The Memory Tree

by Tess Evans

  ‘It will grow up along with you,’ Hal said.

  And it did. Each year the tree grew taller as Sealie and Zav outgrew their shoes and their shirts and their pants; as Sealie outgrew her dolls and her skipping rope and her best friend, Angie; as Zav outgrew his Lego and his comics and his footy cards. The tree grew wide and tall, and every year bloomed with even more splendour. It watched over the house as the children grew to adulthood, as Hal grew more and more strange. It watched benignly as my mother and father were married under its branches.

  It’s still out there in the garden, its flowers glowing like pale moons. What Hal had neglected to say that day was that the tree would also witness their ageing. Unlike them, it would retain its beauty, just as their mother did. In their collectivememories, and therefore in mine, she remains a beautiful young woman.

  Mrs Mac stayed on with them, providing a home as well as she could. She loved them, you see. What to others seemed like a sacrifice of her own life, an over-wrought sense of duty, was in fact an act of love. Even Hal, who, as we have seen, could be really obtuse—even Hal was sensible to the value of this woman.

  When she turned thirty-five, the second birthday after Paulina’s death, he told her not to cook anything for dinner. ‘You take the day off and I’ll provide the meal,’ he said grandly before remembering he couldn’t cook. Hal naturally assumed he needed a woman for the task and the only woman he knew well enough to ask was Rose, the wife of his old friend and business partner. Assuming a similar enthusiasm in Rose he scurried around the corner to her house and, bubbling with glee, announced his plan.

  ‘I want to cook a nice roast,’ he said. ‘And an apple roly-poly—and a cake. A fruit cake, I think. I just need a few tips.’

  When she realised the meal was to be cooked that night, Rose was exasperated. ‘You mean you want me to cook,’ she said. ‘Honestly, Hal, I don’t mind cooking for Mrs Mac, but honestly!’ She was lost for words, she said, and Hal grinned back at her sheepishly.

  ‘If you could just put on the roast,’ he said. ‘You and Bob are invited, of course.’

  He took the afternoon off to help and ate more peas than he shelled as Rose prepared the potatoes, pumpkin, carrots and cauliflower cheese, all the while making an apple roly-poly, a fruit cake and occasionally slapping Hal’s hand as it dipped into the peas. They call it multi-tasking now—women seem to be very good at it.

  Mrs Mac was both delighted and embarrassed. Zav gave her a string of fake pearls. He’d saved up. They were nice for fakes.

  ‘Hope you have a happy birthday,’ he said gruffly, handing her the parcel. ‘They’re not real, but the man said they would fool anybody.’

  ‘They’re just lovely,’ she said. ‘Can you help me put them on?’

  Zav wrestled with the clasp and Mrs Mac admired them in the hall mirror. ‘They must be real,’ she said. ‘They look real to me.’ She hugged him and a pleased flush suffused his face.

  ‘Yeah. Well. Happy birthday.’

  Sealie, who didn’t have as much pocket money, gave her a homemade vase with a bunch of flowers. She had spent all of the evening before decorating a nicely shaped jam jar and was pleased to see it as the centrepiece for the table.

  Hal (as suggested by the helpful Rose) had bought her a marcasite brooch.

  ‘I’ll only wear it on special occasions,’ she said, admiring its intricate filigree. Hal gave her a peck on the cheek. He had another surprise and stood up to make a toast.

  ‘We want to wish Mrs Mac many happy returns of the day,’ he said. ‘But first, I have a limerick.’

  Sealie shot a delighted look at Zav who folded his arms, sat back in his chair and grinned indulgently.

  Three cheers for our own Mrs Mac

  Who keeps all the household on track

  A genius with cooking

  And also good-looking

  There’s nothing this woman does lack.

  Hal sat down, modestly deflecting their praise. ‘I’m not too happy with the last line. I reckon it’s a bit clumsy.’

  ‘I love it. Last line and all.’ Mrs Mac spoke softly, but her moist eyes met Hal’s and he knew she meant it.

  2

  AUNT SEALIE ALWAYS RISES EARLY. She likes to have a small part of the day to herself. This morning, though, she’s agitated, drinking her coffee and buttering her toast with scant attention. She begins to read the letter again, aware that despite her best efforts, the words she sees are irrevocable.

