Patrick asked me about Andrew and Rufus, what I thought of them and whether or not I was likely to go out with either if asked. Lauren seemed amused, adding to my discomfort, and asked if I was at all interested in her designer-friend, Tyler. Lauren and Patrick have been married a mere two weeks and already they cannot bear to see me single and free. I mentioned then that I was in a relationship and not available.
“You have a boyfriend?” Lauren asked. “What’s his name?”
“Why didn’t you bring him to the wedding?” Patrick added.
“Zach,” I replied. “And I didn’t want to subject the poor man to this family’s scrutiny.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Lauren asked.
“Nothing at all,” I said smug, rocking backwards on two legs of the chair.
“Careful, Mace,” mother warned as she had done for decades. “You’ll fall and hurt—”
I leaned backwards a little too far forcing the legs of the chair to give way under weight and gravity. The landing was hard and on the way down merlot whirled about inside the glass then flew through the air dousing Oscar and his turtle, and a fine mist covered mother. It seemed appropriate to baptize my nephew in this way, my successor, who thought it was all good fun, unlike mother. She took him away for an urgent clean-as he seemed to be savoring the drops that had landed on his lips. David and Gabby kneeled over me to check for injuries. The playground had gathered, tittering, as Aunty Mace lay emaciated on the back deck, but not drunk this time. I withheld an urge to scream as sharp pain sped from my coccyx up my spine to my neck. I was destined for a wheel chair, I was certain, but Gabby and Jason continued to press, turn, and stick sharp objects into my feet and hands.
“You’ll live,” David declared as he called for an ice pack and towel. “You might have a sprain or a strain,” he said. “You’ll need to keep it iced for the next two to three days, and rest.”
David and Patrick helped me up while Gabby returned to prepare a more stable chair for my recovery, placing a pillow and an icepack behind me and lifting my feet onto a footstool. Mother returned with Oscar and his damp turtle and Shannon offered me a strong coffee, which she thought I must need. I shook my head. “I’ll have a merlot thanks,” I ordered.
“I’m not sure you should be drinking,” she said.
“It’s okay,” David said with a smirk. “She might have hurt herself more if she hadn’t already had a few. It’ll help with the pain.”
“And that’s why you don’t rock on your chair,” I heard mother telling the nephews and nieces who ran off then to tear up the lawn.
I was starting to shiver in the coolness of the afternoon and with my back frozen by ice. Mother covered me in a blanket and I looked like Grandma Evans, the crotchety old bird. I enjoyed the pampering, having my dinner served to me, my glass filled before it emptied, and the ice pack replaced at David-specified intervals. Dad fired up the outdoor gas heater and positioned it between me and the other invalid, Anderson, who had injured his arm after landing awkwardly from a Justin foot-catapult. That quieted the hooligans for a short while, until after dinner when they ran riot some more since it was still daylight—one unpleasant aspect of daylight savings time.
Shannon asked Lauren if she was happy with her rendition at the wedding reception and Lauren said she was, for the sake of harmony I presumed, but it was an unfortunate response for there is a very fine line between being polite and foolish encouragement. Shannon had enjoyed the experience, a lot, she said, and announced plans to become a wedding singer with her church troupe. Hallelujah, praise the Lord, I thought, a wedding singer in the family. What more could we ask for. Perhaps though, if she is singing for others, she might relieve us of any further performances on the back deck, especially while I was chair-bound.
Stephanie and Gabby covered a table with cakes and tarts and Toady wasted no time with sampling. He was on another diet and destined for failure again as he is a man who loves food; he is like Superman and kryptonite when it is in his presence. As Oscar says, “I can resist everything except temptation.”
I stayed overnight at mother and dad’s because I had been drinking, because I was injured and should not be home alone having to care for myself, because I was the only one who did not have someone to go home to, and because it seemed there was something more to be said. Several times I saw dad look at mother as if signaling, and several times mother would start to speak with a deep breath then another interruption would silence her because that is how it is with this family—we all talk over ourselves and it is a clever person who can keep up with discussions in progress at any given time. I find merlot helps merge it all into a coherent whole.
I had a dream that night that I had fallen on a sheet of glass. When I stood up, there was a long, thick shard stuck in my chest cavity, protruding, which ran from my chest down to my stomach dissecting me in half. I caught the tram to the hospital, naked, since I could not wear clothes over the glass. I was anxious to have the glass removed as soon as possible, but the doctors said it would have to stay there because if they removed it, I would die. I have no idea what this means, except that I should be careful around glass or else I will end up naked in public.
I was up early for me for a Sunday morning, but not before mother had been and already returned from church. She was sitting at the dining room table with dad, but there was no bacon sizzling or coffee percolating. Shannon was there too, not surprising, but she was crying and I wondered if I was still dreaming. She is not prone to tears and it has been a while since I had seen so many; not since I stole her front tooth before the tooth fairy came, and never like this—bawling without sound as if someone had died. Perhaps Toady had suffered a heart attack after too much cake, tart, pie and pudding the previous night.
