The Memory Tree

by Tess Evans

  Sealie reaches up and pushes back Scottie’s hair. ‘You need a haircut,’ she says. The gesture is so intimate that there is no mistaking its meaning. Zav sits silently until an orderly comes to take Sealie to the ward.

  ‘Can you wait while I ring home?’ Zav pauses as he and Scottie prepare to leave. ‘Then how about some breakfast? The coffee shop should be open by now.’

  Zav has forgotten his wallet, so Scottie pays for bacon and eggs and coffee. They sit at a corner table, overcome by mind-numbing fatigue.

  ‘How long?’ Zav finally asks.

  ‘A long time now. Probably since that first dinner at your house.’

  ‘I warned you off that night.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t do much good.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve been married.’

  ‘But I always come back.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask her to marry you?’

  Scottie hesitates. ‘I did. She wouldn’t have me.’

  The other man observes him closely. He has dropped his eyes. Honest, straightforward Scottie is not telling the whole story. ‘Why? Why wouldn’t she have you?’

  Scottie looks up. He’s protected Zav ever since Vietnam, but it’s time for the truth. ‘She’ll never leave you,’ he says bitterly. ‘If it were another lover, I’d be able to fight for her—but I can’t fight you.’

  Zav is suddenly aware that he has known, oh, for a very long time—that Sealie and Scottie are lovers. He has refused to acknowledge this, content with it all so long as Sealie stayed with him. I’m her brother. I need her. He mentally shakes out his head the way you’d shake out a duster. What if his worst imaginings of last night had actually happened? He would not have had her to care for him then. And he would have managed. He would have to have managed. And his loyal little sister would have died never having fully lived her life.

  There’s a challenge in Scottie’s usually mild expression. ‘I love her,’ he says. ‘And that’s a fact.’

  ‘Give me a couple of weeks,’ Zav says. ‘I won’t stand in your way.’

  In the car park, the two men shake hands awkwardly. ‘I couldn’t have done without you, either,’ Zav says. ‘You and Will.’

  ‘Yeah . . . well. You look after yourself, mate.’

  ‘You too.’

  Zav waits for Scottie to drive off, then doubles back to the main building. When Sealie is settled in a ward, he asks her about their father’s medication.

  ‘It’s locked in my desk drawer with the dosage instructions. Key’s in the wooden box in my bedside table drawer.’

  Zav kisses her thoughtfully. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ he says. ‘Just concentrate on getting better.’

  Hal snatches up the phone. ‘Yes . . . Yes . . . Thank God . . . Only a couple of days?’ He turns to Godown who’s uncharacteristically jittery. ‘Ovarian cyst. She’ll need surgery, but it’s all okay.’ His face is tinged with yellow and his eyelids are heavy with fatigue. ‘Zav says no visitors until after the operation.’

  ‘You done good, Hal.’ Godown takes his arm. ‘What about we get you back to bed.’

  Hal’s weariness ensures compliance and he suffers Godown to take off his slippers and dressing-gown before climbing into bed. ‘You’ll wake me up if there’s any—’

  ‘Course I will.’

  Hal lies in his narrow bed and watches the sun-stripes on the wall opposite the window. The venetian blinds are not quite shut and he can see the dust-motes surfing along the breaks. It’s the first week of spring and he can sense the busyness of the garden under the pale sunshine outside. All the trees, shrubs, flowers, insects, birds—the whole of creation renewing itself. And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind, and tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself . . . and God saw that it was good . . . And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight . . . the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil. Genesis has always been Hal’s favourite story.

  It’s good that Sealie’s drama happens in spring. My grandfather always does well in spring, as we know. He is able to react like a real father. He was even collected enough to push the panicky Zav to call an ambulance. He’s able to think things through.

  Meanwhile, Godown rings his wife. ‘She’s alright,’ he assures her. ‘You get some rest and I’ll stay here with Hal.’

  When Godown rings, Mrs Mac is holding her rosary beads, not so much praying as hoping. When she puts down the receiver, all she can say is, Thank you Jesus. Thank you, Mary. Her hands begin to move along the beads. Holy Mary Mother of God . . . she’s praying the old, familiar formula now. Mother of God. Mother . . . She had no children of her own but she feels like a mother. Worries like a mother. Loves like a mother. And here she is, sitting on her own sofa, while her beloved daughter is lying in hospital. She can’t drive. Anyway, Godown has the car. She twists the cross at the end of her beads. I should’ve got a taxi.

