Jean Harley Was Here

by Heather Taylor Johnson

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he told his son, wiping some cornflakes into his hand. ‘Don’t tell Mum.’ He winked at Orion. Orion winked back the best he could. Many wrinkles around his nose formed with the effort.

  ‘Where is Mom?’ Stan’s heart almost dropped hearing the way Orion said ‘Mom’ like a little American, just the way Jean had taught him without even trying.

  ‘She’s sleeping, mate.’ No, nothing felt right about lying to his son, but for now it seemed to be the sane thing to do. He’d told himself to let the accident sit for twenty-four hours; then, when he had a better idea of how things really stood with Jean, he’d take Orion to see her. But for now he said, ‘She’s got a big day ahead of her today, so we’re not gonna wake her up, OK?’ The twenty-four hours was almost up. Stan ruffled Orion’s hair, trying to appear happy for his son’s presence on this hollow summer morning.

  It was unseasonably cold and damp outside. For the second day in a row, washing hung on the line, now soaking from last night’s rain. Stan had only gotten home from the hospital at five-thirty in the morning because he wanted to see Orion, ensure everything seemed normal, and the little sleep he managed to get in the chair in Jean’s ward had been interrupted by the sound of rain loud on the roof and the dark roads. Alongside his fear and his anger at the injustice of it all, he was spent.

  She’s the strongest person I know; she can survive this. It had become his mantra since he first got the call yesterday morning.

  Stan and Orion ate their cornflakes in silence, Orion concentrating on satisfying his hunger, Stan concentrating on his love for his son. He had Jean’s thick hair and his own brown eyes. He was adventurous, like his mum, yet gentle in his own way. Stan knew that if the worst were to happen, Orion would get through his mother’s death, but he would spend a lifetime crying in quiet places.

  Stan heard a rustle from the study, which acted as a spare bedroom. He got up from his cereal and began gathering the fruit and yoghurt his mother brought when she came to spend the night. Bananas, strawberries and frozen blueberries; the woman loved her smoothies, part of her daily routine since a scary bout of cancer, and at her age she should be able to keep routines even in extreme circumstances. Stan making the smoothie for her was only a small gesture towards thanking her for sleeping over last night, only a minor thing he could do, and for the past twenty hours, helplessness seemed to rule his world.

  The blender was whirring when Stan’s mother hugged him from behind. ‘Good morning, my love.’

  Stan was unable to say ‘good morning’. What could possibly be good about this morning? In less than an hour he would be at the hospital staring at his wife with tubes coming out of her face and arms. He hadn’t gotten The Call while he’d been home these few hours, so that was good. That was good. ‘Morning, Mum.’

  Record-breaking rain in December, and all through the day it rained: while Stan’s mother cried with controlled dignity when she hugged him goodbye; during the slow drive to hospital and the blinking of construction arrows; through all the merging of cars. With each new face it rained: the receptionists, the nurses, the doctor who’d told him there had been no change. It rained as he held her hand and held her hand and held her hand and it rained when his mum brought Orion to hospital. Not an easy scene. It rained on the drive home, with the windscreen wipers getting noisier and quieter and noisier and quieter with the fluctuation of each new speed zone, and no words were spoken because the passenger seat was empty. It rained as Stan pulled into their garage and closed the door, as if trying to shut it all out, as if the rain were a memory of something he wanted to forget. Still, it rained on the tin roof, a constant echo throughout the house.

  He’d come home to have dinner with Orion and his mum, the plan being to return after Orion was settled for bed. Somehow Stan thought it might ease Orion’s fears if he was with him for a couple of hours in their own safe environment, but he was eager to get back to Jean. He didn’t know if he was hiding his anxiety well, but Orion seemed relaxed and happy, as a four-year-old should. His boy laughed in the bathroom as Stan helped to brush his teeth.

  ‘I’ll read to him,’ his mother said. ‘You go.’

