‘You’ll miss her,’ I say. And, when he nods, ‘What is she like?’
‘She’s got black hair,’ he says, ‘and brown eyes.’
‘She sounds nice,’ I say encouragingly, thinking he’ll continue with a more detailed description, but he doesn’t. I’m suddenly curious. I want to ask him what kind of person she is. Does she laugh much or get mad easily? How tall is she? Does she ever get angry that she is going to die?
‘My dad might get another car,’ he says suddenly.
‘Do you want to go back with him to Sydney?’
‘No,’ he shakes his head.
At that point we both hear a car arriving up at the house and the boy’s eyes light up.
‘That’s Ross,’ he says. ‘He’ll fix your car no worries.’
Marion’s husband, a huge gentle man with a kindly manner, had the battery recharged and the wire causing the problem sorted out within about five minutes of him opening the bonnet, and now we are travelling back down to Apollo Bay with Travis and his son Peter. Ross will go down and pick them up again in a couple of hours.
As we pull up outside the hospital, I look at my watch, amazed to see it’s nearly three p.m. Mum sees too and smiles.
‘We’ll be on our way, then.’ She turns to the two in the back. ‘We’ve still got a way to go.’ Travis gets out and comes around to Mum’s side and pokes his hand through the open window.
‘Thanks for everything,’ he says. ‘I won’t forget you.’
‘Oh Travis,’ Mum shakes his hand warmly, ‘you’re more than welcome.’
‘I’ll keep my eye out in the local paper,’ he goes on, still holding Mum’s hand and looking earnestly into her eyes, ‘for when the old lady dies. Maybe me and the kid will send a card or something?’
‘That would be so nice!’
I turn around when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
‘Want to come and meet my mum?’ the boy asks shyly. I only just manage to hide a shudder of distaste. No offence, kid, but dying mothers are not on my agenda of things to see and do today.
‘Thanks, Peter, but . . . we’d better get going,’ I mumble.
About to go on, I hesitate because I can see that this nice kid who made the hour or so of waiting pass quickly and pleasantly really does want me to come in and meet his mother. Pretty simple really.
‘She’ll like you,’ he adds seriously, before I can utter a word.
‘Yeah?’ I can’t help smiling.
‘Yeah,’ he smiles, ‘she used to do stuff with her hair too.’
On one hand I’m touched, but . . . I simply don’t want to go in there. I’ve never seen even a seriously sick person before, much less someone who is dying and, considering my present state, I figure it makes sense to leave it that way. After all, I’m going to see Gran soon. If she’s still alive when we get there – which I’m secretly hoping won’t be the case – I’ll do whatever I’m meant to. She’s my grandmother after all. I’ll kiss her, say goodbye, all the right stuff. Not exactly my thing but . . . I’ll do it. And what about . . . Zoe? I suddenly feel like such a creep, and the kid is still looking at me, waiting for my reply. What can I say?
‘Okay,’ I say casually, ‘just for a few minutes, I’ll come say hello.’ I turn to Mum sitting next to me, ‘You coming too?’
To my disappointment she shakes her head.
‘No, darling,’ she says wearily. ‘Not appropriate for me.’
So if it’s not appropriate for her, why would it be for me?
‘How is my best buddy?’ the shrunken figure in the bed whispers. The kid props himself behind her on the bed and puts both thin arms around her frail shoulders.
She smiles hello when we’re introduced, her eyes like huge dark pools in her pale face. Every bone is visible. Such an elaborate structure, with the skin like the finest parchment stretched across them. It’s odd, but she looks younger than me. Doesn’t look even twenty, much less thirty.
‘Is it a nice day outside?’ she wants to know, caressing her son’s arm. ‘Did you go to Adam’s party yesterday?’
How can I describe the next ten minutes? Meeting this woman is so unlike anything I’ve done before. She is so young and weirdly alive! Hearing the gentle rebuke in her voice when she tells Peter he must speak to the teacher if he is having trouble with his reading. Asking what the heck he has done with his good trainers. What fun it will be getting to know Dad again. All the obvious stuff.
