The Last Time We Spoke

by Fiona Sussman

  Carla sat up and leant forward so that he could slide the cold disc down her back. He smelt of eucalyptus and hospital.

  ‘Take a deep breath in through your mouth … and out. Good. In … and … out.’

  Was he reminding her how to breathe?

  ‘The bruising around your neck is quite marked, and you have some superficial bleeding into the whites of your eyes,’ he said, flicking a torch across her face. ‘Don’t get a fright when you see yourself in the mirror. It can take some time before the blood is resorbed. It looks worse than it is.’

  There was a buzzing noise and the red light on his locator flashed. He read the message.

  ‘Sorry. They need me upstairs. I’ll pop back later.’ He straightened the crumpled cover over her feet. ‘The psychiatry team should visit sometime this morning. Get some more sleep if you can. Unfortunately, it can be very noisy in here.’

  He was about to pull back the curtain, when it was wrenched open by a small round man with a helmet of grey hair. ‘Not a queue again. I need to pee!’ the man said in a very proper English accent as he fumbled with the drawstring of his pyjama pants.

  ‘Hang on, Mr Parker. Not here! This is not the toilet,’ Jovovich said, spinning the man around. But it was too late. A fountain of yellow sprayed over the registrar’s shoes and the side of Carla’s bed.

  Jovovich pushed the button on the wall behind Carla. ‘Did I say this was not a psychiatric ward?’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘Welcome to the madness of North Shore Hospital.’

  A male nurse appeared and pulled up Mr Parker’s pants. ‘Archie, this isn’t the toilet. Come with me. I’ll show you where it is. Remember to ring the bell the next time you need to take a leak.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the point,’ protested the old man. ‘What about the brazil nuts?’

  The nurse rolled his eyes and Carla couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘All right for you to laugh,’ joked the registrar, throwing a white towel onto the puddle beside Carla’s bed and mopping his shoes with a clump of paper towels.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t …’

  ‘What we don’t do to get our patients to smile!’ he said. ‘Actually, the poor chap isn’t crazy, just confused. His electrolytes have gone haywire. Normally, he’s pretty sharp.’ The registrar turned to leave, then looked back. ‘By the way, there is a Chinese lady waiting outside. Your neighbour, I think? She found you last night. Dialled one-one-one. You up to a visit?’

  Carla’s grin faded, the real world again intruding. She shook her head. It hurt.

  Through the morning, she drifted in and out of sleep, the activity on the ward precluding her from venturing beyond a light doze. But she was grateful for the distraction. It prevented her thoughts from settling. She was floating above her own body like a helium balloon, her connection with the world as tenuous as a piece of string.

  After lunch, a big woman sloped in to the ward. ‘I am Mona, the psychiatrist on call,’ she said, introducing herself in a voice as heavy as her thick-soled lace-ups.

  She had dyed-red hair fashioned into a blunt bob, and each of her fingers sported a chunky silver ring, one even wedged into the creased angle of her thumb.

  After a brief preamble, Mona moved through a mental health questionnaire, leaving long pauses between each of Carla’s responses, as if willing Carla to elaborate.

  So this was psychoanalysis, thought Carla.

  ‘We use medicine to balance the brain,’ Mona explained, as she charted Carla a course of antidepressants. ‘Later, will come counselling.’

  Carla felt exhausted by the thought of more talking and reflection and exploration.

  ‘I will arrange for the Crisis Team to visit you at home. We will send notice of the outpatient appointment in addition.’

  Finally Mona left, her sensible shoes squeaking down the length of the polished lino corridor.

  Later that afternoon, Geoffrey and Mildred visited, with a bunch of white carnations and a box of scorched almonds. Carla hated carnations.

  It was an awkward visit. Mildred spent ten minutes trying to find a vase for the flowers, while her brother-in-law skirted the fact that Carla was lying in a hospital bed with dark-blue ring around her neck and bloodshot eyes. He kept clearing his throat and saying, ‘Yes, well,’ and ‘So there you have it,’ and ‘Good, good,’ while Mildred kept the conversation as light as if they were taking tea in Cornwall Park.

