Borrowed Light (15 page)

Outside, perched on a chair in the hallway, I found Tim reading a surfing magazine. ‘Look at these tubes, Cal,' he said, pointing to the long glossy waves on the page. ‘That's Bob Jamison in the corner, he's from Hawaii. Man, is he hot.'

‘Mmm,' I said, and started going down the steps.

‘Hey, wait,' called Tim. I heard him ask Mr Shepherd if he could take the magazine. Then his feet came clumping down the wooden steps after mine.

The air was warm and smelled of hamburgers. Next to the stripshows were fast-food shops. Men with sweaty hairlines were frying chips and stewing coffee. There were crowds of people on the street now. Some of them looked as if they'd just swallowed Mr Shepherd's wilder herbs. Others were dressed up like expensive sweets, all shiny and deliciouslooking in their wrappings. The women's high heels clacked along the pavement.

‘The restaurant is just around the corner,' said Tim, taking my elbow. A man in a dirty coat asked me for fifty cents. We wove through the crowd, dodging the drunks, the bow ties' cigarette butts and the swinging handbags.

Around the corner it was different. The pavements were spacious and elegant, with soft lights streaming subtly out of the cafés. Tim steered me into one of the nicest.

There was a candle on our table, and a single rose in a vase. Tim handed the rose to me. I pressed his hand. I didn't really know what to do with the rose, so I laid it on the table next to my fork. We gazed at each other for a while, until it became embarrassing. We couldn't keep staring, not saying anything, and my nose was excruciatingly itchy. We both looked away at the same time, which was a relief, and glanced around the room.

The restaurant was almost full. A man and a woman near
us leaned toward each other over the starched tablecloth. Their laced hands, pointed skyward, perched like a small cathedral on the white lawn of cloth. The couple murmured together, their lips very close, as if they were praying. It was hard to drag my eyes away from them. I wondered what they had to talk about for so long. Their faces were so close, breathing in each other's air, hearing each other's thoughts. The distance between thinking and saying would be nothing, over there on that white lawn.

At the long tables people were celebrating. They made the most noise. I decided that the long-table people must work together—maybe after being cooped up all day saying polite things to the boss they needed to go out and roar like tigers for a while. They were pouring wine into fat glasses and laughing helplessly, clutching onto their neighbours' arms, shouting into their ear. Tim said something I couldn't hear. Voices broke like waves against the walls. I smiled and nodded anyway. He pointed to the menu with a questioning glance. I nodded, yes please, anything. I still didn't want to open my mouth very wide. I had to swallow a lot.

I suppose I should have told Tim I wasn't hungry. I knew I wouldn't be able to eat, and it wasn't as if he had much money. It would be such a waste, me sitting there deaf and dumb with a piled plate costing fifteen dollars. But I couldn't bring myself to say it. I felt like a black cloud hovering there amongst all that hilarity. I wished I could remember a good joke to tell. But I only thought of Jeremy and me laughing at Bob Bottom on the TV.

Still, it made my lips twitch. Bob
Bottom.

‘That's better!' Tim shouted across the table. He was smiling at me, turning his knife over and over on the crisp white table cloth. I felt better for a minute, with Tim smiling and approving of me. I watched him fiddling with the knife. He was probably nervous, too, poor thing. He was probably too shy to ask how it had gone with Mr Shepherd. Even
when Tim said ‘period' he always went red. So did I, for that matter. Well, I'd tell him all about it now, without him having to ask. I'd make it light and funny, show what a woman of the world I was, like those dazzling girls with the loud voices at the next table.

‘That mixture was evil,' I began, raising my voice over the noise. ‘It was made with snake oil from the deserts of Arizona, a pinch of bat's blood and a leg of cockroach—'

‘Oh no,' Tim cut in quickly, ‘don't be silly. Jim's a friend of my brother's. He wouldn't give you anything poisonous.'

‘I was just joking,' I said, but he didn't hear. He looked preoccupied. I wished our meal would arrive. After that we could go. Maybe when we were walking, arm in arm, it would be easier to talk. When we didn't have to eyeball each other.

