The Wrong Door

by Bunty Avieson

  Do it now while she could. The counsellor again. It would only get harder, she had said. Gwennie needed to introduce fresh air and energy into the house. Pete didn’t live in the physical things he left behind. He lived on in her memories. She mustn’t make the mistake of trying to freeze him and hold onto him. Grief and death were as dynamic as life and must be lived. They were a process and should be allowed to progress. The first step was to get rid of the obvious. Gwennie thought she understood. At the very least it gave her something to do, something to concentrate on. An activity for the day. And something that connected her to Pete.

  The practical side of dealing with death seemed to happen in tiers. She was down to notifying the bank manager and local newsagent now. Gwennie felt exhausted by the effort of explaining. Her husband had ‘passed on’, she said, hating the phrase but unable to bring herself to use the words died or dead. When she cancelled Pete’s standing order for newspapers and magazines the newsagent asked why, sounding almost indignant, and then had been so embarrassed by the explanation that Gwennie felt like she had committed some dreadful faux pas. It was much easier to stay at home with the doors locked and the telephone answering machine keeping away the well-meaning callers.

  Gwennie opened the bathroom cabinet. A half-used tube of his favourite shaving cream. She could only get that particular brand at a chemist in Paddington. It smelled so familiar she felt herself begin to choke. She tossed the misshapen tube into the plastic bag in her hand. His toothbrush. Into the bag. Suppositories from when he had been ill with a stomach bug. Pills for hayfever. A couple of razor refills for a razor that had long gone. A shaving brush with natural bristles that he never used. She worked quickly, all the time holding her breath. She felt if she let it out she would lose her nerve, start to scream and never stop. Maybe she should ask somebody else to do this. It was too much to ask of herself. But who else could she trust to do it? These things were so personal, so intimate, she felt it was her responsibility as well as her privilege.

  It didn’t take long and soon she was moving back into the bedroom. She let her breath out slowly through pursed lips. Even as the air was released from her lungs the tension remained and her chest ached with the effort. She looked about the bedroom. What next? Just as she opened Pete’s sock drawer the doorbell rang.

  It was a medical researcher from the Public Health Unit from Wentworth Area Health service, on the outskirts of Sydney. Gwennie stood at the front door looking blankly at the perky young woman in front of her.

  ‘I’m Cynthia Ainslie-Wallace … we spoke on the telephone …’

  Ms Ainslie-Wallace wore a business suit, a short, dark, sculpted bob and a determinedly cheerful disposition.

  ‘But I was expecting you on Wednesday,’ said Gwennie.

  The woman’s smile faltered. ‘Today is Wednesday, Mrs Darvill. I’m sorry. If you prefer I can come back another time.’

  Gwennie wavered for a moment. She didn’t want anyone intruding on her right now, not when she was immersed in Pete, revelling in his smells and textures. But a lifetime of conditioning won out. No matter what, she would always be polite. She gestured for the woman to come inside.

  Gwennie showed her into the lounge room while Ms Ainslie-Wallace explained her research. Gwennie remembered the letter now. The hospital was investigating the unusual circumstances surrounding the sudden spate of deaths from pneumonia and would Mrs Darvill consent to a formal interview. If someone could explain to Gwennie why her perfectly fit, non-smoking husband who was just forty-three years of age had suddenly developed pneumonia and died, then yes, she certainly could be available for an interview.

  A few minutes after the woman sat down Gwennie realised she had lost concentration. She knew it was something that kept happening since Pete died. She just couldn’t follow a thread of conversation. Her attention span was too short. She was looking at the woman, whose name she had forgotten already, and nodding but her mind was elsewhere, flitting about like a mosquito, leaping from thought to thought. Gwennie missed everything her interviewer said after they sat down.

  ‘I’m sorry …’ began Gwennie. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t really been following what you have been saying …’

  Ms Ainslie-Wallace sat forward on the couch. ‘That’s okay, Mrs Darvill. I was just saying that it’s a mystery why all these people in the Blue Mountains caught this disease so suddenly. And what I wanted to know was if your husband visited the Blue Mountains in the weeks before he died.’

  ‘No,’ said Gwennie.

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gwennie flatly. ‘I’m sure. We have stayed around the house on weekends. We were finishing off the garden. Pete and I haven’t been out of Sydney for months.’

