Five Parts Dead (11 page)

After breakfast a subdued Hiroshi drives the minibus back to the cottage. He's managed to negotiate extra time off to join us for New Year's, leaving the rest of the tour group to party on without him. A rare day off and he wants to spend it with us. Go figure. He and Mel deposit Pip and me at the Cape and then trundle back to civilisation in search of Vitamin B and bacon for the hungover backpackers.

It's funny, I'm often relieved when Mel disappears over the horizon. Maybe it's the twin thing, like Pip said. Sometimes Mel's more rival than sister. That's why I shut her out of my head for so long. We compete with each other constantly and it's exhausting.

On the other hand, if she's been taking the heat for me about the accident and I've been oblivious, then… maybe I need to rethink things. Maybe I've been too caught up in my own shit to hear how she's suffering.

As the minibus groans away, Pip goes to get the logbook from the lighthouse and saves me another trip up there.

I grab a blanket and when she's back we flop on the cottage verandah in the sun, leaning against each other as we examine the stiff yellow pages.

It turns out the other Sutton kid survived the fever but there was no happy ending. The remaining horse escaped—Mr Bellows denied he left the gate open—and, while everyone was searching for it, young Molly Sutton fell down a cliff and died. Buggered if I know how the Sutton family stayed at the Cape after losing two kids there. How much tragedy could the keepers' families endure?

J
UNE 22
Calm till 2am. Wet dew. From 2 till 9am moderate breeze at NE & overcast. From 9am till 4pm ditto breeze and overcast with a few light showers. Trimmed lamps 1.15pm.

Mr Sutton delivered some overdue good tidings for our small community today. He and Mrs Sutton are expecting another youngster. The news is most welcome, given the tragedies that have befallen us. Only Mrs Bellows does not join the celebrations. Miss Lily seemed particularly buoyed by the announcement, despite her sadness over Mr Sam's continued absence...

J
UNE 29
Commenced with strong gusts at NNE. Cloudy till 6am, then squalls and threatening appearance till 9. Mr Bellows employed cleaning the brass work today. Mr Sutton is heightening the fence at the garden paddock to keep the wallabies out.

The
Yatala
arrived 2pm but, due to high seas, was unable to dock. God willing, we will have calmer conditions tomorrow, as our stores are very low.

J
UNE 30
Commenced with moderate breeze at NNW and cloudy till 6am. From 6am to 4pm, fresh breeze at NNW, cloudy with a few passing showers.

The
Yatala
brought vexatious news from Donington. A body has been discovered in sand dunes near the town. I pray it is not Mr Sam. Miss Lily is understandably distraught.

Pip puts the book down and rests her head on my shoulder. She murmurs, ‘Makes you think, doesn't it? These people were sent to the Cape to save lives but they're dying themselves. And they're so matter-of-fact about it—like they accept it's a part of life. I don't know if… if we understand that any more. I mean, all the doctors and surgeons tell you the risks, the stuff that could go wrong with every operation, but no one wants to believe it. It's as if we kid ourselves we can live forever, that no matter what happens there will be medicine or machines that can fix it. And that's just…wrong.'

‘Pip, I don't know anyone, even oldies, who talk about dying as much as you do!' Then understanding arrives like a late train. ‘Shit, sorry. Of course. What was it like…watching your dad die?' As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn't.

Pip is mute.

I wait, fearful that I've gone too far. In front of me, where the gravel path enters the scrub, a Willie Wagtail nabs unsuspecting insects.

When Pip replies, her voice is timid, tiptoeing around tears. ‘It was…it was awful and special and horrible and frustrating and, I dunno, sort of spiritual and… absolutely devastating.'

She bites her bottom lip and closes her eyes, as if returning to a darkened room in her mind.

‘When we found out about the cancer…' Her voice trembles. ‘At first he was all gung ho and “I'm going to beat this thing.” He and Mum, they both hit the ground running, talking to cancer experts and researchers and anyone who would listen…and spending all night on the Internet looking for magic cures.

‘The initial treatment was awful. He was so sick. He couldn't eat but he was so optimistic and positive that it seemed, I don't know, bearable. Then we got the news it hadn't worked and he'd have to do it all again. He turned angry, really angry. And despairing. He was like that for months.

‘And Mum, she was all stoic and standing by her man and getting shitty with us if we complained that Dad was yelling at us all the time. She was all “Leave him alone. You don't know what he's going through.”'

I nod, making a mental note not to whinge about a pissy little broken foot ever again.

‘But we did know. We were there too. We were there when he decided to stop the chemo and radiation and try the herbal stuff. We waved him goodbye when he went off to the hills to Cancer Camp.' She snorts, her face red.

‘We were there when he came home all blissed out and determined to make the most of what time he had left. But while he'd made his peace with the world, he'd left Mum behind. She changed, practically overnight. She acted as though he'd given up, that he was abandoning her. That she'd been short-changed and would miss out on all the stuff he'd promised for their lives together, holidays and home renovations and everything.

‘And then he died. And we weren't ready, none of us. I'd waited, you know, waited to say goodbye because I didn't want to look like I was giving up on him. But the sicker he got, the more medication he needed. He slept most of the time, like he was in a coma. And I kept waiting, hoping he'd wake up and be alert and we'd know it was time to talk. I…I think I left it too late. I don't know if he ever heard me say it: “Goodbye Dad. I love you.”'

I whisper. ‘He knew. He knew.'

