by Jenni Ogden
When Pat walked down the gangplank with her arms outstretched and her wide smile, we all whipped off our hats and threw them in the air. We must have looked like a strange alien species with our white scalps and brown bodies. Her eyes were shiny by the time my arms were around her, but Morrie soon had her laughing. Later, she asked me to shave off what was left of her hair. She looked much better then. We had an early barbecue at Violet and Bill’s place that evening, and Jack and his son arrived with their heads shaven, both of them still with their bushy red beards.
I moved in with Pat that night. She tried to make me believe she would be fine by herself, but her eyes were dark holes and her complexion, usually so brown, was almost yellow. She ate no more than a lettuce leaf and a bread roll at the barbecue, and in spite of taking her medication to stop her nausea, vomited twice in the night. I felt so helpless patting her back as she retched over a bowl, the cold sweat pouring off her. At last she slept, and I watched over her for a long time, my body aching for her.
NINETEEN
When Pat left for Melbourne to face her next two cycles of chemo, she looked more like herself, her skin almost brown again and her eyes rested. More importantly, she was in good spirits, and determined to beat this thing. I was trying to be as positive.
Tom and I hadn’t seen much of each other in the “biblical” sense, although he and Morrie spent time with Pat and me every day. As Pat’s boat disappeared over the horizon, Tom took my hand and led me to my cabin. I thought he was going to take me to bed, right then, but he pulled out my wetsuit and told me to put it on; it was time for a long, healing snorkel over the reef edge.
So right as always, and after dinner with Morrie at Tom’s house, he came home with me. Making love had never been so sweet. In the morning, very early, we walked along the beach, stopping every few steps to gaze at each other in the luminescent pink dawn.
“I don’t ever want to leave here,” I whispered. “Never, ever.”
He put his fingers over my lips. He looked so sad that I was afraid.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Don’t say that, Anna,” he whispered. “We have this. That’s enough.”
I felt the prickle behind my eyes. “You feel the same way; I know you do.”
“I’m not into permanent relationships. It wouldn’t work.”
Tom’s face was swimming. “I don’t want you to marry me. I just want to stay here and be with you, that’s all.” I was past being embarrassed by having to beg.
He touched my cheek. “I’m honored and flattered. But you need to return to your own world. This is a lovely interlude. Don’t let’s spoil it by trying to turn it into something it could never be.”
I could hardly speak, the pain was so intense. “I’m too old for you, is that it?”
“Never too old, Anna. Never think that.”
I could feel my hysteria burning inside me. “So what now? Perhaps I should leave early.”
“Don’t be silly. I want us to keep enjoying each other’s company until it’s time for you to go back in October. A perfect year.”
“A perfect year, a perfect year.” My head was throbbing. I wanted to scream. But all I could see was his face, so dear.
“Anna, calm down. We can write to each other.” He grinned. “We can even e-mail.”
“I don’t want to e-mail or write if that’s all you think we are: a sweet little interlude. Thank you for nothing.” I turned away from him and walked blindly back along the beach, hoping he would come after me and tell me he was teasing.
He didn’t, of course. All day I fumed and hoped and told myself I didn’t care, and refused to allow my eyes to so much as water. I sat at my computer and tried to write but that made me feel worse. I thought about descending on Violet, but descending would be the operative word, the way I was feeling. The evening came and went, and I forced some toasted cheese sandwiches down with too many glasses of wine. After dark I crept around the beach, all the way to the track leading to Tom’s house. I could see a light through the trees and I sat on the sand and tried to pluck up the courage to go the extra few meters, calling out cheerfully as I walked in on their game of chess or whatever they were doing. But it might have been a thousand kilometers for all the progress I made.
Back in my lonely cabin I lay awake torturing myself. I was hot with shame—how could I have exposed myself like that, how could I have made such a stupid assumption that he felt about me like I felt about him? I was cold with fury—he’d led me on and used me, just like all men. Good riddance. I was lucky to escape. I was prostrate with grief.
