‘Thanks.’ Erica swallowed hard and offered her a grim nod, picked up her bags and glided on legs she couldn’t feel and feet that didn’t seem to be moving out and along the impossibly long walkway of white tiles and harsh lighting.
Shoppers seemed to sense they needed to get out of the way, because the throngs of people during the lunchtime rush opened just before her. Erica couldn’t feel her face to know what expression was upon it. She was no longer angry. She didn’t feel anything.
It was reminiscent of when she left the hospital for the last time and took home Stuart’s bag of things that he’d never need again.
Somehow Erica got to her bus stop. She had a vague knowledge of saying, ‘Yes, this is the right stop for the one-four-seven bus,’ to someone and then getting on the bus that pulled up a few moments later, said her automatic hello to the driver – well she thought she did – and held her card to the panel on the machine until it dinged.
In her seat she stared ahead, not thinking beyond checking off each landmark and stop and then pressing the button in time before getting up off her seat and heading out. On the footpath she suddenly wondered if she’d remembered to thank the driver and the thought that she hadn’t sent a disproportionate amount of annoyance through her. But it was too late now. The bus was pulling away. With her surroundings strangely both familiar and unknown, Erica continued to put one foot in front of the other and made her way up her street, the strongest thing in her consciousness suddenly the irrational but now familiar sense of being chased home by her own anxiety. Knowing it was irrational, just her being emotionally strung out – worse now – she refused to increase her pace. She wasn’t sure she could, anyway, on her leaden legs. Though after closing her gate behind her she found the speed to hurry up the path and onto the verandah. She struggled to get the key into the lock then almost stumbled as she raced inside. Her heart was battering the underside of her ribs by the time she pushed the door closed with her whole body and leant on it for a moment catching a few ragged breaths and trying to steady herself.
She made her way down the hall through to the kitchen, taking deep breaths and scolding herself as she went.
Calm again, she dumped her things at the end of the kitchen bench and went to the kettle, picked it up to check its level, and pressed the button.
Sitting at the bench with her hands wrapped around her mug, she remained stunned. Again, it was just like when she’d come home from the hospital after losing Stuart. She’d sat here, just like this, feeling disoriented and shocked and unable to remember any details beyond the main one: Then, Stuart is dead. Now, I’ve lost my job.
Just like then, there were no tears now, no lump in her throat holding them back, building and getting ready to burst. Just a bewildering sense of loss. Back then she’d had the girls bustling around, a wonderful distraction and simulation of life going on, almost as before. Now she was all alone.
She stared into her mug, and then puckered her forehead: she couldn’t remember how it came to be there and who had filled it and with what? She started harder, frowned tighter, trying to remember. And then she pulled her hands back and examined the red welts on them before putting them against the mug again. To hurt was better than to feel nothing. She’d heard that somewhere. Renee? This probably wasn’t what she’d meant.
Now what? She should call someone.
But she picked up her mug and took another sip. There was no taste. If not for the dark colour and the milkiness – who had put milk in? – she could have believed a teabag hadn’t been put in. She sat looking around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time, wondering where she was – and also not seeing it, anything, at all.
Erica thought back over the day’s events and realised she hadn’t told Jill and Perry she was sorry for them too. Had she? Yes. But she’d also been rude. Oops.
JPW had been their baby, their dream. They’d worked for years on it. It would be like them losing a child. Erica just knew it. They hadn’t had human children, so they’d poured all their energy and money into this. And now it was all gone. Erica knew what it was to lose something so important. She thought losing a child would be worse than losing your husband or life partner. It’s only money, she told herself. They had each other and could rebuild. So it wasn’t like losing everything at all. Hell, they probably still had two or three mansions, fancy cars and luxury boats and a shitload of money still in the bank, all protected by their company structure, or trust, or whatever.
Erica sat in the silence, which seemed suddenly eerie. And cold. No, not cold: friendless. The kitchen only contained the hum of the fridge. Something was missing.
She looked up at the clock that should also be ticking on the wall and frowned at it. The second hand was still. When had that happened? She always wore a watch and checked her phone for the time, but the clock had been a housewarming gift from her parents. And keeping it running, replacing the battery immediately every couple of years when it stopped, was important. Staring at it caused an overwhelming sadness to bubble up from her soul – she’d let her parents down by leaving their clock stopped. And then she had an alarming thought: had her father died, too? Was that why the clock had stopped? Hearing that news wouldn’t surprise her. What else could go wrong this year? She resisted the urge to check her phone for any messages – she didn’t want to give the idea air or have it confirmed. Telling herself she was being ridiculous – that he was safe and sound at the nursing home; there was no red blinking light on the home phone – did nothing to ease her sadness. She needed to cry. And for that she needed to remove her makeup. She hated heights – even just getting up onto the step stool – so leaving the clock for a while didn’t take much persuading. And right now she was too all over the place to do it safely without anyone there to hold the base steady. The last thing she needed was to fall and break a leg.