  Her first thought had been to go to the hospital. Then she remembered Scottie. That poor fellow. Everyone knows how he feels about Sealie. I’ll ring him, she decided, and we can drive in together. She reckoned without the force of Scottie’s feelings. She had no sooner told him than he hung up. ‘Got to go,’ he said and was gone before she could say anything else.

  So where Sealie’s husband and children might have been, where her mother and father might have been, are her brother, and a lover whose position is tenuous at best.

  My poor little Sealie, Eileen McLennon mourns as the beads slip through her fingers. She remembers a little girl crying, Mummy’s gone . . . remembers the scraped knees, the bruises and bumps, the tears following her failed dream of the ballet. She had held her at those times, kissed her and comforted her. And now, when her little girl could have died, she is left to sit on her sofa and pray.

  It’s mid-morning and Mrs Mac has hardly slept all night. She makes herself a coffee, showers and dresses and catches the bus to the hospital. She buys some wilting flowers from the hospital florist and takes the lift to the third floor. The nurse at the desk is brisk.

  ‘Are you a close relative?’

  ‘No. Well . . . yes.’

  ‘Are you a relative at all? Only close relatives until after her operation.’

  Lying has never been an option for dear Mrs Mac. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m not a relative. I’m a—good friend.’

  The nurse is adamant. ‘She’s quite comfortable at the moment,’ she says with grudging kindness. ‘I’ll give her the flowers if you like. Tell her you came.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mrs Mac blunders her way to the lift, to the bus, down her street until she can close her own door and abandon herself to tears.

  The surgeon has a chubby face and small, blunt fingers. Surprising for a surgeon, Sealie thinks idly through a pleasant haze of pethidine. She always imagined that surgeons had long, slim fingers. The nurse hands him Sealie’s chart.

  ‘Now,’ he says, all businesslike. ‘Selina Rodriguez. D’you mind if I call you Selina?’

  Sealie grins faintly. ‘If you need to call me back from the Great Beyond you’d better call me Sealie. I’ve never really answered to Selina.’

  The surgeon smiles and makes a note. ‘That’s a good girl. Always best to keep a sense of humour.’ He holds out his hand. ‘I’m Roger Penfold. It seems that you have a nasty cyst on your left ovary. We’ll have to take a look, but I’m almost certain that we’ll have to remove the whole ovary.’ He watches Sealie’s face as he says this. ‘We’ll do our best to save it—but no guarantees.’

  Sealie gnaws at her lip but says nothing. She won’t meet his gaze.

  ‘It’s all outlined on the form,’ he continues, handing her a piece of paper. ‘Removal of cyst from left ovary. Permission to remove ovary if the surgeon deems it necessary.’ He pauses. ‘This is your opportunity to ask any questions.’

  Sealie sums up the courage. ‘What about .
. .’ She bites her lip again. ‘Babies?’

  Penfold looks at her chart. ‘Let’s see . . . You’re forty-six . . . pre-menopausal. You have no children?’

  She shakes her head and he pats her hand in a fatherly gesture. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. At your age . . . your chances of pregnancy are quite—reduced anyway. With one ovary . . . that reduces the possibility by another fifty per cent.’

  ‘Do what you have to.’ Sealie signs the form and lies staring at the ceiling. She’s too tired to cry. She turns on her side and says goodbye to the child she has always believed was waiting in the shadows.

  5

  AS EXPECTED, SEALIE HAD AN ovary removed and is weak and teary. She has lost weight in the months since Hal’s return and, after visiting her in hospital, Mrs Mac is determined to give her a break.

  ‘That poor girl is worn out from out looking after other people. She needs looking after herself now and I’m telling them that the minute I get a chance.’

  Alice approves. ‘Good for you, Eil. Don’t you wear yourself out on those lazy sods.’ She’s getting on, is Alice. They both are. Still, Alice has always called a spade a spade. ‘I don’t like the thought of you in the same house as that madman. Why not take her away on a little holiday?’

