Trick of the Light

by Fiona McCallum

  Just moments later, it seemed, she was at the end of her circuit and back at her gate. As she put her key in the door, she really hoped Boris was sprawled out somewhere dead to the world, happily dreaming of hunting mice or whatever cats dreamt of. Taking care to remember to open the door slowly and look down in case the cat was instead ready to make a run for it, Erica went inside.

  In the hall a scent, a delicate mix of leather and peppermint and musk that was unmistakable as Stuart’s bodywash and shampoo, almost caused her to fall backwards against the closed door. Oh god. Stuart? It was so subtle she had to raise her nose and take a second deeper whiff. And when she did, she came back with nothing. She’d imagined it. Her heart sank right down to her ankles. Tears filled her eyes. For a moment there she could have really believed he’d just left, his gorgeous scent lingering for those seconds in the hallway after he paused to retrieve his coat and scarf from the hook above. Erica wasn’t sure what hurt the most at that moment – the fact she’d imagined him being there or the disappointment of it all flooding back. She sighed and shoved it back down inside.

  ‘Boris, I’m back,’ Erica croaked, again grateful to feel the life beyond the hum of the fridge, which she couldn’t hear from all the way down there but knew was waiting for her in the kitchen. She’d just hung up her MP3 player and taken off her runners when Boris came bounding down the hall. She told herself he was pleased to see her – didn’t want to think something had frightened him. But he was running, cantering or galloping if he’d been a horse, not trotting with his hips swinging and his beautiful bushy tail waving about behind him, seemingly defying gravity. He skidded to a halt just past her and turned to look back up the hall. Big black pupils took up most of the yellow eyes that looked up at her. She wanted to think that was due to excitement not anxiety, but wasn’t sure.

  ‘What’s up, puss?’ she said, scooping him up. His heart was beating rapidly against her chest. Though if he didn’t run much these days that would make sense. He wasn’t purring but he seemed to snuggle into her. ‘Did you miss me? I missed you too.’ She experienced a pang of remorse at thinking she’d be heading out again in a bit. No wonder Steph like to spend so much time at home when she wasn’t working.

  ‘Okay, mister, you can help me apply for some more jobs,’ Erica said a few minutes later when she had another mug of coffee in hand and was making her way to the study, Boris strolling along beside her. She smiled: he hadn’t left her side since she’d come back in. She’d given him a few extra treats, swearing him to secrecy.

  ‘Okay. Here we go,’ she said, opening the laptop, where there were ten new emails – all rejections from yesterday’s applications. Her heart sank a little. Would being retrenched work against her – that the last position she’d held showed as JPW? Because wouldn’t that signal she wasn’t good at her job, if they’d failed? No, the company was bigger than just her. She was a tiny part. If she was in a better place mentally, she’d have almost laughed at her arrogance. Tickets on yourself much? She was overthinking it. But it remained as a quiet nag in the back of her mind – like the blip, blip, blip of a plane on a radar. Oh well, there was nothing she could do about that. And she certainly wasn’t about to remove it from her CV or lie. She had to somehow explain the last eight years of work history or unemployment. Perhaps being upfront wasn’t the way to go, but she couldn’t help that. She was straight down the line – always had been. Would rather lay everything on the table and deal with the consequences than draw things out. If they don’t like me for me then they’re not the right fit, she thought, trying to push back the panic.

  Erica peered closer at the rejection emails’ standard wording: Thanks for the application. Unfortunately, you haven’t progressed. We’ll keep your CV on file for any future opportunities. Yeah, right. It all seemed so automatic, even robotic – people being careful with wording so they couldn’t be accused of anything untoward. Where was the humanity? She sighed. She couldn’t let it bring her down, affect her too much, but just had to play the game like everyone else. The world didn’t owe her anything; she had to work at getting what she wanted. A lot of the responses came from ‘no reply’ email addresses or with a note that the email address was unmonitored, which was very telling, Erica thought. She too would have to become robotic in her approach, not take it personally. Most likely they had search words and she hadn’t used the right ones; it was nothing to do with her as a person. How could it be when they didn’t know her personally beyond her CV and cover letter or online forms? Maybe it was partly her own fault when she wasn’t enthusiastic about most of the jobs she’d applied for.

