all I could say.

  ‘There is hope, Mum. I promise you, it will get better but you’ve got to get help.’

  I looked into his pleading eyes and something in me splintered.

  He was right. He’d been through so much and was still fighting his demons every day. His brain was addled with strange voices, his vision blurred by inexplicable purple geometric dots which bobbed in a frenzied dance in front of his eyes and his body, blown up to twice his normal size by drugs, was ringbarked with lilac stretch marks. He had lost his beloved brother and survived his own suicide attempt. Now he feared losing me.

  Christopher, aged two, with Bunny (1986)

  My Three Sons (from L to R): Nic, one; Christopher, two and a half; Ben, four

  Christopher with his football cake at his seventh birthday party at Newport Oval

  On holiday with Phil’s family at Mollymook in 1992 (from L to R): Nic, six; Christopher, eight; Ben, nine

  First day at high school for Christopher (from L to R): Nic, eleven; Christopher, thirteen; Ben, fourteen

  Christopher (L) aged fourteen, parasailing with best mate Ben ‘Murgy’ Murgatroyd on a Queensland holiday in 1998

  Christopher, aged sixteen in 2000 (Photographer: Allen Koppe)

  Christopher playing half-back for Shore’s First Fifteen in 2002

  The Order of Service, with my favourite photograph of Cricket (Photographer: Allen Koppe)

  Christopher’s great mates Sam Chambers and Mitchell Coglan showing off their new tattoos

  The author, Jayne Newling (Photographer: Allen Koppe)

  More than 1500 people crammed into Shore’s chapel and grounds at Christopher’s memorial service on September 3rd, 2002. (Photograph courtesy of Shore School)

  Christopher’s memorial garden at home in Leura

  Jayne and grandson Zach in 2013 (Photographer: Allen Koppe)

  Professor Gordon Parker AO and Nic at the Black Dog Institute in 2013 (Photographer: Matthew Johnstone)

  part two

  chapter 24

  There were eighteen concrete steps leading up to Ashleigh’s room in Manly. She was the only one on a list of four psychotherapists who could see me during the Christmas period. I didn’t want to go but Phil and Nic begged me and I had no energy to fight them. I also knew I was losing my mind.

  Ashleigh’s door was closed and I didn’t know what to do. Should I knock, cough loudly? Unable to decide I walked up and down the small corridor to pass time then sat on one of the three conjoined chairs. I picked the middle chair then quickly changed my mind, choosing the one furthest away against the wall. The office at one end of the hall housed an IT company and at the other end a male and female toilet. Next to Ashleigh’s room was another with its door closed. I recognised the name on the plaque as being the counsellor who saw many of Christopher’s friends in the days after his death. I hoped she wouldn’t come out. I didn’t want to see her and even though she wouldn’t have known who I was, I didn’t want her to lay eyes on me. I was petrified. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to go through it all again with Ashleigh or anyone else. Everything was stored inside of me and I was scared to unpack it. What would happen then? If I confessed, would I break down?

  Would I be committed? I had a fear of hospitals, especially psychiatric ones, after seeing my mother and then Nic surrounded for weeks by the depressed, the suicidal and the addicts.

  I heard voices behind Ashleigh’s door. It would open in a minute. I straightened myself and pulled up my mask. I had to be strong so I wouldn’t cry. If I cried, shed even one tear, I knew I’d never stop.

  Her door opened briskly as she whispered a goodbye to her last patient. She stared at me intently then beckoned me into her small consulting room, offering me a seat with her big hand. The room was different to what I had expected. There was no desk or leather couches, just a small square space, the size of a small bedroom. It felt cosy and safe except for the barred window, closed to hide the stench of last night’s rotting garbage in the alleyway two floors below. Two stupid pigeons pecked at the glass, trying to escape their freedom.

  Ashleigh was beautiful in an Amazonian way. She towered over me, her long, lustrous black hair framing a long, tanned face. Her dark eyes were soft but intent, intelligent but secretive. She exuded confidence and authority. Her long legs fanned out in front of her as she settled into her orange velour chair. She wore silver bangles and big rings and her neck was encircled by a silver chain, a black cross anchored in the tunnel of her large breasts. Her upper left arm was decorated with a small tattoo and her clothing was casual and bright. It put me at ease.

  I sat on a pink velour couch which I assumed would normally be for couples. Dressed in black, I felt incongruous among all this pastel. There was a lime green bookcase behind Ashleigh’s chair and on top, a moonstone fairy held an incense stick between praying hands. Next to it were scores of plastic soldiers and battered Matchbox cars. In the corner on the floor a small sandbox housed pebbles and miniature rakes. There was a box of tissues on the table next to me, next to a stone Buddha and a white traveller’s clock.