  ‘Geoff, we must be going,’ she said after a time, her eyes protruding in a theatrical show of checking her watch.

  ‘Yes, yes, must be off. Prior arrangement,’ Geoff said apologetically, leaning forward to brush his cheek past Carla’s.

  ‘Onward and upward, eh, old girl? You must be strong, dear. Come stay with us over the bridge for a while. Give yourself a break.’

  Mrs Doering, the ninety-three-year-old lady in the adjacent bed, was delighted with the carnations. She had emphysema. Her son had forbidden her another cigarette. She winked at Carla as she shuffled off ‘to the toilet’ for the sixth time that day.

  Dinner was served at five, announcing itself with the metallic fanfare of institution food. The Soft Diet sign above Carla’s bed translated into pureed apple and yogurt, instead of the steak-and-mushroom pie.

  ‘Darn! Too late for dinner,’ Dr Jovovich said, striding into the ward.

  ‘I can offer you some boysenberry yogurt?’ Carla said, holding up her half-eaten pottle. She surprised herself with this tease; it wasn’t twenty-four hours since she’d tried to kill herself, yet here she was slipping back into the superficial banter of living.

  ‘What you could do with is some of my grandma’s chicken soup,’ Jojovich said, inspecting the contents of her tray. ‘Food for the soul, I tell you.’

  She smiled.

  ‘So,’ he said, sitting down on the edge of her bed, ‘we can fix the body, but can we fix the mind?’

  There was something very likeable about this man, something very good about him.

  ‘Mrs Reid, I have visited the place you are at now,’ he said, his cheekiness all of a sudden evaporating.

  She looked at him, at his flattened upper lip, which must have marked him as different from birth.

  ‘Six years ago, my wife and daughter were killed in Kosovo while I was working. They brought them by ambulance to the hospital where I was on duty. I could not save them. One day I was part of a family, the next day I was an island in the middle of a wild ocean, an island no one could reach. I think you know that feeling.’

  Carla looked at him, lost in his brown eyes.

  He continued, ‘Where every minute is empty and drags its feet toward nothingness.’ Her face prickled. ‘How do you recover from that? From the sudden pointlessness of life? From the pain that cuts into you so deeply no words in any language can speak accurately of it? Poets try, authors, artists too – even doctors. But they don’t come close, do they?’

  She shook her head. This man had let himself in.

  ‘What I can tell you is this. One morning, you will wake up and the sun will be a bit brighter than the day before. You will hear again those forgotten sounds of birds in a tree and bees around a hive. You will smell baking bread and feel hungry. You will laugh at silliness and the laughter will come from here.’ He put a hand over his heart. ‘Not here,’ he said, touching his mouth. ‘One day the pictures you have in your mind of broken bodies will make way for pink complexions and happy eyes, and you will find there is still living to be done.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  BEN

  ‘What you done this time?’ someone shouted.

  ‘Maybe they got it wrong, Toroa. You’re innocent, right?’

  Ben gave them the finger and rolled over to the gate. Shirley was waiting for him. He put his hands through the grill to be cuffed, then pulled them back so she could unlock the gate.

  The only sound as they walked came from his shoes and hers on the concrete – bass and percussion. Since he’d lost his mum he didn’t care
much about anything any more, just the next joint, or the juice that messed with his brain and iced the pain, the stuff that promised peace.

  They passed the corridor that led to Visits. Where were they going?

  Shirley answered his thoughts. He could have sworn she was psychic; she always seemed to know what was going on in his head.

  ‘Mr Ngata’s summoned you. Don’t know what it’s about. You’ll find out soon enough.’

  They passed through the dome. It was only the second time Ben had been out of these gates and into the admin block. The first time was when Mr Ngata had told him about his mother’s death.

  The rope twisting Ben’s insides pulled tighter. Perhaps Ryan had topped himself. Now that would be good news. As far as he knew, he was still being held at Auckland Remand, just down the road. If they ever brought him to The Rock, Ben would waste him himself.

  In admin, the air was warm, the place bright, and the light white. He could smell coffee. Coffee! And the sound of no noise. Just the low, smooth rumble of voices from behind closed doors, as smooth as a Holden’s engine. It was as if he’d stepped out of an ancient black-and-white photograph, all angles and edges, into the calm modern world of colour.

