chapter 29
A year after Christopher’s death I bought a tiny miner’s cottage in Blackheath in the Blue Mountains. Every week I escaped on my own for a few days while Phil looked after Nic. He was improving slowly and we both benefited from time apart.
The garden in spring was filled with tulips, daffodils, jonquils, snowflakes and bluebells. A large weeping cotoneaster spread its branches out over a dry rock wall which was home to Bert, the blue-tongue lizard. Tiny brown finches with red beaks darted in and out of the thick foliage while gang-gang cockatoos feasted on the red berries. Next to it, a giant chestnut tree was dinner for hundreds of yellow-crested cockatoos, the hollowed husks like hail on my neighbour’s tin roof.
I found solace in my garden, feeding the rosellas and king parrots, and with nature on the hundreds of bushwalks in the mountains. One of my favourites was on the southern side of Blackheath across from the railway line where a tall waterfall cascades over the roof of an ancient cave. Another leads to one of the many escarpments overlooking the majestic Megalong Valley.
It was from here a young woman recently jumped to her death.
No one knew why. A sad bunch of decaying daisies, strangled with a dirty yellow ribbon, was tied to a nearby eucalyptus tree. Whenever I walked to that spot I took a bunch of flowers and laid them on the rock where she last stood.
I wondered how she felt as she tumbled into the abyss, maybe hitting cliff ledges before her body splintered on the forest floor. This woman who once danced, made love and dreamed. Did she have any regrets as she hurtled through the frigid air? Did Christopher? Did they feel any pain? Was there a millisecond when they both opened their eyes in panic and wished for time to stop, wished for a revision of a hundred impulsive decisions? Or did they close their eyes and with outstretched arms, welcome the end? Not knowing Christopher’s final thoughts would always haunt me. Often I will replay the last seconds of his life in slow motion but in the dungeon of my mind, the trap door is locked and just for a little while forgetting keeps me sane.
chapter 30
Ashleigh’s room had suddenly darkened as the morning sun slipped behind a slow-moving cloud. It was a cue for a break and she sipped from the hole of her takeaway soy cappuccino, I from my double-shot flat white. I risked a peripheral peak at the clock which ticked loudly at my left ear. I had been taking the antidepressants for a month and I felt calmer but grief was still stuck in my chest like a razor blade.
It surprised me that after months of counselling I began to want to go to Ashleigh. Inside her room, with the door closed, locking out everyone else in the world, I felt safe and warm. I was still nervous and agitated but she could see my turmoil and taught me how to breathe from my abdomen to relieve my panic. Like a mother, she went through the exercise with me and that simple, kind and caring act made me sob, just like a little girl. It felt like she was syphoning some of my grief into herself through an invisible osmotic cord.
I was so grateful I wanted to hug her.
I was beginning to feel close to her yet I couldn’t get near her.
I wanted her to cradle me, hold me against her so I could hear her heartbeat. I wanted to die in her arms. I couldn’t stop crying and she patiently waited for me. I crumpled into myself. She tried to say something but stopped, knowing she couldn’t be heard. She could only sit and silently watch my suffering. Professionalism doesn’t always conceal a human’s ache for another, and two tears dropped into her purple lap. If she would only come and sit next to me, put her arm around me—that’s all. If only I could rest my head on her soft, broad shoulder, just until I stopped crying.
But she didn’t move from her chair. I couldn’t even hear her breathe and the clock kept ticking. It was only 11:30.
Ashleigh asked for a photograph of Christopher. I took out the one which I kept at the back of my diary. It was my favourite. He was sixteen and seemed so happy. He was sitting on a step, arms on knees, his warm, blue eyes the focal point. His right eyebrow was arched and his white perfect teeth were exposed in a gentle smile.
His blond hair framed a tanned face. She gazed at it for a while then smiled sadly. I knew what she was thinking—what a waste.
‘He is so handsome,’ she said, unconcerned with correcting the tense.