  Hell, Google, or whatever, was probably reading her mind as well as listening in on her conversations via her phone! She shuddered at the thought.

  Shaking it aside and after taking a deep breath, she opened the first job search site. Oh. There was a message notifying her about a job that fitted some of her criteria. She clicked on the link and stared at the job title: Assistant funeral director. Why had that come up? No way. Urgh. She almost closed it again. But then the wording drew her in. It was like no other job ad she’d seen. Humanity oozed from the screen. It didn’t say seeks an assistant like all the others, but was kinder: Crossley Funerals needs a kind, caring, compassionate person to help … Erica liked that these human qualities were listed instead of the professional requirements of highly efficient, well-organised et cetera that most other ads started with. Renee was always going on about EQ versus IQ and how so few in management seemed to really get the difference. Well, it seemed Walter Crossley at Crossley Funerals did. Her heart lurched as she read the full description. It, too, was unusual in its personal approach, including being in first person rather than third person: I started this business with my wife Mary twenty years ago. We had hoped our son might eventually take over, but he’s chosen a different path. And unfortunately, I recently lost Mary. So, I am now in need of someone who can help me continue to provide the highest level of caring and compassionate service to those experiencing one of life’s most difficult challenges …

  Oh, the poor man.

  There was no mention of sales or customer service. So why had her search criteria been triggered? Erica wondered. And there it was: Makeup. My wife enjoyed tending to our clients and having them look their best at their final public appearance, so I’d be particularly keen to have someone skilled in applying makeup. But I’m willing to send the right person for training if necessary. In some ways the wording might seem a bit amateurish, but coming at the end of what seemed a very personal and heartfelt piece – it couldn’t really be called an ad; that would be doing Mr, um, Crossley, and his late wife, an injustice. Erica’s heart went out to him. Though surely, he’d filled the job by now when it had been listed for … How long? Crikey. Four months? Oh, but he must be still looking and have relisted it or changed something about it overnight for it to have triggered my criteria now. Erica yearned to help him out because he seemed so lovely. But the funeral industry? She certainly had unique experience. And she’d really appreciated the people who had worked on her mother’s and Stuart’s funerals. I probably should be doing something a bit more, um, philanthropic, shouldn’t I? Is that the right term? And I did do funeral makeup and visit the mortuary during my training all those years ago. And it was okay – I didn’t find it at all creepy or weird. Erica’s mind went back to the day. Some of her classmates had squealed, two had vomited. She’d been the only one to volunteer to do the makeup on the lifeless old woman lying on the cold steel gurney. She’d talked to her client as she’d worked, like she always did, only this time told her about mundane things like the weather outside and said she hoped she’d had a good life and hadn’t suffered too much in the end. Erica remembered how she’d felt a little sad – not at all creeped out – and also a triumphant sense of having given something back. More so than with all their other training and practice sessions. She actually might have gone down that path if she hadn’t been so young and keen on the film indust
ry and travelling overseas.

  She read on. There were no formal qualifications required, except full driver’s licence. Typing ability, basic computer and general admin skills. Full on-the-job training. Accommodation supplied – a quaint two-bedroom fully furnished flat. There was even a picture of a gorgeous two-storey stone building. Erica let her mind drift. The listed salary didn’t seem overly generous, but with the inclusion of accommodation was quite good. Could she rent her home out? Her interest turned into quiet excitement. Was this the answer? Erica knew she wasn’t really in a position to dismiss any job or industry, anyway.