  Shirley knocked on the superintendent’s varnished wooden door.

  ‘Come in,’ came a deep voice.

  Mr Ngata was sitting at his desk. Behind him was the painting Ben remembered from last time – a prisoner’s canvas of spinifex and beach, sea and sky. That same cerulean sea that last time crashed over him with Ngata’s words, ‘Sorry, Ben. It’s your mother. She’s dead.’

  This time Ben didn’t wait for Ngata to speak; instead he swam straight into the blue, letting the colour wash over him before any words could.

  He is helping his mother paint the wall out front of their house – the knee-high barrier with crumbling pillars and honeycombed bricks. He and Lily used to hold serious balancing competitions on that wall. His mum had always wanted a white fence out front. Painting the pathetic wall was a compromise. ‘What you painting the dumb wall for?’ some guy (not Ryan, maybe Ben’s dad) raves. ‘Housing New Zealand isn’t going to thank you!’

  Ben is wearing the stripy yellow scarf his mum has taken a whole winter to knit. He wears it only as far as the end of the road before taking it off and hiding it behind a tree. After school it’s not there any more. At home he gets a hiding with the kettle cord. His mother swears it’s the last thing she’ll ever make him, and it is.

  They get to the public swimming baths and climb over the back fence because his mum doesn’t have enough money for the entrance fee. She tries to teach him and Lily how to swim in the shallow baby pool, but a lifeguard comes over and throws them out because someone has reported seeing them scale the fence. On the way home, his mum does a funny impersonation of the lifeguard to cheer them up.

  ‘How are you doing, Ben?’ Ngata’s voice burst into the memories. It was neither super loud, nor suspiciously soft, yet a voice impossible to ignore.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good. That’s good,’ the manager said, pulling his mouth to one side in an involuntary tic. There was a long pause. ‘Look, Ben, I’ll get straight to the point.’ Ngata twirled a pencil in his hands. ‘I’ve had a request come down from the top. It’s a bit irregular but—’ He gave a small cough. ‘Mrs Reid has requested permission to visit you.’

  Through the open window, Ben could hear the drone of traffic on the Grafton overbridge. The window was taunting him, pretending everything was normal. An open window without bars.

  ‘Mrs Reid would like to meet with you, Ben.’

  ‘Say who?’

  ‘You know, man,’ Ngata said impatiently. ‘The victim of the crime that landed you inside.’

  The warmth leaked out of Ben’s body. The room tilted. His tongue felt fat in his mouth. ‘What about Tate?’ he blurted out. ‘Tate should do it. He’s the one th—’

  Ngata shook his head. ‘Been transferred to Christchurch.’

  ‘Nah. I’m not meeting with no ho. I want my legal.’

  Ngata got up and came out from behind his desk. ‘You are not obliged to,’ he said calmly, perching right in front of Ben. Ben focused on the bridge of black freckles on Ngata’s nose. ‘But a doctor has written to the Head of Corrections.’ The manager picked up Ben’s file and flicked through it. ‘Said it would help the lady move on, get her life back on track. We call it restorative justice.’

  Ben shook his head.

  ‘I think you at least owe her that.’

  ‘I’m doin’ the time,’ he mumbled, head down.

  ‘It’s the kind of thing the parole board would look kindly on,’ Shirley piped up from behind.

  Ngata tipped his head in acknowledgement of her suggestion. ‘I think this is something that would benefit you in other ways too, Ben,’ he said getting up and switching on a fan that was positioned on a metal cabinet in the corner. A breeze blew over the room. The rush of cool air felt like freedom.

  Ben turned to Shirley. ‘It’s not like I got parole anytime soon. I’m just beginning my lag.’ He turned back to Ngata. ‘Nah, not interested.’

  ‘You don’t have to give me an answer right now. Why don’t you sleep on it?’ he persisted. ‘I think this is a chance for you to make right some of the wrong. See it as an opportunity to do some good, eh?’

  Shirley escorted him back to the yard. They walked in silence. Only when she was unlocking the last gate did she speak.

