by James Roy
He found some clean clothes in his bag and grabbed a towel with shaking hands. He could hear the shower running, and knew that Dad would be reaching in past the curtain, feeling the water temperature with his left hand, adjusting the flow with his right. He could see it in his mind, and it made him smile.
The door creaked behind him, and he turned, instinctively pulling the blanket closer around himself.
Trent was standing in the doorway.
'I'm just going to have a shower,' Harry said.
'Thought you might.'
'Yeah. Look at that. Huh!' He held out his hand. The skin had gone greyish-blue, like Joel's when he was sleeping upright in his Holden jacket, and his fingers were shaking with cold. 'I'm really freezing now,' he said, just as a deep shudder ripped across his chest and down his arms.
'Was the water cold down in that pipe thing?'
'Yeah, you could say that.'
'You're probably not just cold, though. It's the shock.'
'What do you mean?'
'When I got charged by that boar I was telling you about, I got the shivers real bad, and it was heaps hot that day. It's because you were scared.'
Harry nodded. 'Yeah, I was scared.'
'I would've been too,' Trent said. 'But you weren't just scared.'
'Wasn't I?'
It seemed almost painful for Trent to have to admit it. 'You were brave too, I reckon.'
'I was just doing what anyone else would have done,' he said.
'Maybe. If I was smaller I'd have gone in.'
'Yeah, I know.'
'Harold, your shower's ready,' Dad called, and Trent stepped aside.
'You'd better go.'
'Yeah. But thanks for what you just said. I didn't feel very brave, though.'
'You acted brave, but. And I think that's what matters. That's what people remember.'
'I guess so.' Harry hitched the blanket around him again and edged past Trent, heading for that hissing, steaming shower. I don't care about water restrictions, he thought – today I'm staying in the shower for as long as I want.
By the time Harry emerged from the shower, most of the guests had gone, and those who hadn't were out the front of the house, getting ready to leave. 'Too much excitement for some of them,' Dad said when Harry asked why so many had left. 'You've got to admit, it hasn't been your regular run-of-the-mill wedding.'
'No.'
'Certainly not the kind I ever want to go to again,' Mum said, handing Harry a mug of hot chocolate. 'Make sure you dry your hair properly, Harry.'
'Yes, Mum. Where's Frank?'
'Out the front saying goodbye,' Mum replied. 'Why?'
'No reason.'
Greg was at the sliding glass door near the kitchen, kicking off his gumboots, with Trent close behind. 'Man, that drain's really going,' he said. 'The little dam we built upstream didn't really hold, and it's absolutely hammering down into that culvert now. I reckon you got to that kid just in time, Harry.'
Harry cupped his hands around his mug and sipped, felt the warmth run down the core of him. 'Can we not talk about it?' he asked quietly. 'I really don't want to.'
'Yes, I think that's fair enough,' said Dad. 'It's been a pretty big day, and you must be tired.'
'No! No, I'm not tired. I just don't want to talk about that any more. The kid's fine, I'm fine, no one's dead, so can we drop it?'
There was a sudden silence in the room, broken only by the sound of a car horn, honking goodbye from further down the driveway.
'You're right, Harry. We won't talk about it any more.'
But Harry knew that it wasn't over – not yet. Through the front window, he saw that Joe had driven the car up close to the house, and was loading Luke into the back seat. Then he leaned down, kissed Luke on the face, and closed the door, before coming around the back of the car to where Frank, Greta and Denise were waiting. He was looking around as if he'd lost something, and like a sense of déjà vu, Harry knew what was coming next.
'Where's Harry?' he heard Joe ask. 'I want to thank him one last time.' Then he and Denise walked along the long verandah to the front door. 'Is Harry in here?'
'Go on,' Dad said. 'Let them thank you.'
'Again?'
'Again. He's their son.'
Harry stood up, walked slowly to the front door. Maybe heroism wasn't really his thing. Then he saw Frank standing behind Luke's parents, and a thought that he felt vaguely ashamed of flittered through his mind like a shadow past a grimy window.
