by Renee Kira
It was always terminal; the question wasn’t if, but when. And then it came down to logistics. Could he stay living in his home or would he need care? Should he come and live with us?
None of us thought about money, not at first. That’s what insurance is for. There was a two hundred thousand dollar payout in his policy in the case of permanent disability. This included terminal illness. They didn’t deny the claim. Instead, they paid out the amount in segments. Twenty thousand dollars each year for ten years.
That doesn’t sound so bad, right? Except he had no income and the twenty grand barely covered his medical expenses. Let alone his mortgage or groceries. David and I have a big mortgage hanging over our heads, but we’ve made it work. Dad has used his payout to pay his own mortgage while David and I cover everything else.
The option of me going back to work was never there. Between running the boys around and helping Dad, there is no time for it. Plus, there aren’t a lot of job opportunities in Cape Cross. A lot of work is seasonal, based on the tourist trade in the warmer months. We were lucky that David has his job as a stonemason. Like my Dad used to be. That’s how we met.
David’s job is a massive threat to his health, but he can’t quit. There’s no other way he’d make the same money. Without that money, my Dad is up the creek without a paddle. David can’t quit while my father is alive. It’s a grim thought, but it’s true.
Once Dad dies, we will get the rest of his insurance policy and we can sell his house. With no siblings, the money will come straight to me. We can pay our Goliath of a mortgage right down and refinance. David can work wherever he wants. I could get back into design work.
Between now and then, I hope that poison dust stays out of David’s lungs. If only so my sons have a father. And, while it’s awful, I know he’ll keep working there and putting himself at risk.
‘When the hell did bananas get so expensive?’ Dad mutters to himself as we walk back to the car. He holds the receipt in his hand.
‘There was a storm up north. Ruined the season.’
He shakes his head, folding up the receipt with his free hand and stuffing it into his back pocket. He leans against the car while I load the grocery bags into the boot. Once everything is in the car, I open the passenger door and help him inside. This trip leaves him more tired each week.
‘You know, I’ve got to ask David a favour. Is he around on the weekend?’
I answer as I turn the engine and push the car into reverse. ‘Yeah, he should be. What do you need?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘I want to sell some of my tools. I was going to get him to take a look. See if he can help me.’
‘What are you doing that for?’
‘Well, I’m in no shape to use them, am I?’ He lets out a quiet laugh.
I smile. ‘I’m sure he can if that’s what you want.’
He nods and turns his head to look out the window.
‘Wait…’ I say. ‘Do you need money for something?’
Dad doesn’t answer straight away. ‘The nurse was around last week. She says I need to change some things. Add handrails around the place. I’ll need a modified bed. But by the sounds of things, it’s a pricey thing to do.’
‘Dad, you should have told me. David can take care of the handrails. And as for the bed, we can pay for it.’
He shakes his head. ‘You’ve done enough, Maya. You’ve got two boys to think about.’
I press my lips together and take a long inhale. That rusting pile of tools would be lucky to get a hundred bucks. His car was sold months ago. The furniture in the house is as old as me. Dad’s not getting that bed unless David and I pay for it.
‘David will come and do the handrails on Saturday. Do you know where you want them?’
‘More or less,’ he nods.
‘I’ll get him to call you tonight. He can figure out the details with you.’ He won’t want to do it, he’ll want to go surfing. Like he does most weekends. But I will push against the delicate balance that sits between us and force him to help my Dad.
‘And the bed, what kind of bed are you thinking about?’
He speaks in a low voice. ‘A hospital bed. It’ll mean we can adjust it. It might help with my lungs if I can sleep with my chest elevated. Also, if I need a wheelchair, I’ll be able to get in and out on my own.’
‘Dad, if we get to that point, you need to move in with us.’
‘I’m not doing that, Maya. You’ve got your own family.’
‘It’s not-’
He interrupts me. ‘That’s not up for discussion. There’s another thing. Something I have to ask you for.’
‘What?’ I glance across at him. He’s not a person who asks for anything.
‘I don’t want to go into a hospice.’ He’s wincing as he speaks the words.
‘Of course not. No one wants you to,’ I say. It’s as close as he has come to anything but stoicism towards his condition. ‘You don’t need that. You’re doing fine.’
‘No. Not like that. I want to die in my home. It was terrible for your mother.’
The memory hits me like a slap. The small, white hospital room. The strange smell of baby powder and iodine mixed with something sweet. My mother’s pale face, her eyes always closed, death hanging over her like a cloud.
‘No, I don’t blame you.’
‘The nurse says it’s possible. But I’ll need some things. The bed’s one of them.’
I nod. ‘We’ll work it out, Dad.’
‘So, ask David, will you? He might know someone who wants some new tools.’
I take him home and put the groceries away. His house is clean. Things still seem in order.
Later on, I go home. A quick online search brings me to a website for home medical supplies. Dad is right, it is expensive. It doesn’t take long to find the right handrails; I add six to the shopping cart. There’s hospital beds too. The simplest one runs into the thousands of dollars. It goes into the cart as well.