I watch Travis’s eyes well up, in the face of the enormity of what is going to happen. It’s the first time he’s seen her since she was diagnosed and he is shocked. I can hear it in his voice. The really odd thing is I came in expecting to feel awkward and out of place, but I don’t . . . and I’m not sure why this is. Okay, it’s sad, but I’m also thinking how cool, how brave she is, just staying . . . ordinary.
When Peter happily suggests that his mum feel my bristly head, she laughs and reaches out both of her claw-like hands.
‘Come here, Rose!’ she says as though she’s known me all my life. ‘Give me a feel.’
And it is at that point, as I’m leaning forward, her bony fingers caressing my skull, the three of them, mother, father, kid, laughing around me, that I feel something give way. The hard rock cemented in place since last summer begins to shift about a bit, it creaks and groans and tries to roll forward.
I don’t know what’s going on exactly, or what to say. But I feel blessed. I know no other way to put it. It’s a strange feeling and only lasts a few seconds but it’s like the inner core of me, held secret for so long, wrapped only in old rags and left to rot in some forgotten dank corner, has been pulled outside and exposed to the sun. The warmth and light come rolling in . . .
I leave soon after. Shake hands formally with Travis, without either of us actually looking at each other. Then I shyly take the woman’s hand and wish her well. When it comes to Peter, I hold out my arms for a hug and he hugs me back tightly with both arms.
‘Thanks for bringing my dad,’ he says.
‘That’s okay.’
We smile, and he runs his hands over my head one last time before I leave.
I find the toilets on the way out, lock myself into a cubicle, sit down on the seat and cry for a long time. Then I splash my face in cold water again and again and wipe it dry with the paper towels. I don’t think Mum notices when I eventually get back out to the van. If she does she doesn’t say anything.
I turn the key and the engine fires up first go. Thank you, Ross! I pull the van out onto the open road, glad to have the diversion of driving.
We’re travelling west and I’m anxious to get to Port Campbell before the sun begins to set or I’ll be virtually driving blind. Mum and I don’t speak. She hunches up in the corner almost as soon as we’re out on the highway.
After half an hour I turn to her, about to ask what she thinks the odds might be of the kid being allowed to stay where he is, happy with Ross and Marion, but her eyes are closed. Her whole body seems tense, her legs are twisted up in what has to be an uncomfortable way and her head is at an oddly stiff angle. Every now and again she drums her fingers on her knees, too, and I wonder what the hell she’s thinking about. Am I meant to say something here? Do something?
Don’tcha just hate it when you’re meant to say something and you can’t because . . . but the sun is in my eyes and Peter is on my mind and the sentences don’t flow the way they normally do, so I put on an old Eric Clapton CD because we both like listening to those low blues riffs. We drive along without speaking.
Mum stirs herself when we get to the Lavers Hill sign.‘Dot called when you were in the hospital.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I tense up.
‘Your father is staying at a hotel,’ she continues in a bland tone, barely above a whisper, ‘with his . . . girlfriend.’
I look at her but she is staring straight ahead. On the point of asking her how she feels about it, I hesitate. I have no idea if Mum has met Cassandra yet, or what she feels about the s
ituation now. Since leaving home, any time my sisters try telling me about the latest development in the Mum and Dad saga, I tell them I don’t want to know. Now I wish I knew more. But something about the way Mum is sitting tells me not to pry.
‘Ah well,’ she sighs after a few moments.
‘Have you met her yet?’ I blurt out.
‘I’ve seen a picture of her,’ Mum says. ‘It’s going to be awful.’
‘Mum, she’s ugly . . .’ I say, meaning it, even though I know it’s not true. ‘Honestly. She is a nobody, compared to you!’
‘A nobody,’ Mum repeats softly, with a grim smile, and then she reaches out and pats my leg as though she doesn’t believe that for a second.
When I next sneak a look I can’t see her face because her hair has come loose from her bun and she has turned away, looking out at the coastal scrub. I try to concentrate on the driving. It’s hard, travelling into the sun.
It’s not long before I’m wrapped up in myself again. Almost against my will I find myself chewing over the remnants of last summer as I drive. Why didn’t I go out that night with Nat and Zoe when she rang to ask me? It was so obviously what I should have done. If I had, then . . . maybe the rest of it wouldn’t have happened.
