This Too Shall Pass

by S. J. Finn

  Earlier that morning Teresa had presented me with a list of twenty-five file numbers I was to track down.

  ‘Some of them are still open cases. If they’re not in there,’ she pointed to the file room, ‘they’ll be in people’s offices.’

  In the file room, tall, thick moveable shelving either rattled stubbornly along its tracks or refused to move unless a large amount of grunt and chutzpah was employed – in which case the shelving could be dangerous, as, after a strong push from the right position, it could be sent rushing along its tracks with the lethal force of a runaway carriage. I found Elliot between two of the mighty racks. He had donned a bow tie for the occasion, and was dressed in white trousers as if he’d stepped out of The Great Gatsby or a tea party from Brideshead Revisited.

  ‘Have you seen them?’ I asked, leaning against a steel shelf, talking to him as his fingers ran across the coloured numbers marking the files.

  ‘Met with them first up. Five suits with various titles and decorative letters behind their names. Me, Anton, Eddy and Albert. Went through a few things with them.’

  I was immediately stung, but, fortunately, had the realisation that being insulted was a futile exercise. I managed a wry smile.

  ‘All the boys. Very representative.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Elliot turned, nodding in a concerned manner. ‘Pity Anton didn’t organise it a little better.’

  ‘Great pity.’ Umbrage poked into my words, and then, a moment later, regret. I didn’t want my feelings to show, not over this. ‘Random files,’ I mused, immediately. ‘Are you happy with the ones they’ve chosen?’

  ‘Andrea Menzies, four of hers have been requested.’ (Andrea was a well-groomed speech therapist whose abilities in elocution were second only to the Queen.) ‘Very lucky for us. Means Pamela Ryan’s only had one picked.’

  ‘Hers aren’t good?’

  ‘Barely in existence. Hasn’t even got an excuse.’

  ‘Would that make a difference?’

  ‘Not to the establishment, but to me.’

  I began to run through my list of case files, looking for the ones stored in the shelves Elliot had open. Two of them were amongst this bunch and I began to pull them out.

  ‘That’s it for me,’ he said, wrestling with the stack in his arms, pushing at them to behave. ‘Gotta hunt down the rest, go on a jaunt.’

  There was something so earnest about Elliot. He was so zealous and passionate in a boyish way. But did he miss the point? Were his efforts so important he forgot what the issues of his protests actually were? It wasn’t obvious at first. He was impressive. But after a while a certain solipsism emerged like a veneer adhered over the top of him. In the year and a half that I’d been working with him, I’d had one decent conversation with him that I thought might reveal the real man. He was telling me about his past, a torrid story of two boys being bullied by an overbearing father in New Zealand where he’d been brought up. But even this was so sewn up by him (and perhaps it was the product of years of therapy) that he appeared to wear the story like a badge of honour. It was the way he had told it, with such a sense of purpose and vigour that the emotion seemed stamped on him rather than settled within. We were in an office car at the time and the cabin suddenly seemed small and claustrophobic. I remember having not been able to respond with the usual things people say to such a sad, disturbing story: That’s a hard thing to grow up with, or, Shows great strength that you’ve been able to get on with things. There was nothing. I remember feeling bowled over rather than learning anything in particu lar about Elliot himself.

  I put my back behind one set of shelves and shunted the huge contraption south. When I left fifteen minutes later, I had nineteen of the twenty-five files I had to collect in my arms. Two of them were mine, and a third would be included when I’d gathered it from my room.

  I know I wasn’t meant to but I checked them behind my closed door. The team had done, for the most part, what was asked of them. All the new forms for assessment had been filed, everything – at a glance, at least – seemed in order. Only Nigel Pathmanathan’s writing remained illegible but that was a bit of poetic justice. Let them sort out with him any discipline required and, besides, part of me knew it wouldn’t happen, that he wouldn’t get in trouble for something that almost made a doctor a doctor: bad handwriting.

  I smiled to myself. It was up to the universe anyway. The decision was already part of the present.

  TWENTY-NINE

  By the time I realised that even the idea of travelling to the country on regular trips to see Marcus made Renny gag and feel breathless, it was already too late to make changes to help the situation. I found her sitting on the edge of our bed, red-eyed and with tears that wouldn’t stop coming.

  ‘I can’t come with you,’ she was saying. ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t face it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I couldn’t put the thing straight in my head.

  ‘I can’t get in the car,’ she blubbered.

  Standing next to her, I let her head fall against my stomach, my arms around her shoulders comforting her the best I could, as fear rose in me like a well filling. What choice did I have but to go on my own?

  The trips to the country weren’t the only thing driving difficulties home. There was, in the smallest of variations to my language, an ever-present danger of showing that my loyalties were divided and that, from Renny’s point of view, I wasn’t considering her in my arrangements. I tried to sort through things, to decide where fairness lay and, although I’m prepared to say I could have been mistaken, I never doubted that Renny and I agreed that a child had to come first. Still, the experience of netting Renny’s accusations – and over the last two years there had been plenty – that I didn’t care about her, was like being in a huge, shallow, muddy-bottomed lake. One could walk around for months, years in fact, without finding its shoreline, neither getting closer to danger nor safety; it felt like I was wandering endlessly in uncomfortable, non-productive, murky circumstances.

