A tick of the clock ensued. Then another. Then several more.
At the bottom of the hour, suggestions for a male equivalent of labour—”Pushing a rubber chicken through the front!”… “Passing a watermelon out the back!”…—circumnavigated the table.
The room was like an over-infl ated balloon. I sussed the other main players; they were feeling the pressure, too. Shell couldn’t go ten seconds without glancing in our direction. Maddy refused to lift her eyes from the zebra motif tablecloth. Something had to give.
Some one had to give.
I didn’t think it would be Chris…
*
“Too bad you weren’t fi nished your course already, Michelle.
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Doctors, Dragons and Dougie Defi ance You could’ve been Maddy’s doctor. Who is your doctor, guys?”
*
From: “Adam O’Doherty”
…This wasn’t the right moment. Defl ection was essential. Doctor Zhivago? Doctor Seuss? Doctor Kevorkian? I cleared my throat, opened my mouth to speak then felt your mum’s hand on my right arm…
*
Maddy cocked her head several degrees but maintained her focus on the tablecloth.
“No doctors. Our midwife will take care of our child.”
Silence descended over the party. Reg and Eileen abandoned their jolly family host faces for their rarely seen serious-parent dials. Chris wiped his mouth with the napkin from his lap. Michelle joined her hands and brought them up under her chin. Woody, constantly moving during his half hour scab-grab of dinner scraps, dropped to the fl oor, head on his front paws.
*
From: “Adam O’Doherty”
…I knew they couldn’t leave it at that. They wanted elaboration. And there was no shortage of things that ought to be said: This was not a decision we took lightly. There are reasons for it. Compelling and valid reasons. Reasons pertaining to an unspeakable History. And, anyway, what’s the big deal about giving the doctor a miss? Hadn’t women been giving birth for thousands of years before the all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful obstetrician came on the scene?
I said none of it. Muteness took over with another touch to my arm, but this time it wasn’t Maddy.
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It was a smiley, grubby, afro-sporting, wonky-eyed ‘child’, now patched up with Elastoplast, speechless as the man whose hide he was about to save…
*
“Good on you, Maddy. Sandy and I never needed a doctor for young Dougie here. A checkout chick, yes, but no doctor.”
*
From: “Adam O’Doherty”
I could’ve kissed Kelly. Invited for comic relief, he’d taken his cue with great aplomb. And it soon became apparent he’d engineered something much more substantial than mere diversion.
Dougie Defi ance now held court.
Every aspect of the little urchin’s short life came under scrutiny. How old was he? Had he spoken any words yet? Did he have a thing going with Isabella Icing Sugar? Was he a big fan of Bread? By the time photo opportunities were exhausted and the recount of his latest misadventure—a near fatal mishap with the Clark pool’s fi lter—was complete, the clock indicated it was going home time and the No Doctor controversy had gone the way of Reg’s leftover goulash.
After this diffi cult incident, B, perhaps Mum will now allow me to give Michelle a call?
*
Maddy stood in front of the recliner, obstructing view of Channel Ten’s broadcast of Groundhog Day. A prostrate Adam pulled the lever at the side of the chair and sat up straight.
“Okay, Sir Fix-A-Lot. For the last time…what am I?”
“You are my loving wife.”
“And what am I not?”
“You are not a damsel in distress.”
“What are you?”
“I am your loving husband.”
“And what are you not?”
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“I am not a knight in shining armour.”
“Can you slay every dragon I come across?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Should you try to slay every dragon I come across?”
“No, I shouldn’t.”
“What must you do instead?”
“I must be an atypical guy who has enough confi dence and trust in his wife’s abilities to snuff the dragon on her own.”
Maddy produced a small curtsy. “Thank you, good sir.”
As she returned to the kitchen table and her draft design of the nursery, she added: “I rang Shell and invited her over for brunch on Thursday. In the meantime, if you must be chivalrous, help Jenna out at school tomorrow. She rang before. Wanted some writing advice.”
*
Jenna retrieved a crumpled piece of A4 from her briefcase and smoothed it out on her thigh.
“I hate having to do this by correspondence, Ad. I’ve written a dozen opening lines and all of them are absolute crap.”
“They can’t be that bad.”
“‘Guess which one of us isn’t getting fatter!’”
“Ah.”
“‘Using a Paddle-Pop stick for my pregnancy test was a mistake.’”
“Okay, they can’t all be that bad.”
“‘A funny thing happened on the way to having a baby…
I shouldn’t have had sex with The Phantom… When I said I was “with child” I was actually talking about being married to Boyd…’”
“Apart from the last one, I stand corrected.”
She gave Adam a push to the shoulder. “You’re the writer.
Help me out here.”
“Mmm…how about ‘The following is a story of immaculate misconception…’”
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“I’ll get a pencil.”