  ‘Maybe when she’s a bit stronger. But not with me. A young girl’ (Mrs Mac still thinks of Sealie as a young girl) ‘doesn’t want to go on holiday with a woman old enough to be her—’

  Alice hears the tremor in her sister’s voice. ‘I hear Noosa’s nice,’ she says. ‘Of course nowadays a lot of folk go away to Bali or even Fiji.’

  Returning to the house, Mrs Mac calls a meeting. ‘I’ll cook,’ she says. ‘I’ll look after Sealie. Do her laundry. Clean her room. I’ll do for Moses—he’s my husband, after all. But you two . . .’ She narrows her eyes at Zav and Hal who are sitting as far away from each other as possible. ‘Apart from meals, you two will have to do for yourselves.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mac,’ they reply meekly.

  Sealie has contracted an infection, and it is five days before she’s discharged. When she comes home to the house that Hal built, she finds it populated as it had been so many years ago. There is her father, Hal; my father, Zav; Mrs Mac (to look after Sealie); and Godown (to look after Hal). Sealie herself completes the rollcall.

  Zav finds the medication, and after removing several days’ worth, gives the little assemblage of bottles and packets to Godown. ‘Here. He trusts you.’

  Godown takes the responsibility reluctantly. He had hoped that their shared distress at Sealie’s collapse might have been the beginning of some kind of reconciliation, but Zav’s resolve is absolute. For Mrs Mac’s sake, and for day to day contingencies, he speaks to Godown. He is scrupulously polite in these encounters but resists real engagement.

  Upon his sister’s return, Zav immediately resumes his silence with his father.

  Zav is often absent during the day. After breakfast, he tidies his room, maybe does a bit of laundry and then reports to Mrs Mac for duty. He learns how to vacuum, clean the bathroom, iron his own shirts. Mrs Mac watches him at these tasks and is pleased to see some vigour return to his demeanour. Tough love, she thinks. That’s what he’s needed all along. After doing his chores he sits a while with Sealie and then disappears on his own errands.

  Activity is good for Zav, but so is responsibility. And he’s pleased that he is about to take responsibility for the blight on their lives. He still has the little capsules and pills he stole from Hal’s supply, and is waiting till the time is right. Sometimes at night, he takes them out and holds them in the palm of his hand. One is quite pretty, a transparent capsule with tiny coloured granules inside. It reminds him of the hundreds and thousands that Mrs Mac used to sprinkle on white bread for their birthday parties. Fairy bread, it was called. When he turned seven he told Mrs Mac that boys don’t eat fairy bread. He came to regret this, and always sneaked the leftover slices from Sealie’s parties.

  Zav needs a strategy. He has the means but needs both the knowledge and the opportunity. He doesn’t want to cause his father pain. He had scribbled down the name of the drugs before giving the containers to Godown, but even for those he can decipher, he has only a very hazy idea of what they might do. There are no relevant books in the local library. He needs specialised information. He overcomes his fear of computers and asks the librarian how to use the internet.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she asks. ‘I’ll take you through the steps.’

  ‘Sardinia,’ he says for no particular reason. ‘I want information on Sardinia.’ And he becomes familiar with more than he ever cared to know about that island. Airports and ferries; the mining industry—bauxite, antimony, gold, lead and zinc, he learns. The librarian returns at intervals to see how he’s getting along. They both agree that Alghero looks like a nice little town. The librarian, recently single, can’t help him enough. Zav chafes with impatience, but knows from his crime novel reading that he can’t afford to rouse suspicion.

  He goes to another branch of the library and types in ‘Risperidol’. There is very little information beyond the fact that it is used in some cases of paranoid schizophrenia. He knows time is running out and decides to empty all the capsules and crushed tablets into Hal’s night-time hot chocolate. It should be easy enough to distract Godown.

  Zav will not allow himself to think beyond the act itself. He makes no plans to cover his tracks. Doesn’t care if he’s caught. This, he believes, is his one heroic gesture. He can avenge my murder while setting his sister and himself free. It never crosses his mind to wonder how Sealie might feel when her brother murders her father. From his point of view, it all seems so noble, so logical.