I reached out to take it back but she wouldn’t give it to me and I felt a flutter of panic.
‘Talk to him,’ she said, placing the photo on the chair opposite me. ‘Tell him how you feel.’
I shook my head. She seemed disappointed and I suddenly felt ashamed and embarrassed.
‘What do you believe in?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. You’re born, you live, you die.’
She frowned then threw her dark curls in a flick behind her head and cleared her throat. The room vibrated with frisson, like a ghost down a long corridor.
Ashleigh asked me to go through the minutiae of the night Christopher died. When I had finished she appeared slightly shocked.
‘What are you thinking?’ I asked.
‘I’m wondering what are your thoughts.’
‘Time. All that time. That’s what upsets me,’ I told her.
‘Why was he there for so long before he died? Why didn’t someone take the time to ring us? Why was Ally’s mother there and not me? Why at 10:30 was he highly agitated and by 11:20 had calmed?
And why, if he was calm, did he kill himself?’
Ashleigh sighed.
‘When someone wants to die and they’ve made up their mind to go through with it, often a calm, an inner peace fills them and the inner turmoil of indecision disappears.’
‘Do you think Christopher committed suicide?’
Ashleigh nodded. I cried.
And the clock said 11:30. Tick, tock.
From Christopher’s diary: January 21st, 2002
Every man dies, not every man lives.
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE
chapter 31
The noonday sun hid behind the giant gum trees, affording little warmth to the white, saturated pebbles in Christopher’s memorial garden in Blackheath. I felt the moisture seep slowly through my tracksuit top as I lay spread-eagled in front of his marble urn. The wet clumps of my hair were like deep cuts across my face. My session with Ashleigh had gutted me; I had to have a few days on my own.
It had rained heavily the night before, drenching the potted cumquat and lemon trees. From the back verandah I watched as the drain relinquished the last drops through a tiny, rusted hole.
I had planted a ‘happy wanderer’ over the wishing well I bought after Christopher died. It had arched over the top in a magnificent purple display. I was tip-pruning the dead flowerheads when something jumped onto me. I flicked at it quickly and the insect leapt, landing on one of the long, slender leaves. I thought it was a spider but when I looked closer, a baby cricket, no bigger than a five-cent piece, stared back at me. Its eyes were large and its little brown body tried to camouflage itself in the dry, crisp brown edges of the dying leaf. It chirped. It was a male.
Only male crickets chirp. They rub their wings together to produce the sound, repelling other male crickets and attracting nearby females. Crickets are part of folklore and mythology in many cultures. In Brazil, they signal impending rain; and in Barbados, if found inside the house, they signify that wealth is nigh. In Asia they are considered good luck and are sometimes kept in cages as house pets. But in other cultures, a cricket is a sign of death and is killed at first sight.
I have always been terrified of insects. I’m sure this fear was precipitated by my big brother’s zeal to hear me squeal as I slid into bed or opened a drawer to find a bug or spider. It was an irrational dread I couldn’t control and I spent many a night hidden under my sheets as a kamikaze moth beat its brains out under my lampshade.
When the boys were young I was determined not to pass on my phobia. We were playing in the backyard when a six-year-old Ben spotted a grasshopper on a tree branch. I gathered the boys around it and, at a slight dista
nce, explained its body parts, its relevance to the ecosystem and its beauty. It suddenly jumped onto Ben’s shoulder and the boys screamed.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said. ‘He’s so cute. Just pick him up and put him back on the branch.’
‘You do it, Mum,’ Ben begged.
‘He won’t hurt you. You try.’
He gingerly raised his hand to encase the insect when it jumped over to my arm. I screamed and flicked it off before running into the house.
Night falls suddenly and heavily in the mountains, and as the last pinprick of light disappeared behind the tallest peak, wily ghosts dragged desperate fingers down my window panes. On a starless, moonless, soundless night, I drew the curtains against the dark, the crickets, the memories and pain. I pulled a long, black sweater over my tracksuit pants and covered my feet with ski socks. I poured a strong scotch. I lit my candles and lay down on the rug before the fire.
