A Single Breath

by Lucy Clarke

  Outside, water drips from the gutters in heavy drops that land on the windowsill. “I still can’t believe he’s gone,” Jeanette says quietly.

  Saul rubs a hand over his jaw. “I know.”

  Her fingers move to the delicate gold ring she wears on her wedding finger and she twists it absently as she admits, “I miss him like hell.”

  When he and Jeanette were a couple, they’d gone up to the Bay of Fires for a few days, and he remembers sitting together on the huge lichen-stained rocks watching the sun go down. She’d opened up, telling him about the difficult years as a teenager living in her stepfather’s house. They’d talked about what they both wanted from the future, and he’d been surprised and touched by the modesty of her dreams. There were no great career ambitions or desires for wealth—all she wanted was a small house near the water and a family. Maybe she’d thought she’d found that with Jackson.

  There is a long silence only broken by the sound of a door being opened and then the tread of footsteps along the hallway. They both look up to see Eva moving into the room. Her face is pale and she looks wild-eyed.

  “Sorry,” she says, attempting a smile.

  She stands with her back to the window. He hears her intake of breath and then she says, “I should explain why I’m here.”

  “I MET JACKSON TWO years ago on a flight to England,” Eva begins, her gaze on Jeanette. “Our seats were next to each other and we got talking. When we arrived in London, we swapped numbers and started seeing a bit of each other.”

  Jeanette’s expression is completely neutral, unreadable.

  Into the silence, Eva pushes forward. “I didn’t know anything about you—or Kyle. Jackson told me he was . . . single.” She pauses. “I ended up having a relationship with him . . . and a few months later we moved in together.” Eva stops again and rubs the back of her neck. “I’m sorry, but there’s no easy way to say this: Jackson proposed to me and we got married in February last year.”

  Jeanette’s gaze is locked on Eva’s face. Eva can feel the heat behind Jeanette’s stare. On the sideboard a wooden clock ticks.

  “I had no idea he was already married. I would never have had a relationship with him if I’d known.”

  Jeanette blinks. “You’re telling me that my husband married you?”

  “I know what a shock this must be. I didn’t know you existed, not until very recently. I wasn’t sure whether to tell you . . . but I thought you should know the truth.” Eva grinds to a halt. She knots her hands in front of her, shifting her weight onto the other leg. She wishes she were sitting down.

  Jeanette still doesn’t move. “You met on the flight he took to England?”

  Eva nods.

  “So the same day Jackson left me,” Jeanette says slowly, “he met you?”

  “I . . .” Eva shakes her head, not sure what to say. Had it been that quick? Had Jackson literally walked out of one relationship and straight into another?

  Jeanette tells her, “I didn’t even know he was in England until he died. I’ve never been there. It’s like a world away.”

  “I’m so sorry. He lied to us both.”

  In the corner, Saul shifts. Jeanette turns to him. “Did you know he was going to marry someone else?””

  “I had no idea.”

  “He must’ve told someone.”

  There’s a pause. Then Saul says, “Dad.”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “Your bloody father! He never thought I was good enough for either of his sons.” Her lips tighten. “When Jackson left, I called your dad, asked him where Jackson was. But he wouldn’t tell me. Said he’d gone traveling—that was all he’d say.”

  Jeanette’s hands ball into fists at her sides—and Eva notices with a lurch the gold wedding band still circling her finger. Her gaze lowers to her own hands, which are bare of the rings Jackson had given her. She wishes she still had them now, as if needing to prove to Jeanette—to herself—that their marriage existed. She slips her hands behind her back.

  Jeanette rises to her feet and faces Eva, saying, “We have a son. Kyle. He’s three. Jackson walked out on me when Kyle was a baby. Can you imagine what that’s like? What sort of man does that?”

  “I—”

  “And now you come here to tell me that my husband, the father of my child, fell in love with you!”

  Eva takes a small step back, pressing herself against the wall. “I didn’t know he was married—”

  “Get out.”

  “I just wanted—”

  “Get out of my house. Now!”

