Living Voice

by Karen West

‘Is your father angry often?’

  ‘Lately, he is. Which one called you, my dad or my mum?’ I asked.

  ‘Your mother.’

  I scratched my arm. ‘Ants live under my skin,’ I said, and waited for a response, but there wasn’t one.

  ‘Are your friends supportive?’

  ‘I’m amazed that they don’t give up on me.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I used to be fun, and now I’m not.’

  ‘Did they say that?’

  ‘No, not in words, but who wants to be around a crazy person?’

  ‘What makes you think that you’re out of your mind?’

  ‘I have nightmares.’

  ‘So, you’re sleeping?’

  ‘Enough to have nightmares.’

  ‘The nightmares, are they recurring, or do they change?’

  ‘Are you a nightmare specialist as well as a shrink?’

  ‘Neither – I’m a psychologist. Didn’t your parents tell you?’

  ‘What’s the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist?’

  ‘I don’t write prescriptions.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Maybe I need drugs to stop my brain from thinking.’

  Dr Ferguson started writing. ‘Let me be the judge of that.’

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘We could start with a nightmare,’ he said, and kept writing.

  I closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the chair. ‘Aunt Cass and I are boarding a barge with strangers. They’re all carrying small blue Eskies. A wave comes, and everyone is thrown high into the air, arms and legs flopping around like rag dolls, and then darkness comes.’ My throat starts to ache. I stop to take a breath. ‘Aunt Cass is crying and shouting. “Can you see her? Can anyone see her?” I’m in the water surrounded by body parts. It’s the pain on Aunt Cass’s face that makes me wake up screaming.’

  When I opened my eyes, Dr Ferguson’s pen was moving swiftly across the page. I glanced at my hands gripping the ends of the arms of the chair. I released my hold, and my hands ached.

  ‘So, Dr Ferguson, am I crazy?’

  ‘No, Stephanie, you’re far from crazy. Why do you think that you keep having nightmares?’

  I moved forward in the chair and stared coldly into his eyes, knowing that my anger had taken on a life of its own. ‘Because my mother is dying, Dr Ferguson, and they gave her freaking donor heart to another person, and my mum might not get another chance.’

  ‘But what if your mother does get another chance? What if you’ve put yourself through all this pain, anger and doubt, and the ending is happily ever after?’

  My jaw locked. I sat back in the chair, nodding, and released the air in the lower lobe of my lungs. ‘Heads or tails?’ I asked, pretending to flick a coin. ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘Meaning?’ said Dr Ferguson.

  ‘If there’s doubt, I can’t help but worry. It’s life or death. It’s not as simple as the flick of a coin.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE SWEET AROMA of cake met me at the door, leading me into the kitchen. I found Mum sitting up at the bench, watching Libby smother cupcakes with creamy strawberry icing, before handing them to Mum to add a cluster of silver balls in the centre. A loud noise drew my attention to the pantry.

  Willow walked out, covered in flour. ‘I’m cleaning up Libby’s mess,’ she complained.

  ‘And you’re doing an excellent job,’ said Libby, placing a cupcake on a plate, sliding it across the bench in Willow’s direction.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ I asked, and kissed Mum’s cheek.

  ‘We’re celebrating,’ squealed Libby excited.

  ‘And what are we celebrating?’ I quizzed, opening the fridge door and taking out a bottle of milk.

  ‘The Beaufort Gallery competition is huge,’ said Willow. ‘Dad looked them up on Google last night; they have a gallery in Paris, near the Louvre.’

  Libby’s body melted into the stool beside her. ‘How awesome would that be?’ she added, and rolled her eyes. ‘I’d give anything, including my iPhone, to go to Paris. My mum said that the department stores are stupendous. Last year, she spent a mega fortune at this one called Galeries Lafayette.’

  ‘You’re so bourgeois, Lib,’ said Willow, ‘you can’t go to the toilet without your iPhone.’

  ‘Or the shower,’ I added.

  Libby flashed her eyelashes at us. ‘I would for Paris. We could all go, the three of us. After Year Twelve, we could take a gap year.’ She turned to Mum for approval.

