The Family Tree (34 page)

‘I never told you anything.'

‘No. You didn't.'

Kate glanced up suddenly. ‘Do you resent me for that?'

‘Actually . . . yes. Even though I do understand. But it's like you cut me out. And . . .'

‘And what?'

‘Well, you talk about not having a chance to say goodbye to the house. I suppose I would have liked a chance to say goodbye to him.'

‘But you
knew
it was going to happen.' Kate felt wounded.

‘Yes. But still . . .'

Kate stared at her. ‘I never realised. I'm sorry.'

‘That's okay.' Angie shrugged. ‘I know it wasn't deliberate.'

‘It's not like I was expecting it that particular day. It was all pretty sudden.'

‘I said it was okay.' Angie gave her a half-smile for emphasis. ‘But you said he wanted to ring me. Why didn't he?'

Kate hesitated. ‘I can't remember.'

‘Oh.'

‘I'm going to write it all down,' said Kate suddenly. ‘And then I'll show you. It'll be easier that way.'

‘I'd appreciate that. I really would. It'll be like . . . closure.'

Kate smiled. She realised that she felt good, almost philanthropic, as if she was about to bestow the perfect gift. It might be a consolation prize but it was all she had to give. ‘Do you think sometimes that he thought he had no choice? That because he talked about doing it so much, he had to go through with it? That maybe, even, he was doing it for us?'

Angie was silent for a long time. ‘I don't think so. Because if he was thinking so rationally, then he would have managed, somehow, to do it without you being there. I think, to be honest, the pain made him selfish. So he was one hundred percent doing it for him. It was his choice.'

Kate nodded, wanting to believe.

‘And I also think that you should see someone. To talk all this through.'

‘Maybe.' Kate shrugged. ‘It was a shit of a thing, wasn't it?'

‘Yes,' replied Angie without hesitation. ‘Absolutely.'

‘He deserved better.'

‘He certainly did.'

Kate glanced up at her cousin and saw, without much surprise, that Angie's eyes were brimming. She laid her hand across the table and, after a moment of hesitation, it was taken. The physical contact brought tears to Kate's eyes also, and she blinked, squeezing them out to trickle damply down her cheeks. He
had
deserved better, but then again, so had she.

S
he saw the rifle, its barrel gleaming dully in the fading light, as soon as she turned into the passageway leading to her father's bedroom. She came to an abrupt halt, and stared, disbelief shoved aside by mushrooming distress. For as long as she could remember, that rifle's existence had been betrayed only by a flash of walnut stock or a glimpse of blackened metal deep in the recesses of her father's wardrobe; but now it was out in the open. And she understood the implications immediately
.

The rifle was propped in the only corner of the bedroom that she could see from where she now stood, and she knew there was significance in the placement. To see the rest of the room she would have to continue up the passage and through the doorway, then turn to face the matching twin beds, and her father, and a choice that had clearly been made. But instead she remained where she was, unwilling to move forward in either space or time. And she suddenly reasoned that the events waiting to unfold could not begin without her, that she was the linchpin, and therefore as long as she remained on the periphery there could be no conclusion. But even as she clutched at this reasoning, the rifle casually mocked her with its presence. And she knew that, really, she was nothing more than a bit player. She could only postpone, not prevent, whether she liked it or not
.

Her feet moved forwards, almost mechanically, as if they belonged to someone else. And part of her was able to marvel at this, to glance down and think
, Look at that, how funny, I'm walking and I didn't really
mean to.
Even while her mind started to protest, becoming louder and louder as she slowly neared the doorway. Until she was only a few metres away and it was
yelling
at her not to go closer. Now she could see how the wooden stock of the rifle gleamed, as if it had recently been polished. And this thought spiralled into the noise within her head until it was no longer yelling, it was
screaming.
And so was she. But not because of the rifle, or the doorway, or what lay beyond, but because the house was shaking, vibrating, from the
thunderous
noise of bulldozers shuddering through the walls. And she just wanted it all. To. Stop
.

