A Home Like Ours

by Fiona Lowe

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do your friends say?’

  ‘They don’t know. It’s not exactly easy dropping “Jon doesn’t want to have sex any more” into the conversation.’ She thought of Kelly. ‘They’d either say “lucky you” or they’d feast on the gossip that my very blokey husband can’t get it up any more, then rush home and tell their husbands. As furious as I am with Jon, he doesn’t deserve that.’

  Zac shifted next to her. ‘So, he can’t … at all? He’s … Has he tried Viagra?’

  What was it about men and the word ‘impotent’? Did they think if they spoke it out loud it might suddenly affect them?

  ‘I tried, but he won’t take it. He says he doesn’t have a problem. Maybe I am the problem. Maybe he’s right and I am totally obsessed by sex. I’ve obviously lost the plot completely otherwise I wouldn’t have kissed you.’ Gratitude rolled in unexpectedly, settling over the mess of emotions roiling through her. ‘I never thought I’d say this, Zac, but thanks for stopping us. Thanks for not taking advantage of my emotional crisis.’

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘If it helps any, it wasn’t easy. I wanted it as much as you did, but I never screw a mate.’

  ‘Physically and metaphorically?’

  ‘That’s it.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I don’t want things between us to change.’

  ‘I think that horse has well and truly bolted.’

  ‘Nah. We caught it and led it back into the stables. We can still be friends.’ Remorse wove across his cheeks. ‘Please don’t pull out of training.’

  The thought of losing their training sessions on top of losing Jon and Shannon socked her hard. She thought back to the early months of training with Zac. He was right. They’d had an uncomplicated relationship focusing on the training with some easy conversation on the side. She’d been the one who’d pushed the change and he’d responded.

  ‘The flirting’s got to stop,’ she said.

  ‘Totally. I’m really sorry things are shit with your husband.’

  ‘Yeah. So am I.’

  He removed the ice pack. ‘Go and see Doug and get some treatment for this. Ring him now. He might be able to squeeze you in.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ she teased. But she appreciated his concern. It was a nice change from the criticism she’d been getting from other people in her life.

  ‘And we need to fill in an incident report,’ he added.

  ‘I’m not going to sue you, Zac.’

  ‘Yeah, but if a customer fell in the shop, you’d insist they fill one in. I’ll go and grab the form.’

  As his feet thundered down the stairs, her phone rang. ‘Tara Hooper.’

  ‘Tara, it is Fiza Atallah. Your neighbour.’

  Her teeth clenched. How did the woman get her number? ‘I know who you are. Why are you calling?’

  ‘It is about your husband. I am at the hospital with him.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Tara’s heart slammed hard against her ribs. ‘Where are the children?’

  ‘They are safe. Amal is looking after them.’

  Safe?! Her mind spun. ‘Where’s Ian?’

  ‘I don’t know an Ian. You must come to the hospital now.’

  CHAPTER

  21

  As long as Tara didn’t breathe too deeply her level of discomfort was tolerable, but when she saw Jon lying on the hospital trolley, she gasped. Pain ricocheted through her—not all of it muscular. His big body filled the narrow mattress, but instead of looking reassuringly indomitable, it was slumped and caved in on itself. A large pale cream bandage ran from his fingertips to his elbow, and his complexion was a close colour match with the exception of the black swelling on his forehead.

  His eyes met hers—brave but scared, reminding her of Flynn.

  ‘Hey.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The nail gun and I disagreed.’

  This didn’t make much sense. Jon was always so careful with tools.

  ‘How? Did the kids distract you? Why isn’t Ian here?’

  Fiza walked in then, a bright flash of colour in the muted pastels of the emergency department. A hospital lanyard hung around her neck. ‘Hello, Mrs Hooper. Mr Hooper.’

  ‘Tara, this is …’ Jon sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘Fiza.’ She stood tall and straight and everything about her said, Don’t mess with me, this is my patch. ‘When your husband fell, your son came for help.’

  ‘Fell?’ Tara swung her gaze back to Jon. ‘What did you fall off?’

  ‘He did not fall off anything,’ Fiza said.

  ‘I don’t understand. Jon?’

  But his eyes were closed.