  Stunned, Eva begins to move. As she turns, her gaze falls on the display of photos on the sideboard. At the front is a picture of Jackson. He is standing behind Jeanette, his chin on her shoulder, his palms pressed against the swell of her pregnant stomach.

  When Eva looks up, Jeanette is watching her. “We were a family.”

  23

  Eva winds down the truck window to let the harbor breeze wash in. They are parked in line at the ferry terminal, waiting to get the last boat back to Wattleboon. The mud-coated truck in front of them has left its engine running, diesel fumes overlaying the clean salt air. The light is beginning to fade and she thinks it’ll be dark by the time they get in.

  The drive back from Jeanette’s has taken six hours. A road map, bottles of water, and empty potato chip bags lie at her feet. She dusts a few stray crumbs from her lap, desperate now to get out of her creased clothes and into the shower.

  She keeps thinking about how earlier she’d crept through Jeanette’s home, rifling through her drawers and cupboards—with the hope of finding what? Some clue that Jackson was telling the truth? Some clue that he was lying?

  Beside her Saul runs his thumb over the steering wheel as if he’s lost in thought. He looks tired; stubble grazes his jaw and his hair sticks up at the back where it’s been rubbing against the headrest. The last few weeks have been tough on him, too, she realizes.

  “Thank you,” she says suddenly. “For taking me to Jeanette’s.” Saul had given up most of his weekend to drive her across the state and back again. She wonders whether she’s been too hard on him, blaming him for Jackson’s mistakes when Saul was only trying to protect her from them.

  “I’m just sorry it didn’t go better,” Saul says.

  “I don’t know what I was expecting. Jeanette and I were never going to be friends.” She slides her hands beneath her thighs. “I guess I just hoped we’d talk more—that maybe she’d be able to answer some of my questions. I walked away too easily.”

  “Maybe when things’ve settled you could try again?”

  She shakes her head. “You saw how she was. She threw me out.”

  “She must’ve been in shock.”

  “It was more than that. Jeanette blames me. She made me feel like I was just Jackson’s mistress.”

  Then she asks, “Was it strange for you seeing Jeanette again?”

  He shrugs and she thinks he’s going to brush off the question; instead, he leans forward, resting his clasped hands on the steering wheel as he says, “It reminded me how far in the past all that is. Maybe I’ve spent so long being angry about what happened, I believed there was more between Jeanette and me than there really was.”

  She’s surprised by the feeling of relief that sighs through her body.

  “I think you did the right thing going there today,” he says.

  “Do you?”

  He nods. “I should’ve told you the truth when you first came to Wattleboon.” His gaze locks onto hers. “You don’t know how much I regret that.”

  A low heat spreads across her cheeks beneath the intensity of his stare.

  “I wish that wasn’t how we met, Eva.”

  She presses her lips together. Nods. “I know.”

  On the dash, Saul’s cell phone rings, but his eyes don’t leave Eva’s.

  She feels her face growing hot. She glances at the phone, saying, “Maybe you should answer it.”

  After a moment,
Saul reaches for it. “Saul Bowe speaking.” There is a rise in his tone as he says, “No? When?” He rubs the back of his head, asking, “For how long? Right, right. Okay, I’m on my way.”

  He drops the phone into his lap and starts the engine.

  “Saul?”

  He glances ahead, then back over his shoulder at the line of cars parked nose to bumper. “Shit!” he says, smacking a hand on the steering wheel.

  “What is it?”

  “My dad,” he tells her. “He’s in the hospital.”

  AN HOUR AND A half later, Saul stands beside his father’s hospital bed, his hands deep in his pockets. His father sleeps. A tube runs into a vein on his arm, sending a measured dose of morphine around his body. His top half is bare and Saul finds something shocking about the gray, wiry hairs that spread across his chest and the prominence of his rib cage, which rises and falls beneath thin, sallow skin.