Kate's eyes flew open and she stared up at the darkened ceiling, her heart thumping. For a moment she wasn't sure where she was and she reached out a hand, automatically, towards Sam's side of the bed. Realisation that he wasn't there came at the same time as remembrance that she didn't want him anyway. Not at all. She took deep breaths until her heart steadied.
In
, two, three, out.
In
, two, three, out. Then she rolled over to check the time: 3.23 am.

Curling into the foetal position, Kate allowed herself to go through the dream before it faded. Already the pure intensity of emotion was rather blunted, although a dull sense of foreboding remained, even though she already knew that the worst had happened. Whether or not she chose to go through the doorway wouldn't change a thing now. But this dream had been extraordinarily vivid. She could still see the passage walls on either side of her, the doorway ahead, the rifle in the corner. She paused, and took an imaginary step forward, and then another. And another. When she was so close that she could have reached out her hand and touched the wood of the doorframe, she stopped and wrapped herself around the image, holding it tight. Then, without allowing herself to think about what she was doing, she got out of bed and went over to the desk, turning on the laptop.

The screen glowed in the darkness but Kate didn't bother turning on the overhead light. She sat down and immediately started typing out her nightmare which, apart from the bulldozers, hadn't been a nightmare at all. Not in the true sense anyway. She used third person, to
maintain distance, and her fingers flew across the keys, suddenly desperate to turn thought into text. They only slowed as she reached the part that matched the image she still held tight. Standing at the doorway, poised to go forward.

Kate leant back in her chair, no longer in such a hurry. She read through what she had written and suddenly realised that, despite the subject matter, she felt proud. Even though she had yet to turn the corner, she had accomplished
something
. Which was good. And when it was finished, and it
would
be finished, she would package it up and give it to Angie to read, and understand, and share.

She stared at the patiently blinking cursor and thought about the earlier conversation with her cousin, warmed by the
validation
it had brought in its wake. It was not as if she hadn't always realised Angie was there, more that it had simply all seemed too hard. Too hard to start, too hard to finish. Nor had some sort of miracle now occurred, whereby everything was suddenly effortless and uncomplicated; that only seemed to happen in the movies. But things did seem a little bit clearer and Kate supposed that a psychologist would have some clinical term for it all. But terminology wasn't nearly as important as results, and she
knew
that she felt lighter.

Not that this absolved Sam of culpability. Kate's eyes narrowed even at the thought. Her orb of anger was still very much intact. Regardless of yesterday's watershed moments, he had betrayed her by his actions. The end did not justify the means. And what that meant for their marriage remained to be seen.

For now though she kept that to one side so that she was able to concentrate on other matters. Kate stared at the screen, at the patient cursor, and was reminded of a Latin phrase her father would use when turning over a new garden bed.
Tabula rasa
, a blank slate. She knew, from later studies at university, that it actually referred to infant humans, rather than organic vegetables, but nevertheless it had stuck as a term for new beginnings. This could be her
tabula rasa
. An opportunity to come to terms with the past, package it up neatly and then put it away. It was time to finish his story, so that she could continue with her own.

S
he walked slowly forward, her stomach tight, and passed through the doorway. Her father's eyes flew open as soon as she entered and she knew he had been waiting for her, battling sleep. She sat down on the bed opposite and watched as he slowly levered himself into a sitting position and then swung his legs to the floor, pulling his chequered dressing-gown over his shoulders. He looked no different from yesterday, or the day before. Yet unimaginably different from last year
.

Olive skin now pale, with fleshy pouches that cradled deep-set eyes. A network of lines that once spoke of hard work and ready smiles, but were now cemented with pain. Grey hair kept short all over except for a few strands vainly covering his balding pate. A body once lean and strong, but now with the muscles so eroded that the skin hung like curtain swags between the jutting bones. The room had a sickly-sweet smell, a cloying mix of old man, illness and mind-numbing boredom. Their eyes caught and she looked down, unwilling to acknowledge the subject that hung, like a tangible entity, in the air between them
.