Last Summer, Melbourne
It’s my turn to get lunch. When I call my sisters into the kitchen it’s after two in the afternoon. They wander inside carrying towels and sunscreen, newspapers and bottles of water, all of them bleary eyed and a bit cranky. Summer has come early this year. The four of us have been sitting around the pool, discussing Mum, who still isn’t up, yet again.
Cynthia has a short blue sundress over her bathers. Her legs and feet are bare and her short hair is curling up into a kind of frizz from the pool in just the way she hates. Hilda is in one of her white cotton sunfrocks, her hair hanging in loose tendrils around her neck. And Dot, who is holding the sleeping Cormac in her arms, is dressed only in her bathers with a towel wrapped around her. Even so, she manages to look like a Madonna figure in a Raphael painting. She settles the little guy on the settee under the window, head to toe with his sleeping twin who conked out half an hour before.
‘I think we should wake her,’ Hilda says, filling a glass jug with water and cracking ice cubes into it. ‘It would be good for her to come down and eat something.’
‘Let her sleep,’ Cynthia orders imperiously. ‘It’s the body’s way of dealing with shock.’
‘It’s the body’s way of dealing with that bloody strong sleeping pill you gave her!’ Dot snaps, slumping down at the table. ‘Are you sure they’re not for horses?’
Cynthia gives a deep exasperated sigh. ‘We’ll have to get her to a shrink soon,’ she declares imperiously. No questions, please!
‘Who will only give her drugs!’ Hilda sniffs dryly.
‘So!’ Cynthia shakes her head impatiently as though the rest of us know nothing. ‘Every drug on the market has been well tested. And, believe it or not, they really help in these kinds of situations!’
‘These kinds of situations,’ Dot mimics, rolling her eyes at me. ‘Madame Expert knows all about these kinds of situations!’
‘She’s not sick,’ Hilda is literally wringing her hands, ‘she’s just . . .’
‘Listen, Hilda,’ Cynthia starts banging the table with her fist, ‘Mum is not eating! She is not sleeping. She has dropped a stone in weight. She is unable to work. I call that being ill!’
‘It’s only a little over a week since her life fell apart!’ Hilda’s eyes are bright with tears. ‘Of course she can’t cope with anything. She’s in a state of grief!’
‘Call it what you want,’ Cynthia sighs impatiently. ‘Extreme psychological states adversely affect the immune system. She might very well be on the way to becoming seriously ill. Some kind of intervention is needed! A doctor who specialises in her condition would be a good start!’
‘Shut up, all of you,’ I intervene, bringing a bowl of chips to the table. ‘Let’s just eat’. I’m getting very sick of these discussions that go round and round without getting anywhere. None of us know what to do, except maybe for Cynthia, who would probably have her admitted to hospital if it weren’t for the rest of us.
I’ve already set out some bread and cheese and pickles and a roasted chicken that I’d bought down the street.
‘Any salad?’ Cynthia snaps.
‘Nope,’ I say, handing her the cheese, ‘and no fruit either.’
Our meals are getting worse and worse. I don’t care that much. I sit down with my sisters and try to summon up a bit of enthusiasm for the food.
We have nearly finished eating when a couple of sharp knocks at the back door make us all go quiet.
‘Let’s not answer it,’ Dot mutters.
‘Let’s just leave it,’ Hilda agrees under her breath. But there is the sound of a key being slipped into the lock, the creak of the back door opening, and footsteps. Then our father is in the room. He is dressed in old, comfortable clothes, and is carrying a big bunch of flowers. He is trying hard to smile.
‘Hello, you lot,’ he says, standing in the doorway. ‘Lunch time?’
‘Daddy!’ Hilda is the first to rise, her face soft with pleasure. She throws her arms around his neck and he puts the flowers down on the table and takes her in his arms.
‘Hello, Hilly my sweetheart!’ He spies the twins asleep on the couch over her shoulder. ‘And the terrors,’ he laughs, ‘having their sleep here?’ The surprise in his voice is understandable. Hilda is usually so particular about getting the twins back to her house for their afternoon nap. I have this sudden, mad impulse to tell him that he wouldn’t believe the changes over the last week; that it’s nothing now for the twins to have ice-cream for morning tea, to wear grubby clothes and to watch television. All complete no-nos before . . . he left
‘We’ve had the boys in the pool.’
