by Jenni Ogden
“It is a bit of a shock,” I said. “He wasn’t like that at all when he was my dad.”
“Perhaps leaving Australia was the right thing for him to do. It forced him to grow up,” Mary said.
“Do you know why he left? Was there anything in particular?”
“He got a girl pregnant when he was seventeen. She was underage, only fifteen, and she had an illegal abortion. She nearly bled to death, and Harry had to get a doctor. Luckily the doctor was the same man who looked after Ma, and I think to save her from more grief he didn’t report it. He told Ma and Papa, though, and they were terribly upset. The girl recovered, and her family banned her from seeing Harry again, and that was that. But when Ma died not long after, I think Harry thought it was his fault. Ma doted on him.”
I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“That’s an unusual pendant,” Mary said after a long silence, and I realized I was playing with it again.
“Dad gave it to me on my last birthday. My last birthday before he drowned, I mean. It’s the only jewelry I possess. I’m not really the type.”
Mary leaned over and weighed the entwined silver dolphins with their opal eyes in her hand. “It was your grandmother’s. She only wore it on special occasions, and they were pretty rare.” She let it fall, and it shivered into place.
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” I didn’t meet her eyes.
“I thought it was lost. I even wondered if Papa had put it around her neck when he buried her, but he said he didn’t.”
“She must have given it to Dad, I suppose.” I felt the heat again, rising up my neck beneath the stolen pendant. I fiddled with the tiny catch, wanting it off. “You have it. I didn’t even know her.”
“Leave it on. She’d have wanted you to wear it. You’re her only granddaughter.”
I forced myself to look at Mary, and she smiled at me.
“Read the letter,” she said.
I pulled out the single page. I had recognized Dad’s handwriting on the envelope, addressed to Mr. Harry Fergusson, Dry Acres Farm, so I knew it was from him.
Dear Papa,
I am in England. I worked my way over on a container ship from Melbourne. I’ve already got a job here and am getting settled. I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye to you or Mary, but I didn’t want you to try and stop me. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you and the unhappiness I gave Ma. You were both good parents and didn’t deserve me. All I can do is promise to make a better life for myself here and be a better person. I don’t think I’ll be coming back there, at least not for a long time. Try and forget me. Please give my love to Mary when you see her and tell her I’m sorry for not being a good brother. Harry.
My father’s sorry letter. Not even “Love, Harry” at the end.
EIGHTEEN
On the plane from Melbourne back to Gladstone and my island I fought to forgive my father. What was it about men? Were they all liars, or just the ones in my life—and Fran’s professor, and Pat’s husband? But I still had Tom. I closed my eyes and saw his face smiling his crooked smile. I pressed my legs together and, for an indulgent few seconds, enjoyed the tingling, zinging sensation that hollowed my belly.
“Coffee or tea, Madam?”
As I sipped the dishwater coffee, I took out the little photo Mary had pushed into my hand. Now that I knew, I could sense the despair in my grandparents, standing together dressed in shapeless gray clothes, with their out-of-control son and feisty daughter looking sullen beside them. Clemency. My fingers rubbed her pendant. What on earth were her parents thinking when they saddled her with that name? Did she feel clemency for her wayward son? I tried to feel a connection with her. It was easier than finding a connection with the land of my father. Neither Dry Acres Farm—or its reinvention as the Artists’ Community—nor the pretty town of Healesville lit a spark in me. Did Dad feel the same way?
Mary and George were good people, and I had ended up staying the night and driving back to Melbourne the next morning. I heard all about George’s grown son, and the tragic story of his wife’s death. But although I felt sad for him, and even though we looked so alike, we didn’t feel like family. Not close family, anyway. Perhaps the hole Dad left when he disappeared was too deep to be filled so easily. I suspected our promises to keep in touch would become cards at Christmas.