  Mum smiled, but held back from adding to her plan.

  Confusion clouded Willow’s face. ‘Where’s the music coming from?’ she asked, and it registered that it was Mum’s By the Seaside ringtone.

  ‘Shit, Mum,’ I screamed, ‘where’s your phone? Answer it.’ Mum reached for her handbag, fumbling through her stuff.

  I freaked and snatched the bag from her, tipped everything out and grabbed her phone, answering it for her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is this Mrs Kim Conner?’ asked a man on the other end with a slight Indian accent.

  I hit the speaker button. ‘This is Stephanie Conner, her daughter. Mum’s here. We’re on speaker.’

  ‘My name is Imran. I’m from Vodafone. We are calling to offer an upgrade.’

  Every muscle in my body tightened. ‘No, we don’t want an upgrade,’ I screamed, into the phone. ‘Don’t ever call this number again.’ When I hung up, my hand was shaking uncontrollably.

  The kitchen door opened. As Dad walked in, his eyes locked on the cupcakes. ‘They smell amazing,’ he said, licking his lips.

  ‘Dad,’ I managed to get out, holding up Mum’s phone.

  ‘They’ve called?’ he said, turning to Mum. ‘Do they want you to come now? What did they say?’

  ‘Ummm, no,’ I went on to explain. ‘It wasn’t the hospital, it was the phone company asking if Mum wanted to upgrade.’

  Dad’s jaw locked, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared with anger.

  ‘They’re just doing their job,’ Mum told Dad.

  ‘If you wanted an upgrade, you’d ask for one,’ he said, and paused, taking short breaths like a fish gulping for air. ‘Tomorrow I’ll get you a pager, and you can throw that in the bin.’

  ‘Stop it,’ ordered Mum, fighting back tears, and Dad’s face softened.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Kim,’ he said, holding out his hand, I’m just –’

  ‘Pissed off,’ I spat.

  Dad’s eyes flashed on mine. ‘Enough,’ he scolded, helping Mum from the stool, and leading her by the hand he took her into the lounge room.

  ‘Steph, I couldn’t handle waiting for a call like that,’ said Willow. ‘It’s cruel. How do you keep it together?’

  ‘I’m a long way from holding it together,’ I said, letting out a bitter laugh. ‘I’m a bitch most of the time, not the nicest person to be around. I don’t get why you don’t give up on me.’

  ‘You’re not a bitch,’ said Libby. ‘We get it – it’s not your fault, it’s not fair.’

  ‘Thanks for coming over, it was kind, and Mum liked it too, but it might be best if you go, I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Willow, wrapping her arm around me. ‘Call if you want to talk.’

  The moment the front door closed, Dad called me into the lounge room. Mum was sitting with a clump of tissues in her hand. Her eyes were red. She’d been crying. I sat beside her.

  ‘Dr Ferguson called me at work today,’ said Dad, moving on. ‘Thank you for giving him permission to speak with us. Did you like him?’

  I shrugged. ‘It wasn’t a big deal. Dr Ferguson asked lots of questions, I answered, and he listened.’

  ‘Did you find him easy to speak with?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. It was okay, I’ll go back. But I don’t want my friends to find out, especially Richard. I don’t want him thinking that I’m wacko in the head.’

  Mum gave me a pathetic grin. ‘You’re not wa
cko, Steph.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Dad moved forward and clasped his hands. ‘Over the past week, your mother and I have been discussing a holiday. We thought, getting away for a while would do us a world of good. A break away from work for me, and time for us to spend as a family.’

  I frowned. ‘Where would we go? What if the hospital called Mum in again? We can’t go away.’

  ‘We’ve spoken with Aunt Cass. Palmy is doable. It’s not that far from St Vincent’s. I also talked to Dr Wong, and he doesn’t see a problem. You can still see your friends. They can come weekends. And I’ll only go to work if it’s an emergency.’

  ‘Dad, there’s always an emergency!’

  ‘I mean a real emergency.’

  ‘And let’s say that there is a real emergency, what happens?’

