by Isla Evans
TWENTY-ONE
She saw the rifle, its barrel gleaming dully in the fading light, as soon as she turned into the passageway leading to her father’s bedroom. She came to an abrupt halt, and stared, disbelief shoved aside by mushrooming distress. For as long as she could remember, that rifle’s existence had been betrayed only by a flash of walnut stock or a glimpse of blackened metal deep in the recesses of her father’s wardrobe; but now it was out in the open. And she understood the implications immediately.
The rifle was propped in the only corner of the bedroom that she could see from where she now stood, and she knew there was significance in the placement. To see the rest of the room she would have to continue up the passage and through the doorway, then turn to face the matching twin beds, and her father, and a choice that had clearly been made. But instead she remained where she was, unwilling to move forward in either space or time. And she suddenly reasoned that the events waiting to unfold could not begin without her, that she was the linchpin, and therefore as long as she remained on the periphery there could be no conclusion. But even as she clutched at this reasoning, the rifle casually mocked her with its presence. And she knew that, really, she was nothing more than a bit player. She could only postpone, not prevent, whether she liked it or not.
Her feet moved forwards, almost mechanically, as if they belonged to someone else. And part of her was able to marvel at this, to glance down and think, Look at that, how funny, I’m walking and I didn’t really mean to. Even while her mind started to protest, becoming louder and louder as she slowly neared the doorway. Until she was only a few metres away and it was yelling at her not to go closer. Now she could see how the wooden stock of the rifle gleamed, as if it had recently been polished. And this thought spiralled into the noise within her head until it was no longer yelling, it was screaming. And so was she. But not because of the rifle, or the doorway, or what lay beyond, but because the house was shaking, vibrating, from the thunderous noise of bulldozers shuddering through the walls. And she just wanted it all. To. Stop.
Kate’s eyes flew open and she stared up at the darkened ceiling, her heart thumping. For a moment she wasn’t sure where she was and she reached out a hand, automatically, towards Sam’s side of the bed. Realisation that he wasn’t there came at the same time as remembrance that she didn’t want him anyway. Not at all. She took deep breaths until her heart steadied. In, two, three, out. In, two, three, out. Then she rolled over to check the time: 3.23 am.
Curling into the foetal position, Kate allowed herself to go through the dream before it faded. Already the pure intensity of emotion was rather blunted, although a dull sense of foreboding remained, even though she already knew that the worst had happened. Whether or not she chose to go through the doorway wouldn’t change a thing now. But this dream had been extraordinarily vivid. She could still see the passage walls on either side of her, the doorway ahead, the rifle in the corner. She paused, and took an imaginary step forward, and then another. And another. When she was so close that she could have reached out her hand and touched the wood of the doorframe, she stopped and wrapped herself around the image, holding it tight. Then, without allowing herself to think about what she was doing, she got out of bed and went over to the desk, turning on the laptop.
The screen glowed in the darkness but Kate didn’t bother turning on the overhead light. She sat down and immediately started typing out her nightmare which, apart from the bulldozers, hadn’t been a nightmare at all. Not in the true sense anyway. She used third person, to maintain distance, and her fingers flew across the keys, suddenly desperate to turn thought into text. They only slowed as she reached the part that matched the image she still held tight. Standing at the doorway, poised to go forward.
Kate leant back in her chair, no longer in such a hurry. She read through what she had written and suddenly realised that, despite the subject matter, she felt proud. Even though she had yet to turn the corner, she had accomplished something. Which was good. And when it was finished, and it would be finished, she would package it up and give it to Angie to read, and understand, and share.
She stared at the patiently blinking cursor and thought about the earlier conversation with her cousin, warmed by the validation it had brought in its wake. It was not as if she hadn’t always realised Angie was there, more that it had simply all seemed too hard. Too hard to start, too hard to finish. Nor had some sort of miracle now occurred, whereby everything was suddenly effortless and uncomplicated; that only seemed to happen in the movies. But things did seem a little bit clearer and Kate supposed that a psychologist would have some clinical term for it all. But terminology wasn’t nearly as important as results, and she knew that she felt lighter.
Not that this absolved Sam of culpability. Kate’s eyes narrowed even at the thought. Her orb of anger was still very much intact. Regardless of yesterday’s watershed moments, he had betrayed her by his actions. The end did not justify the means. And what that meant for their marriage remained to be seen.
For now though she kept that to one side so that she was able to concentrate on other matters. Kate stared at the screen, at the patient cursor, and was reminded of a Latin phrase her father would use when turning over a new garden bed. Tabula rasa, a blank slate. She knew, from later studies at university, that it actually referred to infant humans, rather than organic vegetables, but nevertheless it had stuck as a term for new beginnings. This could be her tabula rasa. An opportunity to come to terms with the past, package it up neatly and then put it away. It was time to finish his story, so that she could continue with her own.
TWENTY-TWO
She walked slowly forward, her stomach tight, and passed through the doorway. Her father’s eyes flew open as soon as she entered and she knew he had been waiting for her, battling sleep. She sat down on the bed opposite and watched as he slowly levered himself into a sitting position and then swung his legs to the floor, pulling his chequered dressing-gown over his shoulders. He looked no different from yesterday, or the day before. Yet unimaginably different from last year.
