Life Before

by Carmel Reilly

  When Pam’s mother, Marjorie, had been diagnosed with cancer at the age of fifty-five, Pam felt as though the bottom had been torn from her world, as though nothing would ever be right, that no fact could ever be trusted again. After four years of treatments, of hope and then hopes dashed, Marjorie died and Pam came to the profound realisation that nothing would ever be right again. Marjorie was not what you would call an easy personality. She was old-fashioned (born just after World War I, the child of Victorian-era parents), middle-class, snobbish to some degree, and not given to displays of affection or effusion. But she was her mother; her constant, her compass. And then she was not. Pam saw in a blinding flash that for most of her life she had been living in a fantasy of existential constancy. She had never really believed that anyone close to her would die and leave her alone, at least until some point in the far distant future. Marjorie’s illness had been a shock, but at least the unceasing concern for her mother had given Pam purpose. Her death though had left nothing but a huge gaping hole.

  For a long time afterwards Pam was unable to make sense of it at all. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Her grand plan of life (in reality more of a loose sketch, but still an expectation) had gone seriously off script. A few years before, a woman she knew had lost her husband (suicide) and her mother (stroke) within a few months of each other. Pam thought about this fact a great deal after Marjorie’s death, prayed every day for a good year or so that she wouldn’t lose anyone else she loved anytime soon. The idea of Mick or one of the kids dying filled her with a terrible anxiety; more than that, a bottomless ennui. She couldn’t imagine how it would be possible to bear this terrible pain times two. How could anyone survive? Amazingly, the woman she knew had survived. Pam didn’t know how; she didn’t know her well enough to interrogate her, uncover the details. But then, she mused, there was survival and survival. A vast difference between existing and thriving, something often impossible to see from the outside. Some people were good actors, and perhaps that was the secret. Perhaps that was what resilience really was?

  Next to her Mick lay snoring, testament no doubt to the beers he’d drunk the evening before. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to sleep without the aid of alcohol. She on the other hand hadn’t thought she’d be able to sleep if she imbibed, and she speculated briefly if she could ever drink again. The taste of alcohol seemed repulsive to her, but the idea of what it did still held an attraction. She pulled herself out of bed without turning on the light so she didn’t wake him. She didn’t know if he’d fallen asleep quickly last night or had lain awake for hours. He needed rest either way. So did she. But now she was awake she knew she wouldn’t go back to sleep; the dream demon had put paid to that.

  Slipping on her dressing-gown and slippers she went out into the hallway, closing the bedroom door behind her. In the hall she turned on the light and quietly opened Loren’s door. The room felt cold and curiously silent. A tiny trill of apprehension ran through her. She tiptoed to the bed and stood stock-still, hoping to catch and then hearing the faint sounds of her daughter’s breathing. There was just enough light in the room to see her shape in the bed, her hair pooling darkly across the pillow, her hands balled against her cheeks. ‘My poor darling,’ whispered Pam, resisting the temptation to reach down and touch her.

  In the kitchen she turned on the heater and put on the kettle. Through the curtainless kitchen windows she registered that the sky had lightened fractionally. In another half hour or so she would be able to see the sun rise above the slope behind the house. It could have been just any other Sunday (although on most Sundays she was not up this early). It could have been an ordinary day in which she was looking forward to doing the kinds of things she usually did on the weekend: baking, gardening, having friends over for lunch, reading a book on the couch. Instead the day loomed before her—as though it were a part of her dream—unknown and threatening, like some monster, its mouth yawning open, waiting to swallow her whole.

