Being Here

by Barry Jonsberg

  I think of Adam, insubstantial as a dream.

  And I ponder how something that exists only in my imagination can radiate heat and stroke my face and pick up pages from a torn book. My dog is dead and gone. He is no longer of this world. But at the moment of his death something else has stirred and come to life. Adam is here. Really here.

  CHAPTER 11

  I WAKE AT TWO-THIRTY FIVE and I know.

  There is a moon outside and the walls of my room are painted in silver. The colours merge with my dream. It is not uncommon to wake in the early hours of the morning. Pain is often my alarm clock.

  This time, though, my body is at peace. It is my mind that hurts.

  I know.

  I cradle the knowledge through the long hours to dawn.

  ***

  Jane takes my hand.

  ‘It was peaceful, Leah. I promise you that. She didn’t suffer. Just went to sleep and didn’t wake. I am so sorry. I know you were close.’

  There are tears in her eyes. I wonder how she copes with looking after the elderly. Death comes with the job. What effect does that have over time? The constant erosion of emotions by the battering waves of death. The accepted wisdom is that nurses become immune. It is their only defence. But Jane is different. I am glad she is different. When we lose the ability to care we become less than human. But the toll … I nod. I have had a number of dark hours to think it through. I do not know how I knew. It is a mystery, and the older I get the more the mysteries accumulate. I no longer try to fathom them.

  Lucy was here and now she is gone. It is as unexpected as it is expected.

  We talked last night about the final journey. I thought I would be the first of us to set out into the unknown. I was wrong. I wonder if she has her answers now.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Jane. I rub her hand. It is my office to comfort her. ‘We are old. It happens. It must happen. You cannot take it to heart. It’s not personal.’

  She smiles, but it is a weak and helpless thing.

  ‘Not sure how much more personal it can get,’ she says.

  ‘It’s not personal,’ I repeat.

  ‘Would you like me to stay with you today?’ she asks.

  ‘You have work to do.’

  I see her mind considering. Her mouth moves to utter the words, but she stops herself in time. This is work. The comforting of the elderly at times of bereavement is what, among other things, I am paid to do.

  ‘It can be arranged,’ she says finally.

  ‘You go about your work,’ I say. ‘I’m fine. But thank you.’

  ‘I’ll get you dressed and into the lounge.’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to stay in bed. I’m tired, Jane. It wasn’t a good night.’

  She eyes me. There is doubt there. I shouldn’t be left alone to mope. She has a duty of care. For Jane it’s not just a statement in a job description. It’s a moral imperative.

  ‘What about your visitor? That young lass who comes every day? Do you want me to tell her to come back another time or do you want the company?’

  ‘Send her to my room,’ I say.

  Jane kisses me on the cheek. I know that is not in the care-of-geriatrics manual.

  ‘I’m so glad she visits, Leah,’ she says. ‘It’s put a glow in your cheek and a spring in your step.’

  I smile.

  ‘She’s a nice girl. I enjoy her company.’

  I do not add that I have treated her badly, that in so doing I have probably forfeited the pleasure of her company. And it is pleasure. She is not simply a receptacle for my story. She is a human being and must, therefore, be treasured.

  I watch the day grow old and die.

  Carly doesn’t come.

  She doesn’t come the next day either.

  CHAPTER 12

  I AM LOWERED INTO A wheelchair for the journey to the car. Someone lifts me into the back seat of a long, black, sleek vehicle. A nurse – not Jane – sits in the back with me. Our driver wears a dark cap and a sombre expression.

  Despite the circumstances, I am glad when we leave the Home behind. I cannot remember the last time I left the grounds. The sun dominates a cloudless sky. I want to wind down the car window. It operates with a button and it takes time to work out how to do it. I breathe in air that is pungent with life and watch the landscape roll past. My nurse doesn’t say anything. I do not know if that is consideration or indifference, but I am grateful.

