by Karen West
‘Your worry wrinkle gives you away,’ she said.
I moved her hand away from my face. ‘You’re worse than Dad.’
Willow handed me a board with colour samples. ‘I thought something like this, but Grant thinks it’s like, too much. He was thinking bland, but that won’t get teens’ attention.’
‘I agree, keep it bold.’ I reached for her paintbrush and dabbed it into the purple that Willow had mixed on her palette, making it bolder, and held it up to show her. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s perfect,’ she said, taking the brush.
The activity around me was making me dizzy.
‘Hey, Steph, let’s take a walk, get some fresh air,’ Libby suggested.
We were halfway along the beach when Aunt Cass came striding towards us. I knew something was wrong. We ran to meet her. ‘It’s Mum, isn’t it?’
‘Steph, your father decided to call the ambulance. I think you should come,’ she said, putting out her hand to take mine, and I saw that hers was shaking.
‘You go back to the others,’ I told Libby.
I arrived at the house to find a paramedic working on Mum. ‘Dad?’
‘They’re taking your mum straight to St Vincent’s.’ His voice was flat. ‘Doctor Wong has put in an urgent request for a heart.’
‘And what if there isn’t one? What then?’
‘We have to pray that there is.’
Aunt Cass took long strides as she gripped my hand, pulling me along. ‘Stop,’ I called, catching my breath.
‘Do you want to sit?’ she asked, her eyes searching for a seat in the hospital foyer. Janice arrived, and I hurried over to meet her.
Unlike the first time she met us in the foyer, I wasn’t as certain that she was there to tell us that they had found a donor. I waited for Aunt Cass to catch up. Her eyes locked on Janice.
‘Where’s Glenn?’ asked Aunt Cass, and I heard the panic in her voice.
‘Please, come,’ said Janice, ‘and I’ll explain.’
‘Explain? Explain what?’ I asked, as Aunt Cass bustled me along.
We arrived at Janice’s office to find Dad sitting on the lounge with his face in his hands. When Dad released his face, I saw that his eyes were red from crying. I turned to Aunt Cass to see that she was struggling to keep it together. Dad reached out and took my hand.
‘Dad?’
‘Steph, I’m sorry,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Sorry?’ I said, pulling away. ‘Why?’
‘Your mother’s heart stopped twice in the ambulance. The first time the paramedic stabilised her, the second time your mother was gone for twenty minutes.’
‘Gone? But she’s okay now, right?’
‘Your mother is in a coma.’
‘Coma?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘But a heart could come tonight?’ I croaked, willing my legs to stop aching, and turned to Janice.
Janice shook her head. ‘No, Steph, I’m sorry.’
‘Listen, please,’ begged Dad, ‘it’s too late.’
I released my venom on Janice. ‘This shouldn’t have happened! Why didn’t my mum get a second chance?’
‘Stop, Stephanie,’ ordered Dad. ‘It’s not Janice’s fault, people die.’
The air left my body. ‘Die,’ I whispered.
‘Glenn,’ said Janice, making her way to the door, ‘stay, take as long as you need.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dad.
It was suffocating to accept that my mum was in a coma.
‘Dad, I want to see Mum.’
I didn’t want to believe that my mum wouldn’t wake up, but the whooshing sound of the life support pushing air into her lungs, the paleness of her skin and the coldness of her hand confirmed that she wasn’t coming back. I reached beyond the tubes and lines attached to her body and hugged her one last time.
When Dad knocked on Dr Wong’s door, I froze. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop my body from shaking. ‘I can’t go in, Dad,’ I said, and turned to Aunt Cass.
‘You don’t have to agree to donate your mother’s organs,’ she said.
Mum’s heart and lungs weren’t in good shape, but her other organs were young and healthy. ‘I know,’ I said, exhausted, ‘but I also know that this is what my mum wanted.’
Richard was leaning up against our front door when we arrived home.
‘Mr Conner,’ said Richard. Dad patted Richard’s shoulder, opened the door and kept on walking.
Aunt Cass reached out and held Richard. ‘Steph’s exhausted,’ she said, releasing him. ‘Try not to be too long.’
‘Steph, I just came to say that I’m sorry, we all are.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, avoiding eye contact.
‘Do you want to talk?’