  Saul hasn’t seen him bare-chested in years. He remembers his father striding around the deck of the cray boat, his skin glistening with sweat, thick muscles rippling beneath deeply tanned skin. During school holidays, Saul and Jackson crewed on the boat and loved seeing their father at the helm, bellowing instructions and jokes at them and the rest of crew.

  The bed sighs as his father stirs, opening his eyes. “Saul.”

  “How you feelin’?”

  He swallows. Licks his lips. Smiles a little. “I’ll be fine.”

  Saul jangles his truck keys in his pocket. “Will you? I spoke to the doctor. It’s not acute anymore,” he says, referring to the attacks of pancreatitis his father’s been having over the past few years. “It’s chronic now. Your pancreas is a mess. They’re testing you for diabetes, too. He tell you that?” Saul doesn’t know why he’s being so bullish. He feels out of control here, thrown off balance by the sight of his father like this.

  Dirk winces as he struggles to push himself upright. Saul helps him, carefully gripping his upper arms as he shuffles up the bed. The skin on his father’s biceps feels loose, the muscles wasted.

  “Sorry to cause you this trouble.”

  Saul returns his hands to his pockets. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I just want you to be well.”

  “I’ve done this to myself. We both know that.”

  The booze, the bloody booze, Saul thinks. “How long’ve you been in pain?”

  “Ah, awhile.”

  “Has it been bad?”

  “Some days it’s worse than others.”

  “You’re thin as a rake.”

  “Bulimia. They don’t want you on the catwalk if you’re a pound over eight stone.”

  Saul cracks a smile. “Only thing you’ll be modeling is a hospital gown if you keep this up.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Saul’s voice grows quieter. “You should’ve told me you were ill.”

  “What would you’ve done? You’ve got a busy life, Saul. It’s down to me on this. I’ll deal with it, eh?”

  “You called me earlier.”

  “Yeah, thought I might need to see the doc.”

  Saul feels terrible about not answering his father’s call. He looks closely at Dirk; the whites of his eyes are yellowish and heavily veined and his skin looks washed out, as if the life in him has been drained. “Chronic pancreatitis—it’s serious. It’s gonna reduce your life expectancy, that’s what the doctor reckons.”

  “I know.”

  “So you’ll stop the drinking?”

  His father sighs. “I want to. I always want to.” He doesn’t say any more and Saul understands; it’s a conversation that they’ve had too many times before. Wanting to stop and stopping are two different things.

  They fall into silence, listening to the electronic beeps of Dirk’s monitor.

  “You gettin’ looked after all right in here?” Saul asks for something to say.

  Out in the corridor a male nurse passes by pushing a trolley and calling out a chirpy hello to them both.

  “Sponge baths aren’t what they used to be,” Dirk says.

  “The old dog hasn’t lost his sense of humor, then.”

  “Nah, just his dignity.”

  They talk for a few minutes more and then Saul says, “I’ve been thinking. What if you come and stay with me once you’re out of here? Just till you’re back on your feet.” The offer may be prompted by his guilt, but Saul knows it’s the right thing. Seeing his father in the hospital like this is a stark reminder that the years are creeping up on them. If they’re ever going to close the gap that’s been steadily widening between them, it’s got to be now.

  “On Wattleboon?”

  Saul nods.

  “Nah. Don’t reckon that’d work.”

  “Why not?” Saul asks. He’s not going to let his father off so easily.

  “Dunno. It’s just not for me.”

  “Used to be.”

  “Yeah, well. That was a long time ago,” Dirk says, his expression darkening.

  Saul knows that Dirk hasn’t stepped foot on Wattleboon since the bush fire, but that’s got to change. It’s Saul’s home now and he wants his father to be part of his life there. “You haven’t even seen the house yet. I think you’ll like it.”

  “It’s a nice offer, son. I appreciate it. I do. But I’m just not sure I can.”

  “Think about it, won’t you?”

  Dirk nods, his eyes slowly closing.

  EVA LEAVES THE CAFETERIA carrying two coffees in plastic cups. Her fingers begin to burn, so she puts them down and pulls her sleeves over her hands before picking them up again.