Another day and night went by somehow. How can two people avoid each other so totally on such a small island? Where were all my friends when I needed them? I knew I was being irrational: Pat and I had eaten at Violet and Bill’s the night before she left. Basil went by a couple of times and waved. I waved back, all smiles. I didn’t even have my hair to hide behind. It had regrown to the short, prickly, ugly stage, and I wondered whether I should shave the fuzz off again. I’d almost certainly end up cutting myself. Another reason for needing Tom.
I wanted to see Morrie. He’d be leaving soon and I’d never see him again. It was so unfair. Why should I have to give up my friendship with Morrie because of Tom? I went as far as their house again on the third night, determined to march up to the door and ask to see Morrie. He could hardly get across the island to see me, not without Tom’s help, anyway. I could hear music and Morrie’s deep voice, and knocked tentatively. Then I heard Tom’s voice and the pounding of my heart intensified. Tom was talking to Morrie. He hadn’t heard my little knock. Catching my breath, I scurried away.
I HEARD HIS WHEEZING BEFORE I SAW HIM AND RUSHED out onto the deck. Morrie was outside on the path, slumped over in his wheelchair. I was beside him in a heartbeat. Sweat poured off him as he jerked his head up and his arms shot out.
“Morrie, what is it? How did you get here?”
“Hot.” He flapped his arms near his face. “This chair not the b-b-best on these tracks.”
“I don’t believe it. Don’t tell me you wheeled yourself across the island.”
He nodded.
His cheeky grin was missing. Something was terribly wrong. “Is it Tom? Has something happened to him? Where is he?” I couldn’t breathe.
“Water please,” Morrie wheezed. “Tom is okay. Came to see you.”
“I thought …” I maneuvered his wheelchair backwards up the two shallow steps onto the deck and into the shade and got him a glass of water. He drank it with great gulps and splutters, most of it landing on his lap and on me.
“Slow down,” I said, alarm spiking through me. I knew only too well how easy it was for Huntington’s patients to choke.
Morrie coughed and gurgled and then quietened. I filled the glass again and held it to his lips, feeding him small sips.
“Thanks,” he said, and at last I saw his smile.
“It’s a pleasure,” I said. “Shall I mop your poor hot head and hands with a cold flannel?”
His head nodded wildly.
“Why did you come all this way?” I asked when he was cool again.
“I missed you. I wa-was worried.” He looked at me with his head twisted to the side, and I could see his eyes were watering.
“Oh Morrie, I’m sorry.”
“We need to t-t-talk about T-tom,” Morrie croaked.
My stomach lurched. “I thought you said he was okay?”
“He’s a m-m-mess. He needs you.”
“He as good as told me he didn’t love me and he didn’t want me to stay here with him.” I could hear the self-pity in my voice.
“He loves you all right. It’s himself he doesn’t love.” Morrie’s voice was suddenly deep and strong.
I was shaking. “What do you mean?”
“He’s always insisted that no one knows. He thinks people will pity him.”
“Knows what?”
“Huntington’s. He’s m-my cousin.” Morrie’
s body contorted and I sat and waited, his words sinking in.
“You mean on your mother’s side?” I seemed to be floating, looking down on us sitting there.
Morrie’s head shot back and then forwards again. “His dad and my mum.”
“Does his father have Huntington’s?” I already knew, of course. His dad didn’t have Alzheimer’s, he had Huntington’s dementia. It was all clear now. Tom’s upset when he realized that was my research area, and his fear of long-term relationships. All I wanted was to hold him close.
“Yes,” I heard Morrie wheezing. “He’s in the final stages.”
“Tom. Does he have the gene?”
“He’ll have t-t-to tell you, not for m-m-me,” Morrie said, his eyes so sad.
I bent over and took his twitching dear head in both my hands and held him still. Then I kissed him gently on his lips, my eyes blurring. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Morrie blushed. “I l-l-ove Tom. He needs you, but he won’t admit it, the s-s-silly shit.”
