Stella and Margie

by Glenna Thomson

  Soon she stirs and, with one limp hand, tries to lift herself by pulling on the suspended bar in front of her. She is stiff in her back; perhaps she’s in pain. She reaches down the side of the bed for the buzzer but cannot locate it. I can see it, a little further back. Her fingers tickle the air.

  ‘I’ll ring for you,’ I say, reaching down to my buzzer. I press the button repeatedly, giving them the message that someone must come immediately.

  She looks across at me, watery blue eyes and a weak smile.

  Then she slowly blinks.

  We both look away.

  My heart skips out of rhythm.

  Silence.

  And we’re breathing upwards into the room, our chests rising and falling. We had been dead to each other for more than thirty years, since the twenty-eighth of October, 1985.

  Laura Sullivan, who crosses the street when she sees me coming, who walks out of shops when I enter, and who turns her back to me at public events, is in the next bed.

  Our boys caught the school bus together every day, swam in the dams, camped up the back in the bush at Tullys. They played in the same footy team. Mark and Justin were best mates. It was my son Mark who was behind the wheel that night.

  Justin was her only child.

  The nurse arrives and I signal for her to go to Laura. She swipes the curtain around the bed and I hear them talk quietly. My face is hot, as if I have done something wrong. When the nurse leaves she glances at me, flat-faced. Laura and I are alone again.

  Our boys had separate funerals.

  My hands are fists pressed into the sheet. I feel agitated and my hip aches, or perhaps it is my stomach. I don’t want this intrusion – not by anyone, but least of all her. Never her. Suddenly everything in my life seems overwhelmingly unjust and intolerable. And as the handsome faces of our boys appear before me, her television comes on.

  It’s too loud. Is she trying to block me out? Or is she deaf?

  I want to tell her to turn it down – I clear my throat and know the words. I will say ‘please’. But when I prop myself up and inhale, I lose my courage. I put my hands over my ears to block the noise and rising panic.

  Dinner arrives. It is what I expected: thin tomato soup, a square of fruitcake and a small apple. She eats behind the cotton wall; at least, I assume she does. The television is still on. I push my tray away, the food untouched.

  Chester, her husband, walks in. I am shocked by this, yet why wouldn’t he visit his wife? He sees me and we both look away, then back to each other. I feel clammy and self-conscious. He makes an awkward bow and hesitates, as if he’s going to come to me. The last time I saw Chester was about three years ago in the ANZ bank in town. We walked past each other, a confusing moment.

  I see he’s narrower across the shoulders and slightly stooped – a weathered old farmer. But before he disappears behind the curtain, he smiles at me; he’s still got that thing, the easy charm of a cheeky lad. His hair is short and almost all grey, his forehead is high, but he’s grown a grey-speckled moustache that I’m not sure suits him.

  Her television goes quiet, but not off, and they whisper together. I’m outnumbered. No one visits me.

  It’s profoundly awkward, me lying there with them so close. I close my eyes and try to be somewhere else. Over the years, especially during my marriage, I became quite good at transporting myself away. Usually I thought of birds: mostly black cockatoos because they’re my favourite, and it always feels special to see them. But right now this doesn’t help because, with Chester and Laura so close, I can’t help but think of my husband and marriage – a tangle of moving images, more felt than seen. You would think at my age I’d have dealt with past hurts, worked some things out and said a peaceful goodbye to unfulfilled dreams. I’m afraid it’s not the case. All I know is there’s no time left. I live with regret.

  When Chester steps from the curtain to leave, he stops at the end of my bed and stares at my birthday cards.

  The volume on Laura’s television goes up to a ridiculous level. That’s it, then – she must be deaf.

  Chester comes to me and asks, ‘When was your birthday?’

  I’m too shaken to speak and only manage to mouth, ‘Today.’

  He reaches for my hand, a little squeeze, and my breathing goes strange. Then he moves forward and I think I’m going to be kissed. I don’t know what to do, so I sink into the pillows and close my eyes. Chester’s dry lips touch my forehead; there’s the slight brush of his moustache. He smells of laundry soap. ‘Happy birthday,’ he whispers.