  The day before felt both distant and vivid. It too had failed to fit the weekend template and instead of shopping, cleaning and the yoga classes she’d been attending of late, she had passed the day waiting at the hospital. Some of the time spent with Loren in A and E, some spent on the ward with Scott post-surgery. She recalled almost every detail of the day and suspected that in years to come vignettes, whole scenes even, would stay with her, play out in her mind. The perspective she had of the room where she sat, the view from the windows out across the blue-green mountains. The odours of disinfectant and starched sheets, the feel of the stiff fabric under her fingers. A moment in the hallway when the surgeon who’d operated on Scott had said, ‘There could be ongoing problems with the ankle, arthritis later in life.’ Her noticing how the silver stubble on Des Robinson’s face contrasted with the golden hairs on the back of his freckled hand as he spooned the sugar into her coffee cup.

  When the registrar had given Loren the green light to go home, Pam’s father, Jim, had come and picked them up. Mick was going to stay on with Scott, make sure he was settled for the night before he left. Pam and her dad had hardly spoken as they’d driven back. She was grateful that he wasn’t a chatterer, didn’t have the need to talk to fill up space. He’d only asked the basic questions when she’d phoned him from the hospital. There wasn’t much more to say, or at least that’s how she felt, exhausted from a day that seemed to have gone on forever. She suspected that he was more than a little shocked himself at what had happened and at Loren’s state, and could sense it was better to stay silent in her presence.

  At home Pam had made tea and assembled some food: a couple of corned beef sandwiches, biscuits, slices of lemon cake she’d made a few days before. She and her father had sat at the kitchen table while Loren burrowed in with her plate on the couch, staring mindlessly at the last few minutes of a Collingwood–Hawthorn game on television. The steady murmur of the commentary drifted between the rooms. Only the occasional excited outburst or the roar of the fans told her that one side or the other had momentarily triumphed. She was sure Loren had no idea at all of the state of the game. Even under normal circumstances she never cared much for football.

  Pam glanced over at her father who seemed intent on his cup.

  ‘It’s a terrible, terrible shame. I liked that boy,’ he said finally, not moving his eyes.

  ‘He was a really nice kid.’ Pam tried to sound neutral, at arm’s length somehow. She hoped she wasn’t going to cry. She seemed to have avoided it for most of the day and she knew her father would disapprove, as he did with all displays of emotion. He’d been almost unbearable in his stoicism (denial) when her mother died. His seeming bewilderment that there was anything he (or anyone else) should be upset about was corrosive. She knew it was his way of managing, but she’d felt it as a wilful dismissal of her, and her feelings. There was a part of her that found it hard to forgive him for this.

  ‘You know, if Scott wants to come and stay with me when he gets out of hospital, he’s more than welcome.’ She was taken aback by this offer for a moment and felt passingly guilty about her negative thoughts. Perhaps in her stressed state, she had been doing him a disservice. Or perhaps he didn’t think she and Mick were capable of dealing with the situation.

  ‘He’s got his studies to finish, Dad.’

  ‘He might not though, might he?’

  She looked at him. ‘I don’t want to think about that right now. There’s going to be a lot to deal with.’

  He gave her a tight smile. ‘I don’t envy you the months ahead. There’ll be an investigation. Possibly a court case.’

  She stared past his shoulder to the wall and a framed photo of Broulee beach on the south coast of New South Wales, where she and Mick used to take their holidays when the kids were young. They hadn’t been there for years. She’d loved the place: the vast expansive beach, the scattered collection of old wooden houses unspoiled by development. Hours spent on building sandcastles, bodysurfing, beach cricket. The photo showed the five of them
, a lopsided pyramid, with Mick holding Loren on his shoulders, flanked by her and the boys, everyone laughing at something: a joke, the wonder of being on the beach unencumbered, free to do whatever they liked. They’d never intended not to return, but one summer they just didn’t. Funny how things come to pass.

  ‘Thanks for bringing us home, Dad,’ she had said as civilly as she could, standing up and gathering the cups from the table. ‘I need to get onto a few things now.’

  Behind her he’d cleared his throat as she put the dishes in the sink, but she didn’t turn around until she heard the scrape of his chair.

  ‘Keep me informed, won’t you?’ he’d said at the back door. ‘We probably should talk to Hugh.’

