by Liz Byrski
‘Hi, Bek,’ he said softly, moving the edge of her jacket away from her face. ‘Want to come out for a bit? Sit on my knee?’ She smiled as though she understood him, and he unstrapped her, lifted her out and cuddled her close to his chest, rocking her gently back and forth.
He and Jodie had planned for her to move into his apartment the morning after the Boatshed opening and he’d been counting the days, but then he’d ruined it by being sick. He’d risked a glass of champagne at the opening, and then a second, and by the end of the day that, combined with too much food, had knocked him sideways. On Saturday morning, all he could do was stagger sweating between the bathroom and bedroom and watch the ceiling circle dizzyingly above his head.
‘Matt’s going to come and get your gear,’ he’d told Jodie on the phone. ‘Unless you want to hang on until I get over this.’
‘No, I’m dying to move in,’ she said. ‘Can’t wait. Owen’s here, he’ll help.’
So David had lain there propped up with pillows while her boxes, plants and few bits of furniture were carried up the stairs and distributed through the apartment.
‘I feel like a complete waste of space,’ he’d complained at one point.
‘You are,’ Matt said with a grin, dumping Jodie’s suitcase in the bedroom. ‘Can’t think why this gorgeous woman is even bothering with you.’
The movement around him, the coming and going, had made him dizzy and he was thankful when Matt and Owen left and he and Jodie were alone at last. ‘Sorry, Jo,’ he said sheepishly, gripping her hand when she came to sit on the side of the bed. ‘Now you can really see what a loser you’ve taken on.’
‘Stop it,’ she’d said, pulling her hand away and standing up. ‘You have to stop this, David.’
‘Stop what? I can’t stop the illness, you know that, you said you understood …’
‘I do. What I mean is that you have to stop behaving as though you’re a leper.’
‘A leper?’
‘Yes. You’ve still got the idea that your illness makes you a liability.’ She stopped for a moment and walked over to the window, and then turned back to him again. ‘It’s like you think the Hep C is all you’re about now, that it defines you, controls you. Well, it doesn’t, or at least it doesn’t have to.’ She walked back to the bed and climbed onto it, sitting beside him, with her legs stretched out in front of her. ‘It’s horrible that you have this disease but it doesn’t have to dominate our lives. I know you’ll be sick like this sometimes, but you seem to think that the disease is all that people see when they look at you. You’re more than your condition, Dave; at least, you are if you’ll let yourself be.’
A seagull swooped down onto the seat beside him and, steadying Rebekah with one hand, David pulled out a packet of Tic Tacs, flipped it open and spilled some onto the seat for the gull. Rebekah turned to look at David and he hugged her closer.
‘Big bird, Bek,’ he said, ‘a big bird,’ and he watched as the gull circled and swooped back for another mint. In that moment, clutching the baby to him and watching as a few more gulls lined up on the seat, David knew that this strangely wonderful feeling was called contentment, something he had never known before. He held Rebekah up above him and she gurgled joyfully, dribbling on his hair. ‘You dag, Bek,’ he laughed, lowering her into the buggy, and together they made their way back along the path to the Boatshed.
Bonnie was exhausted with waiting; waiting for Will to open his eyes, to speak, to show any sign, however small, that he was going to be all right. Even when she wasn’t at the hospital she was waiting. On her brief visits to the Boatshed she was waiting for people to stop updating her on the first few days of trading, so that she could get away. And when, at night, she finally gave in to exhaustion and returned home to sleep, her dreams seemed to be full of waiting for a variety of strange things to be finished so that she could wake up.
‘I’m back, Will,’ she said each time she returned to the chair by his bed. ‘It’s Bonnie, I’m here, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Will.’ And occasionally she would think she had felt a change of pressure against her hand, but it was so minute that she couldn’t be sure. From time to time he would stir, and his eyes flickered open and closed again and he would mumble something incomprehensible, but there was no real improvement.
‘We’ll be able to tell more when he regains consciousness,’ the doctor had explained. ‘But apart from the extensive bruising, broken collarbone, cracked ribs and that head wound, I can’t find much else wrong. But when he does come round, he’s going to be very sore for a good few weeks.’