  He accepted her wish to help in this way, at this time, so he kissed his son and told him that he loved him more than any other star in the sky – ‘I love you too, Dad’ – then he went to the kitchen and filled up the sink with suds that smelled of grapefruit and dropped the plates in to soak. He would leave the dishes, as he did the bedtime reading, to his mother. She would do that for him, and so much more. He poured two glasses of wine so they could have a quiet chat about Jean and how the next twenty-four hours would run before he headed back to hospital – if his mother didn’t want one, he would drink them both. Stan walked outside. Finally, the rain had fucking stopped.

  ‘Digger,’ he called out to the dog, and the feisty kelpie–staffy came running. Clouds flew in small bundles across the sky, the wind pushing the day away, as if making room for the crisp scent of something new. The sky opened before him, Orion’s Belt enormous, always the first constellation he saw. ‘It must be because it’s the brightest constellation up there,’ he’d once told Jean in the Flinders Ranges. They were still new to their relationship then, only two months officially, but they’d felt confirmed. As fixed as the constellation itself.

  ‘It’s the first one we see because our eyes instinctively move to it. And Betelgeuse is our star.’

  He wanted to share tonight’s sky with Jean.

  Inside, he listened for noise, heard a muffled voice in his son’s room. As he stood in the doorway, he watched his mother read to Orion and tried to remember her reading to him as a boy. He couldn’t. He couldn’t remember so he closed his eyes and imagined it was Jean reading – Jean with her singsong words, shifting from high to low tones as she told stories to their son. Later, Orion would tell the story to Stan that it was he, his father, who had taught him the riffs of his guitar but it was his mother, Jean, who had taught him rhythm.

  Stan watched until his glass was empty and his mother and Orion had both fallen asleep. He picked up the book and put it back on the shelf, pulled the covers up close to their chins, kissed both of their temples, stared those twenty seconds longer and turned out the light.

  As he walked back to the kitchen, eyeing the second glass of wine then going for the car keys instead, he heard the rain again, this time banging on the tin roof, pummelling the living earth.

  But There Were Three of Them

  The night before Jean Harley’s bicycle went down, the slightly famous, very sexy Keith Lincoln had passed Viv on the street. She’d recognised the slump of his lean body and the layers of his shaggy brown hair. The Cheats. Of course. It had to be the guitar player. She felt energy rise from her toes straight up to her nose, where she breathed in hard to keep the gasp from coming out of her mouth, and she felt nineteen again – all in an instant. She saw his eyes move from her knee-high boots to the furry collar of her sleeveless top, then linger on her lashes. Perhaps he was taken by the length of them because he himself often wore mascara. (He was, in fact, wearing mascara at that very moment.) His attention made Viv feel slightly famous too. But she didn’t dawdle. She was loath to be a minute later to meet Jean and Neddy, who’d been waiting for almost an hour, so she smiled and walked into the pub, and Keith carried on his ambling way.

  The Cellar, as always, was quiet, which was why the girls had chosen to make it their regular. Four men with grey hair in grey suits sat by the corner window, laughing and drinking their beers and wine. The one facing the door gave a welcoming smile to Viv as she came inside. Another table was occupied by a group of five who looked as though they could be rowdy, given a different venue. No lone drunks sat at the bar keeping the French bartender company. This wasn’t one of those places. The Cellar was for mature boozers only. There was no music playing, only a lot of hardwood flooring, a few polished tables, the colours of red and gold.r />
  Jean waved at Viv when she came through the door.

  ‘I just ran into that guy from The Cheats!’ Viv was whispering, though she wasn’t sure why. She was eager, awaiting signs of incredulity. But Neddy looked at her blankly. Jean gave an awkward smile. ‘You know, Yesterday you were in my car / and I can’t get you out of my head. Yesterday you were la la la …’ It wasn’t much of a mainstream song but it was big in the indie rock world, and even though Neddy loved her earthy female artists and Jean was a world-music listener with a penchant for banjo, Viv saw no reason why they wouldn’t know The Cheats.

  ‘Was he hot?’ Neddy asked, stone-faced. Viv knew straightaway: it had been a rough day for Ned; she probably didn’t have much patience.

