Lessons From Ducks (7 page)

Chapter eight

Anna once owned a car, back when everything was different. Back then she barely walked further than the letterbox at the end of her driveway. But things had changed, and now she found her walks peaceful and therapeutic. She walked everywhere; work, the supermarket, doctors appointments. In fact, it was her doctor who made the suggestion she take up walking.

“Anna,” he’d said in his office a couple of years previously, “I’m worried you’re not making the right choices when it comes to taking care of yourself.
Obviously
I can understand why,” he hurriedly added when he saw her face drop, “but as your doctor it’s my duty to try and help you. Are you still taking the medication?”

She nodded.

“And is it helping? With the thoughts, I mean.”

She shrugged.

“Well. We can’t expect miracles. These things do tend to take time. I know it’s a trite thing to say, but time really does heal. I promise.”

‘How much time exactly are we talking about here?” It was the first time she’d spoken since taking a seat in his office, and her voice was raspy and tortured and the sound of it made him wince. He wished most sincerely that he had an answer for her. But he didn’t.

“Look, keep taking the pills. Call the number I gave you if you ever feel, you know, like you can’t handle things and need a bit of extra help. Don’t be afraid to ask, it’s what we’re here for. And in the meantime, ditch the car and get out more often into the sunshine and fresh air. Nature really can help with achieving a more serene state of mind.” He’d rummaged in a drawer underneath his desk – disorganised, she noticed with indifference. Loose papers, pens, paperclips and, bizarrely, a bright orange golf ball – and pulled a brochure out with a flourish. “Here,” he wiped something that looked suspiciously like it had come out of someone’s nose – but which she hoped was something less disgusting, like glue - off with his sleeve and passed it over.

“What is it?” she asked. She really didn’t have the energy for reading. Or eating, or talking for that matter. But the doctor was only trying to help, and if she didn’t attend these scheduled appointments – marked out on the calendar that hung on her pantry door in big black block letters - it was entirely possible someone would call in the men with the white coats. So she went to humour them.

“Read it if you get a minute,” he suggested. ‘It’s a relatively new theory, or movement, I’m not sure exactly what you call it. My wife swears by it though.”

Anna looked down at the brochure in her hands.

‘Mindfulness’, it said in wavy blue letters. ‘Experience the conscious life.”

It sounded like something that people with more joy in their lives did, she’d thought, but she tucked it into the purse at her feet to keep him happy. She had no intention of reading it, and it sat forgotten amongst the old tissues, coins, loose tampons and other assorted detritus that make up the bottom of a woman’s handbag. There it stayed for at least four months, until the next appointment.

That time, a vase of lilies graced the table in the corner of the waiting room and before she sat Anna bent over to smell and admire them. Unfortunately she misjudged the distance and some of the thick orange pollen that coated the stamen brushed off on her nose. Immediately she sneezed, then sneezed again.

Eyes watering, she scanned the room for a tissue but there were none in sight. What kind of doctors’ office doesn’t have a box of tissues on offer she wondered? She looked questioningly at the receptionist, who ignored her and kept her eyes fixed on the computer screen directly in front. There was no way the girl could have failed to see what happened, the room was barely big enough to swing a cat. Anna sighed and rolled her eyes at the only other inhabitant of the room - a man in his fifties flicking through one of the magazines off the table - and said in a loud whisper, “I bet she’s checking her Facebook page.”

His smile floated over her briefly without landing before he returned his attention to his magazine, obviously not wanting to be a part of any anti-establishment conspiracy or ruckus that she might cause. 

Anna took a seat and rummaged inside her handbag. She knew there was bound to be a tissue in there somewhere; there always was even if she couldn’t remember ever putting one in. It was just one of life’s tiny mysteries. Aha! She triumphantly pulled one out and with it came the brochure she had forgotten all about. She had time to kill now, she figured, plus she was slightly worried that the doctor might quiz her on it, so she sat back, figuring she’d scan the pertinent details. That was soon forgotten as she became engrossed in the words on the pages in front of her. They connected. Somehow, they became more than mere words; each one was like a light bulb illuminating her mind. She didn’t even realise how excited she was getting or that she was becoming ever more vocal until a particularly loud “Of course!” sprang forth from her lips and the man got up hurriedly on the pretence of switching magazines but after choosing one he moved to a seat further away from her instead of returning to his original one.

“I’m sorry,” Anna had smiled apologetically at him, “it’s just this article on mindfulness. I’d never heard of it before but it’s really very interesting. Have you heard about it?”