  Several things were perpetually drumming at my mind, conspiring to keep me at bay. How long could I maintain the trips to see Marcus? Was I establishing a life in Melbourne?

  As for Renny and I, battles rose and fell. On the way up they were full of offensive verbal manoeuvres in an attempt to claim a position, some sort of righteous and noble high ground. On the way down they were full of sad realities that weren’t going to go away. We thought about splitting up over and over again.

  A woman I had worked with before I’d come to Marlowe Downs told me once that good relationships are about individuals being able to pursue independent lives. I held onto this notion like I might an air mattress in Bass Strait. Eventually, Renny said, ‘Why do you keep saying that? I could just as easily say the opposite and it would be just as true.’

  My mind, never wanting to accept even the suggestion that our relationship might be in trouble, tentatively asked her to clarify this.

  ‘I think relationships are about what people do together more than what they do apart, or what they achieve.’

  (Renny had often accused me of being a high achiever at the cost of everything else, which hurt because, and I’d never told Renny this, Dave had accused me of exactly the same thing.)

  As our arguments increased in velocity I began to think that our situation was never going to improve, that the baggage I carried could fill a cargo ship and the prospects I offered would only bring burden. Worst of all, I began to feel I was unable to change it. I went on defending myself despite knowing there was no defence – at least not in Renny’s eyes. At other times I was contrite and begged for one last chance to prove I was committed.

  Even more disturbingly, my communications with her, Dave and Marcus began to alter depending on whom I was speaking to and what the implication of the subject matter was. It became a nightmare of complexity that often put me in a state of confusion, not to mention weariness. I couldn’t think clearly about anything and felt I was disappearing into a co
mpendium of other people’s needs. Sometimes I was so weak from the bitterness of the fights I wondered if I should be getting behind the wheel of a car for the long trip at all. But tenacity, it seems, played its part and, when it came to the crunch, when it was important to keep proceeding, I did, as did Renny. Coming into a relationship when there are demands from outside means unforseen stress. Better people may handle them in calmer ways but I don’t believe they can avoid them. To Renny’s credit she never gave up. And I had joined the long line of grown-ups who know that baggage means compromise in ways that compromise may never have been talked of before.

  THIRTY

  There was one thing that did go well for Dave and me amidst messy interactions and unsuccessful attempts to uphold the sense of respect we once had for one another. This was in the area of finance. It was like breaking bread.

  A year or so after we split up – a year or so before Renny stopped coming to the country with me – Dave and I met outside the large disused warehouse that Marcus’s gym troop were using to rehearse in at the time. While the kids cartwheeled, somersaulted, juggled and did tricks on unicycles, we huddled under a small eave outside in the dark. It was raining. Large daubs penetrated past our clothing and hair, perhaps enabling us to keep it short.

  We had amassed two houses during the time we’d been together. That was easy enough: one each. But there was the matter of Dave having owned a block of land when we’d met (the money from the sale of it went into the properties) and one of the houses, the one I was to get, was worth a little more than the other.

  ‘I’m willing to offer you the difference between the house prices,’ I said, my shoulders hunched as if this would guard against the rain, the blustery weather.

  ‘I just feel… well, there’s the block I had initially. It doesn’t take into consideration that contribution.’

  Maybe it was the weather or maybe I was just relieved to be sorting it out. I took a second, was looking onto the splashes of shine the streetlights threw on the wet road.

  ‘Are you willing to take what you paid for it at the time?’ I asked, circumspectly.

  ‘That would make me feel better.’

  I looked at him, almost wanting to take the offer back. This wasn’t about him feeling better or me trying to make up for what I’d done. But I had been through the whole thing in my mind: I was determined not to have lawyers involved, the legal system nightmare; the Kramer verses Kramer epoch was, I’d been so sure, not going to touch me.

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘I think that would be fair.’

  ‘I’m going to go now, Dave.’ (I always seemed to be warning him of this. Repeatedly separating, over and over again.)

  ‘You’ll come back for Marcus.’

  ‘Seven-thirty, right.’ I had already stepped away from the building. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  In my car I felt happy. I’d bought myself a moment of peaceful negotiation, avoided hours of potentially unhappy bickering. I still don’t feel bad about the deal. Who knows if it was completely fair? But this was the finest hour. We had managed to divide our assets without even so much as a stiff word.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Acouple, I think, often comprises of the waited-for and the waiting-for, or the waitee. In my relationship with Dave I was the waitee. Dave ran his own business as a builder and the long hours he spent away from home only seemed punctuated by the long telephone calls he made and took at night. The always-accommodating Dave. He would chat about the job as much as his clients wanted and people spending money love to engage the people they’re giving it to for as long as they possibly can.

  Being the waitee was most agonising in the first year of Marcus’s life. Twelve-hour days turned into fourteen-hour days when the telephone consultations were included. Dave tried to make it up to me in other ways – bringing home treats, nourishment that required little cooking – everything other than actually getting off the phone or working less. I was the waitee.

