Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  “So, I’m coming home, back to Maine. I’m not sure how it will all work out yet, and I wouldn’t usually do something so drastic without a detailed plan—you know me. This time though, I’m starting from a spontaneous decision and working backward. It’s petrifying now that I say the words aloud. I’m going to need you, Dad. I can’t do it without you.

  “I wonder if Michael will sell his share of Orchard Road to me. I’d have to visit our good friend, Mr. Chase for another loan.” Helena laughed. “He’s been asking after you, by the way. Who hasn’t? I should be writing all of this down.” She searched through her handbag for paper and a pen. “Can you believe that? I don’t have paper with me. There’s a bookstore downstairs. Wait right here, Dad. I’ll be back in five.”

  Helena returned twenty minutes later, gasping. “I’m back, Dad, and I took the stairs! There’s a new start right there!” She opened the notebook and poised the pen. “Let’s begin with worst-case scenario—my particular area of expertise. No, I won’t. That’s being too negative. Let’s start with best-case scenario. There, that’s another new start! I am on a roll. Let’s see…Michael gives me the house for the good of his children. Hmm, that’s not very realistic. OK, before I can apply for a loan, I’ll need a job. Millie’s Home Baked Treats or anything like it is not an option, given my ‘condition’. I can’t afford to be around food all day if I’m going to lose this weight. What I need is a real job where I have to be somewhere at a certain time every day and there’s a guaranteed pay packet at the end of the week. I think an accounting or managerial role would suit me. What do you think, Dad? The bank would be great—they give discounted loans to employees after a couple of years.

  “We’ll have to live with you and mum for a while, if that’s still OK. Then there’s school for William and Brian, and pre-school for Carla. Mum will have to mind Matthew while I’m at work at my new job.” She paused. “This is already sounding like a burden for you, especially with mum the way she is, but she’ll come out of it when you do, hopefully.” Helena glanced at her watch. “Oh, it’s six already—time for me to be getting home to the kids. I have no idea how Grace is handling it all during the day, and frankly, Dad, it’s best not to know. Anyway, she’ll be here soon, so prepare yourself for an evening of non-stop, riveting conversation about the latest developments in perms and hair dye.

  Helena stood to leave. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, as always.” She bent to kiss his hand, afraid still to touch his face. “Thanks for listening, Dad. I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll do some more work on the plan. I love you.”

  The third step into the hallway outside signaled the tear ducts to release the dammed. The cheerfulness was hard to maintain in the presence of so much machinery that confirmed the dire nature of the situation. If he could hear, he would know that under the buoyant words lay a more melancholy heart. Helena was grateful though, for the precious time she spent alone with him, for he was the mucilage, the cement, the glue, the binder, and without him, she would function like an old envelope.

  She cried all the way to the elevator. Behind her, in the clinical, white room she had just left, blue eyes, grayed, had opened unseen.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  January 1974

  EXPECTATION by its very nature was a source of discontentment. People wake from comas all the time and life is suddenly beautiful and perfect again, in the movies, but not so in the real world. Grayed blue eyes wide open was just the beginning, not the end. There were new problems for James Wallin to overcome arising from the damage caused to his brain: problems with complex thought, unstable emotions, and a changed personality. All were commonplace. “But will he be himself?” they asked repeatedly.

  The brain, Doctor Pell explained, is extremely sensitive to damage, but tough as well. Some neurons die, but amazingly, new ones can grow in their stead. Surviving neurons also come to the rescue, sprouting new lines to patch up damaged circuits, and inactive circuits switch on in a crisis. It was a remarkable creation, they all agreed, and hoped and prayed for new neurons and circuitry.

  The damage to his frontal cortex and brain stem could have been worse, said Doctor Pell, and a longer coma would have compounded his current condition, but ‘not-so-bad’ was a long way from ‘good’ and the prognosis they wanted to hear. Problems with breathing, speech, balance, and nausea were likely, and some of these were already evident. They were not expecting any memory loss of note since the temporal lobes had survived the trauma unscathed, but there would be changes to the man, in the way he interacts with others, his moods and so forth. The old James was gone, just like the old Millie, but that was not all: damage to the brain can transcend to affect the vascular system and cause a stroke, a cruel irony that arises from the brilliance of the brain’s ability to create new circuitry.

  James appeared much the same, albeit a lot quieter. “Do not overwhelm him,” Doctor Pell had ordered, but it was impossible not to smother him in love and attention. He would regain a sense of his own self and his environment in time and with patience, but for the immediate present, it was foreign to him, like life to a young child. “Do not overwhelm him,” Doctor Pell repeated.

  Millie returned from lah-lah land to resume daily visits to the hospital. She told James about the demise of her garden, which she attributed to, “that Webcke boy from next door,” adding that he was a drug addict, and that this was the kind of thing “those drug people” do. James laughed knowingly, and Helena was certain he had heard her talk of the garden’s ruination while in the coma.

  Time wanted to dash ahead to the point where life and James were normal again, in spite of Doctor Pell’s caution. Helena had to return to the base to pack for her final homecoming, and the salon beckoned Grace, but she would stay to care for the children while Helena tied her loose ends.