  The church is small and crowded. I am helped into the wheelchair once more and wheeled down the central aisle to take my place at the front and to one side. I have the best view in the house. Lucy’s daughter kneels before me and we whisper routine sentiments. There is sadness in her eyes, but I think I also detect the faintest hint of relief. I understand that. I respect that.

  The minister is young and talks too long. He makes the mistake of assuming a knowledge he doesn’t possess. I am faintly irritated by his insistence on appropriating Lucy for God’s benefit. I remember some of her last words to me. That organised religion is too in love with ritual. I wonder if he uses the same format for each funeral, the same pious assumptions of a meaning behind all this. It is, I know, in the nature of things. Wheel one in, dispose of it, work through the list. Next, please.

  Yet I also know he believes everything he says. His words are steeped in sincerity. It makes forgiveness easy.

  I gaze around the church. It is wonderful and if God is anywhere He is here. The stained-glass windows are delicate, exquisite. The pulpit is elegant, the cross simple. No body crowned in thorns and slumped in the agony of victory. A plain wooden cross. Mother would have disapproved. She craved drama in her religion. She expected it to be full of pain. She always had difficulty getting beyond the Old Testament. The New, for her, was like a re-make of an old classic film. It lacked style and tried too hard to please.

  The coffin is simple, too. I think Lucy would have liked it.

  Once the ceremony is over I am wheeled back to the car. Lucy’s daughter has invited me to her house for sausage rolls, curled sandwiches and pointless reminiscence. I have declined. I have said my goodbye. Nothing else remains.

  The chauffeur stubs out a cigarette and straightens his cap as we approach. I wonder if he ever thinks about the day he will be driven in his turn, that final crunch of rubber on some gravel-strewn path. Sooner than he thinks if he keeps up the smoking.

  My nurse applies the brakes as the chauffeur moves to open the back door. I am touched on the arm. When I turn the sun is directly in my eyes and I have to squint at the figure above me.

  ‘Hey, Mrs C.’

  ‘Carly,’ I say. My heart jumps. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She kneels down into the shade of the car. I see her through the watery film of sun-bludgeoned eyes. She smiles and I am thrilled to see the artist’s palette of her teeth.

  ‘I went to the Home,’ she says. ‘They told me you were here. That it was a funeral. My boyfriend, Josh, drove me.’ She points to an old, rusted car at the far reaches of the car park. A young man stands, leaning against the passenger door. He has his arms folded. Even at a distance and even with my failing eyes I can see the boy from the photograph, which, I realise, I still have. One leg is bent. Carly gives him a wave, but he doesn’t respond.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Why the rush? You could have waited until I got back. Or you could have returned tomorrow.’

  Carly blushes and then I realise.

  ‘You thought it was mine, didn’t you?’ I say. ‘They didn’t tell you I was just a spectator.’

  She spreads her arms.

  ‘Hey, you know. I got confused. They said “funeral” and I just made assumptions. It was dumb. I know that. But I asked where it was and they gave me the address. I rang Josh. Here we are.’

  I laugh.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’m surprised it’s not mine, as well.’

  She laughs too.

  I want to apologise, but maybe it’s the su
n. Maybe it’s the silent nurse and the grim-faced chauffeur who smells of smoke. Maybe it’s just not the right time.

  ‘I love your teeth,’ I say instead. ‘They are an explosion of colour.’ Her hand automatically goes to her mouth, but she quickly drops it. ‘Is that something you chose or something the dentist made you wear?’

  ‘The orthodontist? No. I chose these colours. If you’ve got to wear braces, well, I figured you might as well go all the way. Know what I mean? Loud and proud. To hell with it. In your face.’

  ‘You made the right choice,’ I say. ‘They are bright and cheerful. They match your personality.’

  The nurse coughs and I battle the urge to stay here talking a while longer just to spite her. She is on duty. Her time is much more disposable than mine. But I don’t. Years of submission to duty win out once more. I can’t change this. I have stopped trying.