“What’s going on?” I asked, shuffling into the kitchen with my moderately sore back. I filled the kettle and leaned over the breakfast bar to wait for a response.
“Come and sit down, Macey,” dad said. “We have something to tell you.”
“Sounds serious,” I mumbled then Shannon released a wail. “Must be serious,” I mumbled.
I sat down beside dad. “What’s going on?”
“The cancer has spread to my lungs,” mother said, poised and calm.
“What does this mean?” I asked. “More surgery, chemotherapy?”
She shook her head.
“What do you mean?” I replied.
Mother shook her head again and I saw tears that would not fall.
“No.” I said. “There must be something, surely.”
“We have always known that if the cancer came back, there would be no treatment,” she said.
“How can you be so calm and accepting?” I asked while Shannon blasted her way through more tissues.
“There’s nothing to be done about it, and there’s no point wasting time and energy being miserable when all I want is to be with my family. It is what it is.”
I was numb. I could not cry like Shannon although I wanted to, and thought I should. Perhaps I was more like mother than I realized.
“Does everyone know?” I asked.
“David and Gabby have known for a few days, since my CT scan. Lauren will be over later today, and Jason.” She sighed. “There’s never a right time for this sort of thing. He’s so happy with Stephanie. She’s good for him. I don’t want to ruin their happiness with this.”
You are good for us, mother, I thought to say, but didn’t.
“So,” she said perky suddenly. “Who’s for breakfast?”
“Me,” I mumbled as mother pulled on one of her aprons, the one with the lavender imprint that actually smelled like lavender that David and Gabby had brought back for her from Tasmania after a medical conference.
“The usual, Macey?” she asked.
She never called me Macey. Only dad called me Macey. I nodded.
Shannon continued to cry. Dad attempted to console her, but she was beyond the reach of comfort. Even now, she was mak
ing me look bad for I was shocked, but quiet.
“How long?” I asked.
“Ten minutes,” mother replied. “Shannon, dear, why don’t you give me a hand with the coffee and toast?”
“No, I mean how long…?”
“A few months, six, maybe more…”
I gasped, and wanted so much to be able to cry for it was real then; there was an end and it was near. I did not want to go home to the townhouse where nobody waited for me. I wanted to stay with mother forever in my old bedroom where once, a long time ago, I was safe, and protected from the world and all the pain it would cause.
Chapter Thirty-eight
THE WEEKS following mother’s announcement were a blur. Just as I did with Ben, I pretended it was not real so I could function. I did not move back home with mother and dad as I thought I might, but visited most days after work and stayed over occasionally. I felt detached, from life, family and mother, and even now, I do not understand such a reaction except to say I was not equipped for her suffering or mine.
Mother was stoic and unafraid of death because she knew where she was going afterwards and like the wisest of mankind, she was not indifferent when it came to her own suffering. I wanted to believe I was the same, which is why I had not cried, but the truth is I am afraid of death. I do not want to die even though I do not have that much in this world to live for other than my friends and family so fear of my dying makes no sense. It is not as if I need to worry how loved ones might cope without me as it would be for a parent or wives of men like dad or Toady or the Bobmeister who are used to having their lives controlled, willingly, by their women. If I thought of death as a simple departure from Melbourne and my townhouse to take up another job—a better job with higher pay, agreeable colleagues, greater rewards, and a perfect boss—then I could go, surely, and not be afraid.
There is nothing like the pending death of someone integral to numerous lives, like mother, to make you wonder what the hell you are doing with your own. So I asked myself this question and the answer came—anything I like whenever I like, but was I happy. I knew pure happiness when I was married to Ben and clearly, I have no idea how to handle such bliss for I threw it in the garbage can. Now though, I can say I am content, which is enough for me. Jason once said he was ‘not unhappy’ in his life with Alexis. Now he knows something greater with Stephanie so does that make being ‘not unhappy’ not good enough or good enough given all the circumstances at a point in time even with hindsight?
I was afraid for dad. He and mother have lived together in that house for almost fifty years, slept in the same bed, ate together, bore children, and planted gardens together then watched it all grow to the beautiful, colorful mass it is now.
Lauren and Shannon were the most affected by mother’s news, in a visible way that is, and not surprisingly I guess for they have always been the closest to her. Lauren moved back home, just weeks after she had left as she could not bear to be away from the woman who had cared for her for thirty-six years. Patrick proved he was the man we all thought he was, facilitating the return with compassion and understanding, and supporting Lauren whenever she needed him while giving her space and time with mother; as much as she wanted. It occurred to me then, that we all had chosen well, except for Jason with Alexis, but he had redeemed himself with Stephanie. Toady was perfect for Shannon and Gabby was perfect for David. Patrick was perfect for Lauren and Ben had been perfect for me. That could not have been mere luck or an unconscious resolution to follow our only example—mother and dad; it must be in our genes.