  Ms Ainslie-Wallace looked disappointed and that irritated Gwennie.

  ‘Can you tell me why my husband died?’ she asked bluntly.

  Ms Ainslie-Wallace shook her head and looked grave.

  ‘I’m so sorry for intruding, Mrs Darvill. Thank you for your time.’

  They walked in silence to the front door. After she pulled it closed Gwennie felt mind-numbingly, body-achingly tired. Exhaustion seemed to seep from the marrow of her bones, spreading through every nerve and muscle. She crawled onto the bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  *

  Marla stood at the foot of the stairs and screamed, long and loud, her face puckering with the effort. The sound was violent, a cry of pure anger and frustration. Peg turned her back on her daughter and walked slowly and calmly up the stairs. Marla was enraged. She chased her mother, taking the steps two at a time.

  Clare, cowering in the kitchen, could hear bare feet thumping on the wooden stairs. She followed their progress by the different squeaks on the floorboards.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she prayed silently. ‘Please, Marla, don’t. Please, please, please. God don’t let her do anything really bad.’ Clare didn’t want to hear what was happening, to bear witness to the ugliness that was being played out above. Yet she listened intently, trying to catch every word.

  Marla was out of control. ‘You manipulative bitch! You just can’t stay out of my life can you,’ she screamed.

  Peg’s response was icy. Clare knew that tone well and it made her cringe. Her mother was angry but, as always, perfectly controlled. ‘Do you blame me for your life? When will you take responsibility for what you have done? You’re not a child any more, Marla.’ She spat out each word, her voice full of contempt.

  Clare started to shake. Should she try to intervene, defuse the situation? Or should she stay out of it? Clare wished she could just walk away, go and sit with Mr Sanjay outside his shed. But he wasn’t there and she feared what would happen if she left the two women alone.

  The pressure in the house had been building and Clare had expected something like this. She desperately wanted to know what was going on upstairs but believed she wouldn’t be welcome. There was one thing that Marla and Peg agreed on and it was that what went on between them had nothing to do with Clare. Clare was supposed to mind her own business, ignore the fact that domestic life could at any time suddenly erupt into a screaming match. The women would say ugly things to each other and then usually Marla would disappear for a few days and Peg would become even more stern and thin-lipped than usual.

  Sometimes Clare would hear raised voices but they would stop as soon as she walked into the room. Clare understood that Marla was fragile, physically and emotionally. She always had been. Her sister suffered from migraines, nasty violent ones that rendered her helpless. It was the reason Marla lost so many jobs. Sometimes they would come on so suddenly and unexpectedly that she would have to ring Peg to come and get her. Then she would lie in her room with the curtains drawn for days, not wanting to see anyone, just sleeping and groaning. Clare knew it was best to stay away from her then.

  Clare tried to chart the onset of the migraines but with little success. Sometimes they were monthly, sometimes bi-monthly and at other times she wou
ld suffer a few a month. Often they were precipitated by a fight with Peg but not always. When she was in full flight Marla was like a hysterical fishwife, screaming abuse. Not much of what she screamed at her mother made sense to Clare. But Clare listened and stored it all away, snippets and fragments that she tried to piece together when she was alone.

  The voices upstairs dropped and Clare had to strain to hear.

  ‘What kind of example do you think you set?’ said Peg.

  ‘Oh, and you can talk? You stitched-up, frigid old cow,’ replied Marla.

  Peg would bear such accusations resolutely. The angrier Marla got, the calmer and more authoritative Peg became. Peg’s manner alone was enough to intimidate Clare into submission. She didn’t dare argue with her mother. But often Peg’s cold authority just made Marla worse.

  Clare was poised to react, every nerve alert. The ceiling to the right of her head creaked. Marla was outside Peg’s bedroom door. Clare braced herself for whatever might come next. The ticking of the clock in the hallway and the constant hum of traffic on the main road less than a kilometre away were the only sounds.

  Clare didn’t dare move. She gripped the edge of the kitchen table, forcing her nails against the hard wood. The pain offered some small distraction. There was only silence above, then Clare heard a door slowly open. It could be Marla’s room or Peg’s. It was hard to tell. Everything creaked and groaned in this old terrace house.

