by Carl Nixon
The doctor frowns, wrinkling the smooth expanse of his forehead. ‘There are so many variables in cases like this that anything I say is, of course, just an informed guess.’
‘Yes. But in your opinion.’
In the end there is a surgical precision to the way the man delivers his prognosis. ‘Anywhere between three and five months. Frankly, I’d be surprised if he lives until Christmas.’
He talks to the doctor for another twenty minutes. They discuss what he can expect to happen to his father over the following months. But he is left with the impression that the actual outcome will be a lottery. It is possible that his father will develop very few symptoms. Alternatively, there may be sudden and sharp decline in the near future. Everything from Jack’s speech to his ability to reason could be bulldozed aside by the tumour’s advance, by what he is already thinking of as the colonisation of his father’s head. Or his father could simply sleep more and more, a slow wilting. He could lose his speech or his sight. A complete personality change cannot be ruled out. Jack could become violent and unruly. In which case he might have to be cared for in a special facility. Possibly restrained.
The doctor pegs out the boundaries. Here. Inside these lines. This is what you can expect.
When he has learnt all he thinks he can for the moment, he thanks the doctor and is directed to Ward 27. The oncology ward. He takes the lift up two levels and follows the signs. He stands in the doorway, watching, taking stock before entering.
His father shares a room with three other men. His bed is on the left-hand side, closest to the door. He imagines that here, as everywhere, a pecking order exists. It is probable that the longer a man stays in this room, the closer he gets to the window, to the light. But the catch is that only the very sick men stay any length of time. The religious symbolism is not wasted on him. Historically speaking, art often concerns itself with depictions of dying men moving closer to the light.
A nurse is arranging his father’s pillows, bullying them into shape with short chops of her hands. He watches from the doorway as his father leans forward, his face stiff with the effort. Jack is wearing a blue hospital gown that bags around the front. He can clearly see the tendons in his father’s neck, taut and thin like binding twine. Gaunt. Yes, gaunt is the right word for the new and unexpected way in which the skin moulds to his father’s skull, stretching tight over the cheekbones and around the bottom of his jaw. He is reminded of washed-up jellyfish spread over the dry rocks at the edge of the ocean. Something for young boys to poke at with sticks.
Only one of the other men has visitors, four large women in bright floral dresses. He thinks that they may be Samoan — Islanders certainly. They cluster around the bed diagonally opposite his father, next to the window. The man they are visiting lies back on top of the sheets, his head unsupported by any pillow. He is as frail as his visitors are solid. The women seem to ignore him as though they have just bumped in to each other on the street. They laugh at each other’s comments loudly with their teeth showing. The room seems full of them.
His father sees him standing half in and half out of the doorway and smiles as though embarrassed to be seen here, as though caught in the middle of some illicit rendezvous.
When the nurse leaves he goes and stands by the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better now. They’ve given me something for the headaches.’
‘Good. I am glad you’re feeling better.’
‘The doctor said it was you who found me.’
‘I got worried when you didn’t arrive for lunch.’
‘Just as well.’
‘Do you remember much?’
‘No. Not much. I remember the woman from next door. Just before the ambulance came.’
‘That’s right. She helped me look for you. She broke the glass in the door so that we could get in.’
He nods slowly. ‘I don’t know her name. Her husband left her a few months ago, before the baby was born. The house is going on the market.’
There is a pause in their conversation. He does not know how to reply to this. He finds and holds an image of the woman sitting on the floor, cradling his father in her arms. Her bare feet, long toes seeming to grasp the wooden floor. To this image he adds the label of deserted wife and mother.
His father looks over to where the four women are gathered like floats waiting for the Christmas parade to start. He follows his father’s gaze. Despite their size and the noise they are making, the man in the bed seems oblivious to his visitors’ presence. As oblivious as they seem to him. He lies back, staring blankly up at the ceiling with a hollow face. His skin is the colour of saffron.
‘The doctor told me that he’s spoken to you about what’s wrong.’
His father does not look at him. ‘Yes. He’s shown me the x-rays.’
He does not correct him.
They discuss practicalities. The doctor has said that there is no reason why Jack cannot leave the hospital after a couple of days. There are some tests to perform, a period of observation, but after that he can certainly return home. The steroids can be administered with a minimum of fuss, a normal life resumed. He introduces the idea of hiring a nurse for a few hours a week, someone who can help around the house and monitor the situation. His father seems receptive, even positive.
He lays everything out for Jack, spreading the possibilities across the white hospital sheets like a quilt. He does not raise the question of how long this new life can be maintained, or of life beyond the short term.
The pillows are so white that his father’s head seems silhouetted against them. As he talks he notices that there are small marks, blemishes across the skin, sunspots and old scars, forming faded patterns like Mr Rorschach’s ink or the faint view of sand seen through deep water. He half-expects to see some visible effect of the tumour, a swelling perhaps or a darker bruising on the surface of the skin, but of course there is nothing. The tumour is hidden deep beneath the foothills of his father’s brain.