The man shook his head. “No.”

“Would you like to read it when I’m finished?”

The man looked at the receptionist for assistance but she remained resolutely fixated on her computer screen. “No. But thank you,” he finally said, when it was obvious he would have to answer. Then he put his magazine down on his lap and regarded her. “I don’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo, hippy nonsense.”

Anna’s eyebrows shot up. “Nonsense?”

“You know,” he waved one hand, clearly on his bandwagon now, “spiritual enlightenment, meditation, aromatherapy, Buddhism – all that guff. You don’t want to start dabbling in things such as that.” He said it as if she had expressed an interest in learning the dark arts. “No,” he shook his head dismissively, “that sort of stuff is for hippies, people that go around not bathing and wearing those god awful baggy trousers without a crotch to speak of.” He shuddered. “Not professional people such as ourselves.” And he crossed his fat fingers across his generous stomach and gave her a smile that suggested she need not thank him for doing her a favour by pointing out the error of her ways, he was happy to help.

“Hippy stuff?” She leant forward, puzzled. “I did offer you an article to read, didn’t I? Not an ecstasy pill or a gram of LSD?”

He frowned. What was she on about? “Yes.”

“Oh! Good,” Anna sat back and relaxed. “I just wanted to clear that up. Make sure I hadn’t inadvertently offered you a fat joint or snort of cocaine.”

The man grimaced distastefully at her crass words. Why was she speaking to him like this? Hadn’t he just pointed out to her that they were of the same ilk? He sniffed derisively; he’d been mistaken, misled by her appearance. She was one of the great unwashed after all. Perhaps not on the outside, but the inside clearly bore the predilection. He sniffed again and lifted his magazine to his nose, indicating the conversation had reached an end as far as he was concerned.

But Anna wasn’t finished. “Hippy stuff,” she scoffed, “how very small minded of you.”

The magazine dropped once more into his lap and the man’s fuzzy eyebrows met in the middle, a deep canyon forming above them. “Small minded? Madam, I resent that accusation.”

“You can resent it all you like, doesn’t make it any less true.”

“You don’t even know me!”

“No, a fact I’m greatly relieved about.”

His mouth gaped open. He was not used to being spoken to like this, especially by a woman. “You are rude and annoying,” he said eventually, closing his mouth and giving her his best contemptuous stare, the one he employed in his workplace to great effect.

“And you, sir, are pompous and ignorant. You do know that Buddhism is a religion, don’t you?”

“Well I know some people
believe -
”

“One of the top five in the world,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “In fact, some of the happiest, most non-materialistic and non-judgmental people in the world practise Buddhism. You’d do well to take a leaf out of their book.” She eyed his expensive leather shoes and garish gold wristwatch pointedly.

They both jumped as a door opened with a bang. The doctor stood framed in the doorway, the receptionist hovering to his side, her eyes wide with amusement. Obviously she had finally seen fit to fill the doctor in on the drama currently unfolding in his waiting room.

“Mr Thomson,” the doctor smiled, “please come this way.”

Glowering at Anna, Mr Thomson stood and picked up his briefcase. “Thank god,” he growled. “It’s about bloody time.” 

“You do know God is also a religious deity, right?” Anna said brightly. “Only I’d hate for you to take his name in vain in front of the wrong person. You could easily offend someone.”

He ignored her and swept past, muttering to the doctor while still within earshot, “That woman is in entirely the wrong place. She needs the services of a mental health professional if you ask me.”

Anna sighed as the door swung shut behind them, muffling any reply the doctor may have made.

Perhaps the illustrious Mr Thomson was right, she mused.

She never used to let throwaway comments by random strangers annoy her so much. But then, she never used to say much at all to anyone. It’s easier - and usually the more mature path - to let the small things go, she knew. But it was
so
much more fun to say what you really think. She chuckled quietly to herself and to her surprise she heard the receptionist giggle along with her. She smiled at the girl who smiled warmly back.

“You certainly told him off,” the girl whispered loudly.

How nice. She had earned the girls respect, Anna realised with a pleasant surprise. And that made it worth it.

Back home later that night, after apologising to the doctor for causing his previous patient to be so irate, she had looked up Mindfulness on the computer. She read up on it for over an hour, including how to put it into practise and some interesting testimonials from people who had.