Pat felt more like family to me. She had been discharged from hospital two days earlier and I’d had dinner with them all the previous night at Susie’s. When we hugged goodbye, Pat told me she would be back on Turtle Island the minute her chemo was over. Her first cycle was scheduled for the following week, and I offered to stay and ferry her to and from the hospital, but Susie and Troy had it sorted between them. Pat insisted that it was time for me to return to the island. “And Tom,” she added with her old grin. If love and optimism could banish any lurking cancer cells, Pat would be flippering over the coral again long before I had to leave. Four more months, and then back to Boston. I stared out the window at the white beaches fringing the green and brown land far below.
I HADN’T TOLD TOM I WAS COMING BACK, SO MY DISappointment when he wasn’t waiting for me on the wharf when Jack’s boat docked was ridiculous. I was rubbing the damned pendant again. I’d take it off for good as soon as I got to my cabin.
Unpacked and uncertain, in the late afternoon I wandered through the trees towards Tom’s house. My hand reached for the missing pendant. What on earth was the matter with me? Why would anything have changed? I turned along the sidetrack and stopped. There was a man in a chair on the sandy grass in front of the house. He was performing some sort of contorted dance—either mad as a hatter or high as a kite. I moved behind a tree and peered out like a kid. It was a wheelchair, not a chair, and the man was gesticulating and grimacing, his chair rocking with the force of it. My scalp prickled. Why was this man, so clearly unwell, outside Tom’s place?
I wanted to turn and run, but was stuck there, mesmerized and repelled by the familiar gestures. I had organized my lab so I could avoid direct contact with the participants in my research, but it was never 100 percent foolproof, and I had, over almost quarter of a century, been forced to watch the painful twisted movements of many Huntington’s disease victims.
I crept out from my cowardly hiding place and the man’s movements stopped abruptly. I could see him, his head twisted to one side, looking over at me. I walked sheepishly towards him, praying that Tom would appear and not leave me alone with whoever this was.
“Hullo there. Don’t be scared. I don’t b-b-bite or scratch.” His voice was deep and surprisingly melodious.
“Hullo,” I said. I took the long, thin hand he was waving in my direction, and shook it up and down before letting it drop.
A smile took over his face and he lurched back in his chair, almost tipping it over. I grabbed it and held it steady and he laughed. “It’s okay. It’s more stable than it looks.” His deep voice cracked and wobbled up a few notes.
“I’m Anna Fergusson. I’m a friend of Tom’s but I’ve been away.”
He spluttered and a glob of spit dribbled from the corner of his mouth. I swallowed my own saliva and moved back a step before I could stop myself.
“Morrie Spencer. Nice to meet you”—his head jerked again and he waved towards me—“Anna.”
“Is Tom around?” I said loudly, feeling stupid immediately. I smiled at him, forcing my eyes to join in.
“No. He’s escaped to some other island. He’ll be b-b-back tomorrow.” His voice had become deep again. It was rather pleasant. I tried not to look at him as he waved a large white handkerchief over his face, trying to mop up his dribble.
“Sorry,” he said when he had finished his mopping. “I’ve got Huntington’s disease and sometimes it’s a b-b-bugger to stay clean.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, feeling like a total shit. At least I was controlling my urge to shout at him as if he were deaf. “Are you a friend of Tom’s?”
“Yes. For a
long time.” He flapped his long arm back towards the house. “He lets me st-st-stay here every year. It’s my holiday.”
I could have hugged him. My head was zinging, my heart was singing. Tom wasn’t jealous when he saw my article, he was just choked up about his friend. “Well, it’s a nice place for a holiday,” I almost sang at him.
“The b-b-best. I used to go out in the tinnie with him but it’s a ba-bit hard now. Last time I went I fell out and Tom had a helluva time getting me ba-ba-back in.” He threw his head back and I caught the twinkle in his eyes, but the belly laugh that went with his expansive posture came out as a wheezy whooping. I found myself chuckling with him, the vision of Tom and his gesticulating friend floundering in the sea dancing before my eyes.
“How will you manage tonight by yourself, if Tom’s not here?” I asked when we had stopped laughing.
“It will b-b-be pretty funny, but I’ll manage. Tom’s left me a meal all nicely laid out on a plate.” He twisted and writhed and gasped for air. “Cold meat and spuds and a nice salad. I’m not a total b-b-basket case yet.”