Bonnie stroked Will’s hand. ‘It’s okay, Will,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you home as soon as I can, there’s a room ready for you. I’ll look after you, nothing to worry about; you just concentrate on getting better.’ But apart from the odd flicker of his eyelids, or a slight shift of position, there was no change.
As she sat by the bed unable to read, unable to concentrate on the television flickering softly overhead, Bonnie thought he looked more and more like Jeff. There had always been a fraternal likeness, but as the hours passed, the resemblance seemed to grow until sometimes it was as though they were the same person. A couple of times she even found herself calling him Jeff, and she laughed awkwardly and corrected herself, thankful there was no one else around to hear her. So it seemed a cruel stroke of fate that on the Monday morning when Will did finally open his eyes and start to make sense, Bonnie was three floors down in the café, getting herself a cup of coffee and a croissant. Making her way back up to the ward, clutching the cardboard beaker and the bag with the croissant, she pushed open the door of Will’s room and found a nurse she hadn’t seen before, taking his blood pressure and talking to him.
‘Oh good,’ the nurse said, straightening up and smiling at her. ‘He’s back with us at last, aren’t you, Mr Logan? I’ve sent for the doctor. I guess you must be Sylvia – he’s been asking for you.’
She undid the blood pressure cuff and smoothed down Will’s sleeve. ‘Keep talking to him, please. The doctor will be here in a minute.’
Bonnie put the coffee down, dropped the croissant and took hold of Will’s hand. ‘Will, Will, it’s Bonnie, I’m here,’ she said, brushing the hair back from his forehead. ‘Can you speak to me, Will? Can you see me?’
His eyes were glassy and seemed slow to focus. He shifted his position slightly and finally gave her a weak smile. ‘Bonnie?’ he asked cautiously, as though testing how his mouth worked.
‘Yes, Will; yes, it’s me. Oh, it’s so wonderful that you’re awake.’ She bent down and kissed him, holding her cheek close to his, stroking his face gently. ‘You’re all right, Will, you’re going to be all right.’
Will nodded, swallowing hard.
‘He’ll be thirsty,’ the nurse said, handing her a bowl of iced water and a small sponge on a stick, ‘but he can’t have anything to drink until the doctor’s seen him. Just let him suck this if he needs it.’
Bonnie dipped the sponge in the water and held it close to Will’s lips. He sucked it, swallowing cautiously. ‘More?’ she asked, offering it to him again, but he shook his head.
‘Sylvia,’ he said. ‘Where’s Sylvia?’
‘Oh, she might pop in later,’ Bonnie said, putting the bowl down on the table. ‘But you don’t have to see her. I’ve told her to stay away. She’s the last person you need around you right now.’
‘No,’ Will said in a stronger voice. ‘Sylvia, I want to see her, please, Bonnie …’ And with unexpected force, he grabbed her wrist. ‘I want Sylvia.’
‘You can go back in now,’ the doctor said a quarter of an hour later. ‘It’s looking good. We’ll have to keep a close eye on him for a few days, but he doesn’t seem to be suffering any memory loss. He keeps asking for Sylvia – that’s your friend, isn’t it?’
Bonnie twitched her shoulders. ‘I’ve called her, she’ll be here soon. She’s just a friend, though. I’m his sister-in-law. He’s going to be all right, t
hen?’
‘Yes, yes, I think so. I did a few cognitive tests and they were fine. All the signs are good now that he’s come round. Take it easy, though. He needs to stay calm. Good to keep him talking for a while. The nurse’ll keep an eye on him and tell you when he needs to rest.’
Bonnie went back into the room. Will was propped up now, and a little colour had returned to his face. ‘Dear Will, thank goodness,’ she said. ‘You’re looking so much better – ’
‘Sylvia?’ he asked, interrupting her. ‘I must talk to Sylvia.’
Bonnie felt like a balloon that had been pricked. ‘She’s on her way,’ she said abruptly. ‘Whatever happened to you, Will, do you remember?’