Over the next few months she’d begun to implement it into her life in small ways. She soon learnt that any form of meditation wasn’t for her – her mind refused to empty itself of thought, instead, inexplicably it would fill and become busier – but other things slotted in quite well. Take breathing for example, something she had never really given much thought to before – after all it was something you just
did,
because if you didn’t you wouldn’t survive. Everyone knew that – but she learnt to slow down her breathing, and to breathe deeply from her belly instead of shallow from her chest. She’d sometimes found that if she closed her eyes and really focused on the next few breaths, both the sound and sensation, she could stop tears from overwhelming her at inopportune times when they threatened to.

She practised using the mindfulness technique in normal everyday activities. Mundane ones like brushing her teeth or washing the dishes. Instead of letting her mind wander as it wanted to do, she reeled it back in and focused instead on what she was doing. She savoured the minty taste of the toothpaste, or the intense lavender of the dishwashing liquid. She marvelled at the satisfying feel of the bristles on her gums or the soft caress of the soap suds against her skin. Of course sometimes these activities were just chores to be got on with, resentful ones at that – the dishwashing, not the tooth brushing – and she rushed through them as quickly as she could.

But where she found mindfulness the most beneficial was when she walked. It became an opportunity to clear her thoughts and have a cry if she needed one. She could use the occasion to pause and admire nature, and of course, as per doctor’s orders, to keep her health on track. She paid attention to her surroundings, feeling the breeze on her face and the warmth of the sun on her scalp. She listened to the sounds around her – birds, bees, wind, cars, conversations of people she passed, a plastic bag blowing along in the gutter – and she absorbed the feel of the earth through the soles of her shoes. The soft cushioning feel of the grass and the hard inflexibility that is concrete. The crunch of an autumn leaf underfoot.

Introducing these things into her days helped to ground her. To bring her out of the past and the dark thoughts that inhabited it, and into the present and the things, however small and seemingly insignificant, that could bring her pleasure. No matter how fleeting those pleasurable moments might be. Sometimes a moment’s joy, be it from the smell of a flower, a clear blue sky or the smile of a child, could be enough to change the path of her thoughts and hence, the course of her day.

It brought her a sense of peace at a time when her heart and soul had been ripped asunder. It did not heal them, nothing could do that. But it helped to numb the pain.

Chapter nine

The following Wednesday Anna did not go straight home after work, nor did she go via the playground.

It was the twenty first of the month, and on the twenty first she always did the same thing.

First, she walked to the florist on the corner of Churchill and Fenton Streets, where she purchased a bouquet of colourful flowers. It was ready for her when she got there, as it always was on the twenty first. They expected Anna on that day - staying open until she got there even though they normally closed at five - and as always they bowed their heads in sympathy as the transaction was made. The flowers were the only thing that changed, depending on the season. On this twenty first of the month she was happy to see they had taken full advantage of the season’s offerings. Colourful orange and pink Gerberas, purple Irises, a smattering of pale sweet peas. Some greenery to set the whole thing off and some closed buds that Anna guessed were a type of lily, although she wasn’t sure. But it was the two large sunflowers in the centre that took her breath away, and not just because of their beauty.

“Are you ok Anna?” the owner – Cheryl – asked, concerned. She had been waiting for Anna to enter her four digit pin number into the eftpos machine on the counter, but Anna was frozen to the spot, her attention elsewhere.

Cheryl coughed and flicked a sideways glance at her assistant, Naomi, who shrugged.

“Anna?” Cheryl tried again.

“Yes?” Anna blinked back into the present.

She had been remembering other sunflowers, a bunch of them, in a plastic vase on a shelf. Brightening up the corner of a hospital room, a crib in the corner housing the small and quite unaware recipient.

“Are you ok? You’ve gone a bit pale.”

“Sorry yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” Anna entered in her pin number and waited, eyes firmly on the counter while the little machine decided that yes, she had enough money, and promptly spat out a receipt.

Cheryl tore off the little piece of paper and passed it back to Anna with her card. “Same again next month?” she asked, as she did every month.

Anna nodded.

As she did every other twenty first of the month, she headed for the little town cemetery. It was located down a side street, not too far from the bowling greens and the small racecourse whose overgrown grassy tracks saw more mileage from dog walkers than horse hooves. As she passed the greens she could see they had been freshly mown, and the smell of cut grass was heavy in the air. The smell always reminded her of the Saturday mornings of her childhood, when her dad – fuelled by a hearty fry up of bacon, eggs and tomatoes on toast – would kiss his wife on the cheek and disappear out to his shed, from whence the sound of a lawnmower being lovingly coaxed into life would soon emanate. Anna’s father treated his tools with respect, and they lasted well beyond their expected years because of this.

