Don't Leave Me Breathless

by A Kelly

  Summer nodded. ‘How long before we can release him?’

  ‘I’d say about a couple of weeks. But I’ll check with Caine.’

  ‘Can I keep him till then?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She held her chest and exhaled long. She had come to Penguin to clear her mind, deciding what she wanted out of her and Bobby. But this man had interrupted that plan.

  17

  Like father like daughter

  ‘Dad!’

  Joseph watched his daughter run up the driveway, skip over the steps to the patio and then abandon her suitcase to hug him. The past year had been such a busy time for Cornelia (auditions, rehearsals, study) that she hadn’t come home to Penguin until now.

  ‘I missed you!’ Cornelia said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Joseph kissed her forehead.

  ‘Yeah! Can’t I miss my dad?’

  Joseph smiled, he couldn’t stop his tears.

  ‘Dad? It’s only me.’

  ‘At my age I’m allowed to cry when I see my daughter.’ He picked up her suitcase.

  He established that Carlton hadn’t told her anything. The weight was still on Joseph’s shoulder. One day this week, he planned, he would tell Cornelia the truth about her father.

  ‘How was Ramin Karimloo?’ Scipio asked about her favourite theatre singer.

  ‘I’m so in love with him! He is the best Phantom ever.’

  ‘Did you talk to Anna O’Byrne?’

  ‘Yeah. She was nice.’

  ‘You closer to becoming her understudy?’

  ‘Why her understudy? You should’ve asked if I was close to being a star like her,’ she said, punching Joseph’s chest.

  ‘What’s wrong with being an understudy? Most people began their stage career by being an understudy.’

  ‘You’re still buff.’

  ‘Hmmph… don’t change the subject.’

  ‘I’ll make it, Dad. Don’t worry.’ She grinned. ‘I had a chat to the Executive Director of the Melbourne Theatre Company. He asked about you when he heard my name was Russo. Darren Harris. Does that ring a bell?’

  It more than rang a bell.

  ‘I used to sing with him,’ Joseph said.

  Performing his career-ending role of Les Miserables’ Enjolras, he had kissed – on the lips – the wife of Edward Potter-Meyer, the Players Association’s patron, as she sat next to her husband in the audience. Darren Harris had dared him (for Joseph had a crush on Isabella Potter-Meyer), but the young Scipio blamed the incident on the five glasses of champagne he’d gulped before the show. Once Mr Potter-Meyer's shock sank in, he opened his mouth, and boy, didn't he sing the song of angry men. Joseph had been promoted hard for the role, but on that opening night it all fell apart. Darren had taken over the role, and to rub it in he’d invented a nickname for Joseph: Les Mister Creep.

  ‘He said you were quite a character.’ Cornelia looked at her dad intently. ‘I need a stage name.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Cornelia Russo? I think that’s a great stage name.’

  ‘It’s not powerful. Not like yours, Scipio Alexander.’

  ‘Well, I’m a man – in theatre a man needs a… buff name. For a starlet like you, it has to be beautiful. And Cornelia Russo is beautiful.’

  ‘You just want everybody to know that I’m your daughter, right?’

  ‘Of course!’ Joseph hugged her.

  ‘When was the last time I saw you? Geez… ages ago. Weren’t you into song writing at the time? How’s it going?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Thought you were gonna write something like Blue Moon.’

  ‘Changed my mind. Too many songs have been written about the moon.’

  ‘Oh, go on! Hum the first two lines!’

  As Cornelia waited, Joseph pondered. Maybe he’d write something about summertime. Not the blooming love and sunshine; he needed contradictions. Perhaps tears or despair. Like rain – summer rain. An unfulfilled expectation; the season promising a blue sky but giving you grey clouds. The face of Summer. Her trembling lips – pale but whole, and no one else calling his name more ardently.

  ‘Dad?’

  Joseph blinked, instead of humming a tune. ‘You know that I love you, right?’

  ‘What’s going on, Dad?’