They were driving. It was dark now, and rain pearled the windscreen. From his seat behind Dad, Harry could see his mother's face, lit faintly by the green displays on the centre console and the stereo, and the reflection from the headlights, and the lights of the oncoming cars. She seemed deep in thought, but that was nothing new.
He slipped the earbuds from his ears to hear what his parents were talking about.
'I lost count in the end,' Mum was saying. 'How about you?'
'Yeah, one or two. I tried not to let it bother me.'
'But why would anyone word it like that? Why would you walk up to someone and say, "Oh, your son's the one with CF, isn't he?" As if that's what defined him!'
'I know, Sandy, I know. But people aren't used to dealing with that kind of illness. We both know that his cystic fibrosis didn't define him, but when you think about it, it did affect so much of his life. Several tune-ups a year, meds all day, every day, the BIPAP at night, his diet, everything. Plus the fact that we lost him before he was even in high school. It's the obvious thing to label him with – "the kid with CF".'
'He had a name, David.'
'I know he had a name! I'm just saying, the kid with CF, the kid in the wheelchair, the kid with the glasses ...'
'Aw,' Mum said, stroking the side of Dad's neck. 'Was that you? Were you the kid with the glasses?'
Dad pretended to sniffle. 'I don't want to talk about it any more.'
'Guys?' Harry said, and if his parents were surprised to hear his voice, they didn't show it. 'How far were Frank and Greta driving tonight?'
'A couple of hours,' said Mum.
'They must be tired.'
'Uh-huh.'
'They'll sleep well tonight,' Dad said. 'It was a pretty emotional day.'
'I thought her speech was nice,' Mum remarked. 'It showed that she really understands Frank, and all that stuff he must carry around in his head.'
'Oh, don't remind me,' Dad groaned.
'Of what?'
'Something I said to him. I suggested he should go down the pipe to get the kid. Luke.'
Mum frowned at him. 'Are you serious? Why would you do that?'
'He was the right size, and he was experienced at it. Remember what I told you? He used to be a tunnel rat.'
'I know, but –'
'And I just thought that in the light of that, it was a pretty obvious suggestion.'
'Are you out of your tiny mind? He was experienced at it? Didn't you think that he might not want to re-experience that? Seriously, David!'
'I know! I know. That's why I said I feel bad. But someone had to go down there before that kid drowned or got washed away, and he seemed like the guy for the job.' His voice faded away, as if he was embarrassed. 'Anyway, those tunnel rats used to love going down there.'
'Yes, until they got blown up or shot in the face.' Mum shook her head and returned to staring out the window, muttering something indiscernible.
'Anyway,' said Dad, his voice strengthening, 'as soon as he told me he couldn't go down there, I realised what I'd said, and I apologised. He understood.'
'It wasn't that,' Harry interjected.
'What do you mean?'
'It's because he's claustrophobic.'
'Of course he's bloody claustrophobic!' Mum exclaimed. 'He crawled around in tunnels under the Vietnam jungle!'
'No, I mean he's always been claustrophobic. He told me,' Harry added, when Mum turned her head to give him a quizzical look.
'What are you talking
about?' Dad asked.
'If I tell you something, do you promise you won't be mad?'
'What have you done, Harold? Come on, out with it.'
Harry took a deep breath. 'You know that caravan at Frank's place, up past the chook shed? I went in there. It wasn't locked,' he added quickly. 'But I went in there, and Frank caught ... I mean, he came in and found me in there.'
Harry was wilting under his mum's stare, which hadn't wavered. If anything, it had become a glare. 'You were snooping?'
'Not really.'
'Sounds like you were snooping, mate,' said Dad.
Harry was keen to move on with his confession. 'Anyway, it's this place he kind of goes to for peace and quiet.'
'Which you invaded,' Mum said.
'Right. And he told me something, after I saw the photos and stuff he has in there. He wasn't a tunnel rat. He didn't even fight in the jungle.'
'I'm sorry?' said Dad.
Mum shook her head and laughed. 'Of course he did, Harry. Everyone in the family knows it.'