  In my relationship with Renny, although I didn’t realise it at first, she took up the mantle and became the one who was always waiting. It didn’t sit well with her either. If she wasn’t waiting for Marcus to arrive or for me to collect him, she was waiting for me to arrive home from work. Marlowe Downs added hours onto a schedule already bulging with commitment. When I rang Renny one afternoon to let her know I would be late because a lecture I was giving to students had been re-scheduled, it was the last bean to tip the basket.

  ‘So what time will it be? Seven, eight, fucking midnight?’

  ‘I’m only expecting it to go over for half an hour. Six-thirty I’ll be home.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. And I’m not waiting. I’m going out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Will you take your phone?’ Renny was notorious for not having her mobile phone with her.

  ‘No.’ She was also very good at being very clear. ‘I’ll leave you a note. You can come and find me if you want.’

  I had to be happy with this. The realisation was looming, and the memory of how I’d felt as the recipient of the wait resonated in me. The odd thing about it, though, and this was something I hadn’t realised when I was the waitee, was that mostly this situation is out of the control of the waited-for. It’s a matter of circumstance. I was trapped. Stuck between work, play and responsibility. Where was free choice? When did life have a moment’s give? My head fell on my desk. Tears pooled and my mind heated like a potato in its jacket. I couldn’t afford to get upset. Twenty eager students who, not half an hour ago, had looked at me as if they were journalists about to be delivered a real story, didn’t want me going back on my word. They wanted real-life mayhem and sorrow dished up; they were here to observe live clinical work behind oneway mirrors. Two therapists had cancelled the morning presentation because their clients had decided against it – it is hard for clients to present themselves in front of hungry problem-wanting trainees. I was their only hope.

  I had two adolescents – long-term clients – lined up. When one of them had rung me that morning saying she was going to be running half an hour late, I’d given the students the choice to stay late, otherwise I could cancel the session. They all nodded earnestly that they desperately wanted to stay, so I’d rung Alice back and confirmed the session for 4.30 p.m.

  Celia Dawes was at my door. ‘Monty, I need your help.’

  There were never any hellos or small talk from Celia, she was all about business. She did, however, have a heart, and noticed straight away that I’d been crying.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she inquired, genuinely concerned.

  ‘Just time squeezing me like I’m a love heart.’

  ‘You are a love heart,’ she said in her brisk tone.

  I tilted my head, not quite able to accept the compliment.

  ‘Perhaps I should come back?’

  ‘No, really. I can cry about one thing, think about another.’

  ‘I wondered if you would see the brother of one of my clients? He’s got learning difficulties, isn’t socialising at school. We can organise for them to come together. Once a fortnight.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Is he living in my team’s catchment?’ (Celia wasn’t in my team and our clients were designated to one or the other team by postcode.)

  ‘Yes. At least now he is. One reason I’m asking. The boys were living in mine when I took the case.’

  ‘Would have said yes anyway.’ I smiled weakly.

  I wouldn’t have turned down an opportunity to work with Celia and because we were in different teams it was a rarity.

  ‘Oh,’ she had begun to leave but turned back around, her impetuous rapid movements making the moment pressed and a little awkward, as usual. ‘You’re going to have to mark out your diary. This place will suck the fat out of you otherwise.’ Her suggestion fired like a barrage of tiny bullets. ‘In regard to your past life, Renny will come round in time.’

  I looked at her, a beleaguered expr
ession on my face because of the shock of thinking she had said something that was both prophetic and utterly confusing. I nodded. ‘Thanks,’ I said, weariness laced in my tone.

  An hour later, still feeling like a dead sea was sloshing around inside my stomach, I went to the afternoon sessions with the students. They sat in a big semi-circle. I wheeled a whiteboard in front of them and, with limbs as heavy as steel cranes, I drew what we referred to as a "genogram" – a basic family map - pertaining to my client. Patty was a young woman of Chinese descent. She’d lived in Australia since she was six months old, was a bright but cynical student - I had learnt that the two can easily go hand in hand - attending a Catholic college that was enforcing the rule that all pupils had to participate in sports. The problem was that Patty didn’t want to play sport at all. Her individual style and her determination to stick up for what she wanted set her apart from the other students. Some teachers feared she would commit suicide and indeed, there was a lot of existential rhetoric in Patty’s head that would have led most people to believe it, rhetoric that depicted a young woman isolated from the great Australian supposition that everybody should be happy in this lucky country.

  When I went to get Patty from the foyer, she immediately said to me, ‘Are you alright? You look terrible. Nothing’s wrong is it?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I assured her. ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘No, why would I be nervous? Bunch of blowflies would bother me more.’

  Patty was beyond her years. She also, at least from outside appearances, had an indestructible ego, both dangerous and self-preserving. When she wasn’t wearing me out, she was entertaining me. I was, however, rattled that she’d picked up on the fact I’d been crying, and I made an effort to buck up.

  The students were full of comment and conclusion when Patty left. We discussed the therapy they’d observed, the trajectory and journey Patty was on. Their faces, eager to begin with, were now on fire at the possibilities and power they thought was going to be theirs if they were ever lucky enough – they cautioned themselves – to end up working at a place like Marlowe Downs. Was I perpetuating the ivory tower concept?