  I open my eyes and am startled to see he is still bending down. He is so close I inhale his warm breath. We stare at each other; his brown eyes are deeper in the sockets than I remember. We are all ancient now. He puts his hand on his lower back, slowly stands and turns to the door.

  I lie still; my hands tremble. I breathe deeply and feel the spot where his lips were. I am tired, confused, happy. I don’t want to remember his tenderness, so I keep my eyes wide open and look around the room. The dying roses in the blue vase. I would like to die, too.

  The volume that Laura has the television on is a joke. Yet I’m chastened by Chester’s affection and will let her be. I glance around for something to read, knowing nothing is there. My library books are finished and I’ve read the local paper; the obituaries twice in case I missed someone. Ten minutes of Laura’s television noise is enough. I cannot think or relax, and I feel that her inconsideration is a taunt.

  ‘Laura,’ I say. ‘Can you please turn it down?’

  Nothing happens and I call out louder.

  She is ignoring me and I feel a rising agitation.

  I press the buzzer, a good long hold. The nurse is slow to come. It’s Penny Lyons on the night shift. I knew her mother, a zealous fundraiser and gossiper at the local school when my children were small. But Penny was a few years behind and probably doesn’t know me. Even so, the Ballantine name used to have some currency – people took notice – and I want to believe they still do.

  ‘I’m Margaret Ballantine,’ I say, looking her in the eye. Then I point to the curtain and, in a loud whisper, tell her the volume needs to be lowered.

  ‘It’s okay for her to have the TV on until ten.’

  ‘But I want to sleep now and it’s too loud.’

  She looks exasperated, like an adult sorting out a baffling squabble between children. She enters Laura’s curtain den. The volume reduces.

  But I still can’t rest.

  I try to see through the curtain. I stare at it with laser eyes, but there’s only the gathering of the heavy white cotton.

  Laura was never the friendliest of women. But when our babies were small, we did lean on each other from time to time. I used to babysit Justin. Sometimes she had Mark. Often the boys had sleepovers. He was a nice boy, Justin. I quite liked their boy being Mark’s friend because they would be farmers together, both taking on their birthright as property heirs. When the boys left school they worked hard, both tall and strong enough to lift a sixty-kilo calf. They loved their footy and beer. And all the girls loved them.

  That fateful Saturday is embedded in my mind, both long scenes and snippets, some in slow motion, and all in a faded, sad colour.

  Mark is playing for the Saints in the local grand final. He leaps and climbs for a mark and takes the ball. But he’s winded and bends over, putting his hands on his knees, waiting, stalling for breath. He kicks an easy goal. At half-time it is drizzling so I stay in the car. I unwrap the date scones I’ve baked; they’re still warm, and the butter melts when I spread it on. I pour hot water from a thermos into a mug; a tea bag string hangs down the side. I add milk. Third-quarter, and the boys play in the mud. I’ll be soaking his gear when he drops his footy bag inside the back porch.

  The Saints lose by sixteen points. Mark doesn’t come to the car to see me. I wait, but leave after a few minutes. By then, I know he’s gone straight to the clubroom.

  I’m in the woodshed throwing pinecones into the bl
ack coal bucket as the sirens fly up Maryhill Road – wailing for our soon-to-be broken hearts. The air is cold, but the sky is clear. The moon is a gold globe surrounded by twinkling stars. We had homemade minestrone soup for dinner; the dishes are done. I fold laundry, waiting, feeling anxious. I place everyone. Caroline’s in Melbourne; she goes to university. Norman is watching television. Ross is in his room making a model aeroplane. Mark is expected home.

  Norman drives off in the Holden to see what the trouble is. He’s gone half an hour and is white when he returns; his hands shake. I meet him on the path and tell him to sit on the bench. He kneels on the grass and vomits and cries into his hands. Justin was dead when the police and ambulance arrived. Mark’s car is wedged into a tree, halfway down the embankment near Gall Bridge. ‘That corner is too sharp,’ Norman says.