  What is there about my family that drives them, not only to kill, but to perceive this act as altruistic? There was a family legend of a great-great-something uncle in Peru who smothered his wife in her sleep. There’s no record of his reasons, but I’ll bet anything you like they included the greater good. Seriously, I’ve begun to wonder if there’s something dodgy in our genes.

  Zav needs to carry out his plan before Sealie is well enough to take over again. She accounts strictly when it comes to medication; he knows this from his own experience. He encourages Mrs Mac to be firm with her, to make her rest. It’s not difficult. She’s still weak. Her body and mind, finally having an excuse to rest, conspire to siphon off her energy, and she spends her days reading and napping. This lassitude is pleasant, almost addictive, and Sealie indulges herself. Gives herself permission to let go. Brenda visits with a casserole and an apple pie, and Cassie brings flowers and takes her to a film. Both women encourage her to take it easy. Scottie comes by after work and they sit and watch television like an old married couple. Mrs Mac incorporates him into the family meal and he takes on the dishwashing. A very nice young man, Mrs Mac frequently reminds Sealie, who responds with a noncommittal grin. She likes having him around but is not ready for another proposal. Zav seems to approve, and she wonders idly why she thought he would not. She’d be angry if she had the energy.

  By the third week, the weather is warm enough for her to spend some time outside on the banana lounge Zav bought for her. She’s grateful beyond all proportion for this sign that her brother cares. Pleased to see evidence of his hitherto infrequent thoughtfulness.

  Hal takes a week to recover from the drama of Sealie’s collapse. The steel-grey shards of noise have come and gone and he strains to understand the red, staccato voices that snap at his consciousness like terriers. Mercifully, before their message is delivered, he himself is delivered by Godown who is now in charge of his drug regime. The spring envelops Hal with an intensity of green and he spends much of his time in the garden. He’s gentle with Sealie, bringing her a rug if a breeze springs up, a book, a cup of tea. Sometimes he sits beside her. They don’t say much, but it feels like absolution.

  Zav comes and goes and Hal’s eyes follow him with a hungry sort of love.

  Hal is playing cribbage with
Godown. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Sure can.’

  ‘I need to do a couple of things. Can you drive me? It’ll only take a day or two.’

  Godown asks what he wants and organises to take Hal away for a few days. Zav has planned his move for the same week. He’s put it off twice. He’ll have to put it off again. Well, he doesn’t really have to, but in fact, he’s relieved to have an excuse.

  With Godown at the wheel, Hal reverses the journey he made with Sealie less than a year ago. The fields are greener now, and the sheep, shorn and vulnerable looking, mill about in the flat paddocks. Hal looks with curiosity at the town he never visited. Seems like a nice place, he thinks. I wonder if Mad Mollie’s living in one of these streets? He scrutinises each figure as the car passes through the town and finally pulls up at the gates of Aradale. There is a skeleton staff caring for the few patients who haven’t yet been relocated, and a team of archivists, collecting and collating all the sad, mad, forgotten lives and storing them in boxes. Sealie would understand this, but Hal feels forlorn as he looks at the now unkempt garden and hears the echo of empty rooms. He stands in the doorway, gnawing at his thumbnail.

  Emil is now Deputy Charge Nurse and he greets the visitors with cool professionalism. ‘Nice to see you, Hal. You want to spend some time in the garden?’ Hal nods and they thank Emil before taking the winding gravel path behind the administration block.

  Hal looks back at Emil. ‘He wouldn’t win a medal now. Not with all that extra weight.’ This remark puzzles Godown, but he doesn’t comment.

  They turn the corner and Hal begins to run in an awkward lope that takes him across the lawn with remarkable speed. Godown falls back, leaving Hal to greet his beloved tree.

  The tree is in full leaf but the green is fresh and tender. Not long ago, thinks Hal, these branches were bare, stretching out nobbled fingers to clutch the white-cold air. He always hated to see the tree like that, looking for all the world as though it were dead. With his heightened senses, he had often breached the woody covering and run his hands through the cold, secret rivers of sap, spellbound, frozen by winter’s sorcery. At those times, in the thrall of the tree’s stillness, he could never recall that return to life he is now witnessing.