  ‘Nothing. You know that I love you, right?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said and kissed Joseph’s forehead. ‘You’re my dad.’

  How could he ever tell her the truth?

  Living in Penguin had made Summer feel somewhat human again. She planned her meals, she hadn’t had to constantly change her hairstyle or colour (she’d gone back to her natural golden brown), she went to the Sunday market, and twice a week she would go to Burnie to watch the penguins come home.

  Having daily routines had given her peaceful order in her life, but with that came a void that was soon filled with unwanted emotions. The town was painted with the memories of Jake and their mum. Then there were the ceiling fans at the Beam House that took her back to Rideau & Associates.

  But the most unwanted of them all were her feelings for her handsome neighbour, Scipio. He’d certainly made an impression on her; that dimpled smile, his eagerness to protect her from the rain, and his kindness to the bird. With him she put her guards down, she cried, and she couldn’t even protect herself – she’d told him her real name.

  Fighting her feelings for Scipio was nothing like fighting a crush, like she had with Tim (although she’d admit Scipio reminded her of Tim). Rather, it was fighting something that was lovely and legitimate. Scipio regularly checked in on her, asking if she was okay or needed anything from the supermarket. He would recommend recipes when she said she didn’t know what to make for dinner. The man even reminded her of her father, and she was okay with it. Because he was Scipio, who was better than Napoleon.

  How she wished Scipio was with her right now, heading to the house of demons known as St Therese. A lot of people caught “demontia” in that house.

  He would probably have come with her, had she asked.

  When Tim had told her about her next-door neighbour, she had imagined he would be like any guy. If he’d had a dog, his dog would’ve got her attention, but not he himself. Apart from mentioning Scipio rescuing a German shepherd, Tim had simply said: ‘You wouldn’t mind him.’ Perhaps when Tim had said she’d be safe, he had been cryptically referring to the protection of her neighbour. Although Tim had failed to mention his name was Joseph (thank goodness for his alias – although she wondered what the alias was for).

  Scipio didn’t seem to have anyone living with him, although she’d never set foot inside his home. Could a handsome and charming man like him be single? Would she be a fool if she wanted him?

  Maybe when she was back in Penguin she’d bake something and come over to his house – get to know him better.

  For now, she just had to go through today by herself. Tim would’ve said she was stupid to travel back to the mainland, but she’d just had to see her mum again. She wasn’t quite sure why – it was a yearning that wouldn’t stop; one that felt capable of killing her. She hoped somehow her mum would be better when she visited this time, maybe she’d simply be forgetful like everybody was sometimes. Perhaps without Pierre there she might become her mum again.

  Or maybe Summer was here to say goodbye because she knew her mum would never get better.

  Maybe she just missed her and needed someone to be told her stories. Her mother would listen then forget. For today, it would be okay.

  Summer dragged her feet along the path to St Therese’s reception, the path that ran across the front lawn where Jake the kookaburra had died. She told herself to keep walking, but she stopped where she’d found the dead bird. She silently said sorry, but was heartened by the fact that Pierre the rosella had made it and gone back to the wild. Last week, she and Scipio had set the bird free together, under a pre-sunset sky at a park just outside Penguin. She had snapped a photo of Scipio holding Pierre shortly before
the bird’s release. It was a cold afternoon; he looked cute in his hoodie, and he flashed a wide dimpled smile when she’d said cheese. She wished she could’ve gone to her brother’s grave and shared the story with him. But the real Pierre had been buried next to the real Jake. She simply couldn’t go there.

  At reception, Summer signed in and, promising herself to be calm, she followed a nurse to her mum’s unit. The nursing home complex consisted of an office building, a hall (which wasn’t as noisy and crowded as it had been when she’d visited the place for the first time), and a two-storey apartment building at the back that was separated by a bowling green (which she hadn’t noticed before) and a garden with table umbrellas, which was where her mother had been that first afternoon.

  The nurse walked her to one of the units on the ground floor. The door was open and inside her mum was making tea.

  ‘Summer!’ Louise said.

  ‘Mum.’ She hugged her and cried.