  The frustration of not knowing what was going on drove Clare out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She expected more yelling and door slamming but as she ascended she thought she could hear muffled sobs. Upstairs she found Marla slumped on the floor at the end of the hallway. Peg was beside her, an arm around her shoulders. Marla’s hands covered her face and the effort of crying made her body heave.

  It was an unexpected sight, but what really shocked Clare was seeing Peg in tears. At fifty-nine, her mother was a vibrant and stoic woman, full of energy. She always knew what to do, or so it seemed to Clare. But as she rocked her elder daughter in her arms, she looked beaten.

  Clare knelt beside the two huddled figures, tears pouring down her face. She couldn’t bear to see her sister and mother in so much pain and be unable to help. The three women sat like that for many minutes. When finally Marla stopped sobbing, instead taking deep shuddering breaths, Peg raised an eyebrow to Clare and tilted her head towards Marla’s bedroom. Clare understood and they helped Marla gently to her feet, half-carrying her to her room. They lay her down on the bed, pulling the doona over her. Peg sat beside her daughter stroking her hair. Marla stared up at her mother then away, her face expressionless.

  ‘Make tea, love,’ Peg said quietly to Clare.

  Clare was relieved to have something to do. In the kitchen while she waited for the water to boil she looked across to the roof of Mr Sanjay’s garden shed. He had called it his gazebo, as if it belonged in some vast English estate. Clare couldn’t imagine anything less like a gazebo. It was a tin shed – a bit rusty in places – with a door that had warped in the weather and wouldn’t open fully so Mr Sanjay had to squeeze through it. But inside was his private chamber, fitted out like an English gentleman’s study. Books, papers, an old wooden filing cabinet and his desk.

  Clare felt a dull ache in her chest. God how she missed him. Marla and Peg were getting worse and worse and it terrified her. Mr Sanjay would at least have been able to provide a different perspective. She had never been able to anticipate what advice he might give when presented with a problem. It was part of what made him so endlessly interesting.

  She remembered when she had first confided in him about her volatile sister. It was after a particularly ugly fight when she was about fifteen. Clare had been terrified Marla was going to hit her mother and had stepped between them. So Marla had hit her instead. Mr Sanjay had laughed. Not unkindly. But still it had shocked Clare. It had taken a great deal of trust and courage for her to confide something of what went on inside their home. It seemed so ugly and shameful and she had expected him at the very least to be sympathetic.

  The memory made her smile. She had been so serious, so full of her own importance, speaking in a hushed, meaningful tone. In her mind she was sharing something profoundly raw and personal. She expected Mr Sanjay to give her an equally reverent response. At first Clare had been dumbfounded when Mr Sanjay, after listening attentively and nodding, had started to chuckle. Then she felt hurt. Then annoyed. How dare he not be suitably awed by such a revelation, she had thought. Her feelings must have shown on her face because Mr Sanjay started to laugh even more. It hadn’t been the jolly, belly-deep kind of laugh he gave himself over to when he found something very funny, which was quite often. It was more of a gentle chiding and Clare had been at a complete loss as to how to respond.

  The comment he finally made was so unexpected, so bizarre, that she thought about it for days, turning it over in her mind, trying to get to the core of what he meant.

  ‘You say your life is imperfect,’ he said. ‘You don’t like the way your sister behaves. She yells at your mother and treats you unfairly. You speak as if life is something that is happening to you. Well, if that is your life then choose it, all of it. Choose your sister. Choose your mother. Choose your school and the girls there who say nasty things to you. Everything in your life that you think is the cause of your unhappiness, instead of shying away from it and complaining about it, choose it.

  ‘The solution is not to blame the life that arises for you. The solution is to accept it all as if you had chosen it to be exactly that way.’

  Then he had changed the subject, talking about his garden as if the conversation he and Clare had been having held no greater importance than his precious hollyhocks. Clare was completely flummoxed and spent the following days sitting in her bedroom trying to make sense of what he had said.