He nodded slightly. ‘Most of it …’
‘Best not to talk about it now,’ she said, ‘plenty of time for that later.’
‘Sylvia!’ he said as the door swung open, and Bonnie felt her skin prickle with resentment as Sylvia crossed to the other side of the bed and took Will’s hand.
‘Looking better, isn’t he!’ Bonnie said, feeling as though she had some ownership of the process of Will’s improvement.
‘Yes, yes, he is, much better,’ Sylvia said, smiling down at him and leaning over to kiss his cheek. ‘Welcome back, Will, it’s so good to see you awake.’
Bonnie sniffed slightly and shifted her position in the chair. With some obvious discomfort, Will turned his head back to her.
‘Bon,’ he said, ‘d’you mind … I need to talk to Sylvia …’
There was a moment of excruciating silence as she looked at him, and then at Sylvia. ‘Oh well, I suppose … if that’s what you want … I’ll wait outside, just call if you need me.’
Unable to look at Sylvia, she walked out of the room and slumped down on the seat outside. Her heart was beating painfully fast, and she felt as though she might burst with the hurt and the outrage of it. Coiling her fingers into a fist she punched the square metal arm of the bench hard, very hard, over and over again until her knuckles began to bleed, and she began to weep bitter, wrenching sobs until a nurse, with a cup of tea and a box of tissues, sat down beside her explaining that it was quite common for people to cry with relief when someone regained consciousness.
THIRTY-SIX
The three weeks leading up to Christmas were tense and busy. Each day the Boathouse was attracting more business and the initial staffing plan was proving inadequate. A number of complimentary reviews of the restaurant, and a feature about the gallery, had brought the customers in droves and the turnover was considerably higher than any of them had anticipated.
‘I need someone else in the gallery,’ Sylvia said. ‘We always planned on a third person anyway, and now it’s essential.’
Bonnie tossed her head. ‘After New Year maybe,’ she said.
‘No, now,’ Sylvia insisted. ‘We’re relying on Caro’s goodwill all the time, it’s not fair. The gallery turnover is almost double what we predicted. It’s only because you’re angry with me, Bonnie, that you’re hesitating about it.’
‘She’s right,’ Fran said. ‘We need a part-time person for the gallery, another part-time person for the kitchen and an extra waitperson for Saturdays and Sundays.’
Bonnie shuffled the papers on her desk. ‘It’s Christmas next week, can’t it wait?’
‘No,’ Fran said, ‘it can’t. We need people in place for the crucial time between Christmas and New Year.’
‘It all seems to be happening very quickly,’ Bonnie said. ‘I’m not convinced.’
Fran got up and marched irritably across to the window and back again. Bonnie was being impossible, missing most of the time, totally disengaged and uncooperative when she was there, and still barely speaking to Sylvia. For the last three weeks, Fran had been running the restaurant business herself, something she’d been promised she wouldn’t have to do, but she didn’t have the power to make the final decisions. She thought she might have felt differently if Will really needed care, but he was out of hospital making good progress. She strode back to the desk and stood in front of it leaning forward, her hands flat on the surface.
‘Well, you would be convinced if you were ever here when we’re open, but you only pop in for half an hour at closing time. Have a look at the figures, Bonnie, be the businesswoman you are and take some responsibility for what you’ve created here.’ The silence was oppressive, and she and Sylvia exchanged an awkward glance.
Bonnie stared hard at the papers on her desk, flipping the edge of one with the end of a pen. ‘Oh, do what you like,’ she said suddenly, getting up from the desk without looking at either of them. ‘I can’t cope with this.’ And she picked up her bag and walked out of the office.
Sylvia and Fran looked at each other in amazement as they listened to her heels clattering down the stairs, and out through the empty restaurant.
‘What are we going to do?’ Sylvia asked.
‘Get on with it,’ Fran said. ‘Use our own judgment, run it our way until she gets herself together.’
‘And then suppose she doesn’t like what we’ve done?’
‘Hard luck,’ Fran said irritably. ‘She’ll just have to put up with it. I don’t know what the hell she thinks she’s doing.’
