The Lightkeeper's Wife (14 page)

‘It’s a National Park,’ I remind her. ‘You know the rules. You shouldn’t even be out of the car.’ I bang the door shut. ‘Go on! Run to the end of the beach.’

She tears up the sand, looking back periodically to make sure I’m following her in my vehicle.

Towards the end of the beach, I turn up over the softer sand onto the track I know leads to the cabin. As I step out, Jess lollops up to meet me. Everything is quiet. Even the roar of the sea is dull here behind the dunes. I pause, hoping Mum has heard the car and will come to the door. She doesn’t appear, and I remind myself that she’s growing deaf, that she’s slow and I ought to save her the trouble. The truth is, I’m scared to go inside in case she’s dead. The quiet is making me nervous and Jess is waiting for me to do something. I step onto the porch and rap the door with my knuckles. There’s no answer. I open the door and call out. ‘Mum. It’s me. Tom.’

Inside it’s warmer. I notice the gas heater along the wall with its red windows alight. Mum has it on low—forever frugal. It doesn’t seem quite warm enough for her old bones. I know she gets cold just sitting. The smell of propane gas reminds me of Antarctica. We always had to open the vents as soon as we entered a hut to make sure the gas could escape so no-one would asphyxiate.

Mum’s asleep on the couch with a rug tucked around her. Her breathing’s moist and noisy. For a minute I watch, unsure what to do. Perhaps I should sit outside and wait till she wakes, or go for a walk on the beach. Perhaps I shouldn’t be here at all. Watching her feels like an intrusion. She’d hate me seeing her like this, with her legs slung wide, her arms askew and her head lolling crookedly.

She stirs and coughs a little.

‘Mum,’ I say loudly, trying to fill the room. ‘Mum. I’ve come to visit.’

She jolts and jiggles and her lips smack loosely, then she sucks in a drag of air and coughs it up again. Her eyes flutter open. ‘Jack? . . . Oh, it’s you Tom.’ She startles and looks around wildly as if she’s seeking something. Her hands scrabble around the couch and scrape beneath her blanket. What’s she looking for?

‘Can I help?’ I ask.

‘Did you see it?’ she gasps. ‘Was there a letter here? An envelope?’

‘No, nothing. I’ve just walked in. Is there something you want me to post for you?’

‘Thank you, but no. It’s fine.’ She waves me away, then slumps and wheezes and digs around for a handkerchief. ‘Sorry. There’s not much dignity in it.’

I stand by uselessly while she coughs some more. I don’t know what to do for her.

‘It’ll pass,’ she croaks. ‘I’m having a bad day. It’s always worse when I wake up.’ Her face is horribly pale. She reaches out an arm. ‘Here. Help me get up so I can hug you.’

‘You can hug me sitting down.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘No. But it’ll do.’ I sit beside her so she can grasp me with her weak arms. It feels more like a clutch of desperation than a hug.

She sits back and looks deeply into me. ‘You’re a good man, Tom. You have a good heart.’

More like a
lonely
heart. I pat her hand then withdraw. It seems such a condescending thing to do.

‘Could you put the kettle on?’ she asks. ‘It boiled a little while ago, so it won’t take long to heat up. I could use a cup of tea.’

I go to the kitchen. The kettle is still warm, but it isn’t hot. It’s longer than she thinks since it last boiled. She watches me from the couch.

‘You called for Dad when you woke,’ I say.

‘Did I? Perhaps I’m going mad.’ She coughs again. ‘Damn these lungs . . . I can’t breathe to speak. Tom, bring me my tablets, would you? They’re on the bench.’

I find her pills and give them to her, wondering if Jan might be right about Mum forgetting her medication.

‘Glass of water,’ she puffs.

I grab a glass on the sink and fill it for her.

‘Thank you.’

She’s so grateful for so little. I feel useless. When I bring her the cup of tea, she waves me into the armchair opposite her. After a few sips, small flushes of red appear on her cheeks. It’s better than ghostly white.

‘So, how’s Jan taking it?’ she asks.

‘Badly.’

‘Has she booked the funeral?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Then she must have a bed reserved in a nursing home with my name written in black ink on the card at the foot of the bed. How’s Jacinta?’