From the bed in the corner the four women unexpectedly begin to sing. He stops speaking and looks towards them, as do his father and the men in the other beds. It is a song that rises and dips like a kite, the words in a language he does not understand. He finds himself annoyed and wishes that they would stop. This is not, he thinks, a place for song. There are after all other patients in the ward who may be disturbed by the sound. But the women do not stop. If anything, they become louder.
He thinks their song may, in fact, be a hymn, a sung prayer. It has that feel. An ecclesiastical tempo. The sound washes over the room, rising and falling in a gentle cadence. Several nurses appear, coming one by one to the doorway, where they stand and watch, smiling. No one makes a move to stop the singing.
What is there in this place, he wonders, to sing about? Certainly there are few blessings to be thankful for. All that he can think of is that they are making a supplication. To the God of cancer. To the deity of rapidly multiplying cells and things the size of golf balls. If that is true, then he believes they are wasting their time. Beyond what the doctors are offering he can see no hope for any of the patients here.
He leaves after half an hour, promising to return the next morning. His father is worried about the house.
‘I’ll get someone to come and repair the glass in the door.’
‘And maybe you could leave a few lights on? So that it looks like someone is there.’
‘All right. I’ll do that.’
His father tells him that there have been several breakins in the area over the last few months. There is also a cat, a stray, that his father has adopted. It will need feeding. He promises to take care of all the details. As he stands and waits for the hospital lift to arrive, it occurs to him that this will be his life for the next few months. A life held in indentured service to his father’s dying.
Once outside, he is surprised to see that it is almost dark. Only the faintest touch of blue remains in the sky. The river runs past the back of the hospital a
nd on the other side are the botanical gardens. He walks back to his car along a path of crushed stones which crunch loudly beneath the soles of his shoes. On the other bank a man in overalls is working late, herding leaves with a blower into deep drifts in the near darkness.
Further on there is a footbridge on which he stops. Slightly downstream is a small weir. The river passes over a lip and scatters down across concrete into a deep pool. He stands for a long time and listens to the white noise of the water.
And then he is moving away. He walks among the trees’ shadows only fractionally darker now than the surrounding night. At the edge of the hospital grounds he comes to a busy road. He stands and waits for a break in the traffic. A turning car swings towards him from a side road, and for a brief moment he is caught, exposed by the white beams of its headlights. He wonders what the driver sees. A fleeting view of a tall thin man standing still in the shadows, framed by the trunks of the trees behind and the branches above him. He crosses the road and again finds himself beneath streetlights. He begins to walk the short distance back to his car.
Fish ’n’ Chip Shop Song
A one, two; a one two three four …
VERSE ONE
in the cities and the towns. On the edges of the busy roads. In the concrete-block shops, shoved in hard between Chinese takeaways and ten-dollar barbers, with drip-tailed white signs painted straight on to the glass —
FRESH FISH. Snapper. Cod. Warehou. Cooked While You Wait! Hot Dogs. Fried Mussels. Family Packs. And on the bricks next to the door and up on the faded awning in permanent letters, red and white — FISH ’n’ CHIPS FISH ’n’ CHIPS.
A shop with a Formica counter and an old till. One, two, three, four fat fryers behind. Plastic chairs along the wall by the door below a poster, New Zealand Commercial Fish Species, and a pile of women’s magazines with the titles cut off sitting on the edge of the counter. There’s a buzzer that sounds when the door is opened. One, two sharp notes, up and down.
Pale linoleum on the floor that has to be mopped one, two, three, four times a day. Keep everything clean. Keep it all wiped down, spotless. Otherwise they’ll close us up faster than you can blink. Don’t think they wouldn’t. Now come on, girl, here’s a customer. Get out there. Hurry up. They haven’t got all day.
Owner-operators. Small men, dark-haired men, in blue or white aprons, with permanent squints from standing over the steaming oil. Immigrants and the sons of immigrants who fold paper around the orders quickly without looking down at their hands, one, two, three, four, like origami.
Hurry up, girl! Hurry up!
A permanent frown and a silent shadowy wife. With a distracted daughter of eighteen who wears her black hair back from her head as she serves behind the counter and thinks about romantic old movies and where she’d rather be.
CHORUS
Two fish and a scoop thanks, love. Yeah, two fish and a scoop. Ya well? That’s the trick. Been busy? That right? And chuck in a hot dog with that, why don’t ya. And you there, hey there, girl, smile, it might not happen. Two fish and a scoop thanks, love. Two fish and a scoop.
VERSE TWO
Yeah, yeah. That’s what she’s worried about; that it might not happen. Or worse, that it might be happening here and now in her father’s shop while she’s dressed in a white apron with a grease stain on the front. They order, looking up at the board above and behind her, talking to the empty space near the top of her head. She bangs the basket one, two, on the edge of the fryer and droplets of yellowed oil fall back with a patter. The chips hit the paper with a sudden clatter. The salt goes on, one, two, three, four shakes. There are cars going by outside in a steady stream, the first headlights coming on. She can hear the soft jazz-drum hiss of their tyres on the road.
Four fish, two scoops … nah, make that five fish.
Five fish, two scoops?
Yeah. Yeah annnnd … nah that’ll do.