Adam grabbed her hand and gave it a pat. “Jen, there is nothing—I repeat nothing—for you to be anxious about.
Maddy will not only understand, she will be grateful.
Circumstances meant things had to be kept under wraps, and when I stuffed up you stepped in like a true friend would.
You saved Maddy’s feelings and my arse. Now that those circumstances are fi nished, everyone, including you, ought to be happy and safe and comfortable. Here, give me that paper.” He scribbled down his recommended introduction in bold block letters. “There’s your opener.”
Jay-Jay read it, turned the paper over, turned it back again. “‘I’M NOT PREGNANT!’”
“Yep.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“Just say it. Straight up.”
Jenna sighed then folded the paper into quarters. “Bloody Expo bloody door prize.”
*
From: “Adam O’Doherty”
School today produced a curly student question:
“Hey sir! In a few years time, will you be teaching your own kid?”
The inquirer was a year nine lad, Toby O’Reagan. Better known to all at Carsmair High as ‘Dregs’. Up till then, I’d assumed, quite naively, that the student body knew nothing about my imminent Dadhood. Up till then, I’d also assumed, also quite naively, that Dregs’ math was improving.
“I’m not sure?” I replied, taking time-out from my poor impression of a playground monitor. “What do you think, pal?”
Dregs ran a hand over his freshly shaved skull then produced some sort of rap move that looked like ‘Hang loose!’ but probably meant
‘You’re a dopey bugger!’
“I think it’s cert, man! And I think
you can’t wait!”
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“You reckon I’ll be a teacher that long?”
“I reckon you’ll be a teacher for another two decades! Maybe even another twenty years!”
I’m always amused when students assume I’m a career chalkie.
Relieved, too, because it means they haven’t yet exposed me as a charlatan.
Another person who won’t be teaching his own kid is Kelly. We’re heading over there for a celebration drinks tonight. Because he’s been such a fi ne father, I’ve given Kel early parole on his three weeks. He’s celebrating by baking a cake in Dougie’s honour. No prizes for guessing the main ingredient.
*
Cat Stevens’ ‘Father And Son’ meandered out of the stereo’s surround-sound speakers and fi lled the available spaces of Kelly and Sandy Clark’s rumpus room. The host sang along, drawling the drawls and wailing the wails, occasionally sipping from the can of Bundy and Coke in his hand. Sandy waited for the second verse before taking up a platter of nibblies and approaching Adam.
“Care for some?”
“No thanks.”
“They’re for throwing.”
Adam selected a smoked oyster on a water cracker and two pieces of celery dipped in hommus.
“You reckon he’s ready now to be a real Dad?” he inquired.
“Not quite yet.”
“He did a good job with Dougie, Sand. Okay, the little guy took a few spills, but that’s kids for you. Look at him over there!”
Kel’s gentle air guitar riffi ng had given way to a cigarette lighter sway. “That’s some parental emotion right there!”
“He should be emotional. It’s the fi fth kid he’s lost in three weeks.”
“Hey?”
Sandy placed the platter down on the coffee table and picked up a muffi n from the adjoining tray. “These are Dougie
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Number One,” she said. “Sadly, on the third of March, he was left out on the deck railing overnight.” She took a small bite then pointed to a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the breakfast bar. “Those are Dougie Two. Regrettably, he slipped from Dad’s grasp during a game of ‘Upsy-Daisy’ on the seventh.” She handed Adam the remaining muffi n portion.
“The other two Dougies didn’t make the menu. Three was attacked by crows at the park and Four remains missing in action, somewhere between here and the Mitchelton Mitre 10.”“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
Sandy applauded her husband’s attempt at a falsetto fi nish and folded her arms. “It’s lucky you gave him a few days grace. We might’ve ended up with the baker’s half dozen.”
“But I saw the state Dougie was in tonight. Dirty. Taped up. Bashed around. Are you telling me that…”
Sandy nodded. “His attention to detail was terrifi c.
Each replacement had to be exactly the same as his fallen predecessor. Same dirt. Same tape. Same amount of bashing around. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. He just about had to back the car over Dougie Five to get him looking wrecked enough.”
“That sneaky bastard!”
“The time he put into cloning, if he’d spent that time actually minimising the risk to the little nipper and keeping him out of situations where he could get trashed…well, the original Dougie might’ve gone the distance.”
The oven timer rang out across the kitchen, indicating the cake was done. Kel turned the stereo down, opened his hands in a ‘Dearly Beloved’ gesture of piety, and sauntered off to eat the fi rst slice of his last child.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” asked Adam. “I mean, it’s not like there were sheep stations riding on this. It’s not like it was a real kid.”