Olive skin now pale, with fleshy pouches that cradled deep-set eyes. A network of lines that once spoke of hard work and ready smiles, but were now cemented with pain. Grey hair kept short all over except for a few strands vainly covering his balding pate. A body once lean and strong, but now with the muscles so eroded that the skin hung like curtain swags between the jutting bones. The room had a sickly-sweet smell, a cloying mix of old man, illness and mind-numbing boredom. Their eyes caught and she looked down, unwilling to acknowledge the subject that hung, like a tangible entity, in the air between them.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Shithouse.’ His breath rasped and he adjusted his position awkwardly. As he did so, the bedspread moved and she glimpsed, beneath the bed, a bottle half-full with urine. She closed her eyes briefly against the pain. Throughout her entire childhood she had never even seen him semi-naked. Now disease had accomplished what temperament could not: it left him exposed.
‘I got the rifle out, but I couldn’t get the other stuff.’ The words punctuated the silence like bullets themselves.
She inhaled deeply, forcing the air into her lungs and holding it there until it seared, then letting it go with a rush that broke the silence. Only then did she glance across at him. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it has to be now? You can’t wait?’ Anything to postpone.
‘No. Enough’s enough.’
‘Then I’ll get them for you.’ She rose slowly to her feet. ‘What about everyone else? They’ll want to see you. First.’
He began shaking his head before she even finished the sentence. ‘No. I can’t. Just say that . . . whatever. Do what you have to.’ He shrugged as he avoided her gaze and she realised that he was almost beyond caring, yet paradoxically still capable of feeling a measure of guilt. But relief was more meaningful than the solace of others.
Suicide had first been given
a voice about five months ago. But the voice, until recently, had been compassionate, caring, thoughtful. Sharing with everybody, not keeping secrets, raising questions and exploring options based on mutual concern. And then discussing them endlessly – so endlessly that there had been times, many times, that she had wished he would go ahead and do it. Just do it.
But that was then – and now everything was different. He had deteriorated rapidly over the past few weeks and was now in constant pain. Motor neurone disease warred with chronic bronchitis that placed pressure on the inoperable aneurysm near his heart. He simply no longer had the strength to be anxious about others. He just wanted out.
She went to the glass-fronted secretaire in the lounge room. Purchased at an auction years before for the princely sum of ten shillings, and now jammed behind his Jason recliner, it had always been a place for him to keep his coin collection, old keys and a myriad of odds and ends – including the bolt from his rifle, and a choice of two different types of ammunition.
When she returned, he was lying down again and at first she thought he was sleeping. But he opened his eyes and fastened them on what she held in her hands with an anticipation that made her blood run cold. She sat back down as he struggled to rise and immediately reached out for the bolt and two boxes of rounds. He cradled them gently, his calluses a roughly hewn red against the pewter sheen of the rifle bolt.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ She asked the question automatically, grasping at the mundane. Deflecting the inevitable.
‘No, love,’ he smiled at her for the first time as he shook his head ruefully. ‘I just couldn’t stomach it.’
She went over to the corner and picked up the rifle, pausing for a moment to breathe as she felt the cool weight press against her hands. Then she took it over and leant it against his bed. He had put on his thick-rimmed glasses and was examining the boxes of rounds with an interest that stood in stark contrast to his previous apathy. She turned away and wandered aimlessly around the room, glancing at the cluster of framed photographs with their nostalgia strangely at odds with what was happening. She paused on her paternal grandparents, captured in a brief moment of time when they had eyes only for each other. They ignored her sternly. What was she doing? Why was she doing it? Sacrilege, sacrilege.
He was suddenly racked by a vicious coughing fit. It lasted for a minute or so, rattling the box of rounds in his hand, before finally fracturing into a series of dry, hacking gasps. Putting the rounds down, he reached for a jar of tablets on the bedside table and extracted several, washing them down with a glass of water.
‘I’m going to use rat shot, makes less mess.’
‘But isn’t . . . I mean, won’t that be more risky?’ Even with her limited knowledge of ammunition, she was fairly sure that solid shot was a safer bet. Momentarily, she replayed this conversation and realised that she was sitting here, discussing with her father the best type of bullet to use in order to end his life. Her mind recoiled from the absurdity and she filed it away under things to deal with later. Much later.
He inserted the bolt and then loaded the rifle clumsily with the chosen rounds. ‘Could be, but this is better . . . less mess,’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ She had to be certain, really certain.
‘I’ve never been surer of anything.’ He leant the rifle carefully by his leg and stared at her, demanding eye contact. ‘If I wait any longer, I won’t be able to stay here. You know that. And I’ll still be in bloody agony. I can’t breathe, can’t eat, can’t keep anything down. It’s a done deal. And I’ll tell you something for nothing, love, I’ve had a gutful.’
She tried desperately to think of something that could steal a few more precious moments, rescue a semblance of normalcy. But there was nothing left. ‘Do you want me to stay?’ Please say no, please, please, please.
‘No!’ His horror was automatic and she was washed with relief, and a strange sense of comfort that he could still be protective. Even now.