Five fish, two scoops?
… Nah, yeah.
The stoned guys with the red-veined eyes and a craving. The men in white shirts, their ties loose around their necks. The blokes in metal-toed work boots who track mud on the floor. Women with kids on their knees, tired and twitchy. Old men who want to talk about the fish they used to catch, and young girls in dark mascara on their way to awkward parties. They come through the door alone and in pairs, threes and fours. She listens to them talk while she works.
Have you heard?
No, what?
He’s left his wife for her!
No. For her?
Yes.
No. For Fleur?
Martin is letting me use his holiday home in Marlborough.
That’s a bit of a coup.
Come up at Christmas. We’d love to see you.
I might just do that.
Do. Do.
You got a buck?
Nah.
Sucks.
I’m outta here.
Yeah.
Things are starting to pick up now as the rush-hour traffic really begins to flow. The door buzzer goes off again: buzzes as they come and buzzes as they leave, one, two, one, two. She’s got more baskets on the go. The oil boils with a steady rhythm.
There’s a dagger-nosed woman who nudges her son forward. Kid must be about three or four. Go on go on you order, says the mother. Tell the lady what you want. You said you wanted to, Jason.
Doughnuts and fish, he half whispers, looking down at the floor where some stray chips have fallen. One, two.
Sorry? I can’t hear you.
He said three doughnuts and four fish. And the chips, she snaps down at the kid. You have to say about the chips.
One chips. Surly now.
The woman squeezes his arm, what looks like hard. What do you say?
Please.
Don’t worry about him, the mother says with a tight smile. He’s just having a bad day.
Her father comes out from the back to help, grumbling in Cantonese beneath his breath about how she’s vague as a ghost and how low they are on pre-battered fish. If they run out there’ll be hell to pay. The door buzzes. The till rings. She tries to concentrate but always seems to be thinking about other things: something she saw in a romantic movie; the lyrics from a song; or whether the new shampoo has really taken the smell of the shop out of her hair.
CHORUS
Two fush and a scoop thanks, love. Twooo fush and a scoop and don’t be shy with the chips eh, girl. How’s ya day been? Good as gold. Can’t complain. Least work’s over for the week, again. Two fush and a scoop thanks, sweetheart. Two fush and a scoop.
VERSE THREE
One, two, three, four blokes from the council gang come in. They’ve been working on the drains, digging up a street nearby. All orange vests and nudging elbows. She catches the eye of the young guy with the dark wavy hair who trails in behind the others. She’s seen him before and he gives her half a grin and raises his eyebrows in the workman’s salute. Her heart beats louder, one, two, one, two.
Hello.
Gidday.
What would you like?
… Fish and a scoop, thanks?
How many?
Two.
His mate, the one with the beer gut way out over his belt, picks up a magazine. Hey, look at this. Tom and Penelope are on the rocks. Says here that she’s dating again. Maybe I’ll give it a shot.
Peals of laughter in the small space.
As if, Lou …
Yeah right …!
Hey, yeah, yeah.
Too skinny by half.
True.
Reckon Tracy would have something to say too.
She sees that the young guy with dark wavy hair, like a movie star, has a way of listening with his head cocked to one side. It makes her think that he’s hearing something different from everyone else, something between the words that no one else can quite catch.
CHORUS
Two fish and a scoop thanks, love. Yeah, two fish and a scoop. So how do you think the All Blacks will do? Ya re
ckon? I’ll say! And maybe that’s true. Keeping busy? Not bad. Not much. Just the same. Bit windy out now. Might rain (or might not). Two fish and a scoop thanks, love. Two fish and a scoop.
VERSE FOUR
And the chips come out as the fish goes in and she bangs the basket on the edge of the fryer, one, two, three, four. And she wonders if the young guy with the dark hair and the small scar on his chin like Harrison Ford will ask her out. Perfect droplets of yellowed oil fall back with a patter. The oil bubbles in a staccato rhythm. She empties the whole lot on to the paper with a sound like a sudden clash of tambourines. The salt goes on, one, two, three, four. And if you squint hard the dripping tails of the signs painted on the glass look like musical notes.
The young guy with the dark wavy hair is drumming his fingers on the edge of his plastic chair. His foot is tapping on the lino. The dark-haired girl behind the counter meets his eye across the crowded room and she says something he doesn’t quite catch.
What? Sorry?
Your order.
Oh yeah.
Two fish and a scoop.
Yeah, yeah, that’s right, that’s mine, thanks, yeah.
The buzzer sounds, one, two, up and down. The customers talk. The till rings. The traffic streams by outside in a steady line and the streetlights flicker and come on, one, two, three, four. Her father bangs the basket on the edge of the fryer. Her guy’s footsteps sound on the white linoleum as he stands and walks towards her.
She watches him move like a guy in an old movie pushing through a train station crowd, looking for the woman. And the soundtrack plays loudest in the tense seconds just before he sees her.
And then, at the exact moment when he reaches the counter, a sudden unheralded silence opens up. Everything, even the traffic, stops for a few seconds. And in that gap he takes the warm white packet from her, his fingers softly brushing the back of her hand.
