Sydney's Song (30 page)

And Pete, when I kissed you good morning… instead of becoming electrified you gave me an unaffected expression, devoid of amorous interest or any previous attraction. A blank stare! Imagine how demeaning that would be if this was your normal self.

I pray to God, whoever God is, to return you to me. Perhaps there's no God to heed me. But praying is free, right? I have nothing to lose.

That day the scab on your temple had healed. The one on your jaw had even peeled away, revealing pinkish new skin. There was a raw scar at the back of your right ear where they had made an opening and stitched you up again. They told me that in a closed head injury, the inside volume of the skull was constant while the brain swelled, so they had to make an incision to lessen the pressure. Shaved your head around it too.

“So Pete, how do we do this?” I squirted some foam from a disposable shaving kit on your brittle cheek. “Well, if you won't talk, you'll have to put up with whatever I do. Never done this in my life.
Promise not to cut you though. Stay still.”

Working your jaw a section at a time, I shaved around your scabs with care. Your blank eyes didn't flicker.

“Lovely,” your chiselled jaw was now smooth. “I'll be an expert in no time.”

Breakfast was hard. Had to spoon-feed you. After only half of the cereal you clenched your mouth shut like a child's.

“Alright. What now Pete? Juice?” Once again I had to spoon-feed you. Once again you clenched your lips tight.

“Coffee?” I waved my coffee cup under your nose. No reaction. I opened the lid. No reaction. “Stop being particular, Pete. You want your favourite Sumatran coffee? Chippendale is far away in Sydney.
As far away as Sumatra itself. Where on earth do you get one in Boston anyway? Any idea?”

And then I smelled it.

“Nurse!” I rang the bell and jumped far, far away in fear. Gosh, I had seen the catheter's cable snaking from under the sheets going down to a catchment—but I hadn't anticipated any other bodily function!

A Sister Allen came and shook her head. I was to discover later that there were two Sister Allens. This one was a very big, tall woman, with an angular no-nonsense face.

“What kind of a girlfriend are you?” She placed her hands on her ample hips. “Didn't you ask to look after him?”

“Um—everything else but this!” I said, horrified.

“Wanna learn?”

“No! Please. No.”

Her chuckle was full of mirth, “Okay, okay, I get it. You're his girlfriend, except in technicality. ‘S that it? Good for you. Many girls these days would've given in easily to such a gorgeous hunk. I'll take over here. Five minutes to change his diaper. Scares you, does it?”

I ran from the room very, very fast.

A sobering thought came to me, Pete. What if you continued to be disabled forever? At home I wouldn't be able to summon any nurse.

So I started my vigil.

First of all I enrolled myself in several patient massage courses near the hospital. One after another. First was the massage to stimulate the muscles and blood circulation of a bedridden patient.
Next, foot reflexology. Then general head and body massage to relax and calm you down. All of these massages supposedly have other benefits too such as general wellbeing and prevention of headaches and bed sores, and to stimulate appetite.

Jonathan, the staff member at the course, was very sympathetic when I described your condition.

“Let me ring MGH for the specifics,” he suggested. “We'll tailor a patient-customised program for you.”

So my love, for a few hours daily I've been attending therapeutic massage lessons. They teach me different massage strokes. To extend muscles, to knead, to release deep-muscle knots, to minimise tension, to stimulate and excite. The slow steady strokes increase your flow of blood which helps to effectively remove toxins. Vigorous and pressure techniques are used to soothe, reduce swelling and pain level, and clear your lungs to improve respiration. At no time at all should I touch your injured bones or put pressure on your badly jarred right shoulder.

Back at the hospital they showed me how to prise your jaw open so I could brush your teeth. To prevent bed sores, they taught me how to carefully roll you to a different side every few hours when you sleep or to sit you up when awake. And to prevent bed sores, a few times a day your shoulders, hips, knees and heels also need washing, wiping and lotion.