‘I love you.’ She couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she moved across to his bed and sat beside him. They hugged, and she could smell his illness and his desperation, but most of all she could sense an overwhelming feeling of regret, threaded with relief. But maybe that was just hers.
He broke off the embrace first, probably not because he wanted to but because it was simply too painful for him to remain in one position for long. He looked at the phone. ‘D’you reckon I should ring Angie?’
She stood up, surprised at the question, and by a flash of jealousy. ‘Well, I suppose if you want to. It’s up to you.’
‘Nah,’ he shrugged. ‘Just tell her . . . you know.’
She nodded. ‘I know.’
He reached out suddenly and clasped her hand with a firm grip that made his knuckles stand out as the flesh folded in around. ‘Love you . . . and thanks.’
She left the room and walked down the passageway and into the kitchen. There she stood at the window and gazed blindly through the net curtains. Long minutes passed and she began counting under her breath. Five, four, three, two, one . . . she could hear the occasional car on the road outside and it seemed a world away.
As the minutes ticked by, she started to panic, drumming her fingers painfully against the countertop. Maybe he was having second thoughts. Maybe he was even hoping that she would stop him, take control, call it off – and unless she went back in now, right now, he would be forced to go through with it to save face. Maybe he desperately wanted someone, anyone, HER, to call his bluff, take the rifle, confiscate all knives, forbid him to do anything. Maybe her grand sacrifice was nothing more than a grand betrayal.
She had just turned away from the window when the rifle shot cracked across the silence, leaving behind an echo that belied its finality. It was almost immediately accompanied by a thin, high wail so full of pain that she thought she would vomit just from hearing it. She didn’t pause to think, just raced back through the house and into the bedroom. Then she came to a shuddering halt as she took in the scene before her.
The wail had stopped and, on the bed, her father lay full-length with the rifle on his stomach, his hands clutching the trigger guard and the barrel just short of his mouth as if it had popped out with the recoil. And his mouth . . . it gaped and glistened with the sheen of blood while his eyes stared at the ceiling. Until, that is, he realised she was there and then they suddenly, swiftly, swivelled around to meet her own and she realised at once that they were conveying an urgent, desperate message. He was just as horrified, horrified at her entry, horrified at her presence, he was telling her, beseeching her, screaming at her to get out, get out, for God’s sake don’t look at me like this, GET OUT!
She got out. She ran back to the kitchen where she froze, her hands clenched in desperation. They had stuffed it up. She needed to call an ambulance. He would be a vegetable, brain-damaged, worse off than before. She needed someone to tell her what do to. Somebody. Anybody. Sam.
After about five minutes of mind-numbing indecision, she forced herself to walk slowly, quietly back up the passageway, but stopped short of entering the bedroom. She never, never, wanted to see those eyes again. And that was when she realised she could still hear his breathing. Big, strong gulps for breath, desperately gasping, rasping, agonised labouring, frantic inhalations. Oh god, why couldn’t he just die?
She leant with her back against the doorframe, put her hands over her ears, and slowly slid down until she was squatting on the floor. Silently screaming, shouting, pleading, begging, until her head was thick with noise. And there she stayed, rocking backwards and forwards, for what seemed like hours before she forced herself into stillness and took her hands away from her ears. Then all she could hear was someone muttering ‘Oh god, oh god, oh god’, over and over and over again. Moments later she realised that the litany was hers, and the breathing had stopped.
Afterwards, when she checked the little carriage clock, she realised that it had taken him fifteen minutes to die. For her, it w
ould always feel like time froze and yet stretched simultaneously. Somehow. Even when she registered that she could no longer hear the ragged breathing, it was a long while before she could enter the room. And when she did, she moved very slowly. She saw her paternal grandparents endlessly gazing at each other, she saw her father’s medi-alert lying nearby and she saw a full cup of cold tea that he must have attempted earlier in the day. She saw his dressing-gown folded at the end of the bed, she saw his yellowed dentures placed neatly next to the glass of water – and she saw him.
In all the months that have passed since that day, this is the image that has remained clear. It requires a deliberate effort to picture her father as the man he once was, to see him at work or at play, a grandchild on a knee, or a meal before him. Yet it requires no effort to remember how he looked at the end. Like an indestructible photograph – a hideous moment carved in time. His final gift to her. That she need only close her eyes in order to see him again, and again, and again.
The peripherals are slightly blurred, but he himself is quite clear, striped pyjamas shrouded by a floral bedspread, lying flat on his back, with his legs looking rather longer than they should. His hands are no longer clutching at the rifle but have fallen away and lie limply, one at his side and the other on his concave belly. The rifle itself lies snugly along the length of his body, with the muzzle now innocently pointing at the wall behind. But these are incidentals, and it is always the face that compels. His neck is slightly arched and his head is tilted back so that it is necessary to take another step forward in order to see the expression – and it is awful. Forever frozen in a last paroxysm of agony, silently screaming for eternity. Yet totally vacant. The spirit has fled, the vessel depleted. Tabula rasa. His mouth still gapes but is now black and cavernous. And his eyes . . . they are already dull and marbled, no longer accusing, they now just stare blindly at the ceiling.