  ‘Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.’

  It had been ages – 20 months exactly.

  The Phantom of The Opera soundtrack played softly in the background.

  ‘Not Macbeth today, Mum?’ asked Summer.

  Louise smiled. ‘Anya, one of the carers, mentioned a Phantom sequel, Love Never Dies. She lent me her CD. It was all right, but it reminded me of Phantom. I hadn’t listened to it for a long time. So I’ve been playing it ever since.’

  The musical had been her mum’s highlight of her honeymoon in New York. She guessed her parents would’ve felt ‘love conquers all’ at the time. No Pierre moving his family around, no Charlotte.

  ‘Joseph!’ Louise called into her bedroom as if it were a lot larger. ‘Your daughter is here. Come and say hello.’

  Summer trembled.

  ‘How’s karate?’

  Summer slumped on the sofa, putting a smile for her mum. ‘Good.’

  ‘Play track seven, would you?’ Her mum pointed at the CD player. ‘Turn it up a bit, if you don’t mind.’

  Summer got up and looked around as Music of the Night filled the room. On the shelf above the CD player, a photo album rested next to her mother’s neatly-arranged books. On the same shelf was her diary and ornaments from her travels with Pierre. Summer recognised the velvet-covered photo album; she knew what was inside. She turned away and sat back down. Right next to her, on the side table, there was something else she recognised. Something that didn’t belong to her mum, didn’t belong to Pierre. A pair of glasses – wire-rim, square-framed.

  She turned off the music.

  ‘Why, Summer? I love that song.’

  ‘Mum, did anyone visit you recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you remember whose glasses those are?’

  ‘Maybe Mr MacMillan’s. He said he was going to see you.’

  Bernard MacMillan. Pierre’s lawyer.

  ‘What does Mr MacMillan look like, Mum?’

  ‘He’s short, he has thick black hair and he has a moustache – a very English moustache.’

  He did look like that when Summer had looked him up online.

  ‘Usually people don’t warm to him straight away. But once you know him, he’s all right.’ Her mum picked up the glasses and studied them. ‘Although I must say, Mr MacMillan’s glasses were thicker than these, as far as I remember.’

  Those glasses were Bobby’s size, and they were spotless just like Bobby’s always were.

  ‘Did a man called Bobby, or Robert, come here?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I would’ve remembered.’

  ‘A charming man, my age. He’s tall and athletic.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mum! Think!’ Summer snapped and shook her by the shoulders.

  ‘Summer! Don’t talk to me like that. There was no other man. These are Mr MacMillan’s, I’m sure!’ She put the glasses back. ‘Would you take them with you when you see him? He must’ve needed them.’ She ended the sentence with a smile.

  Summer didn’t take the glasses. She wanted to smash something.

  ‘Mum, if a man comes here, you talk to him nicely, take a walk with him outside where there are people, then call a guard.’

  ‘Okay, love.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I have to go. I love you!’

  ‘Joseph! Your daughter is leaving.’

  How did she expect her mum to remember? Summer rushed out of Louise’s unit and raced her way back to the receptionist. ‘Someone has been inside my mum’s apartment,’ she said to one of the nurses.

  ‘Her lawyer was here recently. Apart from that, there’s nobody else but our carers and doctors.’

  ‘You have to guard her!’

  ‘Ms Rideau, your mum is safe here.’

  What was the point of insisting? These nurses were as clueless as her mum, so Summer just nodded and walked back to the car park. Once she was in the car she reached for a plastic bag. She put it over her head and tied the handles around her neck to muffle her scream.

  She uncovered herself, panting. Someone had been knocking on her window – an old man who looked like a priest. Without saying anything, she drove off.

  Deja vu. Driving back to Sydney like a ghost.

  On her lap she saw a tear in her scarf. A nail or screw must’ve got it as she rushed out of the house of demons. ‘Damn!’ She touched it and once again she thought of handsome Scipio. He’d wiped his face with it. Had he been by her side now would he…

  No!