I MADE POACHED EGGS AND TOAST SOLDIERS AND FED first Morrie and then myself. We both felt better after that. Then I wheeled him back along the track through the trees, astounded at every tree root and shearwater hole by his superman feat of getting himself to my place. The house was silent when we reached it; Tom wasn’t back from wherever he had gone in his dinghy that morning. I helped a tired Morrie onto his bed, and left him with a promise to return that evening in time to make us all dinner.
The minute I got home, I grabbed my snorkel and flippers and was soon floating around the lagoon, willing the beauty and peace of the underwater world to permeate every cell of my body.
Tom greeted me with a chaste kiss when I arrived around six o’clock with my bag full of steaks and lettuce. I looked into his face, wanting to see my desperate desire for peace reflected in his eyes, but all I could see was bleakness.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Please tell me we are all right again.”
He reached out and touched my cheek. “I’m sorry too, to hurt you. I’ve been miserable without you.”
My heart and stomach soared together. “Me too. Can I come in?” I could see Morrie behind Tom, grinning at me, his head on one side.
We made the dinner together, and it was a nice evening, but we didn’t talk about Tom, or his father, or Huntington’s. When the dishes had been washed, we played a game of cards, but none of us had our hearts in it and we gave up after one hand. Morrie was yawning and wheeled himself off to bed soon after, leaving Tom and me sitting in an uncomfortable silence.
“Do you want to have a walk on the beach?” I asked.
“I suppose so, but I don’t want to talk about me and my family. That’s my business, and Morrie had no right to tell you.”
“He told me because he was worried about you. How could you keep it from me?” I whimpered.
“It’s not you. I keep it from everyone. That’s what I decided to do years ago and nothing’s changed,” he mumbled.
I tried to catch his eye but he was looking at the floor. “Tom, please let me in. It doesn’t matter to me if you have Huntington’s.”
“Bullshit.” His voice rose. “Of course it matters. You do research in the damn area. You know what it means.”
“Yes, and that’s why you need to believe me. Have you been tested for the gene?”
He stood up. “Anna, leave it. I’m not one of your research subjects, and you can’t bully me into talking about it.”
His words hit me like a sledgehammer. I closed my eyes, willing them away. I could hear Tom’s rasping breath as he walked the floor. After a while, I stood up, still shaking, and forced myself to speak calmly. “We’re both tired. Perhaps I should go home and you can get some sleep.”
“Yes, I’m stuffed. Thanks for coming around.” His voice had softened and he dipped down and brushed my lips with his. “I’m glad we’re back together again, but please don’t push me to change.”
BUT WE WEREN’T BACK TOGETHER AGAIN. THE ELEPHANT in the room and on the beach and everywhere we were wasn’t Huntington’s but Tom’s mistrust of me. Of course, the specter of Huntington’s was there too, seeping through my head in the early hours of the morning. Did Tom have the gene? Did he even know? I let myself imagine how it would be if we did stay together and how I would cope as he became more and more disabled. I told myself it was better that I’d never have to find out. I could go back to my life in Boston, and in time my year on Turtle Island would be a happy memory, no more.
But none of it worked. Even floating about in the lagoon no longer gave me peace. Surely I was too old to feel like this over a relationship. I hated it, and it brought back memories of my year of depression after Philip rejected me and I lost—aborted—my baby; depression and anger and pain that took me places I didn’t know could coexist with life. I didn’t want to go anywhere near there again.
Before that, the only other time I had felt so depressed was after Dad drowned. I wanted to hide away. In hindsight, Mum did her best, and I suffered through some painfully useless sessions with the school counselor. In the end I simply learned to live with my new, withdrawn self. Before that I was someone else entirely—not exactly a social butterfly but at least a kid who could enjoy life when the opportunity arose. I blamed Dad’s death for turning me into a sullen teenager and a studious medical student whose idea of fun was reading the occasional novel.