Sandy leaned closer and softened her voice. “It probably sounds silly, but he couldn’t work up the gumption,
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Doctors, Dragons and Dougie Defi ance Adam. Kelly’s good at a lot of things—you know that. His chiropractic, his study, golf, tennis, telling jokes, talking to people, partying…there isn’t much he can’t do, and he’s proud of that fact. But this was beyond him. Something you don’t need a licence or qualifi cations for, something seemingly anyone could do, something a lot of young kids could probably do standing on their heads…it was too much for him. That is, with the exception of the crows—that was just the worst kind of luck. The rest of the time it was beyond him. And he tried. He really did. He just couldn’t get it done.”
Sandy looped an arm through Adam’s. “He didn’t tell you or anyone else because he didn’t want to be seen as a failure.
Does that sound silly?”
Adam observed Maddy, seated at the dining table, gratefully accepting a generous slice of Death By Chocolate from Kel. For someone with a ‘Dragon Date’ the next morning, she was more than prepared to take her chances with a lethal cake tonight.
“It doesn’t sound silly at all,” he replied.
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Doctors, Dragons and Dougie Defi ance 10
From: “Tin Lid”
Mum is crying. Hard. She’s trying to speak, but she can’t put any words together. Her breaths are shallow, fast. Each one is like a squeeze on my soul.
Jeez, why did I have to wake up now?
Aunty Shelley is there. She’s on the phone. Her voice is strong and clear. And dark. Dark as the thoughts crowding around me. She repeats the words ‘fi ve minutes’, then hangs up. She moves close.
“It’s not always bad,” she says. “This sort of thing can happen for no reason.”
Mum falls against her.
“I understand, Mad,” she says. I don’t think she does.
The dragon isn’t slain yet, is it?
*
From: “Tin Lid”
What’s going on now? I’m confused. And scared.
This is not our home. The sounds are weird. Buzzes, beeps, bells. A voice commands from above. Aunty Shelley is gone, but others speak to each other, without warmth or laughter or comfort. They seem to speak through closed windows. I don’t recognize these people. I want to hide from them.
But they’re close now. Real close. Too close. Mum is still crying, but she’s also angry.
“I will decide,” she says. “Not you!”
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A man called ‘Registrar’ states very fi rmly that ‘This cannot continue,’
and argues she is ‘not acting in the best interest of all’.
“It is in my best interest that you leave me alone!” she says.
The man declares that ‘someone else can try to reason with her’ and no more is said.
Where are you in all this, Dad? Are you there? Please reply. Please help me understand what is going on. Please tell me things will get better.
*
From: “Tin Lid”
I asked the Supremo if our lines of communication had been closed, if my messages were no longer permitted to get through to you: Correspondence may be disallowed when it confl icts with an opportunity to learn.
Is there a confl ict?
No.
Okay, so my words are with you, but you do not want to respond to them. Why? Why now?
Mum has stopped crying, but sadness is still tearing at her heart.
A woman is trying to talk to her now. A kind woman. She ‘wants to apologise for her colleague yesterday’ and indicates she is there to listen and help.
“The person I trust to listen and help—to care—will be along shortly,”
replies Mum. “Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow, the day after and the day after that.”
The kind woman says her name is ‘Sam’ and promises to return later, just to ‘touch base’.
I really need you, Dad. Have I done something wrong? Am I no longer wanted? If so, let’s call this day ‘Thursday’ and start over.
I’m very tired. I don’t want to sleep any more, but I have no choice.
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Immovable
immovable
11
I t was just after eight in the evening when Adam O’Doherty opened the front door of 150 James Street.
Sixty-plus hours worth of baked air rushed to fi nd space beyond the walls of the house, carrying with it the leftover captive whiffs of disturbance and desperation. He entered, tossed his school briefcase onto the recliner and went to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face. Ignoring the haggard image in the mirror, he patted dry with his wife’s towel and proceeded to check the phone messages. There were fi ve. They could easily have been merged into one:
“It’s me. Just ringing to see if you’d like to have dinner over here…that is if you want to…understand totally if you’d rather not…call if there’s anything else we can do…
bye for now.”
Adam left the answering machine on and cooked one of the half-dozen Beef Stroganoff dinners in the freezer. Whilst eating in silence, CNN’s parade of war experts informed him, in a dozen different ways, that the enemy’s ownership of weapons of mass destruction was undeniable and that any word to the contrary was attributable to an unhinged mind.
At 10:16, he ditched the news, entered the spare room and approached the computer. After fi fteen minutes and one hundred paces holding the lion-serpent bottle opener, he sat down to log on.
*
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From: “Adam O’Doherty”
Are you awake?
Please say you have woken up.
Please please please say you are there.
*
From: “Tin Lid”
Yes, I’m here.
*
From: “Adam O’Doherty”
Two words have allowed me to breathe again.
I am writing this from our home, B. You are not at home. You are in ward 4C of the Galbraith Private Hospital, twenty minutes drive from where I sit. You have been there since half past one on Thursday.
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