  Pam had stood in the kitchen gazing distractedly at the cups in the sink and the plate on which she’d eaten her sandwich. Three chocolate biscuits sat on a torn biscuit packet on the bench. Callous or not, he was right, her father. It was all a shock now, but soon they’d have to drag themselves out of that state for long enough to organise legal representation; whatever it was that had to be done for Scott. The fact that this wasn’t something they could simply put behind them made her feel sick. This—this point they were at now—was only the beginning.

  She thought about this again now in the almost-light of the morning as the kettle boiled. Organising practicalities. The first being to check the answering machine; she had a vague recollection of the phone ringing last night. In the hallway she saw its light blinking urgently off and on in the darkness. She flicked on the light, pressed the message button and listened. Five calls from friends, neighbours, wanting to know if the kids were all right, if she and Mick were all right, before Cathy’s familiar voice, clear and resonant, a little audio beacon in an ocean of static. ‘Call me any time,’ she said. ‘I don’t care if it’s two in the morning.’ After that, a final message, largely indecipherable: muffled voices, loud cries of what seemed to be laughter. ‘Jesus,’ she said, and pressed erase.

  She would have taken Cathy up on her offer but Mick got up then, woken by the light, the messages playing on the machine, his own internal agitation. He appeared in the hallway in his pyjamas, the same set he’d worn the night before to greet the young policeman. Pam thought absently that she should put them in the washing machine. Then she thought she might burn them. She would never be able to look at those blue and white stripes again without replaying the scenes of Friday night in her mind. She followed him into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on again, dragging another mug out of the cupboard.

  ‘I didn’t hear you come to bed,’ she said.

  ‘Read the paper. Turned in about midnight.’

  ‘That was late.’

  He’d sat down at the table and she went over to him and wrapped her arms around his head, pressing him to her, his nose between her breasts. He put his arms around her hips, and she said, ‘Will we ever get over this?’

  She could feel his head nodding against her ribs. Was that yes or no? One of those indeterminate head waggles that signified neither. The unknown.

  Then a sound from behind them. ‘Mum.’

  Pam whipped around, embarrassed in the way that parents are in front of children, embarrassed for their intimacy at a time like this. Loren stood in the doorway, wearing yesterday’s t-shirt. Barelegged and bedraggled, hair a bird’s nest of clumps and starbursts. She hadn’t had a shower before she’d collapsed into bed, for which Pam felt ashamed. She should have been more attentive, cleaned her daughter up last night. But then she hadn’t even succeeded in it herself, only managing to pull off her clothes, dump the mess on the floor and slide on a nightie. This morning she was aware of her skin, grainy and greasy, her underarms clammy. She pulled her dressing-gown close and said, ‘You want a cup of tea?’

  Loren shrugged in acquiescence, then sat down at the table opposite Mick. Pam went up to the bedroom and fetched Loren’s dressing-gown, returned and draped it over her shoulders. ‘It’s cold,’ she said, feeling it necessary to explain her actions. She poured another tea and placed it in front of Loren, who was running her finger over the pattern on the tablecloth as if she had just discovered a secret Braille message in its folds.

  ‘Should I go to school tomorrow?’

  Pam and Mick exchanged glances. Mick’s pallid face barely registered any expression, but Pam knew what he was thinking regardless, could sense his momentary panic.

  ‘There is no school tomorrow, sweetheart. It’s the holidays,’ he said, keeping his voice even and low.

  She looked blankly at Mick as though what he said hadn’t sunk in. ‘There’ll be a funeral.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pam. ‘In a few days, I imagine.’

  ‘We’ll have to go, won’t we?’ said Loren, her mouth twisting in uncertainty. ‘But I don’t think I want to go. I …’

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ said Mick.

  Loren shook her head. ‘Everyone from school will be there. I don’t want to have to see them. See anyone.’

  They sat silently for a moment. Pam got up again and started to put out breakfast food. Cereal, milk, tinned fruit, some bowls and spoons.