Perhaps by the time I began my PhD, flush with the relief that I had found something to do that excited rather than scared me, I was ripe for seduction. God knows why Philip even bothered; perhaps he got off on seeing me blossom under his smooth hands. But at least I’d discovered I could still feel joy, even if it was tainted with guilt and sandwiched between large chunks of misery as I waited yearningly for the crumbs he threw me.
I was no psychologist, but even I could see the pattern here. I was an intelligent woman. How had I gotten myself into this situation again? Damn Tom, damn bloody Huntington’s, damn, damn, damn.
If it hadn’t been for Morrie, I think Tom and I would have avoided each other more and more until we morphed soundlessly into mere acquaintances. In a strange way, Morrie was like a child we shared: we had to play our parts for his sake. Of course, he was far from a child, and our act didn’t fool him. Morrie didn’t interfere or try to mediate. I almost wished he would, but he had known Tom all his life, and I suppose he knew how stubborn he was. And he knew what it was to be haunted by Huntington’s. Dearest Morrie. I wanted to shake Tom and say, “Look at Morrie. If that is you some day, how could you think I wouldn’t still love you and want to be with you and share my life with you?” But I didn’t, and I couldn’t.
But Morrie’s visit was almost over, and Tom was going back with him on Jack’s boat to see him safely on the plane to Sydney. I considered not going to the wharf to see them off, knowing I would almost certainly never see Morrie again. I didn’t think I could nod casually to Tom as he boarded the boat, acting as if he were nothing special to me. But when the time came I forced myself to join everyone else. It was such a thing on the island when anyone who belonged to the inner circle left, to be there to wave goodbye. And Morrie was definitely one of the most loved. I knew Jack had a quick turnaround this time—just long enough to dump the supplies onto the beach and grab the mail and any passengers, and he would be off again, back in time for his mother’s birthday on the mainland that night. Even Jack had a mother.
So when the boat docked and Kirsty strolled down the gangplank, Hamish in a baby backpack, I was, by chance, waiting for them. I hadn’t forgotten my promise to look after Hamish in late July so Kirsty could go to her vet nursing practical course, but I had thought she would contact me with an exact date. There was the difference between her and me. One of many. Pulling Hamish out of his backpack, she passed him to me. He chuckled as I took one chubby hand and kissed it. He remembered me. Kirsty hugged me, and then took Hamish back, squeezing him so tight that I almost grabbed her arms to loosen them.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I’m not prepared, and Pat’s not here to tell me what to do.”
“Don’t be a wimp. He’s a lamb. I’ve brought everything you’ll need: formula, bottles, diapers, his teddy, even a portable cot. You’ll be fine. It’s me who won’t be.”
“How long will you be away?”
“Two weeks. A lifetime.” She hugged her baby close, and he squirmed in her grasp.
“Why don’t you stay?” I asked, knowing I should be supporting her to go on her course, not making it harder.
“Anna, you promised. I have to do this. If I don’t, I’ll end up in some low-paying shop girl job, and I want more than that for Hamish.”
“Sorry, you’re right. We’ll be fine. The two weeks will fly past, you’ll see.”
I became aware that the beach was covered with boxes and Tom and Morrie were beside me. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Kirsty thrust Hamish back into my arms, kissed me and then her baby’s downy head, and turned and almost ran up the gangplank onto the boat. I looked down at Morrie, my eyes stinging as I saw his dear face twitching to one side as he flapped his hands at me. I bent awkwardly, but with Hamish in my arms my kiss didn’t have a hope of making a landing. Then the baby was taken from me and I knelt down beside Morrie’s wheelchair and grasped him around his middle. Squeezing my eyes tight shut I hugged him, and his arms closed around me before flying off again.
“Bye, my Anna,” he said, his voice deep and strong. “I won’t forget you, especially if you write to me.”
I risked looking at him and he looked back, his eyes swimming.
“Bye, Morrie. Thank you for everything.” I swallowed. “Love you.” Then I was standing, and Tom was putting Hamish back in my arms. He bent and I felt the touch of his lips, and he and Morrie were gone, onto the boat.