  ‘Look around you, Ben. You’ve reached a dead end. Nobody but you can turn your life around.’ The gate clanged shut.

  ‘Look who’s back,’ Afi cooed. ‘So they’ve decided to keep you in here after all.’

  Ben rammed a fist into Afi’s face, cracking his right eye socket. Shirley saw it all, so Ben spent the next fourteen days in the Secure Unit.

  Three days in the pit was easy. Seven was borderline. After ten, Ben’s mind was sagging in the middle. Weird faces floated through the lemon-coloured walls, and nightmares hijacked his dreams. But what haunted him the most were Shirley’s words. ‘I’m disappointed in you. What would your mother have said?’

  The whole fortnight he couldn’t get those words out of his head. Shirley was nothing to him, just another screw, a nobody in his life! But her words nagged and niggled and wore him down.

  ‘Hey! Hey, you!’ he pushed his mirror – a stainless steel disc – through the cell’s bars, angling it so that he could see the guard stationed at the end of the corridor.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Need to talk with Mr Ngata.’

  ‘Sure. And what about an audience with the Queen?’

  ‘Listen, you fuckwit. Shit. I mean, please, sir. You can even ask Shirley. Mr Ngata wants me to make a decision ’bout something real important. Well, I have.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it when you’re finished your stint down here. Still six more days in the Shangri-La, and watch your mouth or it’ll be another week.’

  As Ben kicked the wall, his barefoot split open, a jagged line zigzagging across his toes. ‘First aid! Fuckin’ first aid. I’m bleeding!’

  The guard cursed, slipped on a pair of disposable gloves, and ambled over.

  ‘You’re nothing but trouble, one-one-four-three.’

  The doctor stitched him up in the sickbay, but before Ben was taken back to the pit, he asked the nurse to pass on a message to Ngata.

  He didn’t hear anything more for five days. Then on the sixth, the day he got back to East Block, the call came through.

  Beyond

  Nothing but trouble! That is true. I slip between your thoughts and find little to redeem you, boy, though I continue to search for a glimmer of light to lessen my load. You do not heed the call for utu, for a way to make right your wrong. It is not revenge or retribution your victim calls for, but more a measure of acknowledgement and reciprocation. An act, which could send ripples far further than you.

  But you are not alone in your waywardness. Each day the wind bring
s news of another and another and another. I see an entire orphanage of the dispossessed, the youth who have lost their way. How did it come to this?

  Again I come back to the story I was telling. Do you remember I spoke about Te Tiriti o Waitangi? The pact between two peoples. As a consequence of this important document, the English expected sovereignty in the purchase and governance of land. The Māori’s expectation was of consultation and co-management instead.

  Language can be a beautiful thing, Benjamin. Words carry the weight of meaning, directness of intention, the peculiarity of culture. Words define reality, and therein lies their power. But also their weakness! A poor translation is about loss – loss of meaning and intent. The poor translation of The Treaty of Waitangi heralded the loss of a whole people, in fact.

  Differing expectations begat cycles of hostility, war, defeat, and confiscation; hostility, war, defeat, and confiscation. Of course, the musket was master, and so your ancestors soon found themselves stripped of most of their territories.

  Do you know that when the British advanced on the peaceful Parihaka community situated in Mt Taranaki’s embrace, children ran out to greet the soldiers with song and dance and gifts of food. Yet still the people were driven from their homes, their prophets imprisoned and their cultural kite squashed and trampled on.

  The word Waitangi means ‘the waters of lamentation’.3 The irony of what lay ahead was perhaps not lost on nature.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  CARLA

  Carla had arranged to meet Lorraine from Victim Support in the Visitors’ car park at Mount Eden jail. Though they were both coming from the North Shore, Carla wanted to drive herself; it obviated thirty minutes of courteous conversation.

  Lorraine was very caring, her big bosom and deep voice comforting, her common sense sobering, but Carla had had enough kindness and sympathy to last a lifetime. She’d had her fill of being monitored and supported, observed and assisted. Her suicide bid hadn’t helped either, the incident now escorting her wherever she went as if written in bold across her forehead: I am a risk to myself. Watch me.