  ‘Do you want the shower first?’ Pam asked Loren. ‘We need to head off soon.’

  ‘What? Head off where?’

  ‘Back to the hospital. For Scott.’

  Loren straightened in her chair. ‘I’m not going back to the hospital,’ she said, a note of panic in her voice. ‘I can’t go there.’

  Pam opened her mouth then closed it again. On reflection it seemed quite understandable that the hospital would be the last place that Loren would want to be. ‘I’m sorry, darling. Of course you can stay here.’

  Mick didn’t seem as certain. ‘What about Scott? He might do with your company.’

  Loren shook her bent head twice, a swatch of her hair swayed from side to side in front of her face, obscuring her expression.

  Pam held her hand out to silence Mick who she could sense was about to speak again. ‘Listen, I can call Cathy and get her to come over and stay with you.’

  Her head shot up. ‘I don’t need babysitting.’

  ‘You don’t have to talk to Cath. I just think you need some company.’

  ‘I want Katie to come over then. I can call her.’

  Mick interjected. ‘Si’s coming down today. Said he’d leave earlyish. I reckon he’ll be here about lunchtime.’

  Pam turned to Mick. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m not bagging you. I mean, I’m glad he’s coming. God, glad—I don’t know if that’s the word. It will be good to see him.’ Although perhaps not so good for him to see them, she thought, trying to imagine what it would be like for him to walk into this mess.

  ‘Maybe we can play tag team till then?’ Mick suggested.

  ‘Hmm,’ she grunted in reply.

  Scott was sitting up in bed when she arrived, his plastered leg elevated, gazing out the window. His room had a view over the car park and Pam thought he had probably seen her pull up, watched her get out of the car, clumsily juggling her basket and the flowers she’d brought from the garden while locking the door. Nothing new. Her children had scrutinised her from an early age, made comments on the way she did things, the way she looked. Her little foibles. She had no doubt they knew her body and its movements better than she did herself. It never ceased to amaze her how observant they could be, yet in the same breath how oblivious. One moment noticing, the next ignoring. If she chose to hide things from them they were easily diverted. But of course, not always. The thing was, one never really knew what they may or may not pick up on. She was glad she’d never had anything more to hide than the occasional chocolate bar. No gambling addictions. No lovers in the wardrobe.

  ‘Did you see me coming?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’ He looked at her blankly. His mind had clearly been elsewhere.

  She smiled. ‘How’s the ankle?’

  ‘I’ve had lots of painkillers. I think that’s helped. Kin
da feels all right. You by yourself?’

  ‘Your dad’s stayed home to keep an eye on Loren. Simon’ll get in at lunchtime. They’ll probably come over then.’

  ‘What’s the story with Loz? Why didn’t she come?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She paused, unsure how to go on. ‘I think she’s still in shock. After yesterday. I don’t believe she can bear to be here. It’s very, very hard for her.’

  ‘You mean she’s not coming at all?’

  Pam wasn’t sure if she was imagining her son’s eyes glistening. She sat on the bed beside him and put her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Some of us can’t fucking bear being here either, but we don’t get a choice about it,’ he said, his voice thick.

  ‘A terrible thing has happened,’ she said slowly.

  ‘You don’t think I noticed? Jesus.’

  Scott didn’t do bitter or sarcastic. It was a shock to hear him snap. Not that she was about to blame him, lord no, but the contrast with his usual sanguine self appeared so marked that she could have been talking to someone else. When she’d spoken to him yesterday he’d still been a little groggy and disoriented from the anaesthetic. He’d rambled like an old drunkard, and some of what he’d said hadn’t made any kind of sense. Under the strain, her stable, constant, sunny-natured son seemed to have veered between two characters, neither of whom she’d ever glimpsed before.

  ‘I want to see her.’ He shook his head quickly and looked up to the ceiling. ‘I need her to help me … talk to me … I …’