“Of course not.” I was blushing and blustering. “I was wondering if you wanted some company? Perhaps I could even make something hot if you like.” The words tumbled out of my mouth without my permission. Morrie did his head on the side smile again and I grinned back. He was nice, and didn’t seem too cognitively impaired. It would be interesting to spend some time with him. He might even let out some secrets about Tom’s past.
“Tom told me about you, Anna. He can’t have b-b-been expecting you back.”
My face got hotter. “No, I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Is Pat back too?” His head jerked again but I caught the concern on his long face.
“No, she’s staying with her daughter while she has chemotherapy.”
“She’s a strong woman. I haven’t seen her for a couple of years”—he gesticulated wildly as his voice faltered—“she was away when I was here last year. B-b-b-but she’ll be baaa-be fine.”
I felt the prickle behind my eyes and blinked furiously. “I know she will. She has to be.”
I GOT BACK TO MY CABIN AROUND TEN O’CLOCK, exhausted. Whether it was from watching Morrie, or from the effort it took to understand him and make conversation, I didn’t know. Probably all of those things and a few emotions thrown in for good measure. Guilt and shame are likely tiring. After a shower—so good to get back to the bucket on a string after the fast hot wasteful showers in my Melbourne motel—I hauled out my computer. Tired as I was, I needed to write down what I was feeling. If I didn’t I’d never sleep, or if I slept I would regret it when the horrible dreams I deserved came to punish me.
1st June, 2009. I arrived back on Turtle Island today, looking forward to seeing Tom. I needed him to help me balance. I’ve been away for eighteen days but it feels like forever. First Pat, then finding Mary and George and discovering that Dad wasn’t the honest, perfect man I thought he was.
Who am I to cast the first stone? My own disgusting behavior is what’s eating into me now. I had a good time tonight with a man who has quite advanced Huntington’s disease. Morrie is one of the funniest people I’ve met in a long while, and it has nothing to do with his movements. He’s a natural comic. It’s a long time since I laughed so hard that I got stitch. Why have I taken twenty-five years to find out what all my research assistants have known from their first days with people like Morrie? I’m appalled at myself. I’ve always been ashamed—secretly of course—by my avoidance of contact with the very people who have given themselves so willingly to my study. I have always known it was terrible to use them like that, and that to excuse myself by employing wonderful, humane research assistants was a copout.
There is nothing, nothing in my background that can explain or excuse my feelings. I have thought about this often enough. The only thing even vaguely related is a time when I was perhaps four or five when we visited a friend of Mum’s and she had a teenage daughter who was severely disabled. She was hauling herself around the kitchen on her bottom and grunting. I remember being terrified of her. Hardly an excuse for my adult behavior. It doesn’t explain why I’m so useless and awkward around any patient and even their families if they need to talk. What I would give for just a tiny bit of the easy manner of Pat’s Dr. Pascoe.
I was on the verge of admitting it all to Morrie, and asking his forgiveness on the behalf of everyone with Huntington’s, but I managed to stop myself. Imagine laying that on him. He might have made it into a joke but I think he would probably have taken me seriously and let me weep and wail and feel sorry for myself, and then he would have said something wise and healing. I wonder if he’s always been so lovely, or if it is living with that horrific disease that has made him so sanguine.
I did tell him I had done some research on Huntington’s. After Tom’s reaction when he found my article, I didn’t want to seem to be hiding anything. Morrie had no such reaction. He thought it was great and made some joke about that being why I was so skilled at dealing with him. Or perhaps it wasn’t a joke. He said it was good to have another friend who wasn’t frightened by the way he danced about. I think he was perfectly aware of my shameful feelings when I first saw him.