With fast fingers, I enter Dad’s address for delivery. Just as quickly, I put in my credit card details. This will take us close to the limit. But what else am I supposed to do?
5
Isobel
I was betting on a big turnout, and I wasn’t wrong. The church car park is overflowing and I’m forced to park my car two streets away. I join the stream of mourners walking towards the service for Veronica.
It’s cool for a morning in October. It rained overnight, and the air is still heavy with moisture. The sky is clear and pale above me.
The crowd is reassuring. I’ll be able to slip in and stay up the back. The plan is no one will notice that I’ve turned up to a funeral of someone I never met.
I haven’t slept well since that Saturday morning I found Veronica on the beach. I’ve been Googling her, looking at photos. Wondering what her life was like and how it ended too soon. It’s been eating away at me. I’m hoping that today will help.
My understanding of her is limited by social media, the image she projects into the world is one of her choosing. It might not be the true Veronica. Or all of Veronica. She sold houses for a living. She had dark red hair and was attractive. There’s no trace of a boyfriend I can find, but there are plenty of pictures of her son. She had a lot of friends on Facebook, but that doesn’t mean she did in real life.
The police officer at the scene gave me a number for a counsellor. A soft-spoken man picked up and spoke to me for thirty minutes. He thought going to the funeral was a good idea, and that nothing about what I felt was unusual.
As I get close to the church, I spot a familiar figure.
It’s been years since I’ve seen Maya, but I recognise her from the opposite side of the carpark. Her pale blonde hair stands like a bright flame against the dark stone wall.
We went to the catholic secondary school together. Good enough friends that I still have her number. Not close enough that I’ve seen her more than five times in the last decade. I’m no good at friendship.
&
nbsp; Instead of walking to the door to the church, I head around the side to where she is standing.
‘Maya!’ I call to get her attention.
Maya looks up, a weak smile appears on her face as she recognises me. As I get closer, I notice the dark patches under her eyes. Her make up is already smudged. I should have left her alone.
‘Isobel? Hey!’ As I reach her, she wraps one arm around my neck in a half hug, the other holding a cigarette. ‘I heard you were back in town.’
I nodded. ‘Since when do you smoke?’
‘I don’t.’ She frowns and looks down at her hand. ‘It’s a stress thing.’
Maya flicks the cigarette to the wet grass beneath us and stomps it out with a black boot.
‘I didn’t realise you knew Veronica,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Were you friends?’ I ask.
She nods, her face falls and her pale lips press into a straight line. ‘Yeah, we were good friends.’ She looks towards the entry to the church. People have stopped going inside and are standing out the front. It must be full. ‘This doesn’t feel real.’
‘I didn’t know her,’ I say.
‘No?’
I shake my head.
‘Why did you come? Do you know Heather and Neil?’
‘I was running on the beach last weekend. I was the one who found her.’
‘Oh,’ The words leave her mouth and she looks even sadder than she did before. ‘That’s awful.’
There’s a long silence between us. I shouldn’t have come here.
‘Was it…’ Maya pauses. ‘What did it look like? Do you think it would have been bad for her? Painful?’
‘It’s hard to say. I wasn’t sure she was dead.’ I can only tell her the truth.
Maya nods. I don’t know if I’ve said the right thing.
‘We should go inside. I want to stay up the back. Will you sit with me?’ she asks.
‘Of course,’ I answer.
Someone catches my eye as Maya and I walk through the entrance to the church. Tall and well dressed in a navy suit, with a crop of neat silver hair. I know him, but I can’t place him. As I pass, he doesn’t blink. It’s like he wants to stare me down.
‘You know him?’ asks Maya in a low voice once we’ve passed.
‘I can’t place him but he looks familiar.’
We slip into the back of the church. It takes a minute, but it hits me.
‘Edmund Keane,’ I whisper out loud.
‘Huh?’ asks Maya.
‘That guy who was staring. He’s a solicitor.’
‘Oh.’ Maya sounds confused.
‘He probably thinks I’m here to compete for business with him.’
She nods, but her eyes focus ahead. Edmund Keane had been around forever and was the only other lawyer in this town. Not that I had been working the last two months since I came back to Cape Cross. I’m not sure why he is threatened by someone like me. Anyhow, my drive to start my practice was diminishing every day.
I ignore him, moving my gaze towards the front of the church. It’s a small, old building. The floorboards are original and the pews are scratched but sturdy.
The cherry-coloured coffin is topped with a cascade of white flowers. Ahead of me is a sea of black and grey. There is a mumble of conversation, people keep their voices low.
Someone catches my eye. I can only see his outline from behind, but I’d recognise him anywhere. No one would forget the broad shoulders and the slight curl to his sandy coloured hair. How long has it been since I’ve him? It must be years.
I need to take a leaf out of my mother’s book and learn how to stalk a person on social media. Like me, he split for Melbourne after high school. I didn’t realise he’d come home.
‘Poor Liam,’ says Maya. She has followed the direction of my eyes.
‘Poor Liam?’ I repeat his name.