  ‘Aunt Cass can handle it,’ said Dad. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Can I give it some thought?’ A cloud of disappointment swept over Mum’s face. I exhaled. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow, after work,’ said Dad. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘So quick?’

  ‘If we’re all in favour of having a holiday, why put it off?’

  It made sense. ‘Cool.’

  ‘Pak Boon is ready to deliver her calf,’ said Dad, so we’re separating her from the other female elephants tomorrow. Do you want to come and see her before we leave?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ll see.’

  I heard my phone ringing and ran to answer it. ‘Hi, Richard, did Libby –?’

  ‘Can you meet me for coffee?’ he said, cutting in. His voice was serious.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He didn’t reply. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here. Can you meet me at the Blue Door Café, say, in twenty minutes?’

  My forehead tightened. ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now.’

  ‘All right, but I can’t stay long. I have to pack.’

  ‘Pack? Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ll explain when I see you.’

  The phone went dead.

  I went back to the lounge room and found Mum snuggled up in Dad’s arms, her back to his chest. ‘I’m slipping out for a while. I won’t be long.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Mum, her voice sleepy.

  The Blue Door café was a short distance from Dr Ferguson’s office. I stood in the chill of the afternoon wind cutting through my woollen coat. I pulled my hat over my ears to meet my scarf.

  Richard walked towards me with his shoulders hunched, the collar of his coat pulled high around his neck, hands hidden away in his pockets.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, waiting for him to stop and kiss me, but he didn’t. He dropped his head and made his way to the back of the café, stopping at an empty booth, leaving me guessing what was behind his attitude. I thought of leaving, but a rush of curiosity convinced me to stay, so I followed.

  Richard slid across the bench, sitting with his right leg stretched out facing the aisle, his back resting against the wall. I took the seat opposite, swept off my hat, sunk my teeth into the tips of the fingers of my gloves, pulling them off, and placed them in a neat pile in the middle of the table, building a wall between us.

  A waiter walked over. ‘Kitchen’s closed. I can do drinks and cakes only,’ he said, with his pen impatiently hovering over his pad.

  ‘Coffee, black,’ said Richard, running his fingers through his thick hair, turning his cold gaze to me.

  ‘Coffee, white,’ I added, holding eye contact with Richard.

  ‘Nothing to eat?’ asked the waiter.

  Richard shook his head.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said, and waited to hear the reason behind Richard’s rudeness and his urgency to meet. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ snapped Richard.

  I planted my hands either side of my stuff and stretched out my arms to create distance. ‘Obviously you’re upset with me.’

  Richard pulled his leg back in and faced me. ‘How could you do that?’

  My brain raced as I struggled to recall what I could have done to make him so angry. I hunched over the table. ‘Do what?’

  ‘I know that you visited Katie Marks the day they turned off her life support.’

  His words made my heart race. I sat back. ‘Who told you?’

  Richard leaned across the table. ‘I told you that Paul was a friend of Katie’s brother, Kevin,’ he said. ‘Shit, Steph, Kevin was there.’

  ‘I regret having gone there,’ I blurted out. ‘I know that it was wrong.’

  ‘Wrong! Try grossly insensitive.’

  ‘I just wanted them to know that my mum was waiting for a donor.’

  Richard sat back and crossed his arms, his eyes locked on mine. I hated how he chose to take the higher ground.

  ‘It’s not your job to judge me.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Tell me, Richard,’ I asked, putting on the best curious face I could conjure up, ‘was Michael a donor?’ As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew that I had made a mistake.

  ‘Leave Michael out of this!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, but we all handle stuff differently.’

  ‘I guess you’ve proved that. I’ve been on the other end, Steph, and trust me, it’s just as painful.’

  ‘I can’t take back what happened,’ I snapped, snatching my hat and gloves off the table and sliding across the bench. When I stood, I practically took out the waiter. ‘Arrrgh,’ I cried, and took my frustration out on the footpath, cringing as each step vibrated through my body.