After finishing in the en suite, she sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of her soul alone heavier than the rest of her. I want my mum and dad. And then the ache, the big ball of tension she might have been holding onto for years, broke like a dam inside her and she began to cry. Oh to have them tell her everything would be okay, stroke her hair, hug her until she couldn’t breathe and until she felt safe and stronger and eased herself free … She could go to the nursing home right now and her father would hug her, like always. Thankfully that was one ability he hadn’t lost and neither had her mother before her death. But she also needed the words, the understanding, their wisdom. A plan would help too.
I’m forty-nine. Fuck. When do I get it all together and feel invincible? Be invincible? I’m meant to have it sorted by now. I’m a mother myself, for Christ’s sake.
She dragged her phone out of her bag and sent a text message to her parents’ numbers, telling them she loved them more than life itself and how grateful she was to have had them as her parents, and pressed send. Of course, she wouldn’t get an answer from her mum. And she couldn’t remember when she’d last had a message from her dad. Did he even bother to still charge his phone? Arthur had been meticulous about collecting both his and Helena’s mobiles at the end of each day and plugging them in to charge. Was it still second nature, or had he gone back further in his mind and habits? Before mobile phones, even?
She wandered back to the kitchen for no particular reason. She sat down on the couch and scrolled through her Facebook feed. Bored within seconds at the triviality, she put it face down on the couch and curled herself up. Oh, she thought, sitting up, looking for the throw rug that was normally draped across the back at an angle. She frowned, trying to remember moving it and to where, but failed. Maybe one of the girls had taken it to their room before they’d left and she just hadn’t noticed it.
Her phone made the text message sound several times. Mum? Dad? Her heart caught in her throat. No. From the snippet visible on her home screen she could see it was just some people from the ground floor of David Jones. Now you want to be in touch and be friendly?
Curiosity got t
he better of her and she keyed in her code to unlock the device. All the messages were a variation on the theme of asking what was going on, what had happened to her. And, seemingly, a throwaway at the end telling Erica they hoped she was okay and to call if she wanted anything. She’d heard these people gossip behind the backs of others for too long, seen firsthand how they tried to garner camaraderie at the expense of someone else, and she read all that between the lines of these messages. Bitchy was the word – even for some of the men. But post #metoo, gendered slurs were out. Mackenzie had told her that – making Erica feel older than ever and so far out of touch she might as well be on another planet. Whatever she was allowed to call it, it was mean.
She couldn’t find the right words to respond with, so instead sent a short email to both Paul and Toby to let them know what had happened. She was surprised and pleased to receive prompt replies from both that were nicely sympathetic and supportive. She knew they couldn’t offer any assistance, but it was a comfort to tell someone without having to divulge Stuart’s financial disaster.
A little buoyed, she did some rough calculations and made some notes in her phone regarding her budget, expenses and what JPW owed her – fingers crossed it would arrive okay and on time! Erica concluded she had a total of two months – one to secure a job and another to survive afterwards until receiving her first pay. Two months until dire became … what? What was the next step called? No, she didn’t want to think about that.
Movement out of the corner of her eye grabbed Erica’s attention and she looked up; fear leapt into her throat like a stifled hiccup.
What was that?
And then she laughed.
‘Jesus, scared the shit out of me,’ she said aloud, and thumped a hand against her chest where her heart was beating erratically. She hadn’t noticed it had become dark outside and she was now staring at her own reflection in the bank of café doors that stretched right across the back of the house. The light of her phone or her simply moving it must have been what had caught her attention. She shuddered. Normally she enjoyed sitting in the dark looking out to the lawn but now she got up to close the curtains.
As she dragged them across, she peered out. Her heart still hammered a little. Of course there was no one there. This wasn’t a movie. But still she flicked the outdoor spotlights on to double-check. They’d disconnected the movement-sensor-activated spotlights on each corner of the house because being at the foothills meant plenty of possums and other critters traversed their yard and the flicking on of the lights had nearly driven them bonkers. And the neighbours. They’d tried adjusting the angle of the sensors, but it hadn’t helped due to their boundary fence most likely being used as a highway. The people who’d complained – Doug and Marian – had moved out several years back. At the time of their complaint, if it hadn’t been for the lights bothering Erica, Stuart and the girls too, she might have insisted on standing her ground. On principle. Back then the electricity bill hadn’t been an issue – or not a conscious one to Erica, anyway. Now, she would have unscrewed the lights because of that if she’d realised how much energy they consumed.
Erica laughed at herself for being afraid of monsters as she returned to the kitchen after closing the heavy curtains on the night. It was like a scene out of a thriller. She was always saying to herself while watching, Why don’t you turn on the lights? And, Who walks into a dark house and leaves it that way? And there she was sitting in the dark. But she hadn’t meant to. Same with the curtains. She always poked at the fact people didn’t close their curtains in the movies. Different here because this view was out onto their manicured garden, not onto the street in full view of the outside world.
When watching those movies – never anything too scary – she and Stuart always nudged each other to say in unison, ‘Turn on the light’ or ‘Shut the bloody curtains’ or something similar and then giggle. If they happened to have the girls with them, they were told off for ruining the moment. Why hadn’t movie makers found a way to get around this yet? Did anyone in real life come into a dark room and consciously not turn on the lights and close the curtains?