'No, Mum, everyone in the family thinks they know it. But he didn't. He told me. And he definitely wasn't a tunnel rat. He's always been scared of small spaces.'
'Then what did he do?'
'Well, when I was in the van, I found . They had his name on them, on the pocket.'
'His overalls?' repeated Mum. 'And? What's that supposed to signify?'
Dad was watching Harry in the mirror, his eyes sparkling. 'He fixed jeeps. He did, didn't he, Harold? He fixed jeeps and trucks at Nui Dat!' An excited smile was beginning to stir. 'That old dog! He was in the transport corps!'
'Yes, he was. I saw his overalls as well as his photos. He never fired a gun.'
'I don't ...' Mum was still shaking her head in disbelief. 'Are you sure?'
'He told me himself.'
'But all those stories ...'
'Those stories were true, but they weren't all his.'
'No, that can't be right. He can't have borrowed other people's stories!'
Dad spoke up. 'What was he going to do, Sandy – tell stories about adjusting the carby in a Willys Jeep?'
'Why not? It would have been the truth.'
'But not a particularly glamorous truth. Not the truth everyone expected of him.'
Mum sighed. 'All this time, we thought he was one thing, and he was something else altogether!'
'What do you mean, he was something else altogether?' Dad replied. 'First and foremost he was your uncle, Sandy. He shouldn't be defined by what he did in the army, any more than Joel should be defined by having CF.'
'I know, but even so ... Why didn't he tell us? Why did he assume we'd think less of him?'
Harry remembered the last thing Frank had said to him, just before he and Greta headed off on their honeymoon. As he'd shaken Harry's hand, he'd leaned closer and said, 'I never lied, not to anyone.'
'Did he ever say that he was a tunnel rat?' Harry asked his parents. 'Have you ever heard him say, "Guys, I was a tunnel rat"? Have you ever heard him actually say those words?'
Mum shook her head. 'No, I don't think I have.'
'Did he ever tell you that he had fired a weapon at the guys on the other side?'
'No, it was always just "When we were in Vietnam" or "There was this big battle". I never thought for a minute that he mightn't have even been there.'
'But he was there,' Dad said. 'You know, Sandy, everyone else is just as much at fault here. You – we – heard all those Vietnam stories, and let ourselves believe that Frank's experiences were the same as everyone else's. Shows how wrong you can be.'
'I feel sad for him,' Mum said. 'And a bit hurt, too. We just assumed, and he let us. He didn't want to talk, and we thought he was too traumatised.'
'Maybe he was,' Dad replied.
Dad was in the restaurant toilet, while Mum and Harry sat at the same table they'd used three days earlier. Harry had his cards out again, shuffling and flipping while Mum sipped her cappuccino and watched the wet carpark. A family of four had just got out of their car and were running across the asphalt, tiptoeing and zigzagging around the puddles while they hunched their shoulders against the rain.
'Mum.'
'Hmm?'
'What's wrong?'
'Nothing's wrong.'
She was lying. It was so clear that something terrible was wrong, something huge. Not only had she been snappy in the car, but there was the expression she now wore, clamped onto her face like a solid, impregnable mask. Yes, something big was wrong. A little wrong thing wouldn't cause her to set her jaw so fiercely, or to bite at the inside of her lip the way she was. A little wrong thing wouldn't cloud her eyes with so much simmering fury.
'Are you cross with Frank?'
She shook her head.
'Are you cross with me?'
She kept her eyes fixed on the car park. 'Not just you. I'm not real happy with your idiot father either.'
'Why, Mum? What have we done?'
Now, finally, she looked at him. 'I've lost one son already, Harry. I didn't expect that I might lose another one doing something unnecessary.'
Harry frowned. 'Are you still talking about the kid down the drain?'
'What else?'
'Mum, it was necessary. He would have died.'
'And so might you have, Harry! I can't believe you would crawl down a drain in the middle of a flash flood –'
'It wasn't really a flash flood.'
Her eyes surged with anger. 'You went down a drain, Harry,' she said, almost snarling as she struggled to keep her voice low. 'You crawled down a drainpipe!'