  The pending charges against Michael did not eventuate, further evidence that James Wallin did not have a single bone of malice in his wasting body.

  Michael was remorseful, and for each day of Helena’s last week at the base, he brought flowers, listened, apologized, and helped with the packing. He loved her, he said, and thought he always had. His words were sincere, and Helena understood that love was a concept that differed for everyone. She believed he probably did love her.

  Helena asked Michael about Christmas Day, but he was puzzled to the same extent. He did not even understand his own action except to say it was in response to a look and he had reacted instinctively.

  Their time together sorting through cupboards, talking about the things they found and their origins, was therapeutic. Michael confessed his fear of aloneness: he had never been on his own, not even throughout the lonely years at Park Lane. Helena assured him he would not remain so for long. From her invisible perspective, she saw how women looked at her husband, and flirted with him despite her presence. Time would barely pass before one or more of them offered to console the Adonis abandoned by his un-Venus like wife.

  Helena asked Michael about Matthew: why he had rejected his youngest son from birth. He said he did not know, and did not deny it, and Helena was at least relieved she did not have to relive a multitude of examples as evidence. When asked, Michael said he had been faithful for all of their seven years together. He surprised her then by offering her his share of Orchard Road as a sign of goodwill, and gratitude to her father for not pressing charges that would have destroyed his career. The offer was conditional though: he would not have to pay child support, and the transfer of the house they had built together in Orchard Road would settle all matrimonial matters between them. Helena accepted, similarly keen to finalize their separation amicably, and without lawyers they could not afford. She had what she wanted: the house and the children, and no lawyer could do better than that. They discussed divorce, but concluded that there was no imperative, allowing each the time to settle into new lives.

  The removal van arrived on that final morning, and within a few hours, was ready to leave, half-full.

  T
hey said goodbye on the footpath, aware that eyes peered through blinds in every other direction. Helena had not told anyone she was leaving, and authorized Michael to give any reason he liked. She did not care what anyone in this past life had to say of her. They agreed that it was not a final goodbye for their children would always connect them, and through the rear window of a taxi, Helena stole one last look at her home at the base. She waved back at Michael then disappeared from view.

  The journey ahead was daunting: by train from Laverton to Melbourne, by plane from Melbourne to Sydney, then another train Sydney to Maine after several hours of waiting at Central Station in Sydney. Helena could not wait for it to end, to shower away the sweat, grime, and tears, and to see her children once more. She had spoken to them often by phone, and learned through Brian that they ate ‘dinner’, Rice Bubbles and Coco Pops, from mini boxes without milk. Grace explained the dry evening meal simply: they had run out of milk, and Millie had lost all interest in cooking or had forgotten how. Grace also reminded Helena that she had no experience with cooking herself, and saw no harm in allowing the children to eat whatever they wanted. The stresses of her day in charge of four children and Millie, plus visits to the hospital, were relieved as soon as the sun dropped, courtesy of “Mr. Jack.” This latter morsel had come from William who was proud to report that he licked the rim of the bottle most nights as a reward for being good. Even Matthew, according to William, would stop crying after a sip. Helena shuddered at the news, well aware that Baden blood coursed through those tiny veins, and who could possibly know what one sip of whiskey could mean for any descendant of John Baden Senior.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  January 1974

  SOMEWHERE between Sydney and Maine, in the middle of the night, James Wallin died from a stroke. Helena had woken suddenly on the train, with an uncomfortable sense of her own presence, and stayed awake the rest of the way while others slept around her. She counted the stops as the train slowed into stations aglow with yellow lights before the rhythmic clacking of railway tracks resumed. Later, when she learned the hour of her father’s passing, she knew he had woken her to let her know he was gone.

  Helena went alone to the morgue that Saturday morning. Formaldehyde permeated the red curtains that fell heavily from the ceiling panels, a cordon to what or whom, she did not want to consider. James lay still and frozen. She tried to believe he was just sleeping, but a trickle of blood had escaped his nostril and turned into red ice. She dabbed at it with a handkerchief, and placed the bloodied treasure safely inside her dress next to her heart.

  “Please, Dad, don’t leave me,” she cried, screamed. She opened his eyelids and held them apart, willing him to see her standing there broken. “Dad, please, I need you.” She wanted to join him, and would have, but for the incompetence of Grace and Millie, and Michael, as carers for her children. She stayed with him until someone ushered her away as his corpse began to thaw.

  Helena rehearsed, “I’m fine,” to believe in it, and in the process, came to understand the existence Millie had created for herself after Robert disappeared. Millie had James then, and still needed to escape. Helena had no one.

  Hundreds came to the funeral, and the side doors of the church left open for a breeze, filled with genuine mourners instead. They came with words for Helena: time was an eraser, it healed all sorrows, there was a reason for everything, a time to die, joy is as great as the sorrow is deep, the mournful are blessed, grief is a medicine, pain passes, and life goes on. So many people wise about death, even though they had no personal experience with it, for if they knew death, as Helena now did, they would also know that a blade wounded, a stab into the heart was fatal, and time had just two hands, and was not a father. James Wallin, her father, the man she loved more than any other, was gone, and no words could explain that.