  Fiza inclined her head towards the door and Tara followed her into another room.

  ‘When we found him, your husband was lying on the ground and he couldn’t stand up. He is a big man and it took Amal and me to help him to his feet. He was very unsteady and this did not improve. I bandaged his hand and brought him here for tests.’

  Tara recalled the frosty way she’d instructed Fiza to leave Tingledale. Embarrassment mingled with an uneasy mixture of chagrin and gratitude. ‘Thank you.’ It came out stiff and curt so she tried again. ‘That was very kind.’

  Fiza shrugged. ‘No one deserves to be alone on the ground and unaided.’

  Was that a shot at her? Tara searched Fiza’s face for criticism but saw only pride and determination in the tilt of her chin.

  ‘I don’t want to inconvenience you any further,’ she said. ‘I’ll call my father-in-law and ask him to collect the children.’

  ‘There is no hurry. Perhaps it is better they are playing with friends and not worrying about their father.’

  Something about the way Fiza said the words clenched something tight inside Tara. Did she speak from experience? Tara had never seen an adult male on the property. Or did she know something more about Jon than she was letting on?

  ‘I need to speak to the doctor,’ she said.

  ‘Of course. I will tell him you are here.’

  Fiza walked away and Tara headed outside to call Ian.

  He answered with his usual greeting. ‘Hello, love. What can I do you for?’

  ‘I’m at the hospital. Jon’s okay but he’s had an accident and we still need to talk to the doctor. Can you please go to Tingledale and look after the kids?’

  ‘Sure, but it’s going to take me a few hours to get back.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Kangaroo Flat.’

  ‘But Jon told me you were coming over this afternoon to help him with Clemmie’s playhouse.’

  ‘Did he? I’ve got that written down in the diary for tomorrow.’

  She rubbed her temple as sounds of a public bar drifted down the line. When Ian drank he stuffed things up all the time. ‘Are you okay to drive?’

  ‘Been on the light stuff, love. I’ll start home now. Ask Rhianna or Kelly to help you out until I get there.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She hung up and called Kelly.

  ‘Sorry, Tara, but Al and I are on the road. We’re having a weekend away.’

  Tara hesitated to ring Rhianna. But the children were better off with someone they knew. Pushing past her issues, she called her but Rhianna didn’t pick up.

  Desperation tapped in her veins. She tried the Dusseldorps, but it seemed half the town was taking advantage of the pupil-free day and had gone away for a long weekend. Tara fought tears of frustration and despair. Why had Shannon left her?

  She shoved her phone into her pocket and blew her nose. As she stepped into A&E, she met Fiza coming the other way with her handbag on her shoulder.

  ‘Ah, Fiza?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Tara licked her lips. ‘I appreciate that you brought Jon to hospital, but I think the children need to be here too.’

  Fiza frowned. ‘Hospitals are not good places for children.’

  The need to protect Flynn and Clementine surged. ‘I never leave my children with people I do
n’t know. Especially teenagers.’

  Fiza’s eyes flashed—a lioness defending her cub. ‘Amal is a good boy! He works hard. He wants to be a doctor. Without his strength, your husband would still be lying on the ground.’

  She punched some numbers into her phone, then spoke rapidly in a language Tara didn’t recognise before thrusting the device towards her. ‘Speak to your son.’

  ‘Flynn, it’s Mummy. I’m at the hospital with Daddy but I’m going to come and get you and Clemmie and bring you here.’

  ‘But, Mum! We’re playing totem tennis and I’m winning.’

  ‘Who are you playing with?’

  ‘Amal, Leila and Sammy.’

  ‘Is anyone else there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  Flynn sighed as if Tara was being excruciatingly difficult. ‘Amal gave us cheese and apples.’

  Her throat burned with tension. ‘Do you feel safe?’

  ‘Duh! Clemmie, it’s not your turn! Mum, I have to go.’

  ‘Tell Clem—’ But Flynn was gone, leaving only the buzzing of static in Tara’s ear. She handed the phone back to Fiza. ‘They’re playing a game.’

  Fiza’s brows rose. ‘Of course. They are children. Now you know they are safe and happy, go and look after your husband. He needs you.’