  Christopher would have loved this room. Many of the spiritual items were similar to the ones on his bedside table. He would have loved Ashleigh, too.

  She cleared her throat and looked at me intently.

  ‘Start from the beginning,’ she urged. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  To my horror I started to cry, great lumpy heaves that choked me. I looked down into my lap, wishing to be anywhere but here.

  ‘My son committed suicide.’

  Hearing the words out loud for the first time shocked me.

  I looked at her. Her eyes wrinkled with concern and she encouraged me to continue.

  ‘He jumped off a cliff.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Cricket. Christopher. Everyone calls him Cricket . . . called him Cricket.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  I started to tell her the origin of the moniker but she interrupted me with a raised hand.

  ‘I meant why he killed himself.’

  I shook my head and cried more tears.

  For the next hour I told her everything, his depression and anxiety, Nic’s mental illness and all that happened on August 29th, 2002
.

  I checked the clock—midday—my time was up. I was exhausted and drained and I never wanted to come back. I stood to leave but she asked me to wait.

  ‘We need to talk about how you feel,’ she said.

  Oh God, don’t ask me that, I thought.

  ‘Just for a minute, then you can go.’

  I doubled over and started crying again. Would this ever stop?

  I knew this would happen. I knew this was the wrong thing to do.

  She cleared her throat, forcing me to face her.

  ‘Please. Go on.’

  ‘I feel guilty,’ I finally managed, shocked by my confession.

  ‘I failed my son. I should have been able to keep him alive. I was trying so hard to save Nic I didn’t think about Cricket. I really didn’t think he would ever do that. He was the charismatic, popular one; everyone wanted to be around him.’

  My words were spilling out of me, tripping over each other.

  I couldn’t get them out fast enough.

  ‘Whatever Cricket did, everyone copied. Why would he want to die when he was so admired and loved? Do you see? Do you see what I mean? Do you understand why I blame myself?’

  ‘I understand that’s how you feel,’ she said softly. ‘But it’s not your fault. You’re not God. He made his choice, you didn’t make it for him.’

  I slumped in the chair, indicating I’d had enough. She opened her diary and thumbed through the pages. I picked up my handbag and thanked her.

  ‘I can see you at the same time next week.’

  I hesitated by the door and shook my head.

  ‘Eleven next Thursday,’ she said then wrote my name in the diary and smiled as I disappeared behind the door.

  From Christopher’s diary: January 18th, 2002

  The toughest part of getting to the top of a ladder is getting through the crowd at the bottom.

  ANON.

  chapter 25

  It’s raining in the mountains today. A thick mist has rolled in, turning the garden outside my study window into a secret fairyland. Two days ago my niece Hannah celebrated her twenty-first birthday and my nephew Joel is on the doorstep of turning seventeen. I can’t help but look at him and compare him to Christopher.

  Although different in looks—Joel is dark—I am still reminded of the size and shape and manner of a seventeen-year-old. Joel is handsome and has the same charisma of the cousin he does not remember. There is a photograph on their fridge of Christopher carrying a five-year-old Joel on his shoulders. That is his only memory besides Christopher’s surfboard which Joel inherited.

  When Nic turned seventeen, I had the mixed emotions of gratitude that he was still alive and despair that he was the same age Christopher would always be. I had hoped Nic would be cured of his illness by then and back at school, studying overtime to make up for the years he had missed so he could achieve his goal of becoming a veterinarian. But he was still plagued by highs and lows, his brain befuddled by mind-altering drugs. There were many moments when his wit and intelligence surfaced but usually he’d either be depressed, irritable and tired, or manic and ready to take on the world.

  After six months at Clareville we moved to another rental in nearby Newport. It was a bigger house which, in several places on the wide upper and lower decks, overlooked the beach. Although it was two headlands away from where Christopher died, I avoided looking out to the east where the ocean was bookended by towering cliffs.

  It was while living here that Nic found part-time work with a computer company. The rest of the time he slept and watched video podcasts about new computer products or comedy shows on TV.

  On the day of Nic’s eighteenth birthday he was still sleeping in his messy bedroom even though it was lunchtime. He would wake up soon and want breakfast. Clowny was eighteen, too. I snuck into his room and gently tugged Clowny from the crook of his heavy arm.

  Its hat needed to be repaired and it would be my birthday surprise for them both.

  He eventually sauntered out and I hugged him and wished him a happy birthday.

  What’s for breakfast?

  What do you want?

  What do you want to make me?

  I don’t mind. Whatever you want.

  Poached eggs?

  Okay.

  One or two?

  Two would be good.