  Michael did not attend the funeral, nor did Millie. She was not present anywhere in a mindful way, and was exhausted during the day from her nights in conversation with nature, trees mostly.

  The ‘m’ word had never entered Helena’s mind until she heard it whispered at the funeral—Michael Baden had murdered James Wallin. The offence was unpardonable, and Sergeant Mackelroth was similarly contemptible for letting the culprit go free, they said.

  James was dressed as he had lived, in a short-sleeved, cream, collared shirt—his mill shirt—and trousers. Yes, he seemed peaceful, restful, evident the wise ones said, that someone cherished had met him in the white tunnel, and that he was enjoying his afterlife. Helena wanted to scream. Her father would not be at peace at all knowing that life had unraveled in his short absence.

  Grace handled everything for the family, consummate as always when a setting was even remotely social. She circulated, thanked everyone at the church, did so again at the cemetery, and single-handedly represented the family at the wake organized by the Ladies Auxiliary.

  Helena went home after the coffin lowered into the ground, needing to be alone, and someone had to relieve Adeline Mackelroth of child minding.

  She established a daily ritual for falling apart at 8PM until midnight, devoting the hours in between to keeping busier than ever: washing, tidying, ironing, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of children. Her existence was manageable in this way.

  Living arrangements at Waterloo Street were tight with one less bedroom: Millie having locked the door to the master bedroom forced Helena to share her bed with her mother. Helena found the key without looking for it, at the bottom of the laundry basket, and had toyed with it for some time before placing it in the lock. As she glanced down, willing herself to turn it, daylight came through the narrow gap that separated the bottom of the bedroom door and the floor, and with it, a familiar scent. She imagined her father inside, napping under a fan with the newspaper spread across his chest, and his glasses askew across his nose. She staggered away from the door, fell to the floor, and cried. Matthew curled into her lap, sucking his thumb while tears fell into his hair. Helena ran her fingers through the dampened strands to comb it dry then stood gingerly with her little boy in her arms. “Let’s have cookies,” she whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  May 1974

  ACUTE bronchitis saw Millie hospitalized, the winter, having snapped early, caught her wandering the garden in a cotton nightgown and no shoes. The hospital stay offered some respite for Helena, and an opportunity to tackle the mail that had accumulated since February. Armed with a mug of coffee and a tin of still warm Ginger Nuts, she sat down in her father’s chair, and held back tears as her body filled the indentations he had made in the leather.

  She sorted the mail into three piles: cards, plain envelopes, and window envelopes with logos. The pile of bills was first on the agenda since she could immediately reduce it by a quarter based on the postmark alone. The two piles of cards and plain envelopes were pushed aside for Grace since she was best with protocol for handling sympathies, good wishes, and other platitudes.

  Helena stared at her pile of envelopes then shuffled them like cards before opening the one that rose to the top. She used her father’s gold letter opener to expose the contents of each, and was shocked to note that despite months of arrears, each page was absent a red sticker, warning, urgent stamp or any other form of demand for immediate payment. She flicked through the pile again and saw her father at the mill the day it had burned to the ground. “People will pay when they can,” he had said of those who owed them money. “I don’t want you calling people begging for money.” Now she understood clemency, karma, sowing and reaping, and unscheduled tears stung her face for even in death, her father had lessons for her.

  She wrote checks for each payee then added up the damage. After deducting the total from the balance shown on the latest bank statement, a meager eighty dollars remained, and that was all there was.

  Life insurance would have been their savior, except James had cancelled it in retaliation for the debacle over the insurance renewal for the mill, along with the house insurance,
car, and health insurances.

  James had invested his proceeds from the mill fire sale in the share market in 1967. It was a bullish market at the time due the discovery of oil in Bass Strait, and James had bought his shares at a premium then watched the price zigzag downward to almost worthless. The shares had not improved much over time, but Helena would have to sell them at current values, and that was only a temporary solution. Waterloo Street, family home of the Wallin family and source of much happiness, and sorrow, had to be sacrificed for survival. When the tenants vacated Orchard Road, Helena and her children would return with Millie in tow.

  The rest of the solution required a job, preferably full-time. Millie, Helena hoped, would be up to the task of caring for Matthew all day, Carla half the day, and William and Brian after school. Helena shuddered. She sculled the dregs of cold coffee, and wondered if the financial settlement she had reached with Michael had been a mistake. Child support meant food, and perhaps then, she could have saved her childhood home with its memories of her father she did not want to leave behind.

  Grace returned to Maine for a long weekend, not because she wanted to, but because Helena had called daily following Millie’s discharge from hospital, pleading for help. Millie was a handful, as was William. He had become even more willful, and angry. Brian was clingy, Matthew introverted, and Carla unnervingly calm amidst the chaos.

  Other than to say James had gone to heaven, no one talked of him, or explained his ongoing absence in a meaningful way. They were too young to know more, Helena believed, and it was difficult enough explaining why Grandma wore a bathrobe all day long. She could not explain Thorazine, the psychosis it suppressed, nor the sedation it caused, and why the blitz that used to be the kitchen at Waterloo Street was now a retreat most of the time.