  Something about the command riled Tara. She opened her mouth to object, but the other woman with her air of authority was already striding towards the exit.

  Jon was dozing or avoiding talking to her—these days it was hard to tell. It was a long time since Tara had just sat and watched her husband without him noticing and saying, ‘What?’ in an aggrieved tone. The skin under his eyes was the colour of Clemmie’s HB pencils and the once faint lines around his eyes were now carved in deep. The scar on his head was still raised and livid from his last accident a few weeks earlier.

  Jon was rarely sick. ‘Fit as a Mallee bull’ was his usual response whenever people asked how he was, but he didn’t look fit now. He was a faded version of himself. It shocked her how much he looked like Ian after a bender with Gerry.

  Jon’s leg jerked, hitting the rails on the side of the bed, and his eyes popped open, wide and frantic. ‘T?’

  ‘I’m back. I was checking on the kids.’

  He turned towards her voice, his movements stiff. ‘Fiza said—’

  ‘Hello, Tara.’ Stephen Illingworth, their GP, tanned from his recent Queensland holiday, walked into the room. ‘Looks like Jon’s been in the wars.’

  ‘Twice in a month.’

  ‘So I see.’ He closed the door and pulled up a chair. ‘Jon, I’ve been reading your file and it seems the locum prescribed Viagra.’

  Jon made a strangled sound.

  ‘I’m assuming he didn’t do a physical examination?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘I asked for the prescription,’ Tara said. ‘Things have been … difficult.’

  ‘I imagine they have.’

  ‘Tara’s making it out to be worse than it is,’ Jon said.

  Tara didn’t know whether it was the sympathy on Stephen’s face, the horrifying realisation that things between her and Jon were so strained she’d plumbed a new low by trying to have sex with Zac, or her frustration with Jon not admitting they had a problem, but she wasn’t staying silent any longer.

  ‘I’m not exaggerating. We haven’t had sex in months. You’re either gaslighting me because you’re having an affair, or you’re drinking too much and sticking your head in the sand.’

  Jon’s uninjured hand moved robotically through his hair. ‘How many times do I have to tell you—I’m not having an affair!’

  ‘Then admit to the drinking and get some help!’

  ‘Jon, Tara,’ Stephen said firmly. ‘Let’s focus. First up, erectile dysfunction at thirty-eight is usually a sign of other problems so the prescription for Viagra was a red flag. When I was stitching your hand, I noticed a lot of muscle rigidity. That’s why I did a full physical examination. Jon, have you been feeling more tired than usual?’

  ‘You know …’ Jon glanced away. ‘Life’s busy.’

  Bloody men’s egos! ‘He falls asleep on the couch most nights around eight. Then from three, he’s up half the night,’ Tara said.

  ‘What about mid-afternoon? Do you feel like you could nap then, Jon?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Stephen’s caring gaze was unflinching and Jon sighed. ‘Yeah. I’ve come home some afternoons. Like today.’

  ‘Fiza told me Flynn said you were using the nail gun and then you seemed to fall over.’ Stephen checked his notes. ‘Like a tree.’

  Panic tightened Tara’s chest. ‘Please tell me you weren’t drinking.’

  ‘Jesus, Tara!’ Jon’s leg banged against the trolley’s sides. ‘I’m not Dad! When have you seen me drink in the afternoon other than at a weekend function?’

  The awfulness of the year ran into her need to tell Stephen the truth. Make Jon acknowledge it so he could get help. It wasn’t like telling their doctor the cold hard facts could make things any worse between them.

  ‘He’s been stumbling drunk at least twice recently,’ she said.

  ‘I have not!’ Jon’s anguish bounced off the neutral palette of the walls. ‘Stephen, tell her you breathalysed me when I arrived. Tell her I blew 00.’

  ‘It’s true, Tara. He did.’

  A kernel of fear broke through the malignant resignation that had hardened in her. ‘Then what’s going on?’

  ‘Based on Jon’s muscle rigidity, the erectile dysfunction, the pill roll tremor—’

  ‘The what?’ Tara and Jon asked in unison.

  Stephen tilted his head towards Jon’s uninjured hand. ‘It’s what you’re doing now. Rolling your thumb over your fingers. That’s called a pill roll tremor.’