On those Saturday mornings Anna would sit on the back door step and watch as her father – wearing his black gumboots and bright red earmuffs - made large circles around the yard, starting at the outside and working his way in until there was just one tiny strip left in the centre to be shorn. That bit he would go over twice, as if reluctant to admit the job was finished. Anna guessed that after a week cooped up inside a windowless office he was glad to be outside, with the sun on his head and the breeze through his hair. Every time he pushed the mower passed where she was sitting he would smile and wave and she would blow him a kiss and he would pretend to dive and catch it, sometimes tripping theatrically over his boots which would cause her to collapse in fits of giggles.

This twenty first day of the month she paused for a minute by the greens to close her eyes and breathe in the fresh scent. The memory this aroused helped soothe the trace of unease left by the incident with the sunflowers. She would try and focus on that happier time in her life, not dwell on the one for which she was here to recognise this day.

Calmed again, she turned down the grass walkway just past the bowling club, between it and the old church. The church was faded white weatherboard, old and peeling in places. Its slate grey tiled roof was badly in need of repairs but its parish numbers were not swollen enough for this to happen. Truth be told, Anna had no idea whether anyone still tended to the church or not, she barely paid it more than a cursory glance. It was just there, a hulking remnant of the past, a stain on the landscape of an era gone by.

She had never been a particularly religious person in her life, although she had never outright claimed herself an atheist either, preferring to stay silent and hedge her bets. Any Jehovah’s witnesses who had the misfortune to knock on her door were treated to an earful that sent them scurrying back up the garden path, tails between their legs. Even when they sent in the big gun, the man with the beard who, in his own words, ‘thrived on lively religious debate’, he left her house meek and at a loss for words. It was hard to look someone in the eye who had lost what she had and find the words to justify it.

So as she always did, she walked past the church as if it were not there. It was the graveyard out the back she was here for. She lifted the latch on the gate and stopped to fill up the bright green watering can that was hanging off the fence by the tap.

The grass had been freshly mown here too, she noticed. The place seemed different, and she frowned as she walked, carrying the watering can in one hand and the flowers in the other, trying to work out why. Nothing was overtly obvious, as far as she could see. The weeping willows – did anyone else ponder the irony, she always wondered? – were in their place along the back of the cemetery, their sweeping long branches fondling the ground at their feet. Many years back, before she’d had cause to start visiting this place; the town council had been dismayed after a week of heavy rains to find that a portion of the cemetery had been devoured by the hungry river that ran alongside it. Several coffins had been swept away with the earth from the banks, and although most were recovered one had never been seen since. For the council there was a bright side; according to records the missing coffin belonged to a man buried some hundred and fifty years previously, and no trace of descendants could be found still living in the area. The council breathed a collective sigh of relief upon this discovery; there would be no request for compensation.

However, there
was
an outcry from relatives of the deceased who
did
still live in the area – the relatives that is, not the deceased - and a town meeting called for action to be taken to ensure no other loved ones received such an undignified uprooting from their resting place. They demanded action be taken to ensure such an event didn’t happen again. The council consulted people educated in such matters, and were advised to plant Weeping Willows along the bank, as the beautiful trees were renowned for their ability to grow large and hardy root systems very quickly. Willows, they were told, had a natural born tendency to search out sources of water, so they need not fear soil disruption amongst the graves from the large roots, as some people were concerned about.

The trees were planted one bright Saturday afternoon amongst much fanfare, with a ribbon cutting ceremony attended by the mayor. An article duly appeared in the paper on Monday, the accompanying photo prompting much hilarity when it was noticed the mayor appeared to have sprouted a pair of human fingers from his head, courtesy of a local mischievous teen.

No, Anna decided, the trees were simply their usual beautiful selves, leafy and delicate and like big green umbrellas. But something was different. Something she couldn’t pinpoint. The usual crickets were in the trees, unseen but definitely not unheard. Some found the noise annoying but it didn’t bother Anna. In the distance she could hear the cars in town, the sound muffled enough so that if you chose you could almost pretend it was the sound of waves breaking on a shore instead.

These things were all normal. Yet the whole place just seemed, fresher, if that was the right word. Brighter, more alive? No, that last one wasn’t the right word at all.