  Wandering back through the maze of corridors, she smells antiseptic, bleach, and the warm fug of overcooked food. She wonders if every hospital smells the same the world over.

  When Eva reaches the gastroenterology department, she finds Saul standing in the waiting room, gazing out the window. He looks too large and too tanned against the pale, sterile decor of this room.

  “How is he?” she asks, coming to his side. She places their coffees on the windowsill; they breathe two small clouds of condensation onto the glass.

  “They’ve given him some more morphine. He’s sleeping.”

  She nods. “How long do they think he’ll be in for?”

  “Reckon he’s looking at a week. They want to get his weight back up. Make sure he can hold his food before he leaves.”

  “What have they said about the drinking?”

  “If he carries on, he’ll kill himself. His pancreas is screwed. Even if it settles this time, there’ll be scarring, which’ll make other attacks more likely.”

  “Do you think he’ll be able to stop?”

  “Maybe. For a while. He’s had some sober spells. Made a year once.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “What? Him being in the hospital?”

  “His drinking.”

  Saul looks surprised, as if no one’s ever asked him that question before. “He’s been an alcoholic for more of my life than he hasn’t. I don’t like it—but I can’t change it.”

  Eva waits; she’s learning that Saul is someone who needs to be given the space to talk.

  After a moment, he continues. “I’ve not been good at understanding it. I mean, I understand what triggered it. But I just . . .” He presses his palms against the window. “I just can’t understand why he still does it to himself. I know it’s an illness, an addiction, or whatever the hell the doctors call it, but still, if he just—stopped.”

  He shakes his head again, dropping his hands to his sides. “He looks so old,” he says quietly.

  “He’s tough,” Eva tells him. “He’s going to be okay.”

  “He called me earlier this morning and I ignored it. I hadn’t been to see him in ages. I should’ve been checking in on him. I know how cut up he is over Jackson. His drinking would have been worse than ever. There’s no excuse; I pass his house every time I go in to the lab.” He looks over at Eva and says, “He could’ve died. He’s all I’ve got left, and he co
uld’ve died.”

  Eva steps forward and puts her arms around him.

  They stand together in the waiting room, voices of nurses and visitors drifting past. She feels his breathing slow in the space of her arms. Gradually the tension slides out of him. Out of her. Pressed together as they are, the rest of the world recedes.

  THEY BOOK ROOMS FOR the night in a motel near the hospital. The interior is dull and timeworn but the shower is powerful and Eva lets the water sluice over her, hot and welcome. The tension in her neck and shoulders loosens, and gradually the day begins to leave her.

  The bathroom is thick with steam when she steps from the shower, small pools of water following her across the linoleum floor. Wrapping a towel around herself, she wanders into the bedroom, searching the motel’s drawers for a hair dryer. Not finding one, she makes the mistake of pausing to sit on the edge of the bed, which is so soft beneath her that she thinks she’ll lie back, just for a moment.

  She has almost drifted off when she’s startled awake by the sound of knocking. Clutching her towel to her, she darts across the room, picking up her clothes from the floor and tugging them on.

  Flushed, she answers the door, the towel still in her hand.

  Saul stands before her, smiling his easy, welcome smile. “You hungry?”

  “Mmm . . . but I’m not sure I can face getting back in the car.”

  “Want to order in?”

  She locates a glossy pamphlet for a pizzeria and they order two pepperoni pizzas, which arrive fifteen minutes later. They sit on the bed picking up hot slices, melted cheese dripping from their fingers.

  “Sorry we didn’t make it back to Wattleboon,” Saul says.

  “Well, they don’t do pizza delivery to Wattleboon.”

  “True.” He grins.

  When they’re finished, Saul wipes his hands on a napkin, balls it up, and shoots it into the wastebasket.

  Eva fetches them beers from the minibar and they pop open the tops and clink cans. “Cheers.”

  Leaning against the bed headboard, they talk about ordinary things—books, films, friends—and Eva feels herself relaxing, a pleasant tiredness hovering nearby.