  Then she wondered, So what’s the catch? She hated this notch of negativity, but the job had been listed for ages. And Walter was practically begging. She re-read the ad. And then her eyes stopped at Gorgeous, quiet surrounds. Tree change. Tree change? But Melrose Park was just out of the city, wasn’t it? Or was it one of the suburbs just by the foothills on the other side? Erica cursed her fuzzy brain. But didn’t the postcodes close to the city all begin with five zero? She looked back at the location and it took her a moment to realise it wasn’t Melrose Park at all, but Melrose – she’d somehow misread it, inserted the second word. Damn my tiredness and inability to fully concentrate! Erica didn’t know the town; maybe it was just into the hills and not far away. She brought up Google Maps, selected directions, put the details in and pressed enter.

  Oh. Two hundred and seventy kilometres north of Adelaide! Three hours by car. Erica was surprised at how much her heart plummeted. She couldn’t move that far away from her dad. And she certainly couldn’t uproot him. Or could she? Would he care where he was? Would he know? Yes. She sighed. He couldn’t even be taken out for drives or short outings to cafés because last time – about a year ago – he’d got panicky to the point of tears. Her heart sank further. She might be able to risk uprooting him again, but how many aged care options were there in a town with a population of … Just a shade over four hundred? What? Wow. It’s tiny! It was unlikely there would be much aged care on offer – she’d heard all the recent news about country people missing out on pretty much all basic services those in the city could access easily and take for granted. And it was too far away to visit more than once a fortnight, say. She let her shoulders slump. Not really doable, was it, timewise or with the cost of fuel? Erica closed the ad and continued her searching.

  When she had applied for ten more jobs, she told herself she was allowed to go and see her dad. Lunchtime. Over lunch, in the shower and then in the car – stopping for petrol – and then parking and going in to see her father, Erica felt the job ad following her, plucking at her and tugging on her clothes, trying to gain her attention. It was a strange experience.

  Inside, her dad was, unusually, seated alone. She sat down beside him and he looked at Erica closely.

  ‘Are you okay, darling? You’re looking a little peaky,’ he said. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘all good,’ shutting it down despite desperately wanting to discuss her situation with the one person left who had always been her rock and one of her loudest supporters. It hurt to know his concern and recognition of her torment was most likely based on memory – probably from when she was a teenager – rather than real in the here and now. For a brief moment she wished she hadn’t come, but then reminded herself how his eyes had lit up at seeing her approach. That was genuine. Whether he remembered her name or not or who she really was to him. His joy at having her company was genuine. Of that she was sure. So, I can’t leave him. I have to forget the job. She felt sadder for Walter Crossley than herself. She swallowed it back to focus on being with her father.

  ‘I’ve been looking after Steph’s cat, Boris,’ she said, the first benign subject to come to mind.

  ‘Boris?’ Arthur said.

  ‘Yes. He’s big and orange.’

  ‘Kitty?’ he said, gazing past her, as if looking for the cat.

  ‘Yes, a big orange fluffy kitty,’ Erica said. ‘The company is good. Though I’m not sure he likes me all that much,’ she said with a laugh. At that moment the cat she’d seen here before appeared and hopped up onto her father’s lap.

  ‘Kitty,’ he said, looking up at Erica with a huge smile. ‘Good puss,’ he said, stroking the cat.

  The two of them sat close in silence, taking turns stroking the purring cat, Arthur Tolmer seemingly at ease and Erica with a tight chest and sadness winding around inside her like a snake. She found herself wondering how long she could keep this up. You’re just tired. It’ll get easier, better. But would it, really? Her life felt like a trudge through an endless quagmire of marshes with no firm ground in sight. Her all-over ache became sharp as she pictured her mother’s and then Stuart’s funerals and having to go through all that again.

  Erica’s thoughts returned to the funeral job ad. What had she been thinking? There was no way she could watch people burying their loved ones every day, let alone help them make the arrangements. That would tear her apart, and if you got used to it wouldn’t it mean you’d ceased to care? And if you had you’d be useless. She thought back to the funeral staff who had done Stuart’s funeral. They’d been so caring and empathetic despite never having met her or Stuart before. Somehow, they’d been able to put her at ease and guide her and suggest what he might want by way of flowers and music despite little help from her or Steph, the one friend she’d brought in to help her. They’d been incredible. It was only now, with the benefit of time and space, that she could see how much their quiet guidance, their ability to speak or remain silent right at the appropriate times had got her through the worst day, and week leading up to it, of her life. She could now see how much worse it could have been, without people with such compassion, knowledge and experience. There was no way she could do it. She wasn’t gifted in that way. To her it would be like receiving a thousand paper cuts every day.