  Viv placed her bag on the floor and sat down at the table. ‘May I?’ She poured herself a glass from the bottle, had a quick mouthful, rolled her eyes and said, ‘So hot.’

  ‘Is that the band with the drummer who’s dating that model?’

  ‘Yes.’ She pointed a finger at Jean. ‘Totally.’ Viv had been back from California for more than three months now and still hadn’t rid herself of ‘totally’. She’d picked it up with furious gusto and threw it around whenever she felt the need for emphasis. She especially liked saying it when talking to Jean, her best American friend. ‘Nice wine.’

  ‘Nice top,’ Neddy said, pouring herself a second glass.

  ‘Recognise it, do you?’

  ‘Looks better on you.’ Neddy had raised her glass to Viv. ‘You’ve got bigger boobs.’

  ‘Not while you’re breastfeeding, I don’t. Cheers. Cheers, Jean.’ Viv simulated a kiss to Jean.

  Jean topped up her glass only to find slightly more than a dribble was left. ‘We need another bottle.’ The way she said it was definitive. It would be a lengthy girls’ night out at the Cellar and they would be the last patrons left in this civilised drinking hole.

  Jean walked around the table to kiss Viv’s cheek, then went to the bar to order a second bottle of the spotlight wine: a deep and moody Riverland shiraz, something to counter the surprising chill in the summer air.

  Last week had been a riesling from Eden Valley. The week before a sav blanc from McLaren Vale. If Viv had saved every spotlight bottle from all of their Thursdays at the Cellar, not only would she have had a collection of impressive labels, but a timeline of memories as well.

  ‘I got the best gig today. A gorgeous house in Tennyson, right on the beach. Lleyton Hewitt used to own it. Big money. Floor-to-ceiling windows. I can hear it screaming low couches, bold-striped beanbags, lots of space.’ And this was Viv, entering a situation and taking right over. She never planned on being at the centre of attention but it was inevitable. Things happened to her – totally amazing things – and people became rapt. And because their interest fuelled her, incidentals grew lavish. Her eyes became exclamation points. Her hands conducted symphonies. ‘The client’s fabulous. Giving me so much room to really run. And it’s great it’s in Adelaide. I need a rest from travelling, you know?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Neddy said, shaking her head, most likely feeling that pinch of stay-at-home-mum syndrome she occasionally complained about. ‘You’ve got the best job.’ Last month it was: ‘Where is the art in random toys in the middle of the hallway?’

  ‘Sounds like an installation to me,’ Viv had answered, and she figured she could make a joke because she knew Neddy like a sister and knew that Ned loved her life and, most of all, loved her children. Still, they had all been artists of some form or another when they had met at uni, and Viv knew it pained Neddy that she was the only one no longer using her creativity. Viv could see this in her friend’s slanted smile, yet she couldn’t help her playfulness and said, ‘I know. I love it.’

  There was talk of films they’d seen or wanted to see, the book one of the films was based on, other books that particular author had written, what they were reading at the moment, the fantastic op shop Viv had just discovered and how happy she was when she found the lovely teal reading lamp embroidered with purple beads. When the discussion turned to family life, Viv had nothing to offer. Willow’s teething (etcetera); Orion got a stiffy in the bath last night and got really scared (laughter and the obligatory awww); Rodd got a stiffy in bed last night and Neddy got really scared (more laughter and a mental pat on the back for not being married with children); but he was a good man, Rodd, and Neddy was sorry she hated sex right now and clearly there was tension, clearly he was frustrated (once Viv had dreamed that she was having sex with Rodd and she woke up wet and guilty); Rodd’s dad was falling deeper into his dementia; Jean’s dad had had dementia for the last two years of his life; Jean missed her dad.

  ‘Of course you miss him, lovey. He only died, what, a year or two ago?’

  And then, as if ‘segue’ were flashing over Jean’s head: ‘So we’re moving to America.’

  ‘Holy fuck!’ (Neddy.)

  ‘Jean!’ (Viv.)

  ‘Not for good. Just a year. I got that fellowship I applied for at Indiana State. On Native American dance.’ Jean puffed up, eager for their replies.