  Eat it at the table.

  I will.

  Now, before it gets cold.

  I will, I will.

  You also need to clean up your room today.

  Okay.

  I mean it.

  I told you I would.

  You said that yesterday.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m going out to get a coffee. Want one?

  Your room!

  Do you want one or not?

  Okay.

  Want to come with me?

  No, thanks.

  Why?

  I don’t want to run into anyone.

  Got to face it sometime, Mum.

  No, I don’t.

  You do. You can’t hide forever.

  I’m not hiding.

  What are you doing then?

  I just . . . I like being on my own.

  You can’t do that forever.

  Yes I can.

  What are you scared of?

  It’s the way they look at me.

  Like?

  Um. Pity. Sometimes they cross the road.

  They probably don’t know what to say.

  How about—‘How are you?’

  You’d just say you’re fine, like you always do.

  No I don’t.

  Yes you do. You even say that to me and Ben and Dad.

  What else am I supposed to say? What would you like me to say?

  Just be honest.

  Okay. I feel like shit. I don’t want to leave the house and I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to make you breakfast, lunch and dinner and I don’t want to look at your messy room.

  Keep the door closed then.

  Or, you could make me happy and clean it.

  That won’t make you happy.

  Yes it will.

  Wanna watch a movie with me?

  Which one?

  You choose.

  No, you choose. I don’t mind. Not that one, though. I’ve seen it.

  What about this one?

  What’s it about?

  It’s hysterical. It’s my favourite. Anchorman with Ronnnnnnnnnn Burgundy.

  Who’s in it?

  Will Ferrell.

  I’m not in the mood for comedy.

  You’ll love it. Trust me.

  What did you think?

  It was funny, in parts.

  I didn’t hear you laughing.

  I was, internally.

  Laughing’s good for you.

  So they say.

  No, really. It releases a chemical—endorphin—that lifts you.

  So does whisky.

  Yeah, maybe, but that doesn’t last long.

  Nothing does. Nothing is forever.

  God is.

  Oh please!

  You should open your mind. You may be surprised.

  I don’t like surprises.

  Life goes on, Mum.

  I know.

  You don’t want it to, though, do you? Don’t cry, Mum. It’s okay.

  It’s not okay. How do you expect me to do this?

  By knowing that Cricket is in heaven and he’s happier now.

  You don’t know that.

  Yes I do—we spoke about it a lot.

  You and Cricket?

  Yup.

  Did you suspect anything?

  No. I was too sick myself. Want me to make you a cup of tea?

  No thanks.

  This was a snapshot of our day, each and every one of them. I didn’t realise it then but he intended to be needy—he wanted to keep me grounded to life when I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t have the strength to care for Nic or anyone else but I had
to stay alive to keep Nic alive. Somehow I had to learn how to begin to deal with my grief.

  I felt like a barefooted tight-rope walker, teetering from west to east on a rotting elastic band. East was my intense love for Nic; west, my anger, frustration and impatience and my feeling of being trapped by his illness and demands. He was on my heels in every room, watching me like a buzzard. The Newport rental felt like a prison, dank and claustrophobic. I was a captive to Nic’s needs, quarry to an illness which controlled our lives. I hated his moods, hated the lows, but even more I hated the highs which punched above and below my sensitivities. I hated having to be calm and reasonable lest I pissed off his twitchy neurons. I could see them conspiring in the dark caverns of his cerebellum—‘Let’s get the mother’. I wanted to reach in and pull each and every one of them out from their little hideaway, scatter them on the cedar floorboards and jitterbug the night away.

  But I was so tired and it was easier to sit with Nic, talk to him and listen. When my lungs screamed for air and my heart coughed out its last comfort, I’d feign pain and he’d allow me to lie down for a while.

  Nic loved hats. Gordon once told me that I was lucky because one of his bipolar patients loved Porsches and had bought four in one day. Nic had eighty-three hats. They were stacked in neat rows in his cupboard, faceless, headless but animate all the same. They gave me the creeps. There were two fedoras, eighteen beanies and a golf hat. He had four Texan ten-gallon hats, or shit kickers, as he liked to call them, a Star Spangled Banner glittered beret, sixteen ski hats and fifteen baseball caps with their tags still attached. He had a Chinese bamboo hat, two top hats and a bearskin. Next to the Mexican sombrero were a gangster hat and a boater, three kepis, four fezzes and a black woollen balaclava.

  I didn’t want him to have all these hats. They represented his mania and I would gladly burn the lot of them. Without Nic knowing I threw out the most garish of the collection but he found it in the bin and was distraught that I would do such a thing. I think he only has one hat now—a top hat, ‘for formal occasions’.