  Though … she hadn’t thought she’d live through losing her mum but she had. And Stuart. And there she was.

  Though even if she could do it, she couldn’t because of the distance. So why am I even still thinking about it?

  When Alison, the nursing home attendant, came over and caught Erica’s eye, she nodded.

  ‘I think it’s time for your nap, Dad,’ she said.

  ‘Ah yes,’ her dad said. ‘The joys of retirement – an afternoon nap after a big meal.’ He patted his stomach; his eyes twinkled and he winked. ‘Nap time, Kitty, off you hop,’ he said, lifting the cat to him, peering into its face and then kissing it on the head.

  ‘How about I bring Kitty?’ Alison said, holding out her arms, and then gathering up the cat and hugging it tightly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Arthur said, and then pushed himself out of his chair with both hands and onto his feet.

  Erica hugged her dad and when she’d let him go said, ‘Sleep tight.’ As Arthur Tolmer began slowly making his way from her, she tried not to think about the role reversal. But there it was, front and centre.

  ‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ her dad said, turning around, his finger in the air as if making a profound point or having the last word on a serious topic. Erica waved to him and waited until he’d turned the corner and was out of sight before leaving.

  As usual she was a strange mix of both lighter and heavier than when she’d arrived. She longed to get home. Once back in her car the funeral job came back to mind. She couldn’t help thinking how lovely it was that Walter Crossley had seemed so genuine and down-to-earth; so rare with online job ads.

  Erica was disappointed there was no Boris to greet her when she came inside. She looked in his crate and around the usual places she’d seen him in, her concern increasing. God, he hasn’t got out, has he? Shit. She’d been distracted when she came in from the carport. She called him. If he was in the garden he could be under any bush. Could he climb the tall boundary fence?

  Her phone pinged with a message. It was Steph saying she was waiting at the luggage carousel to collect her bag and would be coming straight from the airport – probably t
here in around forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on traffic. Shit, shit, shit. She quickly replied with a thumbs-up emoji. Where the bloody hell are you, Boris? Erica’s breath caught as she rushed back inside to think about what to do and form a plan. She’d try shaking food in his bowl. She was just getting ready to pour out some of the dry biscuits when she heard what she thought was a faint squeaky meow. She looked around and cocked her head. There it was again. Inside or outside? She made her way down the hall to the front door. If he’d somehow got outside and could find the front door, it made sense – he’d come in that way originally. Yes, in his carry box, but still … She opened the front door and peered out. Nothing. She tried to tell herself to calm down, but her quivering insides ignored her. As she was closing the door, she heard another squeaky noise. Louder this time, she thought. ‘Boris, darling, where are you?’ She opened the door to the study.

  ‘Meow!’

  ‘There you are! What are you doing in there? Poor kitty,’ she said, scooping him up. She frowned, trying to think where he’d been when she went out. She was sure she’d left him in the kitchen and that all the doors onto the hall had been closed.

  She peered into the study, sniffed for any smelly cat deposits. Thankfully all seemed fine. ‘Sorry, buddy, I’m a bad auntie. Don’t tell your mum. She’s going to be here soon to pick you up.’ She kissed him and put him back down.

  Erica was about to carry on back to the kitchen but found herself going to the desk and sitting down, opening the laptop and bringing up the funeral home job again. She wasn’t going to apply, but for some strange reason felt utterly compelled to write to Walter Crossley. He had, after all, just lost the love of his life and didn’t she know how horrible that was?

  Dear Walter,

  While yours isn’t the job for me, though I desperately need one, I wanted to just say how sorry I am for your loss. I, too, recently …