  She couldn’t bring Scipio into her life now that Bobby was back in the frame. She wouldn’t bake anything when she went back to Penguin, she wouldn’t go over to his place.

  What exactly had she achieved with her stay in Penguin? Laying low, training her mind to be fit? Nothing! She still couldn’t decide what she wanted out of her final fight with Bobby. She didn’t even want to see him again.

  And, it was clear now she had lost her mum.

  So what did she have left?

  It was time to end what she’d started – on her terms. She could learn from Pierre.

  Like father like daughter.

  ‘Am I seeing a ghost?’

  Summer hadn’t expected Bernard MacMillan’s voice to be as low – and she certainly hadn’t expected his greeting to contain the word ‘ghost’. The way the Sydney-based lawyer styled himself reminded her of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. That moustache, just like her mother had said, was very English.

  ‘Good to see you, Ms Rideau.’

  ‘Summer.’

  ‘Summer, yes, of course. Summer.’ Bernard led her to his office. ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘Mr MacMillan, can I have a glass of water?’

  ‘Uhh… Bernard, call me Bernard. Of course, I’ll get you a glass of water.’

  Summer walked around the room, scanning the various diplomas and honours on the wall. On his desk were a couple of photos – one of his wife, and the other of two boys who must’ve been his sons.

  ‘You’re a hard woman to track,’ Bernard said, putting a crystal glass full of cold water in front of Summer. ‘What finally brought you here?’

  ‘I spoke to my mother. And I thought it was time to sort out this… my so-called inheritance.’

  ‘Yes. Your father would be so happy,’ he said. ‘As his lawyer, it was my duty to execute his will. And since you… you disappeared, I felt like his ghost had been following me around.’

  This was the second time he’d mentioned a ghost.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,’ said Bernard. ‘But you know what I mean; it was unfinished business. It was haunting me.’

  ‘How did you know my father?’

  ‘We went to law school together. He was one hell of a lawyer.’

  Summer took a sip of water.

  ‘So, what have you decided about your dad’s will?’

  ‘I want none of his money, Bernard,’ Summer said. ‘I still have my savings. Not much, but I get by.’

  ‘Exactly what your
dad said you’d say. He knew you well.’

  ‘Then why did you keep hassling me?’

  ‘You might need it some day. I’m a lawyer, I always think ahead, and I generally don’t trust my clients’ judgement. It’s a big sum, Summer.’

  She studied the paperwork Bernard was showing her. ‘I actually thought there was more.’

  Bernard stared at her.

  Summer corrected herself. ‘It is a lot of money.’

  ‘Your father wanted you to build your life––’

  ‘Set aside a fund for my mother’s care, and… her funeral. Then give the rest to charity.’

  ‘Your dad left separate funds for your mother. So this sum is solely for you.’

  ‘Well, set aside some for my funeral, then. Give the rest to the animals.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I emailed you the details. Please prepare the paperwork today. I will sign it before I leave Sydney.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Bernard said, looking at his screen, presumably reading her email. ‘But the house is still yours. Don’t ask me to sell it.’

  She looked at Bernard. ‘Put it in my will then. When I die, you will sell it and donate the proceeds to the animal charities I emailed you.’

  ‘What about your, well, future children?’

  ‘I won’t have any children, Bernard.’

  Bernard sighed but he eventually nodded.

  ‘What has my mother told you about me?’

  He sighed. ‘She thinks you’re still a student. And she likes to talk about your karate. Apart from that, she doesn’t say much.’

  ‘Does she talk about my father?’

  He nodded. ‘She loves him, Summer. Maybe it’s a good thing that she’ll always think he’s still with her.’

  After all this, Mr MacMillan, the solicitor for the great Joseph Pierre Rideau, wasn’t a single-minded lawyer who simply wanted her signature and account details. He seemed to tell things as they are without too much fluff. She wanted to ask him about Pierre – what he was like at uni, what he was like as a young man, what he was like when he’d defended Bobby Swinburne…

  ‘Are you aware of anyone else visiting my mother?’