She looks over, regarding my expression. She knows he’s my ex. ‘They were together a few years back. Liam and Veronica. Sorry, I thought you would have known.’
‘Oh.’ My stomach sinks and I’m reminded of why I don’t stalk my exes on social media. I’d rather not find out.
We stay at the back, like we both intended, leaning against the cold stone wall. The service is fast. Only Veronica’s stepfather speaks, other than the celebrant. There’s a projector screen, cycling through a series of photos of her life. A newborn baby. A rosy-cheeked toddler. A teenager dressed in black. It’s over within thirty minutes.
The family follows out the coffin. The pallbearers first, and then a woman whom I guess is Veronica’s mother. In her late fifties, she has dark hair and a short stature, collapsed even smaller by her grief. She has a relative either side with their arms around her, who are practically carrying her.
They’re about to pass us, but she stops and looks up. She looks at me and her eyes fill up with horror. What could I have done wrong? She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Then I realise why.
I look like her dead daughter.
6
Isobel
My phone is flashing, lighting up the inside of my handbag. I don’t notice it while I’m outside in the daylight, but as soon as I’m in my car it catches my eye. I reach in, feeling for its smooth plastic cover, then flip it in my hand. Before I unlock it, I can tell something is wrong. The screen is lit up with messages and missed calls. They’re all from my mother.
Pls call when you get this.
Isobel call me back.
Why aren’t you answering? Where are you?
They have arrested your father. Please call.
Arrested? What for? He doesn’t even exceed catch limits when he’s out fishing. I call her back.
‘What the hell, Mum?’ I blurt as soon as she answers.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. They turned up here, six of them.’ Her voice is high pitched and she’s talking too fast.
‘They can’t just take a person, Mum. They have to tell you what the arrest is for.’
‘I don’t know,’ she repeats herself. She sounds angry now, like she’s annoyed at me for not understanding.
I’m still sitting out the front of the church, in the driver’s seat of my car. Funeral mourners are dispersing, filing away to their own cars and homes. Their sombre mood doesn’t match the frequency of the phone conversation I’m having.
‘Okay. Take a breath.’
She doesn’t respond, and I can only hope she’s taking my advice.
‘Exactly what happened?’
‘There were six police officers,’ she says.
‘Uniformed police?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you get any of their names?’
‘There wasn’t any time for that.’
‘And what did they say? Word for word, as close as you can remember.’ Six cops don’t show up for a fishing violation. I can’t imagine what else my father could be tangled up in.
‘That they wanted to question him. That he needed to go to the station.’ Well, that’s different than being arrested. It could be anything. It could be a tax matter from five years ago. It could be unpaid parking tickets.
‘Can you remember if they gave him a caution?’ I ask.
My mother hesitates. ‘A caution?’
‘Reading him his rights, like on television.’
She is silent for a moment, as if remembering. ‘I don’t think so. Should I have gone with him?’ No. My mother has a flare for the dramatic. Her going along would be a terrible idea. Plus, I doubt the police would have allowed it.
‘Where did they take him?’
‘I don’t know. The station here, I guess. What do I do, Isobel? Imagine what he’s thinking right now. You know what happened to him.’
Actually, I don’t know because he never speaks about it. I can only guess. It must have been awful. But he comes from a time when men didn’t talk about feelings.
‘I’m going down to the station, Mum. I’m not far away. Just sit tight, okay? And try not
to worry.’
There’s a pause between us and I think she’s hung up. But then she speaks.
‘He will need a lawyer,’ she says, her voice quiet.
‘Mum?’ I question her. ‘What does he need a lawyer for? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘What if it’s about Veronica Hayes?’ she says.
I sigh and lean back into the upholstery of my car. Here we go with the drama again. ‘It’s not, Mum.’
‘What if it is? What if because you found her…’
‘Mum! Calm down. Maybe he forgot to pay a parking fine.’
She tried to speak again, but I cut her off. ‘I’m going to go down the station. Look, I’ll call you when I find out more.’
It crosses my mind to pick her up and take her in with me. There’s little chance she can drive with her foot in a boot. The thought of her conspiracy theories in the car and at the police station are too much, so I go alone.
The police station is less than a kilometre away, but it’s slow moving. There's a bulge of traffic leaving the funeral and slow-walking pedestrians everywhere. As I drive, I rack my brain again for an explanation.
It’s a mistake. My dad is a good guy. He’s quiet. He was around when I was a kid. He did everything a dad is supposed to do. It’s hard to fault him.
It could be something to do with the shop, although it’s been years since they sold it. Could it be linked to Veronica Hayes? When I dropped in the other morning, there was something odd about the way my parents acted. It could be anything though. Maybe they were having a fight.
I park out the front of the police station. This part of town is quiet and there are no other cars or people around. The building is new, square and rendered in a dark grey. It’s modern for a small town, the old weatherboard station being replaced a few years back.
When I get inside, it’s even quieter. There’s a small reception area, with a linoleum floor, no chairs and a hard Perspex screen between me and whoever is sitting behind the desk. The only point of entry to the rest of the station is through a heavy door with a pin code on in.