‘I need to be …’ I gestured down the corridor to Dad and Aunt Cass.
‘Yeah, of course. I just wanted to see you.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘I’ll call you later.’
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
I sat up in bed with one of Mum’s many photo albums on my lap, and heard movement outside my door. ‘I’m awake,’ I called.
Dad walked in and sat on my bed. I handed him the album and waited for him to open it. We gazed at a photograph of Mum when she was pregnant with me. ‘It was taken a week before you were born,’ he said, touching it as if he wanted to be closer to her. ‘She insisted that I take her for a picnic at Box Head. We had to track a kilometre through the bush to get to the headland. I thought that she was going to go into labour.’
‘Good thing you’re a vet,’ I said, and managed a smile.
Dad placed the album back on my lap. ‘Steph, you can’t stay in your room forever. Would you like me to arrange an appointment with Dr Ferguson?’
‘There’s no need,’ I said, tying my hair in a knot. ‘I know what’s wrong with me. I’m not up to facing anyone yet. I just need a bit more time.’
‘You’ve been cooped up in here since the funeral, and that was over a week ago. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted this. If you don’t want to go back to school, I get it, but the sooner you accept that life must go on, the easier it’ll be. Maybe come to the zoo and spend some time with me.’
‘Dad, I miss Mum so much it hurts.’
‘I do too, but I need you. We need each other.’
Chapter Twenty
AS I WEAVED my way through the art room collecting half tubes of discarded paint, I felt Mr Leppington’s eyes on me. I stopped at Willow’s easel. She glanced into the box and struggled not to laugh. ‘You’re a bowerbird,’ she said, helping me carry it to the table. ‘I’m so glad you’re back. It’s been lonely without you.’
‘No talking,’ ordered Mr Leppington, and Willow giggled. ‘He’s a shocker,’ she whispered, shaking her head. ‘Are you sure you’re up to being back?’
‘Yeah, I am. Besides, Dad and I need a break away from each other.’
‘We’re all meeting in the library at lunch. Mr Ace is testing the website before it goes live.’
I took a breath. ‘It’s sad that Mum isn’t here to see it.’
‘I know, Steph.’
The bell sounded and we bolted. ‘Don’t run,’ called Mr Leppington, standing at the classroom door, his voice bouncing off the walls.
A group had gathered in the library. Libby was gnawing at her nail. I reached out, moving her hand away. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Mr Ace and Richard mentioned bugs, whatever that means. Do you have a dress for the opening of the art competition Saturday night?’’
‘I’m wearing the dress that I bought with Mum for my sixteenth.’
‘Your mum would like that, Steph.’
‘Yeah.’
Libby went back to the computer.
‘Hey Willow, can you do me a favour?’ I asked, then wished that I hadn’t spoken.
‘Sure, shoot.’
‘Before we take the painting to the gallery tomorrow, would you mind coming over tonight? Just you.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
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Richard left the computer, came over and stood behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. ‘Is the art competition stressing you out?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, it is,’ and I wasn’t lying.
‘You’re brave, Steph.’
I turned my head. ‘I’m far from brave.’
I paced the attic waiting for Willow. ‘Steph,’ called Aunt Cass, ‘can I come in?’
‘No, not now. I’m doing something on my painting,’ I lied.
‘That’s okay. Your dad sent me up to ask if you wanted risotto or sausages?’
‘A toasted sandwich would be nice.’
I re-read the entry form. The painting submitted at the time of entry can change, but must keep the same theme.
Willow walked in. ‘What’s with your aunt?’ she asked, closing the door behind her.
‘I didn’t want her to see the painting.’
Willows eyes filled with curiosity. ‘But isn’t your aunt supportive of your art?’
‘Yes, she is,’ I agreed, and I walked over to the easel. ‘When Mum was waiting for a heart, I was angry.’
‘I get that,’ said Willow. ‘I would be too.’
‘The problem is,’ I said, taking off the sheet, ‘this is what I submitted.’ Willow’s eyes widened. ‘Now Mum’s gone, I’m afraid I’ll hurt Dad and Aunt Cass. I can change the painting, but not the theme.’
Willow moved towards the abstract portrait that I had painted of my mother, using Ms Benetti’s colour scheme of black, white, yellow and red. She gently reached out and touched the thick spaghetti strands of auburn fringe and tilted her head, as if studying my mother’s enlarged black pupils, with eyes the colour of ochre. The tips of Willow’s fingers traced a stream of glassy tears that flowed over sunken cheeks of grey, pooling between darkened lips. I watched Willow’s breathing change as she explored the rawness of the flesh within the hollow of Mum’s core, where slender ribs reached out like human fingers. ‘Shit, Steph. What’s the title?’
‘My Mother’s Journey,’ I said, wiping away the tears.
‘Your blurb?’
‘It’s short.’
‘Short’s good. Mine’s a hundred words of fluff.’
I swallowed the lump building in my throat. ‘A mother waiting for a second chance.’
Willow covered her mouth with her hand.
‘Maybe I just pull out?’
‘No way.’
‘What was your theme?’
‘Organ donation.’
‘Don’t touch a thing, it’s perfect just like it is. What happened to your mum was real. Keep it honest.’
‘You’re so right. Mum would want me to be honest.’
‘Do you want me to stay?’
‘No, I’m okay,’ I said, reaching out and hugging her.
The door closed, and just then my phone rang.
‘Hi, Richard.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m good.’
‘I’ve got some news. The Education Department gave us permission to add a website link to school sites in NSW. There’s a chance that we can link to schools nationally. My mum said that she heard parents discussing the Living Voice site in the canteen. Two teens have already joined from other schools, which makes ninety-eight registrations in total.’
‘Already?’
‘I know. I think the site is going to be a success.’
‘So do I.’
We stood at the door of the gallery with my acceptance letter to show on entry. Aunt Cass was fussing around me. ‘What’s the gallery owner’s name?’ she asked for the third time as she did up the buttons on my jacket.
‘Louis Beaufort,’ I said, undoing them.
‘Do you know where they’ve hung your painting?’
‘No, I don’t. You’re making me nervous. Can you please relax?’
The lady at the door handed us a catalogue that went from one to one hundred and twenty. I ran my finger down the page. I’m in row C,’ I told Aunt Cass as she read the catalogue over my shoulder.
‘Yours says Not for sale. I thought you wanted to make money from your art?’
‘Yeah, I do, but not on this painting.’
I glanced back as Richard, Kevin, Willow, Grant and Greg joined the line.
Richard broke away and came over. He hooked his arm around my waist and kissed me. ‘Are you nervous?’ he asked.
‘You have no idea how nervous I am. Where’s Libby?’ I asked, gazing beyond him.
‘She’s outside, waiting for Jake.’
‘Richard, I just need some time with my dad and Aunt Cass – do you mind?’
‘Sure.’
‘Row C,’ said Aunt Cass, pointing, and my heart started to race. I hoped that they would see past the anger to the love that was behind each stroke.
Dad’s jaw tightened as he gazed up at the painting. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted away his tears. ‘Steph, your mother would have been proud of you. It’s …it’s …’ he said, and he stopped.
‘Powerful,’ said Aunt Cass. ‘That’s what it is, Steph. It’s powerful, honest and heartbreaking.’ She pointed, drawing my attention to a small plaque that had been placed on the right of the painting with the words Highly Commended. ‘Congratulations, sweetheart.’
I walked into my dad’s open arms. ‘It’s not going to be easy moving forward without your mother, Steph, but I think together we can do this.’
‘Baby steps,’ I whispered, and his hold tightened.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to thank: the National Varuna Writer’s House and their passionate staff; Varuna mentor, author Stephen Measday; manuscript assessor Catherine Bateson; Anna Rosner Blay, managing editor and Louis de Vries, publisher; editor Matthew Cooke; David Abouav for his belief in my work and his kindness; friends and proofreaders Larraine Hall, Neil Brennen and Gloria Hankin Milsom; Transplant Australia Sport and Games manager, Julie Edwards; Victor and Hayley West, for their endless encouragement; Geoffrey Glover and Bo Cooke, for their valuable office space when needed; my son, Adam West, for suggesting the title of the novel, and my faithful office companions, our dogs, Madison and Willow, who forfeited countless walks during the writing of the novel.
You are invited to visit: www.livingvoice.com.au
A project of the design students of TAFE NSW Western Sydney, Australia.