  Although, I never had a problem there.

  Mark died the next day. We turned him off. That’s what they say, ‘turn him off’. He was too brain damaged, nothing there. Norman spoke very seriously to someone in intensive care to be certain.

  ‘Sit with him and say goodbye,’ a doctor with kind eyes said.

  I held Mark’s warm hand. The tubes and wires inserted into and attached to my child looked complicated and uncomfortable. A nurse pressed some buttons on the machine then stood back. It didn’t take long. Norman was on the other side of the bed. We were separate in our experience. I had run out of tissues and was gripping a wet, useless thing.

  So Mark never came home. And even though I watched the monitor flatten to a single line, for years I waited to hear him walk through the back door, with the slap of the flywire, stride into the kitchen and open the fridge. He used to wink at me as he drank milk straight from the carton.

  The stone that grew in Laura’s heart is understandable. I’m sorry for her loss. I’m sorry on Mark’s behalf because he was driving. I turn back to the curtain, wanting to speak to her. There’s a heavy weight on my chest, and my tears are hot and useless as they roll down the side of my face onto the pillow.

  I can still feel Chester’s kiss, or I imagine I can.

  The television is off and I’d not noticed. Her light is on, a pearly glow through the curtain.

  I don’t know why, but I speak as if I’m someone else. My voice trembles when I call her name. ‘Please forgive Mark.’

  Her light goes off.

  Then it’s clear to me what she wants. She would like me punished for something my son did and a strange justice will be done.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ I say into the dark.

  Yellow light filters in from the corridor. The hospital is settling for the night. I know I won’t sleep. I twist my hip to feel the pain, to be reminded of why I’m here. My situation feels intolerable and I’m tired of coping.

  I press the buzzer and count to ten. Then wait.

  Penny Lyons enters the darkened room, pointing a pen-torch out in front.

  ‘I want to be moved to another room,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’

  I turn towards Laura. ‘There is ongoing conflict between us and I refuse to be stuck in this room with her.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Penny asks. The torchlight warps her face.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  She stares at me, thinking. ‘But Mrs Ballantine, it’s past nine o’clock. We’ll see what can be done in the morning.’

  I will not be patronised by the daughter of a gossipy over-bearing school fundraiser. And what is Laura making of all this behind her cotton shield? Perhaps it satisfies her, witnessing my discomfort. She might very well be smiling.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I say. ‘In the morning I’m discharging myself.’

  Chapter 3

  Stella

  I’M in bed, waiting for Ross. I pick up Soulmates, a David Williamson play, from the bedside table. Ross and I saw it performed by the Sydney Theatre Company back in 2002. I loved it, and occasionally I study the script for inspiration. It’s my touchstone for rhythm and pitch; the wit is so perfectly timed. Sometimes I lack confidence about the depth and insightfulness of my writing – even though I’ve dedicated years to scripting my play, I’m still not satisfied. But in a way the self-doubt forces me to try harder and keep improving, and that can only be good.

  At Act One, Scene Four, my hand slowly drops. The script falls on the bed and I jolt awake. Where is Ross? I think about turning the light off or going to find him. He’ll be in his office monitoring the weather: satellite, radar, various sites. Or paying bills, doing our BAS, maybe shopping. His internet shopping is different to mine – he buys rubber bands for bull-calf castrations, eartags, irrigation fittings, fencing insulators. Or maybe he’s writing a letter to the local paper or council; he does that sometimes when he gets fired up. Our local rates just arrived and we’re the eighth highest payers in the country, which seems extreme when our shire is definitely not affluent.

  I stare ahead into the Aboriginal dot painting on our bedroom wall, pinks and browns boxed in a white frame. Below it is a scalloped oak mantel. The plaster edges around the ornamental fireplace expose the original brown ceramic brickwork. It reminds me of my old place in Brunswick; that things don’t have to be perfect to look and feel good.