They taught me how to crank your bed with you correctly positioned. Aw Pete, heaving you isn't easy. Your lithe build is deceptive! You are heavy because of your muscles. Have to heed your jarred shoulder and broken limbs, too. Your right arm, your violin arm… oh love!

Your Mom comes after teaching, her nose up in the air. I greet her, and as always she walks to the other side of the bed, imperiously ordering the catering staff to pass your food tray to her. She claims the honour of feeding you dinner. Darling, other people may think us weird, competing for the privilege of who gets to look after a —, a —, well… an injured beloved, but I'll shoot anyone who dares look down on you!

Your Mom fusses over you and completely refuses to acknowledge my presence.

I visited Mario at your shared apartment near MIT in the first week, taking the red line of Boston's very cheap subway from Charles/MGH. The old building was a far cry from mine at Beacon Hill. As I waited at your third-floor door, a grumpy-looking black guy wearing a green sweat appeared down the corridor and eyed me with menace. I gave him a polite nod. At that, his features softened.
He nodded back with a slight smile before disappearing down the stairwell. There. If you were polite, people should be nice to you… I hoped.

The lock rattled and the door in front of me opened an inch.
“Sydney???” I heard an exclamation. The person opened the door wide—revealing a Latino dude with wavy, longish hair. “Sydney!”

“Er… yes…”

“Pete,” a pleasing smile adorned his face. “He had your pictures.

Come in, come in. I'm Mario.” He had an olive complexion and was easy on the eye. “Have a seat. What brought you here? Have you seen Pete? How's he doing? What can I do for you Sydney?”

Slowly I sat down. “Tell me. Tell me everything you remember of that last day.”

My thoughts whirling from my conversation with Mario, I took the subway back across the river. Pete, he said you hadn't been wearing a helmet because the clasp was broken. He said that was suspicious and he couldn't stop thinking about it, but had no idea about what really happened. At the hospital I asked your Mom if she knew more.
No response. When your sister turned up, she nodded to me once before dismissing me for the entire visit.

I sent Lance a text, “What's the progress on Pete's accident investigation?”

He answered, “What investigation? It was an accident. No witness came forward. No investigation.”

THAT'S IT? My frustrated mind screamed at the injustice. But I knew nothing…

Your brother turned up the next afternoon and greeted me cheerfully. “I'm having final high-school exams so I can't come to the hospital every day.”

Then he looked at you and his throat moved. His eyes glazed.
“Thank you for caring for him, Sydney…”

Pete, I've taken pictures of you to record the changes in your appearance. Your facial scars have gone, your hair is longer so it covers the ugly scar behind your ear, and you're losing weight. I know how much weight you've lost from massaging you. As I progress with my massage lessons, they allow me to give you massages. I put on your soothing violin music and give you a full massage in the afternoon before your nap. At night I do your feet, shoulders and head to help you sleep well. Massaging makes me sleepy too, you know. Returning to my apartment, I fall asleep quickly.

I bring my laptop to the hospital. But I can't concentrate on studying. Not inspired to start any animation project either. Mostly all I want is to talk to you quietly. Oh Pete, perhaps the feminists of the world will frown at a girl who can only focus on her guy. Or perhaps they'll understand my agony.

Late afternoons bring your family from across the river.

They regard me with unfavourable reservation and they don't bother to pretend to like me. Your Mom reeks with contempt and disapproval. She still sees me as a home-wrecker and Australians as uncultured and uncouth. Your Dad comes late from MIT, greeting me kindly before being steered away in conversation.

Imagine me in the same room with these haughty people and being ignored? I'm a quiet girl, darling, but I don't think you can call me haughty. I'm reserved, not arrogant. I might shyly withdraw, but I don't snub anyone. Your family chat among themselves on topics I know nothing about.

Hopefully no-one else will ever be subjected to a similar situation, nightly or otherwise.

