Into My Arms

by Kylie Ladd

  They were fighting over her, the light and the dark. Sometimes when she opened her eyes she thought it was morning, then she’d open them again and the room had grown dim. Had half an hour passed, or a day? She tried to ask but the words caught in her throat like cottonwool balls. At first Skye wondered if she’d had another baby. There was the wound on her abdomen, for a start, her inability to sit up; there were the curtains around her bed and the doctors muttering as they flicked through her chart. It all seemed so familiar, somehow . . . but there was no child being brought to her, no heat in her breasts.

  Something else, then. Skye forced herself to concentrate, matching her breathing to the metronome of the machine. In . . . beep . . . out . . . beep. The darkness reached for her, but she kicked at it, clinging for safety to the rails of her bed. She was winning this time. She was clawing her way free. Why was she here? Think. Images slowly swam up to her. She was at home, in her studio, working on something . . . a big piece, a sculpture, only it wasn’t her home anymore, she recalled with a pang. She’d left Hamish. She’d moved out and taken Molly with her. Skye’s eyes flew open. Molly! Where was Molly? There’d been a fight, she thought, heart racing. She remembered it now. Hamish was shouting something, advancing towards her, knocking over the sculpture . . . but Molly hadn’t been there, had she? The machine went into overdrive, beeps accelerating, crashing into each other. Skye felt a scream gather itself deep in her chest, and then there was a man she didn’t know standing by her bed, smiling at her and saying, ‘Well, look who’s here.’

  She’d had a transplant, he told her, when she could breathe calmly again, when she’d been reassured that Molly was fine and would soon be in to see her. A kidney transplant—one of hers had been damaged. There’d been an accident, at home . . . Normally the other kidney could take over, but Skye’s had been weakened by the preeclampsia she’d developed when she was pregnant. ‘Do you remember that?’ the doctor asked. Skye nodded warily. ‘Don’t worry if it’s still a bit vague,’ he went on. ‘You’ve been sick for almost a month now. Things will come back to you as you recover and we get you off the painkillers. The main thing is that the new kidney works beautifully. You’ll have to be monitored, of course, but it was pretty much a perfect match.’

  ‘It was? Where did it come from?’ asked Skye.

  The doctor looked surprised. ‘Your brother. Sorry. We told you that before, when you first woke up from the surgery, but then you went back to sleep.’ He wrote something down on a piece of paper and handed it across. ‘Here’s my name. Dr Gow. Paul. I’ll be in to see you every day, but if you have any more questions just ask one of the nurses to call me.’

  ‘Can I see him?’ asked Skye. ‘My brother. Is he here?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Dr Gow. ‘He’s in the next room. We’re very happy with his progress—he should be ready to go home at the beginning of next week. I’ll get a nurse to bring him in.’

  He left the room and Skye sank back against the pillow, trying to take it all in. A new kidney. She’d been cut into; opened up. Gingerly she put her hands to her stomach, anxious to know more, but there were just the dressings she’d encountered before and a lone plastic tube snaking out of her side. A transplant. It seemed impossible, but more memories were coming back to her now; vivid, yet somehow familiar, things she thought she’d dreamed. Hamish’s accusations, the searing weight of the statue striking her flank, the smell of glue on her hands as she brought them up to protect herself. Newer memories too, shaded by drugs and fatigue and the pain: Nell asleep by her bed, mouth open, face lined; Molly’s damp palm against her cheek. She’d struggled up out of the blackness for that, drawn to the touch like a fish to a lure. Had they spoken? She didn’t think so, but they’d been there, Nell and Molly, waiting for her. Arran too, maybe, though she couldn’t recall it. He must have been in bed, recovering from his own surgery.

  And Hamish. Hamish had also visited. At her bedside were flowers and a card in his handwriting, as well as a framed photo of Molly she knew he usually kept on his desk at work. It was good of him to bring it in, she thought, so she could see it when she awoke. Would he come back again? She supposed so. The idea neither moved nor upset her; it washed against her like a wave on a beach and then retreated back out to sea. Nothing was stirred: no passion, but no anger either, and certainly no hatred. If this was his fault, it was hers too.

  The door to her room swung open and a figure appeared in a wheelchair, being pushed by a nurse. Expecting to see Arran, Skye sat up, not comprehending, her incision throbbing in protest. Ben? Why was he here? Then she saw his drip and his pallor and she understood.

  The nurse wheeled him to her bed and bent to put the brakes on. ‘I’ll leave you two now,’ she said, straightening up. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a lot to catch up on.’ She turned to Ben. ‘Just use your sister’s buzzer to call me when you want to go back to your own room.’

  Skye waited until the nurse had left; until she had closed the door and her footsteps had faded in the hallway. ‘You,’ she said, staring at him. ‘You’re the donor?’

  Ben nodded. ‘Arran couldn’t do it, and Hamish didn’t match. This was Hamish’s idea—he got my address from Arran, and they came to see me. He was so worried about you, Skye . . .’

  But she wasn’t listening. ‘It’s your kidney inside me,’ she said. ‘You gave it to me?’

  Ben nodded again, but was silent. A clock ticked on the wall; the fluid in Ben’s drip caught the light from the window. They gazed at each other. Vegemite eyes, Skye thought, remembering Charlie. Her eyes, Arran’s eyes, Ben’s . . . Eyes she had recognised in the mirror in the art room, on that day long ago when she’d cut herself.

  ‘Can I see your scar?’ she asked. Ben rose stiffly from his chair and sat beside her on the bed, lifting his shirt. There was a patch of gauze taped to his skin. He pulled it back to reveal an eight-centimetre incision neatly held together with blue-black stitches, the edges red but healing. Skye placed her hand on the wound, gently tracing it with her fingers.

  ‘Now your turn,’ said Ben.

  Her dressing was larger and harder to detach. Ben moved her hand away and eased back the bandage, careful not to hurt her. Her own scar lay beneath, a tattoo, a marking she would carry with her for the rest of her life, longer than Ben’s but otherwise identical. Just as she’d done, he reached out to touch it, to circumnavigate its ridges, a lone explorer on the pale plain of her flesh.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, finally looking up.

  Skye felt her heart racing, her pulse soar. She closed her eyes and saw herself begin to heal: the blood pumping out from her core and around her body, nourishing her organs; the new kidney, rich with life, nestled inside her like a secret, like an amulet. He was part of her. He had been part of her from the very beginning, formed with and alongside her. How she’d fought it, how they’d fought it, but this . . . this was an ending somehow, a conclusion, a completion. This was irrevocable. He would always be with her now, in some way at least, and that was enough.

  Skye took Ben’s hand from her stomach and laid it in her lap. Slowly, with infinite care, she pulled him against her, pulled him down on the bed so they were lying above the covers, face to face, side by side, scar to scar; Ben’s arms around her, her arms around him. The darkness came for her again, and this time she gave in to it.

  41

  ‘Name?’ asked the woman at the information desk.

  Zia had to think. ‘Ben . . . ah . . . Cunningham,’ he said, clutching the casserole dish tighter to his chest. It was still warm, the heat radiating through his thin shirt. Cunningham. That was right, wasn’t it? It felt like a long time since he had last used Ben’s surname, since he had been his teacher rather than his friend.

  ‘Ward Three South, room seventeen.’ She looked up, pointing. ‘Take the lifts over there to the third level, then turn left. There’s a nurses’ station you can ask at if you have any trouble.’

&n
bsp; Zia thanked her and returned to where Habib was waiting in the crowded foyer. ‘Three South,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  Habib rose reluctantly. ‘I’ll wait here,’ he said in Farsi, plucking nervously at the cuff of his jacket.

  ‘No way,’ Zia protested, switching to the same language. He grabbed Habib’s sleeve and steered him towards the lift. ‘I really want you to meet him. He runs the drop-in group, and he took me and Farid rock climbing. Plus he helped look for you, remember? With Arran, that man who drove us home from the airport. Arran started it all, trying to find you, but Ben went with him.’

  Habib shuffled into the elevator behind him, careful to stay close. The doors closed, and he glanced at Zia anxiously. It was the small space, Zia realised. It must bring back memories.

  ‘Relax,’ he said, shifting the casserole dish to one hip and awkwardly putting his arm around his older brother. ‘We won’t stay long, I promise, and Ben won’t expect you to speak English. Except maybe hello. Can you say that? Hello?’

  ‘Hello,’ Habib repeated dutifully, and Zia patted him on the back. Seven years ago, in Iran, Habib had been the one who knew everything, who told him what to do, but their roles had changed now, reversed. It made Zia want to laugh and cry at the same time. Instead he jabbed at the door-open button and strode out onto level three, glancing around. He’d missed Ben, these last few weeks that he hadn’t been there at the drop-in centre. When he’d heard he was in hospital he knew he wanted to take him something, to look after Ben just as Ben had looked after him. What better way than with food? Zia had made ghormeh sabzi, a Persian green curry. It was bound to be better than anything Ben was being served here. Zia could smell the lamb and the turmeric as he knocked on Ben’s door, then gently pushed it open.

  But the room was empty, the sheets on the bed thrown back in a tangle, as if whoever had been there had left in a hurry. Zia stood in the doorway, Habib lurking behind him.

  ‘Should we go now?’ Habib asked, and for a moment Zia was tempted. It was still all too complicated, this country, nothing was ever straightforward. He’d tried, that was the main thing. He could tell Ben later that he’d been there. Then he felt the pot in his arms, warm and heavy as a child, and squared his shoulders, setting off in search of the nurses’ station.

  ‘I came to see Ben in room seventeen, but he’s not there,’ he told a blonde woman behind the desk.

  She disappeared for a moment into an office behind her, then quickly returned. ‘Apparently he’s been taken in to see his recipient—the person he gave his kidney to. She’s in the next room further along the corridor, number eighteen.’ The nurse saw him hesitate, and added, ‘You can go in, if you like. I’m sure he’d love to see you. And that smells fabulous. Be a shame to waste it.’ She smiled at him, and Zia smiled back. He could cook now. It had taken a while, but he could finally cook.

  Zia made his way to room eighteen, Habib tagging along. The door was slightly ajar, so he peered in, not wanting to intrude. Ben was lying on the bed, his eyes closed, arms wrapped around something . . . around someone. Zia gradually realised that it was a woman, that they were asleep and holding each other. It took him a moment, but then he recognised her, remembered how she had sat with him and drawn him out in her art class when he could barely speak, how she’d praised his work and asked him questions about his country. Miss Holt. Skye. He watched them lying together, Ben’s cheek against Skye’s forehead. They were linked, he realised with a jolt, they were all joined somehow: Arran and Miss Holt and Ben, the only adults he felt connected to outside of his own family. He didn’t understand it, but it made him happy nonetheless, the pattern emerging from the fragments like the mosaics in the mosque at Shiraz.

  Habib looked at him questioningly, and Zia shook his head. No, they weren’t going in. He backed out of the room quietly so as not to wake Ben and Skye, then left the curry at the nurses’ station with a note: Get better and I will see you soon. Love, Zia. In a sudden surge of joy he grabbed Habib’s hand and raced with him towards the lift, Habib laughing and protesting. They had to hurry, Zia thought. Back outside, back into the day. They needed to get home to their mother.

  Acknowledgements

  I thought that by novel number three I’d have this all under control and my list of acknowledgements would be getting shorter, not longer. I was wrong. With sincere thanks to those of you who helped bring Into My Arms into the world:

  Jacqui and Andrew Mulvogue, for the throwaway line that inspired the book, for answering all my nosy questions, for the many drinks you’ve poured us over the years. Thanks, guys.

  Dr Tim Mathew, Medical Director at Kidney Health Australia, and artist Nola Diamantopoulos, for speaking with me about dialysis, renal transplantation and how to make a wall mosaic. Any mistakes in the book are mine, not theirs.

  Caz Coleman and Stephanie Mendis, who worked at the Hotham Mission Asylum Seeker Program in Melbourne at the time of writing—thank you for your insights into the life of asylum seekers living in the community. The ASP does amazing work with the most vulnerable asylum seekers living lawfully in the community while they await the outcome of their claims for protection, and are well worth supporting: http://hothammission.org.au/ My publisher, Jane Palfreyman, who is an inspiration—thank you, Jane, for second chances; my agent Pippa Masson, for unfailing optimism, support, and just plain getting it; my editors Catherine Milne and Clara Finlay—I hope I’m older than you both, because I intend for you to edit my work for the rest of my life; and Siobhán Cantrill at Allen & Unwin for once again (fourth time!) tying everything together so seamlessly. I couldn’t ask for a better team.

  Jodie Sier, for Tatong and the many happy times spent there—thank you, my dear friend; James (‘You can’t do THAT’) Griffin and Gab (‘Makes sense to me’) Wynne, for long, diametrically opposed plot discussions over pizza; Kerri Sackville, for only ever being a DM away, for making me laugh and keeping me sane; Charlotte Wood, for encouragement and empathy when most needed; and the Broome public library, for having air-conditioning and being a great place to work—thank you Rae and Sally, in particular, for making me so welcome.

  And finally, this is a novel about families, how we make and find them, so it seems only right to finish by thanking mine. To Craig, for wonderful memories of Arran (the place, not my character), and for the year in Broome where much of Into My Arms was written . . . I’m so grateful for that, and for you. And to Declan and Cameron—my life, quite simply, wouldn’t be half as rich without you two in it. I love you both madly, and I’m so glad you came along.

  Table of Contents

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CONTENTS

  SEPTEMBER 2009

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  JANUARY 2011

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  NOVEMBER 2012

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

 

 

 
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