  ‘I am delighted to see you, Carly.’ I say. ‘I wasn’t sure if I would.’

  ‘Ah, no worries, Mrs C. It’s just that I’ve been kinda, you know, busy the last week. Assignments and stuff.’

  I think it is a lie. But a sweet one.

  ‘So, can I come and see you again?’ she says. ‘You know, if you want.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ I say. ‘When?’

  She scratches her nose.

  ‘I guess you wouldn’t want me to come later today, would you? I mean, this kinda thing probably takes it out of you.’ She waves her arms to encompass the immediate environment. The gesture takes in the funeral.

  ‘I would love that. And please thank your young man for driving you here. It was kind of him.’

  She glances over at her boyfriend. He has not moved a muscle.

  ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Well, catchya later then, Mrs C. Cool wheels, by the way.’

  The chauffeur has opened the back door and the nurse is itching to get me out of the wheelchair. I allow myself another sentence. To hell with it, I think.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘As wheels go, they are certainly … cool.’

  The return journey seems much shorter. I think about Carly talking to the receptionist at the Home and the confusion she must have felt. I know she always gets the bus when she comes to see me. It’s something she mentioned. When she thought I was dead, she rang her boyfriend, made him collect her. I can’t imagine he was happy to drop everything for an old woman he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t look like someone easily coerced. Yet she insisted.

  I am touched.

  She wanted to be at my funeral. She wanted to say goodbye.

  I am moved beyond anything I’ve experienced lately. The tears that stubbornly refused to materialise at Lucy’s funeral now make an abrupt appearance. I watch the landscape through their haze.

  I am an old fool and I don’t know why I am weeping.

  CHAPTER 13

  DICKENSIAN LONDON WAS A SQUALID, crowded, noisy, smelly place.

  The author’s words were strange. Many I did not understand. But the pictures he painted with them were vivid. Oliver was painfully thin. His spirit shone through his skin. Fagin was not, as he seemed to become later, when the novel was turned into an entertainment for the eyes only, a lovable scallywag, but a bent and bitter soul with darkness in his heart. The Artful Dodger was old beyond his years. He was the sin of the times, a childhood withered before it had had the chance to bloom.

  I read to Adam, but in my mind Pagan was always there, his tail thumping on the barn floor, raising small clouds of dust. I finished the first day of Oliver’s arrival in London. When I glanced up from the page, Adam was regarding me as if nothing else existed. Maybe it didn’t.

  ‘I have seen that place,’ he said.

  ‘Show me?’ I said.

  ‘So your mother let you keep the ripped-up book?’ says Carly. ‘That’s kind of out of character.’

  ‘It was never mentioned again,’ I reply. ‘Something changed the day she killed my dog. She never apologised. As I told you before, there was nothing to apologise for. But you don’t spend your entire life weighing up moral consequences, as mother did, without wondering if what you did was wrong, if she had in some way betrayed me. So she ignored the issue. I kept the loose pages of my book in an old box in the barn. She knew they were there. But neither of us spoke of it. We carried on as if nothing had happened, our respective secrets in respective boxes. We never mentioned Pagan again either.’

  ‘All that secrecy and fear. It must have been a horrible life.’

  ‘But it wasn’t, Carly. Seriously. Mother loved me. I loved her. We both loved the farm.’

  She snorts.

  ‘Why do you find that so hard to believe?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re kiddin’ me, right? Unless it’s like that battered wife thing. You know, the women who are so low on self-esteem that they end up thinking violence is a kind of love.’

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I am using the tools of narrative. I am focusing on only part of the picture, the conflict that drives my story. I might have told you instead about the time Mamma dressed us up as characters from a book. She took the role of the wicked witch and I was Snow White, but we laughed so much we couldn’t stay in character. Or the picnics by the dam, my head resting on her stomach as I watched clouds drift. Or collecting windfalls from the orchard, the two of us dunking for apples as they bobbed in a water trough. Mamma and me. Soaked in water and laughter.’