Disheartened by a few days of unsuccessful attempts at small talk, I've become silent. Really Pete, the Aussie in me baulks at breathing the same air as someone else without being friendly. Sometimes I toy with the idea of doing or saying outrageous things just to drive your Mom up the wall a bit. Like giving you a very sexy kiss in front of her, say. But I consider the consequences. Since she's your mother, it's highly probable we'll come into contact now and then in the years to come. I'm already in her black book.

After weeks of torture, I emailed Nina, hoping for some ground-breaking revelation.

“Where is God?”

She wrote,

“He's closer to you than your internal jugular vein.”

I wrote,

“I don't know whether God really exists. I've prayed and I've prayed, just in case. All I want is Pete's return. Why isn't there any result?”

“Patience.”

“How long?”

“It varies. Joseph was wrongly imprisoned for nine years. Jonah was in the whale only for three days. Pete will get better when the time is right.”

“Nine years?!?”
Talk about a revelation.
“What am I going to do with my life? What if he never gets better? How do you know?What if God doesn't answer my prayers or grant me my request?”

“God loves you and He will grant your request when what you ask is good for you. He knows things better. It's like this: When a baby cries for milk, his mum will hurry to give it to him. Because it's good for him. But when this baby wants a piece of beautiful, fascinating red coal from the fireplace to play with, his mum—who has superior knowledge—refuses to give it to him. The baby begs and cries until he throws up, still there's no way on earth the mum will ever grant him his wish. The baby—out of his limited knowledge—thinks his mum cruel, but we all know his mum loves him very much. Now Sydney, as far as Pete is concerned, we aren't asking for a dangerous hot coal here. Perhaps his body needs more healing first.”

“Waiting is torture.”

“Do not despair of God's grace. Persevere. Even when the last ray of hope departs, keep your trust in God. He will not abandon you.Do you know the McLaughlin's song? When tomorrow comes, today will be gone.”

Love, one soothing aspect about you is the fact that you're always serene. Your calm face radiates constant peace and tranquillity.
Perhaps you've become used to the pain. It relieves my concern that I've never heard you scream or cry or whine. At the most you'd only wince, and only rarely. When you become tired you just slip away to sleep.

Every morning I speak to you as if you understand. I tell you about my new acquisitions, from the thrift store that Barbie-doll-like Nurse Clifton told me about.

I bought the coolest lightweight bicycle—at only $20. You wouldn't believe it Pete, it actually looks brand new! I have so much fun riding it. It feels like—freedom! I love the cycleway here, only in some parts we still have to compete with other road users.

I also bought a horror paperback at only a quarter from that shop.
Could you imagine buying a book so cheaply? And I read it last night, feeling scared all by myself, as if the fiend was waiting for me behind the bathroom door…

And I saw a rough collie this morning! Poking his head out from the back window of a car, lolling his tongue at me. Same colours as Bronson. I've left the handsome baggage with Angus and Lauren.
Missing him, I tailed the car for quite a distance.

Do you know how much I miss home, Pete? I miss my backyard and the pretty rosellas and lorikeets outside my window. And the surfs and the walks. I miss them badly. But more… I miss the twinkle in your eyes.

Where are you, dearest? Are you alright? How are you feeling?

With you but without you, the days and weeks creep slowly away.

I live frugally, afraid to use Mum's credit card apart from necessities. Hey Pete, don't you think everything in Sydney is actually more expensive? Or overpriced?

As long as I don't compare it to your scrumptious cooking, the hospital food is okayish. (I know, I know, you don't like your yucky no-chewing, swallow-only food). Outside, the food outlets are just as atrocious as I remember them from my previous visit to the US.
They're cheap but hopeless. Unless you cook, healthy food is only available at expensive restaurants. And Pete, why is it compulsory to pay tips here? Back home we only tip when we want to.

Also here there are an amazing number of TV commercials advertising medicines for constipation and other digestive ailments.
Doesn't anyone here eat fresh fruit and vegies?

MGH itself is great—NSW hospitals could learn a few things or two.