Tim started in on the knife again. Over and over. ‘Listen, Cally,' he said. He paused, testing the point of the knife. I wished he wouldn't do that. ‘Next week—'

‘Yeah, it's a long weekend, isn't it? That's great!' I thought of all the time I'd have to lie on my bed. I sneaked another look at the couple. Their dinner had arrived—crabs in their shells, with a biscuity cheese sauce. You could smell it. The woman was picking at the crab delicately. She giggled as the man took one of her fingers and put it in his mouth, together with the crab leg. She licked the sauce off his lip. I figured that must be something you do when you're at least twenty-five and confident. I looked at the woman again. Her breasts made a soft billowing shelf on the tablecloth. Just as I expected.

‘Yes,' Tim nodded eagerly. ‘So, the guys are going up north—you know, Bob, José, Phil Jones—there's a surfing comp on, up at Byron Bay. I said I'd go, ages ago. The guys are counting on me. I hope you don't mind—you know, after tonight and all …' His voice trailed away like smoke.

I could smell his eagerness to escape. It drifted out of his
skin, burning, acrid. It made the candle glow more brightly. A surfing trip up north—it was his idea of paradise.

‘Do you know about escape velocities?' I said.

‘What?'

‘Well, every massive object has an escape velocity. It measures how fast you have to go to escape the gravitational pull of that object. For instance, to escape from earth in a rocket you have to travel at 40,000 kilometres an hour. Now, let's see, I wonder what my escape velocity is?'

‘What are you raving on about?'

‘I'd say it's minimal—only about a hundred kilometres an hour, about the speed limit on the Pacific Highway going north. Nah, you won't need a rocket to get away from little old me.'

Tim grinned doubtfully. He shook his head. ‘You're such a crazy lady,' he said, ‘that's why I like you.'

But he didn't look convinced. He was fiddling with his glass now, until the waitress came over and filled it up. Some sort of claret—at least it wasn't green ginger. We picked up our glasses and clinked them together. I don't think anyone ever looked less festive than we did.

Over the chicken cacciatore, I listened to Tim's plans for his surfing holiday. He was more relaxed now. I wasn't sure if it was the allure of the surf or the effect of the wine, but he was chewing and talking with gusto. His blue eyes were sparkling, whipped wild with excitement. He flicked back his hair, burnished in the candlelight. He looked like a Greek god sitting there—one of those awesome, athletic types, God of the Waves or something. I knew then, poking the grit around my gums with my tongue, that Tim had always been out of reach. He had done what he could for me. Now he was on to the next thing. I could see him surfing way out deep, where the waves are born. He was moving up and down with the swell, always moving, always further away. I was stuck on the shore like a clam.

I picked at a few olives on my plate. My mother would have been disgusted at the waste. All that good food, and so many children in the world were starving. It was true. But I could still taste the grit.

As I sat gazing at Tim, I realised old Shepherd could have given me chopped-up cow pats, and I'd have swallowed them. ‘Thank you, they're delicious,' I'd have said. It's a terrible thing to conclude about yourself. Borrowers are the pits. We make ourselves sick.

I began to wonder if being a borrower is hereditary, like dark hair or how tall you are. Or perhaps it's your background that decides these things. My little fish was doomed, no matter which way. Because I didn't know how to stop being a borrower, even if I wanted to.

‘These herbs may not work, you know, Tim,' I said. I saw that I'd cut into his lecture on southerly winds and their lethal effect on the surf. His face fell. You could almost hear the clang.

‘Did Shepherd say that?'

‘Yes, but then again he said it
could
work, just that there were no guarantees.'

‘Well,' said Tim, his beautiful mouth curving upwards again, ‘let's be optimistic then.'

‘Yes, let's,' I agreed. ‘They say that cancer patients who are optimistic usually have a much better recovery rate than pessimists.'

‘Well, there you are then!' He smiled uncertainly and held up his wine to toast me. ‘Here's to our good luck.'

Here's to a good fuck, I heard him say. There was a lot of noise in the restaurant. It was hard to smile back. Tim and I were like two foreigners meeting in a neutral country. We didn't share a common language, so we simply gestured to each other in a friendly way. We meant well. But we never knew
what
we meant.