  A couple walked towards me, their arms linked, sharing their warmth and whispers. Maybe if Richard had shared what happened the night Michael died, I wouldn’t have gone to the hospital, or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. I do know that if my mum doesn’t get a second chance, she will die …

  I stopped at our front gate and peered through the window. Dad was standing with his back to the fireplace. I backed away and continued walking.

  Libby walked into my bedroom and made her way towards a pile of dirty clothes that were strewn over my bed. ‘Washing day?’ she asked, grinning.

  ‘Yep,’ I replied, pulling a pair of PJ bottoms out from under my bed. ‘We’re going to stay with Aunt Cass at Palmy for a while.’

  ‘Away? Why?’ I flopped on the floor, and Libby sat beside me. ‘What is it, Steph?’

  I rubbed my forehead. ‘Because everything is stuffed up, because Dad thinks that going away is going to help.’ Libby put her arm around me. ‘Dad said you and Willow can come and stay on the weekends, if you want?’

  ‘Of course, we’ll come … Have you told Richard?’

  My eyebrows creased. ‘What makes you ask?’

  ‘Hey, I’m just asking.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  So, when do you plan on telling him?’

  ‘We’re having a break.’

  ‘Break?’

  ‘Just drop it. And I don’t want you calling him. Promise.’

  ‘Yeah, I promise, but –’

  ‘No, buts, Libby. I’m serious.’

  I walked Libby to the front gate and went in search of Mum. I found her in the bedroom, running the brush through her long hair. I sat on the corner of the bed. Mum stopped brushing and turned around. ‘Steph …?’

  ‘I had a fight with Richard. I’m glad we’re going away.’

  ‘Here,’ said Mum, offering me her chair. When I sat she started brushing my hair, like she did when I was younger. ‘Couples fight and make up.’

  ‘I don’t imagine we’ll be making up. It’s over.’

  ‘Maybe you’re overreacting,’ she said softly.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Do you want to explain what happened? Maybe I can help.’

  I cringed on the inside. ‘No, but thanks,’ I said, reaching out, moving the brush away. I stood and kissed her cheek. ‘I have to keep packing.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  A TEXT CAME through. R
ichard’s name was on the screen. I switched off the phone and went back to packing up my paints.

  ‘Was that Richard, again?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I don’t know why he’s so persistent.’

  ‘Have you read any of his texts?’

  ‘No, and I don’t ever plan on reading them.’

  ‘I told him what happened with your mum,’ Libby confessed.

  I stopped packing. ‘You promised that you wouldn’t discuss the break-up with him.’

  ‘I didn’t discuss that, but I did discuss the phone call from Vodafone. How horrible it was for your mum, how angry your dad was, how cut-up we were when it happened. I also accused Richard of being a prat.’

  ‘A prat? Why?’

  ‘For uploading his grief on you, and not being there for you when you needed him.’

  ‘Crap, Libby,’ I said, slamming my paint box shut.

  ‘I was only trying to help.’

  ‘I don’t need your help. I’m capable of handling my own life.’

  Libby cringed. ‘There’s one more thing that I have to tell you.’

  ‘No! Really?’

  ‘Richard won’t let go. He’s sorry, he wants to help.’

  ‘I don’t want his help,’ I said, reaching into the drawer, scooping out a pile of T-Shirts.

  Libby fell forward, sinking her face into the mattress. ‘He’s driving us all crazy,’ she screamed, and sat back up regaining her composure. ‘I think you should at least read his texts. He’s trying to make it up to you.’

  I was sitting in the back seat of our fully packed Jeep, waiting for Dad, when another text came through from Richard.

  ‘You might feel better if you answer him,’ Mum suggested, sitting with her feet up on the dashboard.

  I scrolled through his list of texts:

  Libby and Willow told me what happened with your mum’s phone. That wouldn’t have been easy.

  Steph, we need to talk.

  Steph, I miss you.

  I’m glad you’re having a break. Please reply.

  I can visit you at Palmy, we can talk.

  Shit, Steph.

  Shit!

  I can help! We can all help. If you just give me a chance, hear me out.

  We stopped at the end of our street, waiting for the lights to turn green. ‘Let’s stop at the second-hand bookshop at Newport Beach,’ Mum suggested.