  ‘Wait!’ Viv looked over her shoulder and called out, ‘Simone! Is it too late for another bottle of wine?’

  ‘It is after ten.’ The bartender looked exasperated, though Viv knew it to be an exaggeration because Simone had been serving the girls for years and they joked with her all the time. ‘And you have already had two bottles,’ she reminded them, shaking her finger.

  ‘But there are three of us!’ yelled Neddy, and they all laughed. ‘Shit,’ she said, turning back to her friends. ‘I’ll be doing some serious expressing tonight.’

  Viv held up the last of her glass to cheers. Simone brought over another bottle of the wine and, after pouring each of them a glass, left the bottle on the table. ‘After that, I close.’

  The girls were giddy, thanking Simone, clapping their hands. Goodness knows there’d be work tomorrow for Jean and Viv, and Neddy’s house got going so early, but this had become a celebration.

  There were only two other customers in the Cellar at this point and one of them kept sneaking glances at the girls. Not quite as hot as Keith Lincoln and definitely sans mascara, but Viv’d noticed him noticing them and geared up for the game. She caught his eye. Younger than her. He smiled. More conservative too. She smiled back.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Neddy knew exactly what Viv was doing because Viv did it a lot, so it wasn’t as much a question as it was an accusation.

  ‘Him?’ asked Jean. ‘He’s so young.’

  ‘Not too young, you think?’

  Neddy leaned back in her chair as if resigned. ‘What’s too young?’

  ‘Go for it, Viv. Egg him on.’ Because Jean herself loved egging on Viv.

  Viv accepted the challenge, aware of her every gesture and how it might work to her advantage. ‘Jean, that’s great news, but don’t go. What will we do?’ She said this with a pout, sensing his gaze. Inviting it. Even as she listed the ways in which she depended on Jean – and there were many – she was performing. ‘Who will I ring when I can’t remember the name of some actor?’ But what she really wanted to say was, ‘Who will I ring when I’m lonely?’ Because there had been many of those phone calls over the years, Viv knowing that no matter what, Jean would answer, often making room in the day or night, any day or night, to meet up.

  When they’d been at uni, because neither of them had family nearby, the two would often celebrate holidays together, like Christmas and Jean’s American Thanksgiving, but smaller ones too, like the Queen’s Birthday or Presidents’ Day. At first this meant a lavish feast for two, but as life expanded for them, growing more complex and somehow containing fewer hours in a day, the two girls, in keeping up a semblance of tradition, eventually settled for the more practical option of a single shared piece of cake at a favourite café.

  Can you miss what you don’
t have? At first Viv hadn’t thought so, but she’d always been lonely, always known that something or someone was missing from her life. It was only after she’d started seeing her therapist that she’d realised it was her family and that, yes, you certainly can miss what you don’t have.

  ‘She thinks it’s my parents’ fault I can’t commit. They rejected me, so now I’m afraid of rejection from anyone.’ A banana and caramel cake. Two forks. Two hot chocolates on the side.

  ‘What do you think?’ Jean: forever speaking with her mouth full.

  ‘The theory is floatable, but I have to say that the older I get, the happier I am being single.’

  ‘Really?’ Jean hadn’t appeared convinced but she was the most open-minded and non-judgemental friend Viv had, so she was the best friend to say this to when wanting to hide from the truth. Neddy would have called bullshit, then taken the last bite of cake.

  ‘Yes, really. Sex is always better when it’s new, right? So I can tick that box because I never have a man long enough for it to get old. And with my job I get to travel, so not having a long-term partner means I don’t have to feel guilty about that or, worse, I don’t have to stop travelling. And I like my space, you know? I like to read in bed till three in the morning if I so choose. I like to spread out when I sleep.’

  ‘Are you going to keep going?’

  ‘I could.’

  ‘Because it sounds like you’re trying to convince me and you don’t need to do that. I believe you, Viv.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yeah, I totally do. I also believe that one day someone’s going to come along and change your mind.’

  ‘Really?’