  Dear Ms Rodriguez,

  I regret to inform you that your appeal against your father’s return to the community has been rejected on the grounds summarised in Attachment 1. A full medical report is enclosed in Attachment 2. As you have been informed, there are no further grounds for appeal.

  At our meeting in November, you were informed that this Facility will cease operations on 25 August and all residents are required to find alternative accommodation by 30 May.

  We understand that your father still owns the house at 17 Fyffe St, Yarra Falls. As no other arrangement has been made, he will be released to your care on 18 April.

  Please complete Attachment 3 and return to us for processing at least four weeks prior to that date.

  Further enquiries can be made through Ms Adrienne Suitor, Regional Coordinator.

  Yours sincerely,

  Graham B. Winters

  Chief Medical Officer

  Aradale Hospital

  Sealie folds the letter and glances at the stairs. Zav is still asleep. He sleeps badly at night and finds rest only as the sun rises. She gets up, toast in one hand, coffee mug in the other. I’ve done my best, she tells the magnolia tree. I can only do my best. Your husband. Your son, she adds with sudden hostility. What about your daughter?

  When the government’s deinstitutionalisation policy was first mooted, Sealie hardly noticed. It never occurred to her that it might apply to Hal. Young wards of the state and people with Down Syndrome were moved back with their families or into small group homes. No-one regretted the large, impersonal and sometimes abusive institutions that were closed, and if Sealie thought about it at all, she approved of such measures.

  She continued to visit her father on the first Saturday of every month, for several years taking the Friday evening train and staying overnight at Ararat. The train journey was dull but pleasant, and if she looked up from her book, she saw the flat paddocks stretching out to both horizons. Green, yellow or a fallow brown, their cycle was somehow reassuring. She would lean her forehead against the cool train window and wish that the journey would never end—that she could ride forever in a state of suspension. But Ararat station always came into view and she always alighted with the farmers’ wives, the businessmen and the schoolchildren coming home from boarding school for the weekend. She envied the excited chatter of the children as they ran up to their parents and followed them to waiting cars. Sighing, Sealie would turn away up Main Street to her hotel. She always stayed at the Railway Hotel where she enjoyed the hospitality of Ron and Cheryl Forrester. They were discreet—sympathetic, but never nosey, and when she wasn’t busy, Cheryl came and chatted with Sealie after dinner.

  How’s it going, now? Cheryl would ask, leaning her ample arms on the table. Could do with a bit of rain, she’d say. Or, Ron’s done his back again. Or, The grandkiddies are coming to stay for a couple of days. All safe topics. But her bright, sympathetic eyes saw the strain in Sealie’s face. Even with the passing of nearly twenty years, she always thought of Sealie as the nineteen year old with the sad eyes who, with her head high, had told them on that first day that she was here to visit her father.

  ‘Poor little bugger,’ she’d say to her husband, as they wiped down the bar or stacked the dishes. ‘She must be a saint to visit him after what he done.’ Ron could only nod in agreement. It was a small town and there were very few secrets.

  On these Saturdays, while Hal was still in J-Ward, Sealie had a late breakfast and then walked up the road to the grim, stone building which started
life as a jail but was now a ward of the Aradale Psychiatric Hospital. If the weather was warm, she’d stroll and look at the trees and take some pleasure in the blue outline of the Pyrenees and the Grampians. If it was cold, she’d walk faster, but take the long way. Her feet, like her heart, were reluctant, and she’d often pause to tie her shoelace or check her shopping bag. She usually brought small treats for Hal—a new science fiction novel, some toiletries, cigarettes, a store of Cherry Ripes—always the cigarettes and Cherry Ripes. On his birthday she’d bring a sponge cake and later, when he was able to wear them, a gift of silk pyjamas. Hal was soothed by the feeling of silk against his skin, and when he was moved to the main campus of the hospital, he occasionally directed her to buy a silk dressing gown to replace the old, ratty one that he liked to wear all the time. He hated the government issue clothes he was obliged to wear in J-Ward.