  The images are sharp in my mind. Every detail is in focus.

  The girl doesn’t appear convinced. She scratches at her forehead.

  ‘I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,’ she says. ‘Tell me about Adam instead.’

  Carly hadn’t turned on the recording machine until I’d insisted. We both knew our talks would never see the light of day in any school assignment. But I wanted to feel my words weren’t just fluttering in the air for a while before shrivelling and dying, like moths around an indifferent flame. The machine was a comfort.

  ‘Tell you about Adam?’ I said. ‘The problem is knowing when to stop …’

  I think … It is difficult to know what I think. Even more difficult to know what I believed then, so many years ago. Five lifetimes for someone of your age. But I believe that, at first, Adam changed according to my needs. His personality, but also his looks. Whatever my child-like imagination created as the exotic, the exciting, from the little I knew and the lot I had read. He was my fiction.

  That changed the night Pagan died. Adam was truly outside of me now. He no longer owed me his existence. And that was wonderful, because he became more magnificent than I could imagine. Those eyes, a romantic brown at first, became flecked with grey. His body was no longer the hard and muscled fantasy of a pre-pubescent girl. Not that I had fantasies. Not consciously at least. And I certainly had no conception of sexuality. That was not something taught in church, and, as you can imagine, it was not a topic Mother would have found suitable for instruction or after-dinner conversation. But a sexual nature there was, though I would never have known where it came from nor recognised its manifestations. I think maybe that was part of it. Bury sexuality and it must surface somewhere. For me, it surfaced in Adam. Anyway, he became softer. His hair curled, turned coarser. He wasn’t an idealised version of an older brother or a romantic lover. He was … He was Adam.

  And he loved me. I knew that. Perhaps at first he had no choice. I’d designed it as the cornerstone of his creation. But now … he was freed from that compulsion. He chose to love me. And that made the love sweeter than I can describe.

  He was truly independent of me. Adam had little in the way of a sense of humour. He was so earnest, he would take things literally. And no woman I know would create someone with a stunted sense of humour. It’s what women find most attractive, or so I’m told. Yet Adam rarely laughed. Even his smiles were, more often than not, a response to mine. He went to extravagant lengths to please me. Some of the places we visited – the landscape of books I so adored – were, for him, unexciting, even tedious. Yet he wa
s with me every step of the way. He grew to hate London in the nineteenth century. The sweaty bulk of humanity offended his soul. Yet he never complained. He knew that for me the world was inside my head. He wanted to be wherever I was.

  On the farm, he sensed those few occasions when I wanted to be alone. I’m not sure he understood them. He seemed to think any time spent apart from me was wasted. Yet he would vanish when I wanted to roam the orchards by myself and obviously any time when mother was around. Every morning when I woke he would be curled up at the end of my bed. I once called him as faithful as a dog with a dog’s sleeping habits. He didn’t smile. He didn’t take offence. It was simply what he wanted to do.

  And Adam was affectionate. He loved to touch me, the feel of my hair on his fingers or the taste of my skin on his lips. Sometimes we would hug and feel the beating of each other’s heart. Even now, after all the long years we have been apart, I feel his absence as a physical sensation. It is a knife within my flesh. It is a knife within my soul.

  Carly plucks at her lower lip. I realise she finds it hard to believe. I am slumped in my chair and I know what she sees. An old woman, with hair as dry and dead as parched grass, her skin loose on her bones, crumpled, desiccated, hollow. What would such a creature know about passion? More importantly, why would she have the bad manners to comment on it? It is an offence to good taste.

  Yet nothing in her eyes betrays such thoughts. She is absorbed. Maybe moved.

  ‘What happened to Adam, Mrs C?’ she says. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘His story is not yet told,’ I say. ‘We will get there, Carly. You know what they say. All things come to those who wait.’

  ‘I thought it was good things come to those who wait.’

  ‘And do you believe that, Carly?’

  She considers this for a few moments.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had to do much waiting.’