'I had a rope around my –'
'I lost one son, and I would never expect that going to a family wedding might cost me the other.'
'But Mum, Dad said he was proud of me, so why are you so mad? Dad reckons I saved that kid's life.'
'And well you might have, but that doesn't change the fact that you could have died, Harry.'
'But I didn't, Mum! I'm alive! And anyway, what about Luke? And what about his mum and dad? Why should they lose their son when there was someone who could save him?'
Harry heard his mother's breath come fluttering out between her tight-set lips. 'I've already lost one, Harry. To lose another would be too unfair.' After furiously wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve, she ripped several napkins from the stainless steel dispenser by the window, using them to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Then she went back to looking out the window, with her red nostrils flaring slightly with each breath.
The rain had picked up again, smattering the shallow puddles with crazy wavelet patterns. It had been falling heavily like this on the fifth of May last year, Harry recalled Mum had just picked him up from school, on the way to the hospital. Dad was already there, sitting with Joel, who had been gradually worsening, day by day, and Harry had noticed that his mother seemed in a hurry, like every minute missed was a minute lost, and wasted.
Her phone had rung just as she was reversing into a parking space in front of the hospital.
'Do you want me to answer that?' Harry asked, preparing to reach into the back seat to recover her handbag.
'No, just leave it,' she said, concentrating on parking. 'I can't see a thing out that back window!'
'I can answer it if you like.'
'No, Harry – leave it, I said!'
The ringing had stopped. Then, once she'd parked the car, Mum had grabbed her phone from her bag and flipped it open. 'It was your dad.' She pressed a key and put the phone to her ear. After a brief pause she said, 'Hey, it's me. I just got here – see you in about two minutes.' The phone clicked shut. 'Come on, Harry, let's go.'
They'd ducked their heads down and run the thirty or forty metres through the rain to the front door of the hospital, taking care not to slip on the wet paving stones. Then they headed through the foyer, with its strange wooden sculptures and huge colourful paintings and arching glass ceiling, and along the warren of corridors to the ward. There were no nurses at the desk, but Har
ry saw three in the hallway, down near Joel's room. A couple of doctors were outside the door as well, one of them writing notes. The doctors glanced up, then stepped to one side as Mum and Harry approached. Mum's pace was quickening, and Harry felt a sudden chill of adrenaline run across his shoulders and down into his guts as he saw what his mother must have already seen – the stainless steel trolley in the hallway, and the expressions on the faces of the nurses. That was when he knew.
Katie was the last nurse. She'd reached out her hand as Mum hurried to the door, but Mum barely noticed. Then Katie touched Harry's shoulder as well, and smiled at him. It was a very soft, despairing smile. He'd swallowed hard and followed his mother around the end of the curtain.
And now they sat across a table from each other while rain fell heavily on customers running from their cars into the bright, plastic restaurant with its bright, plastic food.
'Mum.'
'Hmm?'
'Do you blame me?'
'For what, Harry?'
'Joel.'
Horror crossed her face, sweeping aside her anger like a wave flattening a sandcastle. For a moment she couldn't speak. 'How could I ... Why would I blame you?'
'The holiday in Cairns. I fell asleep. I went into the next room to watch some football, and I got bored and ... and went to sleep.'
'And?'
'I forgot to give Joel his medicine, and I didn't help him with his mask. See, I never thought he was going to go to sleep, Mum. If I'd known that, I'd have helped him with his BIPAP machine and his pills and stuff first. But ... but I went to sleep as well ...'
The horror was still there, evident in Mum's wide eyes and furrowed forehead. And the colour of her face – pale as bones bleached by the sun. Her voice was tiny and thin, like it was being forced through parched, cracked lips. 'You think you caused it?'
'Not caused, no. Just ... just helped, I guess.'
'You think that because you fell asleep your brother died?'
'Or ended up in hospital again. Then he died, before they could get him new lungs or anything.'
Huge tears were welling in Mum's eyes. One of them overflowed, and traced its way heavily down her cheek, leaving a shiny streak in her makeup. 'You've thought that for this whole time? Ever since Cairns?'