She was still musing over it as she walked down the centre path, careful not to step on any graves. The newer graves were at the front and there was a freshly dug plot that hadn’t been there last month when she’d visited. Her heart fell as it always did when the graveyard gained a new resident. As much as she would have liked to ignore it, pretend she hadn’t seen the dark dirt piled up in a rounded mound, ill concealing the contents underneath, she couldn’t. The usual curiosity got the better of her and her feet led her towards it. As she got closer she squeezed her eyes shut and repeated the words, “please be old please be old please be old.” Then, like ripping off a bandage she opened one eyelid and quickly scanned the dates on the small white cross temporarily erected to mark the grave.

Charles Herbert Stevenson, 08/03/1943 – 11/01/2014.

Maths had never been Anna’s strong suit, which was ironic really considering where she worked, and it took her a moment to do the mental arithmetic.

Seventy one.

The late Charles, god rest his soul, had been seventy one years old at the time of his death.

Anna let out the breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. She quickly crossed herself, unsure if she got the order right – was it head, chest left then right? Or head chest right then left? - but figured the intention was clear enough, then she bowed her head and backed away from the final resting place of Charles Herbert Stevenson.

He’d had a reasonable innings, she mused, as she made her way further down the path. Not as good as some people had, admittedly, but better than some others.

Colourful. That was the word she was looking for, she realised. The place was normally a riot of colours anyway, with all the plastic flowers and spinning flower wheels that adorned a lot of the graves. In fact if you squinted your eyes from the front gate of the cemetery it looked a bit like a child’s painting; green with splodges of colour splashed around.

But today it was even more colourful than normal, and as soon as she made that realisation she also realised why. Someone had been adding flowers to the graves. Not the ones with spinning wheels or tinsel and faded Christmas baubles, or the ones with the vases stuffed with plastic flowers. But the other graves, a dozen or so. The ones which, in the whole time Anna had been coming here, had remained unadorned, either because the family had also since passed away or because the deceased had no family to speak of, Anna wasn’t sure. But now each of these graves wore a small bouquet of flowers. Not from a florists shop; the sort of wildflowers that grew wild along the train tracks leading out of town. They were in an assortment of jam jars and placed by the headstones.

How odd, thought Anna. I wonder who would do such a lovely gesture.

And then she arrived at her destination and all thoughts of the mystery flowers fell away.

Fourth row from the back, left side, fifth grave in.

As she did every other twenty first day of the month Anna allowed herself a moment to expel a long breath before sinking down to her knees on the grass.

“Hello my darlings,” she whispered, even though there was no one around to hear her. She pulled out a few stray pieces of grass by the edge of the concrete that the lawnmower had missed and swept away some dirt thrown up by its blades. Her eyes scanned the headstone anxiously, lest some vandal had inflicted damage since her last visit, but everything was as it should be. The white lettering was fading in places though she noticed, and she made a mental note to bring some paint and a brush with her next time to touch it up.

She set about removing the old flowers, now brown and brittle, from the large crystal vase she kept on the grave. Then she poured a small amount of the water from the watering can into the vase and using her fingers she scrubbed the grime that had accumulated on the bottom before pouring the now murky water out. Not on the grave mind you, but at the end and slightly to the side, where she knew there was nothing below but simple dirt. Then she poured the rest of the fresh water from the can into the vase and set about arranging the new flowers attractively.

The sunflowers made her pause again.

“Do you remember these, Tim?” She spoke slightly louder now, it always took her a while to find her voice here without feeling like she might be disturbing someone.

“Not these ones, obviously, but the ones in the hospital, the day Ben was born. I can’t remember who they were from now, but I remember they were beautiful. Do you remember?”

She pushed the sunflowers down amongst the other flowers in the vase and then, satisfied with the result, she placed the vase back up by the headstone. Not in front of it, just to the right where it wouldn’t obscure any of the details. Then she scrunched up the coloured paper the flowers had been wrapped in and tucked it in her purse to be taken home with her. Happy that everything was clean and tidy again she sat cross legged in front of the stone, and for a time she spoke nothing, just held her head in her hands as she let her mind roam free amongst its memories.

It was the only place she would let her guard down and truly remember. The only place she allowed herself to think of them so unreservedly; to recall the sight of their smiles and the sound of their voices. The feel of her arms around them, her lips against them, and the smell of their skin as it mingled with hers. 

Here, on the twenty first day of each month, she let the tears fall without check and soak into the earth underneath her where they lay. She traced the photos of their faces through blurred eyes and she cried and she swore at the unfairness of it all.