‘How do you feel?'

‘Shithouse.' His breath rasped and he adjusted his position awkwardly. As he did so, the bedspread moved and she glimpsed, beneath the bed, a bottle half-full with urine. She closed her eyes briefly against the pain. Throughout her entire childhood she had never even seen him semi-naked. Now disease had accomplished what temperament could not: it left him exposed
.

‘I got the rifle out, but I couldn't get the other stuff.' The words punctuated the silence like bullets themselves
.

She inhaled deeply, forcing the air into her lungs and holding it there until it seared, then letting it go with a rush that broke the silence. Only then did she glance across at him. ‘Are you absolutely sure?'

‘Yes.'

‘And it has to be now? You can't wait?' Anything to postpone
.

‘No. Enough's enough.'

‘Then I'll get them for you.' She rose slowly to her feet. ‘What about everyone else? They'll want to see you. First.'

He began shaking his head before she even finished the sentence. ‘No. I can't. Just say that . . . whatever. Do what you have to.' He shrugged as he avoided her gaze and she realised that he was almost beyond caring, yet paradoxically still capable of feeling a measure of guilt. But relief was more meaningful than the solace of others
.

Suicide had first been given a voice about five months ago. But the voice, until recently, had been compassionate, caring, thoughtful. Sharing with everybody, not keeping secrets, raising questions and exploring options based on mutual concern. And then discussing them endlessly – so endlessly that there had been times, many times, that she had wished he would go ahead and do it. Just do it
.

But that was then – and now everything was different. He had deteriorated rapidly over the past few weeks and was now in constant pain. Motor neurone disease warred with chronic bronchitis that placed pressure on the inoperable aneurysm near his heart. He simply no longer had the strength to be anxious about others. He just wanted out
.

She went to the glass-fronted secretaire in the lounge room. Purchased at an auction years before for the princely sum of ten shillings, and now jammed behind his Jason recliner, it had always been a place for him to keep his coin collection, old keys and a myriad of odds and ends – including the bolt from his rifle, and a choice of two different types of ammunition
.

When she returned, he was lying down again and at first she thought he was sleeping. But he opened his eyes and fastened them on what she held
in her hands with an anticipation that made her blood run cold. She sat back down as he struggled to rise and immediately reached out for the bolt and two boxes of rounds. He cradled them gently, his calluses a roughly hewn red against the pewter sheen of the rifle bolt
.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?' She asked the question automatically, grasping at the mundane. Deflecting the inevitable
.

‘No, love,' he smiled at her for the first time as he shook his head ruefully. ‘I just couldn't stomach it.'

She went over to the corner and picked up the rifle, pausing for a moment to breathe as she felt the cool weight press against her hands. Then she took it over and leant it against his bed. He had put on his thick-rimmed glasses and was examining the boxes of rounds with an interest that stood in stark contrast to his previous apathy. She turned away and wandered aimlessly around the room, glancing at the cluster of framed photographs with their nostalgia strangely at odds with what was happening. She paused on her paternal grandparents, captured in a brief moment of time when they had eyes only for each other. They ignored her sternly. What was she doing? Why was she doing it? Sacrilege, sacrilege
.

He was suddenly racked by a vicious coughing fit. It lasted for a minute or so, rattling the box of rounds in his hand, before finally fracturing into a series of dry, hacking gasps. Putting the rounds down, he reached for a jar of tablets on the bedside table and extracted several, washing them down with a glass of water
.

‘I'm going to use rat shot, makes less mess.'

‘But isn't . . . I mean, won't that be more risky?' Even with her limited knowledge of ammunition, she was fairly sure that solid shot was a safer bet. Momentarily, she replayed this conversation and realised that she was sitting here, discussing with
her father
the best type of bullet to use in order to end his life. Her mind recoiled from the absurdity and she filed it away under things to deal with later. Much later
.