  As the blue-stone walls loomed closer, Sealie would feel her heart beat quicken and taste the bitterness of bile in her mouth. Sometimes, in the early days, she retched violently, and stood by the roadside, dazed and mortified, mopping her mouth with a tissue.

  Hal was well enough treated in J-Ward. It housed many violent patients with severe mental illness, but was staffed by nurses, not warders. The inmates were not convicted felons. They had been found unfit to plead, and a system struggling with concepts of mental illness and criminal behaviour did what it could.

  In these early days she’d sometimes find her father sitting with his hands between his knees, and was stricken to see saliva running unchecked down his chin. At other times his limbs were restless and jittery or worse, his eyes rolled way back in his head. The first time she experienced this, she thought he was having a stroke and screamed for help.

  ‘It’s a reaction to the medication,’ a nurse assured her. ‘No harm done.’

  Sealie nodded dumbly. Why didn’t they tell me what to expect? She felt herself trembling, and despite the fact that she wanted, more than anything, to get away, she sat frozen in her seat as the nurse wiped her father’s chin and hurried on to other duties.

  She saw little of his violence. If he were going through a period of distress or instability, the charge nurse phoned to tell her not to come. This policy was to spare the relatives and friends and to avoid exacerbating the problem behaviour. There were a couple of visits, however, when Hal’s mood changed with savage swiftness, and she was forced to retreat before a barrage of obscenities and curses. Nurses moved in to restrain him, but not before the young woman was seared by the madness in her father’s eyes.

  As time went by, Sealie began to wonder if the chemically restrained Hal were not more distressing. She could shut herself off from the violent stranger who looked so much like her father. But when his mood was sombre and perplexed, when he dribbled like a baby and his eyes rolled back, when he cried out for understanding, there was no refuge.

  ‘I did what I had to do,’ he’d explain with weary insistence. ‘I had no choice.’ Then in a voice filled with anguish, he’d murmur over and over, Christ’s words from the cross, ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’

  And his slow tears, coming from some desolate place, fell without check, while Sealie’s throat swelled painfully.

  How much longer can I do this? she often wondered. No-one would blame me if I never set foot in the place again. Then she’d remember being hoisted onto her father’s broad shoulders when she was too tired to walk. Or sharing the chocolate milkshake they both loved. She’d remember his clumsy efforts at tying her hair ribbons in Mrs Mac’s absence and his shy presentation of the watch she no longer had any use for.

  Despite her delicate features and slender figure, despite her revulsion and fear, Aunt Sealie was a strong woman; steadfast and loyal. Family was central to her just as it had been to Hal. For better or worse, he was her dad and she would never abandon him.

  Sealie drains the last of her coffee and busies herself with Zav’s breakfast. She will have to get ready for work soon, and knows if she doesn’t wake him, Zav will remain in his cocoon all day. She poaches an egg, puts some bread in the toaster and makes a pot of tea, arranging it all on a tray with a glass of orange juice and the newspaper. At the last moment, she adds a pen, hoping he might while away some time on the crossword or the sudoku. It drives her crazy to think of him sitting there all day, doing nothing.

  ‘Wakey, wakey,’ she sings, opening the blinds. ‘Rise and shine.’

  Zav’s sleep-tousled head appears from under the bedclothes.

  ‘For God’s sake, Sealie, do you have to be so cheerful in the morning?’

  She indicates his breakfast on the bedside table. ‘You can always make your own breakfast,’ she snaps. They both know that this is an empty threat. It’s part of the fabric of their lives. He grumbles. She responds. He complies. They are like an old married couple. They share too much history to imagine life any other way.

  Zav is the first to back down. Arguments take too much energy. ‘I might go down to the library this morning,’ he offers. ‘Can I pick anything up at the shops?’

  Sealie can think of nothing she needs, but won’t let the opportunity pass. She tries to encourage Zav when he’s in a conciliatory mood.

  Especially when he makes an effort.

  ‘You could pick up some Granny Smiths. I might make an apple pie for the weekend.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ Zav attacks the egg with something like an appetite, then lays down his fork.

  ‘Seal?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why can’t we go to the Minister? They reckon she can overrule the Department.’

