Being Here (17 page)

‘I'm sorry, Carly?' I say. ‘I was miles away.'

‘I said your mum hated the new vicar, or whatever you called him.'

I laugh. ‘Oh, no, dear. I don't think she hated him. Quite the reverse.'

She spreads her arms wide. It's a “please explain” gesture. I am learning this new language of the young. It's direct and it lacks elegance, but economy seems to be a motivating factor. I suppose it has advantages.

‘The new Pastor was in his thirties. He was attractive. He was approachable. He had energy, a new way of looking at things. He smiled. Can't you work it out yourself?'

Carly bites her lower lip again and curls one bare foot beneath her bottom. The metal stud in her eyebrow wriggles as she furrows her brow. Then it stills and her mouth forms an exaggerated O.

‘You are kiddin' me!' she says. ‘You don't mean … no. You're joking. Oh. My. God.' She bursts out laughing. I find a smile on my own lips.

‘Look, I don't know,' I say. ‘Obviously, this is not something we would ever have discussed. And it's only a theory I developed years later. But you remember I talked about repressed sexuality earlier? Well, why should mother be immune to that most fundamental of human urges? She had been a widow for nearly eight years. We didn't have guests. The only men mother ever saw were members of the church. Married men. Farmers she conducted business with. Why shouldn't she experience … lust?'

Carly screams with laughter. She bends over in her chair. Her hair swings below her knees, curtains her face. Then she rises up again, her mouth a riot of colour. I laugh myself. It is impossible to resist.

After a couple of minutes she calms down, presses a hand to her chest.

‘Sorry, Mrs C. No offence, but I can't quite see this psycho, bible-bashing fruitcake getting the hots for anyone. I mean … she was
horny
!'

The thought sets her off again. I should laugh more. It makes me feel young again.

‘Call me Leah,' I say. ‘I think you've earned it.'

I wait until we have both recovered some control.

‘It's only amateur psychology,' I continue. ‘And if mother
was
attracted to the new Pastor, how would she cope with that? It would run counter to everything her moral code dictated. Everything the Bible taught her. Lust? Lust was a one-way ticket to Hell. Nonnegotiable. So what could she do? Face the prospect of everlasting damnation or bury the emotion beneath a stronger, more acceptable emotion? Anger. Suitably Old Testament. So she persuaded herself that Pastor Bauer was worthy of hatred. He didn't preach damnation. He preached salvation. He preached love. There was a danger in that. He upset her world. He had to be defeated.'

‘Jeez! That is seriously fu … weird, Mrs C.'

We contemplate the state of weirdness for a minute or two before Carly glances at her watch.

‘Hey, Mrs C. I should get going. I didn't realise the time.'

‘Leah. Remember?'

‘Sure. Leah.'

She says the word, but it obviously feels strange in her mouth. She uncurls herself from the chair and turns off her machine, tucks it into her backpack.

‘And Carly?' I say. She turns to me. ‘I'm sorry about what I said to you a few days ago. I was rude and nosy. You are perfectly entitled to keep your private life to yourself. It was unforgivable of me. Are we still friends?'

She grins.

‘Sure, Mrs … Leah. And, anyway, I thought about what you said. About what's important between people? And once I got past your grumpiness – again no offence – I reckoned you were right. I'd like to talk to you about the important things. If that's, you know, okay.'

‘I'd be honoured.'

She is slightly embarrassed now. She kicks at one shoe with the other.

‘Catch ya tomorrow, then.'

‘I have a gift for you,' I say.

‘A gift?'

‘Well, I'm not sure if you'll consider it much of a gift. It's not valuable. In fact, you probably won't want it all.'

‘Boy, you're giving this a big build-up, Mrs C.'

‘There is a box on the floor of that wardrobe over there. Could you get it for me, please?'

She opens the wardrobe door and rummages around for a moment. The box must be heavier than I remember because she grunts under its weight. But she drags it out, lifts it onto the mattress next to me.

‘Open it,' I say.

She sits at my side and removes the lid. There is a silence while she examines the contents.

‘It's my copy of
Oliver Twist
by Charles Dickens,' I say. ‘I would really like you to have it.'

‘Thanks, Mrs … Leah. Cool. It's kinda … well, buggered.' She brings out the first page. It is leprous with water-stains. I remember when I first saw it. The creamy whiteness of the paper, the crispness of the print. It had passed from youth to age in one stormy night. Now I have caught up with it.

‘It has sentimental value for me,' I say. ‘And I couldn't bear it if it was just thrown out after I die. It would be a great kindness if you would give it a home.'

‘This is the book you read to Adam? When he'd take you into the world you were reading about?'

‘Yes.'

‘The actual book. Cool.' She turns the page over. ‘I'll keep it always, Leah.'

‘Thank you.'