  When I moved here fourteen years ago, I could only find three fireplaces, yet four chimneys level with the trees that surround this old house. It was Margie who had the fireplace in this room plastered over and a heater installed. An easy decision to pull it out. Ross complained about the lack of insulation in the walls and tried to scare me with stories of how cold it gets here in winter. But I said I’d rather freeze than look at a false wall and ugly heater. It’s true the winters are so bracing that I race from the ensuite to the bed on tiptoes, but then the electric blanket is warm, and so is Ross.

  Margie was the last Ballantine wife to decorate this room. She chose pale olive-green walls with a wallpaper stripe of pink roses below the oak picture rail. It would’ve been all right thirty years ago; much too pretty for me, but I don’t mind its subdued, faded tones. The bay windows are bordered by heavy lace curtains – another Ballantine wife’s choice, probably Norman’s mother.

  Five wives have slept here. The heirs would’ve been conceived in this space: not in this bed but right where it stands. And the second and third sons and all the girls, too. It’s a weird thought, if I dwell on it, sharing a bedroom with the Ballantine ghosts, who for generations slept, dreamt, made love, lay ill, gave birth and died right here.

  Margie holds the record for the wife longest in residence. Twenty-seven years with Norman, followed by ‘too many’ with Ross, according to him.

  Apart from recovering the bedroom fireplace, my contribution to this room is the annexation of the nursery where all the Ballantine kids slept before they were scattered to their own rooms throughout the house. The nursery is now our built-in robe and ensuite with a claw-foot bath big enough for two.

  I feel a deep slowness in my body and give up on Ross coming to bed. I turn off the lamp. And just as the room falls into darkness, he opens the door. Thinking I’m asleep, he walks silently in the moonlit shadows, trying not to disturb me. He quietly closes the ensuite door behind him. Then the toilet flushes. He’s in the shower. He’s drying himself. He’s brushing his teeth. I turn on the lamp and start back on the play, the bit where Greg and Fiona are in New York visiting Gordon and Katie.

  Ross comes to bed and lies on his side, a hand under his head, watching me.

  ‘I can’t concentrate if you watch,’ I say.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Soulmates.’

  ‘We saw that in Sydney.’

  I look at him. ‘You remember?’

  He smiles and I move close, our bodies together. Nothing is said; we feel warm skin.

  ‘Sorry about this morning,’ he says softly.

  ‘I’m not helping you with the bulls ever again.’

  ‘You should’ve stayed in the ute.’

  ‘I don’t want to tal
k about it.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  He pulls me close, we kiss, and I know where this is going. I love this man, but I’m exhausted and want to sleep.

  He hears me sigh. ‘Come on, Stell.’

  Sometimes sex is like relationship maintenance, the thing that keeps us close and in harmony with each other. Right now it’s something he needs, and I know if I go with it, it’ll be satisfying and totally worth it. He’s beautiful, and most of all it’s me he wants.

  Ross is looking down at me, and I relax. I’ve decided to participate and want the closeness it’ll bring. There’s enough shadow to see his face, and I try to ignore that he’s overdue for a haircut. It’s only significant because I’m the one who cuts his hair. He won’t commit to an appointment in town and he tells me I do a good job.

  We kiss again. He smells clean.

  The summit ringtone. My phone is radiating on the bedside table.

  We tense.

  I’m conflicted between Ross’s erection and the rare event of my phone ringing after ten. I reach across and pick it up, looking at the screen. ‘It’s your mum,’ I say.

  ‘Shit.’

  I answer on speaker. ‘Margie, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Why is Ross’s phone off? I need to speak to him. I want him to come and get me.’

  He shakes his head.

  I try to make sense of the situation, taking a few seconds to realise she can’t speak because she’s crying.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘I can’t…’

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘No,’ she says.

  ‘Should I call the hospital?’

  ‘Tell Ross to come now.’

  Ross is waving his hands and mouthing that he’s not going anywhere.

  ‘Margie, you need to tell me what’s wrong.’