Tears come like a summer hailstorm and I hold her as she rocks with each sob. A cloud nets the sun. The wind curls around the cottage, sending grass seeds tumbling along the verandah.

Pip swipes tears away with the back of her hand. ‘Do you know what the worst of it is? I mean, I miss him, every day, but that's not it…I still feel so, so guilty. Because there were times when I felt so impatient, I couldn't stand it. I just wanted it over. Dad's illness—sometimes I wished it would happen quicker because I couldn't face day after day of sickness and sadness and suffering.

‘And then Mum. After he died it was like…she acted strong and kept working and we all ran the household together, but she was just this ghost. She barely existed. She stopped yelling and laughing and smiling—and living. She barely ate anything.

‘At first I thought we had to respect her grief and everything—give her space and time. But then I got really, really over it…so fed up I wanted to scream at her, tell her I knew she missed him—we all missed him—but she was still alive and we needed her, the old Mum, back for Shaun and me…I feel so totally wrong for thinking that way. And so, so guilty.'

I hold her, swimming in her thoughts. I'd never thought of her dad's illness being so different for each person in her family—like they all caught the same lift but ended up on different floors.

I think of Carlo's family, Aaron's and big Boris's. And Phan's—they must feel like they lost their son and brother too. Do they have good days, when they don't so much forget as get a break from remembering? Do family members ever get back in sync again? How long does the aching absence last before the blessed, horrid numbness kicks in? When do they stop asking themselves what might have been? How many birthdays, Christmases and anniversaries rip their wounds open all over again?

I'm getting pins and needles in my arm when the Cruiser rumbles onto the driveway. Pip straightens up and rubs her eyes. ‘I'll stow the logbook back up at the lighthouse,' she mumbles and crunches up the path as Mum, Dad and Mel bundle out of the car.

I stretch out my arms and cup my hands at the three of them. ‘Spare a coin for an injured man?' Mum whacks me with a newspaper. Dad chuckles and reaches over to help me up.

Mel shakes a shopping bag. ‘Barbecued chicken, fresh bread and salad. Get in here and help, slacker.'

Pip's quiet at dinner. When the others aren't looking, I give her shoulder a quick squeeze and see a glimmer of a smile in return.

I go to bed still thinking about what Pip's seen, how Death entered her home and, over time, stole her father and changed her family forever.

And I think back to a day with my dad, a day when understanding and awe and terror rushed like a king tide, the first time I appreciated that life and death can pivot on as little as the direction of the wind.

Dad had been asked to photograph an old plane crash on a tiny Bass Strait island. When he asked if I'd like to come along, I figured it would be more exciting than a day at school. Exciting didn't quite cover it…

It's a single-engine aircraft with barely enough room for the pilot, Dad, his camera gear and me. Pressed against a wall that's as thin as a soft drink can, I clamp my molars together as we lift off.

When we reach the island, the pilot grumbles through our headphones. ‘There's the wreckage, just down from the cliff top. It'll probably get a bit bump—' The plane leaps and plummets, stealing his syllable and leaving my stomach a hundred metres behind. ‘Told ya,' the pilot grunts. ‘No wonder they crashed. When the wind hits that cliff it goes straight up…There it is. Twin engine Cessna. Prob'ly didn't allow fer the wind.'

Dad lifts his camera, aiming it at the shredded metal below.

‘I'll try and hold 'er still,' the pilot offers. The engine's baseline drops an octave. The lone propeller spins so slowly we'll surely fall from the sky. Come on, Dad! Take your photos and let's get the hell out of here. Now.

I yank my gaze from the steel carcass below and stare out to sea. A tantrum of dark clouds is approaching from the south.

‘Don't have much time,' the pilot mutters. ‘Storm comin'.'

Moments later, Dad says he's done and the plane swings away. My jaw aches with tension. I strangle the handgrip beside me and watch the storm race us to the mainland.

Raindrops pound the windows. Wind gusts punch the fuselage. Then, as we descend towards the aerodrome, grey smoke starts streaming from the engine bay.

‘Bloody fuel line must be leaking again, damn it.' The pilot grimaces. ‘Bear with me, lads. We're gunna have to switch the engine off…coast in.'

I discover religion. Ask favours of a God I've never called on before. Argue a case that my time can't be up. Not yet. No way. Please.

We fall, careening towards a seam of pine trees and clipping the upper branches. Nosedive.

The runway pounces at us. I brace for impact, only to be whipped back as the pilot wrestles us skyward. We jag sideways, the ground in the wrong place. There's a crunch and screech as the right wing carves the bitumen, showering sparks. The plane pirouettes and then slams onto the tarmac.

A fire truck hurtles across the runway.

The pilot hisses like a punctured tyre. ‘Bugger me. Better buy a lotto ticket tonight.'

IV

QX: REQUEST PERMISSION TO ANCHOR

New Year's Eve is a total waste of time. Every. Single. Year. At Easter the chocolate compensates for any social events you have to suffer through. At Christmas, even if your family is off the Richter Scale for paper-hat-wearing, cracker-pulling dagginess, at least you know what you're in for. You can psych yourself up for the cousin who cries every time you get him out at cricket, the uncle who farts and falls asleep at lunch, and the unidentified salad that looks as if it's been recycled from another event. When you yarn to your mates you talk Christmas down, as if it's a chore. ‘We're doing the family thing…all going to Aunty Sue's place.'