The 1880s miner’s cottage in Blackheath, ‘Lavender Cottage’, had two small bedrooms, a combined lounge, dining and kitchen and a bathroom with its own coal fire. When I stayed here on my own I’d light it then fill the old iron bath and sprinkle it with lavender and lemon myrtle oil. I’d turn out the lights. I’d lie down, my body fully immersed, and listen to the crackle of the split ironbark. This was the only place I could relax my body and my mind.
The cottage was canary yellow when I bought it but I repainted it blue. I loved it the minute I first walked into it. It was the same vintage and had the same feel as the green miner’s house, also called ‘Lavender Cottage’, we owned in Wentworth Falls when the boys were little. We had to sell it to buy in Avalon.
I escaped to Blackheath for a few days every week. I loved being on my own, especially in winter when it would occasionally snow.
I’d light the fires and watch as day turned into night. The cottage creaked with a sigh as the warmth slowly rose to the high ceilings.
The fire’s bright, orange flames reminded me of begging fledglings as they shot out flickering shadows on the walls of the hearth. It was quiet except for the crackle and the intermittent adjustment of the old tin roof. When the red embers turned to a muted gold, I’d drag myself and Lisa the cat to bed knowing it would be a fitful, nightmarish slumber.
For the past few weeks I had wanted to believe Christopher was in the room with Ashleigh and me. The clock had stopped at 11:30 several times and as soon as I felt convinced there could be no other explanation, I’d chastise myself for entertaining such mumbo-jumbo. Yet Ashleigh believed and so did Nic; and if it was real, didn’t that mean he still existed, just not in my world? Shouldn’t that give me some comfort and relief?
I fell into bed and as I willed myself to sleep, I tried hard to remember how Christopher parted his hair.
I woke with a start, covered in sweat. The room was cold and dark. I pulled the blankets back up around my chin and buried my face into the thin feather pillow. Lisa snuggled back into my neck and purred. Her regular vibrations soothed me, slowing my breath.
I heard something. Someone was here—in my room. Lisa raised her head and jumped with a thud onto the wooden floor before scurrying under my bed. I pricked my ears—no sound. I rolled onto my side and scrunched my body into a ball. Someone was getting into my bed on the other side. The mattress depressed. There was a smell, a musky, male scent.
‘Who are you?’ I whispered.
No answer.
‘What do you want?’
I was too frightened to roll over but I knew someone was there.
Then, just as suddenly, the mattress sprung back to form. I rolled over to find the space empty. It must have been a bad dream but I was wide awake and Lisa had heard something, too. I put my hand on top of the quilt. It was warm.
All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above—
Know that you aren’t alone.
The whole world shares your tears
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.
VIKRAM SETH
chapter 32
I didn’t know I would crave my mother’s love, her touch and her compassion until I lost Christopher, but her son had died, too, and her arms were as barren as mine. She kept me at a safe distance, too frightened perhaps to walk with me on the journey with no end. I tried once but just at the moment I was willing to lay down at her feet, she pulled back and went inside to make us a cup of coffee. I pulled myself together and never asked again. I couldn’t blame her. I was just as cold.
I needed the love only a mother could give. I wanted to be swathed in a baby’s blanket and placed on a fluffy cloud. I wanted to float—never to touch ground. I wanted a lullaby, a hand to comb my hair. I needed a promise I’d never be alone. Yet I was, except in Ashleigh’s room, where for an hour she would care for me with her words, warmth and compassion. I wanted her to be my mother.
I didn’t think she had children but I wasn’t sure. The only window into her life’s private world I was allowed to peer through was the room where her new kittens played. We had our love of cats in common and they often became the subject when we needed a break.