‘She’s okay.’

‘Taking a battering from Jan, I imagine.’

‘The usual.’

‘I really didn’t want to saddle her with this, but there was no other way. Jan won’t be very happy.’

‘No.’

‘Is Alex backing Jacinta?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. What about Gary?’

‘Surprisingly supportive.’

‘Wonders never cease.’ Mum rubs at her chest and clears her throat.

‘Why didn’t you ask
me
to bring you down?’ I ask.

She glances at me. ‘I considered it. But you’ve got enough to deal with. And Jacinta’s young and resilient.’

‘I’m not dealing with anything, Mum. All that Antarctic stuff was years ago.’

‘Yes, but you’re still carrying it. I keep wondering when you’re going to meet a nice girl.’

‘Not at the garage. They’re few and far between in the workshop.’

Mum laughs. Perhaps she’s thinking about the girlie posters some of the blokes have pinned up in the tearoom.

We sit in silence for a while. It’s not quite a comfortable silence. I’ve never been good at conversation; Mum usually carries it along for me. But it’s obvious that she hasn’t the energy today. I dig around for something worthwhile or amusing to say, but I can’t think of anything. Out the window, I notice the white tips of surf way out over the dunes. Mum follows my gaze.

‘Not a bad spot, is it?’ she says. ‘It’d be a good day to climb the Head . . . The wind and the view.’

‘You love it up there, don’t you?’

‘It’s one of my favourite places. A special place with your father.’

‘How long since you’ve climbed it?’

‘I can’t remember. Too many years. Once your father became arthritic, he couldn’t handle the track.’

‘You didn’t go up alone?’

‘There weren’t many opportunities. When we moved back to Hobart again, we were too busy.’

She watches me keenly, but I can only occasionally meet her eye. I want to shift the conversation to other things, like her illness and what might happen next. But I’m not sure how to ask her about death. I’m not sure how to ask if she’s ready.

‘Why don’t you go for a walk up there later and tell me what you see?’ she says, her face soft. ‘You can bring it home to me. Then I can remember everything through your eyes.’

‘Yeah, I might.’

‘You should. I want you to have a nice time here.’

‘What about
you
, Mum?’

‘What about me?’

‘How are you going here?’

‘I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.’ For a moment she looks fragile, as if something in her might break. Then she musters a firmer look and leans back to inspect me as only a mother can. ‘How’s work?’ she asks. It’s safer territory.

‘Busy.’

‘You took a day off?’

‘They’ll survive.’

She looks around the room, searching for something. ‘Where’s Jess?’

‘Outside.’

‘Bring her in so I can give her a pat.’

I open the door and Jess trots straight to Mum, pushing her head up under Mum’s withered hand. She’ll sit there for as long as Mum will stroke her velvety ears. She stares up at Mum with eyes that are subservient and patient. Mum bends her head towards Jess and whispers meaningless nothings to her. Stuff women reserve for babies and dogs.

‘So you like it here by yourself?’ I ask, finding a strand of conversation at last.

‘It’s a little lonely,’ she admits.

‘What about the ranger?’

She shrugs. ‘He’s a bit sullen. Wouldn’t even stop for a cup of tea the first day. But I’m working on him.’ She pauses. ‘Don’t tell Jan I said he’s sullen. She’ll be on the phone to Parks in seconds, trying to organise a nurse.’ She laughs, privately amused.

‘Any jobs you want done?’ I ask. ‘Want some wood chopped or anything?’

‘Not really. I’ve been using the gas heater.’

‘Are you eating?’ I go back to the kitchen and tip a few biscuits onto a plate, then carry it over to her. She chooses a biscuit and nibbles it.

‘When I remember.’

‘Jan would say that’s not good enough.’

‘Just as well Jan isn’t here, then.’

‘What about your medication? Are you taking it?’

‘Same as the meals. When I remember.’

‘Jan’s worried.’

‘Tell her not to be. I remember often enough. And it’s only been a few days. Ask me again in a fortnight.’