***
Erica lit a candle and showered in the semi-darkness. She was being extra vigilant now with electricity use. But candles in glass vases, fully surrounded, so we don’t set fire to the place like those people the other day. Poor things. Usually Erica found the flickering gentle yellow light from candles both calming and uplifting. Now she was filled with an extra dose of sadness and self-pity. It was not meant to be like this. Damn it.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling thinking, Fuck, now what? and then countering it with a less-than-exuberant, It’ll be okay. It could be worse. No, world, that is not a challenge. She didn’t believe in God – because how could someone be so cruel? – and wasn’t entirely sure everything was connected like Renee said the universe was, but still she didn’t want to tempt fate. Did she believe in that, even? Maybe a little bit – enough to try not to encourage it to ruin her life any more. Really, Erica had to admit, she wasn’t sure what she believed in. She’d always been a kind person and yet there she was having had her husband taken away and now her job. And then there was the cruel disease dragging her remaining parent slowly from her life … She tried not to allow herself to think of Mackenzie and Issy being taken away or them having left her, too. But she was already too far down the road of melancholy. She believed in karma, well, the westernised general view that doing good brought you more good. So what had she done to be punished like this?
Tears trickled from the outside corners of her eyes, ran down her cheeks and dripped with tiny, barely audible plops on the pillow. Oh god. She couldn’t stop her quivering bottom lip and chin.
And then she got control of her facial muscles but the tears were a torrent. And her nose was running. She pulled a tissue from under her pillow and dabbed and then blew. Wiped away long strands of clear snot. Mopped uselessly at the tears, which now burnt her eyes and all the way down her face and neck.
Finally, she was left exhausted, with streaks of dried salt stinging her skin. She should get up and wash her face, put some more moisturiser on, but couldn’t muster the energy. Nor to take a sleeping tablet. Hopefully she was exhausted enough to drop off without.
Chapter Twelve
Erica’s alarm went off at its usual time. She was groggy, more so than if she’d just slept badly. Gradually a vague memory formed of her waking some time during the night. Something had jolted her and caused her to be fully awake. She concentrated. What had it been? No idea. But she did remember not being able to get back to sleep and then, after tossing and turning for ages, getting up and going into the en suite and taking half a sleeping tablet. Now it was as if her eyes were partially glued and her whole being had been filled with concrete. Used to dragging herself through her lethargy to get to work, with a deep sigh, she pushed back the covers.
Halfway she stopped. There was no longer a job to get to. Erica retreated and pulled the covers back over her and hard up against her chin.
Do I stay and wallow – just for a bit – or push on, get up and go for a walk? Yes, get up. Go for a walk? She knew the correct answer, but chose to ignore it. A morning licking her new wounds wouldn’t hurt. She thought sadly about how fine was the line between self-care and self-pity and how just putting a toe over onto the dark side could pull you right into depths that took days, weeks, months to drag yourself out of. And how then the shadow followed you, ready to heave you back into its grip the moment you teetered again.
No. Let’s go, she told herself, pushing the doona back again. The fresh air will be good. Or if not good, then I’ll feel less useless. Deep down Erica knew she shouldn’t take the retrenchment personally, but banishing it was a different matter. And the pile it had been added to had already been too much. That thought almost sent her back into bed, but she pushed on.
Standing at the kitchen sink slugging down a glass of water she wondered how much really was too much? She was still ther
e. Still functioning, though barely. But, fuck, it was hard.
She tucked her phone into her pocket and gathered her keys from the bowl on the bench. As she made her way down the hall to the front door, she realised her next issue was whether to tell Mackenzie and Issy or not.
The question was still rumbling around in her mind, but the inner debate stopped suddenly when she saw blank wall instead of her MP3 player hanging from a hook in the hall. It was a well-ingrained part of her routine – she came in, hung it up on the hook. If anything would be missing it would be her shoes because she often left them on when she came in and they ended up in her bedroom, the kitchen or the lounge area instead of there in the slot below the bench.
Bloody hell. Where is it?
Frowning, she rifled through the jackets, broadbrimmed hats, caps and umbrellas and even checked beneath the bench below in case it had dropped and fallen behind. Nothing. She’d had it the day before, so the girls hadn’t taken it. If they’d been home, she might have thought this was their way of forcing her to change – update. ‘Get with the program, Mum!’ They’d been telling her for years to just use her phone instead of carting around both devices all the time. But it had been a gift from Stuart years back, before mobile phones could do so much more than calls and texts.
Erica opened the lid on the bench despite knowing the unlikeliness of it being inside. She hadn’t looked in the box since folding up Stuart’s wet-weather gear and placing it there and closing the lid the first day after his death, unable to look at his things waiting for his return – a blinding reminder of her loss whenever she went for a walk. She should have sent them off with the rest of his things, but hadn’t given in here a thought that day. Now she stared at his coat, carefully folded, the tips of his runners and his house slippers poking out from underneath, and was hit by a bolt of sorrow. She bit it back as she quickly closed the lid. That was a problem for another day.
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