  ‘I noticed that months ago. I thought it was just stress,’ Tara said.

  ‘It’s not stress. It’s very likely Parkinson’s disease.’

  Jon’s mouth opened. No words came out.

  The diagnosis boomed in Tara’s head, not making sense. ‘But that’s something old people get. Jon’s thirty-eight!’

  ‘There’s also a condition called young Parkinson’s. The only way to accurately diagnose it is to rule out every other possible neurological condition. So I’m going to refer you to a neurologist in Shepparton.’

  Tara trusted Stephen. ‘But you think it’s young Parkinson’s?’

  Empathy filled the creases on his face. ‘We have to run tests and rule out all other conditions before we can categorically say yes.’

  An odd sensation filled her. Not exactly relief—how could it be when Jon was so sick—but something akin to a mild version of reassurance. An explanation for the shocking year that had left them floundering in an unfamiliar marriage.

  ‘So there’s a reason Jon hasn’t been himself?’ she said.

  ‘I’m still here.’ Jon’s voice was unsteady.

  She reached for his hand. ‘I know. And I haven’t been myself either, but at least now there’s a reason.’

  ‘Give me some examples of what you mean, Tara,’ Stephen said.

  A raft of changes flooded her mind. Things that individually meant nothing, but bundled together took on huge significance.

  ‘Jon, your handwriting’s become almost indecipherable. You get these blank expressions on your face as if you don’t care about what’s going on around you or what we’re discussing. You get frustrated faster. Those times your walking was so unsteady and your speech so slurred I thought you were drunk. The way you’ve cut yourself off from me. Our lack of a sex life …’

  ‘They’re all signs of a neurological disorder.’ Stephen looked at Jon. ‘I imagine you’ve been feeling like you’re wading through mud every day.’

  Jon nodded. ‘Pretty much. It takes everything I’ve got to stay upright and get through the day. By the time I get home, I’m knackered and there’s nothing left. Sorry, T.’

  A thousand thoughts buzzed in Tara’s head and she
didn’t know if she wanted to weep or yell. Why hadn’t he told her any of this? Had he tried? Had she been so obsessed with imagining he was drinking and having an affair that she hadn’t listened?

  ‘Did you try to tell me?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ His mouth pulled down. ‘Guess that didn’t work.’

  She turned to Stephen, needing to find a clear path through the jungle that had tangled them in its tenacious vines. ‘Now we know there’s a problem, how do we fix it?’

  ‘Let’s get a definitive diagnosis first.’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ Tara snapped. ‘But humour me. If it’s young Parkinson’s, how do we fix it?’

  ‘We manage it with drugs and physical therapy to minimise the symptoms. We respond and adjust when things deteriorate.’

  ‘Deteriorate.’ Jon’s laugh was hoarse and harsh. ‘My great-uncle had it. He died a dribbling, drooling, shaking mess.’ He pulled his hand out of Tara’s. ‘What Stephen’s saying is, there’s no cure. I’m going to get worse. You’re not happy now, you haven’t been for months. Get out while you can.’

  His words eviscerated her as much as the dilemma they raised.

  CHAPTER

  22

  ‘Honestly. It makes you wonder about some people.’ Vivian surveyed the damage in the garden and took some photos. ‘You’d better fill in an incident report.’

  ‘I’ve already done it,’ Helen said. ‘I’ve also spoken to both Linda in Parks and Messina, and the police attended. I was wondering if the shire might stump up for a high fence on this side of the garden.’

  ‘We’ll have to look at Parks’ budget.’ Vivian glanced towards the sign. ‘Why isn’t the shire logo on that?’

  ‘It’s on the shelter and the tank. Plus the two plaques from back in the day when they funded the arts grant for the mosaics and the gates. Besides, they didn’t give us extra funding for this section so …’

  ‘Helen! The garden’s on shire land! Learn how to schmooze.’ Vivian sighed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. But if we ever want to see tiny houses over there, we need to do everything we can to bring Geoff or one of the other councillors back on side.’

  Helen wasn’t sure how a logo would change things, but it was worth a shot. ‘I’ll get it added to the sign asap. And I’ll write a letter of thanks for approving the garden extension even though the housing project is still up in the air.’