An icy wind blew through the alleyways, disturbing the hamburger wrappers and foam coffee cups dumped into corners the night before. Winter had hit and I hugged my coat to me as I walked up Ashleigh’s stairs. She was wearing black and a tired smile as she ushered me into her room. With hot coffees and my usual unease we settled into our pastel chairs.
‘Tell me about some of the happy memories you have of Cricket.’
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Think, think. An image came to me of him being hit while playing rugby. I ran onto the field as he writhed in pain, covering his broken nose. Another image of his broken leg, then his smashed skull, blood and deflated organs.
‘I can’t think of any,’ I whispered.
Ashleigh cocked her chin and narrowed her eyes. I really couldn’t and I didn’t understand why. So we spent the session talking about my parents, my siblings and Jim’s death.
I looked at the clock. Time—so slow in this room.
She looked, too, then checked her mobile phone. It was 12:10.
The clock had stopped at 11:30 and I thought it strange that the red second hand was still moving, still ticking as it travelled its circular path.
It stopped at 11:30 the next week.
‘What time did Cricket die?’ she asked.
‘At 11:30.’
She looked at me, to the clock, back to me, as though it was significant. I shrugged nonchalantly.
It stopped the following week at the same time and I told Ashleigh she needed a new clock.
‘It only stops when you’re here,’ she said.
Yeah, right, I thought.
It stopped at 11:30 the following three weeks, and although I didn’t want to admit it, the innocuous little timepiece was beginning to obsess me. I couldn’t concentrate on the therapy as I waited for 11:30 to come around. What did it mean? Was it real? Was Ashleigh somehow manipulating it to get me to believe in her spiritual world?
‘What’s going on?’ I demanded of Ashleigh.
She smiled and then explained that spirits often used time or frequency waves such as television and radio to communicate. My sister Josie had told me the day before that she’d awoken with a start in the early hours to the sound of her television blaring. I didn’t believe any of it.
When I first told Nic about the clock, he said it was Criddy.
I said coincidence.
When the clock stopped the following week Ashleigh suggested Christopher was stuck in the spiritual no-man’s land and was perhaps asking me to let him go.
There had to be another explanation, a scientific one. Was the clock faulty? Was Ashleigh tweaking it? How could she be? The black hands stop but the red hand maintains its circular schedule.
And Ashleigh seemed as shocked as I was. This was t
he seventh week in a row. Could it be Christopher?
‘Is it?’ I whispered.
Ashleigh smiled and made an appointment for ten the following week.
‘Why ten? I always come at eleven. I don’t want ten.’
‘I have another commitment at eleven.’
I knew it was a deliberate attempt to vanquish the elephant in the room and I was angry with her.
The following week the day was bleak. I didn’t want to go to Ashleigh because it was the wrong time. I arrived at ten with two steaming takeaway coffees. I was miffed and childishly indignant.
The room felt frosty and I was unsure whether it was the winter chill or tension and my foul mood. The pigeons were pecking away at the raindrops falling in rivulets down the frosted windows.
I could hear the clock beyond my left ear but I didn’t care about it today. This was a wasted, pointless session. The room was morbidly still and quiet. She asked questions and like a petulant child I answered with monosyllabic grunts. Suddenly there was a loud bang. We stared at each other for several seconds—Ashleigh’s eyes widened in amazement, her open mouth formed a perfect circle.
I followed her gaze behind my left shoulder. The tissue box was in its normal position and the tealight threw a luminous glow over the black Buddha. Next to it my glass of water was empty. The clock had fallen over on its face. I gasped. I was too shocked to pick it up but I could hear the muffled ticking. Ashleigh didn’t move.
The room suddenly darkened and my heart picked up pace.
What was happening? I looked at Ashleigh pleadingly.
She righted the clock which had stopped at exactly 10:30, except for the red hand. Ashleigh arched her eyebrows and I shrugged.
‘He’s stuck,’ she stated. ‘Many people believe spirits can’t move on to the next realm until they are sure their loved ones are alright.’
Missing Christopher Page 14