She’s being deliberately provocative, and I’m just about done with the questioning. At least I’ll be able to report back, even if the answers aren’t quite as Jan would desire. ‘How long do you think you’ll be here?’ I ask.

Mum raises her eyebrows. ‘As long as it takes.’

I nod and look away, gripped by a dull, dry-mouthed sensation. It’s as I thought, she’ll be here till the end. Now’s my opportunity to pursue the issue. I should do it; I should ask her all the things I listed in my mind last night. All those questions that I’ve reserved till now—when it’s appropriate to talk about life and death. But it’s too difficult, and I start to come up with excuses: there will be a better moment when I can ask more easily; she’s not really that ill. The coughing’s abated; perhaps it was as she said, just bad on waking.

She bends and drops a biscuit onto the floor for Jess. I can tell she’s not sure how to have this conversation either, and I allow myself to be diverted.

‘You’re spoiling her,’ I grunt.

‘That’s my job,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.’ Jess taps her tail on the floor and smiles at Mum with delight.

‘How did you find this place?’ I ask. ‘I didn’t think you’d been to Cloudy Bay for years.’

‘It was in a brochure someone gave me. And it was best to have everything organised before anyone found out. I couldn’t leave any reasons for Jan to drag me back.’

‘Other than the fact that you’re old and sick with heart disease.’

‘A minor point,’ she says with a crooked smile.

‘Tell me more about the ranger,’ I say.

She leans back against the pile of cushions on the couch and breathes heavily. I feel a hard lump in my throat. I’ve been kidding myself. She’s old and ill. And there’s no denying the moist rumble in her chest; her body’s tired. It seems as if death is creeping towards us across the ocean, riding slowly with the swell, biding its time until it washes ashore and finds her, whether she’s ready for it or not.

She gazes out the window. The sky is chilly and grey. What does she see out there? I wonder. My father? The light station? Us, as kids, fooling around on the cape?

I stumble on. ‘Jacinta and Alex are coming down on the weekend,’ I say. ‘They were talking about staying the night.’

‘That’s fine. There are plenty of beds.’ Small soft coughs rumble in her chest.

‘You don’t have to be alone,’ I say. ‘I could stay here with you. I could take a few weeks off work.’

She bristles. ‘No. I’m managing fine on my own.’ Her eyes are penetrating as she stares into me. ‘You think it’ll be over in a few weeks, do you?’

I glance away, not knowing what to say.

‘I am getting worse,’ she admits. ‘When your body’s this worn out, you don’t belong here anymore.’

‘Don’t say that, Mum.’

‘Why not? Because you don’t want to hear it? It’s the truth.’

I shrug. ‘Some of us feel like we’ve never belonged.’

She looks at me sharply. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I don’t know. I must be like Dad. Not the best at putting it all together. Not a great communicator. I think I’m like him . . . with silence, and all that.’

She stares at me with a strange expression on her face. ‘No,’ she says. ‘You’re not much like him at all.’ She continues to look at me, and then it seems she’s looking through me. ‘And it’s the grip of Antarctica,’ she says, as if she’s talking to herself rather than to me. ‘You’ve never quite got over it.’

‘It was hard losing Dad while I was still on the boat,’ I say.

And we’ve come back to death again, as much as I’ve been trying to avoid it.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I know. I’ve often wondered . . .’ She stops, flashes a look at me and then points out the window, changing the subject. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk? Make a sandwich to take with you. You can’t come down here without getting outside.’

I make lunch as instructed. Sandwiches with jam for Mum, and small slices of apple, peeled, so the skin won’t catch in her throat. While I chop up potatoes and pumpkin and carrots and put them in a container to soak, she sips tea on the couch with Jess curled up on the floor beside her. We’ll have an early roast dinner and I’ll carve up the leftover meat so she’ll have some decent food for the next few days. After that, I’ll head off and catch the late ferry back to Kettering. I should still get back in time for the seminar at the antdiv, unless the ferry’s running late. Hopefully, Mum will manage to look after herself until Jacinta and Alex visit on the weekend—in the rubbish bin is nothing but empty tins of baked beans and tomatoes; there hasn’t been much cooking going on in this kitchen since Mum arrived.