Paycheque (13 page)

‘That's not…'

‘So why not just send them out for agistment?'

‘Because agistment costs a fortune and I needed the money to pay his bills.'

‘Get real, Claire. You know nothing about his finances – you haven't shown an interest in years.'

‘Why are you being so horrible all of a sudden?'

‘I'm not. I'm your friend, Claire, and I love you. I'm just trying to get you to be honest with yourself so you can start dealing with all the pain you're bottling up inside. It's not healthy.'

‘I have dealt with it. I've got Paycheque back, haven't I?'

‘So you're going to track the others down and have them back in the paddock when Jack returns – pretend nothing's changed?'

‘Don't be ridiculous – I have no idea where the others are. Anyway, we don't even know if he'll be up to training again.'

‘You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

‘Bernie, that's a horrible thing to say. He'd be miserable without his horses.'

‘Why didn't you think about that two months ago? Just admit it, Claire. You've tried to control him, just like you try to control everything else in your life.'

‘I did what I thought was best.'

‘Yes, but for you, Claire, not for Jack. Can't you see that?'

Claire sighed deeply. Bernie was right, just like she always was. She
had
tried to control Jack, taken the first opportunity to try and change his life to better match her ideals. She sat in silent contemplation for a few minutes.

‘Maybe you're right. Oh Bernie, what have I done? What am I going to do?'

‘Well, for a start you need to stop trying to control everything. Things tend to work themselves out okay if you let them.'

‘You really do believe that, don't you, no matter how bad things get?'

‘Yes, I do – and one day you will, too. You just need to learn to trust your intuition.'

‘Which is what you can help with, right?' Claire smiled, despite being hurt and annoyed.

‘Exactly! Have I ever let you down before?'

‘No.' Claire grinned. She could never stay annoyed at Bernadette for long – her friend's wisdom always managed to penetrate her darkest, most negative moods.

‘But first we need food – I'll heat up the leftovers. And get another bottle of wine. No reasonable plan was ever laid without copious amounts of wine. Don't you move,' Bernadette ordered.

Later that night, Claire lay in bed emotionally and physically exhausted but unable to sleep. Her head was still spinning, partially from the wine and partially from the day's events. Tomorrow she would find out exactly what Jack's condition and prognosis was, and establish a rehabilitation strategy for when he could come home. Of course Bernie was right: she couldn't oversee his recovery and Paycheque's wellbeing based in the city. There was no alternative but to move into the farmhouse. She had known it all along, just hadn't wanted to face it.

At first she'd shuddered at the thought of immersing herself in country life – it was quite another thing to be able to escape back to the city when it all got too much. But as Bernie had been quick to point out, she could always rent her own place nearby if it all got too much living with Jack.

Despite the options, Claire had had a vision of herself as a scary old spinster with a houseful of cats. She realised she'd spoken her fears aloud when Bernadette replied that she'd make sure only two cats were on the premises at any one time. At that moment, Bernadette's three rescued moggies had wandered past. The girls had exchanged glances – Claire raising her eyebrows – before both of them erupted into fits of laughter.

‘Okay, you're allowed three,' Bernadette had said after a few moments, clutching her stomach with one hand and brushing away the tears with the other.

Now Claire lay in bed wondering exactly what she was so afraid of. Bernadette was perfectly happy, unmarried in her own cottage with her menagerie. But somehow that wasn't enough. She had no idea of what, but she wanted – needed – more.

She finally fell asleep to the droning purrs of the three cats which had sprawled out around her on the queen-size bed.

‘Dad, it's so good to see you finally awake!' Claire cried, rushing over to the bed.

Claire was surprised and disappointed to find the only improvement in her father's health were his open eyes. He was gaunt: a pale salmony grey. He tried to smile a greeting but his face refused to oblige. The corners of his mouth held small glistening pools of dribble. It was heartbreaking.

Ignoring his appearance and the spasm of pity kicking inside her, Claire smiled brightly, sat down and placed her hand over his. He managed to turn his head a little but his eyes were vacant. Claire couldn't tell whether he was staring past or through her, just that this was not what she'd expected at all.

She started chattering about the events of the past few days, squeezing his hand as she told him that Paycheque was home and waiting. Her father's eyes brightened slightly and he squeezed back. For the umpteenth time Claire wondered if she had done the right thing getting the horse back for him. At this point she couldn't imagine Jack
out of bed, let alone out in the paddock battling with half a tonne of feisty horse. She sighed deeply. There was certainly a long way to go.

Claire was rambling about Bernadette's shop, trying to lighten the dreary atmosphere by telling Jack how much a bloke had paid for one of Bernie's water features: ‘You'd never believe it. It's a piece of rusty corrugated iron that trickles water into an old concrete laundry trough.