I was feeling genuine empathy for Shannon—mother was her best friend and their lives were entwined and duplicated. Yes, she is bossy, controlling, righteous, condescending, intolerant of merlot drinkers, and as Oscar says, “…lacks the indefinable charm of weakness,” but mother’s passing will change her. I know death and its power—Shannon, as we know her, will be no more and while that might seem like a pleasant thought, no one wants to see someone die in life.
It was hard to accept or believe that mother was dying, and easy to believe everything would be okay because she looked okay for the most part, that is apart from a persistent cough and her slower pace. You would not know anything was wrong unless you knew how bee-like, upright and upbeat she used to be. That was a distant memory now as is the way she used to question my choices.
There are two ways to manage these times: merlot with inertia and ceaseless mulling or action. Of surprise, I went with the latter because it was summer, the days were blue and long, and because Zach had sent me an email proposing a sail on Port Phillip Bay. It seemed like a good idea since they use a bed of nails for meditation in India.
Amber, Sophie, Kimba and Erin were all on friend-alert rotation. Any work night that I was not back home with mother and dad or at work, I could expect a visitor. On weekends, I had places to be as if they had divided each day into three parts and allocated sitters and events. I knew what they were doing and that was fine, but only because I had chosen the action strategy. If I had chosen the merlot/inertia/mulling strategy, it would not be fine and very annoying. Kimba needed more support than me for she was not taking the news at all well and she spent as much time with mother as the rest of us did.
Our family home was like grand central station; if not us, there were mother’s friends from church, neighbors, her pastor, book club people, Bridge people, people from her charities and plain old friends from her earliest years. I resented all of them for the intrusion on our last days, but mother was happy albeit very tired. There was food everywhere for no one came with empty hands and it was all home-cooked and delicious so I ate at home regularly, as did everyone else. It was just like the really old days except our numbers had doubled, less one, Ben.
It was a strange time with Christmas on approach, which made it worse for we all knew, as did mother, that this would be her last. How do you create a final Christmas without mourning it? I dreaded the day because it heralded the end.
Amber was worried about her wedding in March. Ordinarily, you would be right to think she was worried because some limelight would refract from her, but instead she thought it inappropriate to celebrate anything while mother was dying. This was very un-Amber-like and I was overwhelmed by it; perhaps I did not know my best friend as well as I thought.
The day out on the bay with Zach was altogether unpleasant. It was a chilly day, overcast and windy, which is apparently very good for sailing, if you enjoy sliding down a timber deck on a forty-five degree angle saved only from the treacherous sea by flimsy-looking wire. That was more action than I had hoped for, and much more than what was necessary to execute my coping strategy.
He had missed me, he said, and wanted to resume our relationship. He figured this was mutual since I had accepted his sailing invitation. I said nothing about mother, for whatever the reason, nothing was more comforting than a pair of hairy, strong arms, after a pizza, merlot and warm sudsy bath. What I did not need in my life however was complication, which is not the same as keeping busy, and Zach was a complication with Christmas on approach and my hours all accounted for. He invited me ‘home’ to meet his family on Christmas Day. He thought it was time, and I was not entirely sure what this meant—you do not take someone home to meet the family on Christmas Day unless it is someone of significance, and that was not me, or was it? There were three ways to reply, “Sure, would love to,” or “We’re really over this time,” or, as Oscar would say, “I must decline your invitation owing to a subsequent engagement.”
“Sure, would love to,” I replied then started work on an excuse that did not make mention of mother—that was a private matter for our family only, and all of mother’s friends, and I did not want sympathy from Zach. That would be uncomfortable.
Other than my friends, I did not tell anyone about mother, not even Rachel, for people treat you differently when they know you are suffering a family crisis, and they ask incessantly about it when there is nothing to say—she has cancer, she is dyin
g. Amber had told Jake thought who told Rudy who sent me an email offering sympathies and his admiration for mother, and support if I should need him. I did not reply, but asked Amber to pass on a thank you.
I did confide in Thomas though, at the annual company retreat down Sorrento, but only because we were completely sozzled and the last two standing, not literally, at three in the morning. We had retired to his room to sit on the balcony with our respective antidotes—merlot and scotch, to lament life and its blows.
Thomas was an unhappy man. He did not love his wife, he had no freedom, no time to himself, no friends and no interests. Anything he used to do before he was married, his wife objected to. She did not like his friends so they were not welcome at their home, and she sulked for days if Thomas went out to meet them, which he did no more. She wanted a baby and so they had loads of sex, but only at prescribed times. Her parents came to dinner twice a week, and her sister and husband another night. She did not get on with his mother so his parents were never invited to dinner or to any other occasion. Thomas spent all of his time with her family and friends, none of whom he liked because they were all the same, like her. He was miserable and had not realized how much or why until his anger management program, which he belatedly thanked me for initiating, although he was furious at the time. He was a prisoner in his life with no way out, and his time in the locked confines of his office made him realize this symbolically. It was unbelievable that Thomas could not see the solution—it was so simple. Just leave, I told him.
“How?” he asked. “How do I leave?”
“Just pack your bags and go. Walk away.”
Being Anti-Social Page 20