‘She thinks she’s looking after Will,’ Sylvia said. ‘She can’t leave him alone. I popped into the house to see him yesterday and he told me he feels like he’s being held hostage. She wants to be at the house all the time, and keeps looking in on him, asking if he’s okay, offering him tea, coffee, meals, cushions, newspapers, you name it …’
Fran shook her head. ‘She seems to have lost it completely. What about you guys, you and Will – is it okay?’
‘It’s awkward. He’s still pretty devastated that it didn’t work out. He hasn’t really forgiven me.’
‘What’s to forgive?’
‘He hasn’t forgiven me for not being in love with him. He’s a man who’s used to getting his own way. You know, I keep thinking that if we’d told Bonnie the truth earlier that day, she’d have seen us as equally guilty. As it is, I’m cast as the guilty one and Will as the victim, and he vacillates between enjoying the role of victim and being terribly frustrated by her obsession with looking after him.’
‘And Irene?’
Sylvia grinned. ‘She and Hamish have gone to Singapore for a week at Raffles, back tomorrow.’
‘Smart woman,’ Fran said with a laugh. ‘Well, I’m going to have a word with Sean, see if he knows anyone for the kitchen job before I ring the agency.’
Sylvia got up, straightening her skirt. ‘Okay, look, I know we interviewed some possible people for the gallery, but what do you think about Caro? She’s so good, far better than Linda, who’s a bit of a disappointment. The customers love Caro, and Rebekah too.’
Fran stopped short and looked at her. ‘Really? I hadn’t thought about it – you’re sure? You don’t have to do it because of me.’
‘I’m not. I’m doing it because she’s just what we need – efficient, knows and loves the stock, and she and I get on really well.’
Fran nodded. ‘Then … good,’ she said. ‘I think she’ll jump at it.’
Bonnie let herself in through the back door, switched on the kettle and went straight through to the living room, where Will was sitting on the sofa, his laptop on his knees. She hesitated in the doorway, watching him; the way he tilted his head as he worked was just like Jeff. All the time she was away from the house, she was obsessed with the feeling that she would come back and find him as she had found Jeff, twisted and cold on the floor, beyond any hope of revival. Each time she returned and saw him there, upright, conscious, still alive, her terror subsided.
‘Bonnie!’ he said, glancing up. ‘You’re back. Good news, you’re getting rid of me at last.’
‘Getting rid of you, what d’you mean?’
‘Tomorrow! Ryan’s here in Melbourne for a meeting and he can chaperone me home. I’ll have someone with me on the flight. Not that I really need it – the hosp
ital has cleared me to fly. I was bloody lucky to get the seat so close to Christmas. So, tomorrow I’ll be off your hands.’
She stood in the doorway swaying slightly, feeling as though reality was slipping away from her. ‘But you can’t go,’ she said, stepping into the room. ‘You’re not well enough. Something might happen, you need to stay through Christmas and New Year at least. Aren’t you comfortable here?’
Will shook his head. ‘It’s not that, Bon, you’ve treated me like a prince, but I don’t want to impose on you any longer, and I’d like to be home for Christmas – ’
‘But this is home,’ she cut in. ‘Well, it can be home. I … I hoped you’d stay on …’
‘But my home’s in Perth, Bonnie,’ Will said. ‘My business, all my friends are there. I’ll stay with Ryan and Tania for a few days, then go back to my flat after New Year.’
Bonnie stared at him for a moment, trying to understand. ‘Of course,’ she said at last. ‘It’s Sylvia. It must be terrible for you being here, near her, after what she did.’
‘Er … sorry, I don’t – ’
‘No,’ she cut in. ‘I should have done it before. How thoughtless of me. How could you bear to be here with her so close. I’ll tell her to leave. You can have the cottage, you’ll be much more comfortable in there, and I can still look after you.’
‘Whoa!’ said Will, holding up his hand. ‘This is getting away from me, Bon – I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why should Sylvia leave?’
‘Well, obviously, because of what she did,’ Bonnie said. ‘What she did to you.’