‘Apparently it's a sculpture,
installation art
,' she was concluding when there was a knock on the door. Claire looked up to find a handsome middle-aged man peering in at them. He was wearing neatly pressed navy trousers, a crisp pale blue and white checked shirt, and shiny tan dress shoes.

‘Hello Mr McIntyre,' the man called, then in a loud whisper said to Claire, ‘Ms McIntyre, I presume?'

Claire nodded.

‘Could I see you for a minute?'

Claire nodded, put Jack's hand down with a pat and got up. Her shoulders ached from being hunched over the bed too long.

‘I'm Dr Jeffries. Michael,' the man said, holding out his hand.

‘Claire McIntyre,' she replied, returning the gentle but firm handshake.

‘There's a quiet room down the hall, second on your right,' he said, stepping aside and ushering her forward.

Claire experienced an odd sense of foreboding and hope both at once. On the one hand it was good to see how confident the doctor seemed, but she'd seen the lack of progress her father had made.

The door shut behind Dr Jeffries with a gentle click. He indicated for her to take a seat in one of the three modern vinyl tub chairs while settling himself in another. He opened a manila folder on the small round coffee table between them. Claire's stomach flip-flopped in dreaded anticipation.

‘Ms McIntyre…'

‘Please, call me Claire. You make me sound old.' She laughed
nervously, instantly blushing with embarrassment. God, she sounded like she was flirting.

‘Claire, I'm one of the neurosurgeons here. I've examined your father's scans and notes, and all seems fine…'

‘Well he doesn't look fine to me. He's not much different to when he was in a coma.'

‘Well he
is
awake, and that's a big improvement.'

Hardly. Claire bit her tongue to stop herself uttering the word.

‘At this stage there seems nothing
physically
holding him back.'

Claire sighed with relief. So this man had seen what she had felt. ‘But he doesn't seem pleased to have come out of his coma at all,' she said.

‘No, I think it's his emotional state that needs healing now. I think it best we get him back into familiar surroundings as soon as possible. Will you be available to take care of him – providing, of course, we can at least get him out of bed and walking a little? At this stage he seems disinterested – what he needs is some incentive.'

‘Well he was worried about one of his horses – he trained racehorses, you know – and I've managed to get it back. He seemed to brighten a little when I told him, but he didn't exactly leap out of bed with joy.'

Dr Jeffries looked down at the folder. ‘I see in his notes he's a widower.'

‘Yes. My mother died five years ago. But I've decided to move back home while he convalesces.'

‘Good. He'd like that, would he?'

Claire examined every angle of the question for hidden innuendo. She had no doubt that he'd love having her home again – at least she hoped so. They'd always gotten on well before she'd shunned the farm for a life of sophistication and disposable income. Guilt stabbed at her. Of course in doing so, she'd shunned
him
.

‘You and your father do get along okay, don't you?' he prompted.

‘Sorry, yes, very well. We get on very well.'

‘Excellent,' the doctor said, snapping the manila folder shut. ‘I suggest you tell him your plans to move back home and see how he reacts. If it's positive, we'll just have to get him up and well enough to do it.' He stood up.

‘Well, I have other patients to see. It's up to you now. All the best.' He shook her hand again, smiled warmly, and left.

Claire was left standing on her own in the small room. She didn't know whether to be annoyed at the brush-off or relieved at the news.

There was nothing wrong with her father. He had every chance of making a full recovery, and she was to play a very important part in making that happen. Claire felt the empowerment of an achievable challenge, something she hadn't felt for a long time. The only challenge she'd had at work all year was wrangling an invite to a decent corporate box for the Melbourne Cup. Which meant absolutely nothing now, thanks to her redundancy.

It occurred to her that Derek must have made a significant effort to lighten her workload in response to her series of personal issues this year. She hadn't noticed at the time – a sure sign she'd needed it. Now she made a mental note to thank him when the opportunity arose. She wouldn't make a special call – didn't want him getting the wrong idea – but she was bound to bump into him at the races some time. There were less than two weeks until the Cup. God, she'd miss all the fun. But then she had an idea: maybe she and Bernie could organise something special, and give Jack a date to strive for.

Claire strode back down the hall to Jack's room, rehearsing in her head a speech she hoped would prove motivational.

Before heading back up to the hills, Claire called into her house, checked the answering machine messages: five hang-ups and three messages from friends wanting to organise get-togethers. She'd call them back later. She was dreading having to reveal that she was now
not only single and jobless, she was country-dwelling. She'd become her own worst nightmare.

Claire retrieved the esky from the cupboard under the stairs and emptied the fridge into it – no point eating Bernadette out of house and home while all her stuff went off. She packed a week's worth of casual clothes, reset the alarm and closed the door behind her, slightly surprised to feel no pangs of regret or sadness at leaving the house.