By the time I had our dinner on the table, I hardly noticed his gyrations. I was laughing so much most of the time my gyrations were not much different. All these years I have missed getting to know my own research participants, and hear their amazing stories from them and not from my research assistants. Morrie told me a little about his own family. His mother died of Huntington’s ten years ago, and his father of a stroke two years after. He’s an only child, so he lives in a home for the disabled in Sydney. He was a schoolteacher, but that all came to an end five years ago when his symptoms got too bad. He was only thirty-eight. He and Tom have been friends since they were kids. Why didn’t Tom tell me about Morrie, at least once he realized I had worked on Huntington’s? Did he sense, somehow, my fear?
I SLEPT LIKE THE DEAD, AND WOKE TO A KISS. TOM’S dear face was there, level with mine as I lay on the top bunk. I wanted to pull him up beside me, but the room was blazing with light, so I thought better of it. Safe on the floor and still half asleep, I nuzzled his warm hand as it slid around the back of my neck to my cheek. The feeling was new and delicious. Then I remembered. “Oh god, my hair.”
“Why did you cut it all off?”
I looked up at him. Was he upset? “It was weighing me down.”
“But why so much, so short? Such beautiful hair.”
“You never told me that.”
“Anna, you didn’t need me to tell you. You could see for yourself every time you looked in the mirror.”
“I thought you’d like it short. The hairdresser said it would make me look years younger.”
“The hairdresser, huh.”
I pulled away from him, feeling my happiness draining away. “I thought you liked short hair.”
“Anna, why do you put yourself down all the time? You’re a beautiful woman. I’d rather you hadn’t cut all your wonderful hair off, but then I’m a man; we’re suckers for long hair.”
I swallowed, but the sick feeling stuck there. Tom was smiling at me and cupping my head in his hands.
“It’s only hair, Anna. Long or short doesn’t change who you are. Your hair has nothing to do with your beauty. You would be just as beautiful to me if you shaved it all off. You turned me on with long hair and by god you turn me on with this short sexy look.” He hugged me tight but not before I caught the shine in his eyes.
“You were quite a hit with Morrie.” His voice was muffled, buried in my hair.
I sniffed, and pressed into him. Morrie. Such a beautiful, confident person, and I think the length of my hair matters.
THE NEXT TWO WEEKS WERE SO MUCH FUN. I HAD NEVER laughed so much. We’d had plenty of serious conversations too; Morrie was quite a philosopher. Tom told me that Morrie was brilliant at school and university, and everyone thought he should
do something brainy, like nuclear physics, but all he wanted to do was teach kids. Of course he would have known he was at risk of getting Huntington’s, so perhaps he figured there was no point in doing something that involved years of study. I bet he had been a wonderful teacher—still was. I had learned more about American politics from him than in all my years living in Boston. Then there was botany, and geology, and psychology, and literature. He seemed to have read every single classic, and lots of contemporary fiction too. So much for all the theories about poor attention span in Huntington’s. Chess was another of his skills, and we’d had some great games. He had a chess set with large magnetized pieces that stuck like glue to the metal chessboard. I had fallen for him, totally.
The only thing we didn’t talk about was Huntington’s. I didn’t bring it up again, and nor did Morrie. I almost expected him to, as he seemed exactly the sort of person who would want to know everything possible about the latest research. I asked Tom about it one night when he was walking back to my cabin with me, and he wasn’t very forthcoming. He was quite short with me, and said he assumed Morrie was sick to death of the topic, especially as no research was going to make a jot of difference to him. It made sense when I mulled it over later. It wasn’t as if Morrie had any kids of his own, or even any siblings to worry about.
Pat was set to come home the next day. We’d e-mailed a lot and talked a few times on Tom’s Skype, although Pat refused to try the video link. She said she looked awful, and that her hair was falling out in great clumps. She was between chemo cycles and I think wanted to give Susie a break, as well as have a break herself from exuberant grandchildren and noisy Melbourne.
Shaving our heads was Tom’s idea. So there we were on the wharf, waiting for the boat to arrive, hats pulled over our heads. Not just Morrie, Tom, and me, but Violet and Bill as well. Basil was very cocky about his au naturel bald pate. Violet’s kids wanted to have their hair off too but Violet drew the line at that. As she said, little Danny’s hair had only just begun to grow a few months ago.