  She tried to imagine choosing life with Marla. Sometimes her sister was fun, she decided – like those occasions when she got into bed with her on weekend mornings and told her stories about the cute things Clare used to do when she was little. She also liked Marla when she let her try on all her clothes and makeup, pretending she was a glamorous movie star. On those occasions Marla let her wear her very expensive Hermes scarf and showed her eight different ways to tie it. Then she was a great big sister, the best in the world. Even her best friend, Susan Lee, with her perfect parents and perfect house, would have wanted a big sister like that. It was the other Marla that Clare couldn’t choose. The one that screamed abuse at Peg and locked Clare out of her room when she was suffering from one of her migraines and didn’t turn up to collect her from school when she was supposed to.

  So there was some of Marla she would choose and other bits that no-one in their right mind would want. But Mr Sanjay had said choose all of Marla. That meant the bad bits too. Clare looked at her sister as a whole package. She wasn’t sure that the good outweighed the bad. In fact if she divided it up she decided she liked Marla one-third of the time.

  After a few days of thinking about Marla this way, Clare realised she was behaving differently around her sister. No longer was she on tenterhooks waiting for the next explosion. Nor was she annoyed with her before she even walked in the door after school. What mysterious alchemy was this? Somehow, somewhere, something in Clare had shifted, without her consciously knowing it was happening. She was a lot closer to accepting her life as it was. She didn’t understand how it had occurred, but she decided Mr Sanjay was pretty smart.

  It didn’t last, of course. Life with Marla soon returned to its rollercoaster pace. Clare loved her, hated her, pitied her, worshipped and despised her, depending on the day and her own mood.

  The kettle whistle brought her sharply back to the present. She made tea and took it upstairs. Peg was just closing Marla’s door behind her. She motioned Clare to follow her into her room and they sat side by side on the bed. The older woman looked exhausted.

  Clare handed her a mug of tea.

  ‘What was that all
about?’

  Peg shook her head.

  ‘Why is she so angry with you?’

  ‘Leave it.’ Peg sounded tired but firm and Clare knew better than to argue.

  The next morning when Clare got up Marla was gone.

  *

  Gwennie slept till late the following morning and realised she was still wearing her jeans, faded T-shirt with egg stains and Pete’s dressing gown. She must have been wearing it throughout the visit from the researcher, Ms What’s-her-name. She waited to feel embarrassment but it didn’t come. Who cares? Gwennie realised that she was free to behave exactly as she pleased and people would excuse her. She could run naked down the street and the neighbours would nod sympathetically. Yes, poor Mrs Darvill. Her husband just died you know. Very sad. So young. And from pneumonia can you believe? What are the odds of that? They would make clicking noises with their tongues. Sort of sympathetic and yet at the same time relieved that such a tragedy hadn’t happened to them. Death hadn’t come knocking on their door in the middle of the night and they could go back to deluding themselves that it wouldn’t. Death was something that happened to ‘other people’.

  Gwennie thought how she could dye her hair purple. Put it in crimping irons and wear it with a knife and fork sticking out the side. Why not? Or she could shoot a bullet through every window of the house. All that floor-to-ceiling glass that Pete had so painstakingly designed so they could see out and yet no-one could see in. The perfect symbol of their life together. Open and bright and full of light. She could shatter it all. Gwennie felt a ripple of excitement. It would be one way to deal with the fireball of rage that was growing inside her. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to wreak havoc on everything about her. To slash and destroy and burn and maim and kick and hit.

  How terribly liberating grief was, she thought. She could actually do whatever she wanted to. The moment passed and she sagged again. Unfortunately she didn’t have the energy to do anything. Right now she just wanted to wear Pete’s dressing gown and stay here at home where she could still smell him and feel him all about her. So she would. Actually she might wear a few of Pete’s clothes. She looked through his shirts and pulled out all the ones she liked, the ones that he wore most often. She remembered him in them. What about trousers? She tried on a pair. Even with a belt they were uncomfortably large. She folded them and put them carefully into an empty cardboard box. His tracksuit. He loved it. She always knew he felt relaxed when he wore it. That went onto the bed on top of the shirts. The pile of clothes to keep. His cashmere cardigan. She used to tease him that he looked like a grandfather in it. But he had said it made him feel cosy. So she put that on the pile too. A blue cashmere blazer. She could wear that with jeans. A couple of T-shirts. All his socks. They would be wonderfully warm on the cold polished floorboards in winter. She pulled on a pair over her bare feet. They were soft and snug. The pile of clothes she wanted to keep was growing and the cardboard box seemed hardly to fill. No matter. Finally she finished.