Tim was looking forward to next week. He was looking
forward to his life. He'd done what he could for me. And now he was on to the next thing.

W
HEN I GOT
home, I went to lie on my bed. I slipped off my shoes, but that was all. I didn't bother taking off my dress or my earrings. I didn't even wash my makeup off. I'd have dirty pores and blackheads the next day, but I didn't care. I didn't see the point of caring any more. Even when you did, nothing happened the way you wanted.

I scratched my leg and felt nothing. I was numb, like a plastic bag.

I remembered watching a documentary on spinal injuries, and how the doctor had pricked the patient in her leg with a needle. Again and again he stuck the needle in. Each time you'd be holding your breath, hoping the woman would cry out. But there was nothing. The woman looked so disappointed. Afterwards, Jeremy and I kept wondering how it would be to have no sensation in your body. He said you would feel heavy, like a piece of wood. Because gravity's heavy, he said. But Jeremy's got a thing about gravity. He thinks God is gravity. Me, I think you'd feel like a plastic bag with nothing in it.

Some animals roll over and play dead to protect themselves. Maybe that's what my skin does—play dead, I mean. I think sex is overrated. I think living is overrated. What on earth is everyone going on about all the time?

I got up from the bed to rummage around in my bag. I found the packet with tomorrow's herbs. I poured them down the toilet. Who needs gritty gums, on top of everything else?

Monday 2 June

I think the baby has something wrong with his digestion. I took
him to the doctor yesterday—the local GP. He's sympathetic, but he really didn't examine Gany for very long.

‘That's an interesting name,' he said, as he stuck his auroscope into the baby's ear. Gany started crying, the point of the instrument must have been cold and sharp. The doctor kept talking as if there were no noise in the room. I can't stand it when people do that They think a child's pain is nothing
.

‘It's short for Ganymede,' I said, and looked away. People often stare at me when I say that. I hope I haven't done the wrong thing. David wanted ‘Jeremy'. But he said, oh anything to make you happy. I did it for Mother, really. I thought she'd be impressed. Ganymede is the largest moon of the solar system, after all. It was discovered by her precious Galileo. At least there was nothing to live up to. I mean, it's just a shining moon in the sky. You can't even see it without a telescope. Caroline Herschel was impossible to live up to. Every time people said my full name I felt guilty. Like a miniature model of the real thing. It's strange how so much of your own childhood surfaces when you have a child of your own. I'd forgotten, until now, how Mother used to read to me about CH's life. She was Mother's heroine, and mine. Other children had Wonder Woman and Superman. I had Caroline Herschel
.

Mother says there's nothing wrong with Gany. He's just an intelligent, wideawake boy. Hope she's right
.

In any case, I'll take him to the pediatrician tomorrow. Just to make sure. Might still change his name to Jeremy. Maybe it would be for the best.

Friday doctor 4 p.m.

I'm still worried about Gany. Hasn't put much weight on. Pediatrician said to add one more feed a day, and put him on solids early. Why can't I stop panicking?

David home today. I tried to talk to him but he's too preoccupied. Business not going so well. He tells long stories about the difficulties of working with government agencies and
the people, but I can't concentrate. I hear the baby crying, or my mind drifts off somewhere else. How can he work in such a racist country anyway? He says at least he's trying to do something in the world, and pay his family's bills. Then he nags on about money again, Keeps telling me to shop at the supermarket, not the local deli. He's right. But I only bought bocconcini last time to celebrate when he came home. He thinks I eat it all the time.

Wrong time for talking. Should have waited until after dinner. There actually was dinner tonight. Chilli con carne. I was quite proud of it. And it was minced meat, at just eight dollars a kilo. David said not enough chilli. Still, the carpet was vacuumed and the sink was wiped down. I'd even managed to put away the washing
.

I followed him into the bedroom as he put away his suits
.

‘How's Gany?' he asked. He was peering into the wardrobe
.

‘Still not drinking much. I'm so worried about him.'

David sat down next to me. He took my hand. I laid my head on his chest and listened to his breathing. It was deep and healthy and reliable
.