She puts the page back, replaces the lid and tucks the box under an arm.

‘See ya tomorrow, then.'

‘Carly?'

She turns.

‘I'm curious,' I say. ‘Do you believe in Adam? Do you believe he was real?'

She chews her bottom lip as she considers.

‘Sure,' she says. ‘I don't have a problem with that.' She grins. ‘To be honest, Mrs C, the one I have difficulty believing in is your mum.'

I watch the door for a while after she has gone.

I skip dinner. It is fish and mashed potatoes tonight. I am not hungry and I can't stand the texture. I remember crisp apples. The sound when my teeth pierced the skin and the gush of juice on my lips. Like almost everything else, it is in the past.

CHAPTER 15

I
BELIEVE
L
UCY VISITS ME
in the night.

She is insubstantial as a thought. I wake. Or perhaps I don't. The darkness is grainy. My eyes feel coated. Something peels when I open them.

I feel a pressure on my bed, nothing more. A shadow brushes my arm. It could be an affectionate hand. There is a slow exhalation somewhere. It sounds like ‘Leah'. For a moment, fear is there as well. But then it clears. I experience a movement in the air, a gathering of something that stirs the hairs on my forearm. A shift in the darkness. The bed moves beneath me.

Then she is gone. Somewhere a clock ticks. Night sounds settle. I am alone, but something, something remains. It coats the air. It settles on the room, like dust.

It could be happiness.

Jane takes me outside after breakfast. I avoid the lounge now. It is too empty.

The day is clear and blue again. It used to be that the everlasting skies of summer were restricted to memory only, a fiction penned to make the past more vibrant and the present less so. Yet I cannot remember a summer like this. It is perfection born over, again and again.

Jane wheels me down towards the ornamental pond in the centre of the grounds. There used to be a fountain that played at its centre, but it has long since been turned off. I worry about the future. It has no green promise. Jane applies the brakes next to a bench and sits on it, to my left. The bench was a donation from a past guest. There is a plaque that notes the details. I suppose it is a nice gesture, but it's not something I have put into my will. The idea is that the plaque ought to be a testimonial, a physical reminder of a life spent. For some reason, it feels the opposite to me. It is just a plaque. It is just a bench.

‘Do you think about Lucy?' says Jane.

She means do I mope about her, have I lost the will to carry on. But she deserves credit in refusing to avoid the subject.

‘Yes,' I reply.

‘And how are you coping?'

‘As we all must.'

‘It's the part of the job I really, really hate.'

I study the surface of the pond. Lily pads ride the gentle swells, bright green and polished to an impossible shine. The breeze hints of the sea, far to the south. This is a good place to be.

‘You'd be slightly strange if it was a part you enjoyed, don't you think?'

Jane laughs. She holds my hand.

‘And what about you?' I continue. ‘How's that baby you are carrying?'

She places a hand upon her belly. It is instinctive. It must be hard-wired into the maternal psyche.

‘The baby's good. That's what my doctor tells me. But
I'm
not. Morning sickness, Leah. Actually, that's not right. For me, it's morning, afternoon and night sickness.'

‘That's a shame. I understand that some women manage to avoid it completely.'

‘Yeah. Apparently, I'm not some women.'

‘And do you have any pica? I knew someone who virtually lived on vegemite and strawberry jam. Together.'

‘Pica?' She wags a finger at me. ‘Is there any word you
don't
know the meaning of? But no. No cravings. Well, apart from any kind of food. I'm starving all the time, Leah. It's crazy. Sometimes I just want to stick my face into my meal and
inhale
it. Alan calls me a pig.'

He would
, I think. His wife is changing and it won't please him. He is the type of person who must effect all changes himself. He is the sun and everything revolves around him. Now there is a new centre for Jane. That small clump of tissue, nestled snug within her depths, is growing, growing and calling, calling. Beyond his reach and power. He watches the changes and feels small. He would call her a pig. And worse as time moves on and the gravity of the new life swells, deepens and becomes a tug more impossible to resist with each passing second.

‘What do they say? Eating for two?' I reply.

‘Two? I'm eating for ten. Oh God, Leah. What will become of my figure? I'm already a dress size up. At this rate I'll need a hammock for my boobs. And what if I don't lose it afterwards? Some women take a long time to recover from childbirth. I don't want to waddle around like a walrus for years.'

‘You'll be fine,' I say, without conviction.

‘Alan is working late a lot recently,' she says after a long silence. I wonder how her mind has moved to this new topic, though the pathway is perhaps not difficult to plot.

‘Is he?'

We sit and watch the surface of the pond. I think about the obvious – the cycle of death and birth, Lucy's death and Jane's baby, the endless dance of renewal. I do not know what occupies Jane's thoughts but I suspect it has to do with the warmth of an ember within and the coldness of eyes across a dinner table.