‘Good idea. Lovely weather for it.’
Dorothy moves in. ‘Hi Dad!’
‘Dotti!’ Dad hugs her tightly and then looks at Cynthia who hasn’t risen. ‘And how is my mover and shaker?’
Cynthia doesn’t smile. Nor does she get up. She allows him to kiss her cheek, but pulls back from his hand on her shoulder, her mouth grim. It crosses my mind that Cynthia is going to have to watch that mouth. When she gets older it could turn into one of those dog-bum numbers that old people get after years of frowning and disapproving and being concerned.
My turn. Whatever the rightness or otherwise of Cynthia’s plan to be tough, I don’t remember anything of it now. I simply can’t help myself. Tears well up in my throat as I move towards him. He takes a step back, opens his eyes wide then holds both arms out.
‘Rose,’ he says softly. ‘Rosie. Rosie. Rosie. My clever girl!’ Before taking me in his arms, he picks up the beautiful flowers, does a silly bow and hands them to me. ‘I am so proud of you,’ he says seriously, putting both hands on my two shoulders and looking me straight in the eye. ‘Just had to come and tell you how very proud I am.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say.
He looks around at the others. ‘What do you all think? Incredible, isn’t she?’
‘Yes!’ they all nod. ‘Absolutely brilliant.’
Then he hugs me and dances me around the room a bit and I’m laughing before I know it, and crying a bit, too. I’ve always loved the smell of my father, the feel of his rough face on my cheek. I love his voice and the way he laughs and pushes my hair back from my face with his hands.
‘So, Rosie girl,’ he murmurs, wiping away my tears with his two thumbs, ‘it’s all going to plan, love. Not long now and you’ll be at the bar . . . killing ’em dead.’
‘You think so?’ I laugh.
He looks around at the others with his mouth open, feigning outrage that I would even ask.
‘Do I think so?’ he exclaims. ‘I know so. The world is your oyster, girl. Mark my words! I’m getting nervous already!’
The greetings over, a weird awkwardness sets in,
but it isn’t too bad. Cynthia remains cool but the rest of us can’t help rushing off at the mouth whenever he asks a question. We pour him a beer and he sits with us at the table and we talk over each other and drink and laugh. It feels like he’s just home from one of his overseas trips and we’re all catching up on the news.
‘You haven’t opened your card,’ he says when there is a lull in the conversation, pulling the large square envelope from the paper around the flowers and handing it to me.
‘Oh. Thanks Dad,’ I say and immediately tear it open. Inside, a short note. Love and congratulations from Dad, and . . . I gasp . . . a cheque for five thousand dollars.
‘Dad,’ I say in protest, and try to give it back, ‘I can’t take this!’
‘It’s for the van,’ he smiles, putting his hands behind his back so I can’t make him take it back, ‘so you and Zoe can go do your surfing.’
‘But . . .’ I protest weakly, ‘I nearly have the money saved myself. By the end of January I’ll have it. Honestly.’
The cheque is overwhelming. It makes me feel awkward. My parents have never been into big gifts. Sure, we have parties and the house is open to all our friends at any time – booze and fine food laid on – but they’ve always made it clear that they didn’t believe it was their role to hand the big stuff to us on a plate. Instead, they let us know that they gave money to overseas aid organisations, to the Salvos and to the St Vincent de Paul Society. Too many people in real need not to give it away, we were told. And the other message was that there are way too many cosseted, spoilt-rotten kids of wealthy parents who are completely stuffed up because they’ve never had to work for anything. So, in spite of our being very well off, it’s always been understood that we have to save up for things like cars and overseas holidays.
‘It’s instead of a party,’ he says shortly, as though he, too, is suddenly embarrassed by the gift. ‘The others had parties when they left school.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ I try to repress the feeling of being bought off in some way, but I can’t help it. This amount of money jars. It’s too much and we both know it. But I don’t want to hurt his feelings either.
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