White Light (2 page)

‘It's the chromosomes,' says Susan.

‘It is not the chromosomes,' snaps Mrs Braithwaite, ‘it is God's will.'

‘They say she will not live past two months,' says the girl to Shona, her eyes pooling with tears.

‘And so now we have brought her home,' says Mrs Braithwaite. ‘Christina. To her home.'

‘Is she taking any milk at all?' Shona asks.

‘As soon as she takes a sip she perks it back up,' says Mrs Braithwaite.

‘Your flow might be too fast for the size of her stomach. We can look at that. But really, Susan, this baby would be better looked after in the hospital.'

‘Thank you for your suggestion,' says Mrs Braithwaite quickly. ‘We shall consider your advice. But for the present we shall pursue the idea of the eyedropper.'

Suddenly there is a scarfed aunt on either side of Shona, helping her to her feet. One of them removes the unfinished teacup from her lap.

‘But,' protests Shona.

‘Thank you again,' says Mrs Braithwaite.

Shona looks at Susan, who says: ‘If she goes back to hospital she'll die.'

‘God will prevail,' says the aunt who has not yet spoken.

The aunts steer Shona towards the door.

‘But—' Shona thinks rapidly, ‘you will need a breast pump.'

‘Thank you for the suggestion,' crows Mrs Braithwaite.

‘Do your breasts hurt?'

Susan glares. She gives a sour little nod.

‘For the mastitis, put cabbage leaves in your bra,' Shona says.

‘Thank you,' trills the mother, turning to her daughter.

‘This is too much,' says one of the aunts, laughing. ‘Cabbage leaves!'

The other one squawks, ‘Breast pump!'

Shona finds herself outside the plain, wooden door at the top of the steps. The security screen snicks behind her. The couch lawn stretches to the fence. Not a weed. Next door, her own unkempt garden seems somehow foreign from this odd angle, as if appearing in a dream. She can see inside her own dining room window. Realises that if she forgot to draw the curtains she would be plainly visible. Or that her children would be plainly visible. She walks numbly out to her car. Behind her, the lace curtains are so still they might be made of concrete. She does not even think about detouring into her own house. The washing can wait. The postman rides past on his motor scooter. He skilfully pops some letters into her box without even stopping. Shona sits in her car for a moment. There are some forms she should fill in. She is aware of the dark, sleeping shapes of the bats high in the fig trees, hanging on for grim life.

A
stainless steel urn bubbles away by itself on a Laminex bench. It sounds at the same time dangerous and comforting. Kevin, my son-in-law, scowls at his wristwatch; he doesn't think I should be here at all, but it's lovely to be out and about for the day. Such a gorgeous, sunny morning. The sky as bright as a postcard. I never knew how much I would miss sparrows. A nice cup of tea and my family about me. It's so long since we've all been out together.

My daughter, Jane, in her tan suit, is already dabbing her eyes with a tissue. They told us this might happen. Kevin sits on the hardbacked chair with his thick arms folded like an Easter Island statue. They're here to lend moral support, whatever that is, and I'm glad they are here, like at Christmas.

It's nice to sit with a cup of tea in a little square of sunshine. A fly butts itself against the window. Blue walls. A monsteria deliciosa in a clay pot winds its way up a little trellis towards the light. I do wish Jane would stop her snivelling. I wonder about the benefits of snivelling as a form of moral support. Mr Draper is going through his papers.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Lapin?' he asks, catching my eye. He is the sort of man who seems to be wearing glasses even when he isn't.

‘Of course,' I say with a smile. Why shouldn't I be all right?

We all enjoy the air's warmth. Or the breeze through the window. For our various reasons.

After a few minutes, the door opens and two big men come in. One of them must be seven feet tall at least; he has to duck beneath the portal. They are both wearing uniforms with shiny buttons and epaulettes. Then follows a smartly dressed young man whom I do not recognise but then, how could I be expected to? I barely recognise my own grandchildren. Kevin and Jane both stiffen in their seats. Kevin picks fluff from his trousers. Someone is wearing aftershave. The young man smiles at me, rather sheepishly. Surely this can't be him: Troy. No, this can't be. He looks such a nice boy.

I take time to polish my specs.

‘Hello, Mrs Lapin,' he says.

A moment passes. It is clear that he has practised his manners. Mr Draper ushers him to a chair. Troy first folds his jumper over the back of it then sits. His clothes are nice and clean. And those slacks are coming back into fashion. The two men in uniform sit outside our small circle, trying to pretend they aren't really there. One of them opens a magazine. The tall one goes to the urn by the window. He actually blocks out some daylight. You can see the dust swirl in his wake.

‘Well Troy,' says Mr Draper, ‘I'm sure you know why we're here.'

‘Yes.'

‘And you're a willing participant in this process?'

‘Yes. I've been looking forward to this for a long time.'

‘Is this Troy?' I ask, realising suddenly that it's me they're talking about.

‘Don't upset yourself, Mum,' Jane says, laying her hand on my arm.

I look at it but I do not recognise what should be so obvious to me.

‘I'm not upset.'

‘Yes, it's me Mrs Lapin,' says the young man.

‘Is it, Mr Draper?'

Mr Draper nods encouragingly. The urn boils.

‘No. This nice-looking young man can't be the one who attacked me. No.'

‘I'm afraid that he is,' says Mr Draper.

‘He doesn't always look this clean,' pipes up the giant from the coffee urn.

He is so big I wonder how we could possibly be of the same species.

Kevin's foot is tapping rapidly, one leg folded across the other knee. The giant carries a Styrofoam cup of tea as if it is a flake of apple across to his friend. Mr Draper continues: ‘I understand that this is difficult. We're here to acknowledge what Troy has done to Mrs Lapin, to offer amends and to make restoration for the events that took place two and a half years ago. We are also here for Mrs Lapin to state how significantly these events have affected her over time. Mrs Lapin, would you like to begin?'

Me? Now? I don't know what to think. ‘Well, I can't believe that this is the same young man. Look how nicely he's dressed. And he's even gone to the effort to iron his slacks.'

‘He's scum.'

‘It's more effort than you've gone to, Kevin.'

‘Mum,' says Jane, ‘don't be fooled by appearances.'

Scum and appearances fill my eyes. There is a sunny pause. Clink of cups. Lovely.

I feel that before too long I would like to visit the lavatory.

‘Mrs Lapin,' a voice speaks. It's Troy. ‘I know I've done the wrong thing. I'm really not that sort of person. I know I've caused you pain. And I'm sorry.'

‘Excuse me, Troy,' Mr Draper interrupts. ‘It doesn't help anyone if you're going to gloss over everything. You need to itemise each act for which you are responsible and for which you are ultimately sorry. The function of this conference is to facilitate that process. Otherwise we're all wasting our time.'

‘I'd like him to understand,' Jane squeaks, always the first to get in her penny's worth. ‘I'd like him to know not just what pain he put my mother through, but also everyone else, me in particular. I was the one who had to take extended leave from my job. I took her to the hospital every day. I want him to appreciate that I was the one who had to watch the pain she went through in rehab. I was—'

‘For goodness sake,' I say. ‘It was only my shoulder.'

Troy stares at the bitten nails at the ends of his fingers. Mr Draper suggests that we all calm down. Have some more tea. The fly still skates across the glass of the window. Beyond I can see some sails on the water. Mr Draper helps us to resume. He's very good at this it's the principle sort of thing.

‘I understand the emotional pain and the… in-con-ven-ience I put you through, Mrs Mitchell,' says Troy. ‘And I'm sorry for that too—'

‘How does he know my name?' Jane says.

Kevin and Mr Draper shrug. They look at me as if I have the answer.

‘Well… yes. I, er… yes, I wrote to him, Jane. And yes, I told him about us.'

‘You wrote to him?' says Kevin.

‘You told him about us?' says Jane.

‘Does he know our address?' asks Kevin suddenly.

‘I told him about our family. About Christmas.'

‘Why, for God's sake?' Kevin snorts.

‘He asked. And no one else writes to me. It was polite.'

All the cups are empty. Mr Draper intervenes at this point —at last someone backing me up.

‘That's correct, Mr Mitchell. Written contact must be established between the victim and the perpetrator before the proper process of restorative justice can be instigated. All your mother-in-law's letters were fully monitored.'

‘You read my mail?' I squawk. Kevin looks much happier. ‘Troy, did you know that?'

Troy nods. Such a sweet face. Hard to imagine.

‘Do you have anything you'd like to ask of Troy, Mrs Lapin?'

‘One thing I have always wanted to know, Troy, is why you so betrayed my trust that day?'

‘Mrs Lapin,' he says at last, ‘I'm sorry that I picked you out of the crowd. To be my victim. I picked you because I could see… I could see you were vulnerable. I'm sorry I let you take my arm. And that, I betrayed your trust.'

‘You helped me across the road. You were a gentleman.'

‘I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry that I snatched your bag and you fell to the ground.'

At this point Jane interrupts again. ‘He's glossing over the part where he dragged her along the street until the strap broke. He doesn't know about the bruises and abrasions. I do. I know all about that, the blood on her stockings, I can't get that out of my head.'

‘I held on tight, didn't I, for an old girl?'

‘Yes, you did,' says Troy, his face Christmas white. ‘I'm sorry that you dislocated your shoulder.'

‘Yes, that hurt. But not as much as you betraying my trust.'

It's almost as if I don't remember the things he is speaking of—as if they happened long ago to someone else. Well, it was long ago, but that shouldn't make any difference. It's true—my trust has been betrayed and broken.

‘I didn't mean for any of that to happen. If I could take everything back I would. But I can't. I have to live with who I am. I'm also sorry that I was… addicted to drugs and my addiction made me do those things. To you.'

‘It was drugs that made you say those things?'

‘Yes.'

‘That'd be right,' says Kevin, ‘nothing but a despicable junkie.'

I can't believe how rude he is being. There is a satisfied silence from the officers. Troy ignores them. Mr Draper directs traffic, asking Kevin to calm down, etcetera.

Everyone takes a deep breath.

‘I'm sorry for the shame and hurt I caused you. I know you had to stop playing bowls when you were very active.' Tears suddenly leak from Troy's eyes. ‘I'm sorry for the pain I caused my own parents—they don't want to have anything more to do with me.'

‘No, really? A granny-basher?' says Kevin sardonically.

‘Oh, be quiet, Kevin.'

‘I'm sorry for just about… everything.'

‘Boo hoo hoo,' sobs Jane in her shrill starling's voice. It pulls me up short. One of the guards snickers. I am shocked to realise what I have never seen before, that my daughter is a nasty person.

Kevin asks a pointed question: ‘Is it true that you were raped in jail?'

‘Yes, that's true.'

‘And I bet that's another thing you're sorry about.'

Troy lets his tears fall. He cannot hide them anywhere. I cannot believe the rudeness of my family. One of the officers sitting outside the circle yawns loudly, crushing his Styrofoam cup.

‘Well, I'm not sorry.'

Kevin and Jane both splutter. Some tea spills.

‘Oh, I am sorry that my shoulder was hurt, and I'm sorry that I had to give up playing bowls, but I'm not sorry that this nice young gentleman offered to help me. I didn't know how I was going to get across that busy road.'

‘Jesus Christ,' Kevin groans.

‘And I'm not sorry that meeting you, Troy, has meant that I've been able to come on this lovely trip to town. I would never have done that otherwise. It's been so long since I spent such time with my family.'

Everyone's eyes follow a different fly, not knowing where to rest. We chat for a little longer. Kevin gets a few things off his chest. More tea is drunk. When I eventually come back from the lavatory, Mr Draper makes Troy promise that he will stay off drugs, and that he will always have clean urine, which is something I do not wish to understand. He agrees to my request that he writes regularly to let me know the state of his drug-free progress. The officers, Troy and Mr Draper sign some papers. We say our goodbyes and Troy kisses my hand. I believe I almost blush. I see the officers put handcuffs on his wrists as they lead him out. He looks so small alongside them. He gives me a wink. Jane escorts me down in the lift. I amble on my stick and her elbow, which feels like cardboard. When we reach the bottom, Kevin strides ahead to fetch the car. The afternoon has melted and clouded over. The sky has faded. My shoulder is throbbing.

* * *

I sit in the passenger seat. Jane and Kevin's muffled argument comes to me through the window as they dawdle on the footpath. She has things to pick up from the shops. Kevin will get a taxi. My daughter will drive me home and she will leave me there with my pot plants. I wonder when she'll bring my grandchildren to visit again? There's only so much wondering that can be given to that subject.

I want so much to read the next letter Troy will send.

* * *

I am happy when the letter arrives. I see again that he is not a very good speller. He tells me how happy he was to finally meet me at the conference, how much it meant to him to see me and to say the things he had to say before he—y'know —ran out of steam and that afterwards, driving back to prison where he will serve the remainder of his sentence, the guards had stopped at some traffic lights where, winding down the window an inch, he could smell the sea.