  Sealie sighs. ‘I’ve done that. Don’t you remember?’

  She remembers only too well—the assistant, grave and sympathetic on the phone, the letter it was suggested she send. The pain of writing it.

  Dear Minister, (she wrote)

  I wish to appeal the Department’s decision in the matter of the release of my father, Heraldo Juan Rodriguez. As you can see in the enclosed file, I am already taking care of my brother, a Vietnam veteran suffering from depression. I cannot be expected to care for my father and my brother in the same house.

  While the doctors insist that my father is no longer a danger to himself or the community, I cannot be sure that returning home will not awaken old memories for both of them.

  I cannot be held responsible for the consequences.

  I have power of attorney for my father, but have always left the house in his name. It was his wedding gift to my mother and I could never bring myself to change the title deeds. Now this sentimental gesture means that the Department refuses to find him alternative accommodation as he already owns a house.

  My brother is dependent upon me, and looks on the house as his home. He, too, is fragile and must not be allowed to live alone.

  I make this one last appeal to you to revoke the Department’s decision and find a place for my father where he can be watched and cared for.

  Yours sincerely,

  Selina Rodriguez

  She never got to meet with the Minister. The response to her letter was brisk.

  Dear Ms Rodriguez,

  The Minister has advised me to express her sympathy at your situation, but due to a shortage of suitable places, she is unable to overturn the Department’s decision conveyed in the letter of 14 December.

  She also advises me that the Department will continue to monitor your father’s condition. You are entitled to a full review of his situation twelve months after his release from care.

  The Government is grateful to the family members, like yourself, who have enabled this enlightened policy to be so successfully activated.

  Yours sincerely,

  Marco Torino

  For Judith Torvey, Minister for Social Services

  Sealie’s hand, still holding the letter, had dropped into her lap. She had to read it twice before she was able to fully comprehend its meaning. It’s too much. Don’t let it happen.Please, God—it’s not fair. Her thou
ghts, as always, turned to her brother. At least spare him. Hasn’t he suffered enough? But she was pleading with a God she had long since ceased to believe in.

  Zav was reading the newspaper when she came in with the letter. She handed it to him without preamble and watched his face as he read it. He swore softly and crumpled it in hand. ‘I won’t let it happen. I won’t.’ His voice began to rise. ‘Do you hear me? I won’t fucking allow it.’

  I can’t take much more of this. Sealie fought to control her anger. ‘For God’s sake, Zav—can’t you see? We have no choice. None. None at all.’

  She moved towards her brother but stopped when he looked directly at her—something he did only rarely. The old panic was in his eyes. ‘We’ll stick together, won’t we, Seal? We’ve always stuck together.’ In an awkward gesture, he put his arm around her shoulder. ‘I don’t want to make things any harder for you—but I’m not sure I . . . how . . .’ His grip became tighter. ‘I’m just . . . I don’t . . .’

  Sealie felt her anger drain away. ‘We’ll manage,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

  So my father and aunt repeat a conversation they’ve had so many times that it feels like a formula.

  ‘We’ve got no choice, Zav. We can’t just turn him out onto the street.’

  ‘I won’t speak to him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I won’t have anything to do with him.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Don’t expect me to eat with him.’

  ‘I never said you’d have to eat with him.’

  ‘He always loved you better.’

  ‘It was Mum he loved best of all.’

  ‘I know—Sealie, I don’t really feel up to the library. Can you get me the new Wilbur Smith on your way home?’

  ‘Alright. If you really can’t go out. I’ve got to get ready for work. Make sure you get up today.’

  He nods. But she’s unconvinced.

  I’m not convinced either.

  Sealie works for the local council as an accounts payable clerk. Dreary work for one who used to dream of a life in the theatre. She still does. Dream, I mean. She always sees herself as the prima ballerina. She listens to the soft swish of her slippers on the boards, feels the tickle of tulle as she brushes it with her arm. She points her toe and curtsies into the warm darkness that swells with applause. There are always flowers—roses, frangipani and pale green orchids. She accepts them gracefully and glides